Dorian never, in his entire life, thought he'd ever be in therapy.Back in the All-Boy's School Boarding House in Glassgow, he could remember little boys who were a little funny. Coped weirdly with their situations. Dorian, school president and admired upperclassman, used to look at those little boys like they were freaks. Oh, Weirdo Wally shit his knickers because he couldn't go on stage for a contest. I heard he's talking to a counselor! Guess he's one of those freak shows — how embarrassing for him!
It wasn't just at the boarding house either. It was everywhere he looked. When his father would share a story about their cousin Kent and his "autism", and he'd express loud distaste for the particular black sheep. He remembered he made a comment that he was lucky he didn't have a retard for a child. Dorian always agreed.
He didn't think like that anymore.
Ever since he's been forced to socialize with less than perfect and a lot broken people in Manta Carlos, he's been sympathetic to them. He understood that mental illness was a real illness, not any different from a cold or a sprained ankle. But there was always a thing there, a sort of patronizing aspect that he didn't realize before that existed in his head. Dorian... for all the compassion he displayed, thought of these people as weaker by default. Lesser. He didn't stop thinking of them as odd, but rather, rebranded that train of thought into something else, something that could make them feel good.
He thought of Logan as poor and unfortunate. Something that needed his help. He fed from that attention — Good, Charitable Dorian, who was always so generous, giving his time to a mentally ill and abused little boy. That was how they started off, wasn't it? He thought of Logan like a little pet and —
Now that he acknowledged it, now that he thought of himself as the same, it made him squirm.
Going to this place was mortifying and almost physically painful. He better hope it was worth the fucking money. He slipped into the office like a thief, baggy hoodie and shades and all. He leaned against the doorframe, taking off said shades and looking at Valli, a bit pale.
"Sorry for the get-up... I'm kind of a big deal. You know the drill. Dorian Crawford, Supermodel and CEO, coming out of the Therapist Office — the gossip magazines would have a field day." Shaky smile. Swallows. "So where's the long sofa and your clipboard?"