Cw: probably have some mild language or sexual content

Darius wanted to sing praises to his mother. His room was cleared of all the wine bottles save for a couple she had salvaged from the house before his madman of a father to clear everything out. Was there anything worth drinking outside of alcohol? He doubted it. So struggling to find anything made him sit there stuck with a cup of now tepid tea. He had felt like his life was empty and meaningless, but now it felt worse. He barely crawled out of bed late that day. Was it how everything was going wrong, everyone letting him down, or even himself making mistakes like sleeping with his model? He knew a good artist shouldn't do such a thing. 

He'd sent out a servant to get a doctor, a good one who could keep secrets. It was worth a shot, if he died young of an illness, it would be beautiful conclusion if only the world had been aware of his talent or his family would mourn him. But neither of those had or would happen. He stared into the room, dark as the curtains remained blocking out the light and sipped at the terrible tea. "Why must the brilliant be miserable?"

[CW: Reference to domestic violence]

Mr. Carrington needed his help. For a moment, Tristan considered giving an excuse. There were few people he really hated, but a man who battered his wife was definitely on the list. He had written a medical report for the police. Nothing had happened with it. The situation still haunted him. He still hoped to find a way to help out poor Mrs. Carrington. And now he was to treat her husband?

He had no patients at the moment, however, and he desperately needed the money. Desperately. And so he had gone with the servant. Did that make him complicit? He had sworn an oath, he reasoned with himself while they were underway. He had a responsibility. He would try to separate the physical treatment of whatever ailed Mr. Carrington from the disgust he felt for the man’s person.

He had never been to the Carrington mansion. It was so large and opulent it was obscene, and it only made him more uncomfortable. The servant led him through entirely too many corridors, before knocking on a door and entering.

“Doctor Tristan Wells, sir.” Tristan heard himself introduced. He stepped into a dark and stuffy room, black doctor’s bag in his hand. The curtain were blocking out the daylight, and when had the windows last been opened? It took him a moment to adjust to the dim light and focus on the young man.

One of the sons! It was one of the sons who needed his help! Why had that thought not occurred to him? Did this one drink as well, though? He looked like crap.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

He stirred slightly when the door to his abode opened, having already forgotten the errand he'd sent the servant in. Hearing the voice made him relax a little. He waved his fingers to bring the man closer and finally forced his body around to look up at him.

"You're a doctor?" He looked at the man uncertainly. He didn't seem old enough. But maybe he was new. Just his luck. He slumped back in his large plush seat. "My luck, I guess this just means you are still hopeful and will do as I asked and keep my secrets?" He then turned again to glare at the servant until they left and short the door, trapping him in the dim room with him. As he sat back, he reached around with his other hand and gave a dejected sigh as he was reminded there was no wine in reach.

"Please sit, doctor." He said and gave a deep sigh and willed his eyes to shut and remain so. "I need your help. I seem to have come down with some illness. And I hope you have the knowledge and wisdom to help, though...you don't look much older than me."

[CW: racism]

Tristan was used to being questioned when people first met him. He let it slide off of him like water. But water was still wet and cold. The next question, however, revealed that the issue was not the colour of his skin but his age.

Did he just get called naïve?

There was a neutral smile plastered on his face, a smile that increasingly looked like a grimace as he put his bag on a table and sat down while his patient continued talking. People in distress said strange things, rude things, sometimes threatened him. He had seen it all and he could bear it and pay no mind. Except his 'wisdom' was again questioned on account of his age. The smile now looked pretty scary.

He dropped it altogether and spoke: "I assure you, I have finished medical school and I have worked as a doctor for several years." In an asylum. He decided not to add that, as he didn't know whether young Mr. Carrington knew. A few sought him out exactly for that reason, but in the majority of cases the word 'asylum' didn't exactly open doors. "Tell me about your illness."

Darius rolled his eyes, while the words were assuring, he did not actually care. Even a fool could be right, he reasoned. And if this man was allowed to call himself doctor, he must be right sometimes.

He hadn't noticed the change in expressions as he barely looked at him. When asked about the illness, he gave a dramatic slump to emphasize his lack of energy. "I've not been well for years, to be honest. But these last days..or weeks. It has escalated. Perhaps it is the stress of being the heir and trying to keep my father from changing things because he is mad at mother. Or maybe because my... friend... married even though she said she loved me." He moved to lay side ways so he could stare up at the ceiling.

"My family hate me, have for years. My only real friend died years ago. I am not appreciated for my artistic gifts. I think my lawyer may be cheating me, he definitely isn't showing any progress in helping me. I haven't had a steady flow of alcohol since father went mad and tossed it out. I think all of this is becoming too much."

He raised a hand to cover his eyes. "Or maybe I shouldn't have slept with that model. Calliope is a strange one and I hadn't spoken to them since. I knew sex would ruin me." He groaned in misery.

"I feel like I'm dead while still being alive. Is that enough?"

The eyeroll annoyed him a little, but it ebbed away when the patient began to speak and Tristan understood that the illness he was suffering from was one of the soul. This could lead to all kinds of spiteful behaviours in some patients.

Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. An alcoholic father who battered his wife - and could Tristan really know how he had treated his children? -, a murderer for a brother, obscene wealth that probably meant the young man had never had anything to work for in his life, and then there was all the things his patient added to it as he spoke.

The bit about this person named 'Calliope' caught his interest in particular, though mostly because of his own research interests. He knew those should be subordinate to his patient's wellbeing, and so he merely made a mental note that he stored away for later.

He mentally noted other things: the way his patient seemed unable to estimate how much time had passed since the symptoms had gotten worse; the fact that the young man seemed aware that his father was mad at his mother, but didn't mention the battery; the friend or lover who got married; the way he spoke about his artistic gifts and the lack of acknowledgement; the alcohol dependency; the awkwardness around sex; and then finally, feeling dead. It hardly required medical training to see that he was dealing with a clear case of melancholia. But there was a lot underneath to unpack.

"That is a lot for one person to deal with," he admitted. "You say you feel like you are dead. Is it something you want as well, or do you just feel like you are?"

Darius just laid there for a moment and considered the question. He finally moved his arm and looked at the doctor. "I think... under the right circumstances... my death would be beautiful and be the stuff people spoke of for generations. A suffering artist... lost before anyone realized his talent."

He then gave a bitter laugh. "But what good is that to me? I want to be admired while I'm alive. And recognized now. I don't want to die." He then frowned and turned his head. On a shelf was a row of stuffed little squirrels dressed like little soldiers in procession. "But since Chris died.. I have had an odd fascination with it. It keeps us immortal. When I die. I'll be frozen in time. People will remember me for the handsome face I have now. Not how it'd look in ten...twenty years. But, while I have no specific plans... I hope to have a better future." He wanted his father's money and rub it into his brothers' faces while his mom says she's proud of him for once. Even if he drank himself to death on a beach in Italy or something a year later.

No suicidal thoughts, except for some romantic grandiosity. It was a relief. The young man still wanted and hoped for a better life. That was a powerful resource to work from.

There was, however, a large need for admiration, for his art, for his looks...

Tristan's eyes had followed his patient's gaze when he turned his head. It took a few moments before Tristan really saw the objects on the shelf. That was... nightmarish...

He averted his eyes and looked back at Mr. Carrington. "Tell me about Chris."

Darius went quiet a moment. He could see his face clear as day when he wanted to, even when he didn't.

"He came from a good family, not as good as mine, but few are. Still... he had power. Presence. He was handsome and fierce. He terrified me, but I was always there when he wanted me to be. I knew he was using me, but ...he wanted me there. When everyone else forgot me or wanted to. He was there with one of his crazy plans and drinks." He started to speak without even thinking about it. Who would care what this doctor would think?

"He'd have hated you. His favorite game besides mocking his friends was terrorizing the poor." He looked almost dreamily at a covered window. "I wanted to be... like him. To command attention. When he spoke, others listened. He got or took whatever he wanted. He was not a smart man, but it didn't hold him back. He was taken too soon." He frowned to himself and let his head tilt back to look at the ceiling again. "Life isn't fair, doctor."

Tristan listened quietly, trying not to show how horrified he was at the description of this Chris person and Mr. Carrington's 'friendship' with him. He had the vague awareness of being called poor. Which he was. But it still offended him. It passed quickly however, thanks to the terror that was 'Chris'.

He was quiet for a moment as the words sank in. Then he asked: "So... You liked being around him because he made you feel wanted?"