"Trust is a thing those with nothing to lose can afford." Darius sighed, not considering how trusting he'd been to his models and to his lawyer, but then that was for money. Something he had little knowledge in its value. "How could I ever be ready for it? I am perfectly fine in a presence and speaking with some people. But then when it comes down to it, to a closeness. I feel like I'm stepping into a strange land, and everything is off and wrong. I get more nervous and fear any moment things will go wrong, and when they don't I'm more afraid and confused."

He gripped the tea cup at last and drank the last few drops before letting it drop with an unceremonious clatter. "I like when I know why someone wants to be around me. Jokes? My money? I don't like it, but at least I know why I'm there. There was a priest in town who once wanted to prove to me that the poor were good people. I think it was so I'd donate to the church." He started to brush out unseen wrinkles on his sleeve. " I followed him through the poorest places in town and I wasn't convinced. I learned that the poor can be nice and generous to someone they believed could save their souls or who would donate the little he had to help them out. No one is nice for free. I still am convinced of that. So closeness feels .. like a trap."

Ugh, the priest. He had an idea which one that might be. Tristan had examined him when he had fainted and given some medical advice he knew was going to be ignored. He'd steer the conversation away from the priest. That example was the last thing Mr. Carrington needed.

Tristan moved slightly forward in his chair. "What do you have to lose?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Darius stared at the doctor like he was an idiot. "What do I have to lose? Everything. My friend died because he rolled around with the wrong person. My father breaks my mom's heart because he can't keep his pants on. My brother died because he thought life was cheap and someone agreed with him. But even worse than my life, someone could separate me from my family, and more importantly- their money. I don't have the skills nor desire to live like the poor do. I don't even have the skills to be rich." Except I should be wealthy on my paintings but people have no idea of quality. "I don't have the charm and wittiness, nor the desire, to go after some old rich widow for their fortunes. I have this room and this family's money. If I lose that, I'll die. There will be nothing worth living for." He said simply, whether or not he knew if it could be true, but it made sense. The very idea of living in a place outside of the comfort of his room where they were currently, seemed uncomfortable and forbidden. "What else is there?"

That... was incredible. In a bad way. Tristan sat staring at the man, momentarily forgetting that he was the doctor. Then he remembered to be professional and tried.

He moved back a little in his chair. "So..." Tried. This was not a time for trolling. "You're afraid of intimacy, because you are afraid of losing your wealth?"

He waved his hand looking annoyed. What did any of thus have to do with his illness? "It is what I fear losing. After all, my mind and body are already failing me. I certainly have other worries about intimacy..as you say."

He signed and closed his eyes. He didn't want to speak. "I can count on one hand the number of people I have been alright being close to. Less than half of them could I hug, albeit briefly. But anyone else, I feel like I'm on the outside looking in. It's one reason painting is so natural. I like being the observer. Trying to be close to someone when it doesn't come naturally is like..." he thought.

"Pretend you are just walking down the street and a man you didn't know claimed to be your wife and want to act like her and want you to treat her as such. You'd think it was ridiculous but what if it was true? What if somehow she was now this man. As much as you may love your wife, it would feel weird and wrong. Right?" He said. Hoping this strange idea he suddenly pulled on would work.

Tristan listened quietly, his interest particularly tickled by the metaphor. He needed to be careful to ask questions that benefited the patient's diagnosis, not his own interest. And yet it was the patient who had brought it up. "Yes, I would say so. Against your nature, perhaps. Is that how you feel hugging all people? How about your model, Calliope?"

He didn't think deeply on the question, Darius didn't have to.
"I mean, yes for the most part. Hugging my mother or sister has never bothered me though those instances are rare and brief. But outside of them, it does bother me. Like I'm exposed and out of my element. "

He folded his hands neatly on his chest. "Calliope is beautiful. Like all of my models. I love a face I can stare at and I want to immortalize it. They have a strong presence but also are a total enigma. It captured me so I wanted to paint them. I... have always made it a rule not to get too close to my models. But I failed twice with them and my friend who married. I didn't sleep with her. But I have hugged her and been held." He sighed miserably and closed his eyes. "I wanted to comfort her, as I suppose Calliope wanted to comfort me when... we ended up together. I haven't seen nor spoken to them sense. And I haven't had the spark to paint since then either." He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"The body is a curse!"

Tristan really wished he had a notebook, so that he could write down his observations. He was a little surprised by the young man's strong response after recounting hugging and sleeping with his models. Whatever was bothering him, Tristan felt rather sorry for him. "Our bodily desires are a natural part of us? Perhaps you've tried to suppress them for too long?"

Darius frowned and remained quiet for a long while. He was frustrated he had no wine. He wanted to be delightfully and miserably drunk. "Suppress makes it sound like I wanted to and just refused. Have you ever been hated, doctor?" There was almost a grumble in his voice. "Have an entire family wishing you'd disappear because they had better things to do than deal with you? Have people remind you you're useless or a failure?"

He frowned and shut his eyes. "People don't like me. Never have. And I learned as a child not to care. I take care of myself, my best friend is wine followed by my art. That's what I need, not caring about a body that might just laugh at me when my back is turned. Now will you offer me some drugs or what?"

Tristan stayed quiet while his patient seemed to think for a long time. He knew that often silence was a better tool to come to understand a patient's mind than asking on. People would fill the silence eventually. But when Mr. Carrington spoke at last, it shocked him. The man had already indicated that his family didn't care for him, but he went further. Surely poor Mrs. Carrington had to be excluded from this?

"No. Not yet anyway," Tristan answered slowly. "It would appear that your melancholia is linked to your life and the way you view it, your situation. If I were to give you drugs to alter your state of mind, but not address the underlying issues, it would do no more to fix the problem than your beloved wine does."