Neal doesn't look up when Peter comes in, doesn't even seem to notice the sound of the closing door. He's standing beside the rain-streaked windows, staring out at the patio--or something beyond. He's the perfect picture of brooding melancholy, stripped down to his undershirt, hands tucked into the pockets of his drawstring pants, hair curling wildly, messily, gorgeously, from the dampness in the air.
Peter lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He can't stop himself from wondering what Neal's thinking, anymore than he can stop Neal from thinking it. Maybe Neal's dreaming of Paris in the rain. Maybe he's stymied because the humidity has put a literal damper on today's artistic endeavors, legal or otherwise. It could be he's feeling more trapped than usual, plotting out ways to slip his leash, or maybe he's simply resigned to his fate.
Neal turns his head at last. His gaze lands on Peter immediately--and he grins. Not deviously, not seductively. Just a happy, shockingly pure grin.
It takes Peter's breath away.
"Peter!" he says, grin still in place, and Peter can't bear to hear what comes next. He doesn't want to know if that happiness is really for him, or for some scheme Neal's got up his (nonexistent) sleeve, or some exhibit just announced at the MOMA. He strides across the room, ignoring the wet flap of his trenchcoat and the way Neal's eyes go wide, and curls his hand around the back of Neal's skull, right under those flyaway curls.
Peter kisses Neal. Kisses him like he does in the dead of the night sometimes, full of every bit of need and terror and love he has in his heart, begging for the one thing he doesn't dare ask for during the day. Neal's eyes are closed when Peter finally pulls away, the grin gone, but not for long. It's hypnotic, really, the way Neal's lips go from slightly parted to slowly spreading to a full-out grin. The process is interrupted once by the quick flick of Neal's tongue, right before he opens his eyes and gives Peter the combined wattage of his smile and baby blues.
"Peter," Neal says again, this time his voice husky and wanting. "That wasn't exactly what I was thinking about, but I'll definitely take it."
"Oh yeah?" He shouldn't ask, but there are a lot shouldn'ts when it comes to Neal, and they never seem to stop him. "What were you thinking about?"
Neal snorts. "You. Walking Satchmo in the rain."
Peter can't think of a single thing to say. He kisses Neal instead, softly this time, and and if there's wetness rimming his eyes, well, it's nothing but the rain.