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"Good point. Maybe save that experiment for dinner."
He kisses Malcolm's cheek before straightening up again, feeling surreal in how normal this is. He opens the door to the balcony, stepping out into the cool breeze and warm sun. It's all too perfect.
Neal shakes his head, trying to shed the feeling as he goes back inside to grab his supplies and set up, including a portable easel.
He kisses Malcolm's cheek before straightening up again, feeling surreal in how normal this is. He opens the door to the balcony, stepping out into the cool breeze and warm sun. It's all too perfect.
Neal shakes his head, trying to shed the feeling as he goes back inside to grab his supplies and set up, including a portable easel.
Edited 2022-02-27 16:01 (UTC)
Malcolm pokes his head out a few moments later.
"I went with the soup of the day and the cosmo. I'll have cake for supper," he teases. "Um. How's it going? You haven't really started, right? I brought some books; I can go read until they deliver lunch."
"I went with the soup of the day and the cosmo. I'll have cake for supper," he teases. "Um. How's it going? You haven't really started, right? I brought some books; I can go read until they deliver lunch."
"Not yet." He smiles at Malcolm, the expression a little nervous now. The paper is on the free-standing easel, huge and blank. He has a chair pulled up in front of it, the sets of pastels and pencils on the table in easy reach.
Neal looks back at the paper. "I don't... know what to try drawing first."
Neal looks back at the paper. "I don't... know what to try drawing first."
Oh! He can help with this.
"Try this. Close your eyes," he instructs. "Imagine you're standing in the street in front of your house in Mathias. It's a normal day. Something ominous may be lurking somewhere, but it's not going to touch you right now. What do you see?"
"Try this. Close your eyes," he instructs. "Imagine you're standing in the street in front of your house in Mathias. It's a normal day. Something ominous may be lurking somewhere, but it's not going to touch you right now. What do you see?"
Neal closes his eyes when told, then smiles a little as Malcolm goes on. That's easy.
Rather than answering, he picks up the lightest of the pencils and goes to work on the paper, ghosting shapes onto its surface that don't look like anything much yet.
It doesn't take long before he's entirely absorbed.
Rather than answering, he picks up the lightest of the pencils and goes to work on the paper, ghosting shapes onto its surface that don't look like anything much yet.
It doesn't take long before he's entirely absorbed.
Malcolm smiles when Neal starts working, then ducks back inside to grab a book, but returning to sit a little ways away, present but not intrusive, reading until the bell rings at their door to announce the arrival of room service.
He slips back in to answer it.
He slips back in to answer it.
Neal hears the bell, but doesn't particularly notice it. He's moved on to fractionally darker lines, constructing the view from 1306's front porch, pointed toward the water. A glimpse of the lighthouse over trees, a peak of the ocean. Still mostly abstract, but recognizable.
He glances over when Malcolm comes back, distracted, sees the food--it smells good, it smells amazing, but there's something more important going on right now to focus on. Back to the page.
He glances over when Malcolm comes back, distracted, sees the food--it smells good, it smells amazing, but there's something more important going on right now to focus on. Back to the page.
It'll keep. Malcolm takes his soup bowl and slips back onto his chair, his legs pulled up under him, drinking from the bowl like Japanese tea, watching the picture form. Watching Neal's face, rapt, but not as troubled as before.
Hopefully it will keep for a while.
He hasn't had real art supplies in ages. He hasn't wanted to touch them, hasn't wanted to risk finding out that he can't do what he used to do. But he doesn't notice the fact right now that there's no tremor in his hand. He doesn't notice the fact that he's doing something original, even. All he's focused on is the unsettling decay of the houses, the way the open sky (slowly going blue under pastel pencils) seems more like a threat than a nice day. The picture taking shape is quaint, should have a Rockwell quality almost, but...
It doesn't. He does it with the angles. He does it with the way he shades things a little darker than they should be here and there, brighter than they should be other places. It makes the whole scene--complete with the people starting to take shape on the hard-packed dirt road--seem like a manic attempt at normalcy.
He hasn't had real art supplies in ages. He hasn't wanted to touch them, hasn't wanted to risk finding out that he can't do what he used to do. But he doesn't notice the fact right now that there's no tremor in his hand. He doesn't notice the fact that he's doing something original, even. All he's focused on is the unsettling decay of the houses, the way the open sky (slowly going blue under pastel pencils) seems more like a threat than a nice day. The picture taking shape is quaint, should have a Rockwell quality almost, but...
It doesn't. He does it with the angles. He does it with the way he shades things a little darker than they should be here and there, brighter than they should be other places. It makes the whole scene--complete with the people starting to take shape on the hard-packed dirt road--seem like a manic attempt at normalcy.
Edited 2022-02-27 18:58 (UTC)
Sipping his soup quietly, Malcolm watches the world take shape. And it's unsettling. But riveting.
He puts his empty bowl aside and picks up his cocktail with a quiet clink of dishes.
He puts his empty bowl aside and picks up his cocktail with a quiet clink of dishes.
It's clear to Neal who some of the people-shapes are, but he's not working on those ones, yet. He's working on someone walking toward the house in baggy clothes, sweat pants rolled up at the cuff. One light layer of color over another slightly different shade creating a person who looks somehow more real than anything around him while also looking like he could disappear between strides.
It's Malcolm, obviously. Mathias's Malcolm, and Neal leans in a little to start working on his features. Hair longer, face sunken, eyes tired but somehow still curious and bright.
It's Malcolm, obviously. Mathias's Malcolm, and Neal leans in a little to start working on his features. Hair longer, face sunken, eyes tired but somehow still curious and bright.
Edited 2022-02-27 23:07 (UTC)
When the face starts to take shape, Malcolm realizes who it is and creeps curiously out of his chair and into Neal’s space to watch it take shape with fascination around the artist’s shoulder.
The other Malcolm. The one Neal fell in love with.
The other Malcolm. The one Neal fell in love with.
The love goes into the drawing, clearly enough. It's in the careful way he curves out Malcolm's breeze-tousled hair. It's in the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo the portrait-Malcolm hugs against his chest with one arm. It's in the way Malcolm looks like he's just caught sight of whoever's on the porch and is mid-stride toward quickening his pace to meet them. It's not photo-realistic, this drawing, but it's still real.
Neal doesn't realize he's got a tiny smile on his face as he works now.
Neal doesn't realize he's got a tiny smile on his face as he works now.
Malcolm blinks at it as it forms.
“…I love that book,” he murmurs.
“…I love that book,” he murmurs.
Malcolm smiles faintly.
“You know… I would read to you any time you wanted,” he says gently.
“You know… I would read to you any time you wanted,” he says gently.
Neal turns his head and realizes quite suddenly that Malcolm is right there. He doesn't startle, though. Just smiles a little. "I'd like that. I'd read to you. I like reading poetry. I have a lot of the Romantics memorized."
Not "poems by the Romantics." Just, y'know. The Romantics.
Not "poems by the Romantics." Just, y'know. The Romantics.
Malcolm grins.
“Isn’t that reciting more than reading?” he teases.
“Isn’t that reciting more than reading?” he teases.
“Just so you know, you will be reciting in bed tonight,” Malcolm says with a grin that he hides behind a sip of cosmo.
Neal studies Malcolm's face for a moment, close as it is, and starts to speak in a lilting cadence.
"Tho' sadness be upon thy brow,
Yet let it turn, dear love, to me,
I cannot bear that thou should'st know
Sorrow I do not share with thee."
A pause, and he slowly sets down the pencil he has in hand, shifting so he can nudge Malcolm's cosmo out of the way and kiss him.
"Tho' sadness be upon thy brow,
Yet let it turn, dear love, to me,
I cannot bear that thou should'st know
Sorrow I do not share with thee."
A pause, and he slowly sets down the pencil he has in hand, shifting so he can nudge Malcolm's cosmo out of the way and kiss him.
He hadn't wanted to interrupt the work, but this... is not a bad interruption. He smiles in the wake of the kiss.
"That's kind of what this drawing is for me. Knowing the sadness you carry that we don't share."
"That's kind of what this drawing is for me. Knowing the sadness you carry that we don't share."
Malcolm looks at him, open and lacking judgement, but uncomprehending.
“Too much what?” he asks, unable to find the answer in a search of Neal’s face.
“Too much what?” he asks, unable to find the answer in a search of Neal’s face.
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