Paint Me Like One Of Your French Men

Painting Twenty-One

The conversation with his mother hadn't been an easy one. Adrian knew that Vincent was acting strangely ever since she left. He was able to maintain eye contact and talk to her while she was here, but the moment she exited the apartment he collapsed. He said he was fine; clearly a lie. He also said that he would take a bath and forget all of his troubles; another lie. Adrian waited outside the bathroom door, he was sticky and gross, and wearing a robe but he felt awkward about entering. There was this aura around Vincent, one that said he wanted to be alone. Adrian knew this was probably the worst possible thing for him, but he couldn't break through the aura.

It took all of his courage and willpower to open the door. Once he did, he was glad he did, for Vincent looked utterly pale. Adrian rushed to his side and sat next to the tub. That's strange. There is water there but no steam. Adrian touched it, ice cold. What the hell? Vincent, what are you thinking taking an ice bath?

He looked up at Vincent's face. The man was hollow. He was pale enough to look like a doll. He wasn't there. His soul has left his body. He was staring at the wall with the blankest of expressions. He hadn't even registered that Adrian was sitting there next to him. This worried the man. He reached out, to touch Vincent, and the coldness of his skin shocked him. Vincent turned his head to look at Adrian, but he wasn't looking at Adrian. He was looking past Adrian. He stared at the area behind Adrian, as if staring at a ghost. No, Vincent was the ghost. He reached out, past Adrian, grabbing a hand that didn't exist.

"Don't sell me," he whispered, "I'll do what you want, just don't sell me," he pleaded with a figure that wasn't there. This childlike state Vincent was in disturbed Adrian. He'd had his fair share of terrible experiences but seeing Vincent in a state he'd been in previously was...well...he couldn't think of the words to describe it. He wasn't confident in his ability to comfort Vincent, even though he understood exactly where he was coming from.

Light made it's way back into Vincent's eyes. He wasn't a doll anymore, or at least, not fully. He stared at Adrian. He answered the question Adrian was dying to ask. "My scars, the burned, so I made the water cold." Vincent hugged himself, he covered his torso, "It still burns."

No amount of coaxing would convince Vincent to leave the tub, so Adrian decided to enter it with him. He threw the robe to the side and jumped in, all at once, not thinking about the freezing temperature. He sat, right across from Vincent, and waited. He knew what would happen next. Vincent would start caring about him. He would say something about the temperature, Adrian catching a cold, and throw the man out. He'd wrap him in towels and blankets and then make something warm for him to drink. He did. He did all of those things. It was the only way Adrian could think of to get Vincent out of the tub. It worked. He hated that it worked.

He stood in the hallway, with the blanket wrapped around him, and he watched as Vincent hurried around. He watched and he didn't understand. Vincent was far away, he was so far, in a world unattainable. How was he supposed to reach someone like that? Only words would reach him, words he couldn't even say.

"V-" he tried. He tried with every ounce of his being but he could still only make noises. These noises weren't even loud enough for Vincent to hear in this state.

Vincent stopped. He stopped and he fell. Adrian ran to him, and held him, but nothing he did was going to help. Vincent wasn't awake. Was he unconscious? Was he asleep? Adrian rested his head on Vincent's chest to check that he still had a heartbeat. He did. That must be a good sign. Adrian covered Vincent with part of his blanket, he lay next to him and clung to him, hoping that maybe some of his warmth would rub off. He fell asleep like this.

He woke up with the pressure of an arm against his throat. His eyes fluttered open to see a face of rage staring down at him. The blanket still covered the two. Vincent's eyes were cold, like that of a bloodthirsty monster set out to eat him. "Who are you?" he asked. Of course Adrian was a bit taken aback. He'd just woken up, his mind wasn't fully functional, and his beloved Vincent was out to murder him. Amnesia? But why?

"Who are you?" Vincent repeated his question. The mute man could say nothing. How was he going to get out of this if his voice still wasn't working? Adrian attempted to mouth words but that only angered Vincent more. He was going to lose consciousness. He might even die at this rate. Adrian took his finger and tried writing letters on Vincent's skin. It was a risk he was going to have to take.

'M. U. T. E.' Adrian wrote.

Vincent, shocked to say the least, looked perplexed. "This isn't going to get me anywhere, is that what you mean?" He stood up, but kept the blanket. That was strange. Adrian had known Vincent to care more about others before himself. Just how much of his memory had Vincent lost?

Adrian followed behind Vincent, cautiously. He didn't want to anger the man any further. Vincent threw a notebook and pen at Adrian's feet before taking a seat on the couch. He took up the whole couch, mind you, laying as a Greek god would in a painting of allure. In place of a toga he had his blanket.

"Explain yourself," Vincent's eyes were not murderous any longer but they still had caution. One misstep and Adrian would find himself on death row.

Picking up the notebook and pen, Adrian scribbled words that made sense but didn't make sense to a man without memory. He crossed things out and wrote more things, unsure of where to begin. He crossed those things out and ultimately asked this question, 'What do you want to know?'

Vincent stared. He watched all of that writing and he saw all of those blotches of ink crossing out other blotches of ink. Somewhere in his mind he understood. He understood this situation to be strange. He was missing something, and it bothered him. "Who are you? Why are you naked and in my home? Why am I naked and in my home with you sleeping beside me on the floor? I suppose that's a good place to start."

'My name is Adrian. You picked me up off the street and helped me take a shower. You tried to help me to a bed but we both collapsed and ended up sleeping on the floor.' Adrian lied. Sure these things weren't what happened earlier but that was how the two met way back when. It was simpler to lie like this. When Vincent remembered everything he would understand. Right? But would he remember everything? That was the problem.

"Did I?" Vincent rested his head on his hand and looked away for a moment. He analyzed the possibility of doing such a thing. He glanced back to Adrian. The hair. The scars. Was it possible he had opened up to someone? Took a shower with a stranger? He found it unlikely.

"You're lying to me," Vincent concluded. He knew when people lied. He sensed it. But he also knew this wasn't completely false. There was truth in this lie. He was protecting something. Protecting someone. Who? What? And why? Vincent decided to play along with this lie. It wouldn't harm him to be hospitable. "But that's okay. Everyone lies."

Vincent stood up. His blanket still draped around him in the fashion of a Greek. His footsteps glided across the room. He stood, before Adrian, and held Adrian's head in his hands. He lifted it, staring into his eyes, searching for something, possibly the truth.

"How will you repay me?" his question simple. Adrian shook. He saw these eyes before. These were eyes of a ravenous beast. He'd seen these eyes in the past but he'd never imagined to see them on Vincent. He shook. He shivered. He felt tears run down his cheeks. This wasn't the Vincent he knew. It was a Vincent he'd seen glimpses of.

"You're scared, and rightfully so, don't forget the fear in your bones right now. You'll need it to survive here." Vincent brushed by Adrian and made his way to his room. "Sleep on the floor, you're a stray pet that hasn't yet deserved the bed," he said before closing the door.