"Shishito peppers," Neal says, perking up with interest as Malcolm names possibilities. He joins Malcolm to look at the rest of the menu, resting his chin on and reading over Malcolm's shoulder. "You should try the Crunch Cake, if you don't think it would be too much for you."
Malcolm grins. "Does it go with a cosmo? Maybe I should order a boozy hot chocolate," he says, tilting his head to glance at Neal's profile where it rests on his shoulder.
"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.
"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."
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
"You read it to me while I was stuck in bed after getting hurt," Neal says, softly fond. He doesn't say after you stabbed me, because that part doesn't matter. "You've got a beautiful voice."
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.
Neal nods, bites his lip, kisses Malcolm again. There's something a little small and nervous in his eyes and voice. "What if it's too much? What if I keep drawing and it's too much?
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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.
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"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."
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Neal looks back at the paper. "I don't... know what to try drawing first."
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"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?"
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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.
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He slips back in to answer it.
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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.
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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.
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He puts his empty bowl aside and picks up his cocktail with a quiet clink of dishes.
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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.
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The other Malcolm. The one Neal fell in love with.
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Neal doesn't realize he's got a tiny smile on his face as he works now.
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“…I love that book,” he murmurs.
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“You know… I would read to you any time you wanted,” he says gently.
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Not "poems by the Romantics." Just, y'know. The Romantics.
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“Isn’t that reciting more than reading?” he teases.
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"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.
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"That's kind of what this drawing is for me. Knowing the sadness you carry that we don't share."
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