"Already?" Oh. That sure slipped out of his mouth. "Yes. Of course. Duty calls. Your first one. Big day. Are you excited?" he asks, very casually clenching his hand and slipping it into his pocket.
Neal notices. He notices, and his stomach sinks into a small dip of guilt, but he can't make himself stay. He can at least kiss Malcolm's temple again.
"Nervous, mostly. Call Will? Have him come over?"
Neal doesn't want to leave Malcolm alone to ruminate. Not with their conversation ending this way.
“I… have to call Raylan first. …Do you think he likes cheese?” he asks, looking at the plate. He looks at Neal. “I could… call him later this afternoon, right? Or… or even tomorrow…”
God, he feels guilty. But he can't make himself stay. "Call him as soon as you're able to handle the conversation. I know it will matter to him, to find out from you."
He presses his palm to Malcolm's cheek for a moment, wanting to tell Malcolm that Neal loves him, not wanting to stick that knife into himself so close to the truth. "But please call Will?"
“You’d have more than a chance, you know,” he blurts out. “If things were… fair. Or. If things had gone differently. You’d have had way more than a ‘chance’.”
He presses his lips together.
“If we were from the same New York, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to leave it.”
Impulsively, Malcolm hugs him. Clings to him, really, for a moment, then releases him and picks up his cup of cold tea, turning it around in his hands, looking down into it, grateful that he drank enough that the liquid isn’t sloshing out.
“Maybe you can come over tomorrow to. Do something.” He looks up. “Did you want to learn how to fight with knives or something?”
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"Nervous, mostly. Call Will? Have him come over?"
Neal doesn't want to leave Malcolm alone to ruminate. Not with their conversation ending this way.
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He presses his palm to Malcolm's cheek for a moment, wanting to tell Malcolm that Neal loves him, not wanting to stick that knife into himself so close to the truth. "But please call Will?"
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“You’d have more than a chance, you know,” he blurts out. “If things were… fair. Or. If things had gone differently. You’d have had way more than a ‘chance’.”
He presses his lips together.
“If we were from the same New York, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to leave it.”
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"Another time, another place," he says softly. "Another us."
That's the way it always goes, isn't it.
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“Maybe you can come over tomorrow to. Do something.” He looks up. “Did you want to learn how to fight with knives or something?”
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He’d like the learning, anyway. He’d like being taught. And it’s a bridge built toward normalcy.
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He finally pops the apple and Brie into his mouth, crunching a moment before he can say anything. “That’s good cheese.”
He gives Malcolm’s hand one more little squeeze. “I’ll see you later.”
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You better.
“Good luck.”