Brokedown Palace
--
Neal dreamt about fire. Not a flame, or a flicker, but an entire world composed of it. And sound. Something louder than anything. Louder than the world ending. An explosion of sound, of ambulances, and fire-trucks and the earth splitting apart. And Peter’s crazed pulse.
Then silence. He dreamt about silence. Cool, dark, silence. Silence, that was silky to the touch. Smooth, inviting, familiar, silence.
And Kate, like an angel. His Kate dressed in white, her skin pale as a porcelain doll. It was like returning home.
Mostly Neal slept. It was the only bearable option. He could slide into a world that was loving, and recognizable, and peaceful. Where Kate danced, and danced, and danced. And she was so young, and so beautiful. And he was so much in love.
It was the only thing that made sense. Better than waking up to Peter’s grave face, watching him from the couch. Better than the deadness of his apartment. Better than being forced to contend with the pain of his body, until his body was a prison and all he wanted to do was escape. He dreamt of flying sometimes.
Mostly, when Neal slept, he dreamt of possibilities, what could have been. He imagined discarding his hesitance and walking onto that plane. He imagined being ripped from this hell and brought to whiteness, peac
--
Peter sent Mozzie away twice. Then, he stopped coming by. He sent June away every day, when she came up with food and coffee and concern. He hadn’t eaten a good meal since the day of the explosion.
Sometimes El came by. She would bring food for Neal. She would sit on the bed, hold his hand. The first day he reached up for her hair. Peter remembered how the late afternoon light backlit everything so they both seemed enclosed by haloes. He remembered how Neal touched his wife’s hair, how he whispered “Kate”, how he cried. How El cry. How his own heart howled with frustration, with absolute despair. How his heart broke.
It all seemed very useless. Neal had lost weight. He was so pale, and so broken, and so silent. Every time he moved, Peter watched each rib reposition. The bruises and abrasions were fading. That meant nothing. That was only physical.
The nights were the worst. Peter had stopped sleeping altogether. He knew that eventually he would wake to the sounds of Neal crying against his pillow. It was unbearably intense. It was the sounds of a small, scared child crying. Peter knew, also, that Neal was not aware of it.
Neal looked so small in his bed. The moonlight transfigured him into something surreally beautiful. The crevices of his face were more severe than ever. The shadows were darker. Peter wanted to sink into them, fade into them forever.
When the whimpering began, one night, Peter began to call his name. “Neal,” he said, “Neal, wake up.” When he didn’t, Peter shook him.
Neal reached up, struck Peter away. The action wasn’t very powerful, but it shook Peter to his core. “Peter?” Neal asked, quietly. He looked frightened.
“Hey kid,” Peter replied, sending him a crooked smile, rubbing the place on his arm where Neal’s fist made contact, “You got quite an arm on you.”
“Jesus,” Neal groaned, putting his face in his hands, “Peter, I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
“I got it.” Peter paused. He watched Neal in the moonlight. He remembered how his entire life was once centered on this man. He remembered being consumed with the thought of catching him. “It’s been a week,” Peter began gently, “We can discuss it.”
Neal smirked. Peter knew he sounded strained. He knew that Neal understood him too well. Emotions weren’t natural for him. “It’s okay.”
“You should talk about it,” Peter continued, harsher this time. He lowered his eyebrows. He wondered what Neal thought of him now. He was un-showered, unshaven, wearing yesterday’s clothes. He wanted to borrow Neal’s clothes, but he was so thin and the idea of wearing them caused Peter’s skin to warm.
“Where do I go from here?” Neal asked suddenly. He was staring at his hands. Peter stared at them too. They were large, and beautifully crafted. He could recount every casual touch.
“You come back to work,” Peter began, “You-”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Neal was staring at him. There was something electric in his eyes that had never been present. It was the slightly crazed look of a modern day prophet. It was insane, and intense, and all knowing. It made Peter’s skin crawl.
Peter knew what Neal meant, but he couldn’t meet his eyes and he couldn’t answer. “You move on.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I am alone.”
Unwillingly, Peter recalled when Neal entered jail. He remembered the first night, staring at El as though she were a stranger. He realized he had no life without Neal. That Neal had somehow, somewhere, become his life. He remembered making love to El, how all he wanted was to feel Neal’s hands on his back. All he wanted was Neal’s strong bones, his blue eyes, tight hips. How he’d get off to the thought of him.
“You have Mozzie. You have June.”
“I am completely alone.”
“I’m here,” Peter was suddenly furious. “Look at me. I’m right here.”
And suddenly Neal was crying. His thin frame was shaking with each sob. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he was saying, “This hurts. It hurts, Peter.” And Peter, inept and fumbling, took Neal in his arms.
--
The next morning, Neal got out of bed. He reached over, felt warmth. He realized, with a rush of heat to his face, that Peter must have rested there. Neal remembered the night in pieces. He remembered throwing himself into Peter’s arms.
He found Peter in the kitchen. His back was turned to him. He was brewing coffee. Neal could smell it from the bedroom, rich and overpowering. He smiled at Peter’s back. At his knotted hair, at the wrinkles in his clothes.
“Good morning, partner,” Neal said, jovially.
“Neal?” Peter said, turning. There was a question in his voice.
Neal looked at him, really looked at him. He examined every wrinkle of his face. He looked at the bags under his eyes, looked at his red-rimmed eyelids. He stared at that mouth, stretched tight. He realized, suddenly, that he couldn’t handle it.
“Neal,” Peter repeated, coming towards him. He grabbed Neal by his shoulders.
“I can’t do this. I can’t,” Neal began, “I wanted to. Peter, I wanted to. I was going to make you breakfast, and go to work, and-shit.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter took his face in his hands, “You’re fine.”
“Peter,” Neal said, “I can’t.”
He didn’t know what he meant. He just knew that he could not stand this world anymore. And every time he dreamt, Kate receded farther and farther into the background and he was scared she would eventually disappear. Her features were already becoming blurred in his memory.
He only knew that he could not handle this. His entire body was screaming with the desire to escape, to act. He thought about falling often now. Not about landing. About the moments before. About being trapped in transition.
He looked at Peter. He looked at this rough, distant man. He remembered how, before he was captured he would spend some hours watching Peter from the distance. The irony did not bother him. This calloused, unrefined detective intrigued him. He was so beautiful unperfected. He was so well crafted, so purely masculine.
Neal kissed him.
“Neal,” Peter said, pulling back.
Neal kissed him again, his mouth parted, searching for heat.
“Neal,” Peter repeated, angrily, handling Neal by the shoulders, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Please,” Neal whimpered, “I don’t want to be alone. Please.”
“You don’t want this,” Peter replied, his grip slackening.
“You don’t know what I want,” Neal said and kissed him again. This time, Peter responded.
It was too rough to be a true kiss. Too masculine to be anything less than a war. Neal simply wanted to surrender himself to something. He kept his eyes open. He pushed his entire body up to Peter’s and he waited. He waited for Peter to become Kate, for his hands to become softer, for his sounds to become higher.
And when he didn’t, Neal moved roughly against him. He pushed every piece of pain into his movements. It was not that he did not want Peter. It was that Peter was not was not what he needed. Not now. Not ever.
Peter pushed him back onto the couch, moved on top of him. It was like being covered by the lid of a coffin. He felt that he was finally at peace. Peter was so rough in his movements. So sincere. He was so beautiful. Neal felt that he could cry. Every new centimeter of skin was a separate miracle. Later, much later, Neal would think back to it and weep.
Neal dreamt about fire. Not a flame, or a flicker, but an entire world composed of it. And sound. Something louder than anything. Louder than the world ending. An explosion of sound, of ambulances, and fire-trucks and the earth splitting apart. And Peter’s crazed pulse.
Then silence. He dreamt about silence. Cool, dark, silence. Silence, that was silky to the touch. Smooth, inviting, familiar, silence.
And Kate, like an angel. His Kate dressed in white, her skin pale as a porcelain doll. It was like returning home.
Mostly Neal slept. It was the only bearable option. He could slide into a world that was loving, and recognizable, and peaceful. Where Kate danced, and danced, and danced. And she was so young, and so beautiful. And he was so much in love.
It was the only thing that made sense. Better than waking up to Peter’s grave face, watching him from the couch. Better than the deadness of his apartment. Better than being forced to contend with the pain of his body, until his body was a prison and all he wanted to do was escape. He dreamt of flying sometimes.
Mostly, when Neal slept, he dreamt of possibilities, what could have been. He imagined discarding his hesitance and walking onto that plane. He imagined being ripped from this hell and brought to whiteness, peac
--
Peter sent Mozzie away twice. Then, he stopped coming by. He sent June away every day, when she came up with food and coffee and concern. He hadn’t eaten a good meal since the day of the explosion.
Sometimes El came by. She would bring food for Neal. She would sit on the bed, hold his hand. The first day he reached up for her hair. Peter remembered how the late afternoon light backlit everything so they both seemed enclosed by haloes. He remembered how Neal touched his wife’s hair, how he whispered “Kate”, how he cried. How El cry. How his own heart howled with frustration, with absolute despair. How his heart broke.
It all seemed very useless. Neal had lost weight. He was so pale, and so broken, and so silent. Every time he moved, Peter watched each rib reposition. The bruises and abrasions were fading. That meant nothing. That was only physical.
The nights were the worst. Peter had stopped sleeping altogether. He knew that eventually he would wake to the sounds of Neal crying against his pillow. It was unbearably intense. It was the sounds of a small, scared child crying. Peter knew, also, that Neal was not aware of it.
Neal looked so small in his bed. The moonlight transfigured him into something surreally beautiful. The crevices of his face were more severe than ever. The shadows were darker. Peter wanted to sink into them, fade into them forever.
When the whimpering began, one night, Peter began to call his name. “Neal,” he said, “Neal, wake up.” When he didn’t, Peter shook him.
Neal reached up, struck Peter away. The action wasn’t very powerful, but it shook Peter to his core. “Peter?” Neal asked, quietly. He looked frightened.
“Hey kid,” Peter replied, sending him a crooked smile, rubbing the place on his arm where Neal’s fist made contact, “You got quite an arm on you.”
“Jesus,” Neal groaned, putting his face in his hands, “Peter, I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
“I got it.” Peter paused. He watched Neal in the moonlight. He remembered how his entire life was once centered on this man. He remembered being consumed with the thought of catching him. “It’s been a week,” Peter began gently, “We can discuss it.”
Neal smirked. Peter knew he sounded strained. He knew that Neal understood him too well. Emotions weren’t natural for him. “It’s okay.”
“You should talk about it,” Peter continued, harsher this time. He lowered his eyebrows. He wondered what Neal thought of him now. He was un-showered, unshaven, wearing yesterday’s clothes. He wanted to borrow Neal’s clothes, but he was so thin and the idea of wearing them caused Peter’s skin to warm.
“Where do I go from here?” Neal asked suddenly. He was staring at his hands. Peter stared at them too. They were large, and beautifully crafted. He could recount every casual touch.
“You come back to work,” Peter began, “You-”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Neal was staring at him. There was something electric in his eyes that had never been present. It was the slightly crazed look of a modern day prophet. It was insane, and intense, and all knowing. It made Peter’s skin crawl.
Peter knew what Neal meant, but he couldn’t meet his eyes and he couldn’t answer. “You move on.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I am alone.”
Unwillingly, Peter recalled when Neal entered jail. He remembered the first night, staring at El as though she were a stranger. He realized he had no life without Neal. That Neal had somehow, somewhere, become his life. He remembered making love to El, how all he wanted was to feel Neal’s hands on his back. All he wanted was Neal’s strong bones, his blue eyes, tight hips. How he’d get off to the thought of him.
“You have Mozzie. You have June.”
“I am completely alone.”
“I’m here,” Peter was suddenly furious. “Look at me. I’m right here.”
And suddenly Neal was crying. His thin frame was shaking with each sob. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he was saying, “This hurts. It hurts, Peter.” And Peter, inept and fumbling, took Neal in his arms.
--
The next morning, Neal got out of bed. He reached over, felt warmth. He realized, with a rush of heat to his face, that Peter must have rested there. Neal remembered the night in pieces. He remembered throwing himself into Peter’s arms.
He found Peter in the kitchen. His back was turned to him. He was brewing coffee. Neal could smell it from the bedroom, rich and overpowering. He smiled at Peter’s back. At his knotted hair, at the wrinkles in his clothes.
“Good morning, partner,” Neal said, jovially.
“Neal?” Peter said, turning. There was a question in his voice.
Neal looked at him, really looked at him. He examined every wrinkle of his face. He looked at the bags under his eyes, looked at his red-rimmed eyelids. He stared at that mouth, stretched tight. He realized, suddenly, that he couldn’t handle it.
“Neal,” Peter repeated, coming towards him. He grabbed Neal by his shoulders.
“I can’t do this. I can’t,” Neal began, “I wanted to. Peter, I wanted to. I was going to make you breakfast, and go to work, and-shit.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter took his face in his hands, “You’re fine.”
“Peter,” Neal said, “I can’t.”
He didn’t know what he meant. He just knew that he could not stand this world anymore. And every time he dreamt, Kate receded farther and farther into the background and he was scared she would eventually disappear. Her features were already becoming blurred in his memory.
He only knew that he could not handle this. His entire body was screaming with the desire to escape, to act. He thought about falling often now. Not about landing. About the moments before. About being trapped in transition.
He looked at Peter. He looked at this rough, distant man. He remembered how, before he was captured he would spend some hours watching Peter from the distance. The irony did not bother him. This calloused, unrefined detective intrigued him. He was so beautiful unperfected. He was so well crafted, so purely masculine.
Neal kissed him.
“Neal,” Peter said, pulling back.
Neal kissed him again, his mouth parted, searching for heat.
“Neal,” Peter repeated, angrily, handling Neal by the shoulders, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Please,” Neal whimpered, “I don’t want to be alone. Please.”
“You don’t want this,” Peter replied, his grip slackening.
“You don’t know what I want,” Neal said and kissed him again. This time, Peter responded.
It was too rough to be a true kiss. Too masculine to be anything less than a war. Neal simply wanted to surrender himself to something. He kept his eyes open. He pushed his entire body up to Peter’s and he waited. He waited for Peter to become Kate, for his hands to become softer, for his sounds to become higher.
And when he didn’t, Neal moved roughly against him. He pushed every piece of pain into his movements. It was not that he did not want Peter. It was that Peter was not was not what he needed. Not now. Not ever.
Peter pushed him back onto the couch, moved on top of him. It was like being covered by the lid of a coffin. He felt that he was finally at peace. Peter was so rough in his movements. So sincere. He was so beautiful. Neal felt that he could cry. Every new centimeter of skin was a separate miracle. Later, much later, Neal would think back to it and weep.