CHAPTER FIVE.

The last person Dr. Ian McKnight, a psychiatrist of fifty-seven and of a fairly decent reputation, expected to see that afternoon was Matthew Williams, considering his next check up was in another month or so. Something else he also wasn't expecting to see was the young Canadian in the state he was when he was escorted into the room by his worried-looking secretary, her hand resting firmly on the taller boy's shoulder.

Two weeks ago, when McKnight had seen Matthew he had been depressed, but smiling and bright eyed, holding a quiet sort of hope for things in the somewhat near future. He spoke in that calm, eternally quiet tone of voice, and he joked, laughed, and seemed to be doing better all around. He had even gained some weight, which was a bit of a miracle.

Now?

The psychiatrist swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach as his head positively reeled from the stunned nausea he felt.

Now Matthew looked the way he did when he had first met him almost two years ago, being introduced to him in the psychiatric ward for the first time. Petrified, sick, malnourished and utterly devoid of anything that resembled life. The boy had spent a year and a half living on the streets when he had first met the him (who was only nineteen at the time). He had been hospitalized after being found by several street performers that knew him as well as one could a vagrant in the backstreets of Brooklyn, lying in a back alley with his wrists slashed all the way up to his elbows and a potent amount of alcohol in his system. From what they had said, he had screeched at them to leave him alone there, that there was nothing else they could do, to just leave him be. One of them, a young woman that ate fire to garner her living, cracked him over the back of the head with a block of wood, knocked him out, and had him brought to the hospital.

When he had met Matthew the first time, he had been in a medically-induced coma in the ICU at St. Vincent's hospital. It had been heartbreaking to see him, even if he didn't know the kid. For one thing, he didn't look like the sort of homeless person he had expected to be coming in to meet; the boy appeared to be relatively clean, his hair had a bit of a shine to it, and his face was unblemished. And to say that he was not a good-looking individual was a lie. He was not handsome in the traditional sense, but more along the lines of pretty, dainty, words not generally applied to men. It was a horrifying contrast to the fact that there were tubes down his throat to help him breathe, up his nose, wires attached to his chest, temples, everywhere and several needles carrying an intravenous solution as well as ones with blood and sedatives, slipped into his arms. And his forearms were covered in thick layers of bandages to conceal the stitching job performed there - over three hundred stitches on each arm. 'A work of art,' one of his colleagues had commented dryly, sadly. The only sound in the room had been the whirring of machines being used to keep him both alive and sedated at the same time, and the heart monitor keeping track of his infrequent heartbeats.

The second time McKnight had met him had been a week later, and Matthew was awake this time and fully alert, seated upright in bed, intently reading a novel. He was on the psych ward, no longer in the ICU. He was still connected to an intravenous, considering he had been refusing to eat. To say the psychiatrist had been surprised was an understatement once he saw what the boy had been reading at the time; virtually all of the homeless people he had ever worked with were poorly educated individuals - not to say that there weren't geniuses amongst them - and that had been the main reason they were homeless. But to see the boy ploughing through The Pickwick Papers like it was nobody's business, and with another stack of books ranging from other works by Dickens to Edmund Burke to Sylvia Plath to Jane Austen to a translated version of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, yeah, it was absolutely astounding.

Indigo eyes, cold and calculating, had met with his as he stepped up to the bed. The first thing he had noticed was how empty they were. They were hateful, reproachful. They had made him feel naked as he stood beneath their scrutiny. Then he had noticed that the boy was terrifyingly thin and swaying slightly, eyes slipping in and out of focus from behind his glasses. He still hadn't been fully functional.

"Hello, Matthew," he had said, approaching his bedside and tentatively sitting down upon the edge. He glanced to his wrists, which were still heavily bandaged. There had been signs of the linens having been tampered with, something he had filed at the back of his mind to let the nurse know. "I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Ian McKnight, and, well, I'll be your psychiatrist for as long as need be."

There had been no response for the boy simply kept reading, tuning the man out as he sunk back against the headboard, occasionally turning the pages, adjusting his glasses every once in a while. McKnight had sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair as he did so in exasperation. It was then he could tell that it would not be an easy task to get him to talk.

Six more failed suicide attempts later, as well as a botched robbery, and he found himself asking the NYPD to bail the youth out, offering to pay the money in full, in cash, on the spot. He had taken him home, cleaned him up, fed him until he was so full he thought he was going to puke, and then proceeded to reduce him to tears with some emotional shock therapy. But it had worked for the most part, and much to his wife's displeasure at him taking home yet another stray, he kept the young man under his roof until he seemed at least somewhat stable enough - both financially and mentally - to find his own apartment and a job.

It seemed like it had all worked out for the best.

And here was Matthew now, slumped in the chair across from him on the other side of the desk, eyes bloodshot and turned downwards, face bone white and thinner than the last time they met. He visibly shook, teeth chattering and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Every now and again his eyes would flit about the room; he would chew on the tip of his thumb, or shift position in the chair. He would give a brutal, chest-rattling cough that would last for nearly minutes at a time, leaving him gasping and teary-eyed by the end. But he did not say one word to his psychiatrist. In fact, when the man thought of it, it looked like he had gone knocking on Death's door, only to have been rejected.

This went on for nearly ten minutes. McKnight alternated between typing up a profile report on another patient he had - a paranoid schizophrenic with extensive delusional episodes - and studying the youth before him. He withheld a sigh, feeling his heart sink. It was heartbreaking, really, considering they had made so much progress over the past year with his 'issues', as he liked to call them. It might have been an euphemism, and normally the man strictly avoided those, but he felt that they could simply be called issues now, not mental problems on a grand scale. Just something he needed to talk about every now and again with someone, someone that understood what it was he was saying.

Looking at him now, he felt the fear that they might be starting back at square one.

Silence prevailed for another extended period, and the man's displeasure with the situation was mounting with each minute that ticked by on the clock. Deciding that the silence - the boy's evasive tactics - had gone on long enough, McKnight shut the laptop as gently as he could, leaning forward and peering intently at his patient. Matthew still jolted and stared at the doctor, as though just realizing he was there in the room with him. His eyes were glassy and shadowed, occasionally slipping in and out of focus from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

"Matthew, what brings you here so early?" he asked calmly, smiling gently at the boy as he adjusted his own reading glasses, removing them and setting them down upon the desk.

He was given a hum of acknowledgement, the Albertan refusing to meet with his eyes as he stared blankly at the floor.

"Was there something you needed to talk about?" McKnight prodded further, leaning in closer, frowning as his young patient shrunk back with a weak sound of protest.

There was absolutely no response this time. If it weren't for the fact that the younger man had made a whine in the back of his throat and how he pulled back, the psychiatrist would have begun to wonder if the young man was after falling into a catatonic state from how unresponsive he was.

Well, it was time for a change in tactics. He needed to get Matthew to talk. Now. The man straightened, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat. This bit of sharp movement caught the Canadian's attention, eyes flickering to him with anxiety. McKnight pressed forward. "Matthew, if you don't have anything to say, I'm going to have to ask you to leave and wait until your next session. Do you understand me?" He spoke in a quiet, harsh voice, but kept his expression gentle, brown eyes compassionate.

This elicited the reaction he had been aiming for, if any at all: "P-Please don't m-make me leave, Sir," he whimpered, edging forward in his seat, wringing his hands, his wrists, wincing. "I … I'm sorry."

Hushing him softly, covering a thin, icy hand with his own large one, he smiled as he called himself a bastard in his head in every language he knew. "Don't worry; you should know by now that I would not ask you to leave until you were comfortable. Now, be a good boy and tell me what's wrong. What happened?"

He was silent at first, mouth opening and closing as he seemed to struggle with letting the words out, struggling to find the right words to say to the man. Then he just seemed to give up. A choked noise left him, and then he buried his face in his hands, body trembling, after casting his psychiatrist a pained look. The sleeves on his Team Canada sweater tumbled down from the movement, soft but faded fabric pooling around the mid-section of his forearm. There were bandages there, wrapped hastily and speckled red, covering only a small portion of his arm. The remaining scars stood out vividly against his pallid flesh. The older man's face went white.

Oh, no.

No no no no no.

'Anything but that,' he thought weakly, licking his lips as he felt them go numb.

McKnight felt his stomach turn leaden and a pain latching and digging deep into the center of his chest. Reaching across the desk, he took a hold of the bandaged wrist and pried it away from the Canadian's face, wanting to see for himself whether or not he was actually seeing what was there, and was not just imagining it. The bone beneath his fingers felt brittle, and he could wrap his thumb and pointer fingers around the bandaged wrist with the utmost ease, overlapping the tips of his fingers as he did so. Expression blank for a moment, Matthew simply stared at the man as though he were trying to register what was actually happening. But then he finally seemed to grow aware of the hand on his wrist, gripping onto him. A hand that should not have been there. Panic took over and he recoiled so violently from the man that the chair tipped over dangerously, teetering perilously on its back legs as he dropped from it and onto the floor, elbows hitting the wood first, eyes wide as a startled yelp escaped him; inhaling and exhaling heavily, shakily. He scrambled backwards, cradling his wrist to his torso as the wooden chair hit the hardwood floor with a crash. Tears were forming in his eyes, and he let out a strangled sob, quickly standing and backing away as he covered his mouth, apologizing profusely, holding the back of his head with one hand while the other arm was wrapped around his thin middle section, resting just below his ribcage.

Instantly he was on his feet and cautiously approaching the boy, treating him as though he were a wild animal that could lash out at any given moment, without any warning whatsoever. At the movement, Matthew started to back away slowly, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor, a combination of shame, anger and nervousness in his deep irises. Yes, it would appear they were, indeed, back at square one. "Let me see, Matthew," he murmured firmly, extending his hand and gesturing with his fingers. Give it here, please.

Quickly, Matthew pulled back even further with staggering steps, looking somewhat petrified, shaking his head 'no', rapidly. Locks of curly blonde hair swung erratically from the movement, and his errant curl bobbed along with it. Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks now.

"Please, Matthew, let me see," pleaded McKnight, stopping and standing still, hand still outstretched, beckoning silently for the wrist to be handed over.

"N-No!"

A sigh of frustration left him, and he rubbed at the nape of his neck, looking away from the boy and towards one of the paintings on the wall. McKnight studied it before he turned his gaze back to him. An idea was forming as he swept his eyes across the oil on canvas. God, he hated having to manipulate him to get his way - he knew some psychiatrists that loved it, that manipulating the mind of a suffering individual was probably one of their most preferred ways of treatment - but if he had to in order to procure results then he would.

Hoisting himself up so that he was seated upon the edge of the desk, he made a gesture with his head towards the painting. "Have you been doing much painting lately, Matthew?" he asked in a calm voice, leaning back, crossing his legs and watching as the boy's face contorted into a look of confusion, of apprehension. Slowly he shook his head 'no'. The psychiatrist to pulled a frown. "Why not?"

"I-I don't have the time to," he murmured. "I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and then there's Friday, where I w-work for twenty-six hours straight, and Saturday is the one day where I get to sleep, clean and do my laundry down at the Laundromat. I'd sell my cousin on the black market if I could get even just … just an hour or two to sit down with a canvas and paint."

McKnight made a low humming sound, shaking his head as he considered the softly spoken words. "A shame, really," he said, half to Matthew, half to himself. "You're a talented artist, boy, and it's a shame to see such a talent go to waste."

Williams shrugged, swiping viciously at his tears. "Whatever, there are better artists out there than me," he muttered blackly, expression dark.

"Don't give me that self-demeaning bullshit, boy," he snapped with a scowl. The other jumped at the sudden harshness. "You're practically a Canadian Banksy, for the love of Christ. The only thing you don't do is paint your pictures on buildings all over the world."

A watery chuckle left the 'Canadian Banksy'. "Are you calling me an art terrorist, Dr. McKnight?" he asked in a tiny voice, sitting down in the other chair, leaving the fallen one on the ground, refusing to spare it a glance. The tiniest of smiles appeared for a brief moment upon his pale lips. "Well, maybe I am. Who knows, eh? Everyone has the potential. And anyway, that's not entirely true; my old school back in Grand Prairie has some of my art on the outside, and so did the school I went to in Brooklyn. Even though they suspended me for voicing my opinion on communism and capitalism, but whatever. Art is art, after all. Art's meant to scare, meant to confuse, to provoke, to teach. What good is it otherwise?"

He was silent for a while, contemplating his words, and how his mood seemed to rapidly turn around just by having art brought up. You could see it in the way his eyes instantly lit up, the way the tension left his body, how freely he spoke, how unguarded his words were. When it came to his work, Matthew didn't censor himself in what he portrayed or what he would later say about it. "True, true," McKnight said in a voice that was just as soft, leaning forward, expression intent as he watched his patient wipe at his wet eyes, coughing into his fist.

The two men lapsed into silence, McKnight seated on his desk, fiddling with some pens, while the other picked at the bandages around his wrist. He still trembled, swaying slightly, and the shrink sighed. "Please, would you just let me take a look?" Icy eyes shot upwards to meet with his own, and once more, he shook his head 'no'. Instead of looking at the man in front of him, he chose to stare at the wall, a fixture that was by far more interesting. The tears that had been filling his eyes spilled over once more, creating salty, sticky streaks down his face.

A sigh. "Well, it's either you show me, or I bring you to the emergency room and you show the doctors there and they'll stitch it up. Which will it be, Matthew?"

For a long moment Matthew stared at the floor. Then he extended his arm, even if only a little, but it was enough for McKnight to know that the boy was giving him permission to look - to survey the damage, or so to speak. That thought made his stomach churn again.

He carefully got down from the desk crossed the small space separating them, up-righting the chair as he went. Once more he took the fragile bones of Williams' wrist in his hand, expertly unravelling the linen bandages that covered his wrist and a portion of his forearm. They stuck briefly, fabric to open wounds, and he gingerly pried them away, watching his face for any signs of discomfort. The youth simply sat there, numb and detached. He wasn't surprised, simply disappointed, when he saw the mess of crude cuts lining his already-marred, white flesh.

Tears were falling heavier and faster than before as Matthew sobbed an apology, several of them, quickly, head lowered. The confident individual from just moments prior had disappeared, leaving him once more with the weak, emotional wreck that had entered his office what was going on an hour ago.

Something like this he found painful to watch, that being the boy revert back into the shell he had created for himself, and McKnight knelt before him, holding his arm with gentle hands, hands that were experienced in dealing with the suicidal tendencies of individuals, young and old, such as himself. He gently rubbed his arm in a soothing manner, hushing him gently. Time to start with the more routine questions. "Did you clean the cuts?" he inquired quietly, voice reflecting the obvious disappointment he felt.

Matthew nodded slowly. "O-Of course," he whispered. The man across from him had to strain to hear what he was saying, as his voice was lowered even further than usual.

They sat there in silence for another long moment as McKnight re-bandaged his arm gently, face drawn and his eyes downcast as Matthew muffled his sobs until they were non-existent. When McKnight let go of his arm he heaved a sigh of exhaustion, of dejection. The silence was broken by another chorus of apologies from the Canadian upon hearing the sigh his shrink had given, frantic to do as much as he could to right the wrong. Immediately he was silenced by a stern shake of the head and sharp eyes looking up to meet and lock with his own.

"I want you to be honest with me, Matthew," he said, voice firm. "Can you be honest with me?"

A single nod. Good.

He matched it with one of his own, and continued, "I want you to tell me what happened here," gesturing to the now-covered mess of a forearm.

A pained look flitted across his face, and he looked away, scratching at his temple, chewing on his lower lip - a nervous habit, something McKnight had noted within the first three months of therapy. "That's the thing," he whispered, looking somewhat embarrassed now, pink slowly rising into his cheeks, "I don't remember what happened."

Arching an eyebrow, McKnight stood. Sitting down in the chair beside the boy instead of going over to sit down in his plush, leather office chair, he leaned his weight upon the wooden arm and peered at him, looking genuinely confused. "What do you mean you don't remember?"

Matthew ran a shaking hand through his hair, giving a congested cough that made his entire body shake from the force behind it. He swallowed thickly, panting. "E-Exactly what I mean by it," came the quiet reply. When he spoke next, it was in a low, dazed voice, eyes glassy as he recalled what had happened: "I went out into the living room to get my sweater. It was around maybe eight-thirty, nine o'clock last night. So, I stayed out there for a little while, looking over some bills, when I started to feel really, really sick. Anxiety sick. Then I went to the bathroom and, well, I don't remember anything else after that. I woke up in the bathtub, covered in my own f-fucking blood. What a cliché, eh?"

There was nothing he could say to that. Nothing to do that would remove the bitterness, the resentment from his voice, from his eyes. All he could do was continue in trying to get the story from the man - even though sometimes hauling teeth from a lion's mouth would have a higher success rate. "Think back," he instructed. "What could have caused you to relapse back into suicidal tendencies, even if they are all residing within your subconscious? How long have you been feeling this way again?"

He ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair, looking at his sneakers now. "A few days now," he said, tugging lightly on the curly strands. "I didn't think I would act on it, but I guess I had other plans…"

McKnight sighed again - God, he was doing that a lot today, wasn't he? - and shook his head slightly. "Why didn't you come to me sooner then?"

A sheepish look appeared on the other's face, and he looked away. "This is the first time I've left the house in a week now. I-I-I just haven't had the balls to," he muttered, his humiliation palpable. His previously waxy white cheeks were slowly gaining a nice shade of tomato red.

His eyes widened. "And what have you been doing? Have you been to work?"

A shake of the head. "I haven't been doing anything, just sitting in my apartment, trying not to have panic attacks every hour."

The frown on the doctor's face deepened. "I thought I prescribed you to 10mg of Valium, three times a day for your anxiety. Is it not working? What about the Zoloft? The Zoloft has never left you with suicidal thoughts before." He got up from his chair and walked around to the other side of the desk, hauling open a drawer and rummaging through it. He looked over to Matthew. He didn't want to have to increase his medications, or give him any new ones; it had only been six months since he had weaned him off of a 135mg dosage of Effexor and put him on the Zoloft, with simply a 120mg dosage three times a day.

"Oh, it's been working," he muttered bitterly, "and it would work better if I had any to take."

Spluttering followed this, and there was an incredulous look upon the man's face as the colour left his cheeks. Out of his medication - the thought itself was utterly absurd! "You're out of them already?" he demanded, voice shrill. "I thought I had gotten a five month prescription for you for-"

"Oh, no. God no," Matthew amended, shaking his head quickly, expression frantic. He ran his hand down along his face, removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose. "I-I should have explained that better. Sorry. Last week I got jumped in alley, and my bag got stolen. My medications were in my bag. That's why I haven't been able to take any."

Mutterings of relief, and Dr. McKnight rested back in his chair, rubbing his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. "That had me worried there for a moment," he admitted. "From what you were saying, it sounded as if you were over-medicating yourself. Which, as I'm sure you know, would be a bad thing. Very bad, considering how much I have you on."

"Terrible indeed." An odd look flickered through the boy's eyes and he turned his gaze away, getting up from his chair and going over to look at his impressive collection of text books and encyclopaedias on various medical practices.

At this, McKnight shook his head and hauled out the pad he had been looking for in the drawer. On it he started scribbling down two identical prescriptions to what he usually gave Matthew. "I suppose the only thing left for me to do now is give you what you need," he said distractedly as he signed the two prescriptions with his sloping, looped signature. He tore the two pieces of paper from the binding of the pad and stood, adjusting his jacket and motioning for his patient to follow him. "I'll get your pills," he said, "and then you can join me for lunch, alright?"

Matthew nodded, an anxious look flickering to life in his eyes as he squirmed on the spot. "C-Couldn't I just wait here for you to come back w-with it?"

"No, you need to be present." Another flagrant lie; the boy needed to fight over and against his anxiety, push it back to keep it from preventing him from functioning, like how it was right now. "And anyway, there's some things I got for you and I don't plan on coming back here once I pick up your pills."

Expression clouded, he sunk down in the chair and wrung his hands. Then, after a moment or so, he nodded and stood. He trailed close behind the doctor as they left the cozy, cluttered office, the heavy door shutting with a click that resonated throughout the hallway. Anxiety practically rolling off of him, he walked a few paces behind the doctor, hands in the pockets of his jeans, casting his gaze about him warily.

By the time they got to the end of the hall, Matthew was practically clinging to the doctor, holding onto the elbow of his jacket, trembling from head to toe and watching sharply as med students and other doctors of various fields strolled past him. His breathing was shallow, anxiety so crippling that it was even affecting his respiration. Should he check the Canadian's pulse, it would more than likely be spiralling out of control.

A pang of guilt resonated in McKnight's chest; he probably should have let Matthew stay in the office after all until he had gotten back, let him take a pill, and stay there until it kicked in.

By the time they got to the main floor pharmacy - three floors away - Matthew was more or less a nervous wreck. It sounded like he was getting close to hyperventilating despite having his lips pressed so tightly together. As badly as he wanted to know what was going on in his head, he wasn't about to stop and ask. Anyway, it wasn't like he'd get an answer out of him that was coherent. Blessedly enough, the pharmacy was empty of anyone else. Matthew visibly relaxed, his breathing easing back into a relatively normal pattern, but he still clung with a devastating firmness to his doctor's arm, his pale, thin hand latched around the man's bicep.

Sighing as he handed the two prescriptions to the pharmacist, a recently graduated student, he smiled at the young woman and nodded politely. "Just those two for now," he said, "I'll be back to pick up my pain killers later."

With a smile of her own, and one directed to Matthew - who noticeably shuffled back a couple of steps, averting his gaze as politely as he could manage while scrounging up a smile - she went over towards the shelves and set to work, getting the pills ready for the doctor.

Glancing to the stock-still, wide-eyed youth, he frowned lightly. "Matthew, why don't you go over and grab me a bottle of water, so you can take a pill as soon as I get the prescription?" Eyes went wide and he returned to assaulting his lower lip with his teeth.

Nodding mutely, Matthew lumbered over to the stand-up cooler and browsed through its contents, thin, spindly fingers brushing along the labels as he focused on them, reading each individual label on the different bottles. Settling on a plain old spring water, he plucked it off the wire shelf, shuffled back over to the doctor. He passed it to him, practically timid. Indigo eyes were glassy and dull behind smudged lenses, locked upon the floor and unfocused. He had his hands clasped by his waist, fingers locked tightly together. They were trembling, as if he were affected by a frigid cold breeze drafting through the vicinity.

Some ten minutes later, two containers were handed to McKnight, which he quickly paid for and handed to the Canadian. Matthew took them with a tiny, barely-there 'thank you' and, after a brief struggle, managed to pop the orange cap off of the pill container and quickly dry-swallowed a Valium pill, chasing it down with a gulp of water. Eyeing the container, it was as if he was tempted to take another one but, before the doctor could say anything, he popped the cap back on and proceeded to do the same with the container of Zoloft.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Give me half an hour, and I'll be b-best kind again."

McKnight said nothing; simply looked at his patient sadly and gestured for the young man to follow him to his car, removing the keys from his pocket as they walked side-by-side down the brightly-lit, sterile hallway. Fluorescent lights bounced off the pristine white tiles they crossed, and seemed to brighten the pale green, pale yellow paint job the hospital walls were decorated in. Walking at such a leisurely pace felt so unbelievably relaxing; made all the stress drain from his body; left him feeling calm and at peace. He glanced to the slightly shorter man, wondering if he felt the same way. It was impossible to tell; his face was a perfectly blank slate, devoid of anything. But, because of the way he wrung his hands continuously, it clearly didn't have the calming effect it was supposed to have on patients coming in and out of the hospital.

Another flight of stairs down towards the parking garage beneath the hospital, and the two men were piling into the doctor's SUV. As McKnight slipped into the driver's seat and Matthew into the passenger, he observed the young man seated next to him. It had only been ten minutes since he had taken the pills, probably less, and the tremors had already lessened. He was no longer sweating, the glassy, 'I'm-gonna-pass-out' look had left his eyes and, all of a sudden, the doctor wanted to smack himself black, blue and peculiar shade of yellow for not realizing it sooner: he had been going through withdrawal symptoms from the pills he had been taking.

Which meant something belonging to a whole new ball game - a dependency had been formed, meaning that he probably wouldn't be able to function without them, unless he was weaned very gradually off of them and went through a light rehabilitation. And from the eagerness with which the Canadian took the pills, he was beginning to wonder if maybe that dependency was in all actuality an addiction.

Turning out into traffic, swerving out around a parked taxi, he briefly fiddled with the radio as his thoughts continued to roam, going through all the mental files he kept on the young man in the seat next to him, the young man that was staring out the window and watching everything pass by with the slightest, poorly-hidden fascination. He couldn't remember for the life of him if the boy had a history of past addictions. He knew from talking with him that he was a heavy weed-user and binge drinker while in his last year of high school where he attended a private catholic school in Brooklyn.

And it was there his thoughts hit a dead end. While he knew Matthew had spent a year and a bit living on the streets, engaging in busking, theft and painting pictures of people upon request in Central Park, he knew minimal else of that year and a half of his life. Did he continue to engage in drug use? Did it get worse? He spared the youth another glance. Matthew was still staring out the window, singing along to the radio - The Clash. He couldn't help but smile at that; the kid was a little bit of a punkass brat at times, too, when it came to his views on society and the government. It wasn't surprising that he would favour a band like The Clash. Back to the question at hand: his supposed drug usage, and whether or not he had engaged in it while living on the streets between Brooklyn, SoHo, and Manhattan. Probably not; he remembered, from the toxicity reports the only thing that had been in his blood stream (prior to his stomach being pumped several times) had been a damn near suicidal amount of alcohol. No drugs, whether they be over the counter or recreational. Though that wouldn't be able to account for the months prior to that incident, when the drugs could have been entirely purged from his system…

God, there was far too much of a thought process involved for this sort of thing, especially for someone going on their lunch break. He ran a hand along his balding crown and slowed the vehicle, easing on the break before pulling into a parking lot nestled alongside a rather quaint-looking restaurant, hoping to avoid hauling the front end of his SUV into a snow bank instead of a parking spot, where it belonged. It proved to be far more difficult than what he had thought it would be. The pile of icy snow was only narrowly avoided and, after straightening the vehicle out another few times so that the wheels were aligned, he shut it off and got out, tugging his suit jacket closer to his body as he half-ran over to the entrance of the café, carrying a bag with him. Matthew trailed along behind him lazily, looking upwards towards the sky as he watched the flakes fall, laughing, screwing up his nose and coughing as the little white frozen droplets descended upon him and clung to his hair, cheeks and eyelashes. It seemed as though he were in no hurry, the way he strolled casually along the snow-covered pavement, kicking at chunks of ice here and there, face still turned skywards.

McKnight smiled; well, at least the medication had finally kicked in for him, as sad as the thought was.

Stopping despite the cold - really, how could he complain of the cold when he had a warm suit jacket and scarf while the boy had no more than a thin sweater? - he waited for Matthew to catch up to him, the smile on his face growing despite himself.

Noticing the man waiting for him, Matt gave a sheepish grin and jogged over to him, nearly wiping out on a patch of black ice in the process - an ordeal that included much arm-flailing and body-twisting, as well as whimpering very unbecoming of a man - as he approached his shrink, seemingly unaffected by the icy, bitter New York air. Cheeks, despite being so thin, were rosy and looked healthy, his eyes sparkled behind his glasses instead of being so dulled and, as he walked alongside the doctor, there was the slightest bounce in his step. He didn't say anything, though; just observed everything around him, taking in everything: all the fancy cars and men and women in suits, high-rise office buildings, the court house down the road, assessing it all and more than likely forming an opinion he would store away and employ in a painting. His gaze, however, seemed to linger on the court house for a moment longer than anything else - a case was just after getting out, so perhaps it was the people that were after capturing his attention. Before he could ask, Williams was looking elsewhere already.

Pushing open the door and stepping back, allowing Matthew to enter first (at this he made a face of disdain, commenting indignantly that he wasn't some damn woman what the fuck did he think he was doing?), McKnight followed closely behind him, noting the sniff of displeasure given by the maître d' upon seeing the young, waif-like man. Matthew caught the look as well; he cast his eyes downwards and the smile fell from his face, leaving him expressionless once more. The psychiatrist cast the man in a white dress shirt a scathing look, which the other caught and promptly averted his eyes from.

"This way, Sirs," he said, looking down along his nose at the Canadian that was now fiddling distractedly with the bandages that peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his sweater.

Trailing along behind the waiter, McKnight pressed his lips to Matthew's ear and whispered, "stop picking at it, Matt; you'll make a mess of it and it'll get infected."

"Fiiiine." Immediately his fingers fell from the beige material and he pursed his lips stubbornly, cheeks puffing as he did so. The New Yorker couldn't help but let out a few chuckles, which caused the young man he was following behind to scowl deeply before averting his gaze as his cheeks slowly turned a rosy shade that wasn't from the warm, cozy confines of the elegant café they were in. A fireplace on the far wall blazed, keeping the main floor well heated, casting a glow across the nearby tables that were, for the most part, empty.

Beside the two men, there were only three other tables occupied: one lone man reading a newspaper, two coloured men engaged in a lively game of cards, their laughter blending in smoothly with the light jazz music that played from a record player - he watched with amusement as Matthew did a double take upon noticing the authentic gramophone on the counter - and the other table, this one near the windows by the fireplace was occupied by two young women, more than likely gossiping as they took a break from Christmas shopping. Bags from JC Penney and Macy's were piled on the floor. White lights hung about the large, ornately decorated space, amongst pine garland, silver and burgundy Christmas decoration. A pine tree stood in the corner nearest to the washrooms, decorated and lit up beautifully, little presents piled beneath it on the floor.

'Another two weeks,' he noted as they were handed menus, 'and it'll be Christmas Eve.'

The thought was somewhat alarming; it felt as though just last weekend he was having Thanksgiving dinner with his wife and kids. Resting back, he pulled open his menu and started to gaze down through it, pursing his lips in thought as he brought a cigarette up to his mouth. He turned to Matthew, who looked half-heartedly at his own. "Order whatever you want, Matt," he instructed around his cigarette, "I'm footing the bill anyways, so it really doesn't matter what you get - just no wine, since you've just taken your medicine."

If anything, Matthew looked embarrassed. "Are you sure?" he inquired, shifting nervously in his wooden chair, chewing his lower lip.

"Yes, yes, it's no problem at all," he said with a smile. Given what he had already spent on him, it wasn't even a ripple on the surface.

Sighing, nodding, Matthew fiddled with the ends of his curly hair, eyelids at half-mast skin as he studied the menu, saying nothing until the waiter returned. He had a notepad and pen in hand, to take their orders.

The tall youth looked to McKnight first. "And what would you like to order this afternoon, Sir?" he inquired politely, a smile on his face that was as fake as ever. The psychiatrist could see right through it and the smile he gave him was only a half-assed one.

"I do believe I'll order the shrimp cocktail ring, a bowl of alfredo and a side of cesar salad," he said, nodding with approval as he handed the menu, now carefully folded and shut, to the waiter. He promptly slipped it under his arm as he inquired about a beverage. "A small glass of Sherry, please."

Turning to the blonde on the other side of the table, the waiter smiled, but did not appear to be nearly as friendly as when he had taken McKnight's order. "And you?" No 'sir', either, the psychiatrist noted with a frown.

Matthew noticed it as well; his face fell and he faltered before speaking: "I-I do believe I'll order a plate of rice pilaf, with grilled chicken breast in a sautéed mushroom sauce and garden salad on the side." He looked hesitantly across the table to the man buying his lunch, anxious. Realizing what the look meant after a moment of brief confusion, he smiled and nodded, which was much to the Canadian's obvious relief, as he visibly relaxed in his chair. When prompted for a drink, he quietly asked for a glass of water.

As the waiter left their table with reassurances that their drinks would arrive soon, Matthew's expression went blank and he stared at the man across from his, anything but pleased. "Well, he was a pleasant little fuck and that was anything but awkward" he said dryly, expression icy as he watched the man leave. "Jackass."

McKnight masked a snort; yeah, the medications had kicked in, alright.

The youth leant backwards in his seat, studying the room, eyes keen as he took in everything, wary of every little bit of movement that caught his eye. All in all, he looked absolutely fascinated.

Then, McKnight blinked and muttered beneath his breath, leaning over to the side to retrieve the reusable bag on the floor, placed by his feet. "I almost forgot: I have some books for you, Matt," he said, picking the bag up off the hardwood flooring and placing it on his lap. He grimaced when he realized it was slightly damp from being in the trunk of his SUV for a day or two now - hopefully the books weren't damaged - and he started to remove novels from the confines of the bag, watching from the corner of his eyes as the Canadian's face more or less lit up with delight. Give him clothing or care packages? He would turn them down unless forced to take it. Bring him cooked food or take him out to dinner? You usually had to persuade him, unless he was absolutely ravenous. But bring him books and art supplies, or better yet, books on art? He would thank you for days on end, and in fact he would probably keep on thanking you if you didn't tell him to shut up.

Handing the stack seven novels deep across the table for inspection, he couldn't help but smile as Matthew's face was positively split in half by a large smile. He browsed through the titles, murmuring them beneath his breath as he went. His gaze locked with his, and they were filled with the utmost gratitude. "Thank you so, so much, Dr. McKnight," he gushed, cheeks pink.

McKnight laughed. "It's no problem, and you know it," he reassured, leaning across the table and picking one up from the pile. "This one I think you'll like quite a bit. It's not quite as sophisticated, shall I say, as your tastes, but I know you love a good story just as much as the next person. But I have a feeling you'll like it." It was a small book with a yellow-green cover and the text on it read The Perks of Being a Wallflower. A musty smell rose from it as he flipped through the pages - obviously it had spent quite a while at the back of someone's closet or in a box in a basement. "I know I quite enjoyed reading it when I borrowed a copy of it some years ago." The Canadian looked pleased as he nodded, setting it down on top of a battered copy of Lolita, one book McKnight knew the boy had been dying to get his hands on for a while.

Glancing back down into the bag, he blinked and then laughed lightly. "Forgot one," at this Matthew's eyes went even wider and his cheeks flushed even darker. He handed his dining companion the brand new book, something which obviously surprised the boy considering he was usually given second hand copies of novels, but he took it anyway, careful with the unbroken spine as he ran calloused fingertips along the smooth, cold cover.

"Holy shit," Matthew said (ever-so-eloquent) as he stared at the art book - a book with all of his favourite artist's works in it - with a look of utter childish delight. He barely noticed as the reusable bag was set down next to him as McKnight placed the novels back in. He flipped through the pages, still smiling idiotically, positively glowing. It wasn't very often he got new books, let alone books on art that were brand new. This was amazing.

It was only when the waiter brought their plates over some fifteen minutes later that he put the book down into the bag, placing it gently on the top as he stared apprehensively at the food before him, hesitantly placing his fork into the piece of boneless chicken breast, smothered in a brownish sauce. He cut it up into small, dainty little bites with his knife, placing a piece of chicken in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, thoughtfully, and then a look of what could only be described as the utmost bliss appeared on his narrow face. A small smile made itself at home on his lips and after a moment he had another piece as McKnight happily munched on some shrimp, sipping Sherry from his crystal wine glass.

Their conversation dwindled until it disappeared altogether as they dined, neither man bothering with breaking the affable silence that had formed between them. The only noise breaking it was the clink of cutlery on bone china plates, and the jazzy Christmas music that played low in the background. While it took absolutely no time for the doctor to finish his meal, it took his companion nearly half an hour, considering how he took his time as not to eat so fast that he'd puke. Judging from the looks of it, with the tight patience with which he employed while eating, he was restraining himself from simply digging in. He couldn't be sure if it was simply from trying to impress and behave properly while out in public, or from not having eaten a good meal in days.

Considering the two options, he watched his patient for a moment before averting his gaze lest he get caught staring, he realized that was probably because of the latter; on a regular basis the man was perhaps one of the politest people to dine with, considering how he practically never spoke, actually knew his way around which forks and knives to use, and other odd little forms of etiquette that Ian McKnight rarely paid any heed to. Actually, now that he thought of it, dining with him made him feel almost self-conscious about how quickly he had eaten his food. As for him not having had any good meals, that seemed to be the more logical option, especially when he considered how tiny the young man was.

When his fork and knife were set down, Matthew finally rested his elbows on the table as he propped his cheek in his palm, sipping water from his wine glass as he stared into the fireplace on the other side of the room. There was the slightest flush of warmth tingeing the tips of his cheeks a pale pink, and he looked sleepy as his eyelids drooped steadily. Absolute contentment was all it could be described as - and it was a feeling the man knew well; a good, hot meal that was filling after not having eaten anything good in days was perhaps the best feeling in the world.

Nudging Matthew's leg with the toe of his shoe when he saw his eyes close all the way, he bit back a soft laugh when the boy jolted, looking slightly disoriented, eyes going wide as his cheeks reddened; he had been caught falling asleep. Talk about humiliating. He looked positively embarrassed, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat, muttering a sorry and rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Not to fret, m'boy," McKnight said with a chuckle he couldn't help but let out. The Canadian seemed relieved, but he didn't go back into the same position he had been in before. Instead, he remained seated up-right, staring at the fire and humming softly, drumming his fingers steadily upon the cloth covering the surface of the table they were sitting at.

"I used to work at a place like this when I was sixteenish," he commented in an off-hand manner, eyes hazy. His gaze had turned from the fireplace and was now observing the world that was quickly turning white beyond the protective glass of the restaurant's foreface. Snow was falling heavier than before and was being whipped around in the busy street. The foolhardy people that were out walking bundled up tightly in their winter parkas, trying to conceal themselves from bitter winds that were starting to pick up.

McKnight quirked a white eyebrow. "Oh?" he asked, curious. It wasn't very often the boy would bring something up from his youth, especially on his own accord or outside of his office. He was surprised, but he didn't want to deter him from continuing. That, and he really was interested in hearing what he had to say about having worked at a high-class restaurant. "What did you do?"

"I used to play my violin during the dinner hours with the house band," he said in a somewhat faraway voice, smiling with a sort of fondness as he recalled the memory. "Or sometimes the piano, if they really needed someone for it. It was all fairly varied, really, and my boss was amazing. Very understanding, very flexible when it came to hours. Only condition was that I worked until one every Saturday night, but he would drive me home. It was probably my favourite job."

Now, that was unexpected; he had been expecting the youth to say that he had worked as a waiter or something, maybe even something similar to what he did now - a dishwasher. The last thing he had anticipated was him working as a musician, especially at such a young age, in a city where playing restaurants as such was a hard gig to get into. "You used to play violin?" Dr. McKnight inquired, finding himself growing intrigued by this sudden admission; in his eyes, Matthew was the last person he would have expected to been into playing music as well as listening to it. "What kind of stuff did you play?"

"On the piano I mainly played jazz and classical, while with the violin I used to play classical and Irish fiddle music," he said, a look of pride forming in his eyes as he smiled at the memory. "The piano was my favourite though; I spent almost twelve years at it. Five-year-olds make terrible pianists, just so you know, unless they have the attention span of a statue. I had the attention span of a goldfish, maybe even worse than that."

Laughter followed his statement. Brown eyes soft as he studied the artist before him, he found it quite nice how Matthew seemed to be opening up a little more with each session they had - and although this wasn't part of a therapy session, it was still a good thing that he was finding himself comfortable enough to causally discuss things like this and without no prompting. Normally he was tight-lipped about his past, much more keen to focus on the present and the future. He had even said it to him before, that the past for him is dead and that the only thing he had to even somewhat look forward to was the future. Even though he didn't believe in that all the time, either, but it was a start, and with each time he and Matthew were together, he noticed it growing more and more.

Most doctors and patients didn't see one another outside of the office, or home if house calls were to be made, and when they did, they were usually awkward run-ins that consisted of tense postures, off-hand comments and wary smiles. But, to an extent, McKnight liked to consider Matthew a part of his family; the young man had lived with him for nearly a year, after all. His wife had a certain fondness for the boy, constantly wondering if he'd have time to come to dinner. She asked about him frequently, inquiring about his progress. While those things were most certainly confidential, something that had to stay between the doctor, the patient and any superior forces inside or outside the sessions, McKnight didn't hesitate in sharing anything with the woman he had married some thirty years ago. And he knew that Williams would not mind it, either; on more than one occasion Matthew himself would ask him how Peggy - his wife's name, of course - was doing, and seemed to be pleased when he heard that the woman that had acted as a second mother to him for that year was doing splendidly. They invited him over to stay on holidays, for dinner and if it was a two or three-day holiday, usually for the night or duration of the period, sort of to give the young man a breather, and sort of to make sure he wasn't always alone.

While casual relationships with a patient were usually considered odd, Ian McKnight did not think it was, not when it came to the fact that he felt somewhere along the lines of a concerned father for the boy.

"Why did you stop playing, may I ask?" McKnight asked tentatively, finishing the last bit of his Sherry, setting the glass down upon the table, dragging his fingertip along the thin rim,

A sad sigh passed Matthew's pale lips, and his expression dulled as he propped his cheek in his palm. "My step-father sold my violin after my mother died," he muttered, "and he made me quit my job at the restaurant. Said he didn't want me pursuing some bullshit bohemian career or some shit like that. I don't really remember all the details. He wanted me to be an accountant. So I said, 'fuck you' and left. Actually, more like I said 'fuck you' and he kicked me out the day of my eighteenth birthday, but that's trivial." He gave a cold, dry laugh, shaking his head, blonde fringe flopping against his forehead.

There was nothing he could say to that, nothing that the boy didn't already know, and there was nothing that he could say that the boy hadn't already heard, or didn't want to hear - he knew that he did not want anyone's words of pity, of 'oh, I hope it all worked out/works out for you!'. Most of the time, they were simply empty words, words that you would say in an awkward situation where you didn't want a silence to hang thick around.

When it came to Matthew, he knew the boy would much rather silence than forced comfort.

Then, a thought came to mind: "What are you going to be doing come Christmas, Matt?"

A shrug. "The usual," he said flippantly. "I'm spending Christmas Eve with Gilbert and his dorm mate playing video games and watching movies, but as for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, I have no plans." He placed his glass to his lips and drained back the remaining bit of water there before setting the crystal wine glass back down onto the white table cloth.

"Would you like to spend it with Peggy and I?" McKnight asked as he started to stand when he was passed the bill for their meal. He accepted it with a small thanks, removing his credit card from his wallet, not even bothering to take a look at how much the meal had come to.

The Canadian followed suit, a smile forming on his face as he shouldered his zip-up sweater once more, pulling it tightly around his frame, zipping it up and straightening it out. "I'd love to," he said quietly, nodding politely to the waiter as they made their way over to the counter to pay for the meal, Matthew with his bag of books in hand. With a smile on his face, one that was sort of dazed, he continued to gaze around the café, obviously at peace.

As he paid for their meal, when the cashier walked away, pocketing the tip and leaving some for the waiter that had taken care of their meal, he looked down to the shorter man, a frown forming on his lips. Other than the brief mention of Gilbert, whom he knew to be one of Matthew's co-workers, the boy was utterly alone. He hadn't heard of him having any other friends, there was no one he ever really brought up during their sessions together, or at least no one that was alive or that he continued to associate with now. Yeah, he was alone alright, and that was something McKnight didn't like at all; it was something that was worsening his depression, and possibly his anxiety.

"You know what you need, m'boy?" He leaned against the counter, staring at his companion, rubbing his thumb along his chin.

Matthew looked at him curiously, something that ranged between apprehensive, intrigued and skeptical. Asking despite the fact that he probably should have known better than to humour the man, he shrugged. "What do I need?" he asked in a somewhat amused-sounding voice.

"I think you need someone in your life," McKnight explained, watching for his reaction. It was a gradual one, including his cheeks turning pink and squirming on the spot, mumbling vehemently beneath his breath. "Like, a significant other. Even if it's only a girlfriend or something. An amazing best friend. Hell, even a gold fish would be better than nothing. But you definitely need someone in your life, and soon. We don't need you turning into a bitter old spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-one, now do we?"

The only reaction Matthew Williams could produce was an incoherent sort of spluttering/fumbling with his tongue for words to say as his cheeks flooded with the colour crimson and he was escorted out of the café by his laughing psychiatrist. The man had his warm hand on his (far too thin. Is that healthy?) shoulder, patting him gently there, in a consoling manner. At this, the Canadian made a snuffing noise through his nose, rolling his eyes. Someone in his life, indeed. The nerve. Well, that was what probably what he wanted to stay; McKnight could tell it from the conflicted look in his dulling eyes, the way they would flicker, the way he would gnaw on his lower lip like it was a particularly tasty sweet.

Sadly, the man was more than right in saying so.

And Matthew knew it all too well.

So, this chapter was originally going to be from Matthew's perspective, not his psychiatrist's, but I thought it would be a little more fun this way (If you can call Mattie being suicidal, deprived of his medications - kudos to Mr. Tomatoe for pointing that out! - and absolutely neurotic because of it 'fun'). You know, to be on the outside, trying to get a look in, which is, in reality, what McKnight is trying to do. And it has also given you guys some insight as to what Matthew's after going through. Hopefully his anxiety doesn't come off as overdramatic considering it's being based off of someone I know very well; one of my best friends is affected with both fairly crippling anxiety and PTSD.

As for the rest of his past, it'll more than be likely explained in scenes involving Alfred, his psychiatrist, and another character that I've yet to introduce, but I'm not saying anything about who he iiiiis~ /coy sneaky bitch. I'M DYING TO BRING HIM IN BUT I HAVE TO FUCKING WAIT TIL LIKE CHAPTER 20. The dinner scene wasn't supposed to be this chapter, it was actually supposed to be later on and Alfred was supposed to be there, too, but I changed all that around, just so the entire thing wasn't a total downer for you guys. Hopefully it's not too much of a downer as it stands, and I promise, next chapter we're gonna get into the plot, even if it's just a foot in the proverbial door/closet. Promise. At least the Christmas Eve chapter will definitely be a good time all around, right?

Anyways, reviews are love! And thank you so so so much for all the faves, alerts and comments you guys. -heartsheartshearts-