elrhiarhodan

Title: The Magic Between Us - Part Two of Two
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Reese Hughes, June Ellington, Byron Ellington, Original Female Character, Neal Caffrey, Ford Tolman, David Siegel; June/Byron, June/Ford, Peter/David, Neal/Unnamed Male Character (past), Neal/Kate (unconsummated past), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Canon death of canon character (long-term unspecified illness), non-canon deaths of canon characters, internalized homophobia, expressions of homophobia, gunshot wound, references to 9/11, talk of suicidal behavior.
Word Count: ~15,000
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Summary: Peter Burke, a young FBI agent, meets June and Byron Ellington during an investigation of a series of mortgage fraud cases. They take him under their wing and become his surrogate family. During his first visit to the Ellington mansion, he sees a magnificent portrait of a young man and becomes captivated. June and Byron invite him to spend Christmas Eve with them, and he begins to notice something wonderful about the portrait. For a little while, it comes to life. For almost twenty-five years, Peter spends Christmas Eve with the Ellingtons, and each year, he grows closer to the man in the portrait.

A/N: Inspired by kanarek13's artwork – or more accurately, the concept that Kanarek told me about, which set my brain whirring. I had the basic idea of this story plotted out before she finished the piece. I'm only sorry it's taken longer than I'd planned to finish it.


__________________



December 2007

"Don't argue with me, Peter." June stood at his bedside, elegant as ever in Chanel and as implacable as Juno. "You need a place to recover."

"I have a home."

"Yes, and it's a lovely piece of Brooklyn real estate. But your bedroom is upstairs and you have one bathroom – also upstairs. How are you going to manage?"

"I'll find a way." Peter said, stubbornly. Maybe he could get one of those chair-stair things installed temporarily.

"Yes, you'll find a way to end up back here, or worse."

"I'll have a visiting nurse once a day for a few weeks."

"Who isn't going to carry you upstairs. Will you just stop being so foolish?"

Peter didn't say anything. He just stared at the cast on his leg and cursed his back luck. A sixteen year veteran of the FBI and he'd never drawn his gun. He'd never needed to. The white collar criminals he chased did their damage with computers and code and social manipulation, not with guns or knives or bombs. But eighteen days ago, he had walked into a corner bodega to pick up a quart of milk and got himself shot by some idiot teenager strung out on meth and looking to empty the cash register.

The bullet had shattered his femur, torn through veins and arteries, and nearly ended his life. He might be alive, but the status of his career was still in question.

"Peter, stop being so stubborn."

"You spent four years caring for Byron, I don't want you to have to care for me."

"It's a very good thing you're a very sick man, because I'm about to lose my temper. You are my family, Peter Burke. And I take care of my family."

Maybe it was the painkillers that were responsible, but Peter felt himself start to cry. "Okay, okay. I'll stay with you until I'm mobile."

"Good." June cupped his cheek, then ruffled his hair like he was a little boy. "I'll have the fourth floor suite prepared for you. And before you say another word, the elevator has already been serviced and I'm also having the ramp to the front door put back in."

Peter let out a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"That you're going through all of this – for me."

"Peter – if I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't. I'd let you 'manage' the best you could. So I'm going to say this one last time – having you stay with me while you recover is not a problem, it will not become a problem, and will never be a problem. Got it?"

He nodded. If there was one thing he'd learned in the sixteen years he'd known June Ellington, it was that she had a will of iron. Nothing and no one could stop her once she was set on a course of action. All he could do was give in or get out of her way. He gave in. "Thank you. I really do appreciate this."

"Good – and this way, we don't have to worry about you getting to the house for Christmas Eve. Because there's no way I'm celebrating the holiday without you."

Peter shook his head. "I can't believe it's the end of December already."

"Time marches forward, whether we want it to or not."

Peter sighed. "True enough."

Three days later, on Christmas Eve, Peter was released from the hospital with strict instructions about not putting any weight on his still healing leg, and a rather extensive list of medications and orders for rehab and physical therapy, both of which would start right after Christmas.

June had refused to let Peter take a cab from the hospital and came with her own chauffeur-driven Rolls. The car had coach doors, the type that were hinged on the back, rather than the front, which made it much easier to get into and out of, even from a wheelchair. Although the 1940's era car had been in the Ellington family for over three decades – mostly as a showpiece – it had seen the most usage in the year before Byron had passed away, when he'd been confined to a wheelchair but refused to be housebound.

Peter leaned back against the seat and although he was still in considerable pain, he was unutterably grateful to be out of the hospital. He grimaced as the car hit an exceedingly deep pothole, jostling his leg.

June patted his hand. "You'll be home and in bed soon enough. And there's a surprise waiting for you."

"June …" He was a little overwhelmed by her generosity already, he couldn't imagine what the surprise would be.

"Oh, hush. It's nothing that cost me anything. I just wanted to make your stay a little more special."

The Rolls cut through the holiday traffic and soon they were gliding through the quiet residential streets of Riverside. There was a crisp clarity to the December day and the sunlight was almost painful to Peter's eyes. He didn't know if it was the meds or because he'd just spent almost three weeks in a hospital room lit solely by fluorescent bulbs. This might be the first time he'd seen sunshine since the shooting.

Peter was grateful when they pulled up in front of the mansion, and true to June's promise, the wheelchair ramp that Byron had needed was back in place. Frederick, the chauffeur, opened the door to let June out and then retrieved his rented wheelchair. Peter managed to get from the car into the chair without banging his leg too much. Thank goodness he still had the upper body strength of a Norse god.

Frederick pushed him up the ramp and into the house. Marta, who'd opened the door for them, waited with a smile. "Good to see you, Mr. Peter. Mrs. June, I've made sure the suite is ready."

"Thank you, Marta." June leaned over his chair and asked, "Peter, would you like to have some lunch, or would you prefer to go up and rest?"

"Rest, please. I'm not hungry." Even though he'd had breakfast hours ago, and he was supposed to eat before taking any of the painkillers, Peter couldn't wait to get upstairs. He was utterly exhausted. June led the way and Frederick pushed the wheelchair towards the service elevator at the back of the house. But the chauffeur, thankfully, didn't accompany them up to the fourth floor apartment. Instead, he told them he'd bring up the crutches that Peter was only supposed to use when moving from the bed to the wheelchair or the wheelchair to another horizontal surface. They – and a small duffle bag with Peter's clothes and toiletries – were still in the car.

The elevator creaked in its slow ascent. Peter had ridden in it a few times, including once when it had gotten stuck between floors. Byron had slept through the delay; at the time – a few months before his death – he'd spent most of his days sleeping.

Eventually, they arrived at the fourth floor, which consisted of a large studio apartment and a vast terrace that overlooked the park. Since that first Christmas Eve, sixteen years ago, Peter had spent many nights in this room, and he often thought it felt more like home than his Brooklyn townhouse.

He didn't let June push the chair; he was strong enough to roll the wheels himself – at least the short distance from the elevator to the apartment. He did let June open the door and he rolled past her and came to a dead stop.

Instead of the old mirror that normally hung above the fireplace there was the painting from the dining room. Neal.

"Like your surprise?" June patted him on the shoulder.

"Very much, thank you." He reached out and took her hand, but he didn't take his eyes off the portrait. Unlike the dining room, the apartment was filled with bright sunlight, and the portrait seemed different yet again. Downstairs, the portrait seemed to provide illumination in the dark paneled room; up here, the painting gathered shadows and darkness. But it didn't feel wrong, and Peter chalked it up to the skill of the artist.

Frederick came in with the crutches and his bag, and Marta followed with a small tray of food. They left and June said, "I'll leave you to your rest. I've put the intercom by your bed and please, Peter, don't hesitate to use it if you need help."

"I won't, I promise."

At that, June left him alone. Alone, except for Neal.

"Hi."

Neal didn't answer. Peter rolled closer and watched the painting. Nothing changed. But that didn't matter. Over the years, he'd had far too many one-sided conversations with Neal.

"Hope you like the new digs – they are only temporary. A few weeks at most. June's generosity is almost too much, but frankly, I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't insisted. My house really isn't equipped for invalids, let alone anyone in a wheelchair. Almost a dozen steps up to the front door, no access from the back, and every time I'd need to go to the bathroom, I'd have to manage a steep and narrow staircase."

Peter kept talking as he rolled over to the table and looked at the food Marta had left. A sandwich, a small salad, and, of course, a few Christmas cookies for dessert. "I'd offer to share, but …"

He kept up his one-sided conversation with Neal, talking and eating and feeling better than he had in weeks. "Don't know if it's just being out of that damn hospital or the sunshine or the food – " Despite his earlier comment that he wasn't hungry, Peter ate every scrap and almost considered calling down and asking Marta for some more cookies.

Instead, he took his pills and managed to get out of his clothes – a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants with one leg cut off – without too much pain, and shifted himself onto the bed. He was both relieved and dismayed that June had the regular mattress replaced with an adjustable hospital-type bed – also a relic from the last year of Byron's illness.

Peter quickly fell asleep and he dreamed…



Peter woke, the threads of his dream still wrapped around him like a lover. Although it was winter, and technically the days were getting longer, the sky was already dark. He reached for his phone to check the time – of course it was dark, it was half past four.

There was a text message waiting for him – from June. She'd gone to early evening church services, but would be back before six. They'd have dinner in his suite, as long as he was up to it.

Peter moved himself from the bed to his chair and headed for the bathroom. The space was small and it was difficult to maneuver, but he managed to take care of business without injuring himself too badly.

Once back in the suite, he dressed and made sure there were no medications he needed.

Now that the evening had well and truly fallen, the portrait had taken on its more familiar glow. Peter wished he could have a glass of wine with which he could give his usual Christmas toast, but water would have to do. At least it was sparkling.

"Merry Christmas, Neal."

"Merry Christ… What happened to you? Where am I?"

Neal voice, usually so calm and so cultured, was now filled with panic. "I got shot. And you're still where you belong, just in a different room. June was kind enough to offer me a place to stay while I recovered. She had you moved up here – to keep me company."

Peter felt some of Neal's confusion dissipate, but there was still worry. "You said you were shot – it looks like you were badly injured."

"I was It was kind of touch and go for a while. But I'm alive and I'll recover." Peter was just so happy to hear Neal's voice that he didn't consider the effect his words might have.

"How can you be so sanguine about that – about almost losing your life? You're in a wheel chair – but you still have your leg."

"Yes, thank goodness. Medical science has progressed since your day. I have pins and rods in my femur to keep everything in place until the bone heals. I just have to keep off of it for a few weeks. That's why I'm in this contraption."

"So, you'll be able to walk again?"

"That's the plan. Walk, and eventually, run."

"Run? Why?"

"To stay fit. To keep healthy. I guess people didn't run for fun in your day." Peter could never pin Neal down to just what his day was.

"Oh, they do – my club does hold meets. But those are for boys and young men."

"I'm not a senior citizen. Not yet – still have some years to go." Peter took a sip of his sparkling water. "May I ask a question?"

"You may, but I don't know if I will be able to answer it."

Peter took a deep breath. "Why can I only talk to you on Christmas Eve?"

The painting started to change in its usual subtle way. Clouds gathered and snow started to fall.

"Neal?"

"You talk to me all the time, Peter."

"You know that?"

"I can hear your voice through the centuries."

"My question should have been, why do you only answer me on Christmas Eve?"

The snow started to fall quicker, obscuring first the carriage and then the pedestrian. Neal didn't answer.

"I guess this is not something you can tell me."

Neal was still quiet, but the snow began to taper off.

"I miss you. I think about you all the time. I dream about you, too. I wish I knew who you were – but then, I don't. Maybe I like the mystery too much." Peter remembered Byron's comment from the first time they'd met. "I miss you. During the year, when we can't talk."

"I miss you, too."

Peter closed his eyes and let those words ease through him. "Merry Christmas, Neal. And thank you."

"Merry Christmas, Peter. Rest and heal."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal cursed the events that had brought him into this room and said a prayer of thanks for the soul who caused such damage.

To see Peter as a man – stripped to his skin – was so joyous, so painful. And to learn that Peter might have died was equally painful.

But he hadn't died. He lived and would – God willing – heal and be well.

Peter was his miracle, his salvation, and even though he was forever trapped within this canvas, Peter would be the man he loved. The man he'd choose with his whole heart if he hadn't been such a coward.

It was almost too much to hope that if they'd met in his own lifetime, that Peter would have chosen him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

December, 2011

Peter kissed June in greeting and hung his coat on the tree in the entry hall. Marta, the Ellington housekeeper, had retired last year. Her replacement was a young part-timer who had made it clear to her employer that working on Christmas Eve – or any holiday – was never going to happen.

June had told him she really didn't mind. Most of her time was spent with her daughters and grandchildren in other cities. She didn't need a full time staff to manage a mostly empty house.

Peter felt guilty about continuing this two-decade old tradition, but couldn't bring himself to tell June that she should consider spending the holiday with her offspring. At nearly fifty, he was resigned to living alone and as the years passed, he found himself looking forward to this night more and more, to spending it with someone who knew him.

"You look sad, Peter. What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She tucked her hand into his and led him into the front parlor – the scene of so many delightful evenings. "You can tell me what's wrong."

"It's Christmas, it's not the time for sadness."

"Please – you look heartbroken and I can't bear it."

Peter sat down. "Do you remember Reese Hughes?"

June nodded. "Of course I do – he was the reason we met. He was the agent who was investigating those mortgage fraud claims. The one who brought you here that time. He wanted to know about the trick the Mob tried to play on me and Byron. And when you were shot, we saw each other at the hospital, he visited here a few times."

"Yes. He was my mentor, and my friend."

"What happened?"

"He died a few days ago. A heart attack. His wife told me that he was making breakfast and just fell down dead. No warning. His heart had just stopped."

June hugged him. "I'm so sorry."

"He was … was like a father to me." Peter stared at his hands, helpless in his grief. "When my own father died, I felt nothing. We hadn't talked in decades. His last words to me were, 'Get out of my house, you dirty faggot'. I couldn't forgive him for that and I never tried to reconcile. I was twenty-one when I came out to my parents and that was the last time I saw them. My parents' lawyer had contacted me when my mother died, giving me instructions not to attend her funeral. They contacted me when my father died and told me he left everything to some anti-gay church in Kansas."

"In all the years I've known you, you've never talked about your family."

"They were the people responsible for my genetic material – they were not my family. You're my family. Reese and his wife were my family. Just as I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with you and Byron and your children and grandchildren, I spent Thanksgiving with Reese and his family. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was fine. And now he's gone." The loss crushed him. "I'm sorry. I just …"

"I understand, Peter. Believe me, I do." June rested her head against his shoulder. "To lose someone you loved and respected, so suddenly. It's a terrible thing. I had years to prepare myself for losing Byron, but in the end it was still a shock."

Peter sighed. "I'm sorry – I didn't want to bring such sadness into your house tonight."

"It's okay, Peter. It's all part of living. We know we're alive because we can feel."

They sat quietly together and Peter felt some of the pain ease. It would be back, but for now he was with a friend, with someone who understood him.

"Do you want a drink? I feel like I'm being a terrible hostess."

"How about if you let me fix something for you?" Peter got up and went over to the bar cart, a fixture in this room.

"Scotch will be fine."

Peter knew that she'd nurse the drink until dinner, and he'd do the same – but this was part of their ritual.

Dinner was a subdued affair, but the food was delicious. In a fit of practicality, June had it catered from one of her favorite restaurants.

"Are you seeing anyone, Peter?"

He sighed. "No – you know my track record – no one in my life ever lasts until Christmas."

"Why?" June's question was pointed.

"I don't know. I suspect I'm just an asshole and no one really can put up with me for long."

"I don't think you're an asshole." Peter could hear June's smile in that last word. "But I think you've kind of given up on yourself."

"What do you mean?" He didn't think that was true at all. He worked hard to keep strong and healthy. Even his once-shattered leg was almost as good as new. Just this past summer, he had run the Yellow Brick Road at Quantico with a bunch of trainees and kept up with all of them, even over the cargo net and crawling through the mud under the wires.

"You go into relationships thinking that they will eventually fail. You might talk about this man or that, but you never seem to connect emotionally, spiritually with anyone."

Peter tried not to glance in the direction of the portrait. It would be too ridiculous to explain that he had connected with someone. A someone who was long dead. "Maybe I should make it a New Year's resolution. To fall in love and find my soul mate. Maybe try one of those on-line dating services."

June gave him a sad smile. "I want you to be happy, Peter."

"Can't a person be happy without a partner? Can't I be alone and happy?"

"Yes, of course people can. But I don't think you're one of them. You are looking – I know that, but you don't allow a relationship to get serious."

Peter leaned back in his chair and looked at June over the rim of his glass. "I'm content with my life. I date when I want and I'm happy to go home and not have to deal with anyone or anything."

June stared back at him, as if her will could force him into admitting that he needed someone in his life. When he didn't break her gaze, she gave him a small shrug. The conversation moved on to her granddaughter, Samantha, who'd finally gotten a much needed kidney transplant last summer. Peter was happy to hear that she was running around like a normal, healthy twelve year-old.

"I think I want to call them." Peter got up but June gestured for him to stay seated. "They got me one of those tablet things with a camera, so we can see each other when we talk. I have it set up in the library. You sit here and relax. Have a little reunion with your lovely friend up there." She gestured to the painting and Peter flushed. He wondered if June knew he actually talked to it.

To Neal.

"Merry Christmas." He gave the man his usual greeting.

"I'd wish you the same, but I heard you talk of your loss. I am most sorry."

"I'll be all right."

"You tell yourself that a lot. You said that when you got news that your mother died. You told yourself that when your father died."

"If you heard me telling June about Reese's death, then you must have heard me tell her that my late parents were very unlamented. They hated me and I had no feelings for them."

"You say the words, but you don't believe them."

"Fuck you."

Apparently Neal didn't take insult from his invective. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and the snow practically glittered.

"Why are you so happy?"

"I'm not happy, just a little envious. You have great courage. You told your family what you were, you were willing to bear their censure and their hatred. You forged your life and you refused to look back and second-guess your choices. Even though those choices brought great pain and loss."

"You see me very clearly, Neal. It's frightening."

"You're the man I wished I could have been. I lost everything because I couldn't make that choice. Because I was too afraid."

"Things were different then – for men like us."

"It was not as bad as you might think. A lot was tolerated if you were discreet. A man might marry, have children, and keep his true nature satisfied. He might seek entertainment and company amongst his own kind."

"But all the while lying to those who loved him."

"Yes."

"And you couldn't live that life, that lie."

Neal's answer was simple. "No."

"I wish I could change things for you."

The sun disappeared and the snow began to swirl, so thick and fast that Neal himself was almost completely obscured. Peter watched in horror as the painting turned almost completely white.

"Neal, Neal – please. Whatever I said, I'm sorry."

"Peter?"

He whirled around. June was standing there. He wondered how much she'd heard.

"Is everything okay?"

"Fine – everything's fine." He turned back to the painting, and it was – to his great relief – normal. Neal was standing there, cane in hand, gazing out into the distance. The horse and carriage were on the right, the woman with the umbrella on the left. The painting looked exactly the same as it had the first time he'd seen it, over twenty years ago. "How are your grandchildren?"

June smiled. "They are quite fine – happy to be in the Bahamas instead of snowy Boston. Cordelia sends her special regards."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal shivered, but not from the ever-present cold. Emotions threatened to overwhelm him and he could feel the walls of his prison start to fracture.

But he was afraid.

And that was what would always hold him back. Fear.

Peter was never afraid, Peter cared about his family and, despite his words, he'd been grievously wounded by his father's words. but he had the courage to move forward and live a life in the sunlight, not the shadows.

Peter wanted to help him, he wanted to make his life better. But Peter couldn't – not because it was impossible to turn back time, but because he'd never be anything more than a craven coward. A Janus unable to step out of the door. That was his fate and as much as he wished otherwise, he couldn't change himself. He couldn't be brave enough, strong enough.

He would never be worthy enough of love.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

December, 2015

This was the first Christmas Eve in almost a quarter century that Peter wasn't spending at the Ellington house. Because it wasn't the Ellington House anymore.

78 Riverside Drive now belonged to a Brazilian oil baron.

Eleven months ago, just after New Year's, June had broken the news.



Peter had thought about it. For the three weeks before Thanksgiving and the four weeks after, he thought about calling David and trying to patch things up. But he couldn't bring himself to make that phone call. Send that email. Or even a text message.

David was a good man. Interesting, handsome, as married to his own career as Peter was to his, and definitely not interested in settling down. Or at least so he'd sworn.

But last July, Peter had agreed to go with David to his baby brother's wedding and that seemed to spell the end of their mutual lack of interest in domestic bliss. David, who was forty-two and a decade younger than Peter, had been bitten by the nesting bug. He'd started talking about buying a house together, about whether Peter thought he was too old for children, dropping hints about getting married.

Peter had been a little appalled. He liked his house in Brooklyn. He was fifty-two years old and the thought of being responsible for a small human was as terrifying as it was ridiculous. And even if David moved in with him and gave up the idea of having children, he could never marry him.

David wanted him to get rid of Neal.



After almost a quarter of a century celebrating with the Ellington clan, it was strange to be by himself in his own home on Christmas Eve. Strange and a little sad. June and Ford were somewhere in the Mediterranean. Her daughter, Cordelia, had invited him to spend Christmas in Boston, but Peter had declined. Not because he didn't enjoy her company – her family was lovely and welcoming – but because he didn't want to miss the magic.

He didn't want to miss Neal.

Christmas Eve was unseasonably warm – close to seventy degrees – and felt more like Easter. He'd gone out for a run in just shorts and a tee shirt and was actually grateful for the brief rain shower to cool him off. Peter kept telling himself that after the last three winters, the New York area deserved a break, except that this was a little ridiculous.

The day's heavy cloud cover made it feel like the sun never rose, but by four PM, it was almost oppressively dark in the living room. Peter picked up a glass and an open bottle of wine and went upstairs.

He'd left a small reading lamp on and went to look at the portrait. It seemed to be glowing just a bit brighter tonight.

Peter poured a glass of wine, but didn't make his usual toast. He couldn't help think about David and their argument. "It's like you're obsessed with a man who never existed."

"But you do exist, don't you?" The words were plaintive, desperate.

"Peter? What's the matter?"

"Neal." That single, simple syllable was like a prayer falling from his lips. "How are you?" That was a question he'd never asked.

"I am … as I always am."

"Do you like your new home?" Peter waited like a boy confessing his first crush.

"I do, very much. It is such a delightful view."

Peter could feel Neal's pleasure. "You like watching me sleep?"

"And dress, and undress. You are a fine figure of a man, and I'm sure you know that."

"Did you enjoy watching …?"

"You and your 'friend'? It was … most educational. He seemed like a nice person – he wanted to make a life with you."

Peter shrugged.

"But he didn't like me. And I don't understand why you would choose me over him, over a chance at happiness and a life with someone you loved."

"I didn't love him, Neal. We were close, but I had no deep connection to him."

"But he loved you. He wanted to make a life with you." There was such wonder in Neal's voice. "He felt no shame in being with you, and you tossed that away for me. I don't understand."

"The world is different now – it has changed at a pace that I can barely comprehend. But I didn't 'toss' David away. He wanted a commitment I couldn't give him."

"Why not?"

Peter looked down at his hands. "He's a good man, he deserves to be loved. He deserves to have someone who'll put him first. And that man isn't me."

"Do you think you don't deserve love?" Neal's voice was gentle.

"No. I just …" Peter scrubbed his face. "I just think …" He couldn't put the feelings into words, it would sound too crazy. "Can you tell me more about yourself? Or will you retreat into the storm?"

The painting changed subtly – the clouds skittered across the sky, driven by an unseen wind. But Neal answered. "There's not much left to tell. My life is a history of lies and self-delusion."

"Did the man you love do this to you? Trap you like this?" Ten years ago, when Neal had confessed to being an "invert" like him, Peter could barely conceal his joy. It took another two years before Neal told him that he'd turned his back on the man who had loved him.

"No. He wasn't the artist."

Something clicked in Peter's brain. "Did you paint this?"

The clouds returned, thick and heavy with snow.

"Neal, please don't hide from me."

The clouds stilled. "Yes, Peter. I was the artist. This is a self-portrait."

"What happened?"

To Peter's astonished joy, Neal began to talk.

"I was weak and scared. I was supposed to marry a young girl, an American from a very wealthy family. In exchange for my name and a title, her father would give my family a million dollars. We were to use that money to pay off my family's debts and restore honor to our name. Upon the birth our first child, my family would receive another million dollars, and if that child was male, Robert Moreau would deposit five hundred thousand dollars into a personal account. I was to be a prize stud.

"There was another condition – that I would do nothing that would bring a moment's shame to my bride or her family."

"Was there someone?" Peter licked his lips. "A man?"

He could feel Neal's ambivalence.

"There was someone like your David. Someone who said he loved me, someone who wanted to live his life with me."

"Did you love him?"

"No. I loved what he did to me, how he made me feel, but I didn't love him. I … couldn't let myself love him. I was too afraid – I chose to do my duty to my profligate family than to be honest with myself."

"I'm sorry."

"It is the past. The long, cold, dead past."

Fearing that he'd never have the chance to talk so freely with Neal again, Peter's curiosity took control of his tongue. "Did you marry the girl?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I died."

Even though Peter knew that this had to have happened at some point, hearing those words was like getting shot, point blank. "How?"

"You really want to hear this? It's such a sordid and ugly tale."

"Please, Neal. I want to know."

"My … friend left London, to take up residence in Paris. He was not a poor man, and if not for my own fears, I could have gone with him and lived well. I have some talent and Paris in those days was the epicenter of the art world. As an aristocrat, I could have commanded quite a following, built a reputation as a portraitist. My choice of partner – of lover – wouldn't have mattered.

"Two days after I signed the marriage contracts, I found out that my lover had married. He'd gone to Paris and had been caught in bed with a young woman of good birth and her father dragged him to the altar at gunpoint. It was so strange. He'd promised he loved me, that he couldn't bear to be with a woman, and yet I couldn't escape the feeling that everything that had happened in Paris was orchestrated by him. A few months later, I got a letter from my friend, expounding on the joys that wedded bliss could bring; not in the marital bed, but in the cover that marriage provided. Men fell at his feet, even whilst he was still on his bridal trip.

"I burned the letter and vowed that this wouldn't be my life. Yet the thought of marrying made me ill. To lead an innocent young woman on with promises of love and devotion seemed so obscene. To make a vow before god that I would never be able to keep was an obscenity."

"What did you do?"

"My wedding was supposed to take place on Christmas Day, but as that day approached, I became sick with dread. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I would pace my bedchamber like a lion in a cage. The only thing I could do was paint.

"On the morning of Christmas Eve, I finished the portrait and went for a walk, with no destination in mind. My feet took me all through London, and then it started to snow. I didn't turn back, I couldn't bear to return home, to face my bride-to-be and lie to her. Lie with her. So I walked until the sky turned dark, until the snow piled over my ankles, and then my knees. I walked until I could walk no more. I found myself on the Embankment, near Parliament. There was a bench and I sat down. I never got up."

Peter wiped the tears from his face. "My god."

"I hadn't intended to die, but I couldn't go on. I don't expect you to understand."

"I do, Neal. I do. I could tell you stories that would break your heart. It's gotten better for all of us, but the truth is that we are still considered wrong and twisted by too many. Too many children kill themselves because they can't bear their family's disapproval."

"I wish I could have truly lived in this time. If just so I could have met you, learned from you."

"Learned from me?"

"Learned from your courage, your honesty."

"Neal…" The tears were thick in his throat, burning his eyes. He looked at the painting and it seemed as if it was coated by a mist.

"It's strange, but I feel warm, now. Telling you what happened and knowing that you don't condemn me for my cowardice has freed me from this eternal cold."

Peter watched in horror as Neal began to fade – not lost in swirling snow, but fading from the canvas. "Where are you going?"

"Someplace warm – maybe Hell, maybe Heaven. Maybe oblivion." The voice was fading, like the figure in the portrait.

"No – you can't. You can't leave me." Peter's heart was breaking. For so many years, he'd been living for this night, when he could talk with the man he loved. "You can't go…I need you."

"Peter?" Neal's voice was a little stronger.

"I love you, Neal. You can't leave me." He reached out and touched the painting, putting his hand flat on the canvas. "I've loved you for so long. Don't ask me to explain, because I can't, but you're the only man I've ever truly loved."

At first, the canvas under his hand was cool – normal room temperature. Then it turned cold, icy cold – as if he'd plunged his hand into a snowbank. But he couldn't let go. His hand was on Neal's. Instead of canvas, Peter felt the cold mass of human flesh and bone. He pulled back; there was no way he'd ever let go. Either he'd bring Neal to him, or he'd follow this man into oblivion.

The dark room began to shimmer and bright sparks of light burst around him. This might have been magic, but it was not the true magic that lay between them. That was love. As sure as he was of his own feelings, Peter knew that Neal loved him, too.

"We deserve this, we deserve our happiness." He held onto Neal's hand and pulled. "I am not letting you go." Peter repeated, "I'm not letting you go!"

He pulled with every bit of strength as the light burst around him, unbearably bright. "I love you."

Something gave and Peter fell backwards. But he wasn't alone. Neal was stretched out on top of him, snow and ice crystals gilding his hair, a wary expression on his face.

Peter smiled and touched Neal's cheek, wiping away the snow and the tears. "Merry Christmas, Neal." Peter felt the cold skin warm under his fingers.

Neal smiled back, and replied softly, "Merry Christmas to you, too, Peter. And the happiest of New Years."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After so many years of unrelenting cold, the warmth was delicious, addictive. It was sweet like the finest chocolate, as intoxicating as Napoleon brandy. But he couldn't stay here forever. Just beyond the glass was the man he loved, the man who loved him.

Neal turned off the water – albeit reluctantly – and opened the door. Steam swirled around him as hot and cooler air mixed.

Peter held out a white robe, not too dissimilar to the one he himself was wearing. "Come, get warm."

"I am." Neal put his arms through the sleeves and let Peter wrap the garment around him. "As long as I'm with you, I'll never be cold again."




FIN