fic: Ritual (56): Because I Want To
(finally, dammit!)
Title: Ritual (56): Because I Want To
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: All aired episodes through the end of Season Three
Word count: 8100 words
Warnings: see pairing and rating; serious angst
Summary: After a gruesome bonfire, a new Nathan needs to reconnect with Peter - and with himself.
Note: This is the first in a hoped-for story arc dealing with the aftermath of Nathan's fate, and running up to the opening scenes of Volume 5. Let's see if I'm up to the challenge!
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Disclaimer: Heroes and associated characters belong to Tim Kring, Tailwinds Productions, and NBC/Universal, not to me. This is fan fiction and no revenue is generated or accepted from its online presentation.
The events of this story happen between the concluding events of Volume Four, "Fugitives", and the opening of Volume Five, "Redemption." The date is a guess, but as far as I can tell, fairly accurate.
"That's what brothers do, Peter... they look out for each other."
MAY 2007
It was the smell that got to Peter.
It wasn't seeing the serial killer's cold, lifeless body, finally stopped with a massive metal spike to the back of the head. The sight of him dead only left Peter feeling numb satisfaction - that saturnine, satanic face, slack now in death; the hair and eyebrows that had bristled thick and furious in life now strangely colorless, as dull as old wool. Peter recognized the impersonal blankness on Noah Bennet's face as he called to authorize cremation of the body, giving no hint that Sylar was not going to a nice, civilized kiln, but instead being carted out of town, hoisted onto a brazier, and torched like a remorseful love letter. Peter was happy to watch the motherfucker burn. It was good, the thought of seeing the monster utterly consumed, reduced to grease, ashes, and bones. At least, Peter thought he was happy. He knew he should be happy.
No, it was the smell, first a terrifyingly wrong odor of burning hair and clothing, and then something that reminded Peter too closely of summer barbecues, of pork roasting on hot coals at a luau, that made Peter finally turn away. Monster or no, that was a human - a homo sapiens sapiens - burning and cooking and belching oily smoke into the air, and for a moment he'd forgotten it, so tired and so focused on savoring his revenge that he zoned out, and thought idly, Man; I'm hungry.
He shuddered with horror, turning away from Claire, turning his back to the fire. Claire turned after him, wrapping her hand around Peter's arm, and he took a deep breath and let her touch enter into him, soothe him, erase his fatigue and nausea. "You okay?" she asked. Her voice was dull. She cared, but she was tired, too.
"Yeah," he responded. He pulled her to him for a brief, one-armed hug, and they stood side by side, lapsing into silence again. There was too much to talk about between them, and neither of them was ready to share, to explain. Not tonight. They loved each other, but in so many ways, they were strangers. He could easily imagine what kinds of atrocities Sylar had put her through, and she wouldn't talk about it. (And the things that he himself had done... Peter wasn't sure he could ever tell her.) She had been burned before. She knew how it felt. If she was anything like Peter (and he knew that she was), she was remembering how much it hurt, wondering if this really would destroy Sylar. Maybe it wouldn't, and he'd be back, and he'd be after her again.
Peter's mind cowered and crawled away from these thoughts. Empathy was a bitch, and he had far too much of it with Claire as it was. He let her go, and stood with his arms locked around himself, cold despite the heat from the fire burning against the backs of his legs. He had to believe that this was over; that Sylar was over.
God, it's so weird. He meant so much to all of us. He meant nightmares and pain and hell and death. So much. He changed us all. He brought us together. Now, finally, somehow, he's dead. Nathan finally stopped him, and he ends here, while we keep going. We keep living, marked by him. Invisible, aching scars that will never heal. We will never forget him. Even though we burn his body, scatter his ashes into the ocean, wipe him off the face of the Earth, he will always be with us.
Peter looked across the flames, and caught Nathan staring at him. Seeking something. When Peter glanced over at his mother, she was watching Nathan too, her eyes large and dark and fathomless, like her son's, her expression remote and unreadable. She and Nathan had stood close for hours, and Peter let them be. If Nathan came to him, he'd be welcomed, but Peter wasn't going to rush it. When Nathan felt ready, Peter had faith that he'd come. He wanted Nathan to feel that one-on-one connection with Angela, as he himself had done. It was Nathan's turn now. He needed his mother. He'd been through a lot that day.
Victory or no, he had killed a man.
***
Eventually, Nathan did approach.
Claire had left Peter's side, seeking out comfort and reassurance from Noah, and the others had drifted away as the wood burned and the flesh roasted. Peter had looked away from Nathan, away from the fire, instead watching the night sky through the trees, and didn't hear Nathan's footsteps until his brother had nearly reached him. Peter looked at Nathan and tried to unsuccessfully to smile. "Nate," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He looked at Nathan and, for a moment, didn't recognize him. He felt very strange, numb and disconnected, and realized that he was still, or now more than ever, in shock. The weight of the last few days had collapsed on top of him.
"We should take Ma back into town," Nathan said. "She can spend the night in the apartment downstairs from mine; the senator who lives there will be out of town until next Tuesday." When he paused, Peter nodded and shrugged, unsure of what his response should be. Nathan cocked his head slightly, frowning. When he spoke again, it was so quiet that it could barely be heard over the fire. "Stay with me tonight," he said, eyes red from watching the fire, his expression intense, urgent, almost worried. "I need you to... stay with me tonight."
Peter just nodded again. "Yeah," he murmured. "Okay." He's in shock, too, he thought.
***
Rather than sharing a house with other out-of-state senators as was customary, Nathan had his own apartment in a deceptively pleasant building in Old Georgetown. It might have looked like a cute little brownstone, but the front door was secured by both a key card and an eleven-digit combination. Angela, Peter, and Nathan were silent as they went inside and up a flight of stairs toward the unoccupied apartment. Nathan unlocked the door and stood aside to let Angela enter.
"We're right upstairs," Nathan said. "Come up, or call, if you need anything. Absolutely anything."
"Thank you, Nathan." She hesitated just outside the door, gripping Nathan's hand, then turned to Peter and held his face between her palms. Peter stared back at her, guilt lancing through his numb fog. She had to know what was likely to happen, with the two of them alone together, hurting and needing comfort. But she didn't seem upset or disappointed, only imploring. "Dear Peter," she said. "Get some rest. I hope... that someday, you'll be able to forgive me for what I've done."
"Of course, Ma," Peter said, squirming. "I hope you forgive me."
She pressed her lips together in a thin, pained smile, and then kissed him lightly on the mouth. She went inside, and closed the door behind her without another word.
Peter and Nathan went up another flight of stairs. Nathan stood in front of his own door, staring down at his key ring as if he wasn't sure which key was the right one. Peter waited patiently for him to figure it out; he used the wrong key twice. Nathan smiled uncertainly. "They all look the same," he explained. "That's right; it's the third one in. Parking garage; storage space; apartment door. I got it now."
"You should get those little plastic rings to put on 'em, tell which is which," Peter advised, following Nathan inside. Nathan flipped all of the wall switches as he came inside, seeming inordinately pleased and relieved as he flooded the rooms with electric light. Peter hated it. It was too bright, and yet, the blaze of bulbs hardly seemed like enough to chase the shadows away. He sat down on the far end of Nathan's couch, wrapping his arms around himself, curling himself into a ball. When Nathan raised his eyebrows at him, Peter pulled off his boots, and resettled his socked feet underneath him. "Nice place," he muttered.
Nathan glanced around at the buttercream walls, the impeccably expensive furnishings; he nodded, shrugging noncommittally. "I like nice things," he replied. He noticed a wilted stem of a dead orchid, drooping over the lip of a vase, and snatched it up, tossing it into a wastebasket. "Not that I've been here much recently. I'm afraid to look in the fridge."
"Your leftovers have probably grown heads," Peter added.
"Eight or nine apiece," Nathan offered. His voice was affectless, a monotone that cracked at the edges. "Eighteen different colors of mold." He settled down on the couch, too, on the opposite end from Peter, staring in the other direction. "I do have a cleaning service," he remembered. "So. Maybe it's okay."
"That's smart," Peter said, but couldn't find the rest of the words to make it a complete thought. There was just too much light in the room, and the taste of black smoke still in his throat. Now that he was someplace safe, someplace silent and alone with Nathan, the numbness that had protected him for the last several hours began to fall away. Too many sensations warred for his attention; he was powerless to keep himself from thinking about everything.
I killed you. Not me, but me. I saw you die in my arms, and then watched you live again on television, in a church, only to kill you again. I can still feel it - the resistance to my slicing razor of will, your skull parting under an invisible knife, because I wanted to climb inside you and take everything you are. And then Dad took that from me. Maybe the best thing he ever did for me. And I killed him, too. How can you look at me? Oh, God. How can this be my life? No, no, it's not real. None of this is real; I'm crazy. I made it all up. I cracked. Nothing happened. I realize it now - now I'm sane. I was insane, delusional, but right now I'm better. I had a psychotic break and came to see you and none of that shit happened. Please. God. Christ Redeemer, hear me again; give me this. I beg you. Peter covered a choking sob with a cough. When he looked at Nathan, Nathan quickly lowered his eyes. That's it. Everything's chill and normal. Nathan's a senator. I just came to see him to get my head on straight. I'm not thinking clearly and neither is he; we both have concussions. Except that we don't; I did, but Claire healed me, and Nathan has a concussion because Sylar slammed his head into the fireplace of the hotel suite when they were fighting... OH SHIT NO. Fuck. No. Dammit, God. Dammit. Peter coughed again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, pulling his persective away from despair with all of his might. I have to accept it. It's real. It's all real. Those things that happened really happened. I have died. Nathan has died. I have killed him twice. And yet, there he is. Here I am. We are together. Oh. Yes. Faith and holy mystery. Miracles exist. We are miracles-
Breaking into Peter's reverie, Nathan asked solicitously, "Can I get you anything?"
Peter shook his head, returning to the present, to reality. He couldn't look at Nathan yet; his mere presence was so beautiful that it hurt. "Just... touch me," murmured.
"What?" Nathan said softly. Genuinely surprised, but only for a moment; also, pleased.
"Touch me. I'm - I'm freaking out," Peter replied, letting out his breath heavily. "Overwhelmed. I can't stop - I can't unwind. Just..."
"Ssh. I get it. It's okay." Nathan slid closer, and wrapped his arms around Peter, sighing too. Not letting it all out, but some. Too much to let out all at once. For a long time, Peter remained locked tightly to himself, then his arms loosened, and slid around Nathan's shoulders, bringing him closer, pressing their cheeks together. Nathan held tight. Peter's nose filled with the smell of him, and he breathed deep, seeking for the familiar notes of Nathan's scent underneath the thick tang of sweat and dried blood and smoke.
There - there - yes. It took a moment for it to emerge, but there it was; Peter's favorite smell. He held Nathan close, gulping down great lungfuls. Nathan's scent had changed, just slightly. It happened as a man got older; there were new aspects in it. Peter couldn't have described what they were, but he perceived them all the same. Peter was grateful. Grateful for the silver threads growing through at Nathan's temples. It was good that Nathan got older. It meant that he was still alive. Despite everything.
Peter pressed his mouth against Nathan's neck, kissing until Nathan's pulse pushed back against his lips. He drew back just enough to look into Nathan's eyes. Nathan's expression was distant, his eyes almost glassy, but he focused on Peter, and smiled, curiously, as though he'd never really looked at Peter before. Nathan looked very noble, and very sad, running a fingertip across Peter's hairline at the forehead, down the side of his face, tracing his lips, slow and excruciatingly sweet.
I would die for you, Peter thought.
"Can we turn out the lights?" he asked quietly. "You've got a head injury. You should go to bed. You should lie down."
"Will you come with me?" Nathan said. "I shouldn't be alone."
"No," Peter agreed. "Don't worry. I'm here."
***
Just a little light, now, from the bulb over the kitchen stove spilling in through the open bedroom door. Nathan lay on his bed, half-dressed, barefoot, a handful of steel-gray sheet trailing through his fingers. Peter stood and watched him, observing his brother's body, his sleepy, sensual movements, occasionally twitching as he encountered soreness and stiff muscles. "Oh, I miss this bed," Nathan said. His voice was different now, softer and huskier. He was more relaxed than he had been. "It feels like forever since I've been here. I could sleep for days."
"You shouldn't sleep yet," Peter warned. "Let me feel your head. Check the swelling." He moved to the side of the bed as Nathan sat up, and pressed his fingertips at the back of Nathan's skull, where Peter had seen Nathan's head slam into the mantel as twisted, struggling bodies fell, just before Peter had briefly lost consciousness from electric shock and his own blow to the head. Peter shook off the memory, focusing instead on the logic of living tissue.
The swelling was negligible, and the flesh didn't feel inflamed. "Your head's as hard as a rock," Peter said, feeling a smile tug momentarily at the corner of his mouth. "Feels okay..." As he palpated further along, further toward the crown, and over toward Nathan's temple where the hair grew longest, Peter felt a sudden ridge of distended skin, a little sticky with dried blood, and hot with trapped fluid. Peter hadn't witnessed the cause of that injury; must have happened while he was blacked out. Or after he'd left the room, with Claire, while Nathan and Sylar were outside.
Nathan winced, but didn't move away. "I'm sorry," Peter murmured reflexively. He said that whenever he caused a patient pain. The habit had gotten him into trouble more than once as an EMT. His bosses told him it wasted time; he'd argued that it helped to calm accident victims. He snickered at the memory; he would have probably been fired from that job, too, if he hadn't just disappeared one day without even having a chance to call in. To this day, the job he'd held longest was the year and a half he'd done at the Starbucks on St. Marks Place.
"What's funny?" Nathan asked quietly.
Peter just smiled and shook his head. It wasn't something he felt that he had to share. His smile vanished as he realized that he just didn't have to share everything with Nathan anymore; he was past the need for Nathan's opinion or Nathan's approval. Instead of answering the question, he just stood up. "I'm going to get you some ice for this. Do you have any Tylenol? You should take some."
"In the medicine cabinet... There's no ice. I always send out for it." He accepted a couple of white pills and a glass of water.
"Well, that'll help a little bit with the inflammation and the headache. It'll be safe for you to sleep in a couple of hours." Peter refilled the glass and set it on the bureau, and fetched a cold, wet washcloth to press against the bump. He remained standing, hands in his pockets, unsure of his role beyond that of nurse. Things could never be the same again, could they? He wasn't the same person anymore, even since last time, a few short weeks ago at the Primatech facility in New York. He'd lived another lifetime since then; he imagined Nathan had, too. Had done so many terrible things to each other. Then again, what else was new?
Nathan lay down again, on his side, facing Peter. He didn't look inviting, yet not disinterested. He looked curious, anticipatory, like a child in a classroom. Waiting to be impressed.
"Help me stay awake?" he asked.
"Okay," Peter said. "How?"
"Show me something," Nathan said. "Show me you."
After a moment's hesitation, Peter shrugged away his shyness, and took off his clothes, piling them neatly in a soft chair next to the bureau. Nathan watched closely, smiling, quirking an eyebrow as Peter became naked. Peter pulled off his briefs and dropped them on top of the pile, then straightened up, and let Nathan have a good look at him. Nathan gazed at him, his face revealing nothing as he investigated Peter's body. "So," Peter asked defiantly, "am I still beautiful?"
Nathan nodded. "Yeah... just not in the same way."
Peter bowed his head, accepting this. He was no longer the beautiful boy, the delicate teenage angel, though the thick muscles he'd built in the Primatech prison had diminished over the last few months. "I've lost weight," he explained.
"I've gained," Nathan said ruefully.
"Let me see."
Nathan squirmed out of his T-shirt, unfastened his trousers, and pulled them down. He had put on a slight amount of weight all over, but it only meant that he now looked healthy, and not gaunt with worry as he had been. Trim and muscular and healthy, with glorious arms and subtle muscular definition. Peter sighed at the sight. Nathan's skin was lightly dappled with bruises and scrapes, smudged with dried blood. "You didn't take a shower at the hospital?" Peter asked, sitting beside Nathan, wanting to touch the injuries and yet unable to reach out.
"No, Peter," Nathan replied with a familiar impatient bitchiness that brought a grin to Peter's face. "There really wasn't time. I had staffers to advise. I had..." He caught his breath and sighed. "I had to deal with Noah," he added. "With... that whole situation."
"Yeah," Peter said. "That's plenty."
"You're so pretty when you smile," Nathan broke in suddenly. He was the one to reach out, stroking his thumb across Peter's cheek. "I wish you'd do it more often."
Peter blushed and looked away. "You sound like Ma."
"Ma," Nathan echoed, giving way on the bed for Peter to lie beside him. "Our mother." He shook his head a little, reaching for Peter, drawing him in. "It's so odd. You and me. Don't you think?" Closeness again. Yes, perhaps, maybe. Not the same was it was, but there was still something there. Peter didn't need to be afraid. He just needed to be close, to touch, to smell, to feel Nathan's living warmth.
"Every day," Peter answered. He pressed his mouth against Nathan's lower lip. At first, Nathan didn't kiss back, but Peter didn't let it deter him; he needed to kiss Nathan right now, no matter what. Gradually Nathan's mouth softened and opened, but he turned away from the kiss long before Peter was satisfied, taking deep breaths through flaring nostrils. He knitted his brow, frowning, and a shiver ran through his body, so profound that Peter could feel the hairs rising up all along Nathan's arms and legs.
Nathan turned toward him, and rested his head in the hollow between Peter's arm and shoulder, cheek resting against the skin of Peter's chest. He wrapped one arm across Peter's belly, the other reaching up Peter's arm, and pressed his body against Peter's side. He was precisely enacting the way that he and Peter had first physically felt for each other, even from childhood, long before there was anything sexual in it. He clung to Peter the way Peter had always clung to him. The strange thing was, they fit together this way, too, even if Nathan was taller and Peter's arms longer; his feet extended past Peter's, and his genitals squeezed against the top of Peter's thigh, when Peter's had neatly occupied the hollow of Nathan's hip joint. But... yes, this, also. And yet. "Whatcha doin'?" Peter murmured.
The answer was breathy and halting. "I just... need to remember. Remember what we had."
"'Cos you did forget, didn't you?" Peter replied, a little bitterly.
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said, "no. Never. But I maybe forgot... what it meant. Maybe I never really knew."
"Oh?" said Peter. He felt sharp all of a sudden, even as Nathan's proximity and warmth worked their magic on him. His body didn't care about betrayals or principles or hypocrisy; he felt Nathan's warm, yielding cock against him, Nathan's breath on his shoulder, and biology did the rest. "So what did it mean at Primatech?" he asked, fighting it, knowing he'd lose; wanting to lose. Wanting all this weirdness to be gone. Take me. Insist. Get angry. Get self-righteous and selfish and grabby. Demand your fuck, like you did before. "What did it mean to make me get you off right then? Just having fun with ordinary, normal me? Didn't have to be scared of me anymore?"
"No," Nathan insisted, holding Peter closer. "It wasn't like that." He rubbed his nose and lips against Peter's chest, and now Peter quivered. Delicious; so soft, but with the roughness of Nathan's rapidly growing stubble enfolding it. Tenderness. Maybe not what Peter wanted, but perhaps what he needed. What they both needed. Peter sighed, excitement and frustration and satisfaction mounting and tangling inside him. "That wasn't it at all. I love you, no matter what you can do. No, Peter, I just... I wanted you. So badly. I had to have you. Yeah, right then. I didn't want to wait. And I knew you'd give in. I knew you wanted me too." He kissed Peter's collarbone, the edge of Peter's nipple, smiling as he saw it tighten and invert. "Yes. I can tell when you want me."
Peter said nothing. His body did all the talking - taut nipples, thickening cock, slow and heavy breathing.
Nathan smiled. "Are you still my slave?" he asked softly, chuckling, kissing Peter's jaw. He plucked at the nearest nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "My always and totally and forever sex slave?"
Peter closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Nathan's caressing arm, and told the truth.
"No."
He moved out from under Nathan, and rose over him, holding Nathan's shoulders, staring down into his eyes. Nathan didn't look upset, only serious, and again, curious and receptive, as though he was learning something, as though he was an eager new student. Peter felt his chest ache with emotion.
"I love you because I want to," Peter said.
***
He crushed his lips down on Nathan's, hard enough to hurt. Nathan grabbed the sides of Peter's head, holding him back just slightly, but rising up underneath him, opening his mouth to Peter's aggressive tongue. Nathan slid his hands down the sides of Peter's face, over his neck and shoulders and back. He gripped Peter's buttocks in his hands, his touch eager but not rough. Warm shocks of pleasure ran through Peter's body, the height of the sensation centered in his behind. Before Peter realized what was happening, Nathan had him on his back at the edge of the bed, dangerously close to falling off, holding him steady, sliding one knee between Peter's thighs.
"Ummmm... oh," Peter moaned, turning out of the kiss, gasping for breath. "Take it easy. You've got a-"
"A head injury. I know. I can feel it. You don't need to nanny me." Nathan lightened his kiss, though, not restraining Peter's arms or body, just opening him up, exposing his now-rampant erection. Nathan craned his neck to look down at it, head tilting curiously, again as though he'd never seen anything like it. Peter ran his hands over Nathan's torso, skimming lightly around the cuts and bruises, then closing his eyes and relaxing, waiting for Nathan to start tasting him. So good... so familiar... But Nathan hesitated for a very long time, just looking, just watching.
"Go ahead," Peter sighed, "please."
"Tell me..." Nathan murmured, "what you want. I want to get it right. I want you to be happy. I want you to love me again."
"But..." Peter scoffed faintly, running his hands over Nathan's ass, kneading the warm, muscular flesh. If there was any softness in his body, it was all here. "I already do love you. I love you so much I can't stand it."
"Even now?"
"Especially now. God, Nathan... please... don't make this complicated..." Peter closed his eyes. "Run your tongue over me. Eat my ass. Suck my cock. Suck my balls. Get inside me. Just... do whatever you want. Whatever you remember that I like. I just want this."
"Show me," Nathan said. "Show me what you like."
"You are so greedy," Peter remarked.
Nathan raised his eyebrows innocently. "Teach me," he said. "I don't know if you've changed. Touch me how you want to be touched. I didn't say that because I want to take anything from you; I want to share it with you. But I can't share it unless I know what it is." He bent his head and gently kissed Peter on both cheeks. "I know you're good. I know you'll please me. I want to please you."
Peter just stared up at him, overwhelmed from this kindness, this generosity that he had wondered would be gone from Nathan forever. He couldn't resist smiling, rubbing the tip of his nose against Nathan's. "Well, first off, I need lube," he mentioned. "Where is it?"
"It's where it usually is," Nathan replied.
"I've never been here before," Peter reminded him. "You have different furniture here." He sighed, thinking of the other people Nathan must have fucked in this very bed. He glanced around the room, looking for the most obvious place to keep it.
"Top drawer, bureau," Nathan said. "Right side. In the leather case."
"Kinky," Peter muttered, reluctantly leaving Nathan's warmth to go searching in his drawers. The case was precisely where Nathan had said it would be, containing a bottle of expensive lube, spermicidal foam, four or five different brands and types of condoms, alligator clips, a silk blindfold. "Ah, the politician's travel bag," Peter couldn't help saying. "Nipple clamps? Really?"
"Some women find them stimulating," was the nonchalant answer.
"No butt plug?" Peter asked.
Nathan slowly shook his head, smiling. "They have to bring their own."
"What about for you?" Peter grabbed the lube, and zipped the rest away, coming to rest on the bed beside Nathan. He ran one hand up the inner surface of Nathan's thigh, slowly and firmly. "Don't tell me that your ass goes hungry when it doesn't have to?" He grasped Nathan's half-hard cock in his hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses along its length, down toward the dark, tangled nest of pubic hair, producing an absolutely delicious, heart-warming moan. "Or is that TMI?" he continued, kissing the yielding surface of Nathan's balls. "Afraid you'll turn off that tasty little intern if she knows you love to get dicked as much as she does?"
"You have a filthy mind, Peter," Nathan said, his breath shuddering. "You've got a filthy mouth."
"Yeah," Peter agreed, arching his tongue, flicking the tip under the rim of the head. Nathan writhed with pleasure. "You love my filthy mouth. You love to fuck my filthy mouth. Don't you?"
"God, yes, I - oh, I do." Nathan was dissolving under his touch. Peter wondered how long it had been for him - days? Weeks? Nathan liked to fuck at least once a day, preferably twice. Unless he'd found some time to jerk off since before they'd gotten to Coyote Sands - and Peter doubted it, since Nathan had been with Claire before that - Nathan had to be aching to come. The thought made Peter kiss and lick Nathan's balls some more, whispering wordless assurances. "I love it and you love it," Nathan sighed. "You must love it, otherwise why would you keep coming back for more -" His words cut off as Peter smoothed a dollop of lube onto his forefinger, and pressed it between his buttocks. "My God," Nathan whispered, whimpering faintly as he felt himself penetrated. "Oh, wow. Oh, that feels - really good."
Wiggling the tip of his finger against Nathan's prostate, Peter enclosed the head of Nathan's cock in his mouth. It felt as though it had gotten bigger somehow, thicker and denser; it filled Peter's mouth so completely that he had to turn his head to gain enough leverage to suck. But when he pulled away and looked, Nathan's penis didn't look any bigger than it had before. It just felt like more. A hot shiver ran through Peter's body; how would that heavy rod feel up his ass? He moaned and sucked as best he could, relishing Nathan's increasingly intense moaning.
Then Peter pulled away, wiping his hand on the discarded wet towel. "That's what I want," he declared calmly. "Think you can do that?"
Nathan's eyes glittered. "You are the definition of a pushy bottom," he replied.
Peter didn't waver. "Yeah," he said. "I am. And I want you to fuck me."
"That's right; tell me what to do. Okay. Suck your cock first?" Nathan murmured attentively. "Just like you did for me?"
"And I want your fingers inside me, too. I need it. It's been too long for me. I need all of you."
"All this?" Nathan grabbed his own cock and squeezed it, rubbing his thumb over the moist, tight skin. "You take all this?"
Peter nodded and smiled. "Yeah," he said. He climbed over Nathan, positioning himself in the middle of the bed, lying there with his legs spread and one foot rubbing the opposite calf, his thigh muscles stretching and twitching, opening out his groin to Nathan's gaze and Nathan's touch. Nathan grasped the active leg and pulled it out, spreading Peter's legs even further, settling himself into the space between.
Instead of immediately taking hold of Peter's erection, Nathan rubbed his chest against it, dragging his heart and his hair across the tip of Peter's penis. Peter moaned in loud, lustful surprise, and slid his fingers up Nathan's head. Thoughtlessly he brushed against the bump on the high right side, and Nathan grabbed Peter's cock and squeezed it harder than was comfortable. "Sorry!" Peter yelped.
"My mistake," Nathan replied, somewhat coldly. He made up for his tone of voice by planting a big, wet kiss on the head of Peter's cock. "Sorry I accidentally made you feel really good for a moment."
"I really don't want to fight right now..."
"So let's don't," Nathan said. He slid Peter's cock into his mouth, running his tongue over the skin of the shaft and pushing the head into the hollow of his cheek. Peter moaned again; it had been a long, long time for him, too, and it had been even longer since he'd had a blowjob like this one. Nathan was bringing everything to it; the cheek-cradling, the licking, the sucking, knowing the pressure points along the shaft, pressing and stroking them all in their turn. Peter writhed, watching him when he could stand the thrill of the sight, happy to consider how heavy his load would be when he came; he'd feed Nathan for days. Suddenly, Nathan stopped, and looked up. "Oh, I forgot to lick your balls."
"That's okay," Peter assured him, his voice as breathless as if he'd been lifting weights. "You don't need to."
"Of course I do," Nathan said, handling Peter's testicles with a light, firm touch, bringing them to his mouth. He swept his tongue across them, as though he were reading them by taste. Peter clenched the bedsheet with his toes.
At the moment when Peter thought that he might lose control, Nathan took his mouth away, and gave him a moment to recover while he toyed with the lube bottle. Peter couldn't keep himself from stroking his cock, now as tight as a drum and red as cherries. "You haven't lost your touch," Peter murmured, angling himself back a bit, resting his weight on his shoulder blades so that Nathan would have more room to move.
"I should think not," Nathan said. "Turn over."
"But you have to do my cock at the same time," Peter whined.
Nathan raised his eyebrows. "I have to?" he asked. He smiled, to soften his words. "Don't worry, Peter. I'll take care of you." He pushed Peter over onto one side, propping up one bended leg, maintaining the spread-open position. He massaged Peter's ass cheeks for a moment, then parted them, and walked his fingers down the dark, hairy crevice. At the same time, though, he slid down between Peter's thighs, so that he lay on the bed crosswise, and Peter's spread legs enclosed Nathan's shoulders. Without using his hands, Nathan nibbled his way back down onto Peter's cock, and simultaneously slid two lubed fingers into his ass.
Peter let out a slow, calming breath so that he wouldn't pop off on the spot. Years ago, he couldn't have done it, but he had gotten fairly adept at delaying ejaculation for several minutes, at least. Still, he felt like he was being crushed between two opposing pleasures, and yet they were not in opposition at all. Nathan had a rhythm; up into the butt, back off the cock, then down the shaft and out with the fingers. It felt incredible, in a pattern just slightly faster than his breathing. He submitted quietly for a few seconds, then let a groan escape his lips. "Oh my God. That feels amazing. Amazing."
"I'm just getting you started," Nathan explained calmly.
"I can't take much more of this. I can't hold back -"
"Sure you can," Nathan said, pulsing his fingers inside. "It's what you're best at. Just let the pressure build up. You're stronger than you think."
"I think we should fuck now."
"I don't. Because I can't take much of that."
"Sure you can," was Peter's rejoinder. "I know you can. It's what you're best at. Fuck me for a long time."
"I'm too tired to fuck you for a long time right now, Pete."
"I'll ride you." Peter gently petted Nathan's head, careful to avoid the sore spot.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, but smiled. "I still participate." He looked away, still smiling, still fingerfucking Peter's asshole. "Give me a break. My head hurts."
"Not tonight, honey. I have a subdural hematoma," Peter joked, shuddering with pleasure, feeling the pressure back away again. It was like holding back a sneeze: it would eventually happen, and be earth-shaking when it did, but Nathan was right; he really could stand it. He didn't have to have an explosion of pleasure every time it was close. He could hold off. The funny thing was, he had actually figured that out when he was sixteen or seventeen, and had been fairly skilled at the practice until Nathan threw his self-control out the window. Being around Nathan made him want to come, made him want to rush it so that he could come again as soon as possible. It didn't need to be like that anymore. "What you like. When you're ready, give me that cock. Whenever you want; however you want to do it."
"Thank you," Nathan commented, and went back to sucking.
"I do still want to ride you sometime soon, though," Peter mumbled, one arm thrown across his eyes. "Both ways. The cowboy and the reverse. I love that. I miss that." Nathan didn't reply this time, and Peter filled the silence with moaning and cooing. When Nathan finally did draw his fingers out of him completely, Peter was relieved and bereft at the same time. "Oh, no, no," he sighed. "Oh, no, don't stop."
"I think we should fuck now," Nathan said.
"You ready?" Peter asked eagerly, brightening, flicking his overgrown hair out of his face. Nathan smiled at him, beautiful, eyes going glassy and vague again. "Yes? How do you want me?"
Instead of a verbal answer, Nathan pushed Peter's shoulder down onto the bed, leaving him lying face up, with one leg bent. Nathan grabbed that leg and slid Peter's wrist under the crook of the knee, making Peter open himself up and hold himself there. Nathan stared intently down at Peter's genitals and the curves of his buttocks, stroking a thick coat of clear, slick syrup onto his own cock. Peter whimpered in helpless lust, begging with his eyes, but Nathan wasn't looking at Peter's eyes; he stared at Peter's cock like he wanted to memorize every mole, every vein, and every hair.
All at once Nathan moved in, slipping the head of his cock against Peter's asshole, trying to find friction and purchase with lubed skin on lubed skin. He finally gave in and slid his fingers back into Peter's butt, slid his cockhead in alongside them, and then pulled his fingers out, wiping the smudge of lube against the ticklish back of Peter's thigh. Peter sighed, and tried to relax, and failing to do that, bore down with his internal muscles as carefully as he could. Nathan took advantage, thrusting in deep; too deep. Too hot and heavy and huge. "Oh fuck me; I'm like a virgin," Peter groaned, laughing in shaky hisses through his teeth.
Nathan didn't share in the laugh. "Does that feel good?"
"Yes... I just... uhhh." Peter gripped Nathan's ass hard, holding him steady about halfway in, relishing the touch of Nathan's balls brushing his inner thigh. Peter's face felt furiously hot; he was blushing tomato-red all the way down to the nipples. Nathan just watched him curiously, shifting slowly from side to side before pulling out and pushing in again, deeper. Peter yelped, then moaned, biting the tip of his tongue.
"This? This is your prostate."
"I know!"
"If I hit it, it'll make you come. Like, almost instantly. Right?" Nathan thrust more shallowly, holding Peter's buttocks apart with his hands.
"Oh, my fucking God, are you stupid all of a sudden?" Peter laughed hysterically, helplessly. "Not instantly. Rub it. Hit it. Slam it. It's good. I felt yours. You didn't come instantly, did you? Ohhh, my God." He laughed some more, raising his hips toward Nathan, closing his legs a bit, encouraging him to continue. "Do I need to shut up now?"
Nathan shook his head, thrusting in smooth, hard, and deep. "Just keep telling me how good it feels. And no, I'm not stupid all of a sudden. I'm fucking you, aren't I? I figure I got a pretty good deal."
"Do me. Just - uh - like that. Uh. Yeah." The position that Nathan had put him in actually made it so that the head of his cock slid past the prostate instead of impacting it, stimulating it without milking it. Through his erotic haze, Peter admired Nathan's ingenuity; they had done it this way before, but it had been a long time, and Peter was impressed that he remembered it so precisely. It was just right, keeping Peter in a strung-out state of arousal without bringing him to an orgasmic crisis, and Nathan could get very deep inside, his balls bouncing against Peter's ass cheeks. He thrust in to maximum depth and stayed there, unmoving, for a while, a series of short, husky cries spilling from his throat.
"Peter," he muttered. "You are so incredible."
"You love to fuck my ass," Peter hissed, arching his hips, desperate for Nathan to continue. "Don't you love it? I love it. My God, your cock's so heavy." It was just barely on the side of comfortable and tolerable and too much; he felt overstuffed, stretching, aching as he was reshaped yet again. And yet his ass knew Nathan's cock so well; every contour, every ridge. The enormous heat and the insistent friction of the rim of his cockhead, the feel of belly against belly. "Fuck, please. Please. Fucking give it to me."
Nathan drove his hips forward, then back, then in again, hips snapping fast, forcing Peter's upper back into the decadent softness of Nathan's mattress. Peter called out so loudly that he clapped his hand against his mouth, biting off his cries against his fingers, but Nathan grabbed Peter's hand and forced it away, kissing him, grunting, "Let me hear it. It's OK." He smiled wickedly. "Ma can't hear us."
"Oh - Ma," Peter groaned, and not in arousal. "I don't want to -" His words were cut off by another aggressive kiss, and the return of the huge cock shoving its insistent way into him, and he just couldn't think clearly enough to remember the next few words of his protest. Nathan held Peter's shoulders, embracing and covering him; cuddling him and fucking him at the same time, breath hot on Peter's forehead and collarbone and lips. Peter relaxed. He let go of his self-restraint, and let himself feel the immensity of what was happening.
They were alive, and they were together, and they were fucking, tender and nasty at once. Everything was beautiful, even the horrible things. He let go, and let the wildfire of his reflexes consume him.
He bucked vigorously under Nathan, moaning wordlessly, more like an animal's call than human speech. Nathan matched his spasms, changing his angle and depth so that the head of his cock pushed against the prostate, just a few times and without much pressure, but enough to break Peter's soul open, twist him like a wire and shatter him like glass. "Oh! Fuck! Oh! Fuck!" he screamed.
Nathan watched him and smiled, slowing his thrusts to a gentle pulse. "That's more like it," he said. "I was wondering if you were enjoying yourself."
Peter couldn't speak. He lay there, spurting thick ribbons of semen all over his pubes and stomach, all over Nathan's, all over their thighs. He came so much that he felt dizzy when it was finished, as though he'd literally been flipped upside down, and meanwhile Nathan just smiled and kept fucking him.
"Now you," Peter mumbled when he was able to find words again. "Now you. Show me." He wiped up some of the come from his belly, and held his fingers toward Nathan's mouth.
Nathan ignored them.
He pulled out of Peter's ass, sat up on his knees, and stroked his shiny, swollen cock, pointing the head toward Peter's belly. "On your face?" he asked.
Peter shook his head and stared at him. He had returned to earth with a resounding thud. He stroked his nipples by way of offering a different location, and Nathan smiled sweetly and masturbated. Shortly, his breath hitched, and his cock shot a load of come heavier and more copious than anything Peter had ever seen from him. It spattered his chest and the base of his neck, pooling in his clavicle. It was so impressive that Peter momentarily forgot his unease at Nathan's refusal of a taste of spunk.
The unease returned, though, when Nathan mopped up all of the spilled come from Peter's body with the damp towel, then lay beside him, his expression crumpled and troubled. His eyes had gone glassy again, but this time, tears overflowed from them, spilling down Nathan's cheeks.
Peter blinked, astonished, and slid his arms around Nathan. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asked, his heart pinging with concern. "Are you okay? Is it your head?"
Nathan shook his head, but the tears didn't stop flowing. "No, my head's fine," he murmured. "It's... It's just that I love you so much. I love you. And I love Ma. And I love Claire. And I miss my boys. And I don't know... I don't know if you'll ever forgive me."
"Hey, now, stop that. I'm here, aren't I?" Peter was shaken. He wasn't used to anyone else encroaching on them when they were in bed together; they were supposed to put all that stuff out of their minds. Peter thought that was the arrangement. "We'll go see the boys tomorrow. Is that okay? I can go see them. We can go; we can both go."
"Heidi doesn't want me anywhere near them," Nathan said. His voice was resigned. "I don't blame her. She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand me; or the Petrellis. Or abilities. Or us." Nathan gazed at Peter, making no move to stop or wipe away his tears. "I don't blame her."
"You have to forgive yourself, Nathan," Peter replied, gripping Nathan's arms in his hands. "Before anything else. You have to forgive yourself. That's the source of all these problems in the first place."
"That's a completely disingenuous thing for you to say, Peter. Look, I know you're trying to make me feel better. But I need real solutions right now. And I don't want to lose them. I don't want to lose another kid, you know? I love them all. I just... fuck up." He sighed.
Peter kissed Nathan's wet cheek. "You don't need to figure it out tonight," Peter said. "It's 3:30. You should get some sleep. You have to take care of that big blockhead of yours, or not much is gonna get accomplished." He kissed Nathan's forehead, and got up from the bed, drawing the sheets over Nathan's nude, sweaty form. "I'm gonna go take a shower, then use your computer, if you don't mind," he added. "I just need to check a couple of things. And then I'll be in. Save some room for me, all right?" He kissed Nathan on the mouth. "That was amazing," he said. "You're still the best."
Nathan smiled slowly, a fresh tear running from his eye. "It's so beautiful how you give yourself to me," he murmured.
Peter turned away, carrying the semen-soaked towel to the bathroom, and turning on the shower tap. He refilled the water glass again, and set it and a couple more Tylenol on the bedside table. Bending down, he shared a gentle kiss on the lips with Nathan, petted his head a bit more, and returned to the bathroom.
He stepped under the water, sighing, and let his own tears fall.
Something wasn't quite right. Something had changed.
END (56)
Note: This story was a fun and heartbreaking challenge, trying to blend Sylar's character with Nathan's without losing an essence of either, and yet without Sylar's self-identity present. I haven't written about Sylar very much - there's enough going on with him that I didn't have time to focus on him while I was focusing on Peter and Nathan - but he's been one of my favorite characters from the beginning and I watched him very closely on the Season 3 rewatch, and was intrigued by his passion, tenderness, sentimentality, and vulnerability, even if he is a staggeringly horrible person. :) He is literally a lost soul. And while he will never truly be Nathan to me, this is still an interesting situation to play with. And remember, folks - Peter doesn't know. DRAMA! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.
Title: Ritual (56): Because I Want To
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: All aired episodes through the end of Season Three
Word count: 8100 words
Warnings: see pairing and rating; serious angst
Summary: After a gruesome bonfire, a new Nathan needs to reconnect with Peter - and with himself.
Note: This is the first in a hoped-for story arc dealing with the aftermath of Nathan's fate, and running up to the opening scenes of Volume 5. Let's see if I'm up to the challenge!
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Disclaimer: Heroes and associated characters belong to Tim Kring, Tailwinds Productions, and NBC/Universal, not to me. This is fan fiction and no revenue is generated or accepted from its online presentation.
The events of this story happen between the concluding events of Volume Four, "Fugitives", and the opening of Volume Five, "Redemption." The date is a guess, but as far as I can tell, fairly accurate.
"That's what brothers do, Peter... they look out for each other."
MAY 2007
It was the smell that got to Peter.
It wasn't seeing the serial killer's cold, lifeless body, finally stopped with a massive metal spike to the back of the head. The sight of him dead only left Peter feeling numb satisfaction - that saturnine, satanic face, slack now in death; the hair and eyebrows that had bristled thick and furious in life now strangely colorless, as dull as old wool. Peter recognized the impersonal blankness on Noah Bennet's face as he called to authorize cremation of the body, giving no hint that Sylar was not going to a nice, civilized kiln, but instead being carted out of town, hoisted onto a brazier, and torched like a remorseful love letter. Peter was happy to watch the motherfucker burn. It was good, the thought of seeing the monster utterly consumed, reduced to grease, ashes, and bones. At least, Peter thought he was happy. He knew he should be happy.
No, it was the smell, first a terrifyingly wrong odor of burning hair and clothing, and then something that reminded Peter too closely of summer barbecues, of pork roasting on hot coals at a luau, that made Peter finally turn away. Monster or no, that was a human - a homo sapiens sapiens - burning and cooking and belching oily smoke into the air, and for a moment he'd forgotten it, so tired and so focused on savoring his revenge that he zoned out, and thought idly, Man; I'm hungry.
He shuddered with horror, turning away from Claire, turning his back to the fire. Claire turned after him, wrapping her hand around Peter's arm, and he took a deep breath and let her touch enter into him, soothe him, erase his fatigue and nausea. "You okay?" she asked. Her voice was dull. She cared, but she was tired, too.
"Yeah," he responded. He pulled her to him for a brief, one-armed hug, and they stood side by side, lapsing into silence again. There was too much to talk about between them, and neither of them was ready to share, to explain. Not tonight. They loved each other, but in so many ways, they were strangers. He could easily imagine what kinds of atrocities Sylar had put her through, and she wouldn't talk about it. (And the things that he himself had done... Peter wasn't sure he could ever tell her.) She had been burned before. She knew how it felt. If she was anything like Peter (and he knew that she was), she was remembering how much it hurt, wondering if this really would destroy Sylar. Maybe it wouldn't, and he'd be back, and he'd be after her again.
Peter's mind cowered and crawled away from these thoughts. Empathy was a bitch, and he had far too much of it with Claire as it was. He let her go, and stood with his arms locked around himself, cold despite the heat from the fire burning against the backs of his legs. He had to believe that this was over; that Sylar was over.
God, it's so weird. He meant so much to all of us. He meant nightmares and pain and hell and death. So much. He changed us all. He brought us together. Now, finally, somehow, he's dead. Nathan finally stopped him, and he ends here, while we keep going. We keep living, marked by him. Invisible, aching scars that will never heal. We will never forget him. Even though we burn his body, scatter his ashes into the ocean, wipe him off the face of the Earth, he will always be with us.
Peter looked across the flames, and caught Nathan staring at him. Seeking something. When Peter glanced over at his mother, she was watching Nathan too, her eyes large and dark and fathomless, like her son's, her expression remote and unreadable. She and Nathan had stood close for hours, and Peter let them be. If Nathan came to him, he'd be welcomed, but Peter wasn't going to rush it. When Nathan felt ready, Peter had faith that he'd come. He wanted Nathan to feel that one-on-one connection with Angela, as he himself had done. It was Nathan's turn now. He needed his mother. He'd been through a lot that day.
Victory or no, he had killed a man.
***
Eventually, Nathan did approach.
Claire had left Peter's side, seeking out comfort and reassurance from Noah, and the others had drifted away as the wood burned and the flesh roasted. Peter had looked away from Nathan, away from the fire, instead watching the night sky through the trees, and didn't hear Nathan's footsteps until his brother had nearly reached him. Peter looked at Nathan and tried to unsuccessfully to smile. "Nate," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He looked at Nathan and, for a moment, didn't recognize him. He felt very strange, numb and disconnected, and realized that he was still, or now more than ever, in shock. The weight of the last few days had collapsed on top of him.
"We should take Ma back into town," Nathan said. "She can spend the night in the apartment downstairs from mine; the senator who lives there will be out of town until next Tuesday." When he paused, Peter nodded and shrugged, unsure of what his response should be. Nathan cocked his head slightly, frowning. When he spoke again, it was so quiet that it could barely be heard over the fire. "Stay with me tonight," he said, eyes red from watching the fire, his expression intense, urgent, almost worried. "I need you to... stay with me tonight."
Peter just nodded again. "Yeah," he murmured. "Okay." He's in shock, too, he thought.
***
Rather than sharing a house with other out-of-state senators as was customary, Nathan had his own apartment in a deceptively pleasant building in Old Georgetown. It might have looked like a cute little brownstone, but the front door was secured by both a key card and an eleven-digit combination. Angela, Peter, and Nathan were silent as they went inside and up a flight of stairs toward the unoccupied apartment. Nathan unlocked the door and stood aside to let Angela enter.
"We're right upstairs," Nathan said. "Come up, or call, if you need anything. Absolutely anything."
"Thank you, Nathan." She hesitated just outside the door, gripping Nathan's hand, then turned to Peter and held his face between her palms. Peter stared back at her, guilt lancing through his numb fog. She had to know what was likely to happen, with the two of them alone together, hurting and needing comfort. But she didn't seem upset or disappointed, only imploring. "Dear Peter," she said. "Get some rest. I hope... that someday, you'll be able to forgive me for what I've done."
"Of course, Ma," Peter said, squirming. "I hope you forgive me."
She pressed her lips together in a thin, pained smile, and then kissed him lightly on the mouth. She went inside, and closed the door behind her without another word.
Peter and Nathan went up another flight of stairs. Nathan stood in front of his own door, staring down at his key ring as if he wasn't sure which key was the right one. Peter waited patiently for him to figure it out; he used the wrong key twice. Nathan smiled uncertainly. "They all look the same," he explained. "That's right; it's the third one in. Parking garage; storage space; apartment door. I got it now."
"You should get those little plastic rings to put on 'em, tell which is which," Peter advised, following Nathan inside. Nathan flipped all of the wall switches as he came inside, seeming inordinately pleased and relieved as he flooded the rooms with electric light. Peter hated it. It was too bright, and yet, the blaze of bulbs hardly seemed like enough to chase the shadows away. He sat down on the far end of Nathan's couch, wrapping his arms around himself, curling himself into a ball. When Nathan raised his eyebrows at him, Peter pulled off his boots, and resettled his socked feet underneath him. "Nice place," he muttered.
Nathan glanced around at the buttercream walls, the impeccably expensive furnishings; he nodded, shrugging noncommittally. "I like nice things," he replied. He noticed a wilted stem of a dead orchid, drooping over the lip of a vase, and snatched it up, tossing it into a wastebasket. "Not that I've been here much recently. I'm afraid to look in the fridge."
"Your leftovers have probably grown heads," Peter added.
"Eight or nine apiece," Nathan offered. His voice was affectless, a monotone that cracked at the edges. "Eighteen different colors of mold." He settled down on the couch, too, on the opposite end from Peter, staring in the other direction. "I do have a cleaning service," he remembered. "So. Maybe it's okay."
"That's smart," Peter said, but couldn't find the rest of the words to make it a complete thought. There was just too much light in the room, and the taste of black smoke still in his throat. Now that he was someplace safe, someplace silent and alone with Nathan, the numbness that had protected him for the last several hours began to fall away. Too many sensations warred for his attention; he was powerless to keep himself from thinking about everything.
I killed you. Not me, but me. I saw you die in my arms, and then watched you live again on television, in a church, only to kill you again. I can still feel it - the resistance to my slicing razor of will, your skull parting under an invisible knife, because I wanted to climb inside you and take everything you are. And then Dad took that from me. Maybe the best thing he ever did for me. And I killed him, too. How can you look at me? Oh, God. How can this be my life? No, no, it's not real. None of this is real; I'm crazy. I made it all up. I cracked. Nothing happened. I realize it now - now I'm sane. I was insane, delusional, but right now I'm better. I had a psychotic break and came to see you and none of that shit happened. Please. God. Christ Redeemer, hear me again; give me this. I beg you. Peter covered a choking sob with a cough. When he looked at Nathan, Nathan quickly lowered his eyes. That's it. Everything's chill and normal. Nathan's a senator. I just came to see him to get my head on straight. I'm not thinking clearly and neither is he; we both have concussions. Except that we don't; I did, but Claire healed me, and Nathan has a concussion because Sylar slammed his head into the fireplace of the hotel suite when they were fighting... OH SHIT NO. Fuck. No. Dammit, God. Dammit. Peter coughed again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, pulling his persective away from despair with all of his might. I have to accept it. It's real. It's all real. Those things that happened really happened. I have died. Nathan has died. I have killed him twice. And yet, there he is. Here I am. We are together. Oh. Yes. Faith and holy mystery. Miracles exist. We are miracles-
Breaking into Peter's reverie, Nathan asked solicitously, "Can I get you anything?"
Peter shook his head, returning to the present, to reality. He couldn't look at Nathan yet; his mere presence was so beautiful that it hurt. "Just... touch me," murmured.
"What?" Nathan said softly. Genuinely surprised, but only for a moment; also, pleased.
"Touch me. I'm - I'm freaking out," Peter replied, letting out his breath heavily. "Overwhelmed. I can't stop - I can't unwind. Just..."
"Ssh. I get it. It's okay." Nathan slid closer, and wrapped his arms around Peter, sighing too. Not letting it all out, but some. Too much to let out all at once. For a long time, Peter remained locked tightly to himself, then his arms loosened, and slid around Nathan's shoulders, bringing him closer, pressing their cheeks together. Nathan held tight. Peter's nose filled with the smell of him, and he breathed deep, seeking for the familiar notes of Nathan's scent underneath the thick tang of sweat and dried blood and smoke.
There - there - yes. It took a moment for it to emerge, but there it was; Peter's favorite smell. He held Nathan close, gulping down great lungfuls. Nathan's scent had changed, just slightly. It happened as a man got older; there were new aspects in it. Peter couldn't have described what they were, but he perceived them all the same. Peter was grateful. Grateful for the silver threads growing through at Nathan's temples. It was good that Nathan got older. It meant that he was still alive. Despite everything.
Peter pressed his mouth against Nathan's neck, kissing until Nathan's pulse pushed back against his lips. He drew back just enough to look into Nathan's eyes. Nathan's expression was distant, his eyes almost glassy, but he focused on Peter, and smiled, curiously, as though he'd never really looked at Peter before. Nathan looked very noble, and very sad, running a fingertip across Peter's hairline at the forehead, down the side of his face, tracing his lips, slow and excruciatingly sweet.
I would die for you, Peter thought.
"Can we turn out the lights?" he asked quietly. "You've got a head injury. You should go to bed. You should lie down."
"Will you come with me?" Nathan said. "I shouldn't be alone."
"No," Peter agreed. "Don't worry. I'm here."
***
Just a little light, now, from the bulb over the kitchen stove spilling in through the open bedroom door. Nathan lay on his bed, half-dressed, barefoot, a handful of steel-gray sheet trailing through his fingers. Peter stood and watched him, observing his brother's body, his sleepy, sensual movements, occasionally twitching as he encountered soreness and stiff muscles. "Oh, I miss this bed," Nathan said. His voice was different now, softer and huskier. He was more relaxed than he had been. "It feels like forever since I've been here. I could sleep for days."
"You shouldn't sleep yet," Peter warned. "Let me feel your head. Check the swelling." He moved to the side of the bed as Nathan sat up, and pressed his fingertips at the back of Nathan's skull, where Peter had seen Nathan's head slam into the mantel as twisted, struggling bodies fell, just before Peter had briefly lost consciousness from electric shock and his own blow to the head. Peter shook off the memory, focusing instead on the logic of living tissue.
The swelling was negligible, and the flesh didn't feel inflamed. "Your head's as hard as a rock," Peter said, feeling a smile tug momentarily at the corner of his mouth. "Feels okay..." As he palpated further along, further toward the crown, and over toward Nathan's temple where the hair grew longest, Peter felt a sudden ridge of distended skin, a little sticky with dried blood, and hot with trapped fluid. Peter hadn't witnessed the cause of that injury; must have happened while he was blacked out. Or after he'd left the room, with Claire, while Nathan and Sylar were outside.
Nathan winced, but didn't move away. "I'm sorry," Peter murmured reflexively. He said that whenever he caused a patient pain. The habit had gotten him into trouble more than once as an EMT. His bosses told him it wasted time; he'd argued that it helped to calm accident victims. He snickered at the memory; he would have probably been fired from that job, too, if he hadn't just disappeared one day without even having a chance to call in. To this day, the job he'd held longest was the year and a half he'd done at the Starbucks on St. Marks Place.
"What's funny?" Nathan asked quietly.
Peter just smiled and shook his head. It wasn't something he felt that he had to share. His smile vanished as he realized that he just didn't have to share everything with Nathan anymore; he was past the need for Nathan's opinion or Nathan's approval. Instead of answering the question, he just stood up. "I'm going to get you some ice for this. Do you have any Tylenol? You should take some."
"In the medicine cabinet... There's no ice. I always send out for it." He accepted a couple of white pills and a glass of water.
"Well, that'll help a little bit with the inflammation and the headache. It'll be safe for you to sleep in a couple of hours." Peter refilled the glass and set it on the bureau, and fetched a cold, wet washcloth to press against the bump. He remained standing, hands in his pockets, unsure of his role beyond that of nurse. Things could never be the same again, could they? He wasn't the same person anymore, even since last time, a few short weeks ago at the Primatech facility in New York. He'd lived another lifetime since then; he imagined Nathan had, too. Had done so many terrible things to each other. Then again, what else was new?
Nathan lay down again, on his side, facing Peter. He didn't look inviting, yet not disinterested. He looked curious, anticipatory, like a child in a classroom. Waiting to be impressed.
"Help me stay awake?" he asked.
"Okay," Peter said. "How?"
"Show me something," Nathan said. "Show me you."
After a moment's hesitation, Peter shrugged away his shyness, and took off his clothes, piling them neatly in a soft chair next to the bureau. Nathan watched closely, smiling, quirking an eyebrow as Peter became naked. Peter pulled off his briefs and dropped them on top of the pile, then straightened up, and let Nathan have a good look at him. Nathan gazed at him, his face revealing nothing as he investigated Peter's body. "So," Peter asked defiantly, "am I still beautiful?"
Nathan nodded. "Yeah... just not in the same way."
Peter bowed his head, accepting this. He was no longer the beautiful boy, the delicate teenage angel, though the thick muscles he'd built in the Primatech prison had diminished over the last few months. "I've lost weight," he explained.
"I've gained," Nathan said ruefully.
"Let me see."
Nathan squirmed out of his T-shirt, unfastened his trousers, and pulled them down. He had put on a slight amount of weight all over, but it only meant that he now looked healthy, and not gaunt with worry as he had been. Trim and muscular and healthy, with glorious arms and subtle muscular definition. Peter sighed at the sight. Nathan's skin was lightly dappled with bruises and scrapes, smudged with dried blood. "You didn't take a shower at the hospital?" Peter asked, sitting beside Nathan, wanting to touch the injuries and yet unable to reach out.
"No, Peter," Nathan replied with a familiar impatient bitchiness that brought a grin to Peter's face. "There really wasn't time. I had staffers to advise. I had..." He caught his breath and sighed. "I had to deal with Noah," he added. "With... that whole situation."
"Yeah," Peter said. "That's plenty."
"You're so pretty when you smile," Nathan broke in suddenly. He was the one to reach out, stroking his thumb across Peter's cheek. "I wish you'd do it more often."
Peter blushed and looked away. "You sound like Ma."
"Ma," Nathan echoed, giving way on the bed for Peter to lie beside him. "Our mother." He shook his head a little, reaching for Peter, drawing him in. "It's so odd. You and me. Don't you think?" Closeness again. Yes, perhaps, maybe. Not the same was it was, but there was still something there. Peter didn't need to be afraid. He just needed to be close, to touch, to smell, to feel Nathan's living warmth.
"Every day," Peter answered. He pressed his mouth against Nathan's lower lip. At first, Nathan didn't kiss back, but Peter didn't let it deter him; he needed to kiss Nathan right now, no matter what. Gradually Nathan's mouth softened and opened, but he turned away from the kiss long before Peter was satisfied, taking deep breaths through flaring nostrils. He knitted his brow, frowning, and a shiver ran through his body, so profound that Peter could feel the hairs rising up all along Nathan's arms and legs.
Nathan turned toward him, and rested his head in the hollow between Peter's arm and shoulder, cheek resting against the skin of Peter's chest. He wrapped one arm across Peter's belly, the other reaching up Peter's arm, and pressed his body against Peter's side. He was precisely enacting the way that he and Peter had first physically felt for each other, even from childhood, long before there was anything sexual in it. He clung to Peter the way Peter had always clung to him. The strange thing was, they fit together this way, too, even if Nathan was taller and Peter's arms longer; his feet extended past Peter's, and his genitals squeezed against the top of Peter's thigh, when Peter's had neatly occupied the hollow of Nathan's hip joint. But... yes, this, also. And yet. "Whatcha doin'?" Peter murmured.
The answer was breathy and halting. "I just... need to remember. Remember what we had."
"'Cos you did forget, didn't you?" Peter replied, a little bitterly.
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said, "no. Never. But I maybe forgot... what it meant. Maybe I never really knew."
"Oh?" said Peter. He felt sharp all of a sudden, even as Nathan's proximity and warmth worked their magic on him. His body didn't care about betrayals or principles or hypocrisy; he felt Nathan's warm, yielding cock against him, Nathan's breath on his shoulder, and biology did the rest. "So what did it mean at Primatech?" he asked, fighting it, knowing he'd lose; wanting to lose. Wanting all this weirdness to be gone. Take me. Insist. Get angry. Get self-righteous and selfish and grabby. Demand your fuck, like you did before. "What did it mean to make me get you off right then? Just having fun with ordinary, normal me? Didn't have to be scared of me anymore?"
"No," Nathan insisted, holding Peter closer. "It wasn't like that." He rubbed his nose and lips against Peter's chest, and now Peter quivered. Delicious; so soft, but with the roughness of Nathan's rapidly growing stubble enfolding it. Tenderness. Maybe not what Peter wanted, but perhaps what he needed. What they both needed. Peter sighed, excitement and frustration and satisfaction mounting and tangling inside him. "That wasn't it at all. I love you, no matter what you can do. No, Peter, I just... I wanted you. So badly. I had to have you. Yeah, right then. I didn't want to wait. And I knew you'd give in. I knew you wanted me too." He kissed Peter's collarbone, the edge of Peter's nipple, smiling as he saw it tighten and invert. "Yes. I can tell when you want me."
Peter said nothing. His body did all the talking - taut nipples, thickening cock, slow and heavy breathing.
Nathan smiled. "Are you still my slave?" he asked softly, chuckling, kissing Peter's jaw. He plucked at the nearest nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "My always and totally and forever sex slave?"
Peter closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Nathan's caressing arm, and told the truth.
"No."
He moved out from under Nathan, and rose over him, holding Nathan's shoulders, staring down into his eyes. Nathan didn't look upset, only serious, and again, curious and receptive, as though he was learning something, as though he was an eager new student. Peter felt his chest ache with emotion.
"I love you because I want to," Peter said.
***
He crushed his lips down on Nathan's, hard enough to hurt. Nathan grabbed the sides of Peter's head, holding him back just slightly, but rising up underneath him, opening his mouth to Peter's aggressive tongue. Nathan slid his hands down the sides of Peter's face, over his neck and shoulders and back. He gripped Peter's buttocks in his hands, his touch eager but not rough. Warm shocks of pleasure ran through Peter's body, the height of the sensation centered in his behind. Before Peter realized what was happening, Nathan had him on his back at the edge of the bed, dangerously close to falling off, holding him steady, sliding one knee between Peter's thighs.
"Ummmm... oh," Peter moaned, turning out of the kiss, gasping for breath. "Take it easy. You've got a-"
"A head injury. I know. I can feel it. You don't need to nanny me." Nathan lightened his kiss, though, not restraining Peter's arms or body, just opening him up, exposing his now-rampant erection. Nathan craned his neck to look down at it, head tilting curiously, again as though he'd never seen anything like it. Peter ran his hands over Nathan's torso, skimming lightly around the cuts and bruises, then closing his eyes and relaxing, waiting for Nathan to start tasting him. So good... so familiar... But Nathan hesitated for a very long time, just looking, just watching.
"Go ahead," Peter sighed, "please."
"Tell me..." Nathan murmured, "what you want. I want to get it right. I want you to be happy. I want you to love me again."
"But..." Peter scoffed faintly, running his hands over Nathan's ass, kneading the warm, muscular flesh. If there was any softness in his body, it was all here. "I already do love you. I love you so much I can't stand it."
"Even now?"
"Especially now. God, Nathan... please... don't make this complicated..." Peter closed his eyes. "Run your tongue over me. Eat my ass. Suck my cock. Suck my balls. Get inside me. Just... do whatever you want. Whatever you remember that I like. I just want this."
"Show me," Nathan said. "Show me what you like."
"You are so greedy," Peter remarked.
Nathan raised his eyebrows innocently. "Teach me," he said. "I don't know if you've changed. Touch me how you want to be touched. I didn't say that because I want to take anything from you; I want to share it with you. But I can't share it unless I know what it is." He bent his head and gently kissed Peter on both cheeks. "I know you're good. I know you'll please me. I want to please you."
Peter just stared up at him, overwhelmed from this kindness, this generosity that he had wondered would be gone from Nathan forever. He couldn't resist smiling, rubbing the tip of his nose against Nathan's. "Well, first off, I need lube," he mentioned. "Where is it?"
"It's where it usually is," Nathan replied.
"I've never been here before," Peter reminded him. "You have different furniture here." He sighed, thinking of the other people Nathan must have fucked in this very bed. He glanced around the room, looking for the most obvious place to keep it.
"Top drawer, bureau," Nathan said. "Right side. In the leather case."
"Kinky," Peter muttered, reluctantly leaving Nathan's warmth to go searching in his drawers. The case was precisely where Nathan had said it would be, containing a bottle of expensive lube, spermicidal foam, four or five different brands and types of condoms, alligator clips, a silk blindfold. "Ah, the politician's travel bag," Peter couldn't help saying. "Nipple clamps? Really?"
"Some women find them stimulating," was the nonchalant answer.
"No butt plug?" Peter asked.
Nathan slowly shook his head, smiling. "They have to bring their own."
"What about for you?" Peter grabbed the lube, and zipped the rest away, coming to rest on the bed beside Nathan. He ran one hand up the inner surface of Nathan's thigh, slowly and firmly. "Don't tell me that your ass goes hungry when it doesn't have to?" He grasped Nathan's half-hard cock in his hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses along its length, down toward the dark, tangled nest of pubic hair, producing an absolutely delicious, heart-warming moan. "Or is that TMI?" he continued, kissing the yielding surface of Nathan's balls. "Afraid you'll turn off that tasty little intern if she knows you love to get dicked as much as she does?"
"You have a filthy mind, Peter," Nathan said, his breath shuddering. "You've got a filthy mouth."
"Yeah," Peter agreed, arching his tongue, flicking the tip under the rim of the head. Nathan writhed with pleasure. "You love my filthy mouth. You love to fuck my filthy mouth. Don't you?"
"God, yes, I - oh, I do." Nathan was dissolving under his touch. Peter wondered how long it had been for him - days? Weeks? Nathan liked to fuck at least once a day, preferably twice. Unless he'd found some time to jerk off since before they'd gotten to Coyote Sands - and Peter doubted it, since Nathan had been with Claire before that - Nathan had to be aching to come. The thought made Peter kiss and lick Nathan's balls some more, whispering wordless assurances. "I love it and you love it," Nathan sighed. "You must love it, otherwise why would you keep coming back for more -" His words cut off as Peter smoothed a dollop of lube onto his forefinger, and pressed it between his buttocks. "My God," Nathan whispered, whimpering faintly as he felt himself penetrated. "Oh, wow. Oh, that feels - really good."
Wiggling the tip of his finger against Nathan's prostate, Peter enclosed the head of Nathan's cock in his mouth. It felt as though it had gotten bigger somehow, thicker and denser; it filled Peter's mouth so completely that he had to turn his head to gain enough leverage to suck. But when he pulled away and looked, Nathan's penis didn't look any bigger than it had before. It just felt like more. A hot shiver ran through Peter's body; how would that heavy rod feel up his ass? He moaned and sucked as best he could, relishing Nathan's increasingly intense moaning.
Then Peter pulled away, wiping his hand on the discarded wet towel. "That's what I want," he declared calmly. "Think you can do that?"
Nathan's eyes glittered. "You are the definition of a pushy bottom," he replied.
Peter didn't waver. "Yeah," he said. "I am. And I want you to fuck me."
"That's right; tell me what to do. Okay. Suck your cock first?" Nathan murmured attentively. "Just like you did for me?"
"And I want your fingers inside me, too. I need it. It's been too long for me. I need all of you."
"All this?" Nathan grabbed his own cock and squeezed it, rubbing his thumb over the moist, tight skin. "You take all this?"
Peter nodded and smiled. "Yeah," he said. He climbed over Nathan, positioning himself in the middle of the bed, lying there with his legs spread and one foot rubbing the opposite calf, his thigh muscles stretching and twitching, opening out his groin to Nathan's gaze and Nathan's touch. Nathan grasped the active leg and pulled it out, spreading Peter's legs even further, settling himself into the space between.
Instead of immediately taking hold of Peter's erection, Nathan rubbed his chest against it, dragging his heart and his hair across the tip of Peter's penis. Peter moaned in loud, lustful surprise, and slid his fingers up Nathan's head. Thoughtlessly he brushed against the bump on the high right side, and Nathan grabbed Peter's cock and squeezed it harder than was comfortable. "Sorry!" Peter yelped.
"My mistake," Nathan replied, somewhat coldly. He made up for his tone of voice by planting a big, wet kiss on the head of Peter's cock. "Sorry I accidentally made you feel really good for a moment."
"I really don't want to fight right now..."
"So let's don't," Nathan said. He slid Peter's cock into his mouth, running his tongue over the skin of the shaft and pushing the head into the hollow of his cheek. Peter moaned again; it had been a long, long time for him, too, and it had been even longer since he'd had a blowjob like this one. Nathan was bringing everything to it; the cheek-cradling, the licking, the sucking, knowing the pressure points along the shaft, pressing and stroking them all in their turn. Peter writhed, watching him when he could stand the thrill of the sight, happy to consider how heavy his load would be when he came; he'd feed Nathan for days. Suddenly, Nathan stopped, and looked up. "Oh, I forgot to lick your balls."
"That's okay," Peter assured him, his voice as breathless as if he'd been lifting weights. "You don't need to."
"Of course I do," Nathan said, handling Peter's testicles with a light, firm touch, bringing them to his mouth. He swept his tongue across them, as though he were reading them by taste. Peter clenched the bedsheet with his toes.
At the moment when Peter thought that he might lose control, Nathan took his mouth away, and gave him a moment to recover while he toyed with the lube bottle. Peter couldn't keep himself from stroking his cock, now as tight as a drum and red as cherries. "You haven't lost your touch," Peter murmured, angling himself back a bit, resting his weight on his shoulder blades so that Nathan would have more room to move.
"I should think not," Nathan said. "Turn over."
"But you have to do my cock at the same time," Peter whined.
Nathan raised his eyebrows. "I have to?" he asked. He smiled, to soften his words. "Don't worry, Peter. I'll take care of you." He pushed Peter over onto one side, propping up one bended leg, maintaining the spread-open position. He massaged Peter's ass cheeks for a moment, then parted them, and walked his fingers down the dark, hairy crevice. At the same time, though, he slid down between Peter's thighs, so that he lay on the bed crosswise, and Peter's spread legs enclosed Nathan's shoulders. Without using his hands, Nathan nibbled his way back down onto Peter's cock, and simultaneously slid two lubed fingers into his ass.
Peter let out a slow, calming breath so that he wouldn't pop off on the spot. Years ago, he couldn't have done it, but he had gotten fairly adept at delaying ejaculation for several minutes, at least. Still, he felt like he was being crushed between two opposing pleasures, and yet they were not in opposition at all. Nathan had a rhythm; up into the butt, back off the cock, then down the shaft and out with the fingers. It felt incredible, in a pattern just slightly faster than his breathing. He submitted quietly for a few seconds, then let a groan escape his lips. "Oh my God. That feels amazing. Amazing."
"I'm just getting you started," Nathan explained calmly.
"I can't take much more of this. I can't hold back -"
"Sure you can," Nathan said, pulsing his fingers inside. "It's what you're best at. Just let the pressure build up. You're stronger than you think."
"I think we should fuck now."
"I don't. Because I can't take much of that."
"Sure you can," was Peter's rejoinder. "I know you can. It's what you're best at. Fuck me for a long time."
"I'm too tired to fuck you for a long time right now, Pete."
"I'll ride you." Peter gently petted Nathan's head, careful to avoid the sore spot.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, but smiled. "I still participate." He looked away, still smiling, still fingerfucking Peter's asshole. "Give me a break. My head hurts."
"Not tonight, honey. I have a subdural hematoma," Peter joked, shuddering with pleasure, feeling the pressure back away again. It was like holding back a sneeze: it would eventually happen, and be earth-shaking when it did, but Nathan was right; he really could stand it. He didn't have to have an explosion of pleasure every time it was close. He could hold off. The funny thing was, he had actually figured that out when he was sixteen or seventeen, and had been fairly skilled at the practice until Nathan threw his self-control out the window. Being around Nathan made him want to come, made him want to rush it so that he could come again as soon as possible. It didn't need to be like that anymore. "What you like. When you're ready, give me that cock. Whenever you want; however you want to do it."
"Thank you," Nathan commented, and went back to sucking.
"I do still want to ride you sometime soon, though," Peter mumbled, one arm thrown across his eyes. "Both ways. The cowboy and the reverse. I love that. I miss that." Nathan didn't reply this time, and Peter filled the silence with moaning and cooing. When Nathan finally did draw his fingers out of him completely, Peter was relieved and bereft at the same time. "Oh, no, no," he sighed. "Oh, no, don't stop."
"I think we should fuck now," Nathan said.
"You ready?" Peter asked eagerly, brightening, flicking his overgrown hair out of his face. Nathan smiled at him, beautiful, eyes going glassy and vague again. "Yes? How do you want me?"
Instead of a verbal answer, Nathan pushed Peter's shoulder down onto the bed, leaving him lying face up, with one leg bent. Nathan grabbed that leg and slid Peter's wrist under the crook of the knee, making Peter open himself up and hold himself there. Nathan stared intently down at Peter's genitals and the curves of his buttocks, stroking a thick coat of clear, slick syrup onto his own cock. Peter whimpered in helpless lust, begging with his eyes, but Nathan wasn't looking at Peter's eyes; he stared at Peter's cock like he wanted to memorize every mole, every vein, and every hair.
All at once Nathan moved in, slipping the head of his cock against Peter's asshole, trying to find friction and purchase with lubed skin on lubed skin. He finally gave in and slid his fingers back into Peter's butt, slid his cockhead in alongside them, and then pulled his fingers out, wiping the smudge of lube against the ticklish back of Peter's thigh. Peter sighed, and tried to relax, and failing to do that, bore down with his internal muscles as carefully as he could. Nathan took advantage, thrusting in deep; too deep. Too hot and heavy and huge. "Oh fuck me; I'm like a virgin," Peter groaned, laughing in shaky hisses through his teeth.
Nathan didn't share in the laugh. "Does that feel good?"
"Yes... I just... uhhh." Peter gripped Nathan's ass hard, holding him steady about halfway in, relishing the touch of Nathan's balls brushing his inner thigh. Peter's face felt furiously hot; he was blushing tomato-red all the way down to the nipples. Nathan just watched him curiously, shifting slowly from side to side before pulling out and pushing in again, deeper. Peter yelped, then moaned, biting the tip of his tongue.
"This? This is your prostate."
"I know!"
"If I hit it, it'll make you come. Like, almost instantly. Right?" Nathan thrust more shallowly, holding Peter's buttocks apart with his hands.
"Oh, my fucking God, are you stupid all of a sudden?" Peter laughed hysterically, helplessly. "Not instantly. Rub it. Hit it. Slam it. It's good. I felt yours. You didn't come instantly, did you? Ohhh, my God." He laughed some more, raising his hips toward Nathan, closing his legs a bit, encouraging him to continue. "Do I need to shut up now?"
Nathan shook his head, thrusting in smooth, hard, and deep. "Just keep telling me how good it feels. And no, I'm not stupid all of a sudden. I'm fucking you, aren't I? I figure I got a pretty good deal."
"Do me. Just - uh - like that. Uh. Yeah." The position that Nathan had put him in actually made it so that the head of his cock slid past the prostate instead of impacting it, stimulating it without milking it. Through his erotic haze, Peter admired Nathan's ingenuity; they had done it this way before, but it had been a long time, and Peter was impressed that he remembered it so precisely. It was just right, keeping Peter in a strung-out state of arousal without bringing him to an orgasmic crisis, and Nathan could get very deep inside, his balls bouncing against Peter's ass cheeks. He thrust in to maximum depth and stayed there, unmoving, for a while, a series of short, husky cries spilling from his throat.
"Peter," he muttered. "You are so incredible."
"You love to fuck my ass," Peter hissed, arching his hips, desperate for Nathan to continue. "Don't you love it? I love it. My God, your cock's so heavy." It was just barely on the side of comfortable and tolerable and too much; he felt overstuffed, stretching, aching as he was reshaped yet again. And yet his ass knew Nathan's cock so well; every contour, every ridge. The enormous heat and the insistent friction of the rim of his cockhead, the feel of belly against belly. "Fuck, please. Please. Fucking give it to me."
Nathan drove his hips forward, then back, then in again, hips snapping fast, forcing Peter's upper back into the decadent softness of Nathan's mattress. Peter called out so loudly that he clapped his hand against his mouth, biting off his cries against his fingers, but Nathan grabbed Peter's hand and forced it away, kissing him, grunting, "Let me hear it. It's OK." He smiled wickedly. "Ma can't hear us."
"Oh - Ma," Peter groaned, and not in arousal. "I don't want to -" His words were cut off by another aggressive kiss, and the return of the huge cock shoving its insistent way into him, and he just couldn't think clearly enough to remember the next few words of his protest. Nathan held Peter's shoulders, embracing and covering him; cuddling him and fucking him at the same time, breath hot on Peter's forehead and collarbone and lips. Peter relaxed. He let go of his self-restraint, and let himself feel the immensity of what was happening.
They were alive, and they were together, and they were fucking, tender and nasty at once. Everything was beautiful, even the horrible things. He let go, and let the wildfire of his reflexes consume him.
He bucked vigorously under Nathan, moaning wordlessly, more like an animal's call than human speech. Nathan matched his spasms, changing his angle and depth so that the head of his cock pushed against the prostate, just a few times and without much pressure, but enough to break Peter's soul open, twist him like a wire and shatter him like glass. "Oh! Fuck! Oh! Fuck!" he screamed.
Nathan watched him and smiled, slowing his thrusts to a gentle pulse. "That's more like it," he said. "I was wondering if you were enjoying yourself."
Peter couldn't speak. He lay there, spurting thick ribbons of semen all over his pubes and stomach, all over Nathan's, all over their thighs. He came so much that he felt dizzy when it was finished, as though he'd literally been flipped upside down, and meanwhile Nathan just smiled and kept fucking him.
"Now you," Peter mumbled when he was able to find words again. "Now you. Show me." He wiped up some of the come from his belly, and held his fingers toward Nathan's mouth.
Nathan ignored them.
He pulled out of Peter's ass, sat up on his knees, and stroked his shiny, swollen cock, pointing the head toward Peter's belly. "On your face?" he asked.
Peter shook his head and stared at him. He had returned to earth with a resounding thud. He stroked his nipples by way of offering a different location, and Nathan smiled sweetly and masturbated. Shortly, his breath hitched, and his cock shot a load of come heavier and more copious than anything Peter had ever seen from him. It spattered his chest and the base of his neck, pooling in his clavicle. It was so impressive that Peter momentarily forgot his unease at Nathan's refusal of a taste of spunk.
The unease returned, though, when Nathan mopped up all of the spilled come from Peter's body with the damp towel, then lay beside him, his expression crumpled and troubled. His eyes had gone glassy again, but this time, tears overflowed from them, spilling down Nathan's cheeks.
Peter blinked, astonished, and slid his arms around Nathan. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asked, his heart pinging with concern. "Are you okay? Is it your head?"
Nathan shook his head, but the tears didn't stop flowing. "No, my head's fine," he murmured. "It's... It's just that I love you so much. I love you. And I love Ma. And I love Claire. And I miss my boys. And I don't know... I don't know if you'll ever forgive me."
"Hey, now, stop that. I'm here, aren't I?" Peter was shaken. He wasn't used to anyone else encroaching on them when they were in bed together; they were supposed to put all that stuff out of their minds. Peter thought that was the arrangement. "We'll go see the boys tomorrow. Is that okay? I can go see them. We can go; we can both go."
"Heidi doesn't want me anywhere near them," Nathan said. His voice was resigned. "I don't blame her. She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand me; or the Petrellis. Or abilities. Or us." Nathan gazed at Peter, making no move to stop or wipe away his tears. "I don't blame her."
"You have to forgive yourself, Nathan," Peter replied, gripping Nathan's arms in his hands. "Before anything else. You have to forgive yourself. That's the source of all these problems in the first place."
"That's a completely disingenuous thing for you to say, Peter. Look, I know you're trying to make me feel better. But I need real solutions right now. And I don't want to lose them. I don't want to lose another kid, you know? I love them all. I just... fuck up." He sighed.
Peter kissed Nathan's wet cheek. "You don't need to figure it out tonight," Peter said. "It's 3:30. You should get some sleep. You have to take care of that big blockhead of yours, or not much is gonna get accomplished." He kissed Nathan's forehead, and got up from the bed, drawing the sheets over Nathan's nude, sweaty form. "I'm gonna go take a shower, then use your computer, if you don't mind," he added. "I just need to check a couple of things. And then I'll be in. Save some room for me, all right?" He kissed Nathan on the mouth. "That was amazing," he said. "You're still the best."
Nathan smiled slowly, a fresh tear running from his eye. "It's so beautiful how you give yourself to me," he murmured.
Peter turned away, carrying the semen-soaked towel to the bathroom, and turning on the shower tap. He refilled the water glass again, and set it and a couple more Tylenol on the bedside table. Bending down, he shared a gentle kiss on the lips with Nathan, petted his head a bit more, and returned to the bathroom.
He stepped under the water, sighing, and let his own tears fall.
Something wasn't quite right. Something had changed.
END (56)
Note: This story was a fun and heartbreaking challenge, trying to blend Sylar's character with Nathan's without losing an essence of either, and yet without Sylar's self-identity present. I haven't written about Sylar very much - there's enough going on with him that I didn't have time to focus on him while I was focusing on Peter and Nathan - but he's been one of my favorite characters from the beginning and I watched him very closely on the Season 3 rewatch, and was intrigued by his passion, tenderness, sentimentality, and vulnerability, even if he is a staggeringly horrible person. :) He is literally a lost soul. And while he will never truly be Nathan to me, this is still an interesting situation to play with. And remember, folks - Peter doesn't know. DRAMA! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.