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Peter was alone. He was in Neal’s apartment, in Neal's body. Neal had dropped him off, then left to get back in bed with Peter’s wife. Peter tried not to think about it.
If Peter had been left alone here under any other circumstance, he’d tear the place apart, looking for Neal’s secrets. Tonight, though, he was tired. It had been a difficult day, to put it lightly. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to wake up tomorrow in his own bed, in his own body. He wasn’t sure if he would.
Peter took off Neal’s cum-stained suit pants and dropped them on the floor, quickly adding the suit coat and dress shirt to the pile. He’d deal with them tomorrow. For now, he was left in a tank top and boxers. Did Neal wear pajamas? Peter wondered for a moment, then decided he didn’t care enough to find out. He stepped over the clothing pile to go brush his teeth, then stopped. Neal cared a lot about his clothes. About June’s dead husband’s clothes. Peter wasn’t sure whether he acted out of affection or the desire to not upset the guy who currently lived in his body, but Peter gathered the clothes and went to Neal’s closet.
The closet was huge, basically its own room. Garments lined the walls. There were shoe racks and hat stands and, yes, a hamper, tucked under a shelf. On the back wall was a full-length mirror, and next to the hamper was a stool. Peter dropped the clothes in the hamper, trying not to look at the mirror. He didn’t want to see himself, or, rather, Neal, staring back at him. He didn’t know how it would make him feel. A sock fell as he was putting the clothes in the hamper. Peter turned to grab it, then stood up, and then…
And then Peter was standing alone, looking at Neal’s reflection. Peter put the sock in the hamper. In the mirror, Neal did the same. Peter waved. Neal waved back. Peter stuck out his tongue. Neal did too.
“Night, Peter,” Peter said. Even though he was the one saying it, watching Neal’s mouth move in the mirror felt dissociative, like it was really Neal speaking, instead of Peter using Neal’s body and voice. Peter frowned, and Neal frowned, too, finally on the same emotional wavelength.
Then it hit him: Mirror Neal was a puppet. A very convincing puppet. Mirror Neal was whoever Peter wanted him to be. Peter felt Neal’s cock twitch.
Peter tried to make Neal look sincere. It took a moment, but Peter felt that he was looking at real contrition. “Peter,” he said, “I’m so grateful that you came into my life. You saved me from a life of crime and taught me to help instead of harm. I would do anything for you.”
Peter’s hands found their way to the hem of Neal’s tank top. “I mean it, Peter,” he said, lifting the tank top slowly, almost bashfully. “Anything.” Peter ogled Neal’s abs in the mirror as he continued to lift the shirt. God, Neal was handsome. Peter had never moved as sensually as Neal did in the mirror, which only helped him forget that they were the same person, that Peter was doing everything Neal was. Peter pulled the tank top over his head, tossing it into the hamper. His eyes were locked on Mirror Neal, who, despite his admirable torso, still looked a little ashamed. “Do you like this?” Peter asked aloud, noting Neal’s semi.
Peter closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them, Neal was smiling. It was almost that classic Caffrey smile, his signature wolfish grin, but not quite. Peter began to experiment, cocking his eyebrows and tilting his head, but quickly realized that this was not what he was interested in having Neal do. Instead, Peter grabbed the stool and set it behind him, not taking his eyes off of the mirror. He snaked a hand down his chest as he slowly sat down. He had the joints and the sex drive of a much younger man, and he found he was enjoying both.
“Please, Peter, let me show you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Mirror Neal said, sliding his hand past the waistband of his boxers. Peter closed his eyes and began to stroke. “Peter,” he said, “it’s so big.”
With his eyes shut and Neal’s hand wrapped around his cock, Peter was able to ignore the fact that it was his own doing, that Neal wasn’t a part of this at all, that Peter was masturbating in a closet full of a dead man’s suits over the idea of his coworker getting him off. Neal’s voice rang in his ears, and Peter didn’t have to acknowledge that that voice came from his own mouth.
“Thank you, Peter,” he whispered as he stroked. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” It became a chant as Peter brought himself to orgasm, getting off as much from the appreciation as the masturbation. He opened his eyes as he came, watching Mirror Neal climax as he continued to thank Peter.
Peter tilted his head back, exhaling. After a moment, he looked down and laughed. He was going to need another pair of boxers.