Kodachrome, AU-Peter/Neal, NC-17, 2/2
Title: Kodachrome
Pairing: AU!Peter/Neal (past Peter/El, past Neal/Keller)
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~19,000
Content: AU, exhibitionism, mild violence
Summary: Peter's a photographer; Neal's a model. Companionship didn't pay the bills. Taking nudie shots of college guys with giant erections would.
Return to PART ONE
They met for an early dinner at Pepe Giallo in Chelsea.
“Statistics always makes me hungry,” Neal had explained over the phone.
Peter wondered what to do when they saw each other. They were meeting out in front of the restaurant and if Neal had been a woman, Peter would put his hand at her lower back and maybe kiss her on the cheek. He wondered if the same behavior would be appropriate with Neal. He didn’t have a lot of time to figure it out; he saw Neal sauntering up the sidewalk, smiling at him, and Peter took a deep, steadying breath.
When Neal reached his side, Peter wrapped his hand around his back and kissed him somewhere between his lips and cheek. “Hi,” Peter said against the faint stubble.
“Hi,” Neal breathed.
When Peter drew back, Neal smiled at him, his lashes fluttering, and Peter knew he’d done the right thing. It felt right. Neal’s back against his palm felt just right, so Peter left his hand there and steered Neal through the doors. Neal didn’t seem to mind being man-handled by him, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.
They sat in a secluded booth and ordered. Peter let Neal choose the wine, and he picked a moderately priced half-caraf. They each ignored the bread basket when it came in favor of talking. Peter had worried there would be nothing to say, but he had apparently worried for naught. Neal was easy to talk to, a good listener, funny, smart, compassionate. Peter found himself telling Neal things it had taken months to talk about even with El who he trusted implicitly.
They sipped their wine and Peter told Neal about quitting high school. Peter ate his entrée slowly, almost not caring how it tasted, even though it was delicious, because Neal was telling him about an older brother who’d died in a car accident - the same older brother that loved Karl Malone and was the sole reason Neal knew anything about him or basketball at all.
“He was my protector,” Neal said, his fork pivoting through his pasta. “And he taught me how to protect myself.”
“He sounds like a good guy,” Peter said, feeling foolish and without the proper words.
“He was,” Neal breathed, dropping his gaze.
Peter watched where Neal’s lashes touched his cheeks, blinking. “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing Neal would raise those pretty blue eyes again. “I’m sorry you lost him.” Peter reached out and took Neal’s hand across the table. Neal’s eyes finally blinked up. Peter stroked his thumb over Neal’s palm, but when Neal tugged a little, Peter reluctantly let go, changing the subject.
They ate and talked about the work. They laughed about Diana’s brusqueness and Carl’s obtuseness.
“So what was it like? Taking your clothes off for the camera that first time?”
Neal shrugged. “I needed the money so bad, that’s practically all I could think about.” He looked into Peter’s eyes. “Do you…think I’m a freak? For doing this?”
“Of course not,” Peter said quickly. “Does it embarrass you?” He ate a bite of food, hoping to put Neal at ease.
Neal sipped his wine. “Not usually. I’m not falsely modest - I know I have a body people want to look at.”
“And a face,” Peter interjected, and when Neal smiled, Peter did see something modest in it. Peter found he liked the combination - the humility and the forth-rightness.
Neal went on, “Like I said before, it helps me pay for Columbia. It pays my rent. It lets me buy art supplies.” Neal shrugged. “I guess this is the first time I’ve met somebody that I actually really…” He met Peter’s gaze. “…care what he thinks.”
Peter cleared his throat. “I think you take the most beautiful photos I’ve ever seen, and I barely have to work at it at all. I think you’re a sensitive, intelligent, fascinating man -- and beautiful. I mean,” Peter laughed a little, “you are so fucking beautiful.” Neal blushed, and Peter took a deep breath, feeling the excitement mingling with his protective instinct. Everything about Neal made him feel more alive, more himself. “And I can’t stop wanting to get to know you better,” he finished.
Neal smiled, this time brilliant and strong. “I feel the same about you.”
Peter wiped his lips with his napkin. “Good.” He signaled their waiter, and when he came with the check Peter snatched it from him and with an inquiring glance at Neal, “Dessert?”
Neal shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Peter paid and then stood up. He offered Neal his hand. “I want you to show me your art,” he said.
Neal took his hand, beaming and nervous. “Okay.”
*
They were close enough to walk to the gallery, so they strolled through the dying evening, not touching. Peter’s hands were in his pockets, more to keep them off of Neal’s body than because it was chilly out. They walked slowly, talking all the while.
Peter found himself telling Neal about El.
“So you don’t know why she left?” Neal asked.
Peter shook his head.
“That must bother you.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Do you…miss her?”
Peter smiled and told the absolute truth. “Not near as much the last few days.”
Neal smiled, and Peter wanted to press him up against a shop window and do things that would get them both arrested. Neal looked gorgeous in his black turtleneck and grey dress pants, but Peter knew what he looked like naked, and that made it hard not to picture.
“What about you? Have you seen anybody lately?”
“Not lately,” Neal told him. “There was Matthew.” He shrugged, looking almost ashamed. “It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“And what do you want?”
Neal looked shy then. “I want to keep feeling like I do right now.”
Peter swallowed. It had been a long time since someone had made him feel this way, like there was nothing wrong with him, like he had nothing to prove. It hadn’t been Elizabeth’s fault that she’d stopped making him feel like that. It wasn’t her job to boost his ego or pretend he was right for her when he wasn’t. She’d always been honest - kind but honest - and he didn’t wish her otherwise.
But being with Neal… Suddenly Peter felt like it wasn’t work. He hadn’t realized how hard he’d worked with El - to earn her affection when she’d only ever offered it freely.
Maybe that had been what killed them - his own effort to be better. If it was, he couldn’t blame her. And he could only feel grateful that he was here now - that he was with Neal - and that maybe for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like he needed to be something he wasn’t. Maybe that’s how “Clint” made El feel, too - like she was perfect. Peter hoped so.
“This is it,” Neal said, shaking him out of his thoughts.
Peter looked up and saw the gallery, bright and opulent, before them. This time Neal extended his hand, and Peter took it, letting Neal lead him inside and feeling a little thrill that this was all happening - that this beautiful person wanted to hold his hand in public - that he was once again feeling happiness when he’d gone so long without it.
Neal led him through the opening exhibits, stopping to admire the paintings.
“Unh unh,” Peter said. Neal looked at him with trepidation. “I’m sorry, but I came here to see your work. No offense to these artists, but… It’s your stuff I’m here to see.”
Neal flashed him that stellar smile, nodded, and then dragged Peter along by the hand toward the back.
Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Pretty paintings? Marginal talent? That wasn’t what he got. Neal drew him into a room with paintings the size of the walls, four of them, so that once they’d entered, they were surrounded by Neal’s art. And it took Peter’s breath away.
“You…?” he choked. Neal let go of his hand and Peter walked to the center of the room, turning slowly around himself. “You…made these?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t normally work quite so large, but I received a grant a year ago and, well…” He shrugged. “Do you like them?”
“Do I like them? Neal… I never thought… Forgive me, but I never thought I’d get to see something like this.” He gestured to one of the walls. “This is extraordinary,” he said softly. “You’re extraordinary.” He turned to one of the paintings and walked closer. Neal stood behind him. Peter just gawked at the wall, trying to take it all in, the scope, the detail, the power of it. He felt speechless. This man he was with wasn’t just a good artist - he could be a great artist. Truly great.
Peter had had no idea.
He looked over at Neal who was biting his thumbnail. He held out his hand and Neal walked to his side. Peter just stood there holding Neal’s hand and looking up at his magnificent work. He looked at it for five minutes. Then he moved to the next wall and stared for a while. He was awed, simply awed -- and this kind of talent he saw before him was one hell of a turn-on. Neal was a genius. A genius. And he was by Peter’s side, nervous, almost trembling.
Peter turned to him and cupped his cheek. “I want to take you home with me. Right now.”
Neal nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Well, my place might be closer,” Neal said, a little breathlessly.
Peter swallowed. “Let’s go.”
*
The wait was excruciating. It was also wonderful.
Peter kept catching Neal’s eye, seeing the desire there, mirroring his own. The tension between them was nearly unbearable - yet that’s what made it perfect.
Neal lived in a five floor walk-up, and they both took the stairs as quickly as they could without sprinting. Neal looked over his shoulder at Peter on the last flight. “I apologize in advance. It’s sort of a dump.”
“Neal, I don’t care,” Peter told him, and at that moment the dumpiness of Neal’s apartment really was the last thing he gave a shit about. Unless there were actual cockroaches, of course.
Peter didn’t take the time to investigate. They barely got in the door. Neal threw his keys God knew where, and Peter stripped off his turtleneck before the door had even closed. Peter spun him around and pressed Neal’s back to it, working on his pants and diving in for a deep, hungry kiss. Neal kissed him back with the same fervor, his own hands at Peter’s pants.
“Am I fucking this up?” Peter asked breathlessly, toeing his shoes off. “Do you want slow and romantic?”
“After,” Neal gasped and pulled Peter down for a hard kiss.
After. God, Peter was in heaven!
And then it just got better.
Neal flipped them. Peter found that amusing and arousing both at once, Neal’s little spurts of control. With Peter’s back pressed to the door now, Neal started sinking to his knees.
Oh God.
“Take your shirt off,” Neal said, working his pants open the rest of the way.
Peter did as requested, and Neal’s eyes darkened as he looked up at Peter’s torso. “I should be taking pictures of you,” he said reverently. He kissed Peter’s belly. Peter tensed against those soft lips, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow. Neal peeked up at him, still kissing, and then he pulled Peter’s boxer-briefs out and down. Peter’s heavy cock fell out, and he watched as Neal’s eyes fluttered closed, an indulgent sigh escaping his lips, and he went down on it.
Peter banged his head back against the door. “Fuck…” Neal moved on it, drawing it into his snug mouth and then dragging his lips back down the shaft until he was tonguing at the head, the slit. “Jesus Christ,” Peter breathed. Neal sank down on his cock again and again, his fingers stroking through Peter’s pubic hair, grasping his balls, sliding up his hips, his stomach, all the while working Peter’s cock in his mouth.
Peter felt tears of intense arousal sting his eyes. His hips wanted to fuck, but he held still, letting Neal do whatever he wanted. But when Neal’s hands cupped his ass and pulled, and he flitted his gaze up to Peter’s meaningfully, Peter gave up and started thrusting. He held Neal’s pretty face and fucked it, slowly easing his cock in and out of glistening lips. Neal made a quiet sound of elation, gripping Peter’s hard thighs.
It was too much and Peter was going to come. “I’m close,” he warned Neal.
Neal looked up at him, not moving except to renew the bobbing of his head on Peter’s cock. The fact that he wanted it nearly made Peter come, but he used the last of his self-control to push Neal back, grimacing at the loss of heat and the beautiful way Neal’s blushed lips distended as he withdrew.
“I wanna fuck your ass,” Peter heard himself growl. “You got a bed?”
Neal smiled up at him. “Such as it is.” And he nodded toward the corner of what Peter finally realized was just one room. A room full to bursting with paintings in various states of done. Other than that, there was a sofa, a bookshelf, and a mattress on the floor. That was it. Peter was just enough of a gentleman to know he’d feel bad about Neal’s living conditions later, but he was by and large a rabid sex maniac at the moment and therefore couldn’t yet be bothered.
He helped Neal up, pulling him into another scalding kiss. Neal’s mouth was musky hot, and Peter plunged his tongue into it, rejoicing in the moan he wrenched from Neal’s throat.
Neal pulled back and whispered into his mouth, “I love sucking your cock.”
Peter growled again, and he lifted Neal off his feet, walking him back toward the mattress. Neal smiled - that glowing, transcendent, almost-innocent smile - and Peter’s heart did a little lurch in his chest just as his dick pulled up hard. He’d never felt anything quite like it. Not ever.
Once he set Neal down they each stripped their pants off the rest of the way. Neal laughed as one of Peter’s socks went flying across the room to drape over an empty easel. Peter smiled crookedly and shrugged.
“C’mere,” Neal murmured and pulled Peter down on top of him by his hips. “You ever done this with a man?”
Peter shook his head no, and Neal opened his legs for him. Peter settled between, their cocks nestled together, warm and a little slick, Neal’s arms coming around his neck, and then they just kissed. They kissed and kissed and kissed, Neal’s legs coming up and wrapping around Peter, thighs strong, their bodies rocking against each other.
“I’ve got condoms,” Neal told him.
“So do I,” Peter answered.
Neal smiled. Then his gaze dropped to Peter’s wet lips. “I want it from behind,” he said. And it wasn’t like some porn star. It wasn’t ashamed or intended to titillate. It was somehow just…honest and tender and sweet and so goddamned hot Peter could hardly breathe. He just nodded, sitting back on his heels and reaching for the wallet in his discarded pants as Neal turned over onto his stomach, baring his gorgeous ass for Peter and waiting, his head cradled on his arms.
Peter pulled out a condom and two packets of lube. He got the condom on and ripped the lube open with his teeth. Neal got up on his knees in front of him, and Peter saw that the flesh of his bottom was still red-pink from the paddling. His asshole peeked from the center of a ring of nearly black hair, and before Peter knew what he was doing, he had his face in it, and he was rimming Neal like he was starving.
“Oh my God…” Neal gasped, arching for more. “Oh please… Peter, please…”
Peter ate him out until his jaw ached and it felt like his tongue might fall off. He ate him until Neal was fucking back into it, keening and nearly crying. Peter felt a sense of power surge through him, something animal and primal and base. He got up on his knees behind Neal. He slicked his cock with the lube. He parted Neal’s asscheeks with his hands, and Neal moaned, his hole winking. Peter squeezed Neal’s bruised ass. Neal gasped.
“Do you like that?” Peter asked him.
“Yyyeesss…” Neal breathed.
So Peter did it again, digging his fingers into the flesh he’d abused the day before. Neal arched and shook with wanting it. Peter could no longer wait, and he slapped his cock down against the ravaged hole. “God, you’re perfect,” Peter told him. He took himself in hand and thrust his cock inside, stretching Neal open.
Tight, tight, TIGHT. So tight and good. Peter rocked inside, mouth falling open. He didn’t want to stop, but he was afraid he was going too fast and hurting Neal. Then he saw Neal nod, pulling a pillow in and holding it tight to his face and chest, and he started bucking back against it, so Peter pushed further in, pushed all the way in, and then just kept fucking, holding Neal’s hips in his hands.
“I’m gonna come,” Neal whined suddenly. And then he was crying out, shivering and bucking, and Peter fucked him through it, for the second time that night, awed.
His own orgasm wasn’t far behind. When Neal finished, he just arched his back for Peter and let himself be used. Peter bit his lip and squeezed the flushed and beaten globes of Neal’s ass in his hands, loving the little whines of pleasure and pain from Neal’s throat, shoving inside until he broke apart and flooded the condom with his spunk.
He kept at it, slow and aching, his legs burning, until his cock started to soften and he had to slip out. “Fucking hell…” he breathed out, stripping and tying the condom off and tossing it in the nearby trash. Then Peter fell beside Neal whose knees had apparently given out and was now lying flat on his stomach. “You are un-fucking-real,” Peter said, slipping into that old mechanic’s foul mouth for lack of anything more profound to say. He’d need volumes of poetry (including dirty limericks) to do what Neal had just given him justice.
“Will you still respect me in the morning?” Neal said shyly, his smile sweet and genuine. His hair was mussed, his pupils still dilated, and he was beyond beautiful.
Peter was still out of breath when he answered. “The fact that I respect you just makes it hotter.”
They both laughed. And Peter delighted when Neal snuggled into his side. “Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“I could get used to you.”
Peter smiled up at Neal’s ceiling, his whole body flushed warm under those simple words.
*
Peter spent the rest of the weekend looking forward to Monday. He’d left Neal’s at midnight, not wanting to wear out his welcome. Fucking twice was one thing; staying over and cuddling was another. Neal had said he could stay, but Peter didn’t want to push it - didn’t want to become an immediate barnacle on the hull of Neal’s life. It wasn’t that it was too soon after El, but Peter had always taken it slow, and just because Neal was a man didn’t mean he intended to take advantage and pretend he could have sex on tap with few to no consequences.
So Peter had leaned over Neal’s prone body and kissed his bare shoulder.
“Mmm,” Neal had murmured.
“I’ll see you Monday,” Peter had said. Then he’d trailed his hand once more over Neal’s butt, pulled the sheet up over him, and left.
Peter knew Neal needed to study for a test, so he’d refrained from calling. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from sending flowers to Neal’s apartment, though. It had been a long time since he’d been filled with that kind of spontaneous joy at making someone else happy, and he’d been surprised at how fast his heart pounded as he made the order, pacing his living room, phone to his ear as he debated the relative merits of lilies over roses with the floral shop clerk.
Lilies had won. Then Peter had hung up the phone, thrown himself down on his couch, and humped his fist to coming in about twenty seconds flat.
But he hadn’t called Neal. His test was Monday morning, and then they had another shoot together that afternoon. Peter could wait. He could wait to hear Neal’s voice, to see his smile.
To get him naked.
But just because he could wait didn’t make it entirely easy. He’d spent most of the weekend doing unneeded home improvements, unnecessary shopping, watching hours of vapid TV, trying to work, cleaning his cameras…anything to keep from showing up on Neal’s doorstep ready to rip his clothes off.
Such that when Monday afternoon came, Peter was twenty minutes early for work. He fiddled with his lenses, repositioned the set furniture, chatted it up with Sandra, and tried to act like he wasn’t just waiting to see Neal.
The one thing Peter was grateful for was that Neal would be his first shoot; he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Peter was afraid if he did, he’d be forced to go pull one off in the bathroom. He’d already jerked off twice right before coming in in the hopes that it would stay down while he tried to work.
No such luck. Peter looked up from cleaning his lens for the third time to see Neal walk in, scruffy jeans and black t-shirt, his smile crooked and relaxed as he said hello to the newly-back Angelo, to the make-up artists, and then…
He looked up and saw Peter. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Neal licked his lips and nodded, blushing, before he turned away to head for the dressing room.
Peter let out the breath he’d been holding and surreptitiously adjusted his jeans.
The set was a rumpled bed. Actually, it was a mattress on the floor with one sheet haphazardly thrown over it. It was, to the best of his ability and recollection, Neal’s bed. Peter had been flooded with lust and guilt when he’d conceived of the idea. And now, looking at it, knowing what he was about to do, his feelings hadn’t changed but had merely intensified.
Peter wiped his palms on his jeans and nodded at Carl who ran in late.
“Sorry, Peter. The wife. You know.”
Peter smiled at him and nodded conspiratorially. But inside, his stomach flipped joyfully. He did not have a wife. He had a boyfriend. And his boyfriend was just now walking out of the dressing room clad in his skimpy, beautiful silk robe.
Peter had tasted that nipple that was peeking out from the piping.
He had run his hands up those strong legs.
He had tasted those lips. Hell, he’d tasted that ass. And it was delicious.
Peter had to swallow to stop the drool.
He looked down and busied himself with his camera, ignoring the beginnings of a hard-on, ignoring Neal. Until he felt the tap at his shoulder and heard the low, murmured, “Nice set up. What exactly was your inspiration?”
Peter smiled before he even looked at Neal’s face, and then when he did look, he caught his breath. And then he caught himself smiling like a teenager who’d just had his first lay. He cleared his throat and the expression off his face. “Just something I thought would be provocative.”
“Don’t you mean e-vocative?” Neal asked, beginning to shirk his robe. He was standing too close. Peter looked around to see if anyone noticed; no one appeared to as Neal draped his robe over the back of Peter’s chair.
The back of Peter's chair…
“Just get on the bed, Caffrey,” Peter said lowly, taking a chance with the demand.
Neal’s eyebrows went up, but his smile got wider. “Taskmaster,” he breathed with mock exasperation. Then he leaned down and whispered in Peter’s ear, “The lilies are beautiful.” His lips touched the shell of Peter’s ear for not even a heartbeat. Then he was walking away, kneeling on the mattress, turning to look at Peter, gently stroking himself. “How do you want me?”
“Face up,” Peter told him. He climbed the ladder he’d set up beside the bed, his camera clutched to his hip. “Lights,” he called. “Music.”
Everything changed around them, and Neal’s naked body glowed under the dim lights. He laid back, his gaze never leaving Peter, and Peter angled the camera down on him from above. Neal looked innocent and vulnerable and Peter wanted to take him, enter him, cover him with his own body, protect and desecrate him.
“Touch yourself,” he said.
Neal’s hand slid up his thigh and cradled his balls, lifting them as if toward Peter’s mouth - and Peter snapped the shot - then he moved on to his graceful erection, pulling it, moving the tender skin, coaxing a bead of pre-come from its slit, making Peter sweat.
“Good, good…” Peter murmured, clicking away, changing his angle. He got a few tasty close-ups of Neal’s photogenic cock, but then he found himself veering up to Neal’s face. Peter got shot after shot of Neal’s changing expression - that little crease between his eyebrows when the pleasure bordered on pain, the slackness of his fine jaw when he’d loosen his grip and tease himself, the wet of his lower lip.
Peter remembered what that lip felt like along the underside of his cock, just inside Neal’s door, Neal on his knees before him. He remembered wanting to come inside Neal’s mouth and then not wanting it in the next breath. He watched Neal’s throat through the camera lens now - watched him swallow…the shuddering shiver of his exhale, his thumb working diligently at the crown.
“Five minutes,” Peter called, descending the latter perfunctorily. Carl was staring at him. “Gotta hit the can,” he explained. “Can you fix the glare on four, please?”
“I’m on it,” Jimmy assured.
“Sure,” Carl bellowed.
Peter didn’t dare look in Neal’s direction as he stalked out of the room, almost too hard to walk. He didn’t wait to see if Neal wrapped himself up in his robe, if he just laid there bare and aching, or if he followed. Peter pounded his way to the locker room, slamming into the door, past the lockers, past the showers, hitting the last stall under the faltering fluorescent light. He leaned back against the cool tile and pulled his cock out. He held it hard, staving it off, closing his eyes.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Neal found him, his robe hastily tied. When Peter saw him through the gap in the stall door, he swung it open and pulled Neal inside. While Neal bolted it, Peter tried to apologize. “I know this goes against your rule-“
He didn’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Neal was on him, kissing him hard and deep, untying his robe once more and letting it fall open. Peter wrapped his arms around his hot body, pulling him in roughly, his tongue plunging into Neal’s mouth. But then Neal was slipping free, like his skin was the silk, and he slid down Peter’s body until he was once again on his knees on the floor.
“Your robe,” Peter complained. “Neal, your knees…”
“Shut up,” Neal said, his voice darkly changed from his desire. He went down on Peter hungrily, bobbing his head, sucking, changing the angle, his eyes closed in supplication.
Peter fought, again, not to fuck, but then he realized Neal had all but asked for that before. He took Neal by the soft hair and began thrusting his cock between those pliant lips, over that dutiful tongue, and Neal choked on a groan.
It was over fast, embarrassingly so. Peter shoved in and out, screwing his eyes closed, and he came, forgetting for one sharp moment and nearly screaming his pleasure. He stopped himself after the first awful note, compressing his lips, breathing harshly through his nose, and fucking through his own spunk in Neal’s mouth - before Neal, humming softly, swallowed it. Peter’s thumbs stroked over the hollows in his cheeks, feeling the movement of his own cock inside. He looked down on Neal, sucking off of him only to place lingering, open-mouthed kisses all over the head, his breath warm and moist. It took Peter a moment to realize he was speaking, whispering something, and then another moment to realize it was, “You…you…you…you…you…”
Peter pulled him to his feet in one indelicate yank. He stroked Neal’s hair. “What? What are you saying?” He almost couldn’t stand up any longer. The orgasm had shaken him to his cells.
“You,” Neal murmured, his breath stinking of Peter’s cock. Peter kissed him - tasted himself, wanted to growl. But then Neal whispered it again, “You… I want to come for you. Out there.”
Jesus….
“Are you sure?” Peter had to ask.
Neal just nodded, his pupils blown, lips parted. “Make me come, Peter,” he breathed.
“Oh, shit,” Peter couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re going to kill me, I think.” Then he shoved his cock back into his pants, unlocked the bathroom door, tied Neal’s robe closed again for him, and said, “Should we even bother exiting separately?”
Neal shook his head no. “They’re pretty smart.”
“Shit,” Peter said again.
“It’s okay, Peter,” Neal told him, and for some reason, Peter believed him. He just looked so sure and sweet and transported in that moment - so angelic and aroused. He took Peter’s hand and led him out of the stall, past the showers, past the lockers, and out into the main room. Peter was afraid to find everyone staring at them as they emerged, holding hands no less, but everyone was pretty much business as usual. Neal slipped his hand free, gave Peter a shy smile, and made for the mattress once more. Sandra gave Peter a glance with a half-smile, and Carl cleared his throat loudly, but otherwise, things were mostly the same.
“Four’s better,” Peter told Jimmy.
“Cool,” Jimmy replied, smacking his gum and hitching up his jeans.
Peter watched Neal disrobe and lie back down. He picked up his camera with hands that hardly trembled. He once again climbed the ladder.
The lights went back down. The music turned up. Neal’s eyes met his. Neal nodded almost imperceptibly, and then he took his cock in his hand.
Peter almost couldn’t bring the camera to his face. Neal’s gaze held his, and he moved his hand up and down his weeping dick, almost purple from needing to come. Neal’s eyes shone with what looked like unshed tears; he was flushed; his breath was short and erratic. And he just looked at Peter so steadily, with such need, that Peter felt held in place, as though some mystical force were upon him.
It took everything he had to bring the camera up, to focus it, and to start snapping shots of one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
Neal’s feet ran up and down the sheets, his heels dragging, toes curling. His hand sped up, his back arching, lashes fluttering but gaze never veering off Peter’s face.
Peter vaguely heard someone whisper behind and below, “He’s not gonna stop.”
Neal’s stomach tensed. His nipples were red like they’d been bitten. He started to make little noises in his throat like he couldn’t help it. His hand flew. His mouth opened. And then he came. Peter snapped shots as fast as he could, but part of him was almost out of his body, just watching, just seeing the shiny white ropes flinging onto Neal’s chest and stomach, the arch of his throat. Part of him simply listened to his aborted moaning and watched him twist and writhe under his own hand, his eyes, nearly black, always coming back to Peter, even when it looked painful for him to maintain the contact.
“God…” Peter breathed, getting the last of it on film.
Neal’s body went slack finally, and he lay there panting, his hand fallen away from his cock. There was appreciative and perhaps shocked murmuring around the room as Peter stepped down from the latter. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. He watched Neal wipe the semen off his body with a corner of the sheet, and when he thought of treating what just happened as any old shoot, Peter’s insides knotted up in revolt. It wasn’t really a decision when he reached out his hand to help Neal up - when he pulled Neal slowly to his feet - when he kept pulling until Neal was in his arms - when he wrapped his arms around him and held him.
There was a collective breath around the room; somebody - probably Sandra - awww’d at them like they were a couple of pet store kittens. Peter didn’t care. He held Neal’s spent body close to his own, turning to shield his bare backside from prying eyes, even after what he’d just done in front of them all. Peter put his lips to Neal’s ear, and he whispered, “Thank you.” He felt Neal inch in as close as he could, his own arms tight around Peter. Peter cradled the back of his head and just stood there with him, feeling his hammering heart, amidst a room full of people.
Someone handed Peter Neal’s robe, and Peter draped it around Neal’s shoulders. Neal snuck his arms into it, and Peter straightened it as Neal bent his head to tie it.
“You wanna get cleaned up?” Peter asked softly.
Neal nodded. Then he tilted his face up and smiled cautiously. He stunned Peter, then, and leaned up and placed the sweetest, chaste little kiss at the corner of his mouth before walking away.
Peter felt himself blushing madly. He turned to see if the others were standing there laughing behind their hands at them, but they were already cleaning up, changing the set for the next shoot.
Peter cleared his throat and began to help.
*
The other two shoots of the day went so slowly Peter feared for his sanity. Nothing went wrong. It was just all Peter could manage to remember what he was supposed to be doing; memories of Neal coming for him kept intruding into the present.
After Neal had showered, he left for lunch and to go to his evening classes, and he'd waved to Peter from the door with a smile. Peter accidentally took a close-up of his own elbow in his attempt to wave back.
Carl, not looking up from his own work, snorted.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Peter grumbled, but then he went back to work and started taking shot after shot of Angelo's perfect profile.
It was quarter of six when Peter finally got away. Neal would be fifteen minutes into his first class, so Peter decided to not be creepy and just head home for the night, rather than, say, wait for him with take-out and yet more flowers in the quad.
As he was descending the stairs, his cell phone rang. It was El, and Peter's thumb hovered over the answer button at the base of the staircase. He walked out into the alleyway, but before his thumb could hit anything, the phone was ripped from his hand and thrown against the brick wall where it shattered.
And then there was a gun on him.
"Think you can just take what's mine?"
Peter raised his hands slowly, but he could kick himself for the words that came out of his mouth once he'd licked fear-dry lips. "He's not yours, Keller."
The other man raised the gun at that, going from pointing it at Peter's chest to his forehead.
Peter tried a different tactic. "Look, I don't want any trouble with you. You put the gun down, we can pretend like this didn't happen, all right?"
"And you keep fucking him? Maybe do it right there in front of the camera? You're a sorry piece of shit, aren't you Burke?"
"Yeah. I'm a piece of shit. You win." Peter watched Keller's arm, watched for any weakness or indecision. Any chance to take him down.
"Did Neal tell you I made him come three times once?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "He said I'd never be as good as you either. If you put the gun down, we can talk about what a shitty lover I am all night, okay?"
Keller smiled cruelly. The gun went back to his chest. Maybe this idiot actually believed him.
Peter smiled back. "It was never going to last with Neal," he lied. "We both knew he'd go back to you eventually."
"You feeding me some bullshit there, Burke? You think you can just do that?"
Peter felt everything in him go hard and cold. "Yeah. I can do that."
Keller's arm wavered, but that, more than anything, scared Peter. The man was getting crazier by the moment.
And it was then that Peter saw him. Neal. Sneaking up behind Keller with a brick in his hand.
God, a brick. He was going to kill him. Or get himself killed. Peter tried to give him a little head shake, to stop him, but Neal wasn't watching him. He was watching Keller. And he moved on feet so silent he practically floated.
"Look, Keller. Lower the gun, or you're going to get hurt. Bad. Do you hear me?"
"You gonna rough me up, Burke? Think you can get to me before I pull this-"
And maybe it was the stupidest thing Peter had ever done. Maybe the stupidest and maybe the last, but as Neal raised the brick, ready to brain Keller, Peter just acted on instinct. He lunged forward and threw himself on Keller's gun arm, making him lower the barrel toward the ground with the force of his body.
The gun went off. Once. Twice. They wrestled, and Neal must have made a move with the brick after all, just not on Keller's head, because his legs went out from under him, and Peter was able to wrench the gun out of his hand. He immediately withdrew the clip and then tossed both down the alley, out of reach. But in the mere moments it had taken him to do that, Neal was on Keller. And he was beating the shit out of him.
He was bruising and battering his beautiful artist's hands and screaming at the man on the ground whose face he was bloodying, "You crazy fuck! I'll kill you! You hurt him and I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Over and over again.
"Neal!" Peter shouted. He ran to his side and encircled Neal's arms, pinning them to his body from behind and dragging him away.
Still Neal screamed and kicked at Keller's prone body. "I'll kill you if you so much as touch him!"
"Neal, Neal… Easy, Neal. It's over. Easy!" Peter tried to de-escalate him. "I'm all right. He didn't hurt me. I'm all right."
Neal quit fighting him. He sagged against Peter's body. Then he brought his hand away from where it had lit on Peter's arm. It came away red with blood.
"Peter?" Neal breathed. He turned in Peter's loosened hold, looked at the blood on his hand, then Peter's face, then grabbed his arm and winced. "Peter, he shot you. Oh my God, he shot you."
Peter looked down at his arm. There was a lot of blood, but it only hurt a little. He thought - he hoped - that it was just a bad nick. But even as he looked at it, Neal pulled away again. He stalked over to Keller, now trying to crawl away.
"You piece of shit," Neal seethed.
Peter ran to him and snatched him back up before he could stomp on Keller's neck or break his fingers or, God forbid, find the gun. Peter dragged Neal away one-armed.
"No, Neal. Just stop. Do you hear me? I'm okay. It's a scratch. I'm okay. Just stop."
Just then, Carl burst into the alley, wild-eyed from having heard the shots and probably the screaming. "Jesus H. Christ," he said, seeing them all there, Peter bleeding, Neal's face tear-streaked, Keller on the ground.
Peter thanked whomever's angels might be hanging around, because Carl seemed to get it right away. "Keller, you stupid mother fucker." Then, to him and Neal, "You guys all right?"
"Peter's been shot," Neal got out before Peter could say he was all right.
"Jesus shit!" Carl bellowed. He pulled a cell phone and dialed 911 and then walked over to Keller. "You fucking stay put, asshole. Don't make me kill your ass."
Neal was examining Peter's arm, but his gentle pokes and proddings made Peter wince. "I'm okay," he said, taking Neal's hands in his own. "Hey. Look at me. I'm okay, Neal."
Neal finally lifted tearful eyes and found Peter's gaze. Then he broke. "I'm sorry. Oh my God, I said he was harmless. Peter…"
"C'mere. It's okay," Peter told him, opening his good arm and pulling Neal close to his body. "Shit, Neal, you saved my life. You don't have anything to be sorry for."
The cops and the paramedics came. They put Peter in the stupid shock-blanket. They took Keller to the hospital, handcuffed to his gurney. They took Neal away and took his statement and Carl's and Peter's. They asked the same five questions different ways more times than Peter cared to count. Somebody handed him a coffee. It was Diana.
"Fucking hell, Burke," she said. Then she smacked him on the back and walked away.
He refused to go to the hospital, so they treated him on site. He kept trying to see where they'd taken Neal, but it wasn't anywhere in Peter's line of vision. It was a couple hours before the EMTs and the cops were done with him.
This was going to be an ongoing thing, though - pressing charges, court dates possibly - but Peter didn't care about that right now.
He only cared about seeing that Neal was all right. And probably, at some point, calling El back.
But Neal came first. And that was a slightly pleasant shock.
It was close to nine when they said he could go home.
"Where's Neal?"
"Who?" said one of the paramedics.
"My friend? The man who saved my life?" Peter tried to keep the anger out of his voice and probably failed.
"I'm here," came a soft voice to his left.
Peter stood, and there he was, smiling sadly at him. He looked awful…beautiful…wrecked.
Peter took his elbow and gently pulled him out of earshot of the paramedics still packing up. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he even thought. "You're staying with me tonight."
Neal looked like he might balk for a moment, then he wilted into Peter's body and just nodded.
Peter had a million questions he wanted to ask: What were you doing in the alley? Why weren't you in class? How did you know? He had a million more he didn't want to ask: Did that monster ever hurt you before? Why do you seem to trust me? Why did the most beautiful creature on God's green earth choose Peter Burke, failure?
But then Neal tilted his face up, and he gave Peter a soft, exhausted smile, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the feeling that welled up in Peter's chest. And he didn't feel like a failure. He held Neal to him hard and said into his hair, "Let's go."
*
Eight Months Later
Peter sighed and packed up his gear.
"Great shoot," he told the crew and then hefted his bag over his shoulder and hit the street.
The city was warm with Spring, and the trees along the sidewalk were all blooming. He considered just walking home, but he'd been on his feet for the last six hours and though the fresh air would do wonders, he was sure, he didn't exactly want to prolong his trip home.
So he waved down a cab and then leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as the car pulled into traffic and sped down the street. Sun and shadow played over his lids as the buildings blocked out the light on one side of the street and reflected it back on the other.
He was greeted with silence when he stepped in the door of his apartment.
"Hello?"
No answer came, and he checked his watch, dropping his bag by the door.
Peter showered and resisted the urge to beat off. He shaved and brushed his teeth and dressed. When he came out and rounded the corner into the kitchen, Neal was sitting there with an open paper in front of him.
"Hey," Peter said with a smile, but he could already tell something was wrong.
"Did you read the paper this morning?" Neal asked.
Peter shook his head. "I was late. What's wrong?"
Neal showed him the obit, and Peter read it silently.
"Shit," he said when he finished. He put his hand on Neal's shoulder. "How are you?"
Neal nodded. "Okay."
"Really?"
"I think so. It's just not everyday that an ex-lover gets killed in prison."
Peter knelt by Neal's side and pulled him into an embrace. "C'mere."
"I'm really okay," Neal told him. "I don't know why I'm crying."
"It's all right." Peter laid a hand on the back of Neal's head and just held him.
"I just keep thinking…" Neal pulled back slightly but Peter stayed close. "If I'd done something…anything…different-"
Peter compressed his lips and sighed. He laid his hand over Neal's on the table. "Matthew Keller was in control of his own destiny. He put himself there. You know that."
"Yeah," Neal admitted. "I don't know why it even hurts."
"But it does."
"Yeah. It does."
"Do you want to skip it?" Peter had to ask, his heart rising up into his throat.
Neal looked at him sharply then. "Are you kidding?" He wiped the remaining tears from his face and turned in his chair, taking Peter's hands. "I need this, Peter. And so do you."
Neal's hands were cold in his warm ones. Peter raised one and left a lingering kiss on Neal's knuckles. "What do you need from me? What can I do?"
Neal smiled at him, the pain leaving his features on his sigh. "Peter," he said, "you're doing it."
Peter poured his lover a glass of wine while he showered and presented it to him in the bathroom while he shaved.
"Don't take the scruff down too far. You know I like how it feels," Peter told him.
"I'll do it right now, if you want," Neal said, smiling at him coyly in the foggy mirror.
"I'm saving it," Peter told him.
"For some lucky single-user restroom?"
"Maybe," Peter allowed, watching Neal draw the blade up his throat. "Or maybe I intend to bring you home and fuck you all night over every piece of furniture in the apartment."
Neal's eyes flitted to his in the mirror. "Are you trying to persuade me to stay home tonight, Peter?"
Peter ran a hand over the towel covering Neal's ass. It was so nice he hiked the towel up to feel skin. "I just wanted to give you something to look forward to," Peter told him.
"If you don't want us to be very late, you'll quit touching my ass and get out," Neal warned him.
Peter gave him a wolfish smile and leaned down, biting one asscheek and making Neal yelp and then sigh as he licked over the superficial wound. Without another touch - because Peter was getting hard, and they really couldn't afford to be late - he turned to leave the bathroom.
"Thank you for the wine," Neal said.
"You're welcome," Peter answered, shutting the door behind himself.
When they left the apartment, it really was like leaving what had happened to Keller behind. As the evening progressed and appetizers turned into entrees and then entrees turned into dessert, Peter watched Neal's eyes grow brighter and clearer. He laughed more and more. He responded to Peter's innuendo.
Peter was so focused on helping Neal relax and forget for a little while that he even forgot, himself, to be nervous.
Until they reached the door to the gallery and Neal walked toward it while Peter stood stock-still on the sidewalk.
"What's the matter?" Neal asked, stepping close.
"I don't know if I can do this," Peter admitted.
At that, Neal smiled. "You can. I'm right beside you." Then, when Peter didn't budge, "Do you trust me?"
Peter looked into his eyes. "You know the answer to that."
Neal squeezed his hand. "Then come inside. I've got you." He winked.
Neal turned, but still Peter resisted.
Neal turned back, eyebrows raised.
"I love you," Peter said.
The smile transformed Neal's face. He came close again. He leaned up and kissed Peter chastely on the lips, then he said against them, "I'm saving it."
"Until when?"
"Until you're thrusting inside me, about to come."
"Can't argue with that," Peter said. Then he finally allowed Neal to draw him inside.
Peter tried to stall, feigning interest in some new work by one of Neal's friends then claiming that they should go get a couple of stiff drinks.
"No," Neal told him. "No, you don't. Come on."
Peter grumbled, but he let himself be dragged to the back of the gallery. When his eyes lit on the work, he almost didn't register that it was his. The photographs looked better under the gallery lighting. They looked bigger and shinier and they caught Peter's breath.
The subject caught Peter's breath. It always did:
Neal's hand, the sunlight shining through his loose fingers. Neal's lips, parted. His naked back as he stretched, the light coming around his body. His taut flank and the clench of his buttocks. His flaccid cock and dark pubic hair, off center of the shot…the hang of his arm at his side catching the waning light.
Each shot was an intimate exploration of some part of Neal. Each played with light a little differently, sometimes casting his body in shadow, sometimes refracting off of him as though he'd been gilded. But each shot was pure Neal, nothing stylized, no artifice.
Peter had taken them in the park one day. They'd started as typical pictures meant to capture the beauty of the day. But the light had been perfect. Neal had stripped off his shirt. There might have been a glass or two of pinot grigio. They had played with it like it was nothing. Yet here it all was, and it was more beautiful than Peter felt comfortable admitting.
Neal took his hand and linked their fingers.
"What are you thinking?" Peter asked him.
Neal looked into his eyes. "That you're an artist," he said. "What are you thinking?"
Peter swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat.
Then he kissed him.
~the end
Pairing: AU!Peter/Neal (past Peter/El, past Neal/Keller)
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~19,000
Content: AU, exhibitionism, mild violence
Summary: Peter's a photographer; Neal's a model. Companionship didn't pay the bills. Taking nudie shots of college guys with giant erections would.
Return to PART ONE
They met for an early dinner at Pepe Giallo in Chelsea.
“Statistics always makes me hungry,” Neal had explained over the phone.
Peter wondered what to do when they saw each other. They were meeting out in front of the restaurant and if Neal had been a woman, Peter would put his hand at her lower back and maybe kiss her on the cheek. He wondered if the same behavior would be appropriate with Neal. He didn’t have a lot of time to figure it out; he saw Neal sauntering up the sidewalk, smiling at him, and Peter took a deep, steadying breath.
When Neal reached his side, Peter wrapped his hand around his back and kissed him somewhere between his lips and cheek. “Hi,” Peter said against the faint stubble.
“Hi,” Neal breathed.
When Peter drew back, Neal smiled at him, his lashes fluttering, and Peter knew he’d done the right thing. It felt right. Neal’s back against his palm felt just right, so Peter left his hand there and steered Neal through the doors. Neal didn’t seem to mind being man-handled by him, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.
They sat in a secluded booth and ordered. Peter let Neal choose the wine, and he picked a moderately priced half-caraf. They each ignored the bread basket when it came in favor of talking. Peter had worried there would be nothing to say, but he had apparently worried for naught. Neal was easy to talk to, a good listener, funny, smart, compassionate. Peter found himself telling Neal things it had taken months to talk about even with El who he trusted implicitly.
They sipped their wine and Peter told Neal about quitting high school. Peter ate his entrée slowly, almost not caring how it tasted, even though it was delicious, because Neal was telling him about an older brother who’d died in a car accident - the same older brother that loved Karl Malone and was the sole reason Neal knew anything about him or basketball at all.
“He was my protector,” Neal said, his fork pivoting through his pasta. “And he taught me how to protect myself.”
“He sounds like a good guy,” Peter said, feeling foolish and without the proper words.
“He was,” Neal breathed, dropping his gaze.
Peter watched where Neal’s lashes touched his cheeks, blinking. “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing Neal would raise those pretty blue eyes again. “I’m sorry you lost him.” Peter reached out and took Neal’s hand across the table. Neal’s eyes finally blinked up. Peter stroked his thumb over Neal’s palm, but when Neal tugged a little, Peter reluctantly let go, changing the subject.
They ate and talked about the work. They laughed about Diana’s brusqueness and Carl’s obtuseness.
“So what was it like? Taking your clothes off for the camera that first time?”
Neal shrugged. “I needed the money so bad, that’s practically all I could think about.” He looked into Peter’s eyes. “Do you…think I’m a freak? For doing this?”
“Of course not,” Peter said quickly. “Does it embarrass you?” He ate a bite of food, hoping to put Neal at ease.
Neal sipped his wine. “Not usually. I’m not falsely modest - I know I have a body people want to look at.”
“And a face,” Peter interjected, and when Neal smiled, Peter did see something modest in it. Peter found he liked the combination - the humility and the forth-rightness.
Neal went on, “Like I said before, it helps me pay for Columbia. It pays my rent. It lets me buy art supplies.” Neal shrugged. “I guess this is the first time I’ve met somebody that I actually really…” He met Peter’s gaze. “…care what he thinks.”
Peter cleared his throat. “I think you take the most beautiful photos I’ve ever seen, and I barely have to work at it at all. I think you’re a sensitive, intelligent, fascinating man -- and beautiful. I mean,” Peter laughed a little, “you are so fucking beautiful.” Neal blushed, and Peter took a deep breath, feeling the excitement mingling with his protective instinct. Everything about Neal made him feel more alive, more himself. “And I can’t stop wanting to get to know you better,” he finished.
Neal smiled, this time brilliant and strong. “I feel the same about you.”
Peter wiped his lips with his napkin. “Good.” He signaled their waiter, and when he came with the check Peter snatched it from him and with an inquiring glance at Neal, “Dessert?”
Neal shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Peter paid and then stood up. He offered Neal his hand. “I want you to show me your art,” he said.
Neal took his hand, beaming and nervous. “Okay.”
*
They were close enough to walk to the gallery, so they strolled through the dying evening, not touching. Peter’s hands were in his pockets, more to keep them off of Neal’s body than because it was chilly out. They walked slowly, talking all the while.
Peter found himself telling Neal about El.
“So you don’t know why she left?” Neal asked.
Peter shook his head.
“That must bother you.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Do you…miss her?”
Peter smiled and told the absolute truth. “Not near as much the last few days.”
Neal smiled, and Peter wanted to press him up against a shop window and do things that would get them both arrested. Neal looked gorgeous in his black turtleneck and grey dress pants, but Peter knew what he looked like naked, and that made it hard not to picture.
“What about you? Have you seen anybody lately?”
“Not lately,” Neal told him. “There was Matthew.” He shrugged, looking almost ashamed. “It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“And what do you want?”
Neal looked shy then. “I want to keep feeling like I do right now.”
Peter swallowed. It had been a long time since someone had made him feel this way, like there was nothing wrong with him, like he had nothing to prove. It hadn’t been Elizabeth’s fault that she’d stopped making him feel like that. It wasn’t her job to boost his ego or pretend he was right for her when he wasn’t. She’d always been honest - kind but honest - and he didn’t wish her otherwise.
But being with Neal… Suddenly Peter felt like it wasn’t work. He hadn’t realized how hard he’d worked with El - to earn her affection when she’d only ever offered it freely.
Maybe that had been what killed them - his own effort to be better. If it was, he couldn’t blame her. And he could only feel grateful that he was here now - that he was with Neal - and that maybe for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like he needed to be something he wasn’t. Maybe that’s how “Clint” made El feel, too - like she was perfect. Peter hoped so.
“This is it,” Neal said, shaking him out of his thoughts.
Peter looked up and saw the gallery, bright and opulent, before them. This time Neal extended his hand, and Peter took it, letting Neal lead him inside and feeling a little thrill that this was all happening - that this beautiful person wanted to hold his hand in public - that he was once again feeling happiness when he’d gone so long without it.
Neal led him through the opening exhibits, stopping to admire the paintings.
“Unh unh,” Peter said. Neal looked at him with trepidation. “I’m sorry, but I came here to see your work. No offense to these artists, but… It’s your stuff I’m here to see.”
Neal flashed him that stellar smile, nodded, and then dragged Peter along by the hand toward the back.
Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Pretty paintings? Marginal talent? That wasn’t what he got. Neal drew him into a room with paintings the size of the walls, four of them, so that once they’d entered, they were surrounded by Neal’s art. And it took Peter’s breath away.
“You…?” he choked. Neal let go of his hand and Peter walked to the center of the room, turning slowly around himself. “You…made these?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t normally work quite so large, but I received a grant a year ago and, well…” He shrugged. “Do you like them?”
“Do I like them? Neal… I never thought… Forgive me, but I never thought I’d get to see something like this.” He gestured to one of the walls. “This is extraordinary,” he said softly. “You’re extraordinary.” He turned to one of the paintings and walked closer. Neal stood behind him. Peter just gawked at the wall, trying to take it all in, the scope, the detail, the power of it. He felt speechless. This man he was with wasn’t just a good artist - he could be a great artist. Truly great.
Peter had had no idea.
He looked over at Neal who was biting his thumbnail. He held out his hand and Neal walked to his side. Peter just stood there holding Neal’s hand and looking up at his magnificent work. He looked at it for five minutes. Then he moved to the next wall and stared for a while. He was awed, simply awed -- and this kind of talent he saw before him was one hell of a turn-on. Neal was a genius. A genius. And he was by Peter’s side, nervous, almost trembling.
Peter turned to him and cupped his cheek. “I want to take you home with me. Right now.”
Neal nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Well, my place might be closer,” Neal said, a little breathlessly.
Peter swallowed. “Let’s go.”
*
The wait was excruciating. It was also wonderful.
Peter kept catching Neal’s eye, seeing the desire there, mirroring his own. The tension between them was nearly unbearable - yet that’s what made it perfect.
Neal lived in a five floor walk-up, and they both took the stairs as quickly as they could without sprinting. Neal looked over his shoulder at Peter on the last flight. “I apologize in advance. It’s sort of a dump.”
“Neal, I don’t care,” Peter told him, and at that moment the dumpiness of Neal’s apartment really was the last thing he gave a shit about. Unless there were actual cockroaches, of course.
Peter didn’t take the time to investigate. They barely got in the door. Neal threw his keys God knew where, and Peter stripped off his turtleneck before the door had even closed. Peter spun him around and pressed Neal’s back to it, working on his pants and diving in for a deep, hungry kiss. Neal kissed him back with the same fervor, his own hands at Peter’s pants.
“Am I fucking this up?” Peter asked breathlessly, toeing his shoes off. “Do you want slow and romantic?”
“After,” Neal gasped and pulled Peter down for a hard kiss.
After. God, Peter was in heaven!
And then it just got better.
Neal flipped them. Peter found that amusing and arousing both at once, Neal’s little spurts of control. With Peter’s back pressed to the door now, Neal started sinking to his knees.
Oh God.
“Take your shirt off,” Neal said, working his pants open the rest of the way.
Peter did as requested, and Neal’s eyes darkened as he looked up at Peter’s torso. “I should be taking pictures of you,” he said reverently. He kissed Peter’s belly. Peter tensed against those soft lips, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow. Neal peeked up at him, still kissing, and then he pulled Peter’s boxer-briefs out and down. Peter’s heavy cock fell out, and he watched as Neal’s eyes fluttered closed, an indulgent sigh escaping his lips, and he went down on it.
Peter banged his head back against the door. “Fuck…” Neal moved on it, drawing it into his snug mouth and then dragging his lips back down the shaft until he was tonguing at the head, the slit. “Jesus Christ,” Peter breathed. Neal sank down on his cock again and again, his fingers stroking through Peter’s pubic hair, grasping his balls, sliding up his hips, his stomach, all the while working Peter’s cock in his mouth.
Peter felt tears of intense arousal sting his eyes. His hips wanted to fuck, but he held still, letting Neal do whatever he wanted. But when Neal’s hands cupped his ass and pulled, and he flitted his gaze up to Peter’s meaningfully, Peter gave up and started thrusting. He held Neal’s pretty face and fucked it, slowly easing his cock in and out of glistening lips. Neal made a quiet sound of elation, gripping Peter’s hard thighs.
It was too much and Peter was going to come. “I’m close,” he warned Neal.
Neal looked up at him, not moving except to renew the bobbing of his head on Peter’s cock. The fact that he wanted it nearly made Peter come, but he used the last of his self-control to push Neal back, grimacing at the loss of heat and the beautiful way Neal’s blushed lips distended as he withdrew.
“I wanna fuck your ass,” Peter heard himself growl. “You got a bed?”
Neal smiled up at him. “Such as it is.” And he nodded toward the corner of what Peter finally realized was just one room. A room full to bursting with paintings in various states of done. Other than that, there was a sofa, a bookshelf, and a mattress on the floor. That was it. Peter was just enough of a gentleman to know he’d feel bad about Neal’s living conditions later, but he was by and large a rabid sex maniac at the moment and therefore couldn’t yet be bothered.
He helped Neal up, pulling him into another scalding kiss. Neal’s mouth was musky hot, and Peter plunged his tongue into it, rejoicing in the moan he wrenched from Neal’s throat.
Neal pulled back and whispered into his mouth, “I love sucking your cock.”
Peter growled again, and he lifted Neal off his feet, walking him back toward the mattress. Neal smiled - that glowing, transcendent, almost-innocent smile - and Peter’s heart did a little lurch in his chest just as his dick pulled up hard. He’d never felt anything quite like it. Not ever.
Once he set Neal down they each stripped their pants off the rest of the way. Neal laughed as one of Peter’s socks went flying across the room to drape over an empty easel. Peter smiled crookedly and shrugged.
“C’mere,” Neal murmured and pulled Peter down on top of him by his hips. “You ever done this with a man?”
Peter shook his head no, and Neal opened his legs for him. Peter settled between, their cocks nestled together, warm and a little slick, Neal’s arms coming around his neck, and then they just kissed. They kissed and kissed and kissed, Neal’s legs coming up and wrapping around Peter, thighs strong, their bodies rocking against each other.
“I’ve got condoms,” Neal told him.
“So do I,” Peter answered.
Neal smiled. Then his gaze dropped to Peter’s wet lips. “I want it from behind,” he said. And it wasn’t like some porn star. It wasn’t ashamed or intended to titillate. It was somehow just…honest and tender and sweet and so goddamned hot Peter could hardly breathe. He just nodded, sitting back on his heels and reaching for the wallet in his discarded pants as Neal turned over onto his stomach, baring his gorgeous ass for Peter and waiting, his head cradled on his arms.
Peter pulled out a condom and two packets of lube. He got the condom on and ripped the lube open with his teeth. Neal got up on his knees in front of him, and Peter saw that the flesh of his bottom was still red-pink from the paddling. His asshole peeked from the center of a ring of nearly black hair, and before Peter knew what he was doing, he had his face in it, and he was rimming Neal like he was starving.
“Oh my God…” Neal gasped, arching for more. “Oh please… Peter, please…”
Peter ate him out until his jaw ached and it felt like his tongue might fall off. He ate him until Neal was fucking back into it, keening and nearly crying. Peter felt a sense of power surge through him, something animal and primal and base. He got up on his knees behind Neal. He slicked his cock with the lube. He parted Neal’s asscheeks with his hands, and Neal moaned, his hole winking. Peter squeezed Neal’s bruised ass. Neal gasped.
“Do you like that?” Peter asked him.
“Yyyeesss…” Neal breathed.
So Peter did it again, digging his fingers into the flesh he’d abused the day before. Neal arched and shook with wanting it. Peter could no longer wait, and he slapped his cock down against the ravaged hole. “God, you’re perfect,” Peter told him. He took himself in hand and thrust his cock inside, stretching Neal open.
Tight, tight, TIGHT. So tight and good. Peter rocked inside, mouth falling open. He didn’t want to stop, but he was afraid he was going too fast and hurting Neal. Then he saw Neal nod, pulling a pillow in and holding it tight to his face and chest, and he started bucking back against it, so Peter pushed further in, pushed all the way in, and then just kept fucking, holding Neal’s hips in his hands.
“I’m gonna come,” Neal whined suddenly. And then he was crying out, shivering and bucking, and Peter fucked him through it, for the second time that night, awed.
His own orgasm wasn’t far behind. When Neal finished, he just arched his back for Peter and let himself be used. Peter bit his lip and squeezed the flushed and beaten globes of Neal’s ass in his hands, loving the little whines of pleasure and pain from Neal’s throat, shoving inside until he broke apart and flooded the condom with his spunk.
He kept at it, slow and aching, his legs burning, until his cock started to soften and he had to slip out. “Fucking hell…” he breathed out, stripping and tying the condom off and tossing it in the nearby trash. Then Peter fell beside Neal whose knees had apparently given out and was now lying flat on his stomach. “You are un-fucking-real,” Peter said, slipping into that old mechanic’s foul mouth for lack of anything more profound to say. He’d need volumes of poetry (including dirty limericks) to do what Neal had just given him justice.
“Will you still respect me in the morning?” Neal said shyly, his smile sweet and genuine. His hair was mussed, his pupils still dilated, and he was beyond beautiful.
Peter was still out of breath when he answered. “The fact that I respect you just makes it hotter.”
They both laughed. And Peter delighted when Neal snuggled into his side. “Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“I could get used to you.”
Peter smiled up at Neal’s ceiling, his whole body flushed warm under those simple words.
*
Peter spent the rest of the weekend looking forward to Monday. He’d left Neal’s at midnight, not wanting to wear out his welcome. Fucking twice was one thing; staying over and cuddling was another. Neal had said he could stay, but Peter didn’t want to push it - didn’t want to become an immediate barnacle on the hull of Neal’s life. It wasn’t that it was too soon after El, but Peter had always taken it slow, and just because Neal was a man didn’t mean he intended to take advantage and pretend he could have sex on tap with few to no consequences.
So Peter had leaned over Neal’s prone body and kissed his bare shoulder.
“Mmm,” Neal had murmured.
“I’ll see you Monday,” Peter had said. Then he’d trailed his hand once more over Neal’s butt, pulled the sheet up over him, and left.
Peter knew Neal needed to study for a test, so he’d refrained from calling. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from sending flowers to Neal’s apartment, though. It had been a long time since he’d been filled with that kind of spontaneous joy at making someone else happy, and he’d been surprised at how fast his heart pounded as he made the order, pacing his living room, phone to his ear as he debated the relative merits of lilies over roses with the floral shop clerk.
Lilies had won. Then Peter had hung up the phone, thrown himself down on his couch, and humped his fist to coming in about twenty seconds flat.
But he hadn’t called Neal. His test was Monday morning, and then they had another shoot together that afternoon. Peter could wait. He could wait to hear Neal’s voice, to see his smile.
To get him naked.
But just because he could wait didn’t make it entirely easy. He’d spent most of the weekend doing unneeded home improvements, unnecessary shopping, watching hours of vapid TV, trying to work, cleaning his cameras…anything to keep from showing up on Neal’s doorstep ready to rip his clothes off.
Such that when Monday afternoon came, Peter was twenty minutes early for work. He fiddled with his lenses, repositioned the set furniture, chatted it up with Sandra, and tried to act like he wasn’t just waiting to see Neal.
The one thing Peter was grateful for was that Neal would be his first shoot; he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Peter was afraid if he did, he’d be forced to go pull one off in the bathroom. He’d already jerked off twice right before coming in in the hopes that it would stay down while he tried to work.
No such luck. Peter looked up from cleaning his lens for the third time to see Neal walk in, scruffy jeans and black t-shirt, his smile crooked and relaxed as he said hello to the newly-back Angelo, to the make-up artists, and then…
He looked up and saw Peter. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Neal licked his lips and nodded, blushing, before he turned away to head for the dressing room.
Peter let out the breath he’d been holding and surreptitiously adjusted his jeans.
The set was a rumpled bed. Actually, it was a mattress on the floor with one sheet haphazardly thrown over it. It was, to the best of his ability and recollection, Neal’s bed. Peter had been flooded with lust and guilt when he’d conceived of the idea. And now, looking at it, knowing what he was about to do, his feelings hadn’t changed but had merely intensified.
Peter wiped his palms on his jeans and nodded at Carl who ran in late.
“Sorry, Peter. The wife. You know.”
Peter smiled at him and nodded conspiratorially. But inside, his stomach flipped joyfully. He did not have a wife. He had a boyfriend. And his boyfriend was just now walking out of the dressing room clad in his skimpy, beautiful silk robe.
Peter had tasted that nipple that was peeking out from the piping.
He had run his hands up those strong legs.
He had tasted those lips. Hell, he’d tasted that ass. And it was delicious.
Peter had to swallow to stop the drool.
He looked down and busied himself with his camera, ignoring the beginnings of a hard-on, ignoring Neal. Until he felt the tap at his shoulder and heard the low, murmured, “Nice set up. What exactly was your inspiration?”
Peter smiled before he even looked at Neal’s face, and then when he did look, he caught his breath. And then he caught himself smiling like a teenager who’d just had his first lay. He cleared his throat and the expression off his face. “Just something I thought would be provocative.”
“Don’t you mean e-vocative?” Neal asked, beginning to shirk his robe. He was standing too close. Peter looked around to see if anyone noticed; no one appeared to as Neal draped his robe over the back of Peter’s chair.
The back of Peter's chair…
“Just get on the bed, Caffrey,” Peter said lowly, taking a chance with the demand.
Neal’s eyebrows went up, but his smile got wider. “Taskmaster,” he breathed with mock exasperation. Then he leaned down and whispered in Peter’s ear, “The lilies are beautiful.” His lips touched the shell of Peter’s ear for not even a heartbeat. Then he was walking away, kneeling on the mattress, turning to look at Peter, gently stroking himself. “How do you want me?”
“Face up,” Peter told him. He climbed the ladder he’d set up beside the bed, his camera clutched to his hip. “Lights,” he called. “Music.”
Everything changed around them, and Neal’s naked body glowed under the dim lights. He laid back, his gaze never leaving Peter, and Peter angled the camera down on him from above. Neal looked innocent and vulnerable and Peter wanted to take him, enter him, cover him with his own body, protect and desecrate him.
“Touch yourself,” he said.
Neal’s hand slid up his thigh and cradled his balls, lifting them as if toward Peter’s mouth - and Peter snapped the shot - then he moved on to his graceful erection, pulling it, moving the tender skin, coaxing a bead of pre-come from its slit, making Peter sweat.
“Good, good…” Peter murmured, clicking away, changing his angle. He got a few tasty close-ups of Neal’s photogenic cock, but then he found himself veering up to Neal’s face. Peter got shot after shot of Neal’s changing expression - that little crease between his eyebrows when the pleasure bordered on pain, the slackness of his fine jaw when he’d loosen his grip and tease himself, the wet of his lower lip.
Peter remembered what that lip felt like along the underside of his cock, just inside Neal’s door, Neal on his knees before him. He remembered wanting to come inside Neal’s mouth and then not wanting it in the next breath. He watched Neal’s throat through the camera lens now - watched him swallow…the shuddering shiver of his exhale, his thumb working diligently at the crown.
“Five minutes,” Peter called, descending the latter perfunctorily. Carl was staring at him. “Gotta hit the can,” he explained. “Can you fix the glare on four, please?”
“I’m on it,” Jimmy assured.
“Sure,” Carl bellowed.
Peter didn’t dare look in Neal’s direction as he stalked out of the room, almost too hard to walk. He didn’t wait to see if Neal wrapped himself up in his robe, if he just laid there bare and aching, or if he followed. Peter pounded his way to the locker room, slamming into the door, past the lockers, past the showers, hitting the last stall under the faltering fluorescent light. He leaned back against the cool tile and pulled his cock out. He held it hard, staving it off, closing his eyes.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Neal found him, his robe hastily tied. When Peter saw him through the gap in the stall door, he swung it open and pulled Neal inside. While Neal bolted it, Peter tried to apologize. “I know this goes against your rule-“
He didn’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Neal was on him, kissing him hard and deep, untying his robe once more and letting it fall open. Peter wrapped his arms around his hot body, pulling him in roughly, his tongue plunging into Neal’s mouth. But then Neal was slipping free, like his skin was the silk, and he slid down Peter’s body until he was once again on his knees on the floor.
“Your robe,” Peter complained. “Neal, your knees…”
“Shut up,” Neal said, his voice darkly changed from his desire. He went down on Peter hungrily, bobbing his head, sucking, changing the angle, his eyes closed in supplication.
Peter fought, again, not to fuck, but then he realized Neal had all but asked for that before. He took Neal by the soft hair and began thrusting his cock between those pliant lips, over that dutiful tongue, and Neal choked on a groan.
It was over fast, embarrassingly so. Peter shoved in and out, screwing his eyes closed, and he came, forgetting for one sharp moment and nearly screaming his pleasure. He stopped himself after the first awful note, compressing his lips, breathing harshly through his nose, and fucking through his own spunk in Neal’s mouth - before Neal, humming softly, swallowed it. Peter’s thumbs stroked over the hollows in his cheeks, feeling the movement of his own cock inside. He looked down on Neal, sucking off of him only to place lingering, open-mouthed kisses all over the head, his breath warm and moist. It took Peter a moment to realize he was speaking, whispering something, and then another moment to realize it was, “You…you…you…you…you…”
Peter pulled him to his feet in one indelicate yank. He stroked Neal’s hair. “What? What are you saying?” He almost couldn’t stand up any longer. The orgasm had shaken him to his cells.
“You,” Neal murmured, his breath stinking of Peter’s cock. Peter kissed him - tasted himself, wanted to growl. But then Neal whispered it again, “You… I want to come for you. Out there.”
Jesus….
“Are you sure?” Peter had to ask.
Neal just nodded, his pupils blown, lips parted. “Make me come, Peter,” he breathed.
“Oh, shit,” Peter couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re going to kill me, I think.” Then he shoved his cock back into his pants, unlocked the bathroom door, tied Neal’s robe closed again for him, and said, “Should we even bother exiting separately?”
Neal shook his head no. “They’re pretty smart.”
“Shit,” Peter said again.
“It’s okay, Peter,” Neal told him, and for some reason, Peter believed him. He just looked so sure and sweet and transported in that moment - so angelic and aroused. He took Peter’s hand and led him out of the stall, past the showers, past the lockers, and out into the main room. Peter was afraid to find everyone staring at them as they emerged, holding hands no less, but everyone was pretty much business as usual. Neal slipped his hand free, gave Peter a shy smile, and made for the mattress once more. Sandra gave Peter a glance with a half-smile, and Carl cleared his throat loudly, but otherwise, things were mostly the same.
“Four’s better,” Peter told Jimmy.
“Cool,” Jimmy replied, smacking his gum and hitching up his jeans.
Peter watched Neal disrobe and lie back down. He picked up his camera with hands that hardly trembled. He once again climbed the ladder.
The lights went back down. The music turned up. Neal’s eyes met his. Neal nodded almost imperceptibly, and then he took his cock in his hand.
Peter almost couldn’t bring the camera to his face. Neal’s gaze held his, and he moved his hand up and down his weeping dick, almost purple from needing to come. Neal’s eyes shone with what looked like unshed tears; he was flushed; his breath was short and erratic. And he just looked at Peter so steadily, with such need, that Peter felt held in place, as though some mystical force were upon him.
It took everything he had to bring the camera up, to focus it, and to start snapping shots of one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
Neal’s feet ran up and down the sheets, his heels dragging, toes curling. His hand sped up, his back arching, lashes fluttering but gaze never veering off Peter’s face.
Peter vaguely heard someone whisper behind and below, “He’s not gonna stop.”
Neal’s stomach tensed. His nipples were red like they’d been bitten. He started to make little noises in his throat like he couldn’t help it. His hand flew. His mouth opened. And then he came. Peter snapped shots as fast as he could, but part of him was almost out of his body, just watching, just seeing the shiny white ropes flinging onto Neal’s chest and stomach, the arch of his throat. Part of him simply listened to his aborted moaning and watched him twist and writhe under his own hand, his eyes, nearly black, always coming back to Peter, even when it looked painful for him to maintain the contact.
“God…” Peter breathed, getting the last of it on film.
Neal’s body went slack finally, and he lay there panting, his hand fallen away from his cock. There was appreciative and perhaps shocked murmuring around the room as Peter stepped down from the latter. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. He watched Neal wipe the semen off his body with a corner of the sheet, and when he thought of treating what just happened as any old shoot, Peter’s insides knotted up in revolt. It wasn’t really a decision when he reached out his hand to help Neal up - when he pulled Neal slowly to his feet - when he kept pulling until Neal was in his arms - when he wrapped his arms around him and held him.
There was a collective breath around the room; somebody - probably Sandra - awww’d at them like they were a couple of pet store kittens. Peter didn’t care. He held Neal’s spent body close to his own, turning to shield his bare backside from prying eyes, even after what he’d just done in front of them all. Peter put his lips to Neal’s ear, and he whispered, “Thank you.” He felt Neal inch in as close as he could, his own arms tight around Peter. Peter cradled the back of his head and just stood there with him, feeling his hammering heart, amidst a room full of people.
Someone handed Peter Neal’s robe, and Peter draped it around Neal’s shoulders. Neal snuck his arms into it, and Peter straightened it as Neal bent his head to tie it.
“You wanna get cleaned up?” Peter asked softly.
Neal nodded. Then he tilted his face up and smiled cautiously. He stunned Peter, then, and leaned up and placed the sweetest, chaste little kiss at the corner of his mouth before walking away.
Peter felt himself blushing madly. He turned to see if the others were standing there laughing behind their hands at them, but they were already cleaning up, changing the set for the next shoot.
Peter cleared his throat and began to help.
*
The other two shoots of the day went so slowly Peter feared for his sanity. Nothing went wrong. It was just all Peter could manage to remember what he was supposed to be doing; memories of Neal coming for him kept intruding into the present.
After Neal had showered, he left for lunch and to go to his evening classes, and he'd waved to Peter from the door with a smile. Peter accidentally took a close-up of his own elbow in his attempt to wave back.
Carl, not looking up from his own work, snorted.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Peter grumbled, but then he went back to work and started taking shot after shot of Angelo's perfect profile.
It was quarter of six when Peter finally got away. Neal would be fifteen minutes into his first class, so Peter decided to not be creepy and just head home for the night, rather than, say, wait for him with take-out and yet more flowers in the quad.
As he was descending the stairs, his cell phone rang. It was El, and Peter's thumb hovered over the answer button at the base of the staircase. He walked out into the alleyway, but before his thumb could hit anything, the phone was ripped from his hand and thrown against the brick wall where it shattered.
And then there was a gun on him.
"Think you can just take what's mine?"
Peter raised his hands slowly, but he could kick himself for the words that came out of his mouth once he'd licked fear-dry lips. "He's not yours, Keller."
The other man raised the gun at that, going from pointing it at Peter's chest to his forehead.
Peter tried a different tactic. "Look, I don't want any trouble with you. You put the gun down, we can pretend like this didn't happen, all right?"
"And you keep fucking him? Maybe do it right there in front of the camera? You're a sorry piece of shit, aren't you Burke?"
"Yeah. I'm a piece of shit. You win." Peter watched Keller's arm, watched for any weakness or indecision. Any chance to take him down.
"Did Neal tell you I made him come three times once?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "He said I'd never be as good as you either. If you put the gun down, we can talk about what a shitty lover I am all night, okay?"
Keller smiled cruelly. The gun went back to his chest. Maybe this idiot actually believed him.
Peter smiled back. "It was never going to last with Neal," he lied. "We both knew he'd go back to you eventually."
"You feeding me some bullshit there, Burke? You think you can just do that?"
Peter felt everything in him go hard and cold. "Yeah. I can do that."
Keller's arm wavered, but that, more than anything, scared Peter. The man was getting crazier by the moment.
And it was then that Peter saw him. Neal. Sneaking up behind Keller with a brick in his hand.
God, a brick. He was going to kill him. Or get himself killed. Peter tried to give him a little head shake, to stop him, but Neal wasn't watching him. He was watching Keller. And he moved on feet so silent he practically floated.
"Look, Keller. Lower the gun, or you're going to get hurt. Bad. Do you hear me?"
"You gonna rough me up, Burke? Think you can get to me before I pull this-"
And maybe it was the stupidest thing Peter had ever done. Maybe the stupidest and maybe the last, but as Neal raised the brick, ready to brain Keller, Peter just acted on instinct. He lunged forward and threw himself on Keller's gun arm, making him lower the barrel toward the ground with the force of his body.
The gun went off. Once. Twice. They wrestled, and Neal must have made a move with the brick after all, just not on Keller's head, because his legs went out from under him, and Peter was able to wrench the gun out of his hand. He immediately withdrew the clip and then tossed both down the alley, out of reach. But in the mere moments it had taken him to do that, Neal was on Keller. And he was beating the shit out of him.
He was bruising and battering his beautiful artist's hands and screaming at the man on the ground whose face he was bloodying, "You crazy fuck! I'll kill you! You hurt him and I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Over and over again.
"Neal!" Peter shouted. He ran to his side and encircled Neal's arms, pinning them to his body from behind and dragging him away.
Still Neal screamed and kicked at Keller's prone body. "I'll kill you if you so much as touch him!"
"Neal, Neal… Easy, Neal. It's over. Easy!" Peter tried to de-escalate him. "I'm all right. He didn't hurt me. I'm all right."
Neal quit fighting him. He sagged against Peter's body. Then he brought his hand away from where it had lit on Peter's arm. It came away red with blood.
"Peter?" Neal breathed. He turned in Peter's loosened hold, looked at the blood on his hand, then Peter's face, then grabbed his arm and winced. "Peter, he shot you. Oh my God, he shot you."
Peter looked down at his arm. There was a lot of blood, but it only hurt a little. He thought - he hoped - that it was just a bad nick. But even as he looked at it, Neal pulled away again. He stalked over to Keller, now trying to crawl away.
"You piece of shit," Neal seethed.
Peter ran to him and snatched him back up before he could stomp on Keller's neck or break his fingers or, God forbid, find the gun. Peter dragged Neal away one-armed.
"No, Neal. Just stop. Do you hear me? I'm okay. It's a scratch. I'm okay. Just stop."
Just then, Carl burst into the alley, wild-eyed from having heard the shots and probably the screaming. "Jesus H. Christ," he said, seeing them all there, Peter bleeding, Neal's face tear-streaked, Keller on the ground.
Peter thanked whomever's angels might be hanging around, because Carl seemed to get it right away. "Keller, you stupid mother fucker." Then, to him and Neal, "You guys all right?"
"Peter's been shot," Neal got out before Peter could say he was all right.
"Jesus shit!" Carl bellowed. He pulled a cell phone and dialed 911 and then walked over to Keller. "You fucking stay put, asshole. Don't make me kill your ass."
Neal was examining Peter's arm, but his gentle pokes and proddings made Peter wince. "I'm okay," he said, taking Neal's hands in his own. "Hey. Look at me. I'm okay, Neal."
Neal finally lifted tearful eyes and found Peter's gaze. Then he broke. "I'm sorry. Oh my God, I said he was harmless. Peter…"
"C'mere. It's okay," Peter told him, opening his good arm and pulling Neal close to his body. "Shit, Neal, you saved my life. You don't have anything to be sorry for."
The cops and the paramedics came. They put Peter in the stupid shock-blanket. They took Keller to the hospital, handcuffed to his gurney. They took Neal away and took his statement and Carl's and Peter's. They asked the same five questions different ways more times than Peter cared to count. Somebody handed him a coffee. It was Diana.
"Fucking hell, Burke," she said. Then she smacked him on the back and walked away.
He refused to go to the hospital, so they treated him on site. He kept trying to see where they'd taken Neal, but it wasn't anywhere in Peter's line of vision. It was a couple hours before the EMTs and the cops were done with him.
This was going to be an ongoing thing, though - pressing charges, court dates possibly - but Peter didn't care about that right now.
He only cared about seeing that Neal was all right. And probably, at some point, calling El back.
But Neal came first. And that was a slightly pleasant shock.
It was close to nine when they said he could go home.
"Where's Neal?"
"Who?" said one of the paramedics.
"My friend? The man who saved my life?" Peter tried to keep the anger out of his voice and probably failed.
"I'm here," came a soft voice to his left.
Peter stood, and there he was, smiling sadly at him. He looked awful…beautiful…wrecked.
Peter took his elbow and gently pulled him out of earshot of the paramedics still packing up. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he even thought. "You're staying with me tonight."
Neal looked like he might balk for a moment, then he wilted into Peter's body and just nodded.
Peter had a million questions he wanted to ask: What were you doing in the alley? Why weren't you in class? How did you know? He had a million more he didn't want to ask: Did that monster ever hurt you before? Why do you seem to trust me? Why did the most beautiful creature on God's green earth choose Peter Burke, failure?
But then Neal tilted his face up, and he gave Peter a soft, exhausted smile, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the feeling that welled up in Peter's chest. And he didn't feel like a failure. He held Neal to him hard and said into his hair, "Let's go."
*
Eight Months Later
Peter sighed and packed up his gear.
"Great shoot," he told the crew and then hefted his bag over his shoulder and hit the street.
The city was warm with Spring, and the trees along the sidewalk were all blooming. He considered just walking home, but he'd been on his feet for the last six hours and though the fresh air would do wonders, he was sure, he didn't exactly want to prolong his trip home.
So he waved down a cab and then leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as the car pulled into traffic and sped down the street. Sun and shadow played over his lids as the buildings blocked out the light on one side of the street and reflected it back on the other.
He was greeted with silence when he stepped in the door of his apartment.
"Hello?"
No answer came, and he checked his watch, dropping his bag by the door.
Peter showered and resisted the urge to beat off. He shaved and brushed his teeth and dressed. When he came out and rounded the corner into the kitchen, Neal was sitting there with an open paper in front of him.
"Hey," Peter said with a smile, but he could already tell something was wrong.
"Did you read the paper this morning?" Neal asked.
Peter shook his head. "I was late. What's wrong?"
Neal showed him the obit, and Peter read it silently.
"Shit," he said when he finished. He put his hand on Neal's shoulder. "How are you?"
Neal nodded. "Okay."
"Really?"
"I think so. It's just not everyday that an ex-lover gets killed in prison."
Peter knelt by Neal's side and pulled him into an embrace. "C'mere."
"I'm really okay," Neal told him. "I don't know why I'm crying."
"It's all right." Peter laid a hand on the back of Neal's head and just held him.
"I just keep thinking…" Neal pulled back slightly but Peter stayed close. "If I'd done something…anything…different-"
Peter compressed his lips and sighed. He laid his hand over Neal's on the table. "Matthew Keller was in control of his own destiny. He put himself there. You know that."
"Yeah," Neal admitted. "I don't know why it even hurts."
"But it does."
"Yeah. It does."
"Do you want to skip it?" Peter had to ask, his heart rising up into his throat.
Neal looked at him sharply then. "Are you kidding?" He wiped the remaining tears from his face and turned in his chair, taking Peter's hands. "I need this, Peter. And so do you."
Neal's hands were cold in his warm ones. Peter raised one and left a lingering kiss on Neal's knuckles. "What do you need from me? What can I do?"
Neal smiled at him, the pain leaving his features on his sigh. "Peter," he said, "you're doing it."
Peter poured his lover a glass of wine while he showered and presented it to him in the bathroom while he shaved.
"Don't take the scruff down too far. You know I like how it feels," Peter told him.
"I'll do it right now, if you want," Neal said, smiling at him coyly in the foggy mirror.
"I'm saving it," Peter told him.
"For some lucky single-user restroom?"
"Maybe," Peter allowed, watching Neal draw the blade up his throat. "Or maybe I intend to bring you home and fuck you all night over every piece of furniture in the apartment."
Neal's eyes flitted to his in the mirror. "Are you trying to persuade me to stay home tonight, Peter?"
Peter ran a hand over the towel covering Neal's ass. It was so nice he hiked the towel up to feel skin. "I just wanted to give you something to look forward to," Peter told him.
"If you don't want us to be very late, you'll quit touching my ass and get out," Neal warned him.
Peter gave him a wolfish smile and leaned down, biting one asscheek and making Neal yelp and then sigh as he licked over the superficial wound. Without another touch - because Peter was getting hard, and they really couldn't afford to be late - he turned to leave the bathroom.
"Thank you for the wine," Neal said.
"You're welcome," Peter answered, shutting the door behind himself.
When they left the apartment, it really was like leaving what had happened to Keller behind. As the evening progressed and appetizers turned into entrees and then entrees turned into dessert, Peter watched Neal's eyes grow brighter and clearer. He laughed more and more. He responded to Peter's innuendo.
Peter was so focused on helping Neal relax and forget for a little while that he even forgot, himself, to be nervous.
Until they reached the door to the gallery and Neal walked toward it while Peter stood stock-still on the sidewalk.
"What's the matter?" Neal asked, stepping close.
"I don't know if I can do this," Peter admitted.
At that, Neal smiled. "You can. I'm right beside you." Then, when Peter didn't budge, "Do you trust me?"
Peter looked into his eyes. "You know the answer to that."
Neal squeezed his hand. "Then come inside. I've got you." He winked.
Neal turned, but still Peter resisted.
Neal turned back, eyebrows raised.
"I love you," Peter said.
The smile transformed Neal's face. He came close again. He leaned up and kissed Peter chastely on the lips, then he said against them, "I'm saving it."
"Until when?"
"Until you're thrusting inside me, about to come."
"Can't argue with that," Peter said. Then he finally allowed Neal to draw him inside.
Peter tried to stall, feigning interest in some new work by one of Neal's friends then claiming that they should go get a couple of stiff drinks.
"No," Neal told him. "No, you don't. Come on."
Peter grumbled, but he let himself be dragged to the back of the gallery. When his eyes lit on the work, he almost didn't register that it was his. The photographs looked better under the gallery lighting. They looked bigger and shinier and they caught Peter's breath.
The subject caught Peter's breath. It always did:
Neal's hand, the sunlight shining through his loose fingers. Neal's lips, parted. His naked back as he stretched, the light coming around his body. His taut flank and the clench of his buttocks. His flaccid cock and dark pubic hair, off center of the shot…the hang of his arm at his side catching the waning light.
Each shot was an intimate exploration of some part of Neal. Each played with light a little differently, sometimes casting his body in shadow, sometimes refracting off of him as though he'd been gilded. But each shot was pure Neal, nothing stylized, no artifice.
Peter had taken them in the park one day. They'd started as typical pictures meant to capture the beauty of the day. But the light had been perfect. Neal had stripped off his shirt. There might have been a glass or two of pinot grigio. They had played with it like it was nothing. Yet here it all was, and it was more beautiful than Peter felt comfortable admitting.
Neal took his hand and linked their fingers.
"What are you thinking?" Peter asked him.
Neal looked into his eyes. "That you're an artist," he said. "What are you thinking?"
Peter swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat.
Then he kissed him.
~the end