[e]verything burns.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen stared back at the therapist’s damaged face in horror, unbelieving that something this obscene was actually happening. He was completely terrified to see that the sick doctor was so intent on doing this. It was in his eyes. Even though technically the man was only able to see half of the world, he looked like he was seeing it in full. Well, not really. If he was seeing it in full he wouldn’t be doing something as stupid as this, the British man reasoned feverishly. No, he wouldn’t.

Right. Of course the man would. He was bloody insane. The Brit was only able to stare numbly as the door was knocked upon. The sound that echoed from the wood seemed to be as loud to Ismirshalen as the sound of a lawnmower to your ear.

Surprisingly enough instead of finding it to be extremely uncomfortable as he would in most situations he found the therapist’s weight against him to be a good thing. It soothed his nerves ever so slightly. It was sort of a nice thing to know that instead of dying alone today he was going to die in the company of another. Even if it was Dr. DeVrais and he already felt like a complete shithead for almost getting him killed once.

But nothing in the world could keep him at ease when the door opened. It felt like evil was leaking out from the thing. A dark aura settled upon the hallway. The Englishman grew extremely tense, enough so that he felt that if he tried moving an arm it would simply snap off.

”Vhat is dat?” a thick German accent asked, sounding utterly disgusted. It offset his pretty face and made it seem ten times more terrifying, stuck up, and overall princely. It was like a personality summarization without having to take one of those online quizzes. The tall man’s smoldering brown eyes settled over the two men at his door. ”You look like your house just burned down, Ismirshalen.”

The aforementioned man could feel heat creeping into his face. His face. He hadn’t tended to his face in over a day. He hadn’t realized how dreadful he probably looked. Why had no one said this before? How come no one had told him about his face?

”Well, it didn’t,” he huffed. ”Georg.”

A sneer overtook the German’s features that were intimidating enough to cause buildings to move out of his path. It was as if he was some new-age devil reincarnation of Jesus. Who instead of trying to help people had interest in melting them into piles of sludge for him to walk upon. ”Vould you really prefer I use your true name? Michel? Michel, vhy are you here? And vho is dis vith you? Is he your boyfriend? Have you finally embraced your desires?” He turned to look at Dr. DeVrais. The man was so full of himself he made Ismirshalen look like a humble, honest fellow.

[VinnNAY]

Ismirshalen probably saw a murderer answer the door but all Vincent saw was a very arrogant man. Vincent’s from France though so he hardly noticed a thing. Just that the other man was insulting his patient and that he really didn’t like that. He would have thrown his clipboard at him if it wasn’t for the fact that he had personal notes of each one of his patients on there. He wasn’t quite sure what would happen if George got a hold of it. Something not good he supposed sourly.

Vincent couldn’t move from his spot near Ismirshalen. However, he realized suddenly that the slight warmth near him was not him pissing himself but the other touching him. He wasn’t sure if he should move away or not from him. It wasn’t a matter of should though, because Vincent wasn’t going to move. He made sure not to look back at Izzy when he felt his gaze rest on him after Georg’s last comment. He could feel his face swelling up worse than the guard’s. He just stood there clasping the clipboard as tightly as he could without breaking it or his hands. He wanted to say sorry to Ismirshalen but could not under the blond man’s pompous stare.

Vincent couldn’t just sit back and let the other insult Ismirshalen in front of him. It hurt too much. And obviously they weren’t going to get anywhere. Vincent’s point wasn’t made and he was just left bitter and livid.
“We came to borrow an electric shaving razor but obviously this house is without a man.”

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen wasn’t very reassured by the fact that the Frenchman beside him was taking this as bad as he was [or worse, because the look on the guy’s face was making the Brit think he would explode]. They were both going to die. They would. It was as simple as that. Death was an extremely simple thing once you thought about it. And life… Apparently the two of them had lived all of their pathetic lives just for this final moment. This final battle. One that he knew they were going to lose. It was just like France against Germany. Except the German was a bit more girly than per usual. But his attitude made up for it. You could tell that Georg ate his sausages for breakfast.

But the therapist would not return his gaze. Ismirshalen felt extremely uncomfortable. He was suddenly remembering them as they left the hospital, when he had carried the greasy man in his arms. He hadn’t thought anything of it then. It hadn’t been done because he had any attraction to the guy. He’d just wanted to get both of them out of there faster than them both limping the whole way. But now the arrogant prince was making him doubt himself and his masculinity. Messing with his head. The British man wanted to curl up and die. But he didn’t move away from the therapist. It would just make it look like what the German had said had actually gotten to him.

Of course, he was not expecting Dr. DeVrais to make such a vehement response.

Georg’s face seemed to take on the shade of a livid plum. Obviously he was not used to being insulted, and he obviously did not take insults very well. ”Vhat vould you two need one for, anyways?” he shot back in a heated voice. ”You are not men. You are homosexual lovers.”

That was it. Ismirshalen could not take any more of this. If he simply stood there and tried to endure the insults he would be reduced to a whimpering mass on the ground. ”Shut the bloody fuck up!” he shouted as he swung his fist in the direction of the German’s pretty face.

It never reached its target. His arm was stopped by Georg’s own hand, which gripped Ismirshalen’s wrist tightly enough that it seemed that it would snap off. The Brit dimly remembered the time when he had done the same thing to Dr. DeVrais. Now it was like payback. Except from someone who had ten times more manpower. And long fingernails. What did this guy do? File them to points? He could feel a sick warmth starting to spread around his wrist. Desperate, he jabbed his knee at the German’s crotch area, instead of using the unfavorable tactic the Frenchman had. A pained shout announced that he had made his mark. But at a more painful cost. Not a moment had he heard that beautiful sound than he was kneed in his own groin. Ismirshalen staggered backwards from the tall terror, gasping in pain and gripping his sodden wrist with his other hand to make sure it was still attached. Thankfully it was.

But he had no time to evaluate any further damage because the angry German was rushing at him once more. Ismirshalen dodged out of the way of the guy and swung around to slam him forwards and into the hallway wall. An ‘oof’ escaped the German’s mouth. The guard tried to hold him there, but right when he thought he was successful, he was elbowed in his stomach. He fell back and doubled over in pain, trying to recover from having the air knocked out of his lungs. Ismirshalen was unable to do anything as furious hands grabbed the back of his hair. They started to slam the British fuck’s face into the wooden floor of the hall.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent wasn’t for breaking and entering and beating the crap out of the owner but it seemed the only thing to do. He searched on him for something to use as a weapon to disconnect the German from the Englishman once again coming to a mental stop on his clipboard (Which he was taking notes on while watching the pretty boys fight). Oh, how he shuddered at the thought. Blood getting on his clipboard would only ask questions. Psychotherapist. More like psycho-the-rapist. What would he tell his clients when they asked him about the new disfigurement on his clipboard if striking the man with it resulted in one? He was saving his patient from a crocodile? It would only be half a lie.

Oh, why didn’t Izzy just kiss the man? Vincent took a deep breath from where he was standing and when he could no longer stand the sight of the guard being pummeled around like Brownie’s stuffed toy, he took a wild guess at the general direction of Georg’s face hoping that he would let go of Ismirshalen’s thinning hair. The earsplitting sound emanating from his visage was enough to send shivers down your spine. He felt like Steve Urkle: Did I do that? Or maybe the better question was: Does he still have a face?

“Oh la la, Ismirshalen, I have a headache…” Vincent cried with hands on head, falling hopelessly to the hard, wooden floor.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen’s face had just started to come into a very excruciating and scratchy contact with the floor when suddenly a piercing shriek echoed through the air. The unbearable tension on his thinning black hair was lifted, and instead of being rammed into the floor he instead simply fell to it. Which was still bad. He could feel splinters from the wood digging into his cheek. But as horrifying as that was to him he was going to have to save pulling them out for later. In fact he was going to have to hold off any attention to his monstrous features for later. Right now was the perfect chance to make an escape.

The British man pushed himself off from the floor, grabbed his fallen cane, and stood up. At first he was a bit wobbly on his legs as he staggered over to the fallen therapist. He didn’t dare look in the direction of the German. When he reached Dr. DeVrais he reached under the man’s arms and pulled him up and over his shoulder. It was the only thing he could think of doing right now. He couldn’t think rationally. His face was stinging like a bitch. He probably looked like a porcupine from Hell.

”Don’t worry,” he muttered to the therapist and himself. Hobbling down the hall as fast as he could, shaming even the French. Ismirshalen was surprised that his body was not falling apart. His head hurt the most. But so did his family jewels and his leg from the weight he was putting onto it. ”Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’ll be bloody okay, don’t bloody worry please. I have Tylenol in the car.”

They made it to the fancy rental vehicle without any pursuit from the wailing German. The fancy vehicle that Ismirshalen was currently envying because it was just so damn shiny and pretty and it hadn’t had to just endure being thrown around a hallway like a puppet. If Ismirshalen could be whatever he wished at that moment he wished he could become that car.

Half out of his mind, he tore open the passenger door and helped the limp Frenchman inside. When he got in on his own side he slammed the door shut, as if afraid that Georg would somehow materialize out of thin air and strangle him. The Brit was shaking like a tiny ‘dog’ and feeling slightly lightheaded because of the realization that he had lost blood. He’d caught a glimpse of his red-soaked cufflinks when he’d picked the therapist off the ground.

In order to distract himself from this he reached into his top hat [which he had thoughtfully removed before leaving to visit Georg] and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. Yes, he stored drugs in his hat. He hoped the therapist was in enough of a state that he wouldn’t notice and lecture him about it. But when he looked in his direction he saw that the greasy-haired guy was looking anything but attentive. Ismirshalen felt his heart sink in his chest. The guy wouldn’t be having these migraines if it wasn’t for the guard getting him shot. Ismirshalen shook out three [yes, three] pills and handed them over to Dr. DeVrais. And decided now was the time to ask about a game plan. Maybe now it wouldn’t involve trying to get themselves killed.

”So, can we go home now?” he pleaded. The dysfunctional doctor made a strange groaning noise. ”Ah… Okay. So we need money?” More strange noises. ”Okay. I know w’here to get the money.” The old and disfigured man started up the engine and drove out of the lot. Moving at a noticeably much smoother pace. Taking gentle turns. Even in his static excitement he felt terribly for the doctor.

As they drove, Ismirshalen started rambling uncontrollably. ”T’hat was amazing,” he exclaimed. ”T’hat was the first time I’ve ever fought back against that… Georg.” He giggled out the name. ”W’hen I was a child I… I couldn’t do anything.” His face took on a dark, pained expression. Nothing to do with the chips of wood sticking out from it. ”He beat me senseless. Some days he simply would slam my head against the wall until I fell unconscious. Other days he tied me to a tree and made incisions in my body. He called it ‘surgery’. He said he’d make me look… better. Handsome… He said he’d make me look h-handsome.” Tremors shook his voice as he started spiraling down into the black depths of his childhood memories. He had to pull himself back up. Good thing he was still too excited to drown in them. ”But today. I hit him. I bloody kicked him in the balls.” A smile spread across his face for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as it’d come. But it was perhaps the first real smile he’d had in decades.

They had reached their destination. Which Ismirshalen had not made clear. He parked the car in a space that faced a line of large oaks.

”You stay here,” he told Dr. DeVrais. ”I’ll be right back.” Not waiting for an answer, he opened the door, got out, and then made his way to the gate of a gothic black iron fence. The guard was pretty sure that the therapist wasn’t in any state to follow. He was counting on that. With pale hands he unlatched the gate and stepped inside to face a vast expanse of green. The landscape was dotted with pale gray stone formations sticking up from the ground. Some had flowers placed before them. The area was silent except for the whisper of a breeze between the leaves of a few old gnarled trees that were scattered around. The place was calming to the guard. Here, he could feel somewhat at peace. All of the pain he was currently feeling seemed to be dulled by an invisible blanket.

The black-and-white form worked his way across the silent field. He felt as if he had left the realm of time. When he reached the stone he was looking for he wasn’t sure if seconds or hours had gone by. Slowly, he kneeled down in front of the gravestone. And looked at the name engraved upon it with sad blue eyes.

Thérèse Linnaeus, it read. He lowered his eyes to the ground before the stone. A large chest had been placed in front of it. Now Ismirshalen lifted up the chest and opened it. Inside lay a wad of cash. It had steadily grown larger over the years. The Englishman did not give his wife flowers. Instead, he gave her money. To remind him of what she had loved him for. He took a few stacks of bills and placed them inside his pant pockets. Enough to buy both him and the therapist a ride back to Australia. He didn’t take any more than that. He put the chest back where it belonged.

Silently, in respect for the silence that the graveyard demanded, Ismirshalen wept.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent wished the guy would just stay with him at least until his migraine subsided but Ismirshalen seemed to be on an obstinate journey and he could only watch silently as he got out of the door. To him it seemed he couldn’t get out fast enough. Or maybe that was just because he was seeing everything in a blur at the moment. Half a blur, that is. He felt like a useless moaning body. He wasn’t sure how long he was going to be able to live like this and whether it would be worth it at all. What did he live for? In all do time, Vincent.

So he laid there. And he laid there. And after a few minutes he decided to keep laying there. Laying and moaning. Laying and groaning. He was more tired now than having his brain feel like it was cracking open. It felt like it was unfastening and releasing all of the information he tried so hard to implant into it for the past thirty years. Maybe this sensation was called hunger. He hadn’t had lunch for about two days now. He was wondering what he must look like. He and Ismirshalen were one heck of a pair.

He eventually couldn’t stay still anymore even in his hazy drugged state and decided to venture to find Ismirshalen because he decided he couldn’t stand to be alone anymore. His one-legged, perilous adventure took him through lots of England’s grass and dead people. It had a rather fairytale like feeling to it. That is, if fairytales were covered in grey death and graves and crying European men. He spotted his blurry target and, carefully as he could manage in his current condition, continued forth to the blob of black and white.

He was still too weary to really accomplish much conversation so he sat next to the crying English man and sighed. Vincent leaned forward and rested his head on the lamenting heap next to him, trying to make out the words on the stone structure he was grieving in front of.

[&Ismirshalen]

The sudden presence of life in this realm of death was surprising yet at the same time unsurprising to Ismirshalen. In the subconscious territory of his mind he had expected that this would happen. This is why when the tortured therapist sat down beside him, the guard did not leap up or commit any rash actions. However, he was still fairly irked that the doctor had followed him from the car. And worried that the guy had gone to such lengths to reach him. Was he truly that lonely that he couldn’t wait in the car? Or was it that he was that immensely serious about doing his job? But what was this accomplishing right now? This following him. As far as the balding brunet could tell all the poor man was doing was enduring a bastard migraine while leaning against him. Ismirshalen noticed that the therapist had been leaning against him a lot lately. It was strange. When they had first met the idea of even touching the therapist was an outrageous atrocity. Now it was an everyday occurrence.

He didn’t know how he felt about that. Still. That meant that this couldn’t simply be put off as a hardworking therapist doing his job. What was the motive? Did he know the motive?

If he did, he was deluding himself to a point where he could not see the answer in front of his own face.

The tired and weary way in which Dr. DeVrais moved and acted, and the generally calming atmosphere of the graveyard was making Ismirshalen sleepy himself. This annoyed him, too, but he couldn’t stop his leaking eyes from drooping as he stared at the name engraved on the stone before him.

”W’hy did you follow me here?” he asked in a voice that was neither angry nor heartbroken as his eyes revealed. ”T’his is my wife’s grave… Thérèse. I give her money w’hen I come here. She only loved me for my money. I should have known… But I was blind. I loved her… She loved… paper.” A sad smile graced his disfigured features. ”Now I don’t have any money. Maybe I would have been better off that way in the beginning. Never having money… But who would love me t’hen?”

[VinnNAY]

“I was lonely…” Vincent said, continuing to lean on the guard. He was hoping that his reply wouldn’t disappoint the other man but he was just telling him the truth; Maybe too much of the truth. He kept inclining on him while listen to his tales of woe. He had had many awful girlfriends who he had loved. Or thought he did. If what he had been experiencing was love. He sure loved to make love.

He couldn’t quite understand what the other meant by ‘who would love me then’. There were plenty of French films Vincent had seen that were dreadfully full of love and morals. Of course the absence of money was involved in quite a few of them but they were a haze and he would rather just lean there and listen to Ismirshalen talk. Not so long ago he would have to beg the man to talk. He was thankful for the load off, especially now that he was so conked out.

He felt empty-handed and realized that he had left his best friend (clipboard) in the car. Bloody clipboard… No, he wasn’t starting to talk like Ismirshalen, it really was bloody.

He was very exasperated at the new discovery and fell asleep much to his future dismay.

[&Ismirshalen]

He was lonely… Ismirshalen blinked his eyes slowly; absorbing this information like a plant would absorb energy from the sun. It was a strange thing to hear come out of the therapist’s mouth. When he had met him he’d thought the guy was impervious to any emotions of the sort. But that was most likely just because he had let himself be so blinded by his stereotype for the French. His stereotype that all of them were despicable greasy toads who just wanted to make his life miserable… Now thinking that seemed to be such an idiotic thing to him.

Dr. DeVrais was lonely. He could feel loneliness. He had a heart. He had feelings. He was a human being.

He’d rather sit here with Ismirshalen than wait inside the car. Ismirshalen would rather have Dr. DeVrais sit with him than wait inside the car.

”I’m sorry,” he murmured, turning to look at the therapist. The guy had fallen asleep against him. That was a good thing… The Frenchman needed some sleep. He also needed to eat. The guard closed his eyes. He’d get them both something to eat tomarrow. He’d force them to both eat something…

He fell asleep against the therapist.

***

Something was nudging him in his back. He groaned, feeling like a voodoo doll that had gotten stuck in the face with an overabundance of needles. In fact his face was leaning against something that was pressing the sharp pins in deeper. It was quite hairy. And greasy. The nudge came again. Ismirshalen’s eyes fluttered open sleepily. Tried gluing themselves shut again. He forced them back open. The world was bleary around him. He was facing sideways and looking into a mass of black stringy stuff. It took him a moment to realize what it was. Hair. But not his hair. He washed his hair. It was Dr. DeVrais’s hair. Puzzled, he laid there on the ground, his body feeling like a boulder. He really didn’t want to get up.

”Get up!” a gruff voice emitted from somewhere above. It wasn’t heavenly in any way, so it couldn’t be any spiritual voice like God or something. Besides, Ismirshalen didn’t believe in God. So the voice probably belonged to a human made of flesh and blood. Groaning, the tired Englishman struggled to obey the orders he was being given. He managed a sitting position, then sat there and tried rubbing the sleep from his eyes to better view the man above him.

A policeman. He was now nudging at the therapist, who was conked out on the ground.

”W’hat are you two doing here?” the voice demanded. It was starting to irritate the guard. He’d just woken up.

”I was visiting my wife,” he answered, sounding miffed.

”Your wife? But don’t you already have this guy?”

”No.” Why did people keep on thinking that they were gay?!

The policeman continued to nudge the comatose therapist, but now also scrutinized the British guard. His eyes widened when he saw the dried blood all over Ismirshalen’s shirt, and the blood on his face. Then they narrowed.

”W’hat is the meaning of t’hat? You look like you have committed a homicide.”

”No. I haven’t. T’his is my blood.” He wished that Dr. DeVrais would wake up so that he could help them out. The guard was well known for his short temper with any form of authority, but he didn’t want to snap in such a tedious situation like this.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent didn’t like getting poked. So you can imagine he was most aggravated to be awoken from a rare slumber by the English policemen. In fact it might have been the best sleep he had ever gotten. Even though it was on the floor (Make that the ground) with ants crawling all over him and mud soaked through his clothing and he was…

…Laying on Ismirshalen.

He nearly burst a vein at the sudden realization. “Sorry,” He apologized, jolting upright as fast as his reflexes would allow it. He also realized that there was a patrolman staring at them. That was a little uncomfortable. Vincent wasn’t one to fall asleep in public. It was okay in France because every other person you see is dreaming on a bench but this was England and there was nothing dreamy about smog and graveyards (Usually).

He smiled at the guard in hope that his face wasn’t covered in sludge. He then got up to one knee and dug through his pockets until he found something that would help him. The policeman was looking a little less than fond of this terribly aggressive looking man searching through his pockets.

“My ID, Monsieur,” Vincent handed him his ‘Quack Shack’ ID (Obviously because he doesn’t have a driver’s license like a normal human being in their 30s). He could only hope that the man didn’t send him off to France because he thought that he swam over the English Channel just to lie on top of this British man in the middle of a muddy graveyard.