"...need anything," Tim interjects. Laced with patience, not mistrust. He... nods. Parrots back stiffly that "I know you are. I know that Malcolm is here for me too. And I'm... I'm here too, if you need me for whatever reason. That's not in question."
And yet, he's leaving.
Definitions of 'need' may vary, but-- safety. Tim needs the two jerks safe. The Brooks Brothers Magazine Models want to need him in one piece, too.
It's enough to make Tim play nice again. He nods absently at Neal's very generous promise. He doesn't say he doesn't believe those words one bit because he's heard them before.
Live and learn.
He swallows, heavy and ready to duck into the first empty wing he can find to alleviate the constricting pain in his chest just behind his ribs.
He steps back once. Self preservation.
He offers a smile, meant to be sorry and disarming. "Thanks," he says and can barely hear his own voice. It's the thought that counts, after all. And the thought itself is dizzying, blood rushing through his ears making silence seem loud. Tim knows better than to get high though; the crash is never worth it.
The hall behind him promises more of a migraine. Tim takes another step towards it. "I'll help you with moving. Just let me know when and..."
Tim can be a bitch too. He's feeling vicious enough to be a thorn in Neal's side. His demeanor changes, the lift in spirits is entirely put-on but so obviously a natural phenomenon known only to pain-in-the-neck younger siblings and once he's a safe distance away, once his smile is more impish than apologetic:
no subject
"...need anything," Tim interjects. Laced with patience, not mistrust. He... nods. Parrots back stiffly that "I know you are. I know that Malcolm is here for me too. And I'm... I'm here too, if you need me for whatever reason. That's not in question."
And yet, he's leaving.
Definitions of 'need' may vary, but-- safety. Tim needs the two jerks safe. The Brooks Brothers Magazine Models want to need him in one piece, too.
It's enough to make Tim play nice again. He nods absently at Neal's very generous promise. He doesn't say he doesn't believe those words one bit because he's heard them before.
Live and learn.
He swallows, heavy and ready to duck into the first empty wing he can find to alleviate the constricting pain in his chest just behind his ribs.
He steps back once. Self preservation.
He offers a smile, meant to be sorry and disarming. "Thanks," he says and can barely hear his own voice. It's the thought that counts, after all. And the thought itself is dizzying, blood rushing through his ears making silence seem loud. Tim knows better than to get high though; the crash is never worth it.
The hall behind him promises more of a migraine. Tim takes another step towards it. "I'll help you with moving. Just let me know when and..."
Tim can be a bitch too. He's feeling vicious enough to be a thorn in Neal's side. His demeanor changes, the lift in spirits is entirely put-on but so obviously a natural phenomenon known only to pain-in-the-neck younger siblings and once he's a safe distance away, once his smile is more impish than apologetic:
"Good luck with you know what."