[f]all out.

[&Ismirshalen]

Asylum; 2nd floor halls; therapist offices;
Topic finished Jun 20, 2009, 9:44pm

When he reached his apartment after the therapy-session-cut-short, he had finally allowed himself to release the pent-up anger he was feeling. In the form of coffee mugs being slammed into the walls. If they didn’t break the first time, he threw them again, and if they weren't completely shattered into bits by then, he kept on going until they were. When Ismirshalen destroyed his mugs, he made sure they could not be remade with glue. Because he would try to do so if it was at all possible. And that generally ended up badly, either with a coffee mug that leaked coffee all over the place or a really deformed thing that looked nothing like a mug. Ismirshalen was not much of an artist. He could play the piano, though. That was one talent he had gained from living at the orphanage. But as much as he liked his mugs, his talent there lied in destroying them.

When he had exhausted all of his mugs except for one, he'd felt a little bit better. Broken clay was better than broken slimy human brains all over the place. Not that he wouldn’t have rather gone the kill the therapist route. He would have done that. Except he couldn’t let himself go so berserk again. One time was enough. He even got a small pleasure out of the fact that he had been able to control himself this time. But it was very small. Standing alone in his mostly-empty apartment, which was lit by a single cheap lamp in the corner, he gazed with glassy eyes at the wreckage of mugs. The yellow light gave them an almost demonic ambience. The brown room smelled bad. Ismirshalen felt as terrible as the place looked.

"W'hat am I doing here?" he asked himself out loud, his voice dissipating into the musty air like it was a black hole. He found the fact that he was talking to himself to be a slightly disturbing new development. A whimper escaped him, and he thought about what had been on the paper. A name. His name. His old name. Something he had never hoped to see again. That was perhaps the worst thing that could have gotten into the therapist's hands. Even worse than his age.

And the man had been so close to laughing at it. The way his face had twisted up was completely strangled and obscene, and it had been obvious that a laughing fit was trying desperately to escape his mouth. The guy had worked so hard to make Izzy think that he actually cared, but he had blew his cover in that one move. The brunet felt ashamed of himself for ever allowing himself to believe that he had cared. No one cared.

Feeling like shit, he went into the bathroom to do his usual checkup on all of the remade aspects of his face, leaving behind the pile of broken china. It would remain there for about a week before he grew annoyed enough to clean it up. Usually his butler did it for him after three days.

Well, his face looked the same as it always did, minus the fact that his expression was stuck in an unsightly tortured look. He'd have to do something about that, or it might get stuck that way. A big no-no. He inspected himself from a few angles, ran his fingers through his hair, and noticed that the bald spot on his head had grown noticeably larger.

Larger.

A gasp escaped the man's throat, and he parted his hair to further examine the bare skin on his scalp. Indeed, the area had grown. He hadn't noticed the hair falling out, but stuff like that wasn’t always noticeable. But one thing was for sure. It hadn't been that big before he had gone for therapy. Or while he had been there. This development had probably happened recently. Izzy whimpered, and dragged his pale boney fingers down his face. How could this have happened? He almost brought himself to believe that it had something to do with the therapy session. Or how he had left it. But that was purely superstitious. Right? The Frenchman wasn’t an evil sorcerer. He was just a guy. A guy with an extremely annoying accent. Right? And stress couldn’t do that to you, could it? He wasn’t stressed, he reminded himself. Nothing at all was wrong with his life.

The distressed man stumbled out of the bathroom and to the door, half tripped over his cane. He was in such a rush to get out of the apartment that he even forgot to bring along a mug of coffee. One hand on his head to make sure no more hair came tumbling out, he raced at as fast a pace as he could muster to Dr. DeVrais's office. He had to still be there. He might be sleeping. Izzy would wake him up if he had to. He needed his hat. He'd do anything for it.

When he reached the office he threw the door open, and when he saw the room was empty he immediately made his way to the door to the man's private quarters. Heaving from exertion, he grasped the knob, thought it would be locked, found it wasn’t, turned it, and threw open the door as he stumbled inside.

"Vincent!" he shouted. "Vincent, I--" And then he saw that something off was going on under the covers of the guy's bed. And heard the breathing of not one, but two people. Ismirshalen could feel his face starting to burn.

"Shit."

[VinnNAY]

[[Vincent’s not really worried about Izzy at the moment. He’s more concerned with himself]]

Vincent was trying hard now to momentarily forget about the embarrassing situation he was just in.

He almost laughed in front of someone.

But now he was here; Rolling around almost animalistic-like with his very beautiful mate. Vincent was good at that. He exerted all passion buildup into doing things like this. Almost like Krystal popping a zit or Henri going to the bathroom. It was all in the name of relief (love). Nonetheless, the man had a lot of love, I mean relief, that he needed to drain out periodically. And he couldn’t think of anyone better to do it with than this strange woman he had been dating for about three days. He loved her.

Now, they were getting it on. The ‘style’ couldn’t be expressed in nationalities because if anything it was some sort of sexual safari involving the entire world all in one penis. Of course Vincent didn’t limit himself to just that body part. But furthermore that’s just creepy and unmentionable.

You could understand the jolt he had when the sound of a wailing British voice reached his ears. He completely panicked and rolled off the far side from Izzy of the bed and landed with a soft thud on the wooden floor. Following, were his cheap blankets that looked like he stole them from a Parisian hotel. Which probably was the case.

Dazed, he managed to finally open his eyes which revealed to him one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen in his life (Note: Vincent, while in love, thinks his significant other is the most beautiful thing in the universe). She was hanging over the bed in the remaining sheets, asking him something in Russian. He was too dazed at the moment to even understand his first language. Suddenly realizing the harsh voice he came to his sensible senses.

“Feodora, please go into the other room, I’m with a patient,” Vincent said tiredly in English in one of those I love you voices. He was finally dragging himself up using the bed as a balance. He settled his eyes on the balding British man, not caring where Ismirshalen settled his eyes. Feodora, being one of those blonde, sentimental types, started bursting out crying shattered sentences in Russian and stormed out of the room naked with something like a shirt in hand. What she said could have probably been translated as “You care about your patients more than me! It’s over! Whine. Whine. Whine.” Vincent trembled, but he could cry about that later. He was good at keeping his composure when he needed to. Of course when later actually came he would whine and cry himself into the deepest, darkest, most dismal dreams.

“Just because I am a therapist does not mean I don’t have a life,” Vincent shuddered, while pulling up a rather crumpled blanket around his gaunt figure. He was more replying to the look on Ismirshalen’s face rather than to any words that may have escaped his British talking-aperture. The look on the man’s face was enough to make anyone bawl from laughter but Vincent settled with an ‘I told you so’ smile. Much unlike what he regrettably did when he saw Izzy’s birth name. He settled himself on the bed enclosed in the fabric of the cloth. “In France we knock before we enter-” Vincent, still being in a rush of hormones, finally realized what an emotional wreck Ismirshalen was. “Sit down… Tell me.” He commanded wearily, waving a hand.

[&Ismirshalen]

The disgruntled man watched dazedly as a blonde naked woman got out of bed, as Dr. DeVrais told her to go, and as she ran off screaming in what he vaguely recognized as Russian, but did not understand. From the look on the therapist's face, he figured it had been bad news. These things he might have normally cracked a good snide comment for, like on the day he had met the Frenchman, but right now all he could do was blink his eyes numbly and advert his eyes from the naked man until he covered himself with a blanket. His face burned red, but in the dark room it wasn’t so visible. He himself was still breathing heavily from his sprint to the office, and he leaned on his cane with both physical and mental exhaustion.

When he was sure that the man had covered himself, he turned his wild eyes back onto the guy, in time to hear him make a comment about having a life. "I didn’t mean…" he started, but then didn’t finish. Which was making no sense at all to him. He needed to calm down, but the bald spot on his head was like the mark of a hot iron, demanding all of his attention.

He managed to sit down when he was told to do so, that simple command making sense in his addled head, choosing to sit on a chair to the side of the room rather than the bed. He was still level-headed enough to know that sitting on that was going to be a do-not-want for the rest of his life. The fact that he had knowledge of what went on under those sheets was creepy and disgusting as it was. The fact that Vincent had participated in those acts brought the horror to a new level. Ismirshalen didn’t enjoy seeing the guy naked. But it seemed the count was up to 2 already and he'd known him for only a day or two. He hoped the trend wouldn’t continue.

"My… The bald spot," he shuddered, his head in his hands. "It bloody grew. It got larger. It wasn’t like t'hat before I went to t'hat therapy session. How can something like t'hat even be possible? See?" he reached up with shaky hands and pulled his hair out of the way to reveal the ghastly patch of bare flesh on his head. "I need my hat back. I'll do anything, please!" He was in pathetic enough a state not to even care that he was groveling and pleading in front of the guy who had previously been about to laugh his ass off at his birth name.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent, by this point, was sitting casually cross-legged on his bed. The blanket wrapped around him something like an unfitted robe. Physically much more comfortable than Ismirshalen. And now that he thought about it, he, was even more mentally comfortable than Ismirshalen. He ran a hand through his greasy black hair, realizing he must look like he went through a wind tunnel crawling with ninjas and armed with nothing but a boomerang. Everyone knows boomerangs don’t work correctly in windy climates.

He was frankly shocked when the panicky guard let down all of his, well, guard. Funny how far some people were going to go for a good self-image. He was worse than an American schoolgirl. Was this man picked on as a child for his looks or something? He changed his name, it’s a very rational inquiry. You can Botox your face, tuck your tummy, but can you hide the bald spot? Yes, actually. Apparently Izzy doesn’t know about fun things like hair plugs or testosterone pills (or toupees). Not that Vincent did, either.

“Anything? Would you even buy a new hat?” Did that go through his mind, Vincent thought sarcastically, of course not letting it show through his calm, somewhat shaky voice. He started to get up from the bed and padded softly over to the extremely upset man. He rested a scrawny arm on the guy’s shoulder to keep balanced and to make sure he didn’t scare him away if the blanket slipped and he took his other hand to observe the fruits of Vincent’s labor on the top of Ismirshalen’s head. “I’m sorry about… Early today,” Vincent said quietly holding back the rush of emotions he was dealing with at the moment and continued digging around his head. He was unimpressed by the bare skin on the Englishman‘s head and couldn‘t help but slowly shake his own head slightly confused but mostly distressed by the guard. “Why are you so vain?” He asked, getting to his knees so that they made much needed eye contact.

[&Ismirshalen]

"I would…" he said hesitantly, having thought this over sometime between leaving his apartment and arriving at the therapist's office. "…But I really liked t'hat hat. My wife gave it to me." Which went to show that even in a crisis such as this he could still retain some amount of pickiness. Besides, he'd gone out hat hunting on other occasions, thinking of maybe starting a collection of them, but all the ones he had tried on were in some way or another lacking. At least in his eyes.

Ismirshalen winced inwardly as Dr. DeVrais got up and came over to him, twitched slightly when the dark-haired man's arm rested on his shoulder, but otherwise did not resist in any other way. He waited tensely under the man's scrutinizing gaze, wondering what he was thinking, feeling crummy in his wrinkled suit. Just in case the guy's blanket fell down, he made sure to look at other things, like his hands. He wondered what would happen if the bald spot grew even larger. What if it engulfed his entire scalp? What if it didn’t stop there, and started devouring his face?

He was not expecting the man's apology. For one, he just didn’t seem the type, and not to mention Izzy, not the doctor, had been the one to lose it and very nearly kill him. If anything the Brit should be the one asking for forgiveness. He continued to stare at his hands, blinking a few times, then found his voice. "Anyone would have laughed at the name," he muttered sourly, but not harshly. "People did laugh at it. T'hat's why I changed it."

He pulled his head back a couple inches when the therapist's face suddenly leveled with his own, biting his lip and glancing to the side. He was uncomfortable with the man's question. He generally tried not to think about the reason for why he went through all the trouble to look as appealing as possible. He just told himself that that was how it was, and left it at that. Why was he so vain? Sitting there, he felt as vulnerable as he had thirty years ago. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly into what almost looked like a snarl, but when he finally returned the Frenchman's eye contact the look disappeared. His eyebrows knotted together stressfully, though. He had to clear his throat a few times before he could talk. If this question had been asked earlier he would most likely have not even made the attempt to respond.

"W'hen I was young I was… 'Ugly'. At least, t'hat's what t'hey called me. Except less nicely." A sneer passed across his face, then dissipated. "I had terribly crooked teeth, a 'bad' haircut, and was overweight. And of course, my name. People only had to hear my name, and they hated me. I couldn’t stand it… I had to sneak my way home every night. A different route each bloody day. So t'hat I wasn’t beaten up." His voice trembled on the last part, and he could feel his face and ears burn. He looked away from the tired-looking Dr. DeVrais, wincing and currently unable to continue. Just saying it brought memories to surface that he wished weren't real. His childhood had been humiliating.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent, being emotionally incompetent, didn‘t flutter an eyelid at Ismirshalen‘s strange drabble. However, he was more than worried because of how the guard seemed to be clinging to the past. He paused for awhile studying Izzy’s face and making his way to a subtly placed chair aside where Ismirshalen was sitting, making sure to drag it up beside him to an uncomfortably close range. It wasn’t that Vincent did that on purpose, he was just retarded in the ways of how males should behave around each other in western culture. In fact, he was distancing himself more from males than he usually did. He wasn’t too sure about himself anymore. Ismirshalen saw him naked twice. Not that that bothered him or anything. He’s just liberated like that.

Vincent was a keen listener (You’d hope so). He especially liked listening to Ismirshalen. He felt so accomplished every time he managed to get the man to say something to him. Even if it was a sour retort or a line of curse words. “Do you think of your wife often?…“ He asked slowly with curiosity, trying to smile politely and deciding whether to give him back his hat soon.

“What do you do when you are sans a hat? Is it like makeup? Sans it do you feel homely and depressed? Can you really live like this? So, is this your face or the knife?” Vincent inquired, lifting Izzy’s chin with two icy fingers and observing with his two somber, dark eyes. He felt he needed to get something off his chest (which was bare at the moment might I add). “Why do you hate the French?…”

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen watched uneasily as the French man pulled up a chair beside him, straining his eyes to the sides of his face because he didn’t feel like turning his head. He had the uncomfortable feeling that if he did so he would end up brushing up against the therapist’s nose. Which probably wouldn’t happen, but one could never be too sure. He was fairly confident about his manhood, but all the same didn’t feel like chancing it.

Lucky for Vincent, Izzy was in a fairly talkative mood. That was probably due to the fact that he was undergoing an extremely traumatic experience, what with his bald spot eating away at his scalp and all. Things like that were bound to make a man talkative. The brunet smoothed his hair over his bald spot once more, placing it very gently and with a creepy sort of concern into its proper place. He sort of resembled a fretting old woman.

”A lot,” he answered, his face twisting up. ”Um. All the time.” He wondered if his mouth would start twitching again. He allowed himself a quick worried glance in Dr. DeVrais’s direction, trying to see his expression. He looked fairly pleasant, which calmed the Brit down a little. Maybe the guy was going to give him back his hat. A bad idea on the man’s part if he did, because he would likely not ever see or hear from the guard again. But it would all go well in the guard’s favor.

The comforting feeling ebbed a bit when the doctor suddenly grabbed his chin and turned him to face him. He winced and tried to shy away, but the Frenchman had a strong, icy grip. Which was surprising for a French person. But we must all remember that he was born in Russia. Russians are cold icy people. ”I um… I usually never take off my hat… Ever. But I would have to say it is very… terrible,” he replied hastily, giving the man a nervous smile. Which disappeared with the next question. The Brit’s face grew cold. He didn’t even notice that the therapist’s chest was bare (impressive).

”My wife was French.”

[VinnNAY]

[]

“Those kids made you very uncomfortable with your appearance?” Vincent asked smiling a little less creepily than usual and slightly adjusting himself on his seat. The bright yellow seat looked as if was stolen from a kindergarten classroom. Vincent didn’t bother to replace the things he left at his old home in France. He just picked up free things as replacements wherever he could conveniently find them. It was strange because he actually makes quite a bit of money. Supposedly he just doesn’t like shopping. If you were to look around the room you would probably witness the unsystematic assortment of items. Much different from his office which he kept the way he did because more people (hopefully) were apt to visit it than his personal bedroom.

“If they could see you know…” Vincent added. He was hoping Ismirshalen would not take that as gay and more of the fact that those kids were all wrinkly and broke now. Maybe that’s what he really needed. To go out and see those nasty childhood memories. Vincent could only imagine how he was going to get him to do such a thing.

“Do I remind you of your wife?” Vincent questioned, pretending to flip imaginary locks of hair and getting up to search halfheartedly for Ismirshalen’s clothing.
He started rummaging through piles of clothing and random objects praying to find at least a sock. Maybe he could cover Izzy’s head with a plastic bag.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen was greatly relieved when the therapist took his hand from his chin. He rubbed it with his hands, as if that would remove any contagions from the area that the Frenchman might be carrying. You never knew with the French. Especially not this one. Before he had entered this room tonight he had thought he couldn’t be surprised anymore. And was proven wrong. This man may at first have seemed to be extremely… plain. Ignoring the unfortunate circumstances by which they had met. But he was proving to be more interesting behind his black et white façade.

"Yes…" Izzy answered, expression darkening as he thought of them. Dr. DeVrais's next words made him wonder, however. Wonder what they were like now. Maybe they were as he seemed to be suggesting. Old and poor. But maybe some of them had especially good genes, or had gotten plastic surgery themselves. Or were also rich, and not poor. "But what if they look at me and still see me as I was before?" he fretted, wringing his hands. "They would laugh."

Speaking of surprises. The hair flip. At first all the Brit could do was blink. And kind of gape in amazement at the thought that the man could even do something like that. And then, problems temporarily forgotten for the moment, he let out a chuckle and shook silently with laughter. Playing it over in his mind. He hoped he wouldn’t forget such a thing. He better not get Alzheimer's.

Eventually the laughter died down, and he felt a little better than he did before. Finally Izzy allowed himself to think about what the therapist had asked. His eyes followed the man as he rummaged around for something. Hopefully his hat.

"In a way, yes… But not because of your hair," he started, smoothing down his crinkled suit. He was easily annoyed by little things like that. "She was… blonde. It is more of your… um… personality." He found himself playing with his own long locks of hair. Stop that. He leaned forward in his chair to see what Dr. DeVrais was doing. "You didn’t lose it, did you?" His pretty little face crinkled with worry. For a hat.

[VinnNAY]

« Bonjour casquette »
Vincent said in his quiet voice while picking up something with a hat-like shape and examining it as he popped up from a pile of wrinkled, probably dusty, clothing. Vincent couldn’t understand how Ismirshalen could wear such an outdated article of clothing. It must be that the rich and attractive can get away with things like that. Or maybe it was just an English thing like sucking at dressing over all.

By this point Vincent had the blanket around his thin waist and was casually putting on something that appeared to be a shirt from the pile he was just sifting through. Real modest there, Vincent. He took the head covering in one hand and turned on one blue glitter lamp with the other hand to observe the shadowy hat closer with one scrutinizing Vincent gaze.

«Well, my Ismirshalen, in the adult world we do not laugh at other adults about these things.» Vincent replied plainly while flicking a piece of fuzz off from the excuse for a hat he was holding.

«This thing is ridiculous.» He added, snickering.

«You know my hair is lovely.» Vincent smiled for real this time, slightly flicking his jet black hair again.
« D'accord, you want your hat back, yes?… » Vincent was good at teasing Ismirshalen and he wanted to do so right now so he put his precious hat on. «Then I want you to come to Oxford with me»