This is the third installment of my ongoing hospiverse series. While reading the others may add to the experience, it is not necessary to read them to understand this.

After spending several years of his life as a therapist in an impatient psychiatric ward, Matthew was almost completely certain he had seen it all. He had dealt with violence, verbal assaults, psychosis, compulsions, and at least three individuals who claimed to be Jesus- two of which stayed at the hospital simultaneously. He had things thrown at him, he was yelled at on a fairly normal basis, and he had learned how to talk patients down from various states of hysteria. In this line of work, nothing was too unusual. Whatever came through those doors, Matthew was well equip the handle it.

That was what he thought, at least.

He was drawn from his office by the screaming. He was no stranger to dramatic entrances, but something about this was different. For once thing, the words were not in English. If he was hearing correctly, they were in German. That should not have been a surprise in itself, since this hospital prided itself on being multicultural. What surprised him was the intensity. The words warped together into a jumble of repetitive, shrill shrieking powerful enough to penetrate the office walls. It was not hard to tell there was chaos happening outside. Matthew stood from his desk and walked into the hallway. He supposed he had his work cut out for him today.

The second surprise was the size of crowd. It looked as though the entire population of the hospital had emptied out and gathered in the psychiatric ward's lobby, no matter if they were patients, doctors, nurses or even janitors. For a moment, Matthew wondered what on earth could be so interesting. As soon as he laid eyes on him, however, any trace of confusion was erased.

What caught his attention were the man's eyes. They were fixed wide open, bloodshot and ferocious, almost red in the harsh florescent lighting. His movements were jerking and violent, and the four men holding him down seemed to struggle just to keep him from bolting. The only thing to escape his gritted teeth were the very same screams Matthew had heard in the first place. It took a long while for Matthew to advert his gaze, and when he did, his eyes flew to one of the house supervisors. It was time to start doing his job.

"Mr. Edelstein!" shouted Matthew over the mutiny. Roderich was of Austrian descent, so if there was anyone that could make sense of this, it was him. Matthew shoved his way through the dense crowd until he got to him. "Roderich, you speak German, right? Do you have any idea what he's saying?"

Roderich was, as always, keeping perfect composure through all of this. He nodded and pushed up his thin wire glasses, looking away from the scene in front of him without hesitation. "Nothing much of substance, I'm afraid. It sounds like a nonsensical stream of curse words." He wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. "That, and I believe he's demanding to be let go."

Well, that didn't help much of anything. Before Matthew even realized he had turned his head, his eyes were locked on the German again. Sweat-matted tufts of white hair were now obstructing his eyes, and neither his words nor his attempts to free himself from the hold of the orderlies had decreased in intensity. "How long has this been going on?"

"His friends brought him in about five minutes ago. How long he's actually been like this, I haven't the slightest idea." Roderich's eyes flickered back to the center and he held up a hand. "Hold on. He keeps repeating one word. Why he would be, I have no clue…"

Matthew was unable to tear his eyes away. The man's striking appearance paired with the strange twisting of his movements made it impossible. He spoke without looking at Roderich. "What is he saying?"

"He keeps saying…Preußen. Prussia." Roderich stared for a moment longer, then without warning broke out in a short burst of laughter. "Oh, dear. This one says he's royalty."

It would not be the first time. Matthew was hardly surprised. "You're telling me he thinks he's the King of Prussia." It was not even a question. "Did Prussia even have a king?"

Roderich shrugged. "Does it even make a difference? Remember where you are, Dr. Williams."

Matthew nodded. If he had learned anything since taking this job, it was to expect the unexpected. This rang true again when he looked behind him only to be met by the unblinking, even gaze of another one of his patients. He made a flippant motion with his hand in a sad attempt to get him back to his room. "Ivan, everything is fine. Go back."

"This does not seem fine," said Ivan. Unlike the others, he did not look the least bit dazed by the spectacle in front of him. He was smiling, so if anything, he was amused. Again, Matthew was hardly surprised.

There was no time to deal with this right now. Without giving himself long enough to talk himself out of it, Matthew threw himself directly into the eye of the storm. His pulse sped up as he moved past the first row of people and stood directly in front of this self-proclaimed Prussian King. "Sir," he said. The orderlies attempting to restrain the man looked at Matthew like he was insane, but he ignored them. "Sir, everything is alright. You're safe. We're going to need you to calm down."

"Dr. Williams, that's not going to work. We're going to need to sedate him," said one of the orderlies. He tightened his grip when the Albino flailed again, this time in what looked to be an attempt to strike Matthew. "I'm going to need a sedative over here!" he called to a nearby nurse.

"If you would just let me-"

But like always, his words were too quiet and too weak. They did not demand authority. Before Matthew could even attempt to calm him down himself, a nurse rushed over with a needle and plunged it into the man's pale arm. Matthew quickly looked away. He always hated when the sedative was brought out. To Matthew, giving a patient drugs instead of calming them down naturally felt like giving up.

Within seconds, the pandemonium ended. The German's angry words stopped, his body went limp, and his once wild eyes fluttered shut. Before Matthew could do or say anything, this new patient was whisked away. Since the show was over, the crowd dispersed moments after. The exception was Ivan. "Who is he?" His voice was too innocent.

Matthew did not have the time or energy to handle Ivan right then. With feelings of shame and confusion coursing through him, he shot the Russian patient a glare he did not even know he was capable of and said, "Your new roommate, probably." After all, the room Ivan shared with Arthur was one of the only ones with an empty bed.

With Ivan now rendered silent, Matthew let his gaze travel to the front of the room. There, he saw something else that could possibly be of help to him- two worse for wear, absolutely terrified looking young men. These must have been the friends Roderich had mentioned. He stole one last glance at the now comatose German before he was pulled into another room, then made his way to the men and held out his hand. "Hello, my name is Dr. Matthew Williams. I understand you brought that man in?"

The first to shake his hand was the jumpier of the two, his skin tan though his face was stark white, his curled hair a mess and his green eyes bleary. "Hello, sir. My name is Antonio, and this is Francis." He nodded towards the blond next to him, and then sighed shakily. "We didn't know what else to do. We can usually calm him down, but this time…" Antonio just shook his head. Francis looked at his shoes.

Matthew felt a pang of sympathy. It always pained him to see the distressed faces of the people his patients came in with. They never looked as though they could decide whether to be angry, frightened, or just plain confused. "Well, you did the right thing. I can promise that your friend is getting the best treatment available." He spoke as calmly as he could, an attempt to counteract the madness they had all just witnessed. "Do you know what brought this on?"

Antonio ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Gilbert is not usually like this, and I mean that quite literally."

Francis nodded. "He has…oh, Antonio, what was it? It's the one with all the dreadful personalities."

"Dissociative Identity Disorder." Antonio rattled off the phrase as if he had said it a hundred times before. "That… wasn't Gilbert at all, actually. It was The King."

Matthew was torn between being pleasantly surprised to already have a diagnosis and feeling distraught by the severity. "I see. When was he diagnosed? Is he on any kind of medication?"

"He was diagnosed years ago, but he was never good about taking his medication. He said he couldn't function while he was on it." Antonio paused and took a shuddering breath. "Although, it seems as though he can't function well without it, either."

Patients refusing medication wasn't all that uncommon. Matthew made a list in his mind with all the information he was being given, since he was sure he would need it very soon. "Can you tell me a bit about this alter, please?"

Francis continued to stay dead silent while Antonio continued to explain as if he had rehearsed it. "He goes by a few different names. You can address him as a king, and sometimes he likes to be called Fritz. Like Fredrick the Great," he said. Matthew nodded along. "He's…not very nice. He likes to pick fights and get a rise out of people. I believe it might actually entertain him."

Antonio glanced down at his arms, and Matthew noticed they were adorned with angry red scratches. "Did he do that to your arms?"

"Yes. It was quite a struggle to get him here." Antonio ran his fingers down his arm and winced.

Matthew decided it would be best not to ask exactly what happened. He would figure that out later. He let his eyes wander to Francis, and he immediately saw what looked to be a bite mark poking out from beneath his askew collar. "Francis, did he… bite you?"

Francis glanced down at himself and quickly adjusted his shirt. "Oh!" He let out a sound that was almost a laugh. "That was not Gilbert." He smirked, and Antonio shot him a look before rolling his eyes.

"Anyway," said Antonio, "we did not know what else to do, so we brought him here. Please take care of our amigo, and please do not judge him based on what just happened. Gilbert is a fantastic man. You just have to worry about The King."

Matthew smiled and nodded. He never passed judgment on his patients, especially when they were in extreme distress. It simply would not be fair. "I've dealt with DID patients before. This isn't anything new." He made sure to keep his voice even and quiet, but it ended up doing nothing to reduce the look of pure terror Antonio and Francis both carried. Matthew did not allow himself to become discouraged. Instead, he tried again. "Gilbert is really lucky to have friends like you. Visiting starts at four everyday, so you can visit soon, okay? He will be fine. Maybe you two should go home and rest."

Francis closed his eyes and nodded, letting out a long breath. "Yes, I believe that is a good idea. Thank you. Come on, Antonio."

Antonio almost turned to leave, but his eyes widened and he whipped back around. "Hold on. One more thing." He clapped a hand on Matthew's shoulder and met his gaze with wide, firm eyes. "No matter what state Gilbert is in, do not call him German. If anyone asks, he is Prussian. Don't ask why. Because if there is one way to get him acting like that," Antonio flicked his head towards the spot Gilbert was just in, "calling him German is how you do it."

Though it seemed strangely petty, Matthew nodded and made a mental note of what Antonio had said. He was used to patients having odd triggers, and it was important to remember each and every one. "Prussian. Got it."

"Thank you. Thank you so much," said Antonio, his voice slightly strained and wavering with unshed tears. He stayed frozen until Francis tugged on his arm and said something under his breath. Then, after one last lilting moment of eye contact, they were out the door.

Matthew took a moment to collect himself before returning to his office. Maybe he would call it an early day. After all, he would need his energy tomorrow. Gilbert would be up by then.

.

Gilbert was used to waking up in strange places. He could not count the number of times he had opened his eyes to find himself face down in an alleyway, handcuffed to a chair in a police station, or on a couple occasions, in bed next to someone he had no recollection of meeting. His memory was full of blank spaces and holes, yet each and every time 'The King' came out, Gilbert was left to figure out what he had done and somehow deal with the aftermath.

When he opened his eyes and came to the realization he was in a hospital, he knew it was one of those times.

Once the restraints were taken off, Gilbert was able to survey the damage done to his body. It the first of many puzzles pieces he would have to put together to solve this mystery. He could not blame The King for the angry scratch marks running down his forearms- that was all Gilbert's doing, and it was nothing new. When he glanced down at his wrists and knuckles, he was not surprised they were splattered in bruises. He supposed he must have been in some kind of fight. Other than that, he had nothing. The last thing he remembered was sitting at a bar, laughing at some stupid joke either Antonio or Francis had made.

Gilbert froze at the thought of his friends. God, what had he done to them this time? How much had they seen? He could only pray they were all right, and with any luck, they would forgive him. Hoping was all he could do. Since he had ended up here, he could only imagine how bad last night's episode had been, not to mention what was to come. He was not sure if he even wanted to know. Sickened by the physical evidence, Gilbert rolled down the sleeves of his sweater, shut his eyes and tried to forget.

"Feeling any better?"

Gilbert opened his eyes when he heard the voice. Contrary to what he had expected, it did not sound accusatory or even irritated. If anything, it sounded calm- maybe even concerned. When he looked up, he quickly realized the voice was befitting of the person it came from. The man standing in front of him was clutching the cuff of his sleeve, his arms close to his body. The blonde wisps of hair falling into his eyes almost made him look too young to be a doctor, but the faint look of concern he harbored made it obvious that he was one.

"Uh…" With the gentle gaze of the man boring into his mind, Gilbert found himself unable to formulate a response. He forced himself to look away. "I've been better."

"I expected that." He took a step forward and held out his hand. "I'm Dr. Matthew Williams. You can call me Matthew, if you would like."

Gilbert shook his hand but did not meet his eyes. He was too bust focusing on his sleeve and hoping it would not ride up. "Matthew," he repeated. He wasn't sure if he ever had a therapist that was okay with being called by their first name. He wasn't even sure if that made him more or less comfortable. He did not want to ask the question rattling around in his mind, but he knew he had to. "Do you think you could tell me… what happened, exactly? I don't remember a damn thing."

"Of course. I don't expect you to remember." Matthew adjusted his glasses and, surprisingly enough, simply sat down next to Gilbert on the bed. "Your friends brought you in last night."

This could not be good. Usually, Antonio and Francis could handle The King. If they couldn't this time, Gilbert could only imagine what a disaster it had been. "God, are Francis and Antonio okay?"

"They're fine, just worried. You were extremely distressed, after all."

Oh, no. Gilbert could already tell where this was heading. "And by distressed you mean screaming and hitting people and shit, right?"

Matthew looked into his lap and wrung his hands together. "Well, I'm afraid so, yes."

Well, at least that explained the restraints. Gilbert was able to infer that they had knocked him out. Now, it was time for his least favorite part: the explanation. Where the hell could he even begin? He could not even be sure if this man would believe him. He cupped his neck in his hand, the room around him already starting to feel uncomfortably warm. "Look, this might sound weird, but that wasn't exactly me. I have this thing called-"

Matthew held out his hand, stopping him. "Dissociative identity, right? Antonio told me." He smiled, looking nothing but understanding. Gilbert felt a rush of relief so powerful it was almost dizzying. "I've had other patients with the same condition. I understand. There's no need to explain yourself right now."

Gilbert felt the tension in his muscles release. Good. He really did not have the energy to do any kind of explaining right then. "Awesome," he said. "Sorry about all that, by the way."

"No need to apologize. You're here to get better, right?"

When Matthew tilted his head and smiled again, Gilbert could have said he was already starting to feel a bit better. But he knew that would hardly be true, so he sat silent and listened as Matthew went over a few basic rules and told him his assigned room. Gilbert could not remember the last time he was spoken to this kindly, especially in the aftermath of a transition. If Matthew were to continue speaking for hours, Gilbert would not complain. It distracted him from the shame, and he was able to ignore the burning underneath the skin of his arms that begged him to tear into them.

But Matthew stopped speaking not long after he began, and he dismissed Gilbert moments after. As he was walking to his room, he reached two realizations rather quickly. The first was that he liked Matthew. He liked him a lot. But he had no time to revel in that solitary spark of joy, because he had the second realization to worry about.

If Gilbert liked Matthew, The King would hate him.

.

While The King got to have all the fun, Gilbert got the stigma.

The white walls lining the hallway seemed endless, mocking. The patients Gilbert passed seemed to either stare right through him or look away the moment they laid eyes on him. It was not hard to figure out why. Everyone in this place knew. They had already decided what they thought about Gilbert, already concluded it was best to avoid him. After the entrance he made last night; that was all anyone saw when they looked at him- the crazy, violent, unstable German. Gilbert himself had not even gotten to make a first impression. Just like so many other things, he was used to it.

It was the same thing every time. After a transition, just getting through the rest of the day felt like walking around with boulders tied to both his ankles. Now that he had somehow ended up in a psychiatric ward where he was already hated, it was about a thousand times worse. Since there was nothing else he could do, Gilbert just stared at the wall next to his bed as if it would hold the answers to any of this. He was too exhausted to move, to feel, to think.

"Excuse me, but what are you doing here?"

The sudden words, spoken in a thick Russian accent, hit like a splash of ice water. Gilbert had no idea someone had even entered the room. He ignored the strange chill that shot into him. At least someone was talking to him. "Oh." He forced his body to respond, forced himself to turn around. "Hey. My name is Gilbert." While he hoped he sounded nonchalant, he fought to sound normal. He looked up to see a man looming over the bed, smiling gently and staring directly at him. Despite it being June, he was wearing a thick, pale scarf. The strange chill Gilbert felt only intensified.

"Gilbert," said the Russian. A flash of what almost looked like disgust passed over his face for the briefest moment before his lips snapped into a smile again. Gilbert told himself he had imagined it. "You are the crazy one, da? The one who caused such a disturbance?"

Maybe Gilbert had not imagined the disgust after all. He felt the small spark of hope die like a firework dissolving in the sky. Of course his roommate thought he was crazy. Everyone else did. He looked away when he felt tears prick at his eyes. "Look, I don't even know how I got here, alright? That was all him. Not me. I can't control the shit he does." He spoke on autopilot, without even a trace of hope that this man would understand.

And of course, he didn't. "I do not understand," said the Russian. "You are the same German who-"

No. Not that word. "Prussian," said Gilbert immediately, a flash of panic creeping up his throat. He did not realize his hand had moved to his arm until he felt his nails cutting against his skin. Even when he did notice, he didn't try to stop himself. "I'm not German." Because he was not German, not like his family, not like his brother…

The Russian tilted his head. "Prussia has not existed for a very long time."

Gilbert felt his breath hitch. No. Not again. He could fight this. He had to. In an attempt to ward off the inevitable, he lifted his hand from his arm, yanked it through his hair and focused on the pain. "Anyway," he said, pretending he did not notice the strain in his own voice, "that wasn't me. I'm…dissociative." No matter how many times he tried to explain this to people, it never got any easier. For a second, the shame almost overrode the panic. "Look, I just met you, I don't want to get into this."

He was speaking again. Why was he still speaking, God, stop… "But you are the same German who-"

Gilbert lost the fight. Once he felt the click, he knew it was over. A wave of vertigo flowed through his mind, knocked the air from his lungs and erased the room around him. His eyes shut, and when they opened, Gilbert was gone.

"I'm Prussian, you useless communist!" The King looked the Russian in the eyes, remembered his words and shot to his feet. Maybe Gilbert would stand for this, but he was not about to. First he had to deal with his pathetic excuse for a host, and now he had to deal with the commies. "I'm the goddamn King!"

"The King?"

What an idiot. The King laughed, maybe at the Russian, maybe just at the situation he managed to get Gilbert in. "I'm the King of Prussia. I'm awesome, and you're just a Russian. You're nothing compared to me." His temporary mania died once the words passed his lips. Maybe Gilbert would have to deal with the majority of this, but when he was here, he was going to get the respect he deserved. The Russian looked much too calm. The King wanted fear. In an attempt to get just that, he grabbed hold of that ridiculous scarf.

"Stop." The Russian's voice cracked on the word. Perfect. He tried to move, so The King simply strengthened his hold. He was overcome with powerful, consuming joy when he realized found a weakness. He refused to show that emotion on his face, however. "Gilbert-"

"I'm not Gilbert!" The joy was instantly gone upon being mistaken for that coward. The King pulled the scarf as hard as he could, hoping it would come off completely. Infuriatingly, the Russian somehow held it to his neck. "I'm the King, communist! Address me as such!"

It was easy to see the Russian's breathing speed up, his face go pale and his hands start to tremble. The King would have reveled in the satisfaction if he were not too enraged to care. "Yes," he nearly whispered. "You are The King."

He supposed that was enough. He had won. "Good." He tossed the scarf from his hand; shot the Russian a warning glance, and got back into bed.

Good luck dealing with that one, Gilbert.

To be continued...