Neal smiles at that, relaxing. He didn't realize he was nervous about the question.
Dinner is amazing. They get a few curious looks--and a few suspicious ones--as they head out, but Neal finds them very easy to ignore. When they go to the dance hall later, it's sans suit jackets but still well-dressed. Neal follows his mental map of the place and the sound of jazz drifting through the hallways. He's excited, focused on that, determined not to think about the still-flipped-over drawing in their room.
As the instructors introduce themselves, Neal murmurs, "Do you want to lead or shall I?"
“You’re the one that knows what he’s doing,” Malcolm points out. Neal leading will probably result in fewer crushed toes.
They barely touch hands on the floor when the instructor brings over two blondes that must be sisters. They’re close in age, probably late twenties/early thirties.
“Gentlemen, excuse me, these ladies need partners.”
Neal’s inherent respect for women and his desire to make them feel as wanted as they should be wars with irritation at the instructor, and with the anxious prospect of being forced into small talk with a stranger.
He manages smiles for the women, at least, his tone apologetic. “Unfortunately we’re already paired off.”
Neal finds his way back to that confident facade again, giving the women a little wink. “If I weren’t a taken man, I’d fight him for the chance to dance with both of you.”
It's wonderful. Even the occasional glares from the instructor are wonderful, particularly when Neal guides Malcolm through a few of the more complicated steps before they're explained.
Afterward--once he and Malcolm have extracted themselves from a complimentary circle of women and a couple of queer men--Neal keeps an arm around Malcolm's waist as they wander toward the elevators. "What'd you think? My toes came out of it pretty okay."
"It was fun. Exhilarating, actually," Malcolm says, still a little breathless. "I've never done that before. I didn't know I could do that," he admits.
Neal kisses his temple. "I'm pretty sure you can do anything."
As he helps buckle Malcolm in that night, he braces himself over the other man, looking down at him. The presence of the drawing--still turned over--itches at him from across the room, but he does his best to ignore it. Neal leans down and kisses Malcolm again, briefly.
"There's very little you couldn't talk me into," he says. He tilts his head to look at Neal. "And I like that I know - I know - they would never be things that would hurt me."
"Yes." Neal closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of Malcolm's fingertip against his skin. "I'll even try to participate. Or watch you being attractively bendy from the sidelines."
"You don't want to bend with me?" Malcolm teases with a pout. "Do you need me to show you some bends before we go?" he offers with a lift of one eyebrow.
"Early morning bending lessons followed by early morning bending. You're going to need a big breakfast," Malcolm tells him, leaning up to press a kiss to his forehead before snuggling up against him.
Neal hums a little note that's half-thoughtful, half-pleased. "I'll do my best with the terrible menu available."
Sarcasm, clearly.
They settle into quiet, talking off and on the way they always have--the way he did with the first Malcolm, the way he still does with this one. Malcolm is actually the first to fall asleep this time, which surprises Neal, but he's not unhappy about it. The soft sounds of his breathing, the distant noise of the breeze and what has to be an owl--there are things alive here. Alive and at peace.
He's starting to doze into his own fitful nightmares when Malcolm stirs.
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Dinner is amazing. They get a few curious looks--and a few suspicious ones--as they head out, but Neal finds them very easy to ignore. When they go to the dance hall later, it's sans suit jackets but still well-dressed. Neal follows his mental map of the place and the sound of jazz drifting through the hallways. He's excited, focused on that, determined not to think about the still-flipped-over drawing in their room.
As the instructors introduce themselves, Neal murmurs, "Do you want to lead or shall I?"
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They barely touch hands on the floor when the instructor brings over two blondes that must be sisters. They’re close in age, probably late twenties/early thirties.
“Gentlemen, excuse me, these ladies need partners.”
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He manages smiles for the women, at least, his tone apologetic. “Unfortunately we’re already paired off.”
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The instructor seems at a loss for a moment. Malcolm doesn’t rescue him.
“Yes, of course,” he finally says curtly.
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He doesn’t move an inch away from Malcolm.
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“He’d lose because he’s a lover and I’m a fighter,” he jokes. “But it’s the thought that counts.”
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Neal doesn't have it in him to inform them that he and Malcolm aren't really the latter.
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He offers his hand to Neal.
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Afterward--once he and Malcolm have extracted themselves from a complimentary circle of women and a couple of queer men--Neal keeps an arm around Malcolm's waist as they wander toward the elevators. "What'd you think? My toes came out of it pretty okay."
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As he helps buckle Malcolm in that night, he braces himself over the other man, looking down at him. The presence of the drawing--still turned over--itches at him from across the room, but he does his best to ignore it. Neal leans down and kisses Malcolm again, briefly.
"I think we should stay for a while."
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“Then we will,” he says simply. “You know… it’s easier, not having a case, with you around. I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel so… crazy.”
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"I'm glad," he says, shifting to lie down next to Malcolm. "I want to be... a good place for you. A good place to be."
He kisses Malcolm’s shoulder. “You’re my good place.”
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"Do... do you still want to draw me tomorrow?"
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"There's very little you couldn't talk me into," he says. He tilts his head to look at Neal. "And I like that I know - I know - they would never be things that would hurt me."
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"Can we go to the sunrise outdoor yoga in the morning?" he asks.
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"Early morning bending lessons followed by early morning bending. You're going to need a big breakfast," Malcolm tells him, leaning up to press a kiss to his forehead before snuggling up against him.
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Sarcasm, clearly.
They settle into quiet, talking off and on the way they always have--the way he did with the first Malcolm, the way he still does with this one. Malcolm is actually the first to fall asleep this time, which surprises Neal, but he's not unhappy about it. The soft sounds of his breathing, the distant noise of the breeze and what has to be an owl--there are things alive here. Alive and at peace.
He's starting to doze into his own fitful nightmares when Malcolm stirs.
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