Gilbert had long since grown accustomed to the fog.

It crept up on him like a snake, took hold of him in its clutches, and slipped into his mind in a cold, deadly haze, pulling him down, down, until nothing was real and Gilbert was gone. Sometimes he could sense what was happening, what his body was doing when he was away from it- a jumbled sentence, an intangible shout, a shock of pain. But Gilbert could not do anything about it. He could not move, could barely breathe, could only think in torn segments. He was entirely powerless to his King.

Very rarely, when Gilbert had the energy and the drive and the plain luck, he could fight through it. Sometimes there were moments of clarity, moments when he saw something infuriating enough that he had no choice but to fight. It was like working his way out of a pit of tar- frustrating, suffocating, usually futile. When The King had attempted to fight Antonio, it had been one of those times. When he nearly swerved Gilbert's car into a building at ninety miles an hour, it was one of those times. But when Gilbert was faced with Ludwig, forced to listen to his cruel words, forced to see the look of distain in his ice-blue eyes, it was not one of those times. Sometimes Gilbert almost wanted The King to fight his battles.

It cleared far quicker then it set in. When Fritz decided he had enough, when consequences were beginning to arise and he wanted Gilbert to deal with them, reality came flooding back in a surge of blinding white and breathless gasps. Then Gilbert would wake up- bruised, battered, lost and hated as a result of crimes he did not commit.

At least it was not an alleyway this time. It took a moment for Gilbert to register the white ceiling above him, the cushion pressed to his face and the familiar soreness throbbing across the skin of his arms. His limbs were sprawled across the couch in the lounge, his neck at an odd angle and his throat dry, likely from screaming things he would evidently not remember. The first thing he became aware of was the headache pounding against his temples. The second was that he was very, very tired.

Groaning out of pain and fatigue, Gilbert forced himself up, gripped his hair, and squinted against the florescent lights. This was far worse than a hangover. What time was it, anyway? Almost as soon as the thought passed, Gilbert got the strange, uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the damned hospital, after all. Suddenly very awake, Gilbert twisted around and looked up.

Matthew stood a few feet away, his eyes fixed on the floor, gripping a plastic water bottle in his right hand. Gilbert choked back an involuntary gasp and Matthew raised his eyes, suddenly smiling. "Oh, you're awake."

Gilbert immediately wished he wasn't. There was no doubt in his mind that he looked certifiably insane, splayed out on the couch like a drunk, dried blood on his arm and his clothes twisted around his body. It certainly was not the first time he had woken in this state, but he was fairly sure he had never been this embarrassed about it. He ran his hand across his knotted hair, wiped his bleary eyes and folded his arms over his chest. "Yeah," he said. "I thought this couch looked… comfortable. So I slept here." He cringed as he said it, but attempted something that was almost a smirk anyway. Even if he could not do anything to make himself look any better, Gilbert was unwilling to look even more pathetic.

Matthew had the decency not to question his lie. He stepped forward, pressed the water into Gilbert's hand, and sat next to him as if this was all completely normal. Maybe to him, it was. "Make sure to drink that. Your lips are chapped, and I think you might be dehydrated."

"I…oh." It hurt to speak, and Gilbert suddenly became aware of how thirsty he actually was. He twisted the cap off and gulped nearly all of it down, and for a brief moment he was almost able to forget this strange, humiliating situation. This was probably the first time he had woken up like this and not found himself either alone or being stared at like a sideshow freak. Unsure how to feel about that, he only wiped his mouth and grinned. "So, you just decided to watch me sleep?"

Matthew chuckled. "No, I just got here. I was worried you were sick."

Well, he wouldn't exactly be wrong. Gilbert glanced at Matthew out of the corner of his eye, both confused and captivated by his gentle concern and lack of judgment. It was foreign, just a little unnerving, but mostly just refreshing. Gilbert had been prepared to defend himself and to deny everything that happened, but now his mind was clear, his headache was fading, and for the first time since checking in, he felt safe. Gilbert focused his eyes on the water bottle as he spoke, mainly to himself, not really thinking about the words. "So I was here all night." He forced a laugh but it ended up sounding strangled. "Alright, good to know. Now, if I could just figure out what got me here, the day would be off to an awesome start."

It was meant to be a joke, but Matthew did not look amused. His hardened eyes pierced his skin, no longer smiling, and Gilbert wished he had not said anything at all. The fleeting sense of security passed, and he forced himself to return to reality. Matthew was his therapist. He was not Francis, he was not Antonio, and joking around with him was a ridiculous thing to do. Stupid, stupid… "What happened, Gil?"

"Uh…" Gilbert just sighed. It was inevitable. "I transitioned again," he mumbled around the lip of the bottle. His face flushed, and he decided against explaining further.

"Are you alright?"

Gilbert had to consider the question. Was he alright? Well, he was not physically sick, he was not injured, and now he was at least hydrated. But then again, he had just woken up on a couch in a psychiatric ward, no idea what got him there, what happened last night, or what consequences he would have to deal with. All he knew was that his brother thought he crazy. "I…" Then, Gilbert glanced to the side. He locked eyes with Matthew, saw his gentle smile, and realized that right now, no one was judging him. His answer changed. "I'm doing fine, thanks."

"Good." Matthew stood as he said it, and Gilbert had to fight the ridiculous urge to either grab his arm or follow him. "Remember we have group today, Gil. I'll see you there."

As Matthew walked away, Gilbert forced himself to return to reality. Group. Group meant sharing his problems with these maniacs, being looked at like he was a leper, Ivan antagonizing him, and having Matthew witness all of it. And it was far from the last time. Gilbert remembered how tired he was. His headache intensifying again, he lied back down, curled his knees to his chest, and tried to block out the world.

.

Sometimes, Matthew felt as if he was losing his touch. Today was one of those days.

He sat in a chair at the top of the circle, trying to keep a smile on his face; fully aware he was the only one doing so. The silence was just strange. Arthur was glaring into the distance, one leg tucked tightly under the other, his lips pursed and his chin tipped upward. That was nothing new. Mathias was staring at the ground, seemingly entranced by the swinging motion of his legs. That was nothing new, either. The first unusual thing he noticed was how Ivan looked. His bright, previously eternal smile was gone, replaced by a slight frown, darkened, lost eyes and trembling hands. The second thing Matthew noticed was Gilbert had not arrived yet.

It did not take long to put two and two together. Ivan was fine yesterday, Gilbert claimed to have transitioned the night prior, and now, Ivan had inexplicably broken to pieces. Matthew looked down at his hands and sighed. Never had he been faced with a group of patients this difficult or hard to figure out, and on top of that, they all clashed with each other. And somehow, Matthew had to single-handedly put them back together as quickly as possible. It was simply his job.

"Are we going to start this bloody thing?" snapped Arthur. "We've been sitting here staring at each other for nearly ten blasted minutes!"

"Yes, Arthur. We're just waiting for everyone to get here." Arthur just clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. Matthew ignored him, looked over his shoulder and briefly considered tracking down Gilbert himself. Anxiety thrummed through his blood, tightened his chest and threw his thoughts in a jumble. He hoped Gilbert was still around. The last thing he needed was Fritz running amuck, barging in at the worst possible second, screaming about communists and upsetting Ivan even further. How would he explain that to his colleagues? More importantly, how would he fix it? Matthew bit the inside of his cheek, hard. What if, what if…

The chair next to his scraped against the floor with a loud squeak. Matthew's breath caught as his eyes snapped sideways, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, his mind already reeling. But Gilbert was silent, his shoulders slumped and his eyes without fire. Matthew knew he should be relieved… but there was something about the dejection in Gilbert's posture, the absence of his smirk and the raw red lines in his skin that made that not so. From the corner of his vision, Matthew saw Ivan use his foot to scoot his chair further away.

"Finally, your highness is here." Arthur gave a short laugh, bent forward in a mock bow and waved his hand in an extravagant motion. "How are we doing, your majesty?"

Gilbert closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders tensed and his hand jerking to his arm. Matthew's stomach fell. Thirty seconds in and this was already going terribly. "Good afternoon, Gil." He hoped to sound casual, but that was difficult when the atmosphere was so heavy and the stakes were so high. "How are you feeling?"

Gilbert just shook his head. His hand did not move, did not slow, and the marks on his arm only grew worse. Matthew felt a jolt of unfamiliar anger and shot Arthur a firm disapproving glance. Arthur just shrugged and turned his attention to the window.

Matthew looked to Gilbert again, scrambling for a solution, for something to say, but sometimes words were not enough. Since everyone else looked far off and preoccupied, he slowly reached across and covered Gilbert's offending hand with his own. He was not sure what else he could do besides whisper. "Be gentle with yourself, please." Gilbert froze at the words. His eyes pierced Matthew's skin, but he looked away just as quickly and finally moved his hand to his knee with guarded deliberateness.

Matthew smiled. At least he had done one thing right.

The session passed interminably. No matter what questions Matthew asked, no matter how encouraging he tried to be, all they did was glance at him like the words were gibberish before dissolving back into their own worlds. Ivan and Gilbert were the quietest; so quiet it was actually distracting, to the point it tore Matthew's attention from the few things Mathias and Arthur managed to say. Matthew was certain he had never had so much trouble getting two words out of a group this size. It was simply, ridiculous.

But the daunting silence was not the only thing that was distracting. While Ivan fixed his eyes on the floor, unmoving and expressionless, Gilbert kept looking at Matthew. That alone spoke far louder than his refusal to speak. It was a series of fleeting, almost wistful glances, just long enough to snatch Matthew's attention but short enough that they never quite locked eyes. It was slightly unnerving and entirely distracting. But Matthew was not upset by… just slightly confused, and strangely intrigued.

It was not so much that the session ended than Matthew simply gave up on it. He was halfway through some useless question when he realized no one was even listening, faltered in his speech, and after a second of silence that felt like a year, he realized Gilbert was looking at him again. Matthew turned, and this time, Gilbert did not turn way. This time he held Matthew's gaze, his eyes glossed over, looking almost… pleading. Then Matthew forgot what he saying all together.

After a long, resigned sigh, he forced his eyes forward and said, "Okay. That's quite enough for today." No one stood immediately- they all looked far too tired to, really. Matthew decided to take advantage of the pause. He reached under his chair, unzipped the duffel bag he had stashed under it, and kicked it into the middle of the circle. In it was a pile of journals. If he was not going to get these people to speak, he was going to get them to write.

"Take a journal on your way out, please. You can write whatever you'd like, whenever you'd like, and keep it private if you wish. All I ask is that you write something." Though he was exhausted, frustrated, and terribly disappointed with himself, Matthew took a cleansing breath and forced a smile. "Have a lovely day, everyone."

Finally, the group began to clear out. Matthew felt physically ill- because it was his job to make this group of people feel better, to open up, and nearly all of them looked worse off than when they sat down. His mind flew in a million different directions, one for every one of his patients' problems, unsure where he could even start. Matthew ran over his options, remembered something he had scheduled for that day and leapt from his seat. "Ivan?"

Ivan was slow to turn. His blond hair fell into his eyes, but he did not bother to brush it away. His hands remained locked on the scarf he had not been seen without once since he arrived. Unsurprisingly, he did not speak and only raised an eyebrow. Matthew felt his chest seize. Though the Russian had been nothing but uncooperative, childishly cruel- and, on one occasion, violent- since he had arrived, there was still something very wrong about seeing him miserable. But Matthew had a solution his time. He cut right to the chase. "Yao is visiting today."

Ivan's lips parted, and suddenly, his deadened eyes came back to life. But he threw his gaze to the ground just as quickly. "Are you sure?"

Matthew nodded. He and Yao had a rather… unusual agreement, one that involved a paycheck and confidential meetings after Ivan went back to his room. Still, Yao kept the patient calm, he got the information Matthew needed to treat him, and that was all that mattered right now. "Yes, I just spoke to him. He'll be here around six."

"Six." Ivan swallowed hard, his hand tensing around the scarf. "Thank you." The words were strained, and he went from moving in slow motion to walking to his room much, much too quickly. Matthew sucked his lip against his teeth. That was not the reaction he expected, much less the one he wanted. This was just a bad day all around.

When Matthew was positive all his patients had locked themselves away in their rooms, he let out a low, frustrated groan. No matter what he did, these men never seemed to take him seriously. He had a sneaking suspicious half of them didn't even know his name. On days like these, which were growing more and more frequent, he actually had to restrain himself from screaming at the top of his lungs, running out the door and never coming back.

But of course Matthew could not do that, so he simply took a breath and turned back to the circle to collect his things… and nearly fell over out of shock, because Gilbert was still sitting there, his eyes glossed over and fixated on the journal in his hands. Matthew could only stare. Just when he thought things could not possibly get any weirder…

Gilbert blinked a few times and lifted his eyes, just as slowly and listlessly as he'd been moving all day. "Oh," was the first thing he said. He snapped the book closed, staggered to his feet and started forward. Matthew could only watch, mostly concerned, partially confused, and in some strange, cruel way, fascinated. His thoughts pulled him so far beneath the current that his breath was knocked from him when he felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a tired voice. "See you later, Matthew."

Matthew could not help but watch as the strange, confusing, troubled man before him shuffled down the hall. He was nowhere close to understanding where Gilbert's demons had come from, what had happened that would cause his personality to split, how he could brush it off with humor just as easily as he withdrew into himself- just like he still hadn't a clue why Ivan was so affected by a man he did not even know, or why Arthur could chant endlessly at nothing and deny ever doing so in the same breath.

But Matthew did know one thing. Gilbert was already beginning to keep the promise The King had made: he could very well be something Matthew had never seen before. Only time would tell, and judging by how well Gilbert was doing, they had a lot of it.

Matthew really should not have been smiling.

.

Feeling nervous minutes before a session was probably not the most professional thing in the world. Still, Matthew could not help but feel strangely on-edge as he shuffled through Gilbert's file. Maybe he worried the wrong person would burst through his door, or neither Gilbert nor his undesirable other half would bother attending, or, worst case scenario, this session would pass just as unproductively and interminably as group. Matthew forced his hands to steady and his breath to even. One bad session with a tricky group of patients would not break him.

The creaking of the door startled Matthew out of his thoughts. He looked up, heart in his throat, to see Gilbert waltz inside and settle on the couch with a flourish. He was not exactly smiling, but he did not look seconds from death, either, and there was no unquenchable fire in his eyes. Gilbert looked himself, whatever that meant. The air rushed back into Matthew's lungs in what felt like an internal sigh of relief. "Afternoon, Gil," he said with a faint smile. "Feeling any better?"

Gilbert acknowledged the question with a slight inclination of his chin. "Yeah. I got some rest. Last night left me drained, you know? This place can be like a frat party."

And there was that inappropriate humor again. Matthew was torn between breaking the silence with nervous laughter and shooting Gilbert a questioning glance, so he settled on looking at his papers without actually reading a single word. Without looking up, he said, "You were awfully quiet this afternoon."

"Oh." Gilbert shrugged, with what looked to be an attempt at an arrogant grin on his lips. It still was not the same. "I didn't have anything to say, and by the looks of it, neither did anyone else. Speaking of which, what the hell is up with Ivan? All he does is sit in our room and stare at…nothing. It's creeping me out."

Matthew immediately noticed how quickly and effortlessly Gilbert shifted the focus from himself. He did not even seem to do it consciously. Pushing that aside, however, the mention of Ivan hit like a hailstorm. When Matthew met Gilbert's gaze, he saw no dishonestly or smugness in his eyes. He truly had no idea what had caused this. "Gil, when did you say you transitioned?"

Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line. "Sometime last night."

"Ivan has been like this since this morning."

A moment of silence, a blank stare, and finally whatever mental block Gilbert was harboring lifted. His eyes shot open in bewildered understanding. "Well, shit." He glanced towards the door, almost as if he expected Ivan to burst from it. Then, without warning, he actually laughed. Matthew stayed silent. Perhaps he was too shocked to speak. "Old Fritz managed to get to him? I guess he does something right once in awhile, then."

Even though he was laughing, Matthew could see the conflict in his eyes as his hand tensed on the arm of the sofa. He knew that Gilbert did not like Ivan, that much was plain to see, but something told him he was not nearly as prideful about it as he let on. Gilbert did not strike him as needlessly cruel. Pushing that aside, Matthew asked, "Do you remember what led up to last night? Anything at all?"

Gilbert's grin fell like the wall of Berlin. His eyes flicked to the door, to the whites walls, to the floor- just about everywhere that was not Matthew. Eventually he forced another smile, this one even more transparent than the last. "Can't say I do."

Matthew frowned, but he was strangely thankful that Gilbert was not a good liar. That made his job the slightest bit easier. "Really? Nothing?" He conveyed his skepticism with his eyes, but if years of doing this had taught him anything, it was that pushing a patient to speak would only accomplish the opposite.

Gilbert crossed his arms over this chest, pressing his back further into the couch, his shoulders stiff and his eyes still locked on some far off place. "That's right." His tone was low, controlled. "Nothing."

For a moment Matthew was almost completely certain that if he tried, he could reach out and physically touch the wall that had spontaneously shot up between them. In the span of one day, Gilbert had gone from lost in a stupor, to deadly silent, to nearly himself. They had almost gotten somewhere. Now, they were back at square one. For the second time that hour, Matthew felt a scream brewing inside him that he was fortunately able to keep down. "Alright. No problem at all." It would not be a problem unless Matthew allowed it to be one. And he wasn't. "Anyway, how are you adjusting otherwise? I know you and Ivan don't particularly get along."

Gilbert gave a short laugh and rolled his eyes. "Ain't that the truth? Well, other than that, I'm doing just awesome. Can't really complain."

"It's actually my job to listen to you 'complain,' you know. Please, don't hold back." Matthew smiled after he said it, hoping to get somewhere, wondering why he felt almost restless and Gilbert seemed to stare right through him.

"Your job." Gilbert raised his eyebrows, almost as though this was news to him. He nodded once, curt and ridged, his eyes suddenly on the floor again. "Right."

The rest of the session was generic, all 'how do you feel about this' and 'how does that make you feel,' punctuated by endless nodding, moments of eye contact held for too long, and the guarded, impermeable wall between them. It was placid; it was uneventful. By the time it drew to a close, Matthew could not stop the creeping feeling of frustration from clawing at his throat. The past couple days, he had grown to be nearly convinced that Gilbert was…different. That he, unlike the others, actually took Matthew seriously. On an even more selfish note, he had hoped this would be his 'big case': the near-miraculous recovery of a seemingly hopeless patient that would put Dr. Matthew Williams on the map. But perhaps he had jumped to a conclusion too early.

Through the vague feelings of disappointment, Matthew managed to say, "Well, I think that's about all the time we have. Have a nice-"

But he was cut off. "Wait."

Matthew fell silent, waited, and was shocked to see Gilbert pull the very same journal he was given that day from beneath one of the cushions. How strange… Matthew had not even noticed that he brought it in. Gilbert continued to speak before Matthew could make sense of any of it. "I wrote some…stuff. Like you told us."

For the first time that day, Matthew felt a spark of hope. By God, someone in this place had listened to him. "That's wonderful." Matthew really expected that to be the end of it. He did not expect Gilbert to stand up so quickly the sofa might as well have been burning him, harden his gaze, and toss the journal on Matthew's desk like he was discarding a piece of trash. Matthew could only stare at it. "Gilbert, you do know that you don't have to-"

Gilbert did not appear to be listening to him. Matthew supposed he couldn't win them all. "I know. I just…" Gilbert shrugged, flung the door open and finished as he was walking out. "…Wanted you to read it." The door slammed, and Matthew was left stunned.

The journal mocked Matthew from the desktop like an active grenade. In all his years of insisting upon this exercise, he had only been asked to read a patient's journal twice- the first time being a female patient's very detailed account of exactly what she would do to him, the second being a screenplay the patient wanted Matthew to proof read. Both had been unpleasant; both managed to avoid the purpose of journal writing entirely. This time, Matthew had a feeling it would be different.

Somehow that thought only made it harder to pick up the journal. The only thing Matthew expected was the unexpected, just like that first day he heard Gilbert shouting and every time their paths crossed since then. Only God knew why Gilbert seemed to trust him, to take him seriously, when nearly no one else did. Matthew grasped for the journal before he could think about it any further. The first thing he noticed was the crumpled pages, the bent cover, the rips and the tears. Matthew ignored the unexplained scars, opened the cover with a blank mind and steady hands, and held his breath until he stumbled across the page covered in shaking, thick-lined words.

I'm tired. I am so, so goddamn tired, all day, everyday, all the time. It really is a bitch having to supply energy for two separate people when you don't even have the stamina for one. Being in this place makes it worse. People stare at me, mock me, because they all know about me. They all witnessed him, and because of that, I'm easy. I'm easy to stare at. I'm easy to yell at. I'm easy to despise. But I don't care. Really, who gives a shit? He doesn't. My brother doesn't. Francis and Antonio might, but they aren't here, are they? No one here gives a shit about me, but that's okay, because I'm awesome. I like me and that's enough.

Actually, I might take that back. One person here looks at me like a human instead of a circus freak. He speaks to me like a person and at least tries to understand, and if you ask me, that's pretty awesome. He's the reason I haven't catapulted myself out the nearest window. If I actually work up the balls to do what I'm planning to do, that would be you, Mattie. Sup.

Matthew looked up from the page with a jolt. Gilbert had planned this from the beginning, and Matthew was unsure how to feel about that: happy because he was trusted, or nervous because the line between patient and doctor was already beginning to blur. The last thing he needed in the midst of this mutiny was to be seen as even less of a professional- God knows hardly anyone here saw him as one, despite the many certificates on his wall. Matthew read on with reluctance.

While I'm at it, I might as well say sorry about this morning. Seeing me passed out on the couch probably isn't the best way to start your day. It definitely wasn't the best start for me, either. I wish I knew what he did or at least how I got there. But I don't. I never do. After I transition back to my awesome self I'm always left wondering where this or that bruise came from, trying to guess who hates me now. A lot of guessing is involved. It really puts a guy on edge. Oh well. Nothing I can do, I guess.

I'm not all that good at this writing shit, so I guess I'll sign off here. Thanks for being cool, Matthew. Might as well say sorry for Fritz in advance. With any luck you won't hate me by the end of this…you probably hate him already. At least you should. But you're probably too goddamn nice for that.

-Gil.

Matthew must have read the words a dozen times. The tattered pages seemed to crumble even further, and it took far too long to realize it was due to how tight he had made his hold. The entry was all flippant humor and unapologetic indifference, but there was something behind it, something Matthew could not place, that made everything else feel like nothing but a cover. Then Matthew thought back to Gilbert's grin, the nonchalance in this speech, and the faint, fleeting storm in his eyes. Then he realized Gilbert was engrained in these pages.

Now all Matthew had to do was read between the lines.

To be continued...