Heatwave
hello there, White Collar.
summary: it's hot. (but the kind without porn.)
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The sun is almost blisteringly hot and there's nowhere it isn't felt. The edges of old pines wither to an exhausted brown, branches bending their heads to the ground. The sidewalks crack and sizzle, like hot coals beneath bare feet. Sweat gathers on brows, condensing into salted rivulets that run freely over the creases of eyelids and frown lines.
Neal doesn't seem to be bothered the way the rest of the populace is. He thrives in the heat, skin warming into a sheen of light gold. Peter, on the other hand, looks about ready to melt into the ground. He thinks he might die of heat stroke any minute now.
"Nonsense," Neal snorts without moving -- a sleek animal conserving energy. He turns his head the tiniest fraction to the left, the sun's glare following his glasses. Peter attempts to respond with a statistical figure stating exactly how many people die annually of heat stroke (like he's about to), but the sun's rays seem to have baked his brains, as well. He manages a "hnnfgh" before crawling back to the relatively cool tiles on the kitchen floor. The last thing he hears before slipping into unconsciousness is Neal's bright laughter wafting on air.
summary: it's hot. (but the kind without porn.)
+
The sun is almost blisteringly hot and there's nowhere it isn't felt. The edges of old pines wither to an exhausted brown, branches bending their heads to the ground. The sidewalks crack and sizzle, like hot coals beneath bare feet. Sweat gathers on brows, condensing into salted rivulets that run freely over the creases of eyelids and frown lines.
Neal doesn't seem to be bothered the way the rest of the populace is. He thrives in the heat, skin warming into a sheen of light gold. Peter, on the other hand, looks about ready to melt into the ground. He thinks he might die of heat stroke any minute now.
"Nonsense," Neal snorts without moving -- a sleek animal conserving energy. He turns his head the tiniest fraction to the left, the sun's glare following his glasses. Peter attempts to respond with a statistical figure stating exactly how many people die annually of heat stroke (like he's about to), but the sun's rays seem to have baked his brains, as well. He manages a "hnnfgh" before crawling back to the relatively cool tiles on the kitchen floor. The last thing he hears before slipping into unconsciousness is Neal's bright laughter wafting on air.