Once again Neal has that deja vu moment of you should know this, but he’s gotten good at hiding those. “For a while there was a gorge in the middle of town, keeping us all on one side. There was this fog, in the woods all around. If you tried to walk through it… there was a fear that just. Felt like it would kill you. And it it burned to breathe.”
He touches his throat lightly, remembering the night he woke up barefoot at the edge of the forest. “The lodge was in the woods, somewhere. Right before I left the fog lifted in a bunch of places, and a little before that the gorge disappeared.”
One of the people nearby, the same one who gave them a once-over before, seems to be listening with a mix of curiosity and judgmental confusion. Mercifully, Neal hasn’t noticed yet.
"I don't know," Neal mumbles. He reaches out to touch Malcolm lightly, focusing on the feeling of warm, damp skin. This safe place. "Sometimes I'm glad. Sometimes I want to know. Sometimes I don't want to remember any of it."
Neal shifts again so he's curled up against Malcolm on the hot spring's ledge seat, practically in the other man's lap. The t-shirt he's wearing feels heavy, more than it should with just water soaking the fabric, and he tries to ignore the feeling that he's going to get pulled under and held down if he's not careful.
"I've thought about it," he murmurs. He looks up, then, as the server approaches with their wine--two glasses and a bottle--and finds the woman in that chaise staring. His stomach clenches. Re-clenches. Does it ever unclench any more?
"Thank you," Malcolm tells the server, signing the chit and adding a considerable tip. He glances at the woman as the server leaves. "Sorry, did you want us to ask for a third glass?"
She looks hastily away. Malcolm turns back to Neal.
"Care to do the honours?" he asks, tilting his head at the bottle.
Neal keeps his focus on her for a moment, self-conscious and nervous, but Malcolm will always get Neal's attention when he wants it.
"Sure," he says, pouring out very precise measures of wine into each glass. Out of habit, he checks the label, makes a note to look up the winery--he's vaguely familiar, but not comfortably--before he sets it back down. He picks the glasses up and offers one to Malcolm.
“I haven’t really done anything,” Malcolm huffs gently. Not enough, anyway. Nothing that can really help. “But you’re welcome.” He tilts the rim of his glass against Neal’s with a quiet clink.
"You always say that, and it's never true." Neal kisses him lightly, then takes a sip of his wine, savoring the taste and sensation almost without meaning to. He can't help himself. The liquid in the glass shivers lightly as his fingers tremble. "...Do you think I should try it? ...Drawing things from... there?"
“I think it will help,” Malcolm tells him. “If you don’t confront that trauma, it will gain strength from lingering in the shadows at the back of your mind. You process the world through art. Drawing it, making it into dark, complicated pictures, can help you look at it with an analytical eye.”
He brushes his fingers against Malcolm's jaw, traces his fingers up into Malcolm's hair. "I could try."
A slow nod. He bites his lip, then breathes out a laugh. "I was about to say I didn't bring any supplies, but I feel like that's a pretty easy problem to solve."
"It is," Malcolm concedes. "If you want to get started while we're here. Maybe on the balcony, with the breeze in your hair," he says with a smile. "But if you want to wait until we get home, that's okay too."
Neal ducks his head into a genuine smile, tapping his glass lightly against Malcolm's. "It's a date."
The town is charming, but Neal's not surprised. These kinds of towns, the ones near fancy getaways, they're usually curated to be exactly that. But there's actually a nice arts store there and he finds himself caught up in conversation with the owner for the better part of an hour before he finally remembers why they're there in the first place and gets the tools he wants to use.
Which is a little bit of everything, since he's not sure what will work best yet for this. He's never done anything like it.
Malcolm lingers near a rack of different papers, turning it idly, keeping half an ear on the conversation but not advertising his presence. He doesn't want to break the spell and make Neal feel bad for spending so long.
He looks at the bag in his hand as they exit the store. "Are you excited or nervous?" he asks.
"Yes," Neal says ironically. But he looks down at the tidily wrapped supplies, and there's still an air of eagerness around him. "I haven't tried to do any art, any real art, even copies in... months. Since the garden house I told you about, the one I was painting, since that burned down."
"No. Yeah. Of course. I don't... have to watch at all," he points out. "This is for you; you need to be as comfortable and free as possible, first and foremost," Malcolm tells him. "I'm sure I can find something else to do. Somewhere else. In the building. There's lots to do."
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He touches his throat lightly, remembering the night he woke up barefoot at the edge of the forest. “The lodge was in the woods, somewhere. Right before I left the fog lifted in a bunch of places, and a little before that the gorge disappeared.”
One of the people nearby, the same one who gave them a once-over before, seems to be listening with a mix of curiosity and judgmental confusion. Mercifully, Neal hasn’t noticed yet.
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“Did finding it help at all?”
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"No," he says softly. "Nothing helped. Nothing we found ever helped. If it did anything, it made things worse."
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If he forgot it, he'd forget the other Malcolm. Would that be better for Malcolm or worse?
"Have you tried drawing things that you remember? To... purge them or process them?" he asks.
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"I've thought about it," he murmurs. He looks up, then, as the server approaches with their wine--two glasses and a bottle--and finds the woman in that chaise staring. His stomach clenches. Re-clenches. Does it ever unclench any more?
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She looks hastily away. Malcolm turns back to Neal.
"Care to do the honours?" he asks, tilting his head at the bottle.
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"Sure," he says, pouring out very precise measures of wine into each glass. Out of habit, he checks the label, makes a note to look up the winery--he's vaguely familiar, but not comfortably--before he sets it back down. He picks the glasses up and offers one to Malcolm.
"Thank you," Neal murmurs.
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A slow nod. He bites his lip, then breathes out a laugh. "I was about to say I didn't bring any supplies, but I feel like that's a pretty easy problem to solve."
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"Yes we are," he says happily. "When you're ready, just say the word and we'll take a trip into town."
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The town is charming, but Neal's not surprised. These kinds of towns, the ones near fancy getaways, they're usually curated to be exactly that. But there's actually a nice arts store there and he finds himself caught up in conversation with the owner for the better part of an hour before he finally remembers why they're there in the first place and gets the tools he wants to use.
Which is a little bit of everything, since he's not sure what will work best yet for this. He's never done anything like it.
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He looks at the bag in his hand as they exit the store. "Are you excited or nervous?" he asks.
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"Is it... okay if... I watch?" he asks hesitantly.
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Anxiety roils uncomfortably at the base of his stomach. "Maybe... not the first drawing? So I can see how well..."
A vague gesture with his free hand. He feels queasy asking for accommodation.
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He swallows around the knot in his throat, his voice barely there. "I have to see what I'm even able to do before... I'm ready."
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