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?
"It is dark," Malcolm tells him. "It is awful. But you're not crazy. This terrible thing happened to you. Processing it might involve looking at the dark, but... " He pauses. "Are you worried about facing it or are you worried about it scaring me? Possibly away?"
He closes his eyes, nodding. Malcolm doesn't lie to him--never has. He's always kept his promises, always.
"All right," Neal murmurs. "Okay."
He looks back at the pastel drawing, half-finished, the not-quite-right street of that very not right place.
Then he blinks.
There's a shadow between two of the houses he doesn't remember drawing. Human-shaped, inky, somehow bright at the same time. Like a colorized nebula photo in shades of dark. Neal shudders and gets up, moving away from the paper and--unfortunately--away from Malcolm at the same time.
Neal comes back to slip his arms around Malcolm’s waist. It takes a moment to force himself to look at the drawing again. That shadow is gone, and he shivers. “I thought I saw something I didn’t draw.”
Malcolm blinks at him, because that isn't what he was expecting. He looks at the drawing, his fingers clutching the front of Neal's shirt as he looks at the drawing, then looks at Neal.
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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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“Too much what?” he asks, unable to find the answer in a search of Neal’s face.
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Malcolm tells him, setting his free hand on Neal's chest.
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"All right," Neal murmurs. "Okay."
He looks back at the pastel drawing, half-finished, the not-quite-right street of that very not right place.
Then he blinks.
There's a shadow between two of the houses he doesn't remember drawing. Human-shaped, inky, somehow bright at the same time. Like a colorized nebula photo in shades of dark. Neal shudders and gets up, moving away from the paper and--unfortunately--away from Malcolm at the same time.
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"You don't have to do more than you're comfortable with."
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Neal comes back to slip his arms around Malcolm’s waist. It takes a moment to force himself to look at the drawing again. That shadow is gone, and he shivers. “I thought I saw something I didn’t draw.”
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"What did you see?"
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