"She knows who killed him," Neal says, confident in the conclusion without really having more than instinct to back it up. "She knows, and they scare her enough for her to disappear in the middle of the night."
A pause, then, "If it was me... If it was me, it would be someone I ran away from in the first place."
Neal makes a soft noise of agreement. For a moment he doesn't say anything else, tries closing his eyes, but that vision of Mathias is right there waiting.
It might be a night where sleep just doesn't come. He's had those before. At least this one won't be alone.
"Sing to me again," he says, though it sounds shy.
His voice is so beautiful. The tone of it is amusingly at odds with Malcolm’s polish and anxiety. Neal snuggles a little more firmly against him, lulled but unwilling to sleep.
After a moment, with hesitation, he says, “When did it start? You having to restrain yourself at night?”
“The night terrors started when I was eleven, after I started visiting my unprocessed trauma in the form of Martin Whitly,” he explained, still stroking Neal’s hair. “There was a while there when I wouldn’t speak all day but then I’d scream in the night. Thrashing, crashing out of bed. That was when we found my current therapist. But one night, shortly after I turned twelve, I got out of my room and down the stairs and out the front door. An early morning jogger tackled me out of the path of a truck, apparently. I remember waking up on the sidewalk to my mother freaking out. My therapist suggested the restraints around that time.”
Age eleven. From age eleven, Malcolm has been having night terrors, screaming himself awake to a family that had no idea what to do with it. Did he ever get to sleep in his mom's bed after one of those nightmares? Would she have been willing to risk it? The sheer loneliness of it makes Neal's eyes burn with tears.
"I'll always come back," he says softly. "Even if I need a break at some point, I will always come back to be with you."
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A pause, then, "If it was me... If it was me, it would be someone I ran away from in the first place."
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It might be a night where sleep just doesn't come. He's had those before. At least this one won't be alone.
"Sing to me again," he says, though it sounds shy.
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“Any particular song?” he murmurs.
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He doesn’t know why Neal might have heard ‘him’ sing it before.
He starts singing it softly, his fingers carding absently through Neal’s hair, making his restraint jangle in a quiet rhythm with the action.
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After a moment, with hesitation, he says, “When did it start? You having to restrain yourself at night?”
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"I'll always come back," he says softly. "Even if I need a break at some point, I will always come back to be with you."
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He understands the connection profoundly.
He smiles softly. “I’ll be happy,” he says. “When you come back.”
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“If I close my eyes, you’ll stay with me?”
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The relief of knowing that’s true is somehow exhausting all on its own.