fic: Ritual (59): Song For Junior
Title: Ritual (59): Song For Junior
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: none
Word count: about 5000
Warnings: see pairing and rating
Summary: Peter makes an unusual request for his 18th birthday; will Nathan go for it? Expands on an event first mentioned in Ritual 14: Trouble Slut.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Heroes and all associated characters are property of NBC/Universal Television, used without authorization.
The date of Peter's birthday is obviously not canonical; in the early days of writing Ritual I arbitrarily established Peter's birthday as being nearly the same as Milo Ventimiglia's (and yet not the same, as Hello Nasty was released on July 14th, and Milo's birthday is the 8th. Oh well; live, learn, get Jossed. :)
JULY 1998, MONTAUK, NEW YORK
Peter slept in. Because it was his birthday, his parents let him. Usually, if he wasn't up in time for breakfast at 7:30, someone would knock on the door and yell until he got up. Well, Dad or Ma would. At the beginning of the summer, Peter sometimes lay in bed, even after he'd woken up, hoping that Nathan would be dispatched to rouse him. But that never happened, and eventually Peter gave up on the idea.
Peter finally opened his eyes and blinked at the clock. It was almost ten. He remembered that it was his birthday. He was eighteen now. An adult. If he wanted to, he could just walk away, hit the road, leave town, leave the state, march directly into his own adult life, free and clear. He didn't really feel like an adult, though, and he couldn't think of anywhere he'd want to go. As annoying as they were, he loved his family. He wanted to be here, in the summer house at the beach, taking it easy, knowing that his mother's smile or his dad's grumpy frowns (and rare, occasional whiskey-fueled hugs) weren't far away. And Nathan, too. Nathan was here. Of course Peter wanted to be here. He had a choice now; without hesitation he chose to stay. He chose love.
He tumbled out of bed, pulled on clean underwear, and the same T-shirt and shorts that he'd been wearing yesterday. Scratching his sleep-sweat-sticky ear, he stepped into his blue low-top Chucks without bothering to tighten the laces, and stumbled out towards the kitchen. He had slept too much and now his head felt slow and foggy. Coffee and breakfast would do just the trick.
Of course, the dining room and kitchen were deserted; breakfast was at 7:30 sharp every morning, and it wasn't like they were going to wait for him. Still, he felt a sharp pang of loneliness, and a petulant gloom that no one was there, waiting cheerfully to wish him happy birthday with kisses and hugs. No cake; no balloons; no brightly-wrapped piles of presents. There was nothing. It was like any other ordinary day, except even more boring and lame.
Naturally, said the nasty little voice inside his head that popped up all too often. You're boring and lame. Nobody gives a shit that it's your birthday.
"Shut up, me," Peter said out loud. There was nobody around to judge him for talking to himself, and he found that it was an effective way for him to derail feelings of self-negativity. "I care. It's my birthday. I'm awesome. I'm special, and I'm loved. So fuck you." Still, it kind of sucked to have to make his own coffee, and go rooting around in the pantry for some bread to make toast.
"Who are you talking to?"
Peter looked up from the cutting board. Nathan had come into the kitchen and stood there, all shiny and tan and dastardly handsome, of course; wasn't he always? Still, maybe even more so today than usual. He wore a white T-shirt with the logo of some yacht club that he belonged to, dark khaki trousers, Adidas slides with his impeccably-pedicured toes poking out of them. Nathan even had gorgeous feet. It wasn't fair. Peter just stared at him for a moment, caught up in the unending struggle between hating Nathan for being so perfect, and wanting so desperately to be just like him.
"Nobody," Peter replied finally, turning away again, back to his raggedly-sliced bread.
"Coffee sounds great," Nathan said. "Is there enough?" He sat down in a chair turned the wrong way, casual, legs spread over the seat and arms resting atop the back.
"Sure," Peter said. He grabbed some mugs, and pulled a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. It still had the cap on, and the cream crowding the top of the neck. That was nice; maybe his mother had actually left it for him, even though she liked fresh-delivery cream on her breakfast strawberries. It was his! He didn't have to share. Oh, but... "You want cream?" he asked sullenly.
Nathan laughed. "No, Peter, go ahead; help yourself."
Filled with sudden selfish vigor, Peter peeled off the foil cap, and sucked down the cream, straight from the bottle. It hit his belly like a cold lead weight, almost staggeringly heavy and delicious. When he wiped his mouth and turned to see Nathan's reaction, Nathan was laughing silently, shaking his head. "All righty, then," Nathan said. "I'll take mine black. And I'm telling Ma."
"Tell her," Peter said, shrugging. He drank a bit more of the exquisitely chilly, rich milk, and popped his bread into the toaster oven. "We've got another bottle."
"Nothing else? You're too young to just have toast and coffee for breakfast. Why don't you grab a banana?"
"I'm not too young," Peter said, squaring his shoulders and giving Nathan a determined look. "I'm eighteen," he added, lifting his chin. "I think I'll survive."
Nathan crinkled the corners of his eyes, adding intrigue to his smile. Peter found it impossible to look away, trapped, staring back, his heart tumbling in his chest. No one else ever made him feel like that. Even when he'd first met his girlfriend Marjorie halfway through last semester at school, and found her to be one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen (even on TV), he had only felt an intense desire to pursue her, to make her go out to the movies with him, and then put his hand up her skirt. He saw girls and wanted to play with them, molest them, open doors for them, listen to their troubles. He saw Nathan and he felt... connection. He felt helpless and bewildered and fascinated beyond all sense. Nathan just made him feel more than he ever did with anyone else.
"I'm not saying you won't survive," Nathan answered mildly, "I'm just saying that you ought to get some fiber and potassium in the early part of the day; the milk's plenty of protein, but bananas are specifically..." His voice trailed off. "You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"
"Didn't you hear me?" Peter said, his voice sounding weird and strangled to his own ears. "I'm eighteen," he reiterated. "As of today. As of, um, what, six-forty A.M."
Nathan just stared at him quizzically, then realized, "Oh. Okay. Uh, happy birthday."
"You're an asshole," Peter muttered, turning back to his toast. It was too dark. He'd eat it anyway, because Nathan was looking. He growled softly and poured two mugs of coffee.
"What? Jesus, Pete, what do you want - a parade?" Nathan chuckled, unoffended, clearly enjoying all the consternation. Peter handed him the uglier of the two mugs, and doused his own coffee with milk, grabbing another chair and pulling himself up to the kitchen table. "Sorry. I know it's a big deal. It is a big deal. You're a man now. You can buy your own porn."
"I'm not a man until I can legally buy a drink," Peter kvetched, dipping his dark-brown toast into his coffee. It turned out to be delicious, the crisp edges of the bread soaking up the lukewarm coffee, adding sweetness to the mouthful. He'd have to remember that.
"You're not a man until you feel like you're a man," Nathan said.
Peter chewed and regarded his brother curiously. Nathan was in a much more introspective mood than Peter had previously thought, and maybe the usual barrage of jokes and jibes wasn't in the cards right now. Peter was okay with that; he felt frisky and able to hold his own in a snark contest, but on the other hand, it was nice to see Nathan out of Jerk Mode for a little while at least. He wondered if he was going to be the recipient of one of those Big Important Lectures that people liked to lay on him, in the pursuit of helping him "figure it out." Peter smirked. "And being a giant baby because nobody really cares that it's my birthday kinda gets in the way of the whole 'man' part, right?"
"That's not true; not that nobody cares. A lot of us care, actually. It's your birthday. We care. Your mother is in town getting the details of your party sorted out. If she didn't care, would she be doing that? We care."
"Do you care?" Peter asked softly, all sincerity on the table.
Nathan frowned, not taking the bait. "What did I just say? 'We' implies 'me'."
"That's not exactly what I meant," Peter sighed, and ate another piece of dunked toast.
"Do I care especially?" Nathan guessed. "Yeah. Sure. I do. It means a lot. It means I'm getting old, for one thing." He rolled his eyes at the thought. "It means I'm almost thirty."
It was weird to hear. It was weird for Peter to think how strongly he was attracted to someone who was so much older. And the idea of Nathan being almost thirty... and Nathan... but none of that mattered. None of that mattered. He felt what he felt. "Nothin' but a number," Peter murmured helpfully. "Nothin' but a number."
Still, it means I'm legal now. In case that's what's holding you back. Barely legal me.
Nathan nodded, and they sat quietly for a while, sipping coffee, not looking at each other. "Well, what are you doing today?" Nathan asked finally. "Anything special?"
Peter shrugged. "Nah, not until the party," he said. "That's not until eight. You coming?"
"Of course I am."
"You have presents to give me," Peter prompted with a wicked grin.
That got a laugh out of Nathan. "Yeah," he said. "I got presents. But...since it is your birthday, I feel like I ought to settle up some debts for you. As another gift, you know." Peter nodded in response, letting slide the fact that a debt repaid wasn't a gift by any stretch of the imagination outside Nathan's own head. Nathan was being generous and giving, and this was rare; Peter knew well that he had better appreciate it when it happened. And he looked so very good, too, with that oddly naughty sparkle in his eyes. "I said I'd owe you one for flaking out on that Knicks game, remember? So... what do you want?"
Peter thought about it for a moment. "Anything I want?" he asked.
"Within reason. I can't, say, give you a million dollars. Or an invisible jet. Or a pony."
"You totally could give me a pony," Peter quipped, covering his nervousness. Because he'd just had an idea and he knew he was going to ask for it and the whole idea scared the jujubes out of him.
"You don't want a pony, Pete," Nathan said evenly. "Go on. Tell me. Whatever it is, it can't hurt to ask."
Oh, but it could. It could hurt very much. Didn't Nathan know what he was asking? Couldn't he see? Couldn't he understand?
I am awesome, Peter thought, taking a deep breath. I am loved. I am awesome whether or not I am loved.
"I want you to make me come," he said.
For a moment, Nathan frowned, blinked, seemingly unsure of what he'd just heard. Peter just kept looking at him, outwardly calm as he sipped his coffee, his heart thudding so loud he could hear it. He'd been bold before. He'd been bold, and told Nathan what he wanted, and Nathan still loved him; hell, Nathan was coming to his party, where there would be a dozen obnoxious teenagers around, and rap music. And Nathan hated rap music and teenagers in equal measure.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, and smiled slightly, tilting his head. "Yeah?" he asked softly.
Peter nodded, holding his gaze. "Get me off," he added, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
The quiet of the house stretched around them. Arthur was at the country club; Angela in town with caterers and balloon-makers or whatever she considered essential for a party. Peter didn't know. Didn't much care. His world began and ended where Nathan sat, with the fabric of his T-shirt riding up over his thick biceps, his damp hair beginning to curl at the top, his lips with their violin curves.
"All right," Nathan said.
It was Peter's turn to blink. "Really?"
"Yeah," Nathan acknowledged. "It's your birthday. I owe you one."
To his pleasant surprise, Peter didn't whoop in triumph, or pump his fists in the air, or roll over and die. He calmly nodded at Nathan and finished drinking his coffee, even though his hands were shaking.
"Tomorrow," Nathan added. Before Peter could protest, Nathan continued, "Mom and Dad will be in Sag Harbor having lunch; they'll be there all day. I'll show up around two. Today, though, you should just have fun. Hang out with your friends."
"Yeah, I guess... okay, I will."
Nathan stood up, taking his coffee mug to the sink. "I've got to go meet Jennings for golf. See you later tonight." As he walked past Peter, he took a moment to stop and kiss the top of Peter's head. Then he wrinkled his nose. "God, wash your hair, Pete," he muttered, leaving the kitchen.
Peter left his toast plate and coffee mug on the table, wandering out too, in such a daze that he almost got hit by a car as he tried to cross the street on his way to the beach. He knew that Marjorie would probably be out there, sunbathing with her sister, and he wanted to see her... well, he didn't want to see her, he was only going there out of habit...
Tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He laughed and waved at the car that had come to a screeching halt six inches away from his leg, unable to hear the obscenities being yelled at him, or recognize the double bird being flipped his way. It was all good. It was all beautiful. Tomorrow would be the best day of his life.
* * *
The next day, the weather was hot by morning, and hotter still after noon. Peter didn't eat much at breakfast - just a bowl of cereal and a banana - still immensely full from his birthday dinner, and the cake, and all that milk he'd had yesterday. He ended the evening making White Russians for everybody with the last of the milk, had a couple of them himself, and spent the time before falling asleep clutching his belly, wondering if he was going to throw up. He hadn't. Marjorie had, though. She had showed up to his party already drunk, having split a bottle of wine with her sister as they got ready to come over. Marjorie's sister had hit on him, even though she was only fourteen. It had been a weird night.
At the breakfast table Angela had told Peter that Marjorie reminded her of herself. He didn't want to think of his mom all drunked out, stage-whispering that he could have a birthday B.J., but that she wouldn't swallow. One of the other guys had taken Marjorie home; Wendy, the little sister, got a ride home with somebody else. Peter couldn't remember too well.
When his parents left the house to go to brunch, both of them had given him a hug and a kiss. It was weird. It was like they were saying goodbye. Well, they were, but in a serious way. A going-away way. Like they were kissing the child Peter goodbye forever.
He had missed his surfing lesson that morning, but he still felt like being outside, so he grabbed his portable CD player and went out to the back woods behind the house, sprawling in a shady hollow on the grass. He wanted to listen to the new Beastie Boys CD, a birthday present from one of his friends. He could let his mind detach and drift, untethered by the beat.
The album was completely amazing. They'd played it a couple of times the night before, but listening to it on his own was entirely different. He was a Beasties fan, and having new material to listen to and memorize was a serious thrill. He completely forgot about his life and got lost in the rhymes and textures, laughing at the jokes and wordplay, tapping his toes in the grass.
A song came up (after he'd listened to "Three MCs and One DJ" four times in a row before he could move on) that he couldn't really remember from last night - an instrumental, jazzy, supper-club kind of number with xylophones and stuff in it. It was pleasant to hear on this hot, sprawling day, and Peter relaxed completely, soaking it all in. Eventually, vocals did happen; soft, cooing female vocals, as unlike the hard-edged spit rhymes of the Beasties as could be.
"I'm hypnotized by you," sang the girl.
Peter sat bolt upright. "Nathan," he gasped. He looked at his watch. It was 1:45. He had just enough time to get back home.
He made it there in five minutes, gasping, streaming with sweat. That wouldn't do. He galloped to the bathroom and jumped into the shower, turning the water all the way down to cold, frantically soaping himself up and scrubbing the grass blades out of his hair. Once clean, and goose-pimpled with chill, he dashed back to his room, still dripping, and tore a clean T-shirt and shorts from his bureau. He was still rubbing himself dry when he heard the front door open.
In the kitchen, Nathan grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and looked over at Peter with a cool, appraising eye as he drank it. He said nothing. Peter gave a tentative little wave. "Hi," he said.
"Drink some water," Nathan said.
Peter got his own bottle of water. Nathan didn't move from where he stood next to the fridge, forcing Peter to come into very close proximity to follow his request. Peter looked at Nathan questioningly, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. "Okay?" he asked.
"Okay," replied Nathan.
They stood very close, drinking water. Peter was still hot; the cold shower had only barely cooled down the surface of his skin. He felt himself breaking into a sweat all over again, even though the house's air conditioning kept the ambient temperature cool. "Did you have a good time last night?" Nathan asked very calmly.
"Yeah," Peter said. "You?"
"Good enough."
So close.
"Thank you for the gift," Peter mumbled, just for something to say. It wasn't all that exciting - ten thousand dollars towards Peter's college fund, one of those presents that made Nathan look good to other adults. It wasn't really even a gift for him; it was technically for Dad, so that Arthur wouldn't have to carry the entire cost of putting Peter through school. It was all a bunch of stuff that Peter didn't feel had anything to do with him.
Not like this. Nathan put his hand out and grasped Peter's chin, holding him still, studying Peter's face as though he was a rare piece of sculpture, and he was being assessed, examined for flaws. Peter took a deep breath and lowered his gaze, not wishing to distract Nathan from... whatever he was doing. All Peter knew was that his face was damp with sweat, and he was going to soak his T-shirt through again in a minute. He wanted to drink some more water, but he'd have to disturb Nathan to do it...
"Hmm," Nathan said. He released Peter's chin, but leaned in closer, and kissed him softly and quickly on the lips. Peter let out a shuddery, gasping sigh, and Nathan smiled. Peter took a step back and gulped at his water bottle. "Go in there," Nathan said, nodding toward the seldom-used washroom on the far side of the kitchen, "take your shirt off, and cool down. I'm right behind you."
Peter went ahead, pushing the white-painted folding door open, pausing in front of the sink to strip the T-shirt off over his head. Nathan plucked the shirt from Peter's fingers, folded it, and draped it over the hand-towel rack. His large hands grasped Peter's waist with the same firm grip he'd used on Peter's face, pulling Peter in closer, back to front, edging the doors closed with his foot.
When Peter tried to turn around, to kiss Nathan, Nathan wouldn't let him move. "Ah-ah, ssh, ssh, ssh," Nathan admonished, even though Peter hadn't made a sound. But it did relax Peter somehow; it was a comforting sound, a reassurance. Nathan kissed Peter's bare shoulder, hands sliding up over his chest, down his belly. "Better this way," Nathan whispered, pressing himself against the small of Peter's back. His cock was a rigid line against the base of Peter's spine. So close. Peter groaned.
He undid the snap at the waistband of Peter's shorts, and Peter, wriggling, let them fall off his hips, puddling around his ankles. Nathan ran his hands all over Peter's underwear, front and back, tugging at the waistband, the damp fabric clinging to Peter's ass cheeks and balls. Peter wished he could stop sweating; he felt gross. "Beautiful," Nathan murmured, contradicting Peter's thoughts. "You're so hot. You're melting."
"Sweating like a horse," Peter said.
"Mmmm. You'll be cool soon."
Peter laughed. "I'll never be cool," he muttered, his wry tone dissolving into desperate hisses as Nathan ran both hands over his front again, cradling Peter's dick between his two palms, then one hand on the dick and the other cupping the weight of his balls. Peter jammed one of his fingers into his mouth and bit down so that he wouldn't moan. No, he'd never be cool; he'd never be able to take this without...
"Melting." Nathan kissed Peter's shoulder again, then the side of his neck, sucking in a mouthful of skin and rolling it between his teeth. "Hot day," he whispered. "Waiting for me."
Peter hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and tugged the stretchy cotton shorts down. Nathan helped. Nathan pushed his fingers down inside, pushing the underwear down, touching Peter's pubis and penis and the hypersensitive skin at his groin. Peter wanted to bite down on his fingers again, but he wanted even more to be free of his evil clothes, so he tried to simply swallow his moan.
"Hmmm," said Nathan, assessing again, holding Peter's cock in his hand. Skin to skin. Peter felt his cock jump in Nathan's fingers, and the friction of Nathan's cool, dry skin against his own moist surface almost drove him mad. Nathan stroked firmly, pulling the skin of Peter's cock back toward his balls, forcing blood to stream desperately toward the head. Peter glanced down at himself; he didn't look as hard as he felt, but the head of his dick looked thick and shiny. "So good," Nathan approved.
The cool air felt good against the inner surface of Peter's thighs, along his groin, his lower belly. He wished Nathan would kiss there, too, and not just his neck, not just the side of his face. He turned his head so that their mouths could meet, and Nathan sloppily devoured the corner of Peter's lips and squeezed his cock hard. Peter gasped, breaking the kiss, bending over forward; Nathan grabbed Peter's waist and straightened him up again. Peter writhed backward against his brother. He started to feel dizzy. All the blood was rushing away from his brain.
Nathan pulled the skin tight again, then pushed in the opposite direction. Peter didn't even try to hold back his moan this time. Nathan shushed him, reached forward toward the sink, and pumped a generous dollop of hand lotion onto the side of his palm. Peter hastily spit on his own fingers and rubbed the saliva into the shiny head of his dick, licked his fingers, and applied them again. He needed his own taste. He could almost taste it now, the weird salt of pre-come, and Nathan patiently waited while Peter played with the head of his own cock until it wept. At the taste, at last, Peter moaned a little sing-song pattern of satisfaction to himself, and Nathan slathered the lotion all over Peter's cock, soothing it, slickening it.
"Ah, my God," Peter keened.
"Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh." Even as Nathan shushed him, he ground his erection into Peter's tailbone. Peter could feel it all very clearly; Nathan couldn't have been wearing underwear beneath his lightweight linen trousers. He felt the head and the ridge of the corona, the thick root on the underside, anchoring it to Nathan's body. And Nathan's fingers jerked on him, pulling, pushing back, holding him tightly and rocking back and forth just a little, just enough so that it felt like fucking. The wet sound of Nathan's hand on him was obscene. Peter angled his head back for another kiss; Nathan poked his tongue into the corner of Peter's mouth, but that was it.
But he was holding out. He felt like he was going to lose his mind, but he was still all there. He hadn't come yet. He was getting better at control. He would impress his brother. He would impress Nathan. How impossible was that? Peter laughed shakily. "I'm crazy," he declared.
"Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh. I already know that." Nathan acquired more lotion, and his hand moved harder and faster. "I already know you're crazy..."
"Ah... oh... ah..." Peter kept himself to desperate monosyllables, arching his ass against Nathan's cock. He'd give anything to feel that skin to skin. Nathan's cock was rock-hard and immense, or at least it felt that way. Big fucking angry dick. Peter wanted it. He wanted to feel it against his face, skin as soft as a kitten, tissue as hard as a wooden staff. Sucking it. Down his throat. He wanted it down his throat! He gasped brokenly, dazzled by the clarity of this new desire, the impossibility of it. The wrongness of it. The wrongness of wanting Nathan to lick his balls, wanting to bend over and grab his ankles and just beg him to do it, do it, do it.
Would he?
Nathan drew Peter in very close, very upright, hand unceasing on Peter's cock, and sucked on Peter's earlobe. His tongue traced the shell of the ear. Peter began to shake uncontrollably, and a nerve center suddenly blossomed into consciousness, somewhere between his hipbone and his thigh, a lance of uncomfortable pleasure spearing him. He thought he was going to fall over. And when Nathan blew a light stream of air against the spit-moist ear, he was certain of it.
But he didn't fall over. Instead, inside him, he felt the sharp pang of orgasm, a brilliant sparking explosion, like fireworks on the distant horizon that took a moment to be heard. But it would be; it would be. "Oh, fuck, Nathan. Oh, fuck!"
Nathan kept on pumping his fist along the length of Peter's shaft - it fit his hand nicely - even as Peter called out. Peter bit his lip as the pleasure soaked into him, then gasped in amazement and surprise as a long jet of semen spurted out of him, straight up, hitting the overhead light fixture. The next spurt striped the bathroom's mirror and Peter's T-shirt on the towel rack; the next spilled across the sink. Nathan laughed. "Jesus Christ, Pete," he said. "Get a load of you."
"Whoa," Peter moaned, weak in the knees, seeing faint flashes of light at the corners of his vision. Nathan let him go, let him down, letting Peter sink down onto the floor and lie there, naked, moaning and sighing, writhing in spent ecstasy. He blinked insensibly at the overhead light fixture, and idly estimated its height at around eight feet; maybe seven and a half. Semen was thick; it wouldn't drip down onto his head. Not for a little while, anyway. He began to laugh. "Load," was all he could manage to say before dissolving into silly giggles.
Nathan calmly wiped his lotion-damp hand on Peter's T-shirt, then dropped it onto Peter's bare belly. "See you," he said, walking out, closing the door behind him.
Peter lay still for a while, savoring the post-orgasmic bliss, until the come on the overhead light got runny again and did drip onto him, onto his hair. Instantly, he was grossed out, and then horrified; he sprang into action, wiping the mirror as clean as he could with the T-shirt; mostly it just smeared it around. Cursing, he pulled his shorts back on over his bare ass, ran upstairs for a new T-shirt, tossing the come-smudged one into the laundry hamper, and going on a search for cleaning supplies.
When his parents returned, Peter was up on a stepladder, sponging the overhead light fixture clean. He was so startled that he almost fell off the ladder, and babbled some lie about having squished a moth on it. He could tell that his dad didn't believe him; probably Ma didn't, either. That was okay - as long as they didn't know the truth.
After dinner he called Marjorie, and asked her if she wanted to go see a movie.
END (59)
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: none
Word count: about 5000
Warnings: see pairing and rating
Summary: Peter makes an unusual request for his 18th birthday; will Nathan go for it? Expands on an event first mentioned in Ritual 14: Trouble Slut.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Heroes and all associated characters are property of NBC/Universal Television, used without authorization.
The date of Peter's birthday is obviously not canonical; in the early days of writing Ritual I arbitrarily established Peter's birthday as being nearly the same as Milo Ventimiglia's (and yet not the same, as Hello Nasty was released on July 14th, and Milo's birthday is the 8th. Oh well; live, learn, get Jossed. :)
JULY 1998, MONTAUK, NEW YORK
Peter slept in. Because it was his birthday, his parents let him. Usually, if he wasn't up in time for breakfast at 7:30, someone would knock on the door and yell until he got up. Well, Dad or Ma would. At the beginning of the summer, Peter sometimes lay in bed, even after he'd woken up, hoping that Nathan would be dispatched to rouse him. But that never happened, and eventually Peter gave up on the idea.
Peter finally opened his eyes and blinked at the clock. It was almost ten. He remembered that it was his birthday. He was eighteen now. An adult. If he wanted to, he could just walk away, hit the road, leave town, leave the state, march directly into his own adult life, free and clear. He didn't really feel like an adult, though, and he couldn't think of anywhere he'd want to go. As annoying as they were, he loved his family. He wanted to be here, in the summer house at the beach, taking it easy, knowing that his mother's smile or his dad's grumpy frowns (and rare, occasional whiskey-fueled hugs) weren't far away. And Nathan, too. Nathan was here. Of course Peter wanted to be here. He had a choice now; without hesitation he chose to stay. He chose love.
He tumbled out of bed, pulled on clean underwear, and the same T-shirt and shorts that he'd been wearing yesterday. Scratching his sleep-sweat-sticky ear, he stepped into his blue low-top Chucks without bothering to tighten the laces, and stumbled out towards the kitchen. He had slept too much and now his head felt slow and foggy. Coffee and breakfast would do just the trick.
Of course, the dining room and kitchen were deserted; breakfast was at 7:30 sharp every morning, and it wasn't like they were going to wait for him. Still, he felt a sharp pang of loneliness, and a petulant gloom that no one was there, waiting cheerfully to wish him happy birthday with kisses and hugs. No cake; no balloons; no brightly-wrapped piles of presents. There was nothing. It was like any other ordinary day, except even more boring and lame.
Naturally, said the nasty little voice inside his head that popped up all too often. You're boring and lame. Nobody gives a shit that it's your birthday.
"Shut up, me," Peter said out loud. There was nobody around to judge him for talking to himself, and he found that it was an effective way for him to derail feelings of self-negativity. "I care. It's my birthday. I'm awesome. I'm special, and I'm loved. So fuck you." Still, it kind of sucked to have to make his own coffee, and go rooting around in the pantry for some bread to make toast.
"Who are you talking to?"
Peter looked up from the cutting board. Nathan had come into the kitchen and stood there, all shiny and tan and dastardly handsome, of course; wasn't he always? Still, maybe even more so today than usual. He wore a white T-shirt with the logo of some yacht club that he belonged to, dark khaki trousers, Adidas slides with his impeccably-pedicured toes poking out of them. Nathan even had gorgeous feet. It wasn't fair. Peter just stared at him for a moment, caught up in the unending struggle between hating Nathan for being so perfect, and wanting so desperately to be just like him.
"Nobody," Peter replied finally, turning away again, back to his raggedly-sliced bread.
"Coffee sounds great," Nathan said. "Is there enough?" He sat down in a chair turned the wrong way, casual, legs spread over the seat and arms resting atop the back.
"Sure," Peter said. He grabbed some mugs, and pulled a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. It still had the cap on, and the cream crowding the top of the neck. That was nice; maybe his mother had actually left it for him, even though she liked fresh-delivery cream on her breakfast strawberries. It was his! He didn't have to share. Oh, but... "You want cream?" he asked sullenly.
Nathan laughed. "No, Peter, go ahead; help yourself."
Filled with sudden selfish vigor, Peter peeled off the foil cap, and sucked down the cream, straight from the bottle. It hit his belly like a cold lead weight, almost staggeringly heavy and delicious. When he wiped his mouth and turned to see Nathan's reaction, Nathan was laughing silently, shaking his head. "All righty, then," Nathan said. "I'll take mine black. And I'm telling Ma."
"Tell her," Peter said, shrugging. He drank a bit more of the exquisitely chilly, rich milk, and popped his bread into the toaster oven. "We've got another bottle."
"Nothing else? You're too young to just have toast and coffee for breakfast. Why don't you grab a banana?"
"I'm not too young," Peter said, squaring his shoulders and giving Nathan a determined look. "I'm eighteen," he added, lifting his chin. "I think I'll survive."
Nathan crinkled the corners of his eyes, adding intrigue to his smile. Peter found it impossible to look away, trapped, staring back, his heart tumbling in his chest. No one else ever made him feel like that. Even when he'd first met his girlfriend Marjorie halfway through last semester at school, and found her to be one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen (even on TV), he had only felt an intense desire to pursue her, to make her go out to the movies with him, and then put his hand up her skirt. He saw girls and wanted to play with them, molest them, open doors for them, listen to their troubles. He saw Nathan and he felt... connection. He felt helpless and bewildered and fascinated beyond all sense. Nathan just made him feel more than he ever did with anyone else.
"I'm not saying you won't survive," Nathan answered mildly, "I'm just saying that you ought to get some fiber and potassium in the early part of the day; the milk's plenty of protein, but bananas are specifically..." His voice trailed off. "You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"
"Didn't you hear me?" Peter said, his voice sounding weird and strangled to his own ears. "I'm eighteen," he reiterated. "As of today. As of, um, what, six-forty A.M."
Nathan just stared at him quizzically, then realized, "Oh. Okay. Uh, happy birthday."
"You're an asshole," Peter muttered, turning back to his toast. It was too dark. He'd eat it anyway, because Nathan was looking. He growled softly and poured two mugs of coffee.
"What? Jesus, Pete, what do you want - a parade?" Nathan chuckled, unoffended, clearly enjoying all the consternation. Peter handed him the uglier of the two mugs, and doused his own coffee with milk, grabbing another chair and pulling himself up to the kitchen table. "Sorry. I know it's a big deal. It is a big deal. You're a man now. You can buy your own porn."
"I'm not a man until I can legally buy a drink," Peter kvetched, dipping his dark-brown toast into his coffee. It turned out to be delicious, the crisp edges of the bread soaking up the lukewarm coffee, adding sweetness to the mouthful. He'd have to remember that.
"You're not a man until you feel like you're a man," Nathan said.
Peter chewed and regarded his brother curiously. Nathan was in a much more introspective mood than Peter had previously thought, and maybe the usual barrage of jokes and jibes wasn't in the cards right now. Peter was okay with that; he felt frisky and able to hold his own in a snark contest, but on the other hand, it was nice to see Nathan out of Jerk Mode for a little while at least. He wondered if he was going to be the recipient of one of those Big Important Lectures that people liked to lay on him, in the pursuit of helping him "figure it out." Peter smirked. "And being a giant baby because nobody really cares that it's my birthday kinda gets in the way of the whole 'man' part, right?"
"That's not true; not that nobody cares. A lot of us care, actually. It's your birthday. We care. Your mother is in town getting the details of your party sorted out. If she didn't care, would she be doing that? We care."
"Do you care?" Peter asked softly, all sincerity on the table.
Nathan frowned, not taking the bait. "What did I just say? 'We' implies 'me'."
"That's not exactly what I meant," Peter sighed, and ate another piece of dunked toast.
"Do I care especially?" Nathan guessed. "Yeah. Sure. I do. It means a lot. It means I'm getting old, for one thing." He rolled his eyes at the thought. "It means I'm almost thirty."
It was weird to hear. It was weird for Peter to think how strongly he was attracted to someone who was so much older. And the idea of Nathan being almost thirty... and Nathan... but none of that mattered. None of that mattered. He felt what he felt. "Nothin' but a number," Peter murmured helpfully. "Nothin' but a number."
Still, it means I'm legal now. In case that's what's holding you back. Barely legal me.
Nathan nodded, and they sat quietly for a while, sipping coffee, not looking at each other. "Well, what are you doing today?" Nathan asked finally. "Anything special?"
Peter shrugged. "Nah, not until the party," he said. "That's not until eight. You coming?"
"Of course I am."
"You have presents to give me," Peter prompted with a wicked grin.
That got a laugh out of Nathan. "Yeah," he said. "I got presents. But...since it is your birthday, I feel like I ought to settle up some debts for you. As another gift, you know." Peter nodded in response, letting slide the fact that a debt repaid wasn't a gift by any stretch of the imagination outside Nathan's own head. Nathan was being generous and giving, and this was rare; Peter knew well that he had better appreciate it when it happened. And he looked so very good, too, with that oddly naughty sparkle in his eyes. "I said I'd owe you one for flaking out on that Knicks game, remember? So... what do you want?"
Peter thought about it for a moment. "Anything I want?" he asked.
"Within reason. I can't, say, give you a million dollars. Or an invisible jet. Or a pony."
"You totally could give me a pony," Peter quipped, covering his nervousness. Because he'd just had an idea and he knew he was going to ask for it and the whole idea scared the jujubes out of him.
"You don't want a pony, Pete," Nathan said evenly. "Go on. Tell me. Whatever it is, it can't hurt to ask."
Oh, but it could. It could hurt very much. Didn't Nathan know what he was asking? Couldn't he see? Couldn't he understand?
I am awesome, Peter thought, taking a deep breath. I am loved. I am awesome whether or not I am loved.
"I want you to make me come," he said.
For a moment, Nathan frowned, blinked, seemingly unsure of what he'd just heard. Peter just kept looking at him, outwardly calm as he sipped his coffee, his heart thudding so loud he could hear it. He'd been bold before. He'd been bold, and told Nathan what he wanted, and Nathan still loved him; hell, Nathan was coming to his party, where there would be a dozen obnoxious teenagers around, and rap music. And Nathan hated rap music and teenagers in equal measure.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, and smiled slightly, tilting his head. "Yeah?" he asked softly.
Peter nodded, holding his gaze. "Get me off," he added, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
The quiet of the house stretched around them. Arthur was at the country club; Angela in town with caterers and balloon-makers or whatever she considered essential for a party. Peter didn't know. Didn't much care. His world began and ended where Nathan sat, with the fabric of his T-shirt riding up over his thick biceps, his damp hair beginning to curl at the top, his lips with their violin curves.
"All right," Nathan said.
It was Peter's turn to blink. "Really?"
"Yeah," Nathan acknowledged. "It's your birthday. I owe you one."
To his pleasant surprise, Peter didn't whoop in triumph, or pump his fists in the air, or roll over and die. He calmly nodded at Nathan and finished drinking his coffee, even though his hands were shaking.
"Tomorrow," Nathan added. Before Peter could protest, Nathan continued, "Mom and Dad will be in Sag Harbor having lunch; they'll be there all day. I'll show up around two. Today, though, you should just have fun. Hang out with your friends."
"Yeah, I guess... okay, I will."
Nathan stood up, taking his coffee mug to the sink. "I've got to go meet Jennings for golf. See you later tonight." As he walked past Peter, he took a moment to stop and kiss the top of Peter's head. Then he wrinkled his nose. "God, wash your hair, Pete," he muttered, leaving the kitchen.
Peter left his toast plate and coffee mug on the table, wandering out too, in such a daze that he almost got hit by a car as he tried to cross the street on his way to the beach. He knew that Marjorie would probably be out there, sunbathing with her sister, and he wanted to see her... well, he didn't want to see her, he was only going there out of habit...
Tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He laughed and waved at the car that had come to a screeching halt six inches away from his leg, unable to hear the obscenities being yelled at him, or recognize the double bird being flipped his way. It was all good. It was all beautiful. Tomorrow would be the best day of his life.
* * *
The next day, the weather was hot by morning, and hotter still after noon. Peter didn't eat much at breakfast - just a bowl of cereal and a banana - still immensely full from his birthday dinner, and the cake, and all that milk he'd had yesterday. He ended the evening making White Russians for everybody with the last of the milk, had a couple of them himself, and spent the time before falling asleep clutching his belly, wondering if he was going to throw up. He hadn't. Marjorie had, though. She had showed up to his party already drunk, having split a bottle of wine with her sister as they got ready to come over. Marjorie's sister had hit on him, even though she was only fourteen. It had been a weird night.
At the breakfast table Angela had told Peter that Marjorie reminded her of herself. He didn't want to think of his mom all drunked out, stage-whispering that he could have a birthday B.J., but that she wouldn't swallow. One of the other guys had taken Marjorie home; Wendy, the little sister, got a ride home with somebody else. Peter couldn't remember too well.
When his parents left the house to go to brunch, both of them had given him a hug and a kiss. It was weird. It was like they were saying goodbye. Well, they were, but in a serious way. A going-away way. Like they were kissing the child Peter goodbye forever.
He had missed his surfing lesson that morning, but he still felt like being outside, so he grabbed his portable CD player and went out to the back woods behind the house, sprawling in a shady hollow on the grass. He wanted to listen to the new Beastie Boys CD, a birthday present from one of his friends. He could let his mind detach and drift, untethered by the beat.
The album was completely amazing. They'd played it a couple of times the night before, but listening to it on his own was entirely different. He was a Beasties fan, and having new material to listen to and memorize was a serious thrill. He completely forgot about his life and got lost in the rhymes and textures, laughing at the jokes and wordplay, tapping his toes in the grass.
A song came up (after he'd listened to "Three MCs and One DJ" four times in a row before he could move on) that he couldn't really remember from last night - an instrumental, jazzy, supper-club kind of number with xylophones and stuff in it. It was pleasant to hear on this hot, sprawling day, and Peter relaxed completely, soaking it all in. Eventually, vocals did happen; soft, cooing female vocals, as unlike the hard-edged spit rhymes of the Beasties as could be.
"I'm hypnotized by you," sang the girl.
Peter sat bolt upright. "Nathan," he gasped. He looked at his watch. It was 1:45. He had just enough time to get back home.
He made it there in five minutes, gasping, streaming with sweat. That wouldn't do. He galloped to the bathroom and jumped into the shower, turning the water all the way down to cold, frantically soaping himself up and scrubbing the grass blades out of his hair. Once clean, and goose-pimpled with chill, he dashed back to his room, still dripping, and tore a clean T-shirt and shorts from his bureau. He was still rubbing himself dry when he heard the front door open.
In the kitchen, Nathan grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and looked over at Peter with a cool, appraising eye as he drank it. He said nothing. Peter gave a tentative little wave. "Hi," he said.
"Drink some water," Nathan said.
Peter got his own bottle of water. Nathan didn't move from where he stood next to the fridge, forcing Peter to come into very close proximity to follow his request. Peter looked at Nathan questioningly, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. "Okay?" he asked.
"Okay," replied Nathan.
They stood very close, drinking water. Peter was still hot; the cold shower had only barely cooled down the surface of his skin. He felt himself breaking into a sweat all over again, even though the house's air conditioning kept the ambient temperature cool. "Did you have a good time last night?" Nathan asked very calmly.
"Yeah," Peter said. "You?"
"Good enough."
So close.
"Thank you for the gift," Peter mumbled, just for something to say. It wasn't all that exciting - ten thousand dollars towards Peter's college fund, one of those presents that made Nathan look good to other adults. It wasn't really even a gift for him; it was technically for Dad, so that Arthur wouldn't have to carry the entire cost of putting Peter through school. It was all a bunch of stuff that Peter didn't feel had anything to do with him.
Not like this. Nathan put his hand out and grasped Peter's chin, holding him still, studying Peter's face as though he was a rare piece of sculpture, and he was being assessed, examined for flaws. Peter took a deep breath and lowered his gaze, not wishing to distract Nathan from... whatever he was doing. All Peter knew was that his face was damp with sweat, and he was going to soak his T-shirt through again in a minute. He wanted to drink some more water, but he'd have to disturb Nathan to do it...
"Hmm," Nathan said. He released Peter's chin, but leaned in closer, and kissed him softly and quickly on the lips. Peter let out a shuddery, gasping sigh, and Nathan smiled. Peter took a step back and gulped at his water bottle. "Go in there," Nathan said, nodding toward the seldom-used washroom on the far side of the kitchen, "take your shirt off, and cool down. I'm right behind you."
Peter went ahead, pushing the white-painted folding door open, pausing in front of the sink to strip the T-shirt off over his head. Nathan plucked the shirt from Peter's fingers, folded it, and draped it over the hand-towel rack. His large hands grasped Peter's waist with the same firm grip he'd used on Peter's face, pulling Peter in closer, back to front, edging the doors closed with his foot.
When Peter tried to turn around, to kiss Nathan, Nathan wouldn't let him move. "Ah-ah, ssh, ssh, ssh," Nathan admonished, even though Peter hadn't made a sound. But it did relax Peter somehow; it was a comforting sound, a reassurance. Nathan kissed Peter's bare shoulder, hands sliding up over his chest, down his belly. "Better this way," Nathan whispered, pressing himself against the small of Peter's back. His cock was a rigid line against the base of Peter's spine. So close. Peter groaned.
He undid the snap at the waistband of Peter's shorts, and Peter, wriggling, let them fall off his hips, puddling around his ankles. Nathan ran his hands all over Peter's underwear, front and back, tugging at the waistband, the damp fabric clinging to Peter's ass cheeks and balls. Peter wished he could stop sweating; he felt gross. "Beautiful," Nathan murmured, contradicting Peter's thoughts. "You're so hot. You're melting."
"Sweating like a horse," Peter said.
"Mmmm. You'll be cool soon."
Peter laughed. "I'll never be cool," he muttered, his wry tone dissolving into desperate hisses as Nathan ran both hands over his front again, cradling Peter's dick between his two palms, then one hand on the dick and the other cupping the weight of his balls. Peter jammed one of his fingers into his mouth and bit down so that he wouldn't moan. No, he'd never be cool; he'd never be able to take this without...
"Melting." Nathan kissed Peter's shoulder again, then the side of his neck, sucking in a mouthful of skin and rolling it between his teeth. "Hot day," he whispered. "Waiting for me."
Peter hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and tugged the stretchy cotton shorts down. Nathan helped. Nathan pushed his fingers down inside, pushing the underwear down, touching Peter's pubis and penis and the hypersensitive skin at his groin. Peter wanted to bite down on his fingers again, but he wanted even more to be free of his evil clothes, so he tried to simply swallow his moan.
"Hmmm," said Nathan, assessing again, holding Peter's cock in his hand. Skin to skin. Peter felt his cock jump in Nathan's fingers, and the friction of Nathan's cool, dry skin against his own moist surface almost drove him mad. Nathan stroked firmly, pulling the skin of Peter's cock back toward his balls, forcing blood to stream desperately toward the head. Peter glanced down at himself; he didn't look as hard as he felt, but the head of his dick looked thick and shiny. "So good," Nathan approved.
The cool air felt good against the inner surface of Peter's thighs, along his groin, his lower belly. He wished Nathan would kiss there, too, and not just his neck, not just the side of his face. He turned his head so that their mouths could meet, and Nathan sloppily devoured the corner of Peter's lips and squeezed his cock hard. Peter gasped, breaking the kiss, bending over forward; Nathan grabbed Peter's waist and straightened him up again. Peter writhed backward against his brother. He started to feel dizzy. All the blood was rushing away from his brain.
Nathan pulled the skin tight again, then pushed in the opposite direction. Peter didn't even try to hold back his moan this time. Nathan shushed him, reached forward toward the sink, and pumped a generous dollop of hand lotion onto the side of his palm. Peter hastily spit on his own fingers and rubbed the saliva into the shiny head of his dick, licked his fingers, and applied them again. He needed his own taste. He could almost taste it now, the weird salt of pre-come, and Nathan patiently waited while Peter played with the head of his own cock until it wept. At the taste, at last, Peter moaned a little sing-song pattern of satisfaction to himself, and Nathan slathered the lotion all over Peter's cock, soothing it, slickening it.
"Ah, my God," Peter keened.
"Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh." Even as Nathan shushed him, he ground his erection into Peter's tailbone. Peter could feel it all very clearly; Nathan couldn't have been wearing underwear beneath his lightweight linen trousers. He felt the head and the ridge of the corona, the thick root on the underside, anchoring it to Nathan's body. And Nathan's fingers jerked on him, pulling, pushing back, holding him tightly and rocking back and forth just a little, just enough so that it felt like fucking. The wet sound of Nathan's hand on him was obscene. Peter angled his head back for another kiss; Nathan poked his tongue into the corner of Peter's mouth, but that was it.
But he was holding out. He felt like he was going to lose his mind, but he was still all there. He hadn't come yet. He was getting better at control. He would impress his brother. He would impress Nathan. How impossible was that? Peter laughed shakily. "I'm crazy," he declared.
"Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh. I already know that." Nathan acquired more lotion, and his hand moved harder and faster. "I already know you're crazy..."
"Ah... oh... ah..." Peter kept himself to desperate monosyllables, arching his ass against Nathan's cock. He'd give anything to feel that skin to skin. Nathan's cock was rock-hard and immense, or at least it felt that way. Big fucking angry dick. Peter wanted it. He wanted to feel it against his face, skin as soft as a kitten, tissue as hard as a wooden staff. Sucking it. Down his throat. He wanted it down his throat! He gasped brokenly, dazzled by the clarity of this new desire, the impossibility of it. The wrongness of it. The wrongness of wanting Nathan to lick his balls, wanting to bend over and grab his ankles and just beg him to do it, do it, do it.
Would he?
Nathan drew Peter in very close, very upright, hand unceasing on Peter's cock, and sucked on Peter's earlobe. His tongue traced the shell of the ear. Peter began to shake uncontrollably, and a nerve center suddenly blossomed into consciousness, somewhere between his hipbone and his thigh, a lance of uncomfortable pleasure spearing him. He thought he was going to fall over. And when Nathan blew a light stream of air against the spit-moist ear, he was certain of it.
But he didn't fall over. Instead, inside him, he felt the sharp pang of orgasm, a brilliant sparking explosion, like fireworks on the distant horizon that took a moment to be heard. But it would be; it would be. "Oh, fuck, Nathan. Oh, fuck!"
Nathan kept on pumping his fist along the length of Peter's shaft - it fit his hand nicely - even as Peter called out. Peter bit his lip as the pleasure soaked into him, then gasped in amazement and surprise as a long jet of semen spurted out of him, straight up, hitting the overhead light fixture. The next spurt striped the bathroom's mirror and Peter's T-shirt on the towel rack; the next spilled across the sink. Nathan laughed. "Jesus Christ, Pete," he said. "Get a load of you."
"Whoa," Peter moaned, weak in the knees, seeing faint flashes of light at the corners of his vision. Nathan let him go, let him down, letting Peter sink down onto the floor and lie there, naked, moaning and sighing, writhing in spent ecstasy. He blinked insensibly at the overhead light fixture, and idly estimated its height at around eight feet; maybe seven and a half. Semen was thick; it wouldn't drip down onto his head. Not for a little while, anyway. He began to laugh. "Load," was all he could manage to say before dissolving into silly giggles.
Nathan calmly wiped his lotion-damp hand on Peter's T-shirt, then dropped it onto Peter's bare belly. "See you," he said, walking out, closing the door behind him.
Peter lay still for a while, savoring the post-orgasmic bliss, until the come on the overhead light got runny again and did drip onto him, onto his hair. Instantly, he was grossed out, and then horrified; he sprang into action, wiping the mirror as clean as he could with the T-shirt; mostly it just smeared it around. Cursing, he pulled his shorts back on over his bare ass, ran upstairs for a new T-shirt, tossing the come-smudged one into the laundry hamper, and going on a search for cleaning supplies.
When his parents returned, Peter was up on a stepladder, sponging the overhead light fixture clean. He was so startled that he almost fell off the ladder, and babbled some lie about having squished a moth on it. He could tell that his dad didn't believe him; probably Ma didn't, either. That was okay - as long as they didn't know the truth.
After dinner he called Marjorie, and asked her if she wanted to go see a movie.
END (59)