Day Eleven and we've done it! We've successfully circled back around to pure comedy. Today's chapter summary: Neal accidentally drops an entire bucket of paint (and then some) on Peter.


Peter opened the door. Neal's apartment looked like a foreign land. Instead of the usual perfectly organized airy space, there was chaos. The dining table and chairs were pushed against the far wall, crowding the fireplace. Drop cloths were thrown over the furniture against the wall. A shield of plastic was taped from the edge of the large window on to the terrace to just next to the front door, the furniture pushed back from there as well, crowding his already small bedroom. Tarp blanketed the floor, spotted with all manner of bright colors. A canvas was tacked down to the floor on top of the tarps, which seemed to bear the brunt of the paint. Paint cans were lined up against the window, all open, with a variety of brushes nearby.

Neal was even more of a shock than his apartment. Peter was used to seeing the young man impeccably styled and never anything less than presentable. However, he was significantly below his usual standards. His hair, rather than being fixed in its flawless quiff, was falling over his face in waves. Peter was pretty sure it was also flecked with paint. Neal's clothes were also different. The most unprofessional Peter could remember seeing Neal in (voluntarily, prison didn't count) was a vest without a jacket. Now, he was in a paint-stained t-shirt, that used to be white, and blue jeans. He didn't have shoes on. His gaze was fixed on the canvas in front of him.

Peter was very confused. The entire situation hadn't entirely registered, much less been processed fully. Why was Neal's apartment in disarray? Why were there tarps and a canvas on the floor? What on earth was Neal doing?

As soon as Peter had time to think, Neal shocked him again. He started to pace around the canvas, looking at it from all angles and variations. Maybe it's missing something? Peter thought. Without a second's hesitation, Neal strode to the paint cans and selected a brush. The brush was about two inches wide and looked like it was hardened with old paint. The bristles were solid. Neal dipped the brush into a can of paint and it came out green. Then he swung his arm what had to be as hard as he could. Paint flew off the brush and over the floor. That explains the tarps. Neal continued flinging paint as he paced his way around the canvas, turning, going over his shoulder, and generally adding to the air of disaster.

He seemed perfectly content with making a disaster of his apartment. Peter, on the other hand, was still trying to figure out what the hell was happening. However, at that moment, he felt something hit his chest. He looked down. A bright green streak bloomed across the center of his shirt. Granted, it wasn't a particularly expensive shirt, nothing that couldn't be easily fixed or replaced. But, still! There was paint covering it and it was definitely Neal's fault.

"Neal!" Peter shouted. "What the hell!"

Neal jumped and instinctively flung his arm as if to hit someone. Mercifully, his arm was now over the canvas, where the paint landed. Several deep breaths later, Neal had managed to talk himself out of his instinctive panic enough to walk in a straight line. He put the brush back where it belonged.

"Neal," Peter repeated, insistent. "What the hell was that?"

The voice registered in Neal's mind. His eyes went wide. His face went bright pink. "Oh, my God! I'm so sorry!" He nearly ran over to his small kitchen, where he wet a small towel and handed it to Peter, apologetically. Peter started wiping at the still-wet paint. The majority of it came off on the towel, leaving a faint green trace and a growing wet patch. "I really am sorry," Neal continued, sounding more apologetic than panicked now. "I was painting and it got...kinda...violent."

He gestured to the floor. Violent was a good word to describe it. Streaks of bright colors covered the tarps. Green, blue, red, purple, what looked like gold. There were even splatters on the plastic shield. And that was a wall. Whatever was happening, it was definitely violent.

Peter raised an eyebrow, looking from the chaos to the normally less chaotic man in front of him. "Are you painting a Jackson Pollock?" Peter realized what he'd said a second after he said it. "Don't actually answer that."

Neal didn't bother giving a sarcastic answer like 'no, why would you think that' or 'Pollocks are actually really hard to forge.' Instead, he gave an awkward laugh. "No. Just painting." He ran a hand through his hair. "I just...got a little carried away."

"So the tarp all over your furniture and floor is usual while painting?"

Neal looked down at the floor and froze for a few seconds. Then, Neal went over to the wall and started cleaning up. He took the paintbrushes and mason jars of paint water into the kitchen and set them into the sink, before closing up the jars of paint. The paint cans were left where they were before he went back to the kitchen.

"Okay, I was painting violently on purpose. But I didn't mean to splatter it on you!"

That was good enough. "What are you painting?" Peter asked, more out of curiosity than accusation.

"An expression of human emotion," Neal answered without missing a beat.

Peter looked at the floor. Then back at Neal. "You're throwing paint all over a canvas."

"Um...yeah, pretty much." Neal looked like he would like the floor to swallow him whole. It didn't.

"Maybe warn me next time?" Peter desperately hoped there wouldn't be a next time, but Neal was too unpredictable to hope that.

"Got it," Neal said with a sharp nod.

"What were you doing?"

Neal gave Peter a look. Hadn't he just answered this question? Nevertheless, he answered again. "I was painting traditionally. But, it was sedentary and boring and not stress-relieving. So, I decided to try action painting. Much better stress relief."

"And that's why you were throwing paint everywhere?"

Neal nodded eagerly. "Exactly! You get it."

Peter shook his head. "I don't. I suggested that because it was such a stupid idea that only you could have done it."

Neal hissed and put a hand to his chest. "Ouch."

"Name one idea of yours that worked as intended."

Neal took a minute to think. He couldn't think of one plan that had worked as intended. "Um...okay, you might have a point."

"I do have a point," Peter repeated. "Anyway, throwing paint everywhere."

Neal picked up somewhere around where he'd left off. "Yeah, throwing paint everywhere. And I'm part of the art instead of stuck outside of it. Because I can walk the whole way 'round, and see everything-" He gestured to the canvas. "Because of that, I can properly express my emotions through the medium."

Peter thought that sounded like a bunch of hippie nonsense. Or, more accurately, nouveau art nonsense. He'd never understood the things that famous artists did. Neal was not a famous artist-he was famous, and an artist, but not a famous artist-but the young con did some strange things sometimes.

"Okay, then," he said, slowly.

Neal smiled brightly. He'd finished cleaning his brushes and just left them in the sink. Proper clean-up is a future problem. He stacked the paint cans on top of each other, taking care that they didn't fall and returned them to their proper place. The tarp and canvas stayed on the floor.

"Aren't you going to clean that up?"

Neal just shook his head. "I'm waiting for the paint to dry."

"Sure." Peter had given up, instead dedicating himself to pretending that Neal was making sense. It was becoming easier and easier.

"So," Neal asked, casually. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, right." Peter had almost forgotten. "El wanted to invite you over for dinner and I was sent to invite you in person."

"Why didn't you call?"

"I did. You didn't answer."

"Oh." Neal glanced over his shoulder. His cell phone was sitting on top of the tarp covering the table. It was off and had small splatters of gold paint on it. "Right. My phone's over there. And I didn't want to cover it in paint."

"Yeah. So I came in person." Neal nodded wordlessly. It seemed his silver tongue had run out. "So, you wanna come for dinner?"

"Yeah. It'll give the paint time to dry before I need to sleep."

Peter bit back a sarcastic comment along the lines of 'you sleep?' and instead just asked "You good to go?"

Neal slipped on a pair of shoes before answering in the affirmative and holding the front door open for Peter.

"You are weird."

Neal shrugged. "But you keep me around."


I hope you enjoyed the return to pure comedy and happiness. Leave a review if you especially liked it. To those in NaNoWriMo: I'm sure you're doing great! I can't wait to read all your novels.