[closed log] what I love most about my home is who I share it with

[conning]

Who: Neal, Malcolm, and Tim Drake (with potential Steve Harrington if he wants to face this awkward reunion)
When: Early December
Where: Apartment B1 in the ADI complex
Summary: Malcolm brings Tim home to B1 after his unexpected reappearance.
Warnings: N/A yet



Neal Putters. He called out of work today to make some plans and cook some food, the latter to restock the fridge once again after the uptick in how much is being consumed with the addition of Steve Harrington to their space. Neal very clearly labels the ones that are for Malcolm, also marking them with the dates they should be eaten by.

...He's OCD at the best of times, but lately he's been feeling overzealous.

When he hears the key in the lock, he glances up, sees the familiar shape of Malcolm entering, and starts with a greeting-slash-codephrase laced with affection as he looks back to his work.

"Where was our second kiss?"

Comments

[conning]

Neal glances back, trying to meet Malcolm’s eyes with a brief apology before he goes after Tim. He lets the teen get far enough that they’re not right in front of the door, before stepping up his pace just enough to try and hug Tim again.

“I know you’re good at being fine. So am I. That wasn’t what I was asking about or trying to say.” He’ll let Tim go faster this time, or back off entirely if Tim fought the embrace. “Mind if I come with you to orientation?“

Yes, something ugly says. Stay close enough to feel the loss, close enough to sharpen the Lonely like the perfect blade it is.

Neal ignores it. He tries.

cw this damn boi

[ployboy]

He is hugged again. And that's when Tim becomes absolutely certain that his brain isn't firing on all cylinders, if at all. He stands still, trapped once again, like a mangy lil kitten gone limp in its mom's mouth.

Except, y'know, fuck that.

"I said, back off!"

He ducks out of the hold, turns on his heels to face this monster; and there goes Tim's carefully crafted cool.

"What do you even want from me? Do you want to be there to see me get all turned around again? It's not that exciting."

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim standing his ground and snarling because he's done nothing to deserve being tailed in his humiliation. Live and learn, live and learn. Paranoia ain't it when eyes really are following your every step, every mistake. Tim is now older, and wiser. And he's fucked up worse than he will be now, challenging Neal to dare to move into his space again. Timothy Drake, for all of his fucking faults isn't helpless.

This isn't personal.

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim saying he's already fucking submitted his scores.

--he kinda feels bad about blowing up in the hallway. But he's not even blowing up. Really. This is just. Boundaries.

So... he softens, eyes still keen and the rest of him still sharp. But this isn't personal. "I think I have a good enough idea of what I'm getting into. You..."

--and boy if that's not accusatory--

"You have some important things to discuss with Malcolm. Alone. Right? So we'll all catch up later. That's all."

[conning]

It hurts. God, it hurts, and that ugly something twists it into a little thrill, and the fact that he hurt Tim is even better (even worse). Neal doesn't move in again. Breathes deep, does everything he can to stay focused.

"Okay." It's soft, neutral, not placating. Instinct--the way he knows he would react to placation--keeps it neutral. "I don't want anything from you, Tim. I'm here if you--"

What, need him? Tim won't, or won't admit that he does, and it's perfect (no it's not). Neal shakes his head.

"If you want to lock yourself in my apartment room or whatever. I'll leave the window unlocked." He knows by now that Tim can get himself inside that way just fine. "And I meant what I said about the house. One of those rooms is yours. No matter what else happens."

[ployboy]

Neal is here if he ever is to

"...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."

[conning]

There is far too much for Neal to dissect in the feelings he’s getting off Tim as the boy walks away. He waits, though, until Tim is gone. Waits until he knows Tim won’t look back and see an empty hallway. Then he goes back to the apartment to talk to Malcolm.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks up from his chair, in front of his bowl of cold soup, when he hears the door. Neal is alone. Malcolm deflates a little. "What did I do?" he asks. "I said something, right? What was it?"

[conning]

Neal’s heart melts a little with affection and sadness and endearment and under it all there’s a simmering awareness of Malcolm’s heartbreak that he tries to ignore. He holds out his arms instead of answering immediately.

“Come here.”

[abrightboy]

He takes that as confirmation, so he expression crumples a little as he gets up from the table and sinks willingly into those arms, pressing his face into Neal's shoulder.

[conning]

Neal wraps him up tight, Malcolm’s warmth and presence finally driving back the relevance of those sixth sense feelings. “You didn’t do anything wrong that I saw, okay? It’s not that simple.”

[abrightboy]

"I don't understand. Why doesn't he want to stay with us? He said he didn't think any time passed, but he doesn't like me anymore. He didn't tell you why?" Malcolm asks desperately.

[conning]

Neal weighs how to explain.

“Don’t think about it as no time passing. Think about it like… time being stolen. Like being in a coma and waking up with an expectation of the world being one way and finding it totally different. He needs time and space and… maybe the knowledge that we’re waiting when he’s ready.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm lifts his head to blink blearily up at him.

"But we're the same. Totally the same. It wouldn't be better to be with his family now? While he's hurting?"

[conning]

"We're not, love." Neal doesn't notice it's the first time he's ever used a pet name. "We're living together. I'm ostensibly in Meredith's old room. There's a stranger in Tim's space. Yes, he could have my room without issue, but it's not 'his,' it's mine. And it wasn't his. It was Meredith's. And she's gone, and he hasn't had a chance to deal with that, either."

[abrightboy]

It makes sense, what Neal is saying, and he still has a hard time connecting with it, for all the times growing up when he struggled to process things and would have given anything for anyone to want him around - really want him around - and not out of some sense of obligation. Maybe he wasn't clear enough about that? He doesn't know, but he can't argue with Neal's point because it doesn't sound wrong, either.

He looks up, his brow still creased but his face not the picture of complete misery it was a moment ago either.

"Did you really buy a house?"

[conning]

He smiles a little.

"Want to see it?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm actually smiles a little.

Just a little, but it's something.

And nods.

"Is it far?"

[conning]

"Not too-too far."

Far enough to distract Malcolm from his bad feelings. Get a little bit of a walk, some fresh air or a coffee while they wait for a cab out of the cold.

Neal kisses Malcolm, digging into his own pocket and pulling out a set of keys that aren't from ADI. He holds them up. "I'm not done soundproofing the master bedroom yet, but I'm getting there."

[abrightboy]

"Soundproofing? Is that so you can stay in a different room when it's bad?" Malcolm asks, taking the keys to look at them with a sort of wonder that makes his question distracted.

[conning]

Neal shrugs. "It's more so you won't be worried about guests and neighbors hearing."

He kisses Malcolm again and leads the way back outside, one arm around Malcolm. He lets the other man hang on to the keys.

They do get a cab, because it is cold, but Neal is still excited when they climb out in front of the little white house with its bright blue shutters and the SOLD sign stuck to the FOR SALE post in the front yard. "So... welcome home."

[abrightboy]

Guests. They could have guests. He doesn't know who that would be, but it's there.

He leans against Neal for the car ride, clutching the keys so tightly in his hand that when they reach the house and he unclenches his fist, they're imprinted in his palm.

He holds them out for Neal.

"Do I get a tour?"

[conning]

Neal doesn't take the keys, instead guiding Malcolm toward the front door. "Of course. You do the honors."

This was supposed to be more of a surprise. It was supposed to be coupled with that other thing that Tim so clearly saw. He'll have to pivot, figure out a new lead-in. It was necessary and worth it to reveal this early.

The front door is as bright blue as the shutters.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm goes to put the key in the lock, then pauses and looks sidelong up at Neal.

"I like the colours," he says, then turns his attention back to unlocking the door. It swings open and he steps tentatively inside, like he's somewhere he's not supposed to be, but looks around with active interest.

[conning]

"I hoped you would."

He follows Malcolm inside, into a bright, airy space with hardwood floors and a tidy, rustic kitchen that he's been slowly populating with nice, affordable--often gently used--furniture. Estate sales and auctions are a many-splendored thing. Once Malcolm has seen the downstairs, which is almost one continuous open room sans the half-bath, Neal leads him upstairs.

More hardwood. Three bedrooms, two of them smaller, one of those with purple walls. The third room is the master bedroom, and Neal is midway through creating an elaborate geometric mural with soundproofing tiles in cool colors. A large window looks out at the snow-covered street, the lingering holiday lights not yet turned on. "This one's ours."

His excitement has given way to nervousness.

[abrightboy]

Neal calls it 'ours' and for a second, Malcolm can't breathe.

After a moment, he remembers how lungs work and he takes a shaky breath, tearing his gaze from the room to Neal's face, his eyes wide again, like when he first brought it up at dinner.

"Ours. You said 'ours'."

[conning]

His stomach turns over. Did he say something wrong? Did he give himself away? What did he do?

"Yes...?"