"Um, if you put your two fingers on these two circles here at the same time and then picture it, that's supposed to do it. So I guess it's literally only limited by your imagination," Malcolm tells him.
"I love it," Neal says quietly, and he does, even if he hasn't attempted anything with it yet. "I--"
He shakes his head and stops trying to figure out words, instead going to the half-finished rendition of van Gogh's Irises. Tentatively, almost nervously, he holds it as he might a brush, fingers still on the two circles, and tries to put down a stroke of paint.
It matches perfectly. In fact the color is closer to what it should be than what he was working with. The texture and thickness of the oil paints, everything. "...Holy shit."
Malcolm smiles when Neal says he loves it. That's all he needed. He comes over to watch, practically holding his breath as Neal attempts a stroke of paint.
"Is that good?" he asks, staring raptly at the canvas.
He's slightly breathless. "I mean... I can't do a spectral analysis to tell how close the composition is to the real thing, but. Visually speaking, it's flawless."
"Not for authenticators," Neal says. He can't help himself. He ducks his head and grins, then looks at Malcolm again. There's no mistaking the gratitude or wonder in him. "Thank you."
That breaks his trance somewhat, and he looks at Malcolm again finally, still--not dazed, exactly. Dazzled, more like. "No, I know, I know that. It's just..." He shakes his head. "Thank you."
The casualness of the words, how comfortably they're said, makes Neal's chest feel squeezed by something warm. He's not sure what else to say, or what he could say, so he just hugs Malcolm instead.
“You’re doing more than anyone here to help everyone and you’re doing it just because that’s important to you. Justice and fairness are important to you. And you’re exemplifying those principles. I’m so proud,” Malcolm gushes.
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He turns it over in his hand, fascinated. "How does it--how?"
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Neal rests his fingers on the indicated places, almost afraid to try it out. "I don't know what to say."
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He shakes his head and stops trying to figure out words, instead going to the half-finished rendition of van Gogh's Irises. Tentatively, almost nervously, he holds it as he might a brush, fingers still on the two circles, and tries to put down a stroke of paint.
It matches perfectly. In fact the color is closer to what it should be than what he was working with. The texture and thickness of the oil paints, everything. "...Holy shit."
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"Is that good?" he asks, staring raptly at the canvas.
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“You’re welcome,” he says happily.
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“…You don’t have to give me anything.”
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“You know I love you,” he says easily.
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“I’m so proud of you.”
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"Proud of me?"
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