i'll break over you [ada]

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

sometimes, mathias had to seriously reconsider his decision to be a teacher.

he didn't remember why he chose to in the first place. maybe because it was something abel poirier would never have done? maybe because he thought it might be good to take it upon himself to educate the youth of today? he wasn't sure - because he didn't think either of those things sounded relatively logical, save for maybe the first - but what he was sure was that he was quickly losing patience.

as mathias made his way up to the clean-cut therapist's office, having parked his car just down the road, he tried to organize the mess in his head that often came after he'd had a particularly rough day in class. now, perhaps it wasn't he who had had a rough day, so much as his students - but what many of them didn't realize was that it was just as difficult for him to teach a poor class as it was for them to deal with his short temper and lack of patience.

reasons why i shouldn't be a teacher, mathias thought absently, smoothing out his shirt and straightening his scarf. he could see the list in his head now, saving the image of it for when he went home to actually write it out and store it away safely.

one: i hate children. i.e.; young children, adolescent children and especially grown children - ad infinitum.

he stopped outside of the office doors, hesitating. he didn't have to go in. he knew he had issues - namely, anger and dealing with anger and dealing with everything else that irritated him (which happened to be a lot of things) - but he wasn't dysfunctional (right?). he didn't need to go in. he could walk back to his car and never call.

two: everyone in that building is infinitely less intelligent than i, therefore worth even less of my time than one who is equally intelligent.

his lips pressed into a thin line. he took a moment to adjust his glasses, to comb dark hair back from his face, to put a period on the end of the sentence of the list in his mind.

three: i have no patience for the idiots who think they can take my class and get an "easy a". footnote - try not to slam kids' books onto the floor so much anymore (unless they deserve it - which they always do).

stepping into the sleek building that rested directly uptown from his home, mathias cleared his throat and signed in with the receptionist, not even offering her a smile when she brightly told him that the doctor would be with him shortly. he just cleared his throat and sauntered over to the window, hands pushed into his pockets, and studied (counted) the birds outside (the number of dust spots on the window) until the perky receptionist told him that he could go into the office now.

"thanks," he muttered, even though he wasn't grateful - because society dictates that you have to thank someone, even if what they do isn't remotely helpful to you in the least, he thought dryly - and he moved forward, knocking tentatively on the door before stepping inside. "... hello?"

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: so puuuumped

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

A man of his prowess and knowledge only deserved the best. It only made sense, and Ada could have set his office up at the college. He could have set it up in a business tower in the more central area of Caroline. These options had been given to him. But once his practice had become his own rather than that of a pupil studying under other doctors, Ada needed to upgrade. Not wanted, but needed, simply because he was too good to be at the college anymore. This office was all his own. Doctor Hock, practicing psychologist. Oh yes there were a few other doctors here, younger and older, but this was his practice, his firm, and Ada made sure everyone knew that. As much as he could not dress himself, he insisted he would decorate the interior to his own will. The troglodytes that would have tried would have no doubt fallen hilariously short of Ada's own expectations. The building was sleek, safely tucked into the border between the upper and middle class of Caroline, a few other offices around it. Nothing ratty like it would have been if Ada had been to cave and place his office downtown. Most of the furniture was soft and modern, flashing silver steel. Sat hilariously in the rooms of the waiting office and Ada's own office - for he let the other counselors decorate their own spaces - were plump chairs. That was how he had wanted it though.

The business had been in practice for a mere three years now, though Ada had been a psychologist long before that. He needed time to grow to this point, this pinnacle that barely scraped his own excellence. Now, he could step into his office, loosening his scarf and draping that along with his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and smell excellence. He deserved this, he worked for this, and that was the best thing that Ada could feel. Counseling was a whim for him, because he liked being able to tell people what was wrong with them. Or, as he would put it to his patients, help them through the human condition. Weren't they all sufferers of the human condition? Ada loved to see his patients eyes light up as he explained the simple way their minds worked. That was what made it so easy, how simple others seemed to compared to him. He could read others so easily it was almost boring. Only their own reactions and his thoughts could entertain him enough to keep this job. Ada had at least that much.

Most of the patients he saw these days were widowed old women, wallowing over the loss of their husbands. Rich snob children, forced by their parents to see a therapist because they were acting 'rebellious'. Ada did his job, regardless of how much the same problems repeated themselves. He had not found a good case in so long, and he was honestly getting bored. The people here no longer provided a challenge for Ada, and he lamented that fact heavily. Ada did not expect his new patient to be any better, or any worse. It was simply another day, another person to analyze and help. It was the right thing to do, Krissada supposed, many of his colleagues called him a good person for helping others. That wasn't what he'd came for though, this was purely for his own entertainment and education.

Mathias Sørensen, it was a lovely name, though Ada knew not much about the man himself. It was rare he saw men, women were more in touch with their own folly. It could easily be a husband pushed here by a 'caring' wife however, or another man struggling with his sexuality. Ada only wished he could toy with the latter, but one bad consequence of that had been enough to show him a lesson. Ada was reading a text book on epistemology when the knock came on the door, considering getting another doctorate that would be more useless than his minor in musical theory - philosophy. Pushing his glasses up, he reminded himself to greet the man with a smile; his default expression was a frown born from constant disappointment.

"Mr. Sørensen," he greeted at the door, stepping behind the thick mahogany wood to let the man pass into the room. "I am Dr. Krissada Hock, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," the words only fell a little short of being the truth as Ada observed the man.

757 | outfit | mat <3 | this is so exciting~

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

"mr. sørensen."

how long had he gone by that name? how long had it been since he shed the polluted skin of abelard poirier, washed his hands, and asked god to deliver his mother's soul to the pits of hell? he had killed his mother at the age of seventeen; it had been precisely ten years - ten years since he'd asked his holy father for absolution and dropped out of high school to become mathias randolf sørensen.

he still wasn't used to it. not only last week, he'd stood in his bathroom after a particularly bad nightmare and stared at his reflection in the mirror, repeating the alias over and over in his head like a mantra. like a prayer. forgive me father, for i have sinned. even without the words touching his tongue, a sour taste rose up, rearing its ugly head.

when mathias was allowed into the room, his reflective gaze swept around the room in a quick survey. things were in order, mostly. in that brief, five-second sweep, mathias categorized every color, texture, and number. there's twenty seven tiles across the back wall, he thought absently, and twenty seven is not even. the square root of twenty seven is three multiplied by the square root of three, or five-point-one-nine-six-one-

he needed to stop. his head was getting too loud, too noisy, too fast - a lot of processing and too little patience. mathias didn't even deign to look at his new therapist as he stepped into the room, barely quirking a face muscle when he heard the words, "I am Dr. Krissada Hock, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"i know who you are," mathias replied, his tone dry. "we both already know who the other is, so let's not waste my money on silly introductions that mean little." his lips pressed into a thin line, and he reached up to adjust the glasses on his face - twenty-seven tiles, odd number, square root of twenty seven-

he blinked once, twice, three times to slow himself down, taking a seat in front of the desk and waiting until the doctor had seated himself across from him to survey the man.

krissada hock was attractive. his name was a mouthful, and as a general rule, mathias found the majority (if not all) of the human populace terribly boring. reaching up to adjust his scarf, his eyes narrowed the slightest bit.

"you didn't design this room yourself, did you?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question as it was a statement. "you can barely color coordinate your clothes, let alone an entire room. but i'm certain you picked the number of tiles to go across the back wall."

there was a distinct lack of apology in his words - in fact, there was no apology at all, because he wasn't even sorry. he didn't care that his words likely came across as tactless, abrasive, rude - he had long since come to terms with the fact that these were all components of his personality, and one thing that wasn't part of him was a desire to please others. he didn't care if someone didn't like him. it didn't bother him in the least. in fact, the only thing that seemed to bother him these days about others was the distinct lack of intelligence in the human populace.

"there's twenty seven tiles," he said, by way of explanation. "twenty seven is neither an even nor a square number. judging by your haphazard fashion sense, it only makes sense that you would be the one to decide to put such an ugly number of tiles on your own back wall. thankfully, you had someone who knew how to coordinate."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: he's so weird don't ask

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

A spatter of whiskers over a slightly defined jaw. Not because of laziness, but perhaps because of the aesthetically pleasing manner they accentuated mr. sørensen's face. Attractive, yes, but this was only a matter of the fact. Krissada often found it difficult to not see the attractive manner in any persons features, even those whittled by age, and women. His dress spoke of a man with money, but not a lot, just enough to give him a clean but slightly rugged look. Not without being polished, no, it seemed Mr. sørensen gave a lot of thought to his wardrobe. If he didn't think krissada was analyzing his every movement the second he was through the door, well, Ada would be surprised. The soft tweed fabric of the coat said a man of books, as well as the words he spoke with. Quick, clipped and sharp. No handshake either, but that was not out of social ignorance, but of being rude. Oh Ada liked that, his lip curling up just the slightest.

let's not waste my money but, he was willing to waste his money on this statement that took longer than the customary greetings? self important, with a disdain for others then. of course ada took note of the chair mr. sørensen sat in, he had the other three for a reason. not many clients took note of the wooden chair seated directly in front of ada's desk, usually going for the long lounging red one propped near the corners. societies epitome of the therapists chair, and thus the one everyone felt drawn too. krissada's favourite was the plush paisley green one sat at an angle in the near center of the room, and when his patients waited for him to offer a seat or take his own. but mr. sørensen would not do that, of course no. this was to be treated as a business meeting, and ada sat himself across from the man. he could have had a notepad, but krissada did not degrade himself in such ways. he had a brilliant memory.

mr. sørensen did not waste himself with meager hesitation as so many others did. krissada usually had to lure the information out of an individual, climatizing the environment. if this was how mr. sørensen wanted to take things though, ada had no objections. a humorous look shone in his eyes at mr. sørensen's words. though, if not a bit ruffled at the mention of his own personal dress. the yellow clashed strongly with the purple no matter where krissada stood, and that much was obvious, but his clothing did not lack coordination. he steepled his fingers, waiting for mr. sørensen to be wholly quiet. he seemed to be an interesting fellow. possible signs of obsessive compulsive disorder, if not a like for things to be as he wished them for. really, he should have tried to be a little less transparent.

"I in fact designed this entire building to my own tastes, mr. sørensen. With a little help from a few humble contractors, of course" and ada laughed, a little noise, because it was socially acceptable to do such a thing. "if you would like we could talk about interior design, i admit i could use some pointers." another smile as he looked around his office, a place he quiet liked. He'd once seen a movie that said, a room is but an expression of a persons personality put out for everyone to see.

"How many birds were there outside the window of my office, by the way?"

594 | outfit | mat <3 | this is so exciting~

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

oh, mathias knew precisely how psychologists worked. if he had been forced here by a person who was "worried about his well being" (which was just about no-one, considering his lack in friends), then he could have easily played the innocent man and answered every single question the way his therapist wanted him to in order to be given a clean bill of health. it was not a matter of not-knowing, though - mathias knew he had issues. he understood that though he had asked for his holy father to forgive him, his hands would always be red from the blood of his mother. there was a cold, calculating understanding that came with years of practiced carrying-on.

the sad thing, mathias thought, was that he could do the exact same thing right now. he could paste a pleasant smile on his face and go on to explain to the doctor every good thing he could recall from his years of studying psychology and sociology (which was a lot of things, by the by). he knew what they looked for in patients; he knew what they looked for in a healthy human being, too. he understand societal standards and the effects of a habitat, and why the man's office was painted a diluted, but warm color (because the color was not only businesslike, therefore distancing the patient from the doctor, but also welcoming, as if to say, you can tell me anything).

he also knew that every single breath he took, ever flutter of his sooty lashes, was being analyzed.

"for some reason, i don't believe you," mathias said dryly when krissada claimed he had color coordinated the room. clearing his throat for a moment, he adjusted his glasses again.

(his mother had hated it - put them on right the first time, she'd said.)

"the very least you could have done was made the tiles an even number," he continued, swiping a tongue around his lips in thought. "although the three chairs in front of your desk do add a nice symmetry that might otherwise distract me from the screw up with the tiles if i were an idiot. unfortunately - or fortunately - i am not."

at the doctor's question, however, his lips almost quirked up - almost, and if they had the smile would have likely been condescending.

"you shouldn't psychoanalyze me just yet, counselor," he said. the words came only after a moment of mental debate, trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to tell him at all. "we aren't even very much friends yet, and you won't like me when i'm psychoanalyzed."

for the longest time, mathias had been reluctant to visit a therapist. there was a lot of risk involved - risking being found out, mostly. his life had become a ridiculous comic book, a myriad of dull, colorless characters in comparison to the man who thought too much and struggled to hide his own identity.

if my life was a comic book, mathias thought absently as he tried to ignore the garish colors of the man's outfit, i'm not sure i'd be the hero.

"i wasn't counting the birds," the brunette added after a minute. "i was inspecting the dust specks on the window. there were forty-three along the bottom line, right above the window sill. of course, you wouldn't know that - you weren't close enough to survey my pupils dilating to adjust the amount of light coming through depending on what i was looking at and whether it was close or far away."

taking in a deep, mathias watched krissada steadily, his gaze unfaltering. he hated looking into other people's eyes, but he didn't mind ada's so much. his fingers twisted a bit of his pant leg for a moment. the more he looked at him, the more krissada's face appealed to him. even, smooth - high, angular cheekbones and a handsome jawline. mathias pressed his lips into a thin line.

"and anyway, that window was filthy."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: he's so weird don't ask

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

It was a therapists job to heal people, to help them overcome the problems of their lives. and oh what problems became a middle class, suburban person, what deadly woes haunted them in the night. ada had seen it all and heard it all, and he knew he was supposed to help them. the children mostly needed guidance form a parent who was unwilling to give it and would rather pay krissada to fix their child for them. the older ones were likely to be suffering from some form of midlife crisis or two and needed a man there to say 'no, its okay, we all get a little sad some days'. like it wasn't a problem that they were thirty five and unhappy, that they were fifty three and wanted to live a different live. krissada knew many things about the nature of humans, could fill a book with the simple facts. people were pushed too far, too fast, and that ended in unhappiness. they felt lost because they had never been given the chance to find a way. however, krissada did not pride his job on helping people so much as he baited them. it was just as simple to manipulate an answer or a reaction out of the idiots that strolled into his office as it was to diagnose them. he was a...off kilter therapist, the other doctors looked at krissada in shock most of the time. he was kind, though, out of pure societal requirements, if not eccentric. he did his job well. not once had a case failed him.

this one seemed as mundane as the rest. mr. sørensen (which ada would call the man until told otherwise due to his parents strict, polite upbringing) seemed to be the unruly type that, if not forced here by a loving other, might have been here for a good reason. perhaps his problems with counting. ada remembered once he had a patient that was incredibly selfish, and wondered why none of his friends liked him. perhaps ada had thought if you cared more about them and less about yourself, all of your friends wouldn't hate you. this could be a case of that. it was honestly hard to tell at first, and krissada did not hold his hopes high. this man may have been smart, but that was a mere fact. there was no telling if this mr. sørensen would be worth anything at all. he was entertaining, at the very least.

"i make money by catering to the simple minds that inhabit this town, mr. sørensen" ada dropped his hands to his lap, assuming an open, but businesslike posture. everything in this room was calculated. from, yes, the tile count in the splash behind his head to the books he had placed in the shelves around his office. if ada knew a client well, he would change those out to suit his needs. people loved to look at things, read words, and this would spark a conversation.

ada was certain mr. sørensen's hostile tone was meant to scare of those he believed less than him, and the ones not worth his time. he was bristly because he did not like the company of others, and was not about to hide that fact. he blatantly ignored any social customs, and seemed adverse to taking his own advise. wasting his money indeed. krissada had a feeling this man could psychoanalyze himself. "I am not paid to like you," ada's tongue poked out to wet his lips as he struggled not to give the man across from him a look that was very condescending.

"shame" krissada mused, plucking his own glasses from his face. an accessory he did not need, but adopted once he achieved his second doctorate because he liked the way the made him look. "i was hoping the golden finches would come back. do keep an eye on that for me, shouldn't take too much time out of your day" this was all spoken as krissada meticulously cleaned the glasses with a handkerchief form his pocket. garish blue and orange, much like the rest of anything that ada owned. krissada hock was not a man to waste time trying to keep up with fashion and instead catered to his own likes and needs.

"would you like to talk about why you felt it was necessary to come and visit me today, mr. sørensen? i am here to help" krissada placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, thinking perhaps he ought to write out a grocery list while he waited for this man to get to the point of things

enough | outfit | mat <3 | these two are the most perfect thing

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

the office had already begun to take its toll on mathias. not necessarily in a bad way, either; despite the the terrible number of tiles lining the back wall, it was the quiet, warm sort of room that he could have sat in for hours and not been bothered to move at all. given the chance, he might have sat in that middle chair, watching as the day dawned and the sun made her delicate transition through the sky, if she so chose to deign the world with her presence. yes, the atmosphere of the room - the feeling of the room - was enough to maybe erase some of the tension from mathias' shoulders.

that did not change the fact, however, that he was in the same room as a therapist. he had too many questions for this hock fellow to have time to talk about himself - but he had to remember that he was the patient, not the doctor, and that this was not the time to be evaluating anyone except himself. no matter how afraid he was of looking at the kind of person he had been and comparing it to the person he'd become. it became a bit of a habit after a while, though - he found himself psychologically evaluating the people around him, every movement they did, every involuntary twitch and flutter of eyelashes. it was a bad habit he needed to break because it only made him dislike people more when he realized how often they were lying to him.

"i can assure you," mathias said, the sharp tone coming out without even thinking, "my mind is far from simple." there was no lack of pride in his voice, either - and he was aware, of course, that he must have been coming off as prickly and unkind. certainly, it was because he was that kind of person. classically enough, he was a high school drop out - not because of the reason of high school was too easy or high school was too hard but i've killed my mother and now i need to make a run for it.

one thing that he was eternally grateful for, however, was his level of intelligence. he may lack the social skills that most other humans possessed, even from birth (for he had not been much of a smiley child), but he was categorized as exceptionally gifted at the end of the iq pool.

"i am not a bird watcher for you, dr. hock," the brunette drawled, his thick british accent a velvet lilt in comparison to his rather obtuse words. "if you should like someone to watch your birds for you, perhaps you should get your secretary to do it. god knows it would likely be the most productive part of her day."

now, perhaps that was a little unfair - after all, the girl might have been a very sturdy worker (even though mathias knew she wasn't; he'd seen a momentous stack of unfinished papers that he knew were supposed to have been finished days ago - the dates said so). but then, mathias had never considered himself a very fair person, either.

"i am here to help," were the words that made mathias' lips tighten into a thin line. help had never been needed. help had been what his mother had given him (helping him by shoving his hand into a pot of boiling water, displayed by the burn scars on his right hand still). help had never been helpful to him in the least.

"i have -" he paused. he hesitated, because how he could he explain anything without explaining how he'd been brought up? his childhood would have to be skipped, of course. "i've noticed that i have difficulties maintaining my - anger," mathias said at last, clearing his throat. "and that i have - i have little patience for people. i suppose i wanted to be evaluated for potential problems in the future."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: <3

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

Normally, krissada hated the first session with any patient. He would sit there as the patient would bumble about the symptoms they had most likely picked of from an Internet list that drove them to see him. just because some Internet test said they had six out of ten symptoms of depression did not mean they were depressed. the meal illnesses were much more elegant than that, krissada knew that. these people were demeaning a beautiful thing with their mundane tongues. they would drone about their menial lives, and krissada would assure them that they were fine. just because they sometimes thought about death, they were not suicidal. thinking about death was healthy he was always shocked at how stupid the people in this town could be. he wished he could travel, but he only ever traveled between the pages of books. mr. sørensen was diff rent, however. ada would admit he was enjoying himself, if not teasing the man a bit just because he could. he needed to draw this out, try and get enough money out of this man.

the good thing was, people always had a multitude to talk about. their won lives and inner workings were fascinating to themselves, though if not to ada. he prided himself for being better than them, and as long as he got paid for that, he was happy. his Secretary was an idiot, he knew that, but she was personable and bubbly, something patients needed in order to feel safe. many times people were driven to him because they thought they had no other option. krissada did not care if he 'fixed' them, though he often did. he'd get patients thanking him often for listening, for helping. most people just didn't have someone they could spill their guts out to guilelessly, and then there he was. he could go home happy, dive his nose into a book. ada knew he was narcissistic, being a psychologist did not prevent him from psychoanalyzing himself. but he understood his minds workings, and not those of others, and that was what made this job interesting.

he could see why many people would not enjoy mr. sørensen's company, though the man had not said so much. he had it written all over himself, though he was likely not bothered over having friends. he did not need friends, much like ada, but intellectual colleagues who could compete with him. these two seemed to have much in common. the British accent was at least intriguing, Caroline rarely got foreigners. 'that Secretary,' he tutted lightly, sounding exhausted. "the most she does in a day is achieve not breaking something in the office" insufferable women. krissada had many reasons he did not like the gender, their ability to always be moronic in some way or another was one of the many.

the things mr.sørensen said, ada had already picked up on. he hardly thought they could be a problem, though mr. sørensen was likely to have social issues plainly for the way he acted. again, he was far too intelligent to care about a little thing like that. there had to be more, there was something deeper, ada was sure about it. he would work with what he had. "everyone has a little patience for others, mr. sørensen, especially a smart man like yourself" this man actually didn't seem like he needed help, he was perfectly capable himself, but krissada was not one to judge. "tell me about these difficulties with anger," this little tidbit was at least interesting, worth investigating.

enough | outfit | mat <3 | wat is muse

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

"yes, i'm sure everyone does have a little patience - except me," mathias quipped, settling back in the chair and pressing his lips into a thin line. if there was any testament to his lack of patience, it was probably the fact that he was already getting irritated - and not particularly because of krissada, but because he disliked therapist's offices in the first place. (not to mention the twenty seven tiles, but that was an argument to bring up another time - it wasn't so hard to pull a tile off of a wall, you know.) at any rate, mathias exhaled a lot of hot air between his lips and narrowed his eyes for a moment.

there wasn't any easy way to go about explaining his issues with anger. he knew why they were (abusive mother, extensive scar tissue that caused him pain when it was stretched, little physical therapy and a lot of pent up emotions) and he knew he needed to control his anger, but that didn't make it any easier. people went to therapists to get their problems identified, but what good did it do? it only made you more acutely aware of what was positively wrong with you - and mathias already knew what was wrong with him. he was quite aware of the fact that he was a bristly, angry man who had little to no tolerance for people because he'd gotten to the point where trusting people was no longer a viable option.

he knew, with himself as a fine specimen of the truth, that people were faulted. they were made up of uneven tectonic plates crashing against each other, ripples of earthquakes consisting of drugs and anger and sadness - and so, what good would it do for him to put his faith and his trust in someone that was susceptible to the same exact problems that he had? people were not as strong as they liked to think they were.

"i get angry. fast," mathias explained after taking a lengthy moment to figure out how he was going to say it. "and explosively, sometimes. but not without reason; there's always a dumb kid who's mouthing off in the middle of class, or - god forbid - someone who gets an f on a test that i gave them the study guide for a week before. those things really dig at me." he paused, evaluating krissada for a moment, gauging his reaction. "i let my emotions build up until i'm a mushroom cloud of anger. and more often than not, it ends in destruction." he took another lengthy moment, trying to decide how honest he wanted to be - truly honest - before he exhaled a little, his gaze steadily fixed on his therapist. "but it's not just stupidity. my - it's loud, everywhere. in my head, it's always busy. and it gets exhausting and really, really irritating after a while."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: wow this took forever PLS FORGIVE ME

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

Of course Ada had done some research before he had let this man into his office a simple search on the internet and through a few colleagues turned suffice enough. Mr. sørensen did not have a multitude of information on him. All Kriss' sources turned up that he was a man in his late twenties, teacher at the college in Caroline, all horribly boring. It was obvious the man was not originally from here, his accent was too thick to have been a descendant of English folks, or moved here when he was younger. He had the stubborn stick of an accent only gained after one had full well learned how to speak. The town was usually awash in gossip once a new comer came around, but after poking his nose around, Krissada had found very little on Mr. sørensen besides the fact that he was an insufferable brute with very little manners. All, very obvious. None had noted the way in which he dressed, the way his gaze flicked calculatedly around the room, even tracking the movements of Ada's own hands and he polished his glasses. A round twenty seven rubs on each lens, just to see if he was really paying attention. The town had rumours, yes, but Kriss couldn't be bothered to listen to those. They would have Kriss believing the way Mr. sørensen's pupils had dilated when he saw Krissada meaning that he fancied him. Attraction was not an indicator of a longer stemmed interest in a person. Ada could spot the beauty in a woman, but that did not mean he would date one.

This sleepy little town had the fabulous attribute of not many people leaving, and not many new comers staying. It felt as if he were stuck inside a movie. Most of the people he saw in his office, he knew through one way or another, especially those in the high class. He knew when Mrs. Devereux talked about her anxiety over her daughter turning rebellious, all she really meant was she wished she had better control over a woman who was just as head strong as she. Kriss would try to keep his personal knowledge out of the work place, but often he could use it to his advantage. It was boring at times, but Kriss had never felt the urge to leave his hometown. His mother was far too dependant on him 'up keeping the family name'. Lot of worth that did her, he turned out to be a gay therapist. The homosexuality, she could deal with, as long as he adopted a nice young man that she could be proud of one day. The therapy, however, she was furious with. Krissada had thought that the minor in musical theory would be bad enough. However, she had not wanted him to cater to the 'scum that Caroline produced out of its tainted mouth'. And she used that as the reason she never left her house, despite his assurances that she was simply a shut in.

Mr. sørensen, though, was far from scum. He was intelligent, and got straight to the point. Kriss did find him attractive, though that did not mean much past the point that the cadence of the mans voice did not grate at his ears like so many others had a tendency to do after an hour. Though, it had barely been twenty minutes. “Perhaps you ought too...let your anger out in more constructive ways, mr. sørensen.” was he teasing the man? Quite possibly, he had a demure smile on his face. The anger was self explanatory. Kriss could spit out fortune cookies words, but Mr. sørensen was far too intelligent to let those pass by idly. Kriss supposed for once he ought to try at his job. He hadn't had a challenge in a long time.

“I could tell you that these problems you seem to have, the anger, the need for order and genius, are simply made by your own mind, but that's codswallop isn't it? You could easily ignore them, rip that one extra tile off the interior of your mind, but thats not how it works, does it?” Krissada sighed, tapping his fingers against the desk, the leather creaking as he leant forward a little bit. Mr. sørensen had been right, it was a little to early for psychoanalyzation. “When did these issues with your anger start? And the...loudness, in your head, tell me more about that.” he didn't waste time poking at the pieces, if Mr. sørensen had brought it up, he obviously wanted to talk about it.

767| outfit | mat <3 | its finnnne~ i'm just happy to post them

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

when he had lived with his mother - the most hellish sixteen years of his life - they had lived in a big city, which was why mat was sure it had been so easy for his mother to hide all of their secrets. there hadn't been a father in mat's life to intervene, at least not one that he'd ever met, and for the longest time, mathias would drag himself through the vicious traditions of his life with his mother.

when he was younger, he'd called her "mother" and "mom". as a toddler he'd even called her mommy, but that had quickly disappeared as things became more difficult, more dangerous. by the time he was thirteen, sporting more scars than a young boy ought to, he referred to her publicly as the mother. she was not his mother; she did not love him; she was a mother, the mother, the woman who stuck his hand into a boiling pot of water because his skin was covered in sin.

his mother had wallowed in a toxic cocktail of substance abuse and an over zealous love of her religion. it had been a dangerous mix; just thinking about it, here in his therapist's office, made the scar tissue stretching across his back feel uncomfortable and tight. almost imperceptibly, mathias grimaced and shifted in his seat, wondering briefly if this agitation were truly a medical injury or just a trick of the mind.

either way, his stormy gaze - which had been locked on krissada - faltered for a moment and he looked away, curling his fingers into his palm until he could feel his nails biting into his skin.

"the loudness started when i was seven," mathias answered, surprised at how easily the words came out of his mouth. he could remember that day clearly, too - a seven year old's birthday spent curled up in his bed. "on my birthday. i don't remember what triggered it, but it's been that way ever since. noise, color, especially when i'm angry - it's agitating."

that was a lie, of course. he remembered exactly what triggered it; that was the day he'd gotten his first litter of scars. but how would he explain that to the doctor? that would bring up all sorts of questions, of which mathias was ready to answer none.

"the anger was around ten, i think. maybe earlier." of course, there had been no other ways for mathias to get rid of the toxicity in his msystem, so he'd resorted to lashing out and getting into fights at school - back when abel poirier had been a boy who came home with black eyes and split lips.

despite the anxiety that was now coursing through his veins, rendering his shoulders tense, mathias let a dry, humorless smile come to his lips.

"should we move on to my childhood?" he asked, his tone a little more than just brittle. "delve into what really makes me tick? that bloody tile, by the way, is a minor issue that you could easily have fixed." mathias quirked a brow upward, loosening his fist and instead steepling his fingers to hide his silent exhale.

"i don't know all that much about you," he said at length. "is it legal for you to tell me something?"

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: yaaaay iPhone posting

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

the one thing Krista lamented above all else was that his childhood was not more interesting, more scaring. Every person had problems, and there was no measure to how great or bad they were. One should never compare their pain to anothers. However, ada knew that he was well off since the beginning. Rich mother living in the rich part of town. He never knew who his father was, the man had been estranged from the hock's life long before krissada was born. His mother was a strict jewish woman who asked too much of her only son yes, but that was only because of her distinct hatred of the male race. Kriss may have faired better if he was of the opposite gender, but him and his mother were never destined to get along. She taught him how to play grand piano, speak four different languages (the pig Latin was his own choice), and he taught her the endless insufferabilites of children. Children should always respect their parents, but parents needed to earn that respect first and foremost.

His mother could have been worse than she was, yet kriss rebelled against her in any form he could. At a younger age he often wondered if his attraction towards men was because of her distinct lack there of. There was no reason for him to act this way besides the fact that her attitude would not change if he had acted any differently. His toddler years were marked by many embarrassing feats to gain her love and affection, all failed. His cry became something of an infant that did not demand, but rather understood far too early how life would constantly disappoint. Kriss was never rude to his mother, not in an overt way. He understood the position of politeness, another thing he learned from her. Even if he were sarcastic, teasing, unbearable and stubborn, at least kriss could pull it off with a little class. He wouldn't have got as far as he did without.

“well, most psychologists seem to agree that childhood is the root of many a problem” krissada sighed, tipping his head. “i, however, am under the strict belief that its only a number of collected events and people in our lives that have resulted in any sort of negative manifestation, or possible mental illness. That could also come from pure genetics, as well. I wouldn't say that it is because you were a child when these things started that they did, but they did start when you were very young. Children are susceptible to an immense amount of moulding that adults are not. If you don't think those years are relevant however, we can skip over the brunt of the problem. Stop trying to figure out what went wrong and start trying to fix it, though the two are not always mutually exclusive” krissada tapped his fingers on the desk lightly, trying not to shoot a glance at the tiles behind him to try and see what was really the matter with them. It was just in mr.sorensens mind.

“it is not illegal for me to tell you anything, except perhaps to harm yourself or others around you. However, it is highly frowned upon. These sessions are about you, mr.sorensen.” he paused, measuring the man. Curiosity was always one of kriss' weak points, as was any mans folly. “But, if you would feel more comfortable knowing more about me, a question may be permissible.”

NER| outfit | mat <3 | sassy sass sass.

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

mathias knew that his tumultuous childhood was certainly the root of the problem when it came to his inability to cope. he didn't know precisely what it was he had - after all, he was no psychologist; he merely taught the textbook information of sociology to make enough money to pay for his slightly-cramped apartment - but he knew that the combination of drugs and abuse he'd suffered through as a child had certainly had a lasting effect on his then-delicate psyche.

he would not be affected in such a way again, mathias had decided; as soon as the blood of his mother was on his hands, he had taken everything he could pack into his backpack and left. he had shoved his clothes and what few things he truly cared about - mostly books - and disposed of the body. carefully. that was one thing his mother had seemed to forget. not only had mathias gotten bigger than her, to the point where she couldn't hit him anymore without risking backlash, but he had also gotten smarter.

he hadn't worried of taking anything that might trigger him, something that could remind him of his mother - because his bad memories didn't need a trigger. they just were.

mathias licked his lips, briefly and quickly, in an attempt to ground himself again. he forced himself to loosen his tense hands, to try and erase the tension from his shoulders. it didn't work well enough; instead, he took to analyzing every single thing about his (attractive - shut up, mathias) psychiatrist. aside from his haphazard clothing choices and his inability to color coordinate, which would certainly be a problem in the future for the both of them, dr. krissada hock was an attractive young man. clearing his throat, mathias averted his gaze (he hated eye contact the majority of the time anyway) and crossed his legs to get more comfortable.

"i'd like to get diagnosed and drugged," mathias replied shortly, lifting his gaze after a while to meet krissada's again. "to make this as quick and painless as possible, i mean. the less time i have to spend beating around the bush the better." which seemed like it would be difficult, considering the fact that he wasn't intending to tell krissada that he'd murdered his own mother. pushing his glasses up his nose once more, mathias took in a little breath. quick and painless, he thought as he organized the thoughts in his head. just get it out and let the good doctor tell you what's wrong with you.

"the - i mean, my mother was a strict catholic who wallowed in substance abuse and neurotic behavior," he explained, quickly burying his the mother and trying to make it seem like perhaps he was, actually, normally. "she was not kind, ever. she especially didn't like when i admitted i was gay. there was -" he stopped, but only for a moment before he bit the inside of his tongue. collected. you have to stay collected. "she didn't like me at all, so i don't know why she kept me around."

mathias stopped again. a question is permissible, he repeated absently, chewing his lip for a moment. any question? he coughed quietly into the crook of his arm and took a moment to evaluate his counselor.

"i want you to pick what you want to tell me," he said, eventually, his gaze steadier than before. "i think it shows either what's more important or what's least important to the person if they choose to say it themselves."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: kriss u so sassy

© ANISE

[krissada jaccard-bracard hock]

i need more dreams, and less life.

kriss was enjoying watching the man opposite him shift in his seat far to much. he loved being a therapist, because often in times that people were spilling their souls, they would not look kriss in the eyes. it enabled them to disconnect from the situation, and from himself. he was a blank wall for them, one that would sometimes spit out useful advice or drugs. this lack of eye contact with krissada enabled him to watch them, however, and he did. he could stare at mr. sørensen as he moved his shoulders, bridged his hands, shuffled in the harsh chair he had chosen, licked his lips. it could be explained away by the fact that kriss was reading his body language, which was clearly uncomfortable, unsure. stooped in shoulders, metaphorical of the weight he was carrying, and indicative that he was trying to protect himself emotionally. nervous habits were one and many, but none were quite unique. the casual poke of tongue through already moistened lips was not distracting, but merely something kriss stored in his mind, a tick he could identify later on.

"drugs are not always the answer, mr. sørensen" though, surely he had to have known that. classic to his kind, however, kriss loved the sound of his own voice. "currently you could have a myriad of illnesses, or none at all, it's far too early to tell. you, of course, came to see me to find which. we could either test all the drugs and combinations i have at my arsenal, a method that would take five years if not longer to only narrow down the ones that pertain to you, or we can continue these sessions once a week for however long it takes for me to determine what exactly is wrong with you, if anything" he felt explaining this to the man in front of him was pointless, but mr. sørensen was not giving him much else to work with. kriss would have loved to see the man for upwards of five years (he tried to tell himself it was because of the money, not the sound of his voice) however, he was instructed in certain practices and certain manners.

kriss was unsure why his interest piqued so much at the minor confession of the other mans sexuality. he was attractive, yes, surly (a quality kriss seemed to like in other men, the less amiable the better) and lusted after the same things kriss did. that didn't mean anything though, this was purely business, not some youthful confession of love. the confession of his mothers treatment was much more interesting, and of course kriss didn't miss the way mr. sørensen skipped over a word. what that meant was lost to him, but kriss could see the other mans obvious discomfort. "a mothers duty is often alone to her children, regardless of how much they dislike them. even mothers with ptsd tend to try to drown their children before simply giving them up for adoption, but the finer details of that matter are debatable. many peoples mothers are cruel, mr. sørensen, but i assume yours was worse?" they were still beating around the bush, if mr. sørensen wanted to get anything done, he had to be a little less secretive.

a carefully groomed eyebrow arched at mr. sørensen's next words, interested. he felt, for once, at a slight loss for words. "aren't i supposed to be the psychologist here?" he asked, to mask his thinking. he didn't know what he could divulge to this man. technically, he wasn't supposed to talk about himself at all. these sessions were meant to focus first and foremost on the patient, as he had told mr. sørensen. it was a strange position to be in, for a man who loved talking about himself. "halfway through middle school, i had to be removed from the education system and home schooled because of a deathly allergy to peanuts," krissada could have told mathias anything, really. it was up to him to determine how important it was to him or otherwise. this fact was not something widely published about himself, intimate enough to seem interesting, but was questionable to how much it really revealed about the man who's own mother taught him from middle school until he could graduate and reenter the world of public education.

NER| outfit | mat <3 | i could have made this post like 20x longer simply because of how much KRISS TALKS

[mathias randolf sørensen]

if you ask me, two is a whole lot lonelier than one

"drugs aren't always the answer," hock said, and mathias had to stifle the bitter laughter that threatened to waft through his carefully thinned lips. drugs weren't the answer? drugs were the only answer. he was a toxic wasteland inside, barren except for the cocktail his mother had mixed up and shot into his bloodstream every day since he was four. his mother's "love" had been a needle, jabbed violently and uncomfortably into the veins of his arm, until he couldn't take it anymore, until the uprising of noise and color became too much to bear. how could he have expected dr hock to understand that this was not one of his usual patients, that the best way to deal with mathias was to drug him into a near catatonic state?

he wanted it, too, badly. he wanted desperately not to feel these dark waves welling up inside of him. he wanted desperately to know himself better, to not feel as if his own mind was a bermuda triangle, where things went to and disappeared and reappeared years later in a painfully bright recurrence. the only way that was going happen is if he numbed himself, became one-dimensional, so that the only part he had to know of himself was flat.

doctor hock seemed intent on actually getting to the root of the problem, however, which irritated mathias. all he was asking for was to be given an anxiety medication, or something. something to take off the edge. watercolor-blue eyes narrowed the tiniest bit as he listened to doctor hock, but he didn't take his eyes off of the tile behind the man because eye contact was dangerous. eye contact let people look inside of you. if doctor hock could see inside him, all bets would be off and he'd be stuck in psychoanalyzation forever.

"to say my mother was 'worse' is a dire understatement, doctor hock," mathias drawled, the british lilt thickening as he struggled to keep his ire in check. the brunette sucked his teeth, dug his nails into his palm until there were tiny little half moons in the soft skin of his hand, mulling over his options. finally, at length, he elaborated. "she participated not only in drug abuse but child abuse as well, counselor. you see, when a mother truly does not love her child, it would seem that she has no inhibitions about punishment methods." he paused, and the resulting smile was bitter as he steepled his fingers once more. "what's a good spanking to a hand shoved into boiling water, or a backhand across the face to mutilation? she knew no difference, counselor, and neither did i at the time." he lowered his hands, at last looking krissada in the face.

the smile might have softened a little bit at the man's next words, or at least lost some of the bitterness giving it that uneasy edge. quietly, mathias shifted in his chair again. "you must forget you're speaking to a professor of sociology at the college, counselor," he replied, but paused to listen to what he chose to share with mathias. the edges of his lips quirked up and he cleared his throat. at long last, he said, "you would be the kind to be homeschooled, doctor."

tagged: kris ♥
outfit: this c:
words: ###
notes: aaaaaaa only took me forever ogm

© ANISE