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.
He presses his face to Malcolm’s neck, inhaling cologne and expensive shampoo. “The Shadow Man. That… thing that would show up sometimes, that hurt people. The thing that Malcolm saw almost all the time. I can’t explain it. Looking at it… it’s like looking at a hole someone stabbed in the universe.”
Malcolm is conflicted about whether the Other Malcolm should be delineated as a separate person. Maybe in time, if he's a different person, Neal would realize he misses him. That Real World Malcolm is a poor substitute for his True Love.
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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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Malcolm is conflicted about whether the Other Malcolm should be delineated as a separate person. Maybe in time, if he's a different person, Neal would realize he misses him. That Real World Malcolm is a poor substitute for his True Love.
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