abrightboy | Voicemail (IC Contact Post) OLD

“Do we not sleep together?”

The question is out before Neal takes the half-second to determine if it’s appropriate to ask. He winces, visibly this time. “You don’t have to answer that.”

Edited 2022-04-23 02:55 (UTC)

“We do,” he says anyway. “But you chose that when you knew what you were choosing,” he explains. “And when you loved me,” he adds painfully, “it made some kind of sense.” A beat. “The risk,” he clarifies.

Another soul-deep blow. It hurts. God, it hurts, so much, and he realizes—

“I do love you.” It’s a shock, but also not a shock at all, the way it clicks. “I love you.”

Neal swallows, throat tight. “I still do.”

He knows that’s true. He wishes he could remember anything attached to the feeling.

Malcolm blinks at him, genuinely surprised. His eyes well slightly, but it’s too good to be true and he blurts out “Why? …I mean… how is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Neal says, confused and frightened and relieved and hating the mix. He studies Malcolm’s face, wills himself to remember something, but his mental landscape is infuriatingly blank.

I know what it feels like when I let someone I love down, he doesn’t say. It feels like this.

Malcolm isn’t sure what to say.

He wants this. He wants Neal’s love more than anything.

But it feels dishonest to take it when Neal doesn’t even know who he is or whether he’s worthy of it.

“Do y…” whatever the question was, it dies in his throat. Then frowns at himself. Then he leans forward impulsively and kisses him, though in the face of even mild resistance, he’ll immediately back off.

It says something--something bad, really--about Neal's social education that he doesn't resist for a breath in spite of his own surprise. Maybe he saw it coming, maybe he picked up on the body language, it's possible. Either way, he accepts and then returns the kiss warmly.

And it feels right. Beyond simple physical compatibility, it feels right. Familiar.

When they break apart, Neal is a little flushed, breath catching roughly. He studies Malcolm's face, waits for something to happen, then almost immediately feels silly for the expectation. "You're good at that."

He clears his throat. Touches his thumb lightly against Malcolm's cheekbone, then hesitates, like he's not sure the gesture is welcome. Neal clears his throat again and gives a little laugh. "I have to admit, I think I was hoping for a Disney prince moment."

Malcolm bites his lip as he watches his face.

"You mean... like suddenly you'd remember everything?" he asks hesitantly.

He's glad he wasn't shoved on the floor for his effort but... he was kind of hoping that, too. Though... less magic, more... sense memory stimulating actual memory. Science.

"Someone told me once that scent memory is the sense most powerfully tied to memory. Maybe you need to... smell the wine we had when you made us dinner or... the detergent I use on my sheets...."

Neal isn’t exactly starry-eyed, the way he’s looking at Malcolm, but there’s something inherently romantic to him in the details that Malcolm chooses. He’s not starry-eyed, quite. He is clearly (quickly) becoming infatuated.

Neal looks down, forcing himself to break eye contact long enough to think things through. “Do we have a spot? That we go? Or something I make for you a lot? Or…”

Malcolm considers that. He thinks hard, because that look is everything and he doesn’t want to let Neal down.

“The coffee shop,” he blurts out suddenly. “We met there. We go all the time. It’s the place you first…” His voice trails off and he watches Neal’s face. “Kissed me.”

“Tell me about that,” he says, a request in spite of the phrasing. He reaches out to touch Malcolm’s temple, brush a fingertip through his hair.

Malcolm looks at him with a tentative hopefulness. Like he wants to be happy, but isn’t sure whether he can trust it.

“I was sick. I… was making myself sick because I wanted to be normal. But. You said you liked me the way I was,” he explains hesitantly.

It doesn’t make him look good, does it? It doesn’t make him look confident and desirable, that story.

"It has bothered me all my life that I do not paint like everybody else,” Neal murmurs. “Matisse said that.”

“I’ve always had a hard time connecting with people,” Malcolm admits. “I get along with my roommates. I have Gil. But.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I liked you a lot. And I tried to make friends around ADI. I just wasn’t having great luck with any of it. And that was… that’s how my life is, but for a minute I just wanted to be like everybody.”

Neal hesitates. Tells himself not to get caught up in this. Tells himself it's a terrible idea.

But the hopeless romantic in him is still powerful, even after everything he's been through, and looked at through a certain lens... this entire situation is kind of romantic.

He shakes his head, trying to banish that thought, telling himself that this is the best way to remember things, if there's anything there for him to remember.

"Let's go. Get coffee." Neal flashes a crooked smile. "First date. You can tell me about..."

The uncertainty creeps in again, and he looks down, then back at Malcolm's face. "Us."

Malcolm bites his lip and then says “What if I don’t? What if we go have a first date and if you remember, you remember and if you don’t then… there’s nothing you have to live up to?”

The thoughtfulness of it takes Neal by surprise. He hadn't even considered that, the pressure of trying to live up to a past and a relationship he doesn't remember. He'd only thought about what he should be doing. Could do if he knew what to aim for.

He tells himself he can't fall for this guy, no matter the context, and then immediately thinks it's probably too late for that.

"Yeah. Good idea. That's... a good idea." He draws Malcolm to his feet. "Tell me about you instead."

Malcolm looks about to say something, then pauses and meets Neal’s eyes.

“You don’t have to feel… obligated to feel a certain way,” he says. “A different set of circumstances can have a different outcome. You don’t have to think you’re responsible for me.”

Neal makes a softly amused noise. "Even though you're here, being responsible for me?"

Malcolm's expression creases slightly.

"You don't have to have feelings just because I do. I can't... turn it off, just because you don't..." His voice falters. "Um. The coffee shop is just..." He gestures. "Up the street."

This is not going as--what, planned? As though he's planned any of this.

As they head outside, Neal keeps himself from taking Malcolm's hand, even though the instinct is there. He's not sure if it would help or hurt. He feels like he's doing this wrong, like he's messing this up, but he doesn't even know what there is to mess up.

Fitting, really.

"I'm a forensic psychologist," Malcolm tells him as they walk. "I worked for the FBI for ten years and then the NYPD. Exclusively in homicide. I... specialize. I was the FBI's leading expert on serial murder," he explains.

Neal stops himself several times from bringing up his own FBI experience. Malcolm would know that, wouldn't he? He would. He knows about Keller, for god's sake.

When Malcolm pauses, Neal looks around them, taking in the town, the raw spring air. Without thinking about it, his hand strays over to take Malcolm's. He winces and lets go. "Sorry, I'm. I just."

He looks down at Malcolm's hand, feeling squeezed and lonely. "It feels right."

Malcolm looks over at him.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says softly.

At that, Neal very carefully takes Malcolm's hand, half-expecting something terrible to happen as he does. He has no idea what. Just... something.

He looks around again. "I could almost see myself living somewhere like this. In a different life."

Neal flashes Malcolm a crooked little grin.

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