"A green velvet Stetson Zephyr fedora. Vintage--one of the few I didn't actually get from June." He closes his eyes, playing with the baby hairs at the back of Malcolm's neck.
"I found it at the back of a closet I was hiding in during a case." A little chuckle. "Technically I knew who it belonged to, but we arrested the guy, so I didn't think he'd need it. Clearly he hadn't missed it to begin with."
Malcolm smiles. "Anything else like... the way you smile when I eat something or... how good you look in a suit?" he clarifies, lightly teasing, fingers fidgeting at Neal's sternum.
The warmth that fills Neal is enough to drive out any lingering shadows from the drawing's activity earlier, and he kisses Malcolm more warmly this time.
"Good. I'm... that's good, I'm glad."
Another little kiss. "Could you bring the easel and sketch pad in? I'd like to pick our clothes for dinner, if you're okay with that."
Malcolm grins. “I don’t mind at all,” he says, practically bounding out of bed to fulfill the request, though he almost runs out onto the balcony naked before realizing and detouring to grab a robe before going outside.
He brings the items in, along with the leftover food and drink, then stands in front of the drawing, studying it while Neal riffles the closet.
Neal hums softly to himself while he coordinates their outfits, the activity as soothing as it is pleasurable.
The drawing is somehow more surreal-looking without direct natural light. Like if the watcher blinks at the wrong moment, something in it will shift, some unexpected and ugly detail will appear.
Which is, incidentally, what happens.
The people on the street, from the vaguest shapes to the very clear image of Malcolm, disappear. They leave smudges of color behind like they've been aggressively erased. The figure Neal saw earlier, the one he thought he imagined, that one is back, standing between those same two houses, a deeper pit of emptiness in shadows.
Neal glances over as he sets out tastefully paired suits, his own a bespoke three-piece, Malcolm’s a flawlessly tailored two-piece.
“1306.”
He smooths the suits down on the freshly-made bed. Smiles at them, at how far they are from anything available in Mathias. “Apparently Phillips, the street it was on, was the first street people had access to.”
The way Malcolm turns the picture over makes Neal's stomach do a somersault. Did he see it? Had it actually changed?
He crosses the distance between them and flips it back over--and the people are back, like they never left. Neal sets it down slowly, forcing himself to breathe. He orients on Malcolm. "I don't... know. Keeping people where it wanted at first, I guess. Did... was..."
"We'll work on that some more later. We're getting ready for dinner," he reminds Neal. "But you're not crazy, whatever you're thinking. What am I wearing?"
Neal makes a noise of protest, but--after a pause--draws Malcolm back over the clothes on the bed. Their suits don't match, per se. The styles are different, the cuts not the same, but the colors are in the same family, deep reds with very subtle patterns. They match without matching in an almost sleight-of-hand nod to the fact that they're together.
Neal is clearly pleased with the praise, feeling reassured that he did something right when very suddenly almost everything feels wrong.
It doesn't matter. That thing, the drawing, whatever happened with it, that doesn't matter. They're going to dinner together in a beautiful resort in the mountains. He pulls Malcolm against him lightly. "Should we shower?"
Neal can feel people looking when they walk into the dining room, and for the first time in a long time he feels a touch of the swaggering confidence that used to come naturally. These people aren’t looking at him—at them—in pity or confusion or suspicion. These people are looking at them wanting to be what they are.
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“What did it look like?” he asks.
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“Where did you get it?”
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But of course he’s already considering where he might get one.
“I’m actually looking forward to dinner,” he admits. “I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”
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“Well, don’t push yourself too hard—eat to enjoy it, not because of anything else.”
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"If those things help you enjoy the meal, then by all means." He kisses Malcolm lightly. "Don't feel obligated, is what I'm saying."
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"Good. I'm... that's good, I'm glad."
Another little kiss. "Could you bring the easel and sketch pad in? I'd like to pick our clothes for dinner, if you're okay with that."
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He brings the items in, along with the leftover food and drink, then stands in front of the drawing, studying it while Neal riffles the closet.
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The drawing is somehow more surreal-looking without direct natural light. Like if the watcher blinks at the wrong moment, something in it will shift, some unexpected and ugly detail will appear.
Which is, incidentally, what happens.
The people on the street, from the vaguest shapes to the very clear image of Malcolm, disappear. They leave smudges of color behind like they've been aggressively erased. The figure Neal saw earlier, the one he thought he imagined, that one is back, standing between those same two houses, a deeper pit of emptiness in shadows.
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“Which one of these houses did we live in?”
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“1306.”
He smooths the suits down on the freshly-made bed. Smiles at them, at how far they are from anything available in Mathias. “Apparently Phillips, the street it was on, was the first street people had access to.”
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He turns properly toward Malcolm now that he's settled on their clothes and freezes, paling at the sight of the picture.
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Not today, Creepy Shadow Person.
“The fog covered the town? What was the point of that?” he asks, like the picture was always upside down and there was nothing to see there.
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He crosses the distance between them and flips it back over--and the people are back, like they never left. Neal sets it down slowly, forcing himself to breathe. He orients on Malcolm. "I don't... know. Keeping people where it wanted at first, I guess. Did... was..."
He looks at the picture again.
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"We'll work on that some more later. We're getting ready for dinner," he reminds Neal. "But you're not crazy, whatever you're thinking. What am I wearing?"
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"Thoughts?"
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It doesn't matter. That thing, the drawing, whatever happened with it, that doesn't matter. They're going to dinner together in a beautiful resort in the mountains. He pulls Malcolm against him lightly. "Should we shower?"
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“How did you know I was just thinking about how much my back needs scrubbed?” he asks innocently.
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It’s a long shower.
For various reasons.
Neal can feel people looking when they walk into the dining room, and for the first time in a long time he feels a touch of the swaggering confidence that used to come naturally. These people aren’t looking at him—at them—in pity or confusion or suspicion. These people are looking at them wanting to be what they are.
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