Fic: When He Sings (Heroes)
Title: When He Sings
Fandom: Heroes
Category: Nathan/ Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1690
Summary: “Nathan doesn’t misuse words.” Post "One Giant Leap."
There’s such tender wolves on the town tonight... - Neko Case
Peter remembers the days after their father died: Nathan at his door with wine or beer, college football on the television, rain outside. Peters remembers drinking scotch from the bottle, one swig, pass it to Nathan, one swig, pass it back. Peter doesn’t remember what they talked about - their father, Heidi, the rain - but Peter distinctly remembers telling Nathan he’d make a good politician.
Nathan looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “A feeling, I guess.” It seemed like the right thing to say, something Nathan wanted to hear. Peter remembers being drunk, staring at the television. On the screen red played blue - Rutgers and West Virginia. He doesn’t remember who won. He doesn’t follow football.
“You don’t like politicians,” Nathan said.
“I like you,” Peter said. He smiled at Nathan. Nathan raised his eyebrows. “Hell, I might even vote for you.”
Nathan took the bottle from Peter, raised it in salute. “It’s a start,” he said.
Six months later and the comment seems obvious in retrospect. Nathan was born to be a public figure, someone who draws people to him, makes people listen. Nathan stands at the centre of the hurricane, reigning in the storm like a Greek god. And now he can fly. In an ordered world such power would be superfluous.
This isn’t an ordered world. In this world Nathan shows up at Peter’s apartment two days after the fundraiser like the announcement and the incident in the parking garage never happened. Of course, the bruises on Nathan’s face and the article in the New York Times tell otherwise.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Peter says.
Nathan is wearing a navy suit, white shirt and maroon tie. He dresses conservatively these days. Even pinstripes are too flashy. It’s been a trying time for my family, he told the New York Times. Thank god we have each other.
“I’m fine,” Nathan says. He edges past Peter. “The bruises are healing, and the pain‘s already gone. Thanks for asking.”
“We 'depressives' are so self-involved,” Peter says. “We don’t notice anyone else’s pain.”
Nathan puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs with his shoulders. “What were you going to say, Peter?” he says. “When the story broke - what were you going to tell your friends? What were you going to tell Mom?”
Peter doesn’t answer. He goes into the kitchen and starts unpacking the dishwasher. He cleans when he’s anxious, works off his nervous energy scrubbing mould from the bathroom tiles or hoovering the dust bunnies underneath the couch.
He’s reminded of Heidi packing the dishwasher the first night Nathan and she came over for dinner. It was a week after Peter moved into the apartment. Nearly a year ago now. Heidi told Peter he was very domestic, “for a Petrelli.“
“It was my story to tell, Nathan,” Peter says. “Mine. Not yours.”
Nathan follows Peter into the kitchen. “For god’s sake, Peter, it’s me they want,” he says. “No one cares about you.”
Peter looks at the ceiling. One of Peter’s earliest memories is of Nathan talking the shopkeeper in the store across the street from their Manhattan apartment into giving his little brother free candy. Nathan picks up girls by asking for directions or by discussing low fat yoghurt at the supermarket. Nathan doesn’t misuse words.
Peter takes the cutlery from the dishwasher and puts it in a drawer underneath the sink, slamming it shut. “You want to be forgiven, Nathan?” he says. “Is that what you came here for?” He makes a ’presto’ gesture with his hands. “You’re forgiven. You can go now.”
“Peter…” Nathan tries to smile but it comes off half-hearted, like a politician caught in the middle of a lie.
Peter opens the door, inclining his head toward the entrance. “Goodbye, Nathan,” he says. “Be sure to drop around again some time when your ego needs feeding.”
Nathan doesn’t move. He looks at the door, his face drawn tightly. Peter looks like their father but it’s Nathan who picked up the expressions: the glare, the disapproving look, the way his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
And then Nathan moves. He shuts the door with one hand, pushes Peter against the wall with the other. He gets Peter at the sternum, just below the throat. He’s bigger and stronger and he’s never let Peter forget it. Not when they were children, not now. Peter swallows air in gulps.
“You’re an ungrateful little bitch, you know that?” They meet at eye-level. Nathan is so close his breath is hot on Peter’s face. “I have done everything for you!”
“I never asked you!” Peter says.
“You needed me,” Nathan says. “You always need me.”
“No,” Peter says. He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
Nathan pushes Peter harder against the wall, his arm flush with Peter’s sternum from the elbow to the palm. Peter gasps for air like he doesn‘t know where his next breath is coming from. He feels Nathan’s fingers at his necks, softly brushing his adam’s apple, almost tender. Nathan would never hurt Peter intentionally but he’s being playing rough since Peter could walk. Peter was too young and too small and usually ended up getting hurt. He never grew up fast enough for Nathan.
“Yeah,” Nathan says. His voice is soft now, a whisper. “Yeah, you do.”
Peter feels Nathan’s hand on his thigh, snaking between Peters legs to cup his groin. Nathan squeezes lightly, suggestively. Peter gasps. He looks at Nathan, eyes wide, his heart beating in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it. They’re closer than most brothers. They touch, get in each other’s personal space. Maybe it was an accident? The moment is gone when Nathan strokes Peter’s dick through the fabric of his jeans, thumb drawing a line down the shaft. He hitches Peter’s t-shirt up so his midriff is exposed, and undoes Peter’s jeans, shoving them down around his hips with his underwear. He grabs Peter’s semi-erect cock and fists him in firm, long strokes. Once, twice, three times, shaft to the head, no lubrication, no finesse.
Peter hears a voice in his head, calling from far away. Tell him to stop, it says. He’s your brother. Make him stop. He opens his mouth and he’s saying, “Yes, god, Nathan - please,” and it‘s not him, Peter swears it can‘t be him. He places his palms flat against the wall, digs his fingernail into the wood and leans his head back, eyes closed. He wants it, wants Nathan, all of him, his hands, his fingers, his skin. Peter wants Nathan around him, in him, fucking him if it comes to that and, please, let it come to that. Nathan knows, probably knew all along, hid it up his sleeve like an Ace, slipping it into the game when the odds were against him. Nathan wins. Nathan always wins.
Nathan slides his thumb over the pre-cum on the tip of Peter’s cock, spreads it along Peter’s shaft so that he’s slick all over. It’s easier now. Nathan’s hand moves quickly, evenly, and Peter thrusts a little, pushes his hips forward, shamelessly fucking Nathan’s fist.
“Look at me,“ Nathan says, and Nathan’s hand grips Peter’s jaw, holding him at eye-level. “Look at me,“ Nathan says again, and Peter opens his eyes, sees Nathan staring back at him, eyes so dark he doesn’t look real.
He comes like that, spurting over Nathan’s hand, streaking the dark fabric of Nathan’s sleeve.
“Nathan,” he says. His voice shakes a little, his heart beat still pounding in his throat, in his ears. His breath is ragged and uneven. “How did you… how could you…”
Nathan wipes his hand on Peter’s t-shirt, leaning his forehead against the wall beside Peter so that his lips brush Peter’s ear. He covers Peter’s mouth with his still wet palm. “Shh,” he says. “Shh.” He kisses Peter’s cheekbone, lips cold against Peter’s burning skin. It feels like branding. “You can’t leave me, Peter,” he says. “Don’t ever leave me.”
It’s an odd thing to say; Peter isn‘t going anywhere. “I won’t,” Peter says. He has nowhere to go.
Nathan steps back, smooths his hand across the front of Peter’s t-shirt, coming to rest on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s jeans are still slung around his hips, hanging on to his boxers. He feels vulnerable, exposed, like he’s giving away a secret. Nathan meets Peter’s eyes briefly before opening the door and leaving without looking back. Nathan knows how to make an exit.
Peter slumps against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There’s a water stain shaped like a map of Africa above his head. There’s another one in the kitchen that looks like France. He stares until the cold air around his groin reminds him he’s still sticky with sweat and semen. He needs to shower.
He pulls his jeans and boxers over his hips, goes into the bathroom and starts the shower. The room fills with steam and he watches absently, wondering whether it’s worth prising the window open to circulate the air. Eventually, it occurs to him to strip and he pulls his t-shirt over his head, catching himself in the mirror as he lowers his arms. He doesn’t look special. He looks scared, like the world around him is spiralling out of control and he can‘t save it.
He steps under the water, turning his face to the showerhead. He thinks about Nathan’s hands on him and he groans, feeling it everywhere. He’ll feel it for days, forever if he has to. He closes his eyes, touches himself, his hand sliding along the curve of his abdomen to between his legs where he‘s still sensitive. He won‘t wait forever. Nathan will come around again, maybe not tomorrow but the day after, or the day after that. He’ll come because he’s scared too and he needs Peter more than his career, more than his family, more than flying.
End.
Fandom: Heroes
Category: Nathan/ Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1690
Summary: “Nathan doesn’t misuse words.” Post "One Giant Leap."
There’s such tender wolves on the town tonight... - Neko Case
Peter remembers the days after their father died: Nathan at his door with wine or beer, college football on the television, rain outside. Peters remembers drinking scotch from the bottle, one swig, pass it to Nathan, one swig, pass it back. Peter doesn’t remember what they talked about - their father, Heidi, the rain - but Peter distinctly remembers telling Nathan he’d make a good politician.
Nathan looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “A feeling, I guess.” It seemed like the right thing to say, something Nathan wanted to hear. Peter remembers being drunk, staring at the television. On the screen red played blue - Rutgers and West Virginia. He doesn’t remember who won. He doesn’t follow football.
“You don’t like politicians,” Nathan said.
“I like you,” Peter said. He smiled at Nathan. Nathan raised his eyebrows. “Hell, I might even vote for you.”
Nathan took the bottle from Peter, raised it in salute. “It’s a start,” he said.
Six months later and the comment seems obvious in retrospect. Nathan was born to be a public figure, someone who draws people to him, makes people listen. Nathan stands at the centre of the hurricane, reigning in the storm like a Greek god. And now he can fly. In an ordered world such power would be superfluous.
This isn’t an ordered world. In this world Nathan shows up at Peter’s apartment two days after the fundraiser like the announcement and the incident in the parking garage never happened. Of course, the bruises on Nathan’s face and the article in the New York Times tell otherwise.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Peter says.
Nathan is wearing a navy suit, white shirt and maroon tie. He dresses conservatively these days. Even pinstripes are too flashy. It’s been a trying time for my family, he told the New York Times. Thank god we have each other.
“I’m fine,” Nathan says. He edges past Peter. “The bruises are healing, and the pain‘s already gone. Thanks for asking.”
“We 'depressives' are so self-involved,” Peter says. “We don’t notice anyone else’s pain.”
Nathan puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs with his shoulders. “What were you going to say, Peter?” he says. “When the story broke - what were you going to tell your friends? What were you going to tell Mom?”
Peter doesn’t answer. He goes into the kitchen and starts unpacking the dishwasher. He cleans when he’s anxious, works off his nervous energy scrubbing mould from the bathroom tiles or hoovering the dust bunnies underneath the couch.
He’s reminded of Heidi packing the dishwasher the first night Nathan and she came over for dinner. It was a week after Peter moved into the apartment. Nearly a year ago now. Heidi told Peter he was very domestic, “for a Petrelli.“
“It was my story to tell, Nathan,” Peter says. “Mine. Not yours.”
Nathan follows Peter into the kitchen. “For god’s sake, Peter, it’s me they want,” he says. “No one cares about you.”
Peter looks at the ceiling. One of Peter’s earliest memories is of Nathan talking the shopkeeper in the store across the street from their Manhattan apartment into giving his little brother free candy. Nathan picks up girls by asking for directions or by discussing low fat yoghurt at the supermarket. Nathan doesn’t misuse words.
Peter takes the cutlery from the dishwasher and puts it in a drawer underneath the sink, slamming it shut. “You want to be forgiven, Nathan?” he says. “Is that what you came here for?” He makes a ’presto’ gesture with his hands. “You’re forgiven. You can go now.”
“Peter…” Nathan tries to smile but it comes off half-hearted, like a politician caught in the middle of a lie.
Peter opens the door, inclining his head toward the entrance. “Goodbye, Nathan,” he says. “Be sure to drop around again some time when your ego needs feeding.”
Nathan doesn’t move. He looks at the door, his face drawn tightly. Peter looks like their father but it’s Nathan who picked up the expressions: the glare, the disapproving look, the way his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
And then Nathan moves. He shuts the door with one hand, pushes Peter against the wall with the other. He gets Peter at the sternum, just below the throat. He’s bigger and stronger and he’s never let Peter forget it. Not when they were children, not now. Peter swallows air in gulps.
“You’re an ungrateful little bitch, you know that?” They meet at eye-level. Nathan is so close his breath is hot on Peter’s face. “I have done everything for you!”
“I never asked you!” Peter says.
“You needed me,” Nathan says. “You always need me.”
“No,” Peter says. He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
Nathan pushes Peter harder against the wall, his arm flush with Peter’s sternum from the elbow to the palm. Peter gasps for air like he doesn‘t know where his next breath is coming from. He feels Nathan’s fingers at his necks, softly brushing his adam’s apple, almost tender. Nathan would never hurt Peter intentionally but he’s being playing rough since Peter could walk. Peter was too young and too small and usually ended up getting hurt. He never grew up fast enough for Nathan.
“Yeah,” Nathan says. His voice is soft now, a whisper. “Yeah, you do.”
Peter feels Nathan’s hand on his thigh, snaking between Peters legs to cup his groin. Nathan squeezes lightly, suggestively. Peter gasps. He looks at Nathan, eyes wide, his heart beating in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it. They’re closer than most brothers. They touch, get in each other’s personal space. Maybe it was an accident? The moment is gone when Nathan strokes Peter’s dick through the fabric of his jeans, thumb drawing a line down the shaft. He hitches Peter’s t-shirt up so his midriff is exposed, and undoes Peter’s jeans, shoving them down around his hips with his underwear. He grabs Peter’s semi-erect cock and fists him in firm, long strokes. Once, twice, three times, shaft to the head, no lubrication, no finesse.
Peter hears a voice in his head, calling from far away. Tell him to stop, it says. He’s your brother. Make him stop. He opens his mouth and he’s saying, “Yes, god, Nathan - please,” and it‘s not him, Peter swears it can‘t be him. He places his palms flat against the wall, digs his fingernail into the wood and leans his head back, eyes closed. He wants it, wants Nathan, all of him, his hands, his fingers, his skin. Peter wants Nathan around him, in him, fucking him if it comes to that and, please, let it come to that. Nathan knows, probably knew all along, hid it up his sleeve like an Ace, slipping it into the game when the odds were against him. Nathan wins. Nathan always wins.
Nathan slides his thumb over the pre-cum on the tip of Peter’s cock, spreads it along Peter’s shaft so that he’s slick all over. It’s easier now. Nathan’s hand moves quickly, evenly, and Peter thrusts a little, pushes his hips forward, shamelessly fucking Nathan’s fist.
“Look at me,“ Nathan says, and Nathan’s hand grips Peter’s jaw, holding him at eye-level. “Look at me,“ Nathan says again, and Peter opens his eyes, sees Nathan staring back at him, eyes so dark he doesn’t look real.
He comes like that, spurting over Nathan’s hand, streaking the dark fabric of Nathan’s sleeve.
“Nathan,” he says. His voice shakes a little, his heart beat still pounding in his throat, in his ears. His breath is ragged and uneven. “How did you… how could you…”
Nathan wipes his hand on Peter’s t-shirt, leaning his forehead against the wall beside Peter so that his lips brush Peter’s ear. He covers Peter’s mouth with his still wet palm. “Shh,” he says. “Shh.” He kisses Peter’s cheekbone, lips cold against Peter’s burning skin. It feels like branding. “You can’t leave me, Peter,” he says. “Don’t ever leave me.”
It’s an odd thing to say; Peter isn‘t going anywhere. “I won’t,” Peter says. He has nowhere to go.
Nathan steps back, smooths his hand across the front of Peter’s t-shirt, coming to rest on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s jeans are still slung around his hips, hanging on to his boxers. He feels vulnerable, exposed, like he’s giving away a secret. Nathan meets Peter’s eyes briefly before opening the door and leaving without looking back. Nathan knows how to make an exit.
Peter slumps against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There’s a water stain shaped like a map of Africa above his head. There’s another one in the kitchen that looks like France. He stares until the cold air around his groin reminds him he’s still sticky with sweat and semen. He needs to shower.
He pulls his jeans and boxers over his hips, goes into the bathroom and starts the shower. The room fills with steam and he watches absently, wondering whether it’s worth prising the window open to circulate the air. Eventually, it occurs to him to strip and he pulls his t-shirt over his head, catching himself in the mirror as he lowers his arms. He doesn’t look special. He looks scared, like the world around him is spiralling out of control and he can‘t save it.
He steps under the water, turning his face to the showerhead. He thinks about Nathan’s hands on him and he groans, feeling it everywhere. He’ll feel it for days, forever if he has to. He closes his eyes, touches himself, his hand sliding along the curve of his abdomen to between his legs where he‘s still sensitive. He won‘t wait forever. Nathan will come around again, maybe not tomorrow but the day after, or the day after that. He’ll come because he’s scared too and he needs Peter more than his career, more than his family, more than flying.
End.