Paint Me Like One Of Your French Men

Painting Twenty-Two

Vincent had regrets about leaving Adrian alone in his apartment, but he trusted his gut that the guy knew not to cross him. Walking the streets with bags of art supplies in his hand was tricky, but he managed it. In the corner of his eye he saw silver. He mistook it for the same hair as the man he'd just met.

Vincent walked down the alleyway and he saw the body of a man, no, a boy? No. He was male but he was more of a young adult. Vincent knelt down and grabbed his arm. The make flinched. His hair was much shorter than Adrian's but his eyes, his shaking, it gave off the same vibe. "Do you want a place to stay?" Vincent asked without realizing. This felt familiar, nostalgic, as if he'd already experienced this before. The man looked afraid. Perhaps there was truth to the explanation Adrian had given Vincent, he just didn't know how much of it was true.

"Come with me," Vincent picked him up with ease. The male didn't have the strength to refuse, nor the will apparently. That made this easy.

The walk to the apartment was a bit tricker now. With bags of supplies and a male to assist. He managed it. The look in Adrian's eyes upon seeing the stranger was priceless. He looked dejected, confused, and filled with rage. Jealousy? But why? They hadn't known each other more than a day.

"It's in my blood to pick up strays," Vincent said. He threw the body at Adrian. "Clean him up nicely, Pet #1."

Adrian held the body, frail and weak, something he was used to. He dragged it to the tub and filled it with water. He stripped the guy of what little he had and put him in. Adrian tied his hair back, pushed up his sleeves, and sought to fulfill this mission to the best of his ability. He needed to do whatever he possibly could to get Vincent to trust and keep him.

The stranger jumped out of his skin when Adrian tried to clean him. He looked terrified. Adrian understood that feeling. He wanted to tell him he wasn't going to hurt him, but his voice...still his voice was the handicap. "Are you...a foe?" the male whispered. Adrian shook his head. He seemed to relax a bit to that.

"I can...clean myself," he assured and tried to grab the washcloth from Adrian's hands. He was shaking too much. He couldn't grip a thing.

'It's okay,' Adrian mouthed. He continued to clean the stranger. The male allowed it, understanding his attempts were hopeless.

The bathroom door opened and Vincent stood with clothes and a towel. He looked at the two silver-haired males. Similar but completely different. One riddled with scars and one young, free of the scars because he'd been saved soon enough. The clothes fell out of his hands. He hadn't intended to drop them but he made it seem as if he did. He turned on his heel and left, closing the door on his way out.

"Do...you think...he hates me ?" the stranger asked. He didn't know Vincent. He didn't know Adrian. He had no idea of the nature of this home he stepped foot in. Adrian shook his head. He took the soap from the bath and wrote on the tub.

'He hates everyone right now. Don't take it personally.'

"Oh," the male understood. He hated everyone right now too.

. . .

The three males sat at the table with food before them and a very angry looking Vincent. He seemed to stab everything on his plate. Whatever was going on in his mind seemed to be incredibly violent.

Vincent picked up his butterknife and pointed it at the stranger, "Introduce yourself," he said.

"My name is Victor."

"Well, Victor, my name is Vincent and that is Adrian," Vincent pointed the knife as he introduced himself and the other. "Now that we're all acquainted. I'm retiring to my room. Don't cause a ruckus." Vincent stood and left. Adrian looked at Victor. Victor looked at Adrian. Just what were they supposed to do?

Vincent curled up into a ball at the foot of his door. He clenched his hair with such force he might rip it all out. "I can't look after myself and now I have two stowaways?" Vincent lay on the floor, hugging his legs, "I should kick them both out," he mumbled. Vincent closed his eyes only to reopen them again. Closing them brought images of things he didn't wish to remember. His mother, specifically.

He couldn't stay on the floor forever, so he opened his closet and found...paintings. Paintings? But he didn't remember painting them. He took them out. There were four. Grell? Since when had he painted Grell? The fourth being of himself and Adrian.

"What the fuck?" he asked the painting, as if it could talk. Vincent opened his second closet to search for more hints, only to close it again. Dozens. No, more than that. How many times had he painted Adrian?

"What the fuck?" he asked again. He paced the room, now fully aware there was a gap in his memories. Adrian had lied to protect him? As in, Vincent? Not himself? How strange.

"Wait," Vincent looked at the one of himself and Adrian more closely. His mind had dismissed it once he saw himself, but upon closer inspection, wasn't this a bit...scandalous? Vincent dropped the painting and inspected the others as well. Each one had hints of lust, love? The distinction wasn't clear.

Confused, conflicted, shocked, Vincent looked for the one painting he'd had for a while...but couldn't find. "Diedrich, where is Diedrich?" He hated the man but he still needed the one stone piece of evidence his mind wasn't crazy. It wasn't anywhere. It was as if it never existed in the first place. He exited his bedroom and slammed the door searching the entirety of his apartment. Nothing. Adrian and Victor watched him as he ran around ignoring their existence, searching for something he'd never find at this rate. His head hurt. His brain hurt. His heart hurt.

He felt a warmth but it didn't register what it was. Adrian was behind him, clinging to him. Was this...a hug? He tore Adrian's arms off of him and went back to his room; his place of solace. The painting he'd been looking for was under his bed the entire time. He pulled it out, the familiar face and colors.

But words covered that face. Words of warning. "That which belongs to you is no more. All is The Undertaker's." Vincent stared. "Undertaker?" He repeated. "Why not mortician or funeral director? Why undertaker?"