Fic (Heroes): What It Is and What It Is Not (Nathan/ Peter, NC-17), Part One
What It Is and What It Is Not
Heroes (Nathan/ Peter, NC-17)
Word Count: 22980
Author's Notes: This is a story I started in April that was constantly side-tracked by work, other fanfic and the ever-changing Heroes canon. After some sprucing and numerous re-writes I am relieved as all get out to finally get it off my hard-drive. Thanks in no small part to marinwood and linaerys who are more like a cheer squad than beta readers - and I sure as hell needed some cheering. Any left over mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Title from Florence Nightingale's Notes on Nursing.
Part One
Music drifts through the open French doors, Puccini’s “Turandot” floating out to the courtyard like mist in a valley, spreading itself thinner as it disperses. It strains against the sounds of the traffic below, the helicopters overhead and the Venetian wall clock chiming midnight. It stops suddenly, and then it starts again. Cole Porter this time; Heidi’s choice.
Nathan and Peter sit at the outside table, draining the last of the wine. Nathan is smoking a cigar - a cigarillo really - and the smoke curls upward in a spiral, mingling with the music and the night. He looks the Cole Porter part: his suit rumpled and his tie loose. He leans back in his chair and looks at Peter through half lowered lids, giving off an appearance of calm that belies his current mood.
“What do you mean you dropped out?” Nathan says.
“I’m not cut out for law, Nathan,” Peter says. “I don’t think I’m cut out for college.” Peter is wearing jeans and a light jacket, and unlike Nathan, he looks freshly dressed and rested. He should be. He woke up at midday today and he’s done nothing more strenuous than surf the internet and watch television. This is the life of a college dropout.
Heidi brings coffee on a tray with cream and sugar. “What will you do?” she asks. She pours cream into her coffee. Peter and Nathan take theirs black and sugarless.
“Get a job,” Peter says. “I’ve a friend who’s an orderly at St Vincent’s. He says they need night staff.” It’s only half the story. Peter already has a job at St Vincent’s. He starts Monday. He dropped out of college two months ago and he’s only recently summoned the courage to tell Nathan. He’s yet to tell his mother or father. He’s using Nathan as a test run.
“You can’t be an orderly,” Nathan says. “Petrellis aren’t orderlies.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” Heidi says, giving Nathan a reproachful look. “Peter, you can be whatever you want to be.”
Nathan snorts, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray on the table next to his coffee.
“It’s temporary,” Peter says quickly, before Nathan can interject. “I want-.” He looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night. The brighter stars are visible where the black is deepest. “I need to figure some stuff out.”
“That’s what college is for,” Nathan says. “Get your existential crisis over before you join the real world.”
“Is that what you did?” Heidi asks, raising her eyebrows at Nathan.
“Please,” Nathan says. “I went to Princeton.”
Heidi grins conspiratorially at Peter. Peter smiles into his coffee.
“You don’t need to decide what you’re going to do with your life right now,” Heidi tells Peter. “You have time.”
“Try telling that to our father,” Nathan says.
Peter rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. Thinking about what to tell his father gives him a headache. It’s going to be ugly: accusations, raised voices and questions Peter is not prepared to answer. Their father is single-minded, forthright and intense, so naturally he finds Peter’s lack of direction unsettling.
“I was hoping Mom would tell him,” Peter says. Their mother regularly intercedes on Peter’s behalf. More than the mother of a twenty-year-old son should. Peter knows this and yet he does little to stop it. It’s true he can be incendiary it’s true but he’s also a coward.
“You should tell him,” Nathan says. “He’ll be impressed that you stood up to him.”
“He’s impressed when you stand up to him,” Peter says. “With me he’s just annoyed.”
“I’ll come with you,” Nathan says.
Peter frowns. It won’t make a difference if Nathan is there or not; it’s still a situation Peter would rather avoid, but it’s better than facing his father alone. “Fine” he says. “Okay.”
Peter stays in the guest room overnight. Before going to bed, Nathan kisses Peter on the top of his forehead, right on the hairline. It’s brief: a hand on Peter’s shoulder and a quick brush of Nathan’s lips against Peter’s skin.
In the morning, Peter notices Nathan kisses Heidi the same way before she leaves for lunch with friends.
*
This is their relationship: Peter gets into trouble and Nathan saves him, right or wrong. Peter can’t remember where it began or how, but when eight-year-old Peter broke the Wedgwood vase playing hide and seek in the living room, Nathan was there, apologizing to their mother and saying he should have been watching him. Now it seems like they are never as close as when Nathan is bailing Peter out his latest predicament.
Peter never asks for Nathan’s help, but he doesn’t turn it down either. Nathan is Peter’s charming, Armani-suited older brother with the dazzling smile and the disarming stare. And he loves Peter. Anyone can see it. In a crowded room, Nathan gravitates toward Peter and Peter feels like the centre of the universe, the only one who can draw this brilliant creature to him.
There’s a wedding in Providence on the weekend before Peter starts at St Vincent’s and the entire Petrelli family attends, spending two nights in a luxury hotel at the expense of the groom’s father, their father’s cousin. Peter remembers vacationing with the groom’s family in Rome when Peter was ten. The groom, two years older than Peter, threw peanuts at the pigeons in piazza, laughing as they scattered. Later he held Peter down on the floor of their hotel room, pressed Peter’s arm painfully against his back, and made Peter say the Mets were gay. The Petrellis have a thousand relatives and someone is always getting married. Nathan’s wedding was like a Kennedy family reunion.
The Petrellis meet for a family dinner the night before the wedding. Nathan says it will be the perfect time for Peter to tell the father he’s dropping out of college. A wedding means smiling for the relatives, playing happy families; the chances of their father making a scene are remote. Still, Peter is doubtful. He had something along the lines of a drive-by confession in mind - tell and run. He wasn’t planning on being the family disappointment for the entire weekend.
They’ve barely been served dessert when Peter hears Nathan saying, “It’s temporary. He’s not going to be an orderly forever.”
Peter looks up from his sorbet and sees Nathan looking at him out of the corner of his eye, hoping Peter won’t contradict him. Peter wonders how the announcement got away from him.
“Yeah,” Peter says dumbly. “Temporary.”
“Do you have a problem with what I do?” their father says, looking at Peter. “With what your brother does?”
“No,” Peter says. “It’s not - I’m not good at it, Dad.”
”How do you know? Did you even try?”
“What will you do, Peter?” their mother says.
“You’ll need a job,” their father says, before Peter can respond. “I’ll support you through school and college, but I won’t support you while you find yourself, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“I don’t need your money,” Peter says. Nathan cocks his eyebrow at Peter.
“In that case -,”Their father stands up, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and leaves it on the table. “I’ll be sending you a rental agreement for the apartment. I’ll expect the first month’s rent in two weeks.”
He leaves without saying goodnight. “I’ll talk to him,” their mother says, getting up to follow their father out of the dining room.
Peter looks at the ceiling. “That went well,” he says.
Nathan shrugs. “It went fine.”
“Fine?” Peter says. “I’m destitute.”
“What did you expect?” Nathan says. “And you’re not destitute; I’ll pay your rent for the first six months. At least until you get on your feet.”
Peter shakes his head. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he says. He doesn’t know what he had in mind. In truth, he did expect his father to cut him off and he’d convinced himself he would live by independent means as a young man of his age should. Of course, now that he’s faced with the prospect he realizes he doesn’t know the first thing about surviving without his parents.
“Peter -.” Heidi looks from Nathan to Peter. “We want to.”
“Trust me,” Nathan says. “He expects it. He doesn’t want an orderly for a son, but he doesn’t want you living on the streets either. He wouldn’t cut you loose if he didn’t think I’d pick up the slack.”
Peter thinks it sounded nicer the way Heidi said it. “All the same,” Peter says. “It’s temporary.” He feels like a parrot.
Nathan smiles, leans across the table and squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll steal the toiletries from your room. At least you’ll have toothpaste.”
*
Champagne flows liberally at the wedding reception. Peter manages to knock back two glasses before he finds his table. He knows the only way he’s going to survive a night under his father glare is if he’s too drunk to notice, or too drunk to care. He takes his seat next to Nathan, pours himself a glass of wine and proceeds to drink himself into oblivion.
He finishes the wine on the table before the main course is served and calls the waiter over to bring more. “You might want to take it easy there,” Nathan says, leaning into Peter’s ear. “If you pass out under the table, I’m not going to carry you back to your room.”
Peter looks across the table to where his mother is watching him. She raises her eyebrows when she catches his eye. “Is everything all right, Peter?” she says.
“Fine,” Peter says. His father is standing at the next table, talking to someone Peter doesn’t know. His father laughs and it sounds forced, like he’s pretending to like the person more than he does. “I’m fine,” Peter says, as the waiter places another bottle of wine in front of him. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do,” Peter’s mother says. “I worry about you all the time.”
Peter leans in toward Nathan and lowers his voice. “Am I dying?” he says.
“What?” Nathan says, frowning.
“Everyone is worried about me,” Peter says.
The main course is served and Nathan turns away, intent on listening to something his father is saying. Peter stabs absently at the chicken dish in front of him, pours himself another glass of wine and hopes they’ll start on the speeches and the dancing soon - or whatever it is they do at weddings - so he can get the hell out of here and back to the mini-bar in his room.
*
The speeches are long, emotional and not at all funny despite the laughter. By the time the dancing has started, Peter’s tie is choking him and he goes outside for air. It’s a Zegna tie; one of Nathan’s. Peter owns two ties and Nathan wouldn’t let him wear either. He said Peter should wear an Italian designer to an Italian wedding and Nathan never looks anything but impeccable so he should know.
Peter loosens the tie, and watches the dancing through the window. Nathan takes Heidi in his arms and they sway romantically to an Italian song the band is playing at the request of the bride’s family. Peter doesn’t recognize it, but then he never recognizes the music at these weddings, even when they’re sung in English. He’s felt out of place at family weddings since he was twelve. At Nathan’s wedding he drank half a bottle of champagne before making the toast. He’s surprised he didn’t throw up on Nathan’s (Italian) shoes.
Outside the air is cold; too cold for August, but it’s bracing and it wakes him up, gives him the first moment of clarity he’s had all night. His father cut him off. He’s like one of those wayward sons in a Victorian novel, the kind that gambles away his inheritance, or spends it on whores and beer. He finds a dark spot at the side of the building where a one-way street joins the main road to the web of back streets behind the hotel, and he leans against the wall, laughing at himself. He’s so fucking dramatic sometimes.
“What’s so funny?” A shadowy figure emerges into the light of a street lamp about twenty feet away. Peter recognizes him from the wedding; a boy about Peter’s age. He’s a cousin. Maybe. They’re all cousins.
“Family,” Peter says. “And other tragedies.”
“I get that,” the boy says. He holds up a joint. “Got a light?”
“Sorry,” Peter says.
The boy leans against the wall next to Peter’s shoulder, considering his unlit joint. “Maybe later,” he says. “You’re Peter Petrelli, right?”
“Yeah,” Peter says. He’s still a Petrelli. His father can’t take that away from him. “I guess I am.”
“I’m Nick,” he says. “The groom is my cousin.”
“Mine too,” Peter says.
“Does that make us cousins?” Nick asks. He’s got dark eyes and dark hair, a little longer than Peter’s. He’s taller, and wider across the shoulders, but still lean in the body, his suit hanging loosely from his wiry frame.
“Maybe,” Peter says. “Does it matter?”
“Not at all,” Nick says. His eyes drop to Peter’s midriff and trail slowly back up to Peter’s face.
Peter knows where this is going and, cousin or not, he’d really like someone’s hand on his dick right now. “Did you follow me out here?” he says.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I was watching you inside. You were getting pretty wasted.” He grins sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Peter says, shaking his head. His eyes are drawn to Nick’s mouth, how open and promising it looks. He thinks about kissing Nick, here in the street, with their respective families in the building next door. He touches a finger to Nick’s lips, pushing it into his mouth. Nick sucks Peter in suggestively, hinting at more to come.
Nick pushes off the wall and stands in front of Peter, placing his hands either side of Peter’s shoulders. He leans closer, his lips hovering above Peter’s looking down to where Peter’s cock shifts against the seam of his pants. Nick slides his hand down the front of Peter’s shirt from his sternum to the waistband of his pants, hooks his fingers around Peter’s belt, and pulls Peter’s hips against his. He unzips Peter’s fly and dips his hand inside the opening of Peter’s pants, finding Peter’s cock and wrapping it in his fist, jerking Peter off in even strokes.
It’s just what Peter needs. He lets his breath out in a sigh, closing his eyes and letting his hips take over, rocking into Nick’s hand. Nick’s fingers are rough and abrasive against Peter’s sensitive skin but it’s good, so good, and Peter is going to come in his pants, right here against this building with his mother and father and Nathan dancing inside. Peter opens his eyes, closes the gap between Nick and himself and they kiss, open mouthed and hungry.
It doesn’t last. Someone calls out, “Nick? Nick!” and Nick jumps back, wiping his hand on the front of his shirt. A round woman comes toward them, her face red and puffed up with anger. Peter leans his head back on the wall and looks at the sky. This happens in Victorian novels too. Someone is always getting caught doing something they’re not supposed to.
They’re Italian, though, not English. They don’t hush up scandal; they make a noise loud enough to be heard in Rome.
“Mom,” Nick says, red faced and guilty. “What are you doing here?”
Nick’s mom puts one hand on her hip and waves a finger in Peter’s face. “What are you doing to my Nick, you pervert?” she says, ignoring Nick. “Wait until your father hears about this.”
Peter really does laugh. His shoulders shake and he laughs like he’s crying. His father. Perfect.
“What are you going to tell him?” Nathan says, appearing out of the shadows. “That your son was assaulted? Peter is drunk and your son is at least six feet tall. My father isn’t an idiot.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Nathan Petrelli,” Nick’s mom says. “Letting your brother get way with this filth.”
“You take care of your family,” Nathan says, nodding toward Nick. “I’ll take care of mine.” He takes Peter by the shoulders and steers him back toward the hotel. “I’m taking you upstairs,” he says to Peter.
Peter turns around briefly, looking back to where Nick and his mother are facing each other in silence. Nick’s mother crosses her arms. Nick stares at his shoes.
“What were you doing?” Nathan says when they’re inside. They stop outside the elevator and Nathan presses the call button.
“Trying to get laid,” Peter says.
“In public?” Nathan says. “And that’s Dad’s cousin. You’re related.”
The elevator is glass and the ride takes them up the outside of the building. Peter can see Providence stretched out below them in a sea of light. It’s a romantic city, full of history and character. It’s a shame he’s not in the mood to appreciate it.
The elevator stops and Peter’s stomach shifts from the inertia. His head feels heavy and he’s unsteady on his feet. He needs to be horizontal and soon. Nathan pulls him out of the elevator by his arm and walks him to his room. Inside, Nathan guides Peter to the bed and lowers him gently onto his back, placing pillows under his head and removing his shoes.
Peter stares at the ceiling, unwilling to close his eyes in case the room tilts sideways. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It seems like you’re saving my ass a lot these days.”
“I wasn’t aware your ass needed saving,” Nathan says. “Not literally anyway.”
“I’m not gay,” Peter says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.” It’s probably a good thing he’s drunk. Some things are best explained by diving straight in and not thinking about how it sounds.
”I don’t care if you’re gay,” Nathan says. “You’re my brother. I love you no matter who you’re having sex with. I’m just surprised I’m finding out now.”
Nathan sounds sincere; it’s painfully touching. “I’m not gay,” Peter says. “It’s not that simple.”
”What do you mean?”
“It’s -“ Peter doesn’t know if he like girls or boys. He can’t sustain a relationship and he’s happier with meaningless encounters. Guys understand this. “I haven’t worked it out yet.”
“Okay,” Nathan says. He nods like he understands. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it? It’s been a long night and Nathan is uncomfortable with shades of grey. “Are you going to sleep in your suit?” Nathan says.
“Maybe,” Peter says. He pulls at his tie until it comes off and drops it on the floor.
“In that case,” Nathan says. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Don’t forget, Heidi wants to be out of here by nine. No sleeping in.”
Nathan turns to leave. Peter holds out his hand, snagging his finger in Nathan’s pants. “Wait,” he says.
Nathan stops. “What is it?”
“Just - “ Peter doesn’t want to be alone, not yet. “Stay until the room stops spinning?”
“That could be a while,” says Nathan, but his face softens and he smiles a little. Nathan is happiest when he’s needed. “Okay,” he says nodding. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaches across to touch Peter’s forehead, and shifts Peter’s hair off his face like Peter is a child. “You feel warm,” Nathan says, resting his palm against Peter’s cheek.
Peter feels safe, connected, like he could stay here forever if Nathan would only promise to stay with him. He closes his eyes and turns his head so his lips brush Nathan’s hand, the barest hint of a kiss to let Nathan know Peter needs him. Nathan seems to understand and his fingers slide from Peter’s cheekbone to his mouth, one finger tracing Peter’s bottom lip. Nathan stops there momentarily, as if waiting for an invitation, and then he dips inside, grazing Peter’s teeth. Peter closes his mouth, sucking gently while Nathan withdraws his finger slowly, drawing out the sensation.
Peter opens his eyes and Nathan is looking at him, expressionless. “Nathan?” Peter says. His voice sounds higher than usual.
“I should go,” Nathan says. He gets up, wipes his hands on his pants and leaves without turning around.
“Nathan!” Peter calls out into the empty room. He looks at the ceiling and wonders what the hell happened. Nathan was here and then he wasn’t. It was all too fast. The light shade sways and Peter closes his eyes, concentrates on his breathing. He falls into a drunken sleep, the kind that feels deeper than it is, and doesn’t wake up until his eight o’clock wake-up call.
The ride home takes too long. Nathan is cheerful and talkative and his voice makes Peter’s already heavy head painfully heavier. Peter sprawls across the backseat, hiding behind dark sunglasses. Nathan makes a joke about the incestuous nature of the guest list and Heidi’s laugh pierces the back of Peter’s skull like an ice-pick. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his forehead.
“Is everything all right, Peter?” Nathan says, meeting Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Peter thinks everything is fine, so damned fine he can pretend nothing happened. Maybe nothing did.
*
Peter’s first year of working for a living is uneventful. He works the night shift, sleeps during the day, does over-time two days a week and goes almost a year without a weekend. True to his word, Nathan pays Peter’s rent and Peter keeps his too-big apartment in the East Village, spending the little time he has to himself looking out at the traffic on Houston and wondering where his life is going.
Peter’s twenty-second birthday rolls around and he celebrates with a low-key dinner at the penthouse; Nathan, Heidi and his mother in attendance. His mother presents him with an Around the World airline ticket.
“You need to travel,” she tells him. “You need to see the world.”
He looks at the ticket: first class. His college friends worked at restaurants and bars in the Village to pay for their economy trips to South East Asia and Mexico.
He never thought about getting away, but now that the option presents itself it seems like something he needs. The world is big enough for him to lose himself in it. There’s bound to be a place somewhere where no one has heard the name ‘Petrelli’ and, more importantly, no one cares.
Nathan’s birthday present to him is a backpack. Peter wonders when Nathan and their mother got together to determine Peter’s future. He doesn’t mind. Not when it works in his favour. Sometimes he feels like his life is in better hands than his.
“Where will you go?” Nathan asks.
“I don’t know,” Peter says. “Europe, I guess.” He thinks about art galleries and cafes and beer in steins and wonders if it’s anywhere near as romantic as it sounds. His visions of Europe have a Fellini-esque feel to them: dramatic, poetic and artistic. It sounds perfect.
*
Six months later he’s in Mombasa, Kenya, lying by the side of the road in the hot sun, his face slashed and his backpack, wallet and passport stolen. His traveling companion, a boy from California named Brian, is kneeling beside Peter, holding his t-shirt against Peter’s cheek.
“Jesus, Peter,” Brian says. “He could have killed you.”
”He didn’t,” Peter says. He leans up on his elbows. He was pushed out of a moving car as he was pleading with their carjacker to be allowed to keep their passports. “He just wanted our car.”
”And our stuff,” Brian says. Brian didn’t have much to begin with. He traveled light: a couple of pairs of jeans, a hoodie and a few t-shirts. He’d spent three years working in a car wash to pay for his trip to Europe and he still cleans toilets and does laundry to pay for his hostel accommodation.
Brian pulls the t-shirt away to look at Peter’s face again. He frowns and Peter knows it doesn’t look good.
He feels light headed. “Shit,” Peter says. “I think I’m going into shock.”
Brian’s eyes go wide with panic. “Lie down,” he says. “I’ll -.“ He looks around, sees a car coming towards them and stands up, waving his arms.
The car pulls over to the side and two men get out, speaking Kiswahili. Brian looks at Pete, eyebrows raised. “You speak English?” Peter says, still pressing the t-shirt against his cheek. He holds out his free hand and Brian takes it, helping Peter to his feet.
“You were robbed, yes?” One of the men says.
“Yes,” says Peter. “They took everything.”
The man shakes his head. “This area is not safe for tourists.”
”Yeah,” Peter says ruefully. “We learned that the hard way.”
”Come,” the man says. “We will take you to the police station.”
Peter and Brian exchange glances. The carjacker was friendly to begin with. They asked for directions to the beach and the carjacker gave them lengthy instructions before holding a knife to Brian’s face and telling him to get out of the car. Still, the alternative is walking, which is just as dangerous, if not more so.
“Asanti,” Peter says, using one of the few words of Kiswahili he’s picked up since he’s been here.
“Karibou,” the man says.
It turns out they’re nurses, recently returned from training in England and now working for the Red Cross. Peter and Brian aren’t the first tourists they’ve rescued from the side of the road.
One of them rides in the back seat with Peter and inspects Peter’s face. “You are lucky,” he says. “The blade was sharp.” He dresses the wound in an antiseptic bandage. Peter feels vaguely guilty for taking what are probably precious medical supplies.
Peter remembers every warning he ever read about traveling in Africa; carjackers, organ robbers, bandits and guerillas shooting hostages dead in the desert. He feels suddenly cold and his hands shake.
”Are you all right?” the man in the back seat with Peter says. “You’ve gone very pale.”
Peter closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe. “I’m fine,” he says, opening his eyes again. “I’ll be fine.”
“It’s a beautiful country,” the man says, looking out the window. “But the people are desperate.”
“It’s okay,” Peter says. “Really.” He doesn’t blame the person who did this to him, but he’s tired and scared and he’s never felt further away from home. He wants to lie down, close his eyes and let the potholes and the bumps in the road rock him to sleep. In New York, Nathan is just waking up, reading the Times or the Post over grapefruit, toast and coffee. Peter could have died out here and Nathan would read his paper, drink his coffee and go to work before he even knew.
Pin sized dots appear in Peter’s vision and his head feels light. He presses his hand to his forehead and it comes away damp.
The man next to Peter leans across him and opens the window. “Breathe,” he says. “Deep breaths.”
Peter does what he’s told, breathing in and out slowly. It’s still warm outside but the air on his face wakes him up, gradually bringing him back to himself.
“Are you all right, Peter?” Brian asks, turning around in his seat.
“I’ll live,” Peter says, smiling weakly. They may not have money or passports or clothes but the worst is over, and they survived.
At the police station Brian fills out paperwork while Peter waits in line to use the phone. Despite Peter’s injuries the police are largely indifferent. The nurses warned them this would be the case. Carjackers are common place and police resources are few. There’s little they can do about it.
Peter calls Nathan. It’s evening in Mombasa which means morning in New York. Nathan should be in his office.
“I thought you were in Greece,” Nathan says, his voice edged with panic. Peter feels guilty for making him worry.
“Nathan,” Peter says. “I need help.”
There’s a pause and Peter hears Nathan exhale. “Okay,” Nathan says. “God, Peter whatever you need. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”
“I need a passport,” Peter says. Nathan’s voice breaks something inside him and he swallows hard to keep from crying. He’s covered in blood and his face is a mess; he doesn’t want to make an even bigger spectacle of himself. “I want to come home,” he says, nearly choking on the words.
“Sit tight,” Nathan says. “I’ll send someone to you.”
They wait in the police station, watching the line to the counter file past in an orderly fashion, never ending, never decreasing. A young policewoman brings Peter a cup of water and he drinks gratefully.
After an hour, help comes in the form of a US Embassy official. Her name is Marie and she says she knows Peter’s father. She winces when she sees Peter’s face. “You’ll need that stitched,” she says, and she turns to speak to the desk clerk in Kiswahili.
He nods and says, “Kwaheri,” to Peter and Brian. Marie beckons at them and they follow her outside. There’s a car waiting at the entrance, the driver leaning against the hood. He jumps up when he sees them, and circles around to the passenger side, opens the door.
“This is Sidi,” Marie says, nodding at the driver. “Take us to Dr Malpass’s surgery,” she says to Sidi.
Peter and Brian sit in the back seat, while Marie gets in the front with Sidi. Peter tells Marie about the nurse from Red Cross who inspected his face. “I’m sure they meant well,” she says. “But where they work, you don’t waste surgical twine on anything that isn’t life threatening. Your father would want me to find you a good surgeon.”
Peter frowns. “My father called you?”
“Yes,” she says. “You sound surprised.”
Peter is definitely surprised. His father would send money if Peter needed it. A personal call is unheard of. Nathan must have persuaded him, pleaded Peter’s case the way Nathan always does. Peter wonders if he’d have a relationship with his father at all if it weren’t for Nathan.
“I - didn’t know he knew anyone in Kenya,” Peter says.
“I don’t know him well,” Marie says. “He’s distantly related to my brother in law; which I guess means I’m distantly related to you.”
Peter looks out the window. He has relatives in Kenya; what a surprise.
Dr Malpass lives and works in a large villa-style mansion on the river. His neighbours have similar estates, multi-layered and pastel coloured, crawling up the steep embankment like fortresses. They call it Africa’s Riviera; distinguished from the French only by the humidity, the mosquitoes and the mosques.
Like so many of the river’s residents, Dr Malpass is a western expatriate, an American who chose Mombasa for the weather, the lifestyle and the wealthy clientele. He gives Peter a local anaesthetic and eight tiny cross-stitches in a line along his cheek.
“You can barely notice them,” Brian says, poker-faced.
Brian is a terrible poker player. “Liar,” Peter says.
“Okay,” Brian says. “But it could be worse. He missed your eye by an inch.”
Peter touches the stitches lightly. They stop just above his cheekbone. He really was lucky. Before he leaves, a nurse gives him antibiotics and painkillers. He takes one of each and they go back to the car.
Marie says they’ll need somewhere to stay while their passports are being replaced. “Your father asked that I arrange accommodation for you at the Tamarind,” she says.
The Tamarind is on the river; part of Africa’s Riviera. The gate is guarded but the car’s US Consular licence plates ensure they are allowed through without fuss. Brian gives Peter a, “is your father for real?” look and Peter thinks he would laugh if he could move his face. His father may not wish to indulge Peter’s rebellious streak, but he wouldn’t want anyone to think the Petrellis were cheap.
“To think,” Brian says, as they gates close behind them. “This morning we were wondering whether we could afford a hostel with locks on the doors.”
Peter scratches his face. The anaesthetic is wearing off. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how things change.” Peter looks out the window at the pristine white walls and the sprawling outdoor dining area overlooking the river. He’s looking forward to a bed with clean linen, soft pillows, room to move. He’s exhausted.
Marie checks them in and hands them their room cards. “Sidi will bring you clothes in the morning” she says. “If you need anything else, just call.”
As soon as he gets to his room, Peter calls Nathan’s office. He gets Nathan’s secretary who tells Peter Nathan has left for the day. Peter tries Nathan’s cell and doesn’t get through.
*
They next day, Sidi takes them shopping. Marie says she’ll send the bill to Peter’s father so Peter tells Brian to buy whatever he wants. Peter buys Nathan a wooden giraffe. Two days before they were car-jacked they went on a tour of the Nairobi National Park and saw ostriches, zebras, lions, and giraffes amongst endless savanna. The giraffes followed their vehicle as it drove away, moving like they were in slow motion, long strides and no hurry. Peter remembers he lost his camera when they were robbed. He lost all his pictures.
Back at the hotel, Peter meets Brian for evening cocktails by the river. “Dude,” Brian says. “Is your father loaded?”
“I guess so,” Peter says. He feels like a fraud. He doesn’t know why. He never lied to Brian about his family’s money, but he didn’t bring it up in conversation.
Brian frowns. “You could have been killed,” he says. “It’s a hell of a price to pay to rough it.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Peter says. He looks down at his drink. It’s something blue. He can’t remember what the waiter called it. “My father cut me off.”
“Yeah?” Brian looks out over the river and laughs. “Guess he’s changed his mind, huh?”
Peter follows Brian’s gaze and looks down to where a path leads from the hotel to the water. It’s too late to go down there now. The mosquitoes are rife and neither he nor Brian are taking malaria tablets.
“I doubt it,” Peter says. “He’ll consider this a reprieve. I’ll probably have to pay him back.”
“In that case,” Brian says. He holds up his empty glass. “I’ll have another.”
The waiter brings them two more of the blue cocktails and they take them inside to the restaurant rather than wait for the mosquitoes to eat them alive. They order steak from a menu that includes ostrich, crocodile and swan. Before the car jacking, they were living off matoke chips and soda.
Peter’s not really hungry. He pushes his julienne carrots around his plate with his fork and stares at the blue cocktail standing out against the bleach-white of the table cloth. This is his third? Fourth? He feels light headed and unfocused. He stares absently at a man speaking with the maitre’d, thinking about how much he looks like Nathan. He blinks and realizes it is Nathan, and he gasps.
Brian looks up from his food. ”Are you okay, man?” he says.
Nathan waves at Peter, smiling broadly as he comes over to their table. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt and light olive pants. He looks like it’s been days since he shaved. His smile fades as he gets closer, gets a good look at Peter’s face.
“Peter -,” he says, when he gets to their table. He shakes his head. He can’t take his eyes off Peter’s face.
Peter gets up and throws his arms around Nathan’s neck, presses his lips to Nathan’s ear. He’s never been happier to see anyone in his life. He wants to cry but instead he holds on tight, squeezes the breath from both of them.
Nathan pulls back, puts his hand under Peter’s chin and tilts his face to the light. “Jesus, Peter,” he says, as he inspects Peter’s scar. He slides his hand down to Peter’s shoulder and turns Peter to face him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, feeling self-conscious under Nathan’s scrutiny. “I’m okay.” He hears a throat clear behind him and remembers Brian. “Nathan, this is Brian,” Peter says, turning around to face Brian. “Brian saved me from going into shock by the side of the road.”
Brian stands up and shakes Nathan’s hand. “He was fine,” Brian says to Nathan, sensing Nathan’s concern. “He held it together on his own.”
”Just the same,” Nathan says. “I’m glad you were there to take care of him.”
A waiter brings a menu for Nathan and they sit at the table. In his head, Peter counts the hours since he called Nathan. Thirty? Thirty-one? Nathan must have taken the first flight out.
“You didn’t have to come,” Peter says.
“I’ve always wanted to see Africa,” Nathan says. He looks out the window to where the darkness has obscured the view, sparsely broken by the lights of houses on the opposite of the river. There isn’t much to see.
Peter is so happy to see Nathan he doesn’t push the issue further. Nathan is here. That’s all that matters.
Nathan points to Peter’s drink. “What is that?”
“I have no idea,” Peter says.
Nathan calls the waiter over. “I’ll have one of those,” he says, nodding at Peter’s drink.
Over dinner Brian tells the story of their car-jacking and they laugh at Peter’s sincerity as he tried to persuade their carjacker to take their money and leave their passports.
“You should have seen the guy’s face,” Brian says. “He looked at you like you’d asked for a ride to the police station.”
“He had the car,” Peter says. “What good were our passports to him?”
“You had to be a hero,” Nathan says, rolling his eyes. He gives Peter a stern look and Peter knows exactly how Nathan feels about Peter’s heroics. Better to be a coward than dead.
“He just wanted our car,” Peter says defensively. “He never intended to hurt us.”
”Your face says otherwise,” Nathan says.
“We’re okay,” Brian says. He looks from Nathan to Peter, sensing something. “I mean, that’s the important thing, right?”
“Sure,” Nathan smiles at Brian indulgently. Peter knows that look. Nathan doesn’t like being told when to worry about his family. “Of course it is.”
Later they walk Brian to his room, holding him up as he staggers a little outside his door. None of them are walking straight. It’s been a long night, after a long day. They’ve been drinking liberally from Turkey to Kenya but they’ve been on an adrenalin high for the last two days and the alcohol moves through their bodies quicker.
“Are you two together?” Nathan says, after they’ve left Brian in his room.
“What?” Peter stops in the hallway. His room is only three doors away. Nathan has a room upstairs.
“I don’t want to be a third wheel,” Nathan says. His tone is slightly accusatory, more jealous lover than concerned older brother. It makes Peter’s head spin.
Peter takes his door card out of his pocket, keeps walking toward his room. “It’s none of your business.”
Behind him, Peter hears Nathan sigh. “It is my business. I’d like to know if I’m taking you both home. I’m paying your bills remember?”
Peter opens the door to his room and they both go inside, Nathan not waiting for an invitation.
“I thought Dad was paying the bill?” Peter says. He throws the card on the desk, takes the remote and switches the television on. An African version of MTV is playing mostly rap and R and B. Peter sits on the bed and flips channels until he finds a movie; something involving a funeral with a bunch of B list actors. It looks vaguely alternative and Peter leaves it on.
Nathan sits on the other side of the bed, feet still on the floor, like he’s only half committed to sharing the space with Peter. “I asked for his help and he called his contact at the Embassy - you know Dad, he knows someone in every city - but I told him I would pay.” He looks at Peter, smiles apologetically. “I’m sure he would have paid - if I’d given him the opportunity, I just thought-.“
“It’s okay,” Peter says. He liked thinking his father had pulled out all stops to protect him, that he lavished on him the kind of attention a father should for a beloved son. Peter wonders what would have happened if Nathan had been the one carjacked. “Want to watch some TV?” Peter says, nodding at the screen.
“What is it?” Nathan says.
”Family dysfunction, by the look of it,” Peter says. The children of the deceased are arguing at the wake. “Kind of appropriate, don’t you think?”
Nathan takes off his shoes, and puts his feet on the bed, stretched out next to Peter’s. They sit shoulder to shoulder; close enough for Peter to smell the tequila on Nathan’s breath.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan says. He turns his head slightly, meets Peter’s eyes before looking down at his hands. “About Dad, I mean. I wish I knew… I don’t know why he’s like this with you.”
Peter stares at the television. He wants to know why his father doesn’t love him the way he loves Nathan, but he isn’t sure he’s ready to hear the answer. He always hoped it was something he’d done, something he could fix. He didn’t want to know it wasn’t about him, that there was nothing he could do to gain his father’s approval.
It isn’t Nathan’s fault. It’s not a burden Nathan should bear. “Yeah,” Peter says. He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, me too.”
“I wish I’d been around more,” Nathan says. “When we were kids.”
“I would have liked that,” Peter says. When Peter was growing up, Nathan was an enigmatic stranger who made messiah-like appearances at Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer vacations at Cape Cod. Peter has vague memories of throwing his arms around Nathan’s leg and begging him not to leave.
“Must have been lonely,” Nathan says.
Peter shrugs. “I had Grace,” he says. “And Leah, and Darlene, and Shandra, and Ilsa.” Peter had nannies whose names he can’t remember. His mother didn’t want him to become attached to one nanny in case she left and broke his heart. As it turned out, he became attached to all of them, and they all left.
“I liked Shandra.”
“I know,” Peter says. “I saw you together in the guest house.”
Nathan’s eyes go wide. “You saw that? You must have been-“
“Eight,” Peter says. “Old enough to know what you were doing.” He was horrified at first, but then he was curious. He’d heard about sex at school and knew it lead to babies. He asked Shandra if he was going to be an uncle. Shandra told him she’d let him stay up late for a whole week if he never mentioned the incident again. “You don’t want Nathan to get into trouble,” she said.
Nathan shakes his head. “Should have known I couldn’t hide from you,” he says. “You were always following me around.”
“She left when you went back to college,” Peter says. “I guess she missed you too.”
“Maybe,” Nathan says. “I’m sorry.”
”What for?”
Nathan laughs, looking briefly up at the ceiling. “I don’t know - I feel like I never did right by you.”
Peter reaches for Nathan’s hand, grasps it in his. “You’re here now,” Peter says. “When it matters.”
Nathan looks at their hands, and then at Peter. They stay like that, eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder, no talking. Peter waits for Nathan to look away, but he doesn’t. He holds Peter’s gaze, unmoving, like it’s a dare. Peter lets go of Nathan’s hand, and slides down to cover Nathan’s groin, presses lightly with his palm.
Nathan grabs Peter’s wrist, his fingernails digging into the pulse point. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Peter says. He’s tired, not in the mood for Nathan to be obtuse.
“Are you insane?” Nathan says, pushing Peter’s hand away.
“No,” Peter says. “And I don’t think you are either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Peter rubs his face with his palm. His stitches are itching like crazy. “There’s nothing wrong with us,” Peter says. “We want what we want. It’s not wrong, it just is.”
“Peter-,” Nathan clears his throat. “I know you’ve got some kind of hero worship going on and…”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Peter says, throwing up his hands. “Stop it, okay? Just stop it.” Nathan looks at Peter, his eyebrows raised like he thinks Peter should hear how crazy he sounds. Peter lets out his breath. “You always pretend you don’t want it too. I know you do, I know.”
Nathan shakes his head slowly. “No, Peter. I don’t.”
Peter wonders if this is how Nathan wins cases. He’s good at lying. So good he’s got himself fooled. Peter looks at the spot where their shoulders are side by side against the bed head and knows Nathan doesn’t mean what he says. Nathan is still here. He hasn’t moved. Nathan can protest and he can deny until he’s red in the face but he’s still here and Peter knows it’s because he can’t tear himself away.
Peter climbs into Nathan’s lap, facing him, one knee either side of Nathan’s hips. “Tell me you don’t want it,” Peter says. He puts his hands either side of Nathan’s face. “Look me in the eye and tell me.”
Nathan meets Peter’s eyes and he blinks. His eyes are deeper than Peter’s. He has wisdom and want behind his eyes. Peter has nothing but need.
“I don’t,” Nathan says.
Peter reaches for the clasp on Nathan’s waistband, tugs the zipper down. “Tell me you want me to stop,” he whispers.
“I want you to stop,” Nathan says.
Peter slips his hand inside Nathan’s pants, feeling for the close in Nathan’s boxers. Nathan’s breath hitches as Peter’s fingers touch bare skin and stroke gently, coaxing Nathan to an erection.
“Say it again,” Peter says.
“I want…” Nathan’s eyes soften and glass over. “Oh…” He pushes up into Peter’s hand, instinct taking over.
Peter smirks. “That’s what I thought,” he says. He shoves Nathan’s pants down around his hips quickly. He’s not giving Nathan a chance to pull away this time. He wriggles down the bed and bends to Nathan’s crotch, sloppily taking the tip of Nathan’s cock into his mouth and circling the head with his tongue.
“God,” Nathan says. He adjusts his position on the bed, raising his hips up to Peter’s mouth. He reaches for Peter aimlessly, grabbing painfully at the hair on the back of Peter’s head.
Peter feels a rush, an adrenalin high. Nathan’s cock is in Peter’s mouth and his hips are bucking upwards, forcing Peter to take him down deep. Peter savours every moment: the salty taste of Nathan’s precum on his tongue, Nathan’s hands pulling at his hair, the curve of Nathan’s ass, Peter’s fingers digging into the soft flesh, the low moan Nathan makes as Peter drags his tongue all the way along Nathan’s shaft from the base to the tip and back again.
It’s dirty and desperate, and Peter can’t get enough. He wants Nathan inside him, buried in him, nothing but history between them. He wants them naked, tangled together like strands of rope. Peter’s erection pushes uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans and he pops the button on his waistband, undoes his fly ands works his erection in his fist.
He takes a moment to look up at Nathan and sees Nathan looking back, watching Peter through lowered lids, his mouth slightly open. “Jesus, Peter…I-,” and then Nathan is coming, jerking his hips up and gripping Peter’s hair so hard it hurts. Peter closes his eyes and comes too, sucking and sucking until Nathan is dry.
The television is still on in the background, mournful music playing over painful dialogue. Peter leans back on his knees and peels his t-shirt off, wipes his mouth and stomach. He crawls back to Nathan’s side at the top of his bed, wriggles out of his jeans and tosses them to the floor next to his t-shirt. He doesn’t look at Nathan. He’s not ready for recrimination yet.
Nathan touches Peter’s chin, the tips of his fingers turning Peter to face him. He turns away for a moment and looks down Peter’s body, eyes traveling to his legs and feet, and up to his face again. And then Nathan leans forward and kisses Peter, his tongue in Peter’s mouth, tasting him. Peter kisses back, his hands in Nathan’s hair, on his neck, on his shoulders, everywhere he can reach. He holds on and breathes Nathan in like pure oxygen.
Outside a couple laughs at they pass by Peter’s room and Nathan breaks the kiss, turning toward the door, like he expects it to open. It doesn’t and the laughter fades into silence again as the couple move down the hallway and out of earshot. Nathan swings his legs over the side of the bed, glances back at Peter, and gets to his feet, rearranging his pants. He smoothes his hand down his shirt, straightens his tie and bends down to put his shoes back on.
“You’re going?” Peter says.
“What am I supposed to do?” Nathan says.
Peter slumps back against the headboard, resting his arm on his forehead. In truth, he expected this. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Nathan shakes his head. “No - god, no, Peter, it’s not - we just - I’m not myself around you. I get crazy ideas.”
“It’s not crazy.”
“Yes, it is,” Nathan says. “Brothers don’t do - what we did.”
“I know,” Peter says. He looks at the television; the credits roll for the film they didn’t watch. He thinks he’d rather be alone than have this conversation with Nathan. “You should go,” he says.
Nathan stands by the bedding, not moving. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay.”
He turns and leaves, and Peter remembers Providence, nearly two years ago, another hotel room, another closed door.
Part Two
Heroes (Nathan/ Peter, NC-17)
Word Count: 22980
Author's Notes: This is a story I started in April that was constantly side-tracked by work, other fanfic and the ever-changing Heroes canon. After some sprucing and numerous re-writes I am relieved as all get out to finally get it off my hard-drive. Thanks in no small part to marinwood and linaerys who are more like a cheer squad than beta readers - and I sure as hell needed some cheering. Any left over mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Title from Florence Nightingale's Notes on Nursing.
Part One
Music drifts through the open French doors, Puccini’s “Turandot” floating out to the courtyard like mist in a valley, spreading itself thinner as it disperses. It strains against the sounds of the traffic below, the helicopters overhead and the Venetian wall clock chiming midnight. It stops suddenly, and then it starts again. Cole Porter this time; Heidi’s choice.
Nathan and Peter sit at the outside table, draining the last of the wine. Nathan is smoking a cigar - a cigarillo really - and the smoke curls upward in a spiral, mingling with the music and the night. He looks the Cole Porter part: his suit rumpled and his tie loose. He leans back in his chair and looks at Peter through half lowered lids, giving off an appearance of calm that belies his current mood.
“What do you mean you dropped out?” Nathan says.
“I’m not cut out for law, Nathan,” Peter says. “I don’t think I’m cut out for college.” Peter is wearing jeans and a light jacket, and unlike Nathan, he looks freshly dressed and rested. He should be. He woke up at midday today and he’s done nothing more strenuous than surf the internet and watch television. This is the life of a college dropout.
Heidi brings coffee on a tray with cream and sugar. “What will you do?” she asks. She pours cream into her coffee. Peter and Nathan take theirs black and sugarless.
“Get a job,” Peter says. “I’ve a friend who’s an orderly at St Vincent’s. He says they need night staff.” It’s only half the story. Peter already has a job at St Vincent’s. He starts Monday. He dropped out of college two months ago and he’s only recently summoned the courage to tell Nathan. He’s yet to tell his mother or father. He’s using Nathan as a test run.
“You can’t be an orderly,” Nathan says. “Petrellis aren’t orderlies.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” Heidi says, giving Nathan a reproachful look. “Peter, you can be whatever you want to be.”
Nathan snorts, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray on the table next to his coffee.
“It’s temporary,” Peter says quickly, before Nathan can interject. “I want-.” He looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night. The brighter stars are visible where the black is deepest. “I need to figure some stuff out.”
“That’s what college is for,” Nathan says. “Get your existential crisis over before you join the real world.”
“Is that what you did?” Heidi asks, raising her eyebrows at Nathan.
“Please,” Nathan says. “I went to Princeton.”
Heidi grins conspiratorially at Peter. Peter smiles into his coffee.
“You don’t need to decide what you’re going to do with your life right now,” Heidi tells Peter. “You have time.”
“Try telling that to our father,” Nathan says.
Peter rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. Thinking about what to tell his father gives him a headache. It’s going to be ugly: accusations, raised voices and questions Peter is not prepared to answer. Their father is single-minded, forthright and intense, so naturally he finds Peter’s lack of direction unsettling.
“I was hoping Mom would tell him,” Peter says. Their mother regularly intercedes on Peter’s behalf. More than the mother of a twenty-year-old son should. Peter knows this and yet he does little to stop it. It’s true he can be incendiary it’s true but he’s also a coward.
“You should tell him,” Nathan says. “He’ll be impressed that you stood up to him.”
“He’s impressed when you stand up to him,” Peter says. “With me he’s just annoyed.”
“I’ll come with you,” Nathan says.
Peter frowns. It won’t make a difference if Nathan is there or not; it’s still a situation Peter would rather avoid, but it’s better than facing his father alone. “Fine” he says. “Okay.”
Peter stays in the guest room overnight. Before going to bed, Nathan kisses Peter on the top of his forehead, right on the hairline. It’s brief: a hand on Peter’s shoulder and a quick brush of Nathan’s lips against Peter’s skin.
In the morning, Peter notices Nathan kisses Heidi the same way before she leaves for lunch with friends.
*
This is their relationship: Peter gets into trouble and Nathan saves him, right or wrong. Peter can’t remember where it began or how, but when eight-year-old Peter broke the Wedgwood vase playing hide and seek in the living room, Nathan was there, apologizing to their mother and saying he should have been watching him. Now it seems like they are never as close as when Nathan is bailing Peter out his latest predicament.
Peter never asks for Nathan’s help, but he doesn’t turn it down either. Nathan is Peter’s charming, Armani-suited older brother with the dazzling smile and the disarming stare. And he loves Peter. Anyone can see it. In a crowded room, Nathan gravitates toward Peter and Peter feels like the centre of the universe, the only one who can draw this brilliant creature to him.
There’s a wedding in Providence on the weekend before Peter starts at St Vincent’s and the entire Petrelli family attends, spending two nights in a luxury hotel at the expense of the groom’s father, their father’s cousin. Peter remembers vacationing with the groom’s family in Rome when Peter was ten. The groom, two years older than Peter, threw peanuts at the pigeons in piazza, laughing as they scattered. Later he held Peter down on the floor of their hotel room, pressed Peter’s arm painfully against his back, and made Peter say the Mets were gay. The Petrellis have a thousand relatives and someone is always getting married. Nathan’s wedding was like a Kennedy family reunion.
The Petrellis meet for a family dinner the night before the wedding. Nathan says it will be the perfect time for Peter to tell the father he’s dropping out of college. A wedding means smiling for the relatives, playing happy families; the chances of their father making a scene are remote. Still, Peter is doubtful. He had something along the lines of a drive-by confession in mind - tell and run. He wasn’t planning on being the family disappointment for the entire weekend.
They’ve barely been served dessert when Peter hears Nathan saying, “It’s temporary. He’s not going to be an orderly forever.”
Peter looks up from his sorbet and sees Nathan looking at him out of the corner of his eye, hoping Peter won’t contradict him. Peter wonders how the announcement got away from him.
“Yeah,” Peter says dumbly. “Temporary.”
“Do you have a problem with what I do?” their father says, looking at Peter. “With what your brother does?”
“No,” Peter says. “It’s not - I’m not good at it, Dad.”
”How do you know? Did you even try?”
“What will you do, Peter?” their mother says.
“You’ll need a job,” their father says, before Peter can respond. “I’ll support you through school and college, but I won’t support you while you find yourself, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“I don’t need your money,” Peter says. Nathan cocks his eyebrow at Peter.
“In that case -,”Their father stands up, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and leaves it on the table. “I’ll be sending you a rental agreement for the apartment. I’ll expect the first month’s rent in two weeks.”
He leaves without saying goodnight. “I’ll talk to him,” their mother says, getting up to follow their father out of the dining room.
Peter looks at the ceiling. “That went well,” he says.
Nathan shrugs. “It went fine.”
“Fine?” Peter says. “I’m destitute.”
“What did you expect?” Nathan says. “And you’re not destitute; I’ll pay your rent for the first six months. At least until you get on your feet.”
Peter shakes his head. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he says. He doesn’t know what he had in mind. In truth, he did expect his father to cut him off and he’d convinced himself he would live by independent means as a young man of his age should. Of course, now that he’s faced with the prospect he realizes he doesn’t know the first thing about surviving without his parents.
“Peter -.” Heidi looks from Nathan to Peter. “We want to.”
“Trust me,” Nathan says. “He expects it. He doesn’t want an orderly for a son, but he doesn’t want you living on the streets either. He wouldn’t cut you loose if he didn’t think I’d pick up the slack.”
Peter thinks it sounded nicer the way Heidi said it. “All the same,” Peter says. “It’s temporary.” He feels like a parrot.
Nathan smiles, leans across the table and squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll steal the toiletries from your room. At least you’ll have toothpaste.”
*
Champagne flows liberally at the wedding reception. Peter manages to knock back two glasses before he finds his table. He knows the only way he’s going to survive a night under his father glare is if he’s too drunk to notice, or too drunk to care. He takes his seat next to Nathan, pours himself a glass of wine and proceeds to drink himself into oblivion.
He finishes the wine on the table before the main course is served and calls the waiter over to bring more. “You might want to take it easy there,” Nathan says, leaning into Peter’s ear. “If you pass out under the table, I’m not going to carry you back to your room.”
Peter looks across the table to where his mother is watching him. She raises her eyebrows when she catches his eye. “Is everything all right, Peter?” she says.
“Fine,” Peter says. His father is standing at the next table, talking to someone Peter doesn’t know. His father laughs and it sounds forced, like he’s pretending to like the person more than he does. “I’m fine,” Peter says, as the waiter places another bottle of wine in front of him. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do,” Peter’s mother says. “I worry about you all the time.”
Peter leans in toward Nathan and lowers his voice. “Am I dying?” he says.
“What?” Nathan says, frowning.
“Everyone is worried about me,” Peter says.
The main course is served and Nathan turns away, intent on listening to something his father is saying. Peter stabs absently at the chicken dish in front of him, pours himself another glass of wine and hopes they’ll start on the speeches and the dancing soon - or whatever it is they do at weddings - so he can get the hell out of here and back to the mini-bar in his room.
*
The speeches are long, emotional and not at all funny despite the laughter. By the time the dancing has started, Peter’s tie is choking him and he goes outside for air. It’s a Zegna tie; one of Nathan’s. Peter owns two ties and Nathan wouldn’t let him wear either. He said Peter should wear an Italian designer to an Italian wedding and Nathan never looks anything but impeccable so he should know.
Peter loosens the tie, and watches the dancing through the window. Nathan takes Heidi in his arms and they sway romantically to an Italian song the band is playing at the request of the bride’s family. Peter doesn’t recognize it, but then he never recognizes the music at these weddings, even when they’re sung in English. He’s felt out of place at family weddings since he was twelve. At Nathan’s wedding he drank half a bottle of champagne before making the toast. He’s surprised he didn’t throw up on Nathan’s (Italian) shoes.
Outside the air is cold; too cold for August, but it’s bracing and it wakes him up, gives him the first moment of clarity he’s had all night. His father cut him off. He’s like one of those wayward sons in a Victorian novel, the kind that gambles away his inheritance, or spends it on whores and beer. He finds a dark spot at the side of the building where a one-way street joins the main road to the web of back streets behind the hotel, and he leans against the wall, laughing at himself. He’s so fucking dramatic sometimes.
“What’s so funny?” A shadowy figure emerges into the light of a street lamp about twenty feet away. Peter recognizes him from the wedding; a boy about Peter’s age. He’s a cousin. Maybe. They’re all cousins.
“Family,” Peter says. “And other tragedies.”
“I get that,” the boy says. He holds up a joint. “Got a light?”
“Sorry,” Peter says.
The boy leans against the wall next to Peter’s shoulder, considering his unlit joint. “Maybe later,” he says. “You’re Peter Petrelli, right?”
“Yeah,” Peter says. He’s still a Petrelli. His father can’t take that away from him. “I guess I am.”
“I’m Nick,” he says. “The groom is my cousin.”
“Mine too,” Peter says.
“Does that make us cousins?” Nick asks. He’s got dark eyes and dark hair, a little longer than Peter’s. He’s taller, and wider across the shoulders, but still lean in the body, his suit hanging loosely from his wiry frame.
“Maybe,” Peter says. “Does it matter?”
“Not at all,” Nick says. His eyes drop to Peter’s midriff and trail slowly back up to Peter’s face.
Peter knows where this is going and, cousin or not, he’d really like someone’s hand on his dick right now. “Did you follow me out here?” he says.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I was watching you inside. You were getting pretty wasted.” He grins sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Peter says, shaking his head. His eyes are drawn to Nick’s mouth, how open and promising it looks. He thinks about kissing Nick, here in the street, with their respective families in the building next door. He touches a finger to Nick’s lips, pushing it into his mouth. Nick sucks Peter in suggestively, hinting at more to come.
Nick pushes off the wall and stands in front of Peter, placing his hands either side of Peter’s shoulders. He leans closer, his lips hovering above Peter’s looking down to where Peter’s cock shifts against the seam of his pants. Nick slides his hand down the front of Peter’s shirt from his sternum to the waistband of his pants, hooks his fingers around Peter’s belt, and pulls Peter’s hips against his. He unzips Peter’s fly and dips his hand inside the opening of Peter’s pants, finding Peter’s cock and wrapping it in his fist, jerking Peter off in even strokes.
It’s just what Peter needs. He lets his breath out in a sigh, closing his eyes and letting his hips take over, rocking into Nick’s hand. Nick’s fingers are rough and abrasive against Peter’s sensitive skin but it’s good, so good, and Peter is going to come in his pants, right here against this building with his mother and father and Nathan dancing inside. Peter opens his eyes, closes the gap between Nick and himself and they kiss, open mouthed and hungry.
It doesn’t last. Someone calls out, “Nick? Nick!” and Nick jumps back, wiping his hand on the front of his shirt. A round woman comes toward them, her face red and puffed up with anger. Peter leans his head back on the wall and looks at the sky. This happens in Victorian novels too. Someone is always getting caught doing something they’re not supposed to.
They’re Italian, though, not English. They don’t hush up scandal; they make a noise loud enough to be heard in Rome.
“Mom,” Nick says, red faced and guilty. “What are you doing here?”
Nick’s mom puts one hand on her hip and waves a finger in Peter’s face. “What are you doing to my Nick, you pervert?” she says, ignoring Nick. “Wait until your father hears about this.”
Peter really does laugh. His shoulders shake and he laughs like he’s crying. His father. Perfect.
“What are you going to tell him?” Nathan says, appearing out of the shadows. “That your son was assaulted? Peter is drunk and your son is at least six feet tall. My father isn’t an idiot.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Nathan Petrelli,” Nick’s mom says. “Letting your brother get way with this filth.”
“You take care of your family,” Nathan says, nodding toward Nick. “I’ll take care of mine.” He takes Peter by the shoulders and steers him back toward the hotel. “I’m taking you upstairs,” he says to Peter.
Peter turns around briefly, looking back to where Nick and his mother are facing each other in silence. Nick’s mother crosses her arms. Nick stares at his shoes.
“What were you doing?” Nathan says when they’re inside. They stop outside the elevator and Nathan presses the call button.
“Trying to get laid,” Peter says.
“In public?” Nathan says. “And that’s Dad’s cousin. You’re related.”
The elevator is glass and the ride takes them up the outside of the building. Peter can see Providence stretched out below them in a sea of light. It’s a romantic city, full of history and character. It’s a shame he’s not in the mood to appreciate it.
The elevator stops and Peter’s stomach shifts from the inertia. His head feels heavy and he’s unsteady on his feet. He needs to be horizontal and soon. Nathan pulls him out of the elevator by his arm and walks him to his room. Inside, Nathan guides Peter to the bed and lowers him gently onto his back, placing pillows under his head and removing his shoes.
Peter stares at the ceiling, unwilling to close his eyes in case the room tilts sideways. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It seems like you’re saving my ass a lot these days.”
“I wasn’t aware your ass needed saving,” Nathan says. “Not literally anyway.”
“I’m not gay,” Peter says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.” It’s probably a good thing he’s drunk. Some things are best explained by diving straight in and not thinking about how it sounds.
”I don’t care if you’re gay,” Nathan says. “You’re my brother. I love you no matter who you’re having sex with. I’m just surprised I’m finding out now.”
Nathan sounds sincere; it’s painfully touching. “I’m not gay,” Peter says. “It’s not that simple.”
”What do you mean?”
“It’s -“ Peter doesn’t know if he like girls or boys. He can’t sustain a relationship and he’s happier with meaningless encounters. Guys understand this. “I haven’t worked it out yet.”
“Okay,” Nathan says. He nods like he understands. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it? It’s been a long night and Nathan is uncomfortable with shades of grey. “Are you going to sleep in your suit?” Nathan says.
“Maybe,” Peter says. He pulls at his tie until it comes off and drops it on the floor.
“In that case,” Nathan says. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Don’t forget, Heidi wants to be out of here by nine. No sleeping in.”
Nathan turns to leave. Peter holds out his hand, snagging his finger in Nathan’s pants. “Wait,” he says.
Nathan stops. “What is it?”
“Just - “ Peter doesn’t want to be alone, not yet. “Stay until the room stops spinning?”
“That could be a while,” says Nathan, but his face softens and he smiles a little. Nathan is happiest when he’s needed. “Okay,” he says nodding. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaches across to touch Peter’s forehead, and shifts Peter’s hair off his face like Peter is a child. “You feel warm,” Nathan says, resting his palm against Peter’s cheek.
Peter feels safe, connected, like he could stay here forever if Nathan would only promise to stay with him. He closes his eyes and turns his head so his lips brush Nathan’s hand, the barest hint of a kiss to let Nathan know Peter needs him. Nathan seems to understand and his fingers slide from Peter’s cheekbone to his mouth, one finger tracing Peter’s bottom lip. Nathan stops there momentarily, as if waiting for an invitation, and then he dips inside, grazing Peter’s teeth. Peter closes his mouth, sucking gently while Nathan withdraws his finger slowly, drawing out the sensation.
Peter opens his eyes and Nathan is looking at him, expressionless. “Nathan?” Peter says. His voice sounds higher than usual.
“I should go,” Nathan says. He gets up, wipes his hands on his pants and leaves without turning around.
“Nathan!” Peter calls out into the empty room. He looks at the ceiling and wonders what the hell happened. Nathan was here and then he wasn’t. It was all too fast. The light shade sways and Peter closes his eyes, concentrates on his breathing. He falls into a drunken sleep, the kind that feels deeper than it is, and doesn’t wake up until his eight o’clock wake-up call.
The ride home takes too long. Nathan is cheerful and talkative and his voice makes Peter’s already heavy head painfully heavier. Peter sprawls across the backseat, hiding behind dark sunglasses. Nathan makes a joke about the incestuous nature of the guest list and Heidi’s laugh pierces the back of Peter’s skull like an ice-pick. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his forehead.
“Is everything all right, Peter?” Nathan says, meeting Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Peter thinks everything is fine, so damned fine he can pretend nothing happened. Maybe nothing did.
*
Peter’s first year of working for a living is uneventful. He works the night shift, sleeps during the day, does over-time two days a week and goes almost a year without a weekend. True to his word, Nathan pays Peter’s rent and Peter keeps his too-big apartment in the East Village, spending the little time he has to himself looking out at the traffic on Houston and wondering where his life is going.
Peter’s twenty-second birthday rolls around and he celebrates with a low-key dinner at the penthouse; Nathan, Heidi and his mother in attendance. His mother presents him with an Around the World airline ticket.
“You need to travel,” she tells him. “You need to see the world.”
He looks at the ticket: first class. His college friends worked at restaurants and bars in the Village to pay for their economy trips to South East Asia and Mexico.
He never thought about getting away, but now that the option presents itself it seems like something he needs. The world is big enough for him to lose himself in it. There’s bound to be a place somewhere where no one has heard the name ‘Petrelli’ and, more importantly, no one cares.
Nathan’s birthday present to him is a backpack. Peter wonders when Nathan and their mother got together to determine Peter’s future. He doesn’t mind. Not when it works in his favour. Sometimes he feels like his life is in better hands than his.
“Where will you go?” Nathan asks.
“I don’t know,” Peter says. “Europe, I guess.” He thinks about art galleries and cafes and beer in steins and wonders if it’s anywhere near as romantic as it sounds. His visions of Europe have a Fellini-esque feel to them: dramatic, poetic and artistic. It sounds perfect.
*
Six months later he’s in Mombasa, Kenya, lying by the side of the road in the hot sun, his face slashed and his backpack, wallet and passport stolen. His traveling companion, a boy from California named Brian, is kneeling beside Peter, holding his t-shirt against Peter’s cheek.
“Jesus, Peter,” Brian says. “He could have killed you.”
”He didn’t,” Peter says. He leans up on his elbows. He was pushed out of a moving car as he was pleading with their carjacker to be allowed to keep their passports. “He just wanted our car.”
”And our stuff,” Brian says. Brian didn’t have much to begin with. He traveled light: a couple of pairs of jeans, a hoodie and a few t-shirts. He’d spent three years working in a car wash to pay for his trip to Europe and he still cleans toilets and does laundry to pay for his hostel accommodation.
Brian pulls the t-shirt away to look at Peter’s face again. He frowns and Peter knows it doesn’t look good.
He feels light headed. “Shit,” Peter says. “I think I’m going into shock.”
Brian’s eyes go wide with panic. “Lie down,” he says. “I’ll -.“ He looks around, sees a car coming towards them and stands up, waving his arms.
The car pulls over to the side and two men get out, speaking Kiswahili. Brian looks at Pete, eyebrows raised. “You speak English?” Peter says, still pressing the t-shirt against his cheek. He holds out his free hand and Brian takes it, helping Peter to his feet.
“You were robbed, yes?” One of the men says.
“Yes,” says Peter. “They took everything.”
The man shakes his head. “This area is not safe for tourists.”
”Yeah,” Peter says ruefully. “We learned that the hard way.”
”Come,” the man says. “We will take you to the police station.”
Peter and Brian exchange glances. The carjacker was friendly to begin with. They asked for directions to the beach and the carjacker gave them lengthy instructions before holding a knife to Brian’s face and telling him to get out of the car. Still, the alternative is walking, which is just as dangerous, if not more so.
“Asanti,” Peter says, using one of the few words of Kiswahili he’s picked up since he’s been here.
“Karibou,” the man says.
It turns out they’re nurses, recently returned from training in England and now working for the Red Cross. Peter and Brian aren’t the first tourists they’ve rescued from the side of the road.
One of them rides in the back seat with Peter and inspects Peter’s face. “You are lucky,” he says. “The blade was sharp.” He dresses the wound in an antiseptic bandage. Peter feels vaguely guilty for taking what are probably precious medical supplies.
Peter remembers every warning he ever read about traveling in Africa; carjackers, organ robbers, bandits and guerillas shooting hostages dead in the desert. He feels suddenly cold and his hands shake.
”Are you all right?” the man in the back seat with Peter says. “You’ve gone very pale.”
Peter closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe. “I’m fine,” he says, opening his eyes again. “I’ll be fine.”
“It’s a beautiful country,” the man says, looking out the window. “But the people are desperate.”
“It’s okay,” Peter says. “Really.” He doesn’t blame the person who did this to him, but he’s tired and scared and he’s never felt further away from home. He wants to lie down, close his eyes and let the potholes and the bumps in the road rock him to sleep. In New York, Nathan is just waking up, reading the Times or the Post over grapefruit, toast and coffee. Peter could have died out here and Nathan would read his paper, drink his coffee and go to work before he even knew.
Pin sized dots appear in Peter’s vision and his head feels light. He presses his hand to his forehead and it comes away damp.
The man next to Peter leans across him and opens the window. “Breathe,” he says. “Deep breaths.”
Peter does what he’s told, breathing in and out slowly. It’s still warm outside but the air on his face wakes him up, gradually bringing him back to himself.
“Are you all right, Peter?” Brian asks, turning around in his seat.
“I’ll live,” Peter says, smiling weakly. They may not have money or passports or clothes but the worst is over, and they survived.
At the police station Brian fills out paperwork while Peter waits in line to use the phone. Despite Peter’s injuries the police are largely indifferent. The nurses warned them this would be the case. Carjackers are common place and police resources are few. There’s little they can do about it.
Peter calls Nathan. It’s evening in Mombasa which means morning in New York. Nathan should be in his office.
“I thought you were in Greece,” Nathan says, his voice edged with panic. Peter feels guilty for making him worry.
“Nathan,” Peter says. “I need help.”
There’s a pause and Peter hears Nathan exhale. “Okay,” Nathan says. “God, Peter whatever you need. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”
“I need a passport,” Peter says. Nathan’s voice breaks something inside him and he swallows hard to keep from crying. He’s covered in blood and his face is a mess; he doesn’t want to make an even bigger spectacle of himself. “I want to come home,” he says, nearly choking on the words.
“Sit tight,” Nathan says. “I’ll send someone to you.”
They wait in the police station, watching the line to the counter file past in an orderly fashion, never ending, never decreasing. A young policewoman brings Peter a cup of water and he drinks gratefully.
After an hour, help comes in the form of a US Embassy official. Her name is Marie and she says she knows Peter’s father. She winces when she sees Peter’s face. “You’ll need that stitched,” she says, and she turns to speak to the desk clerk in Kiswahili.
He nods and says, “Kwaheri,” to Peter and Brian. Marie beckons at them and they follow her outside. There’s a car waiting at the entrance, the driver leaning against the hood. He jumps up when he sees them, and circles around to the passenger side, opens the door.
“This is Sidi,” Marie says, nodding at the driver. “Take us to Dr Malpass’s surgery,” she says to Sidi.
Peter and Brian sit in the back seat, while Marie gets in the front with Sidi. Peter tells Marie about the nurse from Red Cross who inspected his face. “I’m sure they meant well,” she says. “But where they work, you don’t waste surgical twine on anything that isn’t life threatening. Your father would want me to find you a good surgeon.”
Peter frowns. “My father called you?”
“Yes,” she says. “You sound surprised.”
Peter is definitely surprised. His father would send money if Peter needed it. A personal call is unheard of. Nathan must have persuaded him, pleaded Peter’s case the way Nathan always does. Peter wonders if he’d have a relationship with his father at all if it weren’t for Nathan.
“I - didn’t know he knew anyone in Kenya,” Peter says.
“I don’t know him well,” Marie says. “He’s distantly related to my brother in law; which I guess means I’m distantly related to you.”
Peter looks out the window. He has relatives in Kenya; what a surprise.
Dr Malpass lives and works in a large villa-style mansion on the river. His neighbours have similar estates, multi-layered and pastel coloured, crawling up the steep embankment like fortresses. They call it Africa’s Riviera; distinguished from the French only by the humidity, the mosquitoes and the mosques.
Like so many of the river’s residents, Dr Malpass is a western expatriate, an American who chose Mombasa for the weather, the lifestyle and the wealthy clientele. He gives Peter a local anaesthetic and eight tiny cross-stitches in a line along his cheek.
“You can barely notice them,” Brian says, poker-faced.
Brian is a terrible poker player. “Liar,” Peter says.
“Okay,” Brian says. “But it could be worse. He missed your eye by an inch.”
Peter touches the stitches lightly. They stop just above his cheekbone. He really was lucky. Before he leaves, a nurse gives him antibiotics and painkillers. He takes one of each and they go back to the car.
Marie says they’ll need somewhere to stay while their passports are being replaced. “Your father asked that I arrange accommodation for you at the Tamarind,” she says.
The Tamarind is on the river; part of Africa’s Riviera. The gate is guarded but the car’s US Consular licence plates ensure they are allowed through without fuss. Brian gives Peter a, “is your father for real?” look and Peter thinks he would laugh if he could move his face. His father may not wish to indulge Peter’s rebellious streak, but he wouldn’t want anyone to think the Petrellis were cheap.
“To think,” Brian says, as they gates close behind them. “This morning we were wondering whether we could afford a hostel with locks on the doors.”
Peter scratches his face. The anaesthetic is wearing off. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how things change.” Peter looks out the window at the pristine white walls and the sprawling outdoor dining area overlooking the river. He’s looking forward to a bed with clean linen, soft pillows, room to move. He’s exhausted.
Marie checks them in and hands them their room cards. “Sidi will bring you clothes in the morning” she says. “If you need anything else, just call.”
As soon as he gets to his room, Peter calls Nathan’s office. He gets Nathan’s secretary who tells Peter Nathan has left for the day. Peter tries Nathan’s cell and doesn’t get through.
*
They next day, Sidi takes them shopping. Marie says she’ll send the bill to Peter’s father so Peter tells Brian to buy whatever he wants. Peter buys Nathan a wooden giraffe. Two days before they were car-jacked they went on a tour of the Nairobi National Park and saw ostriches, zebras, lions, and giraffes amongst endless savanna. The giraffes followed their vehicle as it drove away, moving like they were in slow motion, long strides and no hurry. Peter remembers he lost his camera when they were robbed. He lost all his pictures.
Back at the hotel, Peter meets Brian for evening cocktails by the river. “Dude,” Brian says. “Is your father loaded?”
“I guess so,” Peter says. He feels like a fraud. He doesn’t know why. He never lied to Brian about his family’s money, but he didn’t bring it up in conversation.
Brian frowns. “You could have been killed,” he says. “It’s a hell of a price to pay to rough it.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Peter says. He looks down at his drink. It’s something blue. He can’t remember what the waiter called it. “My father cut me off.”
“Yeah?” Brian looks out over the river and laughs. “Guess he’s changed his mind, huh?”
Peter follows Brian’s gaze and looks down to where a path leads from the hotel to the water. It’s too late to go down there now. The mosquitoes are rife and neither he nor Brian are taking malaria tablets.
“I doubt it,” Peter says. “He’ll consider this a reprieve. I’ll probably have to pay him back.”
“In that case,” Brian says. He holds up his empty glass. “I’ll have another.”
The waiter brings them two more of the blue cocktails and they take them inside to the restaurant rather than wait for the mosquitoes to eat them alive. They order steak from a menu that includes ostrich, crocodile and swan. Before the car jacking, they were living off matoke chips and soda.
Peter’s not really hungry. He pushes his julienne carrots around his plate with his fork and stares at the blue cocktail standing out against the bleach-white of the table cloth. This is his third? Fourth? He feels light headed and unfocused. He stares absently at a man speaking with the maitre’d, thinking about how much he looks like Nathan. He blinks and realizes it is Nathan, and he gasps.
Brian looks up from his food. ”Are you okay, man?” he says.
Nathan waves at Peter, smiling broadly as he comes over to their table. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt and light olive pants. He looks like it’s been days since he shaved. His smile fades as he gets closer, gets a good look at Peter’s face.
“Peter -,” he says, when he gets to their table. He shakes his head. He can’t take his eyes off Peter’s face.
Peter gets up and throws his arms around Nathan’s neck, presses his lips to Nathan’s ear. He’s never been happier to see anyone in his life. He wants to cry but instead he holds on tight, squeezes the breath from both of them.
Nathan pulls back, puts his hand under Peter’s chin and tilts his face to the light. “Jesus, Peter,” he says, as he inspects Peter’s scar. He slides his hand down to Peter’s shoulder and turns Peter to face him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, feeling self-conscious under Nathan’s scrutiny. “I’m okay.” He hears a throat clear behind him and remembers Brian. “Nathan, this is Brian,” Peter says, turning around to face Brian. “Brian saved me from going into shock by the side of the road.”
Brian stands up and shakes Nathan’s hand. “He was fine,” Brian says to Nathan, sensing Nathan’s concern. “He held it together on his own.”
”Just the same,” Nathan says. “I’m glad you were there to take care of him.”
A waiter brings a menu for Nathan and they sit at the table. In his head, Peter counts the hours since he called Nathan. Thirty? Thirty-one? Nathan must have taken the first flight out.
“You didn’t have to come,” Peter says.
“I’ve always wanted to see Africa,” Nathan says. He looks out the window to where the darkness has obscured the view, sparsely broken by the lights of houses on the opposite of the river. There isn’t much to see.
Peter is so happy to see Nathan he doesn’t push the issue further. Nathan is here. That’s all that matters.
Nathan points to Peter’s drink. “What is that?”
“I have no idea,” Peter says.
Nathan calls the waiter over. “I’ll have one of those,” he says, nodding at Peter’s drink.
Over dinner Brian tells the story of their car-jacking and they laugh at Peter’s sincerity as he tried to persuade their carjacker to take their money and leave their passports.
“You should have seen the guy’s face,” Brian says. “He looked at you like you’d asked for a ride to the police station.”
“He had the car,” Peter says. “What good were our passports to him?”
“You had to be a hero,” Nathan says, rolling his eyes. He gives Peter a stern look and Peter knows exactly how Nathan feels about Peter’s heroics. Better to be a coward than dead.
“He just wanted our car,” Peter says defensively. “He never intended to hurt us.”
”Your face says otherwise,” Nathan says.
“We’re okay,” Brian says. He looks from Nathan to Peter, sensing something. “I mean, that’s the important thing, right?”
“Sure,” Nathan smiles at Brian indulgently. Peter knows that look. Nathan doesn’t like being told when to worry about his family. “Of course it is.”
Later they walk Brian to his room, holding him up as he staggers a little outside his door. None of them are walking straight. It’s been a long night, after a long day. They’ve been drinking liberally from Turkey to Kenya but they’ve been on an adrenalin high for the last two days and the alcohol moves through their bodies quicker.
“Are you two together?” Nathan says, after they’ve left Brian in his room.
“What?” Peter stops in the hallway. His room is only three doors away. Nathan has a room upstairs.
“I don’t want to be a third wheel,” Nathan says. His tone is slightly accusatory, more jealous lover than concerned older brother. It makes Peter’s head spin.
Peter takes his door card out of his pocket, keeps walking toward his room. “It’s none of your business.”
Behind him, Peter hears Nathan sigh. “It is my business. I’d like to know if I’m taking you both home. I’m paying your bills remember?”
Peter opens the door to his room and they both go inside, Nathan not waiting for an invitation.
“I thought Dad was paying the bill?” Peter says. He throws the card on the desk, takes the remote and switches the television on. An African version of MTV is playing mostly rap and R and B. Peter sits on the bed and flips channels until he finds a movie; something involving a funeral with a bunch of B list actors. It looks vaguely alternative and Peter leaves it on.
Nathan sits on the other side of the bed, feet still on the floor, like he’s only half committed to sharing the space with Peter. “I asked for his help and he called his contact at the Embassy - you know Dad, he knows someone in every city - but I told him I would pay.” He looks at Peter, smiles apologetically. “I’m sure he would have paid - if I’d given him the opportunity, I just thought-.“
“It’s okay,” Peter says. He liked thinking his father had pulled out all stops to protect him, that he lavished on him the kind of attention a father should for a beloved son. Peter wonders what would have happened if Nathan had been the one carjacked. “Want to watch some TV?” Peter says, nodding at the screen.
“What is it?” Nathan says.
”Family dysfunction, by the look of it,” Peter says. The children of the deceased are arguing at the wake. “Kind of appropriate, don’t you think?”
Nathan takes off his shoes, and puts his feet on the bed, stretched out next to Peter’s. They sit shoulder to shoulder; close enough for Peter to smell the tequila on Nathan’s breath.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan says. He turns his head slightly, meets Peter’s eyes before looking down at his hands. “About Dad, I mean. I wish I knew… I don’t know why he’s like this with you.”
Peter stares at the television. He wants to know why his father doesn’t love him the way he loves Nathan, but he isn’t sure he’s ready to hear the answer. He always hoped it was something he’d done, something he could fix. He didn’t want to know it wasn’t about him, that there was nothing he could do to gain his father’s approval.
It isn’t Nathan’s fault. It’s not a burden Nathan should bear. “Yeah,” Peter says. He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, me too.”
“I wish I’d been around more,” Nathan says. “When we were kids.”
“I would have liked that,” Peter says. When Peter was growing up, Nathan was an enigmatic stranger who made messiah-like appearances at Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer vacations at Cape Cod. Peter has vague memories of throwing his arms around Nathan’s leg and begging him not to leave.
“Must have been lonely,” Nathan says.
Peter shrugs. “I had Grace,” he says. “And Leah, and Darlene, and Shandra, and Ilsa.” Peter had nannies whose names he can’t remember. His mother didn’t want him to become attached to one nanny in case she left and broke his heart. As it turned out, he became attached to all of them, and they all left.
“I liked Shandra.”
“I know,” Peter says. “I saw you together in the guest house.”
Nathan’s eyes go wide. “You saw that? You must have been-“
“Eight,” Peter says. “Old enough to know what you were doing.” He was horrified at first, but then he was curious. He’d heard about sex at school and knew it lead to babies. He asked Shandra if he was going to be an uncle. Shandra told him she’d let him stay up late for a whole week if he never mentioned the incident again. “You don’t want Nathan to get into trouble,” she said.
Nathan shakes his head. “Should have known I couldn’t hide from you,” he says. “You were always following me around.”
“She left when you went back to college,” Peter says. “I guess she missed you too.”
“Maybe,” Nathan says. “I’m sorry.”
”What for?”
Nathan laughs, looking briefly up at the ceiling. “I don’t know - I feel like I never did right by you.”
Peter reaches for Nathan’s hand, grasps it in his. “You’re here now,” Peter says. “When it matters.”
Nathan looks at their hands, and then at Peter. They stay like that, eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder, no talking. Peter waits for Nathan to look away, but he doesn’t. He holds Peter’s gaze, unmoving, like it’s a dare. Peter lets go of Nathan’s hand, and slides down to cover Nathan’s groin, presses lightly with his palm.
Nathan grabs Peter’s wrist, his fingernails digging into the pulse point. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Peter says. He’s tired, not in the mood for Nathan to be obtuse.
“Are you insane?” Nathan says, pushing Peter’s hand away.
“No,” Peter says. “And I don’t think you are either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Peter rubs his face with his palm. His stitches are itching like crazy. “There’s nothing wrong with us,” Peter says. “We want what we want. It’s not wrong, it just is.”
“Peter-,” Nathan clears his throat. “I know you’ve got some kind of hero worship going on and…”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Peter says, throwing up his hands. “Stop it, okay? Just stop it.” Nathan looks at Peter, his eyebrows raised like he thinks Peter should hear how crazy he sounds. Peter lets out his breath. “You always pretend you don’t want it too. I know you do, I know.”
Nathan shakes his head slowly. “No, Peter. I don’t.”
Peter wonders if this is how Nathan wins cases. He’s good at lying. So good he’s got himself fooled. Peter looks at the spot where their shoulders are side by side against the bed head and knows Nathan doesn’t mean what he says. Nathan is still here. He hasn’t moved. Nathan can protest and he can deny until he’s red in the face but he’s still here and Peter knows it’s because he can’t tear himself away.
Peter climbs into Nathan’s lap, facing him, one knee either side of Nathan’s hips. “Tell me you don’t want it,” Peter says. He puts his hands either side of Nathan’s face. “Look me in the eye and tell me.”
Nathan meets Peter’s eyes and he blinks. His eyes are deeper than Peter’s. He has wisdom and want behind his eyes. Peter has nothing but need.
“I don’t,” Nathan says.
Peter reaches for the clasp on Nathan’s waistband, tugs the zipper down. “Tell me you want me to stop,” he whispers.
“I want you to stop,” Nathan says.
Peter slips his hand inside Nathan’s pants, feeling for the close in Nathan’s boxers. Nathan’s breath hitches as Peter’s fingers touch bare skin and stroke gently, coaxing Nathan to an erection.
“Say it again,” Peter says.
“I want…” Nathan’s eyes soften and glass over. “Oh…” He pushes up into Peter’s hand, instinct taking over.
Peter smirks. “That’s what I thought,” he says. He shoves Nathan’s pants down around his hips quickly. He’s not giving Nathan a chance to pull away this time. He wriggles down the bed and bends to Nathan’s crotch, sloppily taking the tip of Nathan’s cock into his mouth and circling the head with his tongue.
“God,” Nathan says. He adjusts his position on the bed, raising his hips up to Peter’s mouth. He reaches for Peter aimlessly, grabbing painfully at the hair on the back of Peter’s head.
Peter feels a rush, an adrenalin high. Nathan’s cock is in Peter’s mouth and his hips are bucking upwards, forcing Peter to take him down deep. Peter savours every moment: the salty taste of Nathan’s precum on his tongue, Nathan’s hands pulling at his hair, the curve of Nathan’s ass, Peter’s fingers digging into the soft flesh, the low moan Nathan makes as Peter drags his tongue all the way along Nathan’s shaft from the base to the tip and back again.
It’s dirty and desperate, and Peter can’t get enough. He wants Nathan inside him, buried in him, nothing but history between them. He wants them naked, tangled together like strands of rope. Peter’s erection pushes uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans and he pops the button on his waistband, undoes his fly ands works his erection in his fist.
He takes a moment to look up at Nathan and sees Nathan looking back, watching Peter through lowered lids, his mouth slightly open. “Jesus, Peter…I-,” and then Nathan is coming, jerking his hips up and gripping Peter’s hair so hard it hurts. Peter closes his eyes and comes too, sucking and sucking until Nathan is dry.
The television is still on in the background, mournful music playing over painful dialogue. Peter leans back on his knees and peels his t-shirt off, wipes his mouth and stomach. He crawls back to Nathan’s side at the top of his bed, wriggles out of his jeans and tosses them to the floor next to his t-shirt. He doesn’t look at Nathan. He’s not ready for recrimination yet.
Nathan touches Peter’s chin, the tips of his fingers turning Peter to face him. He turns away for a moment and looks down Peter’s body, eyes traveling to his legs and feet, and up to his face again. And then Nathan leans forward and kisses Peter, his tongue in Peter’s mouth, tasting him. Peter kisses back, his hands in Nathan’s hair, on his neck, on his shoulders, everywhere he can reach. He holds on and breathes Nathan in like pure oxygen.
Outside a couple laughs at they pass by Peter’s room and Nathan breaks the kiss, turning toward the door, like he expects it to open. It doesn’t and the laughter fades into silence again as the couple move down the hallway and out of earshot. Nathan swings his legs over the side of the bed, glances back at Peter, and gets to his feet, rearranging his pants. He smoothes his hand down his shirt, straightens his tie and bends down to put his shoes back on.
“You’re going?” Peter says.
“What am I supposed to do?” Nathan says.
Peter slumps back against the headboard, resting his arm on his forehead. In truth, he expected this. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Nathan shakes his head. “No - god, no, Peter, it’s not - we just - I’m not myself around you. I get crazy ideas.”
“It’s not crazy.”
“Yes, it is,” Nathan says. “Brothers don’t do - what we did.”
“I know,” Peter says. He looks at the television; the credits roll for the film they didn’t watch. He thinks he’d rather be alone than have this conversation with Nathan. “You should go,” he says.
Nathan stands by the bedding, not moving. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay.”
He turns and leaves, and Peter remembers Providence, nearly two years ago, another hotel room, another closed door.
Part Two