fic: Ritual (58): Possession
Title: Ritual (58): Possession
Pairing: (Sylar)Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through 3.25 "An Invisible Thread", end of Volume 4
Word count: about 5500
Warnings: see pairing and rating; dubcon; sadomasochistic themes; angst. No happy fluffy good times here.
Summary: Everything between them feels different now; the love and the lust that Nathan remembers, but the longing for comfort and connection - and explorations of dominance - multiplied tenfold. Sequel to "Because I Want To."
• 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".
MAY 2007
He woke up, and for a moment, he was no one. No one and nothing. A state of innocence. It was peaceful, as dark and quiet as the womb, as free of the shackles of identity.
But not quite as silent. He had heard a repetitive buzz, punctuated occasionally by a wheeze, and that sound had led him to wakefulness. When he opened his eyes and rolled over, he saw the source of the sound - a young, dark-haired man sleeping next to him, of small build and handsome face, snoring softly - and recognized, fundamentally, instinctually, Peter. Peter, his brother, the love of his life, the biggest pain in his ass. Peter in his bed, sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked.
He considered all the depraved things they did together - seriously wrong things - and how it sustained both of them, like some strange, essential form of nourishment. And that it was beautiful and terrible; that Peter was beautiful and terrible. They needed each other. He needed Peter, and Peter needed him. Nathan.
He was Nathan Petrelli.
He rolled over again, back onto his back, and smiled up at the ceiling.
Then he glanced back at Peter, lying there so beautiful and vulnerable, and thought, We can fly, little brother. We can fly.
His dry throat and his bladder both demanded attention. He rolled over, gently so as not to wake Peter, and rose from bed, padding barefoot and naked through his bedroom. The room was still mostly dark; the sun hadn't yet risen, but the light outside, just visible through a tiny gap between heavy curtains, was a moody ultramarine blue, brightening with the approaching dawn. It was seven minutes after five. And thirty-one seconds. Now, thirty-two.
He knew this as certainly and as instinctively as he knew Peter. As he knew that they had the power of flight.
He didn't bother to turn on the bathroom light; he knew where everything was. The sink; the toilet; the toilet seat and the flush lever. He wet his hands in preparation for washing, and glanced down at his belly, sticky with a thin film of dried sweat and semen. The semen was Peter's. Last night, he had made sure to clean his own issue from his brother's body, but he'd neglected to look after himself. He smiled, wetting a washcloth and adding a dollop of soap gel, and thought to himself that he wanted to go back into the bedroom, wake Peter, and make him lick it off. Imagined the heartbreaking look of utter submission that would be in Peter's eyes as he glanced up, the flash of moist pink tongue, lapping at his belly. Imagined that he'd like a harem of slaves to do it. He'd make them lie there and watch as he masturbated, splattering himself with come; then go to sleep, and wake in the morning, crook his finger, have them approach, one at a time, licking him until he was clean.
He shut off the sink faucet, and got into the shower instead, rinsing the sticky smudge off his belly, letting the water play over the top of his head. He scrubbed his scalp lightly, remembering the wound on his head, but it didn't hurt at all today. And it wasn't where he remembered it, but as he felt for it, it blossomed under his fingers, gently throbbing. Right... right there. A raised welt with a cut in the middle. His fingers bumped against the scab, pulling clumps of dried blood from his hair.
He soaped his hands again, and gently handled his cock and balls, washing them clean, rubbing his fingers against his perineum and anus. They felt good, just a little sore, like the bump on his head. He didn't spend too much time on them, either. It felt better when Peter was touching them. Peter's fingers; Peter's penis. Peter's tongue. He made himself stop, silently directing himself, Save it for him.
Quickly, he left the shower and dried himself off, returning to the bedroom. Peter slept on, but he'd turned slightly, toward the empty space next to him. Silent now, his eyelids smooth. He slid back into bed beside Peter, working his way underneath Peter's outstretched arm, draping his own arm across Peter's shoulders. Still unconscious, Peter slid in closer, instinctively finding a loose, relaxed embrace, rubbing his stubble-rough cheek against Nathan's skin.
With a light touch, he drew his fingers over Peter's shoulder, then more firmly when his brother didn't respond. He let his hand roam down Peter's back and clasped one buttock between thumb and forefinger, marveling at the elasticity of the skin and the solidity of the muscle underneath. Once upon a time, Peter's ass had been as soft and yielding as a girl's, but that was a lifetime ago, and Nathan didn't miss it. If he wanted to touch a woman, he'd get one. This was something else, something that he wanted just as much. More. Something to which he had a right. Peter was his; he was his brother, and thus, perfectly suited, perfectly allowed, a convergence of wrong and right like a combination of salty and sweet in his mouth. His to take. Peter squirmed slightly, pressing closer, a faint furrow lining his forehead, but didn't wake up.
He had to kiss Peter. The younger man's lips pursed a little, and he sighed, as though longing for it, but still swimming through his dreams. Or flying through them. Just a little kiss. Stolen, but always his. A slight pressure of mouth on mouth. Peter still didn't wake up, but he cuddled himself closer and didn't move away. Nathan's heart swelled painfully with love; this beautiful being in his arms, so instinctively sensual, so vulnerable, so trusting! He kissed him again, harder this time, extending his tongue for a taste of those perfect lips, symmetrical in relaxed sleep; it was only when Peter spoke that his mouth went out of alignment. Spoke, or laughed, or smiled. Or cried, or shouted. He wanted to see it.
Peter's cock was hot and full against against Nathan's hip. He reached down and felt for the scarring on his flank that Peter loved so much to press against; the stippled tissue was smooth now, but still palpable under the surface. Peter's dick twitched against Nathan's hand, as if to ask, What about me?, so he turned his palm over and gave it a squeeze. It twitched more, and Peter's lips parted, drawing in a tentative breath. He wondered if he could slide down and suck Peter off without waking him up, his fingers tightening on Peter's dick, encouraging it to harden, to press back against him. He shuddered helplessly. His own cock was hard, beginning to ache. Mornings were so delicious, and it had been way too long since he'd woken up next to his favorite lover of all. How long has it been?, he wondered, kissing Peter's now-responsive lips again, rifling back through his storehouse of memories.
Almost two years. That unpleasant Thanksgiving, before any of the special-abilities nonsense, back when the world was normal... when they had been at each other's throats until they'd fought it out by fucking. The day that he made Peter faint, and Peter made him bleed. And they hadn't even spent the night then; they had only fallen into brief, exhausted, traumatized unconsciousness, too scared and too disgusted with themselves and each other, knowing that only the other one could possibly understand, could provide comfort. Two years since he'd woken up next to Peter. That was wrong. He vowed to never let it go that long again. He would never again let Peter go.
Peter's eyelids parted, revealing dark-shadowed irises and distended pupils as black as infinity, gazing at him without recognition.
Suddenly the pupils sharpened. His body jerked, snatching himself away, cringing in surprise and fear so overt that it was laughable. It had to be a joke. The correct response was to reach after him, crawling closer, taking Peter in his arms again and kissing his forehead. "Morning, Pete."
Peter stared up, brow furrowed and mouth turned down at the corners, but as the kisses continued, he relaxed again, accepting the affection as if it was his due. It was; Peter was made to be loved. He was made to be awakened with kisses each morning. "Huh. You scared me. How's your head?" Peter asked, his sleepy voice rusty and thick.
"It's fine," he replied, "it's just fine." He bent his mouth to Peter's again, seeking his breath. "It feels good to be here with you." He clasped Peter's waist tightly, then relaxed his grip, and let his fingers glide over the same area. When he did it again, Peter's breath hissed in between his teeth, and his eyelids fluttered. "Doesn't it feel good?" Nathan's voice purred. He pressed his lips against Peter's ear, drawing in his breath, touching his tongue to the shell. Peter's body quivered in his arms. "Mmmm... yes, it does, huh? Yes, it does." Gentling him, like calming a spooked horse. "Yes."
"Oh," Peter said faintly, eyes closed. "Yeah. Ah." His hands clasped Nathan's shoulders, and ran down his arms, his touch tentative. "I thought you didn't think it was right to molest someone in their sleep."
"In 'his' sleep," Nathan corrected without thinking about it. "And... well, under most circumstances, that's true. But you just looked so good. And I know you don't mind."
Peter opened his eyes, his expression suddenly cold and defiant. "I've got to take a piss," he muttered, wrenching himself away. Nathan rolled over into the warm spot, and patiently waited for Peter's return.
Peter took his time, but eventually he came back, sitting on the edge of the bed, and staring at Nathan resentfully. The only appropriate response to that was to grab Peter's wrists and pin him down to the bed, and then laugh as their erect cocks smacked together. Peter gasped in surprise... and arousal, too, if the sudden intense twitching of his cock was any indication. Yes, he loved that. Peter had always been like that; he always loved to roughhouse, to horse around, to wrestle. To be pinned. To win by losing. He rubbed their cocks together again, deliberately this time, the head of Nathan's dick sliding up the underside of Peter's. Peter moaned, rolling his eyes and licking his lips. "Jeeeeesus God," he muttered, laughing a little himself. "Oh, oh. What the fuck. How do you do this to me."
Nathan chuckled lazily and indulgently. "I just know you better than anyone else." He arched his back just so, drawing his balls over Peter's cock. "I know what you like."
"Ohhh," Peter sighed again. A helpless smile pulled his lip sideways. "Oh, you're amazing." He made a futile attempt to struggle, and the smile flowed away, replaced with more of the knitted brow. "Dammit, you weigh a ton."
"You're a man," Nathan mused, licking his own lips, drinking in the details of Peter's face. "You became a man, didn't you? You've got lines on your face, little brother. When did that happen?" Peter glanced quickly away, and Nathan could almost read his mind: At the moment that any man ascends to adulthood; when I killed my father.
It was all right. One of them was going to do it sooner or later; they both knew that. Nathan had wanted it too, whether or not he could accept that within himself. Peter had been the brave one, the one to take action. Peter was the brave one. The special little shit.
But no... love. Love had to win. Admiration. Even, somehow, a bit of respect. Peter deserved that now.
Nathan nuzzled the center of Peter's chest, and kissed his left pectoral, right over his thudding heartbeat. "But you're strong; I know it. You can take it, can't you?" He released Peter's wrists, and sat up on his heels with his legs spread, running his hand down his own belly to his cock. Peter's eyes followed his hand as though they were wired together. Nathan palmed his cock, cupped his balls. Showed it to Peter. "You know you want it. And you know you can take it. So why don't you?"
Peter sat up too, then lay down on his stomach between Nathan's spread thighs, and together, they placed Nathan's cock onto Peter's outstretched tongue.
He ran his fingers up the back of Peter's neck, through the tousled hair on the back of his head, muttering, "Yes. Ahhhhhh. How do you do this to me." Peter sucked, slow and intense. Nathan gasped for breath, gulping in oxygen, tingles of electric lust coursing over his skin. "Oh, yes, that. That. Yes. God, that is the most beautiful feeling in the world..."
"Better than fucking my ass?" Peter said, licking his lips, and going down again.
Nathan put his hand on the back of Peter's head. "Yes. Yes, it is. It's the best. This is the best. Ohhhh... the best. You've always been the best." When Peter tried to draw away to catch his breath, Nathan held him still. "Even when you were just a kid and you'd never sucked dick before. You never did, did you?" he demanded, pushing his hips forward, filling Peter's mouth completely. Peter frowned again, eyebrows clenching tightly together. "Did you? Did you suck dick before me? When you were too young to know any better? To understand that you're mine?" Back, and forth again, into Peter's mouth, pressing his cockhead into Peter's soft palate, slipping down toward his throat. Peter tried to cough, but there was nowhere to expel the air, and it choked off in his throat, forcing him to swallow to restore equilibrium in his sinuses. Nathan felt the electric charge of lust ramping up even further; his vision was blurry, staring down through narrowed eyes at Peter's helpless face, jammed full of cock, staring up at him, pleading. Unable to resist or escape. Yes. "Did you? Huh? Suck off some senior in the locker room before football practice? Did he make you do it, or did you offer? Huh? Oh, sweet Peter. So eager to please. I'm sure. I'm so, so sure."
Peter coughed again, this time too hard to stifle, his throat seizing around the head of Nathan's cock, gripping tight. Perfect; the kind of response that nobody could perform voluntarily, no matter how much practice went into it. Nathan moaned out loud. Taking advantage of his distraction, Peter shoved at Nathan's thigh with his fist, pushing himself free. "Fuck!" he snapped. "Fuck you! That's too fucking much, and you know it!"
Nathan slowly shook his head. "Suck it," he commanded calmly, with trembling hand gripping the base of his cock, only slightly damp with Peter's saliva. He hadn't gone as deep as he'd wanted. "Suck it now. Let me fuck your face."
The moan that answered was twisted with longing and anger, resentment and desire. "I never sucked any dicks," Peter hissed. "I just wanted yours."
"Take it," Nathan murmured. "Taste it." He closed his eyes, adding in a whisper, "All the way down."
"You don't have to be so rough," Peter grumbled. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Gently, Nathan cradled his hand around the back of Peter's head, drawing him in closer. "Mmmm... just let me..." Peter sighed, stroking Nathan's thighs with his palms, sliding one up to cradle Nathan's balls, the other to encircle the shaft, pressing his thumb against the tender root. Into his mouth again, his tongue flicking from side to side.
"Yes," Nathan replied. "Yes, that's good. I believe you. You were a good kid. I wasn't. It was me." His breath came heavily. "It was me. I sucked - I sucked dick. I sucked senior cock before football practice. And he wasn't nearly as good to me as I am to you. If he felt teeth, he would punch me. He fucked my throat until I almost puked. But I didn't... and you know why?" He laughed with no humor. It was only funny to the damned. "Because I didn't want to ruin it. I didn't want it to stop. Because I fucking loved it so much. I was so much like you, baby. I wanted to fuck and suck and I didn't care what it took. I didn't care how it started; I didn't care what he thought of me. I wanted his cock in me. You understand that, don't you?" He held Peter still again, tensing his hips quickly, back and forth twice as fast as his breathing, but not too deep; just against Peter's tongue, the insides of Peter's cheeks. Peter let go of Nathan's dick in favor of handling his own, trapped underneath him, tangled in charcoal-colored bedsheets. "You hated me as much as I hated him. But you know what it is to want. And not give a fuck whether it's right or wrong. Peter, you understand me...."
Nathan's body shuddered convulsively. Control was slipping away from him. Before he lost himself completely, he backed away, pulling his dick from Peter's mouth with a wet pop, trailing streamers of saliva and pre-come. Peter opened his eyes, staring at him with his red mouth still hanging open. Nathan jerked at the shaft of his cock, a sharp punch of orgasm hitting him inside, pointing the head toward Peter's chest, wanting to see the semen glistening on Peter's tightly erect nipples. But before the come jetted out, Peter had grabbed Nathan's cock, and positioned it in front of his mouth. A sloppy scribble of pale fluid appeared on his tongue, and he smiled, a wide, brilliant, crooked, grateful smile.
The orgasm, while intense, was brief, over in a few lightning pulses. Peter closed his mouth and swallowed, as usual, grimacing at the taste, like swallowing bitter medicine. But he did it. Nathan stared at him curiously. "But you don't like come, Peter."
"Yeah, but you do," Peter challenged back.
Of course he did. Was that ever in doubt? Nathan lay down beside Peter, and brought their mouths together, seeking the flavor of his issue. It was bitter indeed; without even a hint of sweetness, the taste corrupt and unpleasantly lingering. He knew and acknowledged this. Peter's come was palatable and fascinating, his pure and loving essence; Nathan's own was heavy and over-complex and reminiscent of nothing good. But it was his; this product of his body. Of his lust. It was right that Peter should drink of it, to taste the truth of him. The shame and mistakes and nastiness that was Nathan. The damned and repulsive nature of him.
And the sweetness and wholesomeness of Peter's mouth filled his mouth now. Peter tasted pure in a way that Nathan never could, never would. Nathan wondered if Peter would someday taste as bad, if Peter would eventually kill and ruin as he did. He was a Petrelli; it was all but inevitable. But perhaps they could save each other.
Peter pulled away from the consuming kiss, gasping for breath. "Nathan," he murmured. "You're okay. You're okay now. You don't have to let that haunt you anymore."
"I just don't want to hold back, or hide the way I feel about you anymore. Not to you. I can be myself with you." He ran his hands over Peter's body, kissing his lips again, letting his weight settle alongside Peter. He toyed with Peter's nipples for a moment, tugging them away from Peter's chest, twisting them just hard enough to make Peter moan. He slid his hands up to Peter's throat, caressing him, feeling for his pulse, for the rising and falling of his breath. "You understand me." He tightened his fingers, just a little, just enough to make Peter's pulse jump, to interrupt Peter's breathing.
Peter's eyes shot open wide, and the brow furrows dug themselves in again. He slid his arms up underneath and through Nathan's, forcing his encircling hands away from his windpipe. "Nathan, please stop that. You're being too rough," he said. "I'm not into it right now."
Obligingly, Nathan let go of Peter's throat, but held him still anyway, lazily kissing his cheeks and chin and forehead. "You made me bleed," he said. "Remember?"
Peter glared. "What's that got to do with..." he began, voice tight with anger. When Nathan didn't look away, Peter blinked, and his defiant expression closed itself off, widening his eyes and paling his lips. He shrank away, shoulders drawing up. For the first time that he could remember, Nathan could actually smell fear. "What - ?" he tried to say. "I - Nathan, please, I -"
That wasn't what he was after, although it was somewhat comforting and fascinating to know that he could engender that reaction without even having to raise his voice. Again, reassuringly, tenderly, Nathan kissed Peter on the lips. "Don't worry," he murmured, smiling a little, caressing Peter's back and thigh. "I won't demand anything that you can't handle. But just remember - you made me bleed. You've done it a bunch of times, in fact. Whatever I do to you, you deserve it. I don't do it to make you fear me; I do it because I love you. To make you good."
"Nathan..." Peter sighed, and didn't continue. He squeezed his eyes shut, his expression pained, but his fingers clenched Nathan's shoulders, holding on tight. Nathan slid his arms around his brother and held him, not settling his full weight on top of him, just enough so that Peter could feel how solid he was. How solid they were, together. Alive and real and whole.
"And I know you need me," Nathan continued softly, kissing Peter's lined forehead, kissing the fine spray of crow's-feet at the corners of Peter's eyes (and when had Peter become such a man, with wrinkles and worries and all? He'd grown up, and Nathan hadn't even seen it... again... their lives were more overlapping than intertwined. He missed his brother. He missed the baby and the child and the young man, all of them gone, dead a dozen times over). "Just as much as I need you. You need me to be tough on you, so you can forgive yourself." He palmed Peter's cock, still hard, or perhaps harder now than ever, the head of it soaking wet and tight. He slipped the end of his pinky into the slit at the tip, could almost get the whole tip of his finger inside; Peter had been playing with it. Had always. Peter shuddered and groaned, and Nathan slid that pinky into Peter's mouth, then a few more fingers, feeding Peter a taste of himself. Peter whimpered, vulnerable, shivering. With newly-dampened fingers, Nathan reached for Peter's cock again, wrapping his hand around the shaft, gripping and stroking up and up and up some more. "Yes? Because you're not perfect. You can't save everyone. But you can save me." Nathan bit his lip, shuddering himself, feeling himself drawn along the same wave of mounting arousal that Peter crested upon. "Yes? Yes? Save me? Ah? Yes?"
"Yes. Forgive me. Yes. Ahhhhhhh! Oh fuck, ohmygod yes, ahhhhh!" Peter's hips bucked wildly, legs thrashing against the sheets, his toenails raking across Nathan's legs, leaving red welts on the skin. But it was good. It was all fine because Peter was coming. Orgasm. Oneness with God. Ejaculation, pulsing up through him, out, all over Nathan's hand, all over Peter's belly, Nathan's belly and wrist, hot and cool at once. Nathan felt a strong, sympathetic spasm pulse through him, so intense that he almost thought he'd come again himself.
"I forgive you," Nathan whispered. "Now you forgive yourself." Streaks of water ran from the corners of Peter's eyes, and from Nathan's, flowing warm down over Nathan's cheeks. He pressed his cheek against Peter's, mingling their tears together. "I love you," Nathan said, and Peter nodded, breath shaking. Nathan held up his stained hand, and licked at some of the semen on it, then brought his lips to his brother's mouth. Peter was good; he accepted this gift, took the taste from Nathan's tongue, passed it back to him, quivering with silent, convulsive sobs.
"With me, you're free," Nathan reminded him. "I absolve you."
Peter didn't look at him, but kissed him again, tucking himself in close.
* * *
The sliver of sun visible behind the curtain had turned pale gold. The day had arrived.
Following an unspoken agreement, they rose together from bed, and went to the bathroom to wash up. Nathan handed Peter a brand-new toothbrush, still in its plastic wrapper, and said, "I'll put a new blade in the razor."
"That's all right," Peter said, turning on the water in the shower stall and testing it against the back of his hand. "I'll skip it."
"No, you won't," Nathan countered smoothly. "You look scruffy. If you shave, you'll at least look presentable."
"What's it matter?" Peter asked, stepping under the water before Nathan could answer.
"Because," Nathan replied, joining him, "it matters. We're in Washington right now. That look that works for Fourteenth Street isn't gonna cut it here."
"Then I'll go back to Fourteenth Street," Peter shrugged.
Nathan shook his head slowly. "Don't leave me, Peter," he said. "Please."
Peter opened and closed his mouth several times without being able to form words. Nathan lathered up his hands, and began to patiently wash Peter's back and shoulders, explaining, "I have a lot of work to do to make up for my gigantic fuckups. I'm an elected official, and the House is in session. I've had a leave of absence to take care of logistical issues, but now that that's more or less over, I'd better start making up some face time. Pretty soon I'll be able to head back to New York, sure, but for now, I've got to be here, and I've got to go in every single day."
"You need to take it easy," Peter was able to speak at last. "You've got a concussion. You need a little down time; one night isn't gonna be enough." He relaxed under Nathan's sudsy, circular touch, arching his back toward Nathan until his back made contact with Nathan's front, wiggling a bit to spread the soap onto him.
"That's why I'm only going in today from ten until four," Nathan explained. He ran his hands over the front of Peter's body, not arousingly, but efficiently, even reaching between Peter's legs to tease the last traces of spunk out of his groin. "Tomorrow, though, regular hours. And I hope we're not up all night, but if we are, that's how it is. I've got to start doing the job for which I was elected."
"Oh, well, that's good to hear," Peter said archly. "Nobody's going to expect that from you. You might make ol' Strom Thurmond drop dead of a heart attack."
"Strom Thurmond's already dead, Pete."
"Oh."
"I get what you're saying, though," Nathan said. "No one will expect it from me. But..." He sighed. "I made a disaster and I've got to fix it. I've got to re-stream the budget that I was wasting on Danko and..."
"And give it to Mom and Bennet," Peter finished for him, and moved out of Nathan's embrace, running a wet hand through his hair, stepping out of the shower. "I'm gonna brush my teeth," he muttered.
Nathan finished rinsing himself off, and turned off the water, reaching for a towel. "I'm serious, Peter," he said. "Stay with me. Join my staff."
Peter stared at him, slightly comical with a mouth full of toothpaste foam. He spit it out. "What?" he blurted.
"Join my staff," Nathan repeated. "As an advisor. On... medical issues. Supervise the allocation of the budgetary funds going to Bennet. And Mom. Make sure it's done ethically. Keep on top of them. Make sure it doesn't spiral out of control again. Provide some oversight. For them, and for me. I need someone like you to keep an eye on things. Someone who truly and genuinely knows right from wrong, and won't be swayed by special interests -"
"You're saying this to someone who has singlehandedly almost destroyed the world three times," Peter pointed out, his voice bitter. "Three times, Nathan. I've got you beat."
"Why won't you take this seriously?" Nathan asked, draping his damp towel around his shoulders, and reaching for his shaving kit. "I'm serious. I need you near me, and ... hell, what else do you have? Your 'career' is in the toilet. Sure, you've got nursing credentials, but you were never really that into that, were you? It's all right; you can tell me. You skipped out on Charles Deveaux, and you loved him. But you left as soon as something more interesting came along. That doesn't look good on your job history, Pete." He calmly ejected the old blade from his safety razor, and slid a new, gleaming blade into place, securing it with a click. Peter's eyes focused on the discarded blade, balanced on the edge of the sink. "You've got huge gaps between jobs. You've got an FBI file as thick as the Brooklyn Yellow Pages. But I won't care about any of that. Work for me, and you'll have a decent salary, interesting work, and..." He gestured expansively with his shaving brush, giving Peter a brilliant, toothy smile. "Me."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long."
"Or the offer will be taken off the table?"
Nathan swirled soap across his face. "No," he replied. "It won't be. But... don't think about it too long. Because I need you. The country... needs you."
Peter picked up the razor blade, and pared one of his cuticles with it. "I'll think about it, okay?" he reiterated.
"Good," said Nathan. "Why don't you call Ma, and see if she wants to get breakfast with us? That might make for a good photo op. A private, casual family breakfast, with some biscuits."
"I wish you would just listen to yourself for once," Peter grumbled, picking up his toothbrush. "Just hear what you sound like. You're just so full of shit."
He did shave, once Nathan was done, and had moved on to brushing his own teeth.
Peter went out to the bedroom, opened the curtains to let in the morning sunlight, and dressed quickly in borrowed clothes. He went into the kitchen to rifle through the cupboards while he called Angela.
Nathan laid out a charcoal suit with a subtle navy pinstripe (he'd gotten it for his very first day at work in the Senate), a white Brooks Brothers shirt (same day, same place, salesman with a neat white goatee and a Notre Dame class ring), white undershirt (Tracy had worn it once, and the front of it was still slightly distended from the shape of her breasts), new dark-blue boxer briefs (bought three months ago, washed, never worn), navy socks (a random gift from Angela... stolen, of course), a goldenrod tie with a tiny red diamond pattern. A gift from Heidi. Somehow it brought out the green in his eyes, but he loved how it made her blue eyes seem even more dizzyingly bright as she held it up to her face to show it to him and ask if he liked it. Somehow, he had to see her again, even if only at a distance.
He pushed the melancholy thoughts away, and brought his attention back to himself. With all the garments on, Nathan admired himself in the mirror. He looked splendid, well-rested, his unruly hair combed and pomaded into submission, posture erect and assured. He passed over his pearl cuff links, unwilling to touch them, and fastened his plain gold-bar cuff links into place instead. He really didn't like those pearl cuff links. They were too showy. He decided that he would give them to someone else; he didn't imagine that he'd ever want to wear them again.
The shoes were a birthday gift from Peter, years ago. He could picture Peter polishing them and placing them lovingly into a box, his young face (seventeen? eighteen?) softened and smiling, clumsily rushing through the gift wrapping and doing a sloppy job.
"Nate."
Peter stood in the doorway, gazing at him, unsmiling. Nathan raised his eyebrows at him. "Yeah? What's the story?" he asked pleasantly.
"Ma says breakfast sounds fine," Peter said. "She'll be ready in ten minutes. She's been up. I guess she... I guess she didn't sleep." He just kept staring. "She says she's fine, though. I don't quite believe her. But..." He shrugged, and his expression became worried. He didn't come any closer, not even a millimeter; he hung back in the entrance to the bedroom, as if waiting for a chance to run away. Silly Peter. There was nowhere to go. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Of course," Nathan said. He smiled. He glanced back at his reflection in the mirror, making sure the knot in his tie was precise, and that his Yale class ring was perfectly positioned on his hand, radiating prestige into him. Reminding him, and everyone else, just who he was.
"Everything is just perfect," he said to Peter, "now that we're together."
END (58)
Your comments and feedback are extremely welcome!
Pairing: (Sylar)Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through 3.25 "An Invisible Thread", end of Volume 4
Word count: about 5500
Warnings: see pairing and rating; dubcon; sadomasochistic themes; angst. No happy fluffy good times here.
Summary: Everything between them feels different now; the love and the lust that Nathan remembers, but the longing for comfort and connection - and explorations of dominance - multiplied tenfold. Sequel to "Because I Want To."
• 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".
MAY 2007
He woke up, and for a moment, he was no one. No one and nothing. A state of innocence. It was peaceful, as dark and quiet as the womb, as free of the shackles of identity.
But not quite as silent. He had heard a repetitive buzz, punctuated occasionally by a wheeze, and that sound had led him to wakefulness. When he opened his eyes and rolled over, he saw the source of the sound - a young, dark-haired man sleeping next to him, of small build and handsome face, snoring softly - and recognized, fundamentally, instinctually, Peter. Peter, his brother, the love of his life, the biggest pain in his ass. Peter in his bed, sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked.
He considered all the depraved things they did together - seriously wrong things - and how it sustained both of them, like some strange, essential form of nourishment. And that it was beautiful and terrible; that Peter was beautiful and terrible. They needed each other. He needed Peter, and Peter needed him. Nathan.
He was Nathan Petrelli.
He rolled over again, back onto his back, and smiled up at the ceiling.
Then he glanced back at Peter, lying there so beautiful and vulnerable, and thought, We can fly, little brother. We can fly.
His dry throat and his bladder both demanded attention. He rolled over, gently so as not to wake Peter, and rose from bed, padding barefoot and naked through his bedroom. The room was still mostly dark; the sun hadn't yet risen, but the light outside, just visible through a tiny gap between heavy curtains, was a moody ultramarine blue, brightening with the approaching dawn. It was seven minutes after five. And thirty-one seconds. Now, thirty-two.
He knew this as certainly and as instinctively as he knew Peter. As he knew that they had the power of flight.
He didn't bother to turn on the bathroom light; he knew where everything was. The sink; the toilet; the toilet seat and the flush lever. He wet his hands in preparation for washing, and glanced down at his belly, sticky with a thin film of dried sweat and semen. The semen was Peter's. Last night, he had made sure to clean his own issue from his brother's body, but he'd neglected to look after himself. He smiled, wetting a washcloth and adding a dollop of soap gel, and thought to himself that he wanted to go back into the bedroom, wake Peter, and make him lick it off. Imagined the heartbreaking look of utter submission that would be in Peter's eyes as he glanced up, the flash of moist pink tongue, lapping at his belly. Imagined that he'd like a harem of slaves to do it. He'd make them lie there and watch as he masturbated, splattering himself with come; then go to sleep, and wake in the morning, crook his finger, have them approach, one at a time, licking him until he was clean.
He shut off the sink faucet, and got into the shower instead, rinsing the sticky smudge off his belly, letting the water play over the top of his head. He scrubbed his scalp lightly, remembering the wound on his head, but it didn't hurt at all today. And it wasn't where he remembered it, but as he felt for it, it blossomed under his fingers, gently throbbing. Right... right there. A raised welt with a cut in the middle. His fingers bumped against the scab, pulling clumps of dried blood from his hair.
He soaped his hands again, and gently handled his cock and balls, washing them clean, rubbing his fingers against his perineum and anus. They felt good, just a little sore, like the bump on his head. He didn't spend too much time on them, either. It felt better when Peter was touching them. Peter's fingers; Peter's penis. Peter's tongue. He made himself stop, silently directing himself, Save it for him.
Quickly, he left the shower and dried himself off, returning to the bedroom. Peter slept on, but he'd turned slightly, toward the empty space next to him. Silent now, his eyelids smooth. He slid back into bed beside Peter, working his way underneath Peter's outstretched arm, draping his own arm across Peter's shoulders. Still unconscious, Peter slid in closer, instinctively finding a loose, relaxed embrace, rubbing his stubble-rough cheek against Nathan's skin.
With a light touch, he drew his fingers over Peter's shoulder, then more firmly when his brother didn't respond. He let his hand roam down Peter's back and clasped one buttock between thumb and forefinger, marveling at the elasticity of the skin and the solidity of the muscle underneath. Once upon a time, Peter's ass had been as soft and yielding as a girl's, but that was a lifetime ago, and Nathan didn't miss it. If he wanted to touch a woman, he'd get one. This was something else, something that he wanted just as much. More. Something to which he had a right. Peter was his; he was his brother, and thus, perfectly suited, perfectly allowed, a convergence of wrong and right like a combination of salty and sweet in his mouth. His to take. Peter squirmed slightly, pressing closer, a faint furrow lining his forehead, but didn't wake up.
He had to kiss Peter. The younger man's lips pursed a little, and he sighed, as though longing for it, but still swimming through his dreams. Or flying through them. Just a little kiss. Stolen, but always his. A slight pressure of mouth on mouth. Peter still didn't wake up, but he cuddled himself closer and didn't move away. Nathan's heart swelled painfully with love; this beautiful being in his arms, so instinctively sensual, so vulnerable, so trusting! He kissed him again, harder this time, extending his tongue for a taste of those perfect lips, symmetrical in relaxed sleep; it was only when Peter spoke that his mouth went out of alignment. Spoke, or laughed, or smiled. Or cried, or shouted. He wanted to see it.
Peter's cock was hot and full against against Nathan's hip. He reached down and felt for the scarring on his flank that Peter loved so much to press against; the stippled tissue was smooth now, but still palpable under the surface. Peter's dick twitched against Nathan's hand, as if to ask, What about me?, so he turned his palm over and gave it a squeeze. It twitched more, and Peter's lips parted, drawing in a tentative breath. He wondered if he could slide down and suck Peter off without waking him up, his fingers tightening on Peter's dick, encouraging it to harden, to press back against him. He shuddered helplessly. His own cock was hard, beginning to ache. Mornings were so delicious, and it had been way too long since he'd woken up next to his favorite lover of all. How long has it been?, he wondered, kissing Peter's now-responsive lips again, rifling back through his storehouse of memories.
Almost two years. That unpleasant Thanksgiving, before any of the special-abilities nonsense, back when the world was normal... when they had been at each other's throats until they'd fought it out by fucking. The day that he made Peter faint, and Peter made him bleed. And they hadn't even spent the night then; they had only fallen into brief, exhausted, traumatized unconsciousness, too scared and too disgusted with themselves and each other, knowing that only the other one could possibly understand, could provide comfort. Two years since he'd woken up next to Peter. That was wrong. He vowed to never let it go that long again. He would never again let Peter go.
Peter's eyelids parted, revealing dark-shadowed irises and distended pupils as black as infinity, gazing at him without recognition.
Suddenly the pupils sharpened. His body jerked, snatching himself away, cringing in surprise and fear so overt that it was laughable. It had to be a joke. The correct response was to reach after him, crawling closer, taking Peter in his arms again and kissing his forehead. "Morning, Pete."
Peter stared up, brow furrowed and mouth turned down at the corners, but as the kisses continued, he relaxed again, accepting the affection as if it was his due. It was; Peter was made to be loved. He was made to be awakened with kisses each morning. "Huh. You scared me. How's your head?" Peter asked, his sleepy voice rusty and thick.
"It's fine," he replied, "it's just fine." He bent his mouth to Peter's again, seeking his breath. "It feels good to be here with you." He clasped Peter's waist tightly, then relaxed his grip, and let his fingers glide over the same area. When he did it again, Peter's breath hissed in between his teeth, and his eyelids fluttered. "Doesn't it feel good?" Nathan's voice purred. He pressed his lips against Peter's ear, drawing in his breath, touching his tongue to the shell. Peter's body quivered in his arms. "Mmmm... yes, it does, huh? Yes, it does." Gentling him, like calming a spooked horse. "Yes."
"Oh," Peter said faintly, eyes closed. "Yeah. Ah." His hands clasped Nathan's shoulders, and ran down his arms, his touch tentative. "I thought you didn't think it was right to molest someone in their sleep."
"In 'his' sleep," Nathan corrected without thinking about it. "And... well, under most circumstances, that's true. But you just looked so good. And I know you don't mind."
Peter opened his eyes, his expression suddenly cold and defiant. "I've got to take a piss," he muttered, wrenching himself away. Nathan rolled over into the warm spot, and patiently waited for Peter's return.
Peter took his time, but eventually he came back, sitting on the edge of the bed, and staring at Nathan resentfully. The only appropriate response to that was to grab Peter's wrists and pin him down to the bed, and then laugh as their erect cocks smacked together. Peter gasped in surprise... and arousal, too, if the sudden intense twitching of his cock was any indication. Yes, he loved that. Peter had always been like that; he always loved to roughhouse, to horse around, to wrestle. To be pinned. To win by losing. He rubbed their cocks together again, deliberately this time, the head of Nathan's dick sliding up the underside of Peter's. Peter moaned, rolling his eyes and licking his lips. "Jeeeeesus God," he muttered, laughing a little himself. "Oh, oh. What the fuck. How do you do this to me."
Nathan chuckled lazily and indulgently. "I just know you better than anyone else." He arched his back just so, drawing his balls over Peter's cock. "I know what you like."
"Ohhh," Peter sighed again. A helpless smile pulled his lip sideways. "Oh, you're amazing." He made a futile attempt to struggle, and the smile flowed away, replaced with more of the knitted brow. "Dammit, you weigh a ton."
"You're a man," Nathan mused, licking his own lips, drinking in the details of Peter's face. "You became a man, didn't you? You've got lines on your face, little brother. When did that happen?" Peter glanced quickly away, and Nathan could almost read his mind: At the moment that any man ascends to adulthood; when I killed my father.
It was all right. One of them was going to do it sooner or later; they both knew that. Nathan had wanted it too, whether or not he could accept that within himself. Peter had been the brave one, the one to take action. Peter was the brave one. The special little shit.
But no... love. Love had to win. Admiration. Even, somehow, a bit of respect. Peter deserved that now.
Nathan nuzzled the center of Peter's chest, and kissed his left pectoral, right over his thudding heartbeat. "But you're strong; I know it. You can take it, can't you?" He released Peter's wrists, and sat up on his heels with his legs spread, running his hand down his own belly to his cock. Peter's eyes followed his hand as though they were wired together. Nathan palmed his cock, cupped his balls. Showed it to Peter. "You know you want it. And you know you can take it. So why don't you?"
Peter sat up too, then lay down on his stomach between Nathan's spread thighs, and together, they placed Nathan's cock onto Peter's outstretched tongue.
He ran his fingers up the back of Peter's neck, through the tousled hair on the back of his head, muttering, "Yes. Ahhhhhh. How do you do this to me." Peter sucked, slow and intense. Nathan gasped for breath, gulping in oxygen, tingles of electric lust coursing over his skin. "Oh, yes, that. That. Yes. God, that is the most beautiful feeling in the world..."
"Better than fucking my ass?" Peter said, licking his lips, and going down again.
Nathan put his hand on the back of Peter's head. "Yes. Yes, it is. It's the best. This is the best. Ohhhh... the best. You've always been the best." When Peter tried to draw away to catch his breath, Nathan held him still. "Even when you were just a kid and you'd never sucked dick before. You never did, did you?" he demanded, pushing his hips forward, filling Peter's mouth completely. Peter frowned again, eyebrows clenching tightly together. "Did you? Did you suck dick before me? When you were too young to know any better? To understand that you're mine?" Back, and forth again, into Peter's mouth, pressing his cockhead into Peter's soft palate, slipping down toward his throat. Peter tried to cough, but there was nowhere to expel the air, and it choked off in his throat, forcing him to swallow to restore equilibrium in his sinuses. Nathan felt the electric charge of lust ramping up even further; his vision was blurry, staring down through narrowed eyes at Peter's helpless face, jammed full of cock, staring up at him, pleading. Unable to resist or escape. Yes. "Did you? Huh? Suck off some senior in the locker room before football practice? Did he make you do it, or did you offer? Huh? Oh, sweet Peter. So eager to please. I'm sure. I'm so, so sure."
Peter coughed again, this time too hard to stifle, his throat seizing around the head of Nathan's cock, gripping tight. Perfect; the kind of response that nobody could perform voluntarily, no matter how much practice went into it. Nathan moaned out loud. Taking advantage of his distraction, Peter shoved at Nathan's thigh with his fist, pushing himself free. "Fuck!" he snapped. "Fuck you! That's too fucking much, and you know it!"
Nathan slowly shook his head. "Suck it," he commanded calmly, with trembling hand gripping the base of his cock, only slightly damp with Peter's saliva. He hadn't gone as deep as he'd wanted. "Suck it now. Let me fuck your face."
The moan that answered was twisted with longing and anger, resentment and desire. "I never sucked any dicks," Peter hissed. "I just wanted yours."
"Take it," Nathan murmured. "Taste it." He closed his eyes, adding in a whisper, "All the way down."
"You don't have to be so rough," Peter grumbled. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Gently, Nathan cradled his hand around the back of Peter's head, drawing him in closer. "Mmmm... just let me..." Peter sighed, stroking Nathan's thighs with his palms, sliding one up to cradle Nathan's balls, the other to encircle the shaft, pressing his thumb against the tender root. Into his mouth again, his tongue flicking from side to side.
"Yes," Nathan replied. "Yes, that's good. I believe you. You were a good kid. I wasn't. It was me." His breath came heavily. "It was me. I sucked - I sucked dick. I sucked senior cock before football practice. And he wasn't nearly as good to me as I am to you. If he felt teeth, he would punch me. He fucked my throat until I almost puked. But I didn't... and you know why?" He laughed with no humor. It was only funny to the damned. "Because I didn't want to ruin it. I didn't want it to stop. Because I fucking loved it so much. I was so much like you, baby. I wanted to fuck and suck and I didn't care what it took. I didn't care how it started; I didn't care what he thought of me. I wanted his cock in me. You understand that, don't you?" He held Peter still again, tensing his hips quickly, back and forth twice as fast as his breathing, but not too deep; just against Peter's tongue, the insides of Peter's cheeks. Peter let go of Nathan's dick in favor of handling his own, trapped underneath him, tangled in charcoal-colored bedsheets. "You hated me as much as I hated him. But you know what it is to want. And not give a fuck whether it's right or wrong. Peter, you understand me...."
Nathan's body shuddered convulsively. Control was slipping away from him. Before he lost himself completely, he backed away, pulling his dick from Peter's mouth with a wet pop, trailing streamers of saliva and pre-come. Peter opened his eyes, staring at him with his red mouth still hanging open. Nathan jerked at the shaft of his cock, a sharp punch of orgasm hitting him inside, pointing the head toward Peter's chest, wanting to see the semen glistening on Peter's tightly erect nipples. But before the come jetted out, Peter had grabbed Nathan's cock, and positioned it in front of his mouth. A sloppy scribble of pale fluid appeared on his tongue, and he smiled, a wide, brilliant, crooked, grateful smile.
The orgasm, while intense, was brief, over in a few lightning pulses. Peter closed his mouth and swallowed, as usual, grimacing at the taste, like swallowing bitter medicine. But he did it. Nathan stared at him curiously. "But you don't like come, Peter."
"Yeah, but you do," Peter challenged back.
Of course he did. Was that ever in doubt? Nathan lay down beside Peter, and brought their mouths together, seeking the flavor of his issue. It was bitter indeed; without even a hint of sweetness, the taste corrupt and unpleasantly lingering. He knew and acknowledged this. Peter's come was palatable and fascinating, his pure and loving essence; Nathan's own was heavy and over-complex and reminiscent of nothing good. But it was his; this product of his body. Of his lust. It was right that Peter should drink of it, to taste the truth of him. The shame and mistakes and nastiness that was Nathan. The damned and repulsive nature of him.
And the sweetness and wholesomeness of Peter's mouth filled his mouth now. Peter tasted pure in a way that Nathan never could, never would. Nathan wondered if Peter would someday taste as bad, if Peter would eventually kill and ruin as he did. He was a Petrelli; it was all but inevitable. But perhaps they could save each other.
Peter pulled away from the consuming kiss, gasping for breath. "Nathan," he murmured. "You're okay. You're okay now. You don't have to let that haunt you anymore."
"I just don't want to hold back, or hide the way I feel about you anymore. Not to you. I can be myself with you." He ran his hands over Peter's body, kissing his lips again, letting his weight settle alongside Peter. He toyed with Peter's nipples for a moment, tugging them away from Peter's chest, twisting them just hard enough to make Peter moan. He slid his hands up to Peter's throat, caressing him, feeling for his pulse, for the rising and falling of his breath. "You understand me." He tightened his fingers, just a little, just enough to make Peter's pulse jump, to interrupt Peter's breathing.
Peter's eyes shot open wide, and the brow furrows dug themselves in again. He slid his arms up underneath and through Nathan's, forcing his encircling hands away from his windpipe. "Nathan, please stop that. You're being too rough," he said. "I'm not into it right now."
Obligingly, Nathan let go of Peter's throat, but held him still anyway, lazily kissing his cheeks and chin and forehead. "You made me bleed," he said. "Remember?"
Peter glared. "What's that got to do with..." he began, voice tight with anger. When Nathan didn't look away, Peter blinked, and his defiant expression closed itself off, widening his eyes and paling his lips. He shrank away, shoulders drawing up. For the first time that he could remember, Nathan could actually smell fear. "What - ?" he tried to say. "I - Nathan, please, I -"
That wasn't what he was after, although it was somewhat comforting and fascinating to know that he could engender that reaction without even having to raise his voice. Again, reassuringly, tenderly, Nathan kissed Peter on the lips. "Don't worry," he murmured, smiling a little, caressing Peter's back and thigh. "I won't demand anything that you can't handle. But just remember - you made me bleed. You've done it a bunch of times, in fact. Whatever I do to you, you deserve it. I don't do it to make you fear me; I do it because I love you. To make you good."
"Nathan..." Peter sighed, and didn't continue. He squeezed his eyes shut, his expression pained, but his fingers clenched Nathan's shoulders, holding on tight. Nathan slid his arms around his brother and held him, not settling his full weight on top of him, just enough so that Peter could feel how solid he was. How solid they were, together. Alive and real and whole.
"And I know you need me," Nathan continued softly, kissing Peter's lined forehead, kissing the fine spray of crow's-feet at the corners of Peter's eyes (and when had Peter become such a man, with wrinkles and worries and all? He'd grown up, and Nathan hadn't even seen it... again... their lives were more overlapping than intertwined. He missed his brother. He missed the baby and the child and the young man, all of them gone, dead a dozen times over). "Just as much as I need you. You need me to be tough on you, so you can forgive yourself." He palmed Peter's cock, still hard, or perhaps harder now than ever, the head of it soaking wet and tight. He slipped the end of his pinky into the slit at the tip, could almost get the whole tip of his finger inside; Peter had been playing with it. Had always. Peter shuddered and groaned, and Nathan slid that pinky into Peter's mouth, then a few more fingers, feeding Peter a taste of himself. Peter whimpered, vulnerable, shivering. With newly-dampened fingers, Nathan reached for Peter's cock again, wrapping his hand around the shaft, gripping and stroking up and up and up some more. "Yes? Because you're not perfect. You can't save everyone. But you can save me." Nathan bit his lip, shuddering himself, feeling himself drawn along the same wave of mounting arousal that Peter crested upon. "Yes? Yes? Save me? Ah? Yes?"
"Yes. Forgive me. Yes. Ahhhhhhh! Oh fuck, ohmygod yes, ahhhhh!" Peter's hips bucked wildly, legs thrashing against the sheets, his toenails raking across Nathan's legs, leaving red welts on the skin. But it was good. It was all fine because Peter was coming. Orgasm. Oneness with God. Ejaculation, pulsing up through him, out, all over Nathan's hand, all over Peter's belly, Nathan's belly and wrist, hot and cool at once. Nathan felt a strong, sympathetic spasm pulse through him, so intense that he almost thought he'd come again himself.
"I forgive you," Nathan whispered. "Now you forgive yourself." Streaks of water ran from the corners of Peter's eyes, and from Nathan's, flowing warm down over Nathan's cheeks. He pressed his cheek against Peter's, mingling their tears together. "I love you," Nathan said, and Peter nodded, breath shaking. Nathan held up his stained hand, and licked at some of the semen on it, then brought his lips to his brother's mouth. Peter was good; he accepted this gift, took the taste from Nathan's tongue, passed it back to him, quivering with silent, convulsive sobs.
"With me, you're free," Nathan reminded him. "I absolve you."
Peter didn't look at him, but kissed him again, tucking himself in close.
* * *
The sliver of sun visible behind the curtain had turned pale gold. The day had arrived.
Following an unspoken agreement, they rose together from bed, and went to the bathroom to wash up. Nathan handed Peter a brand-new toothbrush, still in its plastic wrapper, and said, "I'll put a new blade in the razor."
"That's all right," Peter said, turning on the water in the shower stall and testing it against the back of his hand. "I'll skip it."
"No, you won't," Nathan countered smoothly. "You look scruffy. If you shave, you'll at least look presentable."
"What's it matter?" Peter asked, stepping under the water before Nathan could answer.
"Because," Nathan replied, joining him, "it matters. We're in Washington right now. That look that works for Fourteenth Street isn't gonna cut it here."
"Then I'll go back to Fourteenth Street," Peter shrugged.
Nathan shook his head slowly. "Don't leave me, Peter," he said. "Please."
Peter opened and closed his mouth several times without being able to form words. Nathan lathered up his hands, and began to patiently wash Peter's back and shoulders, explaining, "I have a lot of work to do to make up for my gigantic fuckups. I'm an elected official, and the House is in session. I've had a leave of absence to take care of logistical issues, but now that that's more or less over, I'd better start making up some face time. Pretty soon I'll be able to head back to New York, sure, but for now, I've got to be here, and I've got to go in every single day."
"You need to take it easy," Peter was able to speak at last. "You've got a concussion. You need a little down time; one night isn't gonna be enough." He relaxed under Nathan's sudsy, circular touch, arching his back toward Nathan until his back made contact with Nathan's front, wiggling a bit to spread the soap onto him.
"That's why I'm only going in today from ten until four," Nathan explained. He ran his hands over the front of Peter's body, not arousingly, but efficiently, even reaching between Peter's legs to tease the last traces of spunk out of his groin. "Tomorrow, though, regular hours. And I hope we're not up all night, but if we are, that's how it is. I've got to start doing the job for which I was elected."
"Oh, well, that's good to hear," Peter said archly. "Nobody's going to expect that from you. You might make ol' Strom Thurmond drop dead of a heart attack."
"Strom Thurmond's already dead, Pete."
"Oh."
"I get what you're saying, though," Nathan said. "No one will expect it from me. But..." He sighed. "I made a disaster and I've got to fix it. I've got to re-stream the budget that I was wasting on Danko and..."
"And give it to Mom and Bennet," Peter finished for him, and moved out of Nathan's embrace, running a wet hand through his hair, stepping out of the shower. "I'm gonna brush my teeth," he muttered.
Nathan finished rinsing himself off, and turned off the water, reaching for a towel. "I'm serious, Peter," he said. "Stay with me. Join my staff."
Peter stared at him, slightly comical with a mouth full of toothpaste foam. He spit it out. "What?" he blurted.
"Join my staff," Nathan repeated. "As an advisor. On... medical issues. Supervise the allocation of the budgetary funds going to Bennet. And Mom. Make sure it's done ethically. Keep on top of them. Make sure it doesn't spiral out of control again. Provide some oversight. For them, and for me. I need someone like you to keep an eye on things. Someone who truly and genuinely knows right from wrong, and won't be swayed by special interests -"
"You're saying this to someone who has singlehandedly almost destroyed the world three times," Peter pointed out, his voice bitter. "Three times, Nathan. I've got you beat."
"Why won't you take this seriously?" Nathan asked, draping his damp towel around his shoulders, and reaching for his shaving kit. "I'm serious. I need you near me, and ... hell, what else do you have? Your 'career' is in the toilet. Sure, you've got nursing credentials, but you were never really that into that, were you? It's all right; you can tell me. You skipped out on Charles Deveaux, and you loved him. But you left as soon as something more interesting came along. That doesn't look good on your job history, Pete." He calmly ejected the old blade from his safety razor, and slid a new, gleaming blade into place, securing it with a click. Peter's eyes focused on the discarded blade, balanced on the edge of the sink. "You've got huge gaps between jobs. You've got an FBI file as thick as the Brooklyn Yellow Pages. But I won't care about any of that. Work for me, and you'll have a decent salary, interesting work, and..." He gestured expansively with his shaving brush, giving Peter a brilliant, toothy smile. "Me."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long."
"Or the offer will be taken off the table?"
Nathan swirled soap across his face. "No," he replied. "It won't be. But... don't think about it too long. Because I need you. The country... needs you."
Peter picked up the razor blade, and pared one of his cuticles with it. "I'll think about it, okay?" he reiterated.
"Good," said Nathan. "Why don't you call Ma, and see if she wants to get breakfast with us? That might make for a good photo op. A private, casual family breakfast, with some biscuits."
"I wish you would just listen to yourself for once," Peter grumbled, picking up his toothbrush. "Just hear what you sound like. You're just so full of shit."
He did shave, once Nathan was done, and had moved on to brushing his own teeth.
Peter went out to the bedroom, opened the curtains to let in the morning sunlight, and dressed quickly in borrowed clothes. He went into the kitchen to rifle through the cupboards while he called Angela.
Nathan laid out a charcoal suit with a subtle navy pinstripe (he'd gotten it for his very first day at work in the Senate), a white Brooks Brothers shirt (same day, same place, salesman with a neat white goatee and a Notre Dame class ring), white undershirt (Tracy had worn it once, and the front of it was still slightly distended from the shape of her breasts), new dark-blue boxer briefs (bought three months ago, washed, never worn), navy socks (a random gift from Angela... stolen, of course), a goldenrod tie with a tiny red diamond pattern. A gift from Heidi. Somehow it brought out the green in his eyes, but he loved how it made her blue eyes seem even more dizzyingly bright as she held it up to her face to show it to him and ask if he liked it. Somehow, he had to see her again, even if only at a distance.
He pushed the melancholy thoughts away, and brought his attention back to himself. With all the garments on, Nathan admired himself in the mirror. He looked splendid, well-rested, his unruly hair combed and pomaded into submission, posture erect and assured. He passed over his pearl cuff links, unwilling to touch them, and fastened his plain gold-bar cuff links into place instead. He really didn't like those pearl cuff links. They were too showy. He decided that he would give them to someone else; he didn't imagine that he'd ever want to wear them again.
The shoes were a birthday gift from Peter, years ago. He could picture Peter polishing them and placing them lovingly into a box, his young face (seventeen? eighteen?) softened and smiling, clumsily rushing through the gift wrapping and doing a sloppy job.
"Nate."
Peter stood in the doorway, gazing at him, unsmiling. Nathan raised his eyebrows at him. "Yeah? What's the story?" he asked pleasantly.
"Ma says breakfast sounds fine," Peter said. "She'll be ready in ten minutes. She's been up. I guess she... I guess she didn't sleep." He just kept staring. "She says she's fine, though. I don't quite believe her. But..." He shrugged, and his expression became worried. He didn't come any closer, not even a millimeter; he hung back in the entrance to the bedroom, as if waiting for a chance to run away. Silly Peter. There was nowhere to go. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Of course," Nathan said. He smiled. He glanced back at his reflection in the mirror, making sure the knot in his tie was precise, and that his Yale class ring was perfectly positioned on his hand, radiating prestige into him. Reminding him, and everyone else, just who he was.
"Everything is just perfect," he said to Peter, "now that we're together."
END (58)
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