Sluggish; it's the kind of morning-turned-afternoon that city dwellers dread. Hot, sticky, the scent of the evening's rain having not washed away the smell of a city smoldering. Still, Neal wears his fedora, his three piece suit, his leather loafers that honestly, just can't be comfortable in this heat.
He's standing on the corner of Franklin and Broadway, and can't decide what toppings he wants on his dog. Peter's already through his first and is balancing his second on a steady hand, emptying a ketchup packet. "It shouldn't be this hard, it's a hot dog." Not that Peter cares, but it's fun to rib on Neal every once in a while.
His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, doing nothing to assuage the licks of muggy air that rush past him; he's hot, he's sweating, and El's going to be pissed that he's managed to wrinkle another shirt so heinously that it has to be sent to the cleaners.
It's her week on dry cleaning duty.
Neal asks the man to load it, after much consternation and turns back towards Peter. "El's going to kill you," and he nods at the crease of Peter's elbow, noting the plethora of bunched fabric.
"Well, who had to deal with the Chianti fiasco, I ask you?" he replies, taking a large bite of his lunch.
Neal hands over a ten to the man and tells him to keep the change, walks along with Peter down the street until they come to a bench. They sit, chew, in silence. The noises of New York City filter through around them, and it's nice, it's relaxing. Maybe it's too hot to talk, or maybe it isn't but either way, they both marinade in the moment.
When Neal's halfway through his dog, he brings it up casually and maybe it's been simmering under his skin for awhile. "What was going to happen last night?" It's almost flippant, almost, with just a dash of curious, an honest want-to-know.
Peter stops chewing, doesn't look at him, screws up his face in that way he does when he's really thinking about something. He knows the answer, he's just struggling with the wording. And it's not that Neal doesn't already know the answer, this is just a test. If they're ready to admit what's happening.
It's just a test.
The paper his lunch is in crinkles and it's too loud.
Their eyes meet.
"Oh, I don't know," Peter says. "What's been waiting to happen, since the beginning." They're both so beautifully put together, but coming slowly apart at the seams.
Neal nods, like a child, like a child trying to play catch up, trying to understand. He takes a slow bite of his hot dog and smiles shyly and scuffs a shoe on the pavement. Uncharted territory, to be sure, but it's dangerous and thrilling and so entirely exhilarating. "Not really something you can sit down and have a rational conversation about." A statement of fact, because that's how it is.
They're tumbling into this backwards and it feels right.
The phone at Peter's hip buzzes; he starts and then checks it. Something passes through his gaze and he bites his lip, types a sluggish reply.
"El wants to know if you're coming to dinner tomorrow evening."
Again, something passes between them when their eyes meet and on a bench, near the bureau, they're the only two people in the world.
Peter sends El a reply and they finish their lunch and the heat follows them back to the office.