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.
Neal toys with Malcolm's top button, frowning at it, clearly seeing something and somewhere else. "Maybe that's the wrong way to put it. Maybe it... did, like you. After it showed up the first time, after it hurt people, you started seeing it all the time."
"Maybe," Neal says softly. He's not convinced, though. "Maybe."
He looks over at lunch, noting that it's been a few hours at least since it got delivered, at least based on the way the light shifted. He should set a good example, eat something.
Neal reaches out instinctively to rest a hand on Malcolm's waist as he sits down, inviting the smaller man to share his chair or at least sit down next to him. He shivers. "I wondered about that."
He doesn't want to eat. He makes himself, though, because Malcolm is right there, and he should. One the taste of the dish is in his mouth--even cold--his appetite gets pricked, and he starts to eat with a little more enthusiasm. "That was what Mathias did, more than anything. Messed with our heads. The physical torture, that was one thing, but it wanted us crazy even more than it wanted us in pain."
Malcolm sits on the arm of his chair, so he can reach his food and his drink and Malcolm as he wishes.
"I started out crazy, so it didn't have to work that hard on me." He pauses. "I can't believe that didn't... put people off. Going off my meds would be... god, some serious withdrawal. And then my symptoms slamming in full force. I don't even want to contemplate what I would have been like. Why did people stick around and deal with that?"
Neal keeps his hand on Malcolm like an anchor as he eats, pausing for the occasional sip of his cosmo. It's good, very good, but he's not surprised.
He still doesn't eat nearly as much as he used to.
"Because..." He looks up at Malcolm where he's perched on the chair, studying his face. "Because. You're worth it. You're worth it, and no one in 1306 was going to let one of our people be on their own."
Malcolm smiles down at his knees, but then looks at Neal uncertainly.
"How could they have known? I was a stranger. Acting like a lunatic. Seeing things? Talking to myself? Shaking? I don't even know what else. I just don't... sometimes I go out walking when I can't sleep and people cross the street to avoid me and I'm not anywhere near that bad. Why did it suck in all the kindest people in the world." A beat. "Oh my god, was I so in love with Raylan because he was the first one to... take me in?"
"They were good people who saw someone hurting," Neal says firmly. "And then they got to know you, when the worst of the hurting was over."
Neal laces his fingers through Malcolm's and hangs on, looking at their linked hands. When Malcolm says that about Raylan, Neal blinks and looks up in surprise. "I. I hadn't thought of that."
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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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“He—it—the Shadow Man, I mean… it didn’t like you.”
A breathy little laugh. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
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"I was off my meds, right? Maybe it was psychosis. They've put me on antipsychotics because I hallucinate."
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He looks over at lunch, noting that it's been a few hours at least since it got delivered, at least based on the way the light shifted. He should set a good example, eat something.
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"You don't think that's it," he surmises. "There's another possibility," he points out. "That being off my meds made me vulnerable to mental attacks."
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He doesn't want to eat. He makes himself, though, because Malcolm is right there, and he should. One the taste of the dish is in his mouth--even cold--his appetite gets pricked, and he starts to eat with a little more enthusiasm. "That was what Mathias did, more than anything. Messed with our heads. The physical torture, that was one thing, but it wanted us crazy even more than it wanted us in pain."
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"I started out crazy, so it didn't have to work that hard on me." He pauses. "I can't believe that didn't... put people off. Going off my meds would be... god, some serious withdrawal. And then my symptoms slamming in full force. I don't even want to contemplate what I would have been like. Why did people stick around and deal with that?"
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He still doesn't eat nearly as much as he used to.
"Because..." He looks up at Malcolm where he's perched on the chair, studying his face. "Because. You're worth it. You're worth it, and no one in 1306 was going to let one of our people be on their own."
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"How could they have known? I was a stranger. Acting like a lunatic. Seeing things? Talking to myself? Shaking? I don't even know what else. I just don't... sometimes I go out walking when I can't sleep and people cross the street to avoid me and I'm not anywhere near that bad. Why did it suck in all the kindest people in the world." A beat. "Oh my god, was I so in love with Raylan because he was the first one to... take me in?"
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Neal laces his fingers through Malcolm's and hangs on, looking at their linked hands. When Malcolm says that about Raylan, Neal blinks and looks up in surprise. "I. I hadn't thought of that."
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