Malcolm tells Raylan he's not a shitheel, and Neal can't help it. He still feels a little snap of anger and jealousy.
Still he loosens his grip on his hair as Malcolm talks, sitting up enough to cross his arms across his knees. He can't look at them. He still can't manage to do that.
Take that, oppressors. A little huff of air that's not a laugh, not even amusement really. Does it count as beating it if he can't convince himself that these people wouldn't be able to live just fine without him? Don't leave us, we can't let you go, they've told him, they've shown him, so why can't he shake that feeling? He wants to. God, he wants to. He rests his forehead against his crossed arms. He wants to just lean against Malcolm, let the other man wrap him up, but--
You don't deserve it.
"I don't know how to not..." Hurt. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in an exhausted rush. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
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Still he loosens his grip on his hair as Malcolm talks, sitting up enough to cross his arms across his knees. He can't look at them. He still can't manage to do that.
Take that, oppressors. A little huff of air that's not a laugh, not even amusement really. Does it count as beating it if he can't convince himself that these people wouldn't be able to live just fine without him? Don't leave us, we can't let you go, they've told him, they've shown him, so why can't he shake that feeling? He wants to. God, he wants to. He rests his forehead against his crossed arms. He wants to just lean against Malcolm, let the other man wrap him up, but--
You don't deserve it.
"I don't know how to not..." Hurt. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in an exhausted rush. "I don't know what's wrong with me."