Fic: Ritual (16): Scars
Title: Ritual (16): Scars
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: mild spoilers for the webcomic series "War Buddies"
Word Count: about 9000
WARNINGS: Incest, underage sexuality, prescription drug use, description of injury and war atrocities, language
Summary: A badly injured, but recovering Nathan returned home from the Navy, and teenage Peter was eager to act as his caretaker - setting in motion a chain of events that would eventually become the Ritual. Chan, PTSD, and fluff battle it out. (Fluff wins, IHMO!)
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15)
Heroes and associated characters are copyright NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Production, used without authorization. This story is fiction and does not describe any actual events, nor does it intend to condone what it describes.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO...
It began with the most unpleasant family meal in Nathan's entire life.
It was intended to be a happy occasion. He was the guest of honor, having a lavish dinner with his family, neighbors and friends, lauded as a hero. He was home and safe.
Even if he was not exactly in one piece.
He'd been honorably discharged, given an early release and sent back home to New York, and more importantly to him, no longer took up a hospital bed that would better serve someone else who had gotten blown up worse than he had.
But the fact that he was out of hospital didn't mean that he was recovered. The fact that he was out of the peacekeeping force, out of the idiotic nightmare of Rwanda, away from the relentless chaos and confusion and death that somehow he was supposed to fix, didn't mean that he had left it behind. He had left a part of himself behind instead.
He had only been there on the ground for a week. Seven days. He couldn't even take seven days in Hell without folding like a house of cards.
He wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be tougher. He was supposed to be able to handle anything that life threw at him, or that he got himself into, because he wasn't just hard and strong, he was smart. He didn't get himself into things that he couldn't handle. He was Nathan fucking Petrelli, which apparently didn't mean Jack Shit, when it all came down to it.
He struggled to hide his distress all through the meal. He tried to smile. All the adults played along, pretending that Nathan wasn't pushing the food around on his plate rather than eating it. Pretending that he was the one making conversation instead of letting his mother and father make it for him, leaving him space to say, "Yeah" or "I'm not sure." Letting Nathan sit there and be the handsome, wounded figurehead of patriotism and determination, choosing to interpret his agonized silence as strength, when really all Nathan wanted was to eat a fistful of Percocet.
The adults at the dinner, impressed by his self-control, discreetly allowed Nathan's ruse. But then there was Peter.
Peter wasn't old enough to care about any of those social niceties, or understand why they might be a more diplomatic approach. Peter never had been any good at diplomacy... or tact, or self-control, or discipline, or...
But for once he was acting like a very well-behaved young man at this dinner, seen and not heard. Still, he openly stared at Nathan the whole night, his dark eyes too large, too searching, uncomfortably direct. Peter had wolfed down his food before anyone else finished half their plates, then sat silently with his cutlery crossed on his plate, occasionally sipping water, but mostly just gazing at his brother with a look halfway between panicked worry and devoted worship. The fact that everyone else let their eyes approach and then politely slide away from the thick white patch of gauze on Nathan's face or the bandages covering half of his left hand just highlighted Peter's unrelenting stare even more.
Nathan squirmed under the scrutiny, feeling his mask of self-control start to fade. He felt the pain coming back, wishing that he had thought to take a pill or two before dinner. He was trying hard to cut back on them, but the pain that had been negligible an hour ago increased until he had to dig his right-hand fingernails into his palms to keep from groaning out loud. He wondered how long he could stand it without screaming (back, leg, shoulder, face, his fucking thumb for God's sake!!), the pain coming from too many places to concentrate on and control. Points of stinging or throbbing, slowly growing till they became fireworks and then just fire. The color steadily drained from his face. As he clenched his jaw to keep the expression of pain inside it tugged the healing injuries along his chin and he couldn't help flinching.
Peter turned to their mother and said quietly, "I think Nathan needs to go to bed."
She looked at Nathan, and her lips quivered for a moment, her eyes suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. He hadn't been hiding the pain as well as he'd hoped. As usual, his mother's expression of raw emotion was brief, and she smiled and folded her napkin. "I'm afraid Nathan's going to have to call it an early night," she announced to the table, creating a chorus of polite groans of disappointment. "Peter," she said in a lower voice, "go with him and make sure that he has everything he needs. Good night, my dear."
Nathan stood up slowly and rounded the table to kiss his mother and father. "Good job, Nathan," said his father, the sad, resigned look his eyes showing Nathan that he hadn't fooled his father, either.
Nathan was grateful that at least the old man acknowledged what a hard time he was having. He didn't want to make too big of a deal of it, though; it was one thing for his parents to admit that he was in pain, it was another matter entirely for him to do it. Honor, courage and committment, and not acting like a pansy-ass just because your face got ripped open and it stings a little. "You bet. Thanks, Ma. Dinner was great," he said, barely moving his lips or jaw, like a bad ventriloquist.
"I'm just glad you're home," she replied with a heartfelt, loving smile. "Peter, don't keep him up too late - you've got school in the morning." She turned back to the dinner guests with her society voice on, gushing, "Peter is simply overjoyed to have Nathan back home safe - absolutely devoted to his brother..."
At first, Peter didn't say anything as he walked with Nathan to his room. Trying to take his mind off the pain, Nathan studied Peter as the teenager walked close beside him, within arms' reach, as though Peter was afraid that Nathan would collapse.
Peter had seemingly doubled in size since last time Nathan saw him, and it had only been two years. Now he was barely an inch shy of Nathan's height, but his body lacked Nathan's well-balanced proportions. Peter seemed to have been carelessly and hastily constructed, put together by a distracted artisan. Everything about him was asymmetric, crooked, and lanky, from his hair to his shoulders, from his legs to his smile. Still, somehow, his movements had a awkward, shambling, self-conscious grace, like he'd had to learn to dance before he could walk. His absurdly shiny, over-the-ears-length hair bothered Nathan. It was both too long and too short to be in style, and Nathan hadn't seen much besides the high-and-tight standard military buzz for a long time. Hair that long, that smooth, belonged on a girl. But the mop-top almost looked good on Peter, especially as he looked up from underneath it, smiled, and averted his eyes again, now shy all of a sudden.
Or maybe just pretending to be. All of the Petrellis were pretenders.
It would take a while for him to figure Peter out. Once again, Nathan had been gone a long time, and didn't know who Peter was anymore. He obviously wasn't the furious little terror he'd been when he was two, or the annoyingly, heartbreakingly overattached seven-year-old, or the bookish eleven-year-old who didn't really want to do anything and was scared of everything. Peter was in high school now, and maybe it had toughened him up. Or maybe it just taught him to play it cool when grown-ups were around. Nathan didn't know if Peter considered him a grown-up or not; at the moment, Nathan sure as hell didn't feel like one.
It was comfortable to be back in his parents' home, even though his room had been changed into a guest room and Peter had claimed his old bed; he still knew the room's dimensions, and could navigate it even half-blinded with pain. Nathan walked through the bedroom to the attached bathroom, and fumbled through his toiletry bag for the bottle of Percocet. His bandaged left hand clumsily held the bottle and the right hand struggled to manage the childproof cap, but the pain stabbing its way down his left arm swamped his consciousness, making the world recede in a blur of red agony.
Peter watched him for a moment, chewing his lip anxiously. Nathan turned to look at him, struggling back to awareness. "I'm okay," Nathan said, the lie making his voice hollow.
"Yeah, I know," Peter replied softly, nodding, adding a tiny smile. "Here, let me get that for you." He came into the bathroom, took the pill bottle, and swiftly opened the cap. "How many do you want?"
"Three," Nathan mumbled. It was one more than he needed for pain relief, but he didn't care. He wanted to blot out his consciousness for a while.
Peter tapped three pills into Nathan's right palm. He raised his eyebrows as Nathan shot them all into his mouth at once and crunched them, then washed them down with a few swallows of water. "Don't ever do that," Nathan advised, grimacing.
"That must taste so gross," Peter said, his eyes shining with amazement.
"They'll kick in faster that way." Nathan took another mouthful of water and swished it around, running his tongue all over and behind his teeth, then swallowed. He wondered if he'd get to the point where he'd be crawling on the floor trying to find fragments of pills that he'd dropped, and vowed once again to cut back. But not tonight; tonight it was too late. Whatever was going to happen would happen.
"Sometimes... sometimes I think of how much that must hurt," said Peter hesitantly. "Your thumb. I - I imagine it. And... I don't blame you. For chewing your pills."
"You shouldn't try to imagine things like that," Nathan said.
"I can't help it," Peter shrugged. "It happened to you. I can't help but imagine it now."
"Well... see if you can stop." Nathan walked back to the bed, and sat down with a massive sigh. Peter tiptoed over, sat beside Nathan, and carefully hugged him, barely making any contact. Nathan grumbled, "Oh, c'mon, I'm not made out of glass. I'm not gonna break."
"Sorry. I know." Peter's arms tightened immediately, clasping Nathan against him. It felt as warm, good and right, as immediate and beautiful, as Peter's earlier touch had seemed insulting and ticklish. That crap belonged to that false world of grown-ups and smiling through the pain, and Nathan didn't want that here, not between them. He was strong enough to take a proper hug from Peter; that much, he knew he could do. "I just don't want you to hurt anymore," Peter whispered. He pushed his lips in a solid kiss against the unmarked right side of Nathan's neck. "I don't want you to hurt ever again."
"Oh, Pete..." Nathan sighed, overwhelmed, joy and gratitude surging through his body. All that dinner-table adulation, when all Nathan really needed was a hug and a kiss. Simple human contact and unconditional affection. How did Peter know? How did he always know? This was what Nathan had to rediscover, every time he returned; this was why it hurt so much to see Peter, why it hurt so much to leave him, why it was still something of a relief to leave. No gloves and no masks with Peter. No hiding. No way to shield himself from the fierceness of Peter's love.
Too much, for right now. Nathan drew back and murmured, "Would... you go get me a glass of water with lemon? I don't want the pills to wreck my stomach."
"Tsk! You should have eaten more," Peter reproached. "Want me to bring you a snack?"
Nathan smiled as he remembered Peter wolfing down his supper from a plate piled twice as high as anyone else's. "No, no... Just some water. Thanks."
Peter beamed and nodded, stood up, and left on his mission.
Nathan smiled after his brother, then felt despair rising back up again, stronger than he was; he squinted and pressed the ball of his right hand against his eye, trying to drive it out. He couldn't just fold up like this every single time he was alone; he'd have to get stronger, defeat this feeling, dilute the poison in his thoughts. But right now, he was powerless, and the pain, the fear, the revulsion, the horror swept over him and stole the air from his lungs.
Seven days of hell, on the ground. Too many bodies. Too many body parts. And the thing that horrified Nathan most was that he knew that he could get used to it. He could just start seeing it all as an abstraction, as ants crawling on the ground, the mites on the ants, the bacteria on the mites. He could just fly away and keep his hands clean. He'd never have to see faces he recognized in the dead bodies stacked up by the side of the road, and know that he'd never actually known these people, he didn't even know their language, but he was there to help them, somehow, defend themselves against... themselves. He was just helping out; this was the UN's deal, and he was just a flyboy there on a job, a quickie, a field trip, a vacation almost. An African vacation. Drop in, shake some hands, fuel up, make a few runs of weapons and supplies and intel. A piece of cake, after the clusterfuck in Bosnia. Nathan and a few other Good Men with the wildness of flight in their eyes, Americans, the best and brightest, beloved by the barefoot, hungry, dirt-skinned refugees who should have been glad to see them. Unfortunately there was almost no one left alive on the ground by the time they got there. And the ones that were looked like famine-stricken versions of some of the guys Nathan had gone to military school with, some of the guys in his division, some of the cute dark girls he'd see on the street in New York and Texas and San Francisco. Just people. They were human, and he recognized them. Recognized too much. Seen too much blood. And decided it'd be easier if they just stopped being human, but they wouldn't stop.
And then he had a bad day.
"...Nathan?" A sound coming from far away that Nathan couldn't reach. It wasn't real. The sounds had no meaning.
Peter gently touched Nathan's shoulder. "Nathan. Hey."
Yanked back to the world. Nathan pulled his hand away from his face and saw that his brother had gotten dressed for bed on his way back from the kitchen, now barefoot and in green flannel pajama bottoms and a big, faded T-shirt. He had to have been gone for a little while, but to Nathan it felt like no time had passed at all. Or that days had. At the sight of Peter, he felt very warm and cozy and disoriented. "You okay?" Peter asked.
"I'm... kind of out of it," Nathan explained. "I'm tired. I ought to go to sleep."
Peter handed Nathan the glass of water. "Don't you have to... clean your...uh, wounds?"
Nathan sighed. With a swallow of lemon water, he felt the analgesic effect of the pills, washing away the top level of stinging pain. "Ahhh... only a couple of them," he admitted wearily. "I could use your help."
They returned to the bathroom, Nathan swaying a little, but feeling more solid, more positive, more... present, here in New York, in his parents' house, in his own room, with Peter. Peter helped Nathan with his clothes, unfastening the buttons on his shirt and the slide fastener on his pants. "You should have just worn sweats to dinner," Peter teased, smiling from under his fringe.
Nathan pushed the hair back from Peter's face and kissed his forehead before he thought that there was a chance that Peter wouldn't go in for that sort of stuff anymore. But Peter just kept smiling, humming faintly as he set out clean, dry bandages. Nathan answered, "Sweats? With Mom? I hardly think. I'm amazed she lets you keep your hair this long."
"She doesn't like it," Peter admitted. "It's a compromise. I wanted a dog."
Nathan smiled as he shrugged off his shirt and stepped out of his pants, which Peter dutifully picked up and smoothed out and put onto a hanger. "Get my pajamas, would you. Middle drawer."
While Peter was in the other room, Nathan pulled off his undershirt and boxers, grimacing at a smudge of blood along the waistband. Peter returned, carrying the pajamas and a robe, and stopped in his tracks, staring at Nathan's body with that same look again - worry and worship. He connected the dots with his eyes - shoulder, flank, hip, belly, thigh. Hand. Face. The ragged cuts on his back, like he'd been mauled by a bear. "Wow..."
"Eighty-two stitches. It's nothin', really. Just this son of a bitch..." Nathan indicated the cut on his left hip, the one that had bled. "They should have put stitches in this. It keeps opening up."
It came back to him again as he watched the blood seep out - the bad day. The accident. No one's fault. No awards. No bravery or service or anything that he was supposed to be there for. He was suited up, but hadn't put his headgear on yet. Making jokes, happy to get into the air again. His back to the copter, maybe ten or twelve meters away, looking for Capps, who'd be piloting this busted-ass old bird, Petrelli in the bitch seat. Capps nowhere to be seen, maybe aboard already. Someone yelling "Spark!" and then the shockwave hitting him like a brick wall, the high-pitched whistle of spinning metal panels gone sharp as guillotine blades - one dashing razor cuts across his back before flipping down to stab him belly-hip-thigh - and the other blade, as he turned toward the sound, coming right at his face, swinging up his arm to protect his face but not in time -
"Hey," Peter's voice broke in, and Nathan was so grateful to have the distraction that he let out a shaky gasp. "You with me?" Peter stared deep into Nathan's eyes, as if trying to see Nathan's thoughts.
Nathan shook his head a little. "Oh... it's so bad, Pete. I'm trying really hard." He hadn't meant to speak aloud, or meant to say something else.
After a moment, Peter lowered his eyes and nodded a little, as though he understood everything. "Have a seat. I'll take care of you. Let's get that bleeder dealt with first."
"Yeah... go ahead," Nathan said shakily, sinking down onto the toilet seat, and stretching out his left leg. The plastic seat was cold on his bare ass and thighs, but any sensation that wasn't pain was welcome.
Peter examined the wound, and raised his eyebrows a little. "Hmm, at least it's superficial. Good thing, too - a little lower, and it could have hit this big artery right here." Peter lightly touched the skin next to the crest of his pelvic bone, then did it again, and Nathan could feel the blood vessels in his leg reacting even to that slight contact. It felt good. "Could have been way worse. You were obviously meant to come back." Peter squeezed a careful stream of water from a wet washcloth over the bleeding cut, catching the spillage with another towel. He patted the wound dry, then fixed the cut together tightly with little strips of gauze tape, and topped it all off with a large, square adhesive bandage. "Now, don't scratch it," he said. "I can see where you've been scratching it. That's probably why it won't heal. You should put a little hydrocortisone cream right around it to make sure it doesn't itch when you're asleep."
"Thanks," said Nathan, genuinely impressed. "You're pretty good at this."
Peter shrugged. "I did an advanced first-aid course at school. It was cool." Peter took particular care with the dozens of crisscrossing stitches on Nathan's chin and jaw, dabbing and drying the stitches with alternating squares of gauze. "This must have looked horrible when it happened."
"I lost a lot of blood. I'm just lucky my jaw wasn't broken," responded Nathan. "I got a nice big piece of rotor for lunch." Nathan relaxed under Peter's light but expert touch, resisting the urge to close his eyes; he didn't want to fall asleep too soon. It had been too long since he'd been able to spend time with Peter. He didn't want to waste this on passing out. Peter smelled good, like plain soap and mint, and he wore the intent look of concentration on his face that Nathan associated with young doctors and scientists. Pure dedication. Nathan wanted to kiss him again.
Peter finished and then, as if he'd read Nathan's mind, gave Nathan a quick, feather-gentle kiss on the stitches on his chin. "You look kinda like a baseball," Peter teased with a lopsided grin. "But you should leave the bandages off. The air'll help it to heal faster."
Nathan brought up his right hand to almost touch the wounds. "It's gonna scar worse that way."
"Stop being so vain. Chicks dig scars."
"What do you know about chicks?" Nathan teased back.
Peter smirked. "More than anybody suspects. Okay, now, I'm going to look at your thumb." He gave Nathan a pointed, regretful look. "You should put your pajamas on now. You're gonna need to lie down afterwards, I bet."
"Yeah," Nathan agreed, wishing he was already lying down. He gingerly pulled on the loose cotton garments and sat down again. "You sure you want to do this? It's really, really gross."
"I'm sure."
Peter carefully cut and unwrapped the gauze on Nathan's hand, and he grimaced and went slightly pale at the sight. The top inch of the thumb was gone, cut off right below the thumbnail, but the first joint was intact, somewhere underneath the swelling. Nathan had forgotten what it felt like to bend that thumb. Shiny-tight grafted skin covered the stump, stitched into place with twenty-two fine sutures. Nathan kept his eyes on the light fixture, but Peter said, "Look at it. It's okay. It doesn't look that bad."
"I've seen it," Nathan replied. "I get to keep seeing it."
"Yeah, it sucks to be imperfect, doesn't it? Welcome to the club."
Nathan stared at Peter, shocked into silence. Peter casually took Nathan by the elbow and held his hand over the sink, then ran water over the wound. Nathan couldn't help flinching, but he gave no other reaction to the sudden return of searing pain, like the lukewarm water had come to a sudden boil. "It hurts to be cut up, Peter," he said.
"I'm sure it does," Peter replied softly, meeting Nathan's eyes in the mirror. "Look at me, though. Look at me and tell me if I don't know that it sucks to be imperfect."
The funny thing was, when Peter's mouth was still, he looked like he could have been a young Biblical shepherd painted by da Vinci. "You are perfect, Peter." Nathan lightly ran his right forefinger across Peter's eyebrows, nose, and chin, as though he were sketching him into existence. Peter gazed back at Nathan solemnly, then looked back to the sink, the cloth, the stitches.
"You're perfect, Nathan."
"God, no. No, I'm not." Nathan laughed, then flinched and hissed again as Peter wiped the skin on his hand too hard. "I'm pretty great, but I'm not perfect."
Peter rolled his eyes. "I think," he said, smiling, "you should go get in bed."
"You gotta wrap it up."
"It has to dry first. Go lay down."
Nathan rolled his eyes too, but did as he was told. Peter followed Nathan with bandages in his hand, switching off all of the lights but for the tiny lamp on the bedside table. The darkness was a balm to Nathan's eyes. Peter sat down beside Nathan, and carefully wrapped the thumb, securely but not tightly. He tore off the tape with his teeth when he was done, pressed the tape against the back of Nathan's wrist, then sealed the job with a kiss. He kissed again, higher up the hand, on the side, approaching the injury itself. "There," Peter said. Another kiss. Kissing it, kissing the point of loss. So bold. It didn't hurt. "There."
What a little freak. A loving, quiet-voiced, velvety-soft little freak. Nathan drew in his breath in a grateful sob, exhaled with a shuddering laugh. "Aw, Pete."
Peter kissed the side of Nathan's hand, pressing his mouth quick and brief against the gauze, then held the hand against his heart. "You're okay," Peter whispered.
"Yeah, Pete, I'm okay."
Peter drew his feet up and lay next to Nathan, resting his head against Nathan's shoulder, still holding onto Nathan's left arm, embracing it really, cradling the wrist in his arms as if it were a small, scared animal. Nathan tried to laugh, but lying down had made his consciousness turn another corner, and now he just wanted to relax, melt into a puddle of not-pain. Peter kissed Nathan's wrist again, then the crook of the elbow, then leaned over to briefly kiss Nathan on the lips. "There. All better?"
"...Yeah."
Melting into not-pain, into the delicious darkness and quiet, soundtracked only by the throbbing of his heart. Drifting on sensation. Peter kissing his shoulder, dropping his lips in quick smacks against the fabric of Nathan's thin pajama top, thin enough to feel the warmth of Peter's breath. Peter kissing his neck, inches away from where the stitches began, where the skin was painfully sensitive. But Nathan couldn't feel any pain now. Kissing the stitches themselves. Lifting Nathan's pajama top to brush his lips across the stitches on his lower belly. Nathan drifted, soft and warm, breathing in sync with Peter.
"You're okay. I'm gonna take care of you." Peter's voice dropped to an almost silent whisper, as if he knew how sinful his words would be. "I missed you. So much. It's... almost worth it, to have you home."
"Aw, Pete. Ssh."
Peter folded Nathan's arm across Nathan's torso, and resettled his arms around Nathan's waist, nestling his head against Nathan's shoulder. Peter shifted his weight, relaxing, settling in, but then shifted again, like his legs were restless. Another kiss, against Nathan's temple, then settling again, sighing, his arms pleasantly heavy against Nathan's belly. Then shifting again, rocking a little against Nathan's hip, never touching the part that hurt. Relax, squirm, and shift again.
"What're you doing, Pete?" Nathan asked, his voice barely emerging.
"Tucking you in," Peter murmured back, kissing Nathan's neck. "Making sure you're okay."
He squirmed and shifted again, pressing himself in and holding himself there. Peter's breath caught faintly. Nathan opened his eyes, feeling a sudden thrill of understanding. But maybe it was all in Nathan's mind. He should say something, stop him, put an end to this before it went too far... but nothing was happening. Nothing could happen. They were just brothers cuddling in bed. Nothing was happening; it couldn't be, because he felt too good. He'd feel like something was wrong. But nothing was wrong. It felt good to be held and kissed. They were just brothers, and Peter was just helping him, just...
He could feel Peter's erection against his thigh (impossibly hard like a tube of lip balm in his pocket, a roll of Lifesavers, a pocketknife, but bigger than that, not much but bigger, warm and strange and utterly familiar - it'd been a long time since he'd felt that, but he knew it. When did Peter grow up into this? When did this happen... what was...), and there was more squirming to his motion now - no, not really even squirming. Rubbing very slowly back and forth against the long, lean muscle of Nathan's leg.
Nathan regretted the sigh that escaped his lips too late to keep it from happening. He's not...
The movements of Peter's hips got a little faster, in time with his measured, careful breath. Then he stopped completely, and gave a miniscule sigh.
Oh, God. He did. How beautiful. Yes, yes, oh Peter, now you, too. Welcome to this world.
"I love you," Peter murmured.
"It's okay." Again, Nathan noted his own response with a distant, dizzy surprise. It was okay. It was freaky and a little disgusting, but ... so wonderful, something snatched out of time, out of the world. So important, that moment. So bizarre.
He wondered if it was Peter's first. Hoped that it was.
Peter was so different now, and so was he... all chopped up, with a head full of junk, and grateful for it; grateful to have his brother's long, hot arms around him. Drifting, warm and slow and soft.
"I love you, too."
Peter kissed Nathan's neck again, quick little pops of his lips against the skin, then letting his lips linger, the breath from his nostrils tingling on Nathan's stitches. Peter lay back again for a moment, trailing his fingers gently across Nathan's collarbone, but his fingers came to a halt abrupt enough to break Nathan from his own reverie. He struggled to focus his eyes on Peter's blushing red face, and followed Peter's line of sight down.
Even though his narcotic haze, he could see his own cock, straining hard against the crotch of his pajamas, gently and visibly throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Peter edged slowly away from Nathan, tearing his eyes away from Nathan's erection and looking at Nathan's face, and finding that no safer, turning away entirely. "I'm sorry, I... gotta go to bed," Peter stammered. When he stood up, the small wet stain darkening the green flannel of the leg of his pajamas was clearly, almost comically visible. Nathan couldn't help smiling, and wanted to say good night, but Peter left too quickly, barely pausing to switch off the bedside lamp before he rushed away.
Nathan didn't pause to think. A few swift strokes under the waistband of his pajama bottoms brought him to an intense, overwhelming orgasm that seemed to mount and crest into infinity, too profound even to moan about. Yes, come for me, Peter, come for me, and I'll come for you, so hard, I'll get lost. I want to get lost.
Gradually he drifted back down. He comforted himself into sleep with the reassurance that it was never going to happen again; it was okay to have that happen once, but it had to stop there. Peter wouldn't get that carried away again. It was just a physical and emotional response, nothing to get upset about, as long as it stopped there, and stayed between them.
Still, how beautiful.
***
Peter went to his own room, shut the door, kicked off his pajama bottoms, lay face down on Nathan's bed, and humped his pillow until it was too sticky and wet to provide any friction.
My God, he thought, rolling over, grabbing his sore, limp dick, pulling on it some more, willing it to work again. My God, what did I do?
He sat up, pulled off his T-shirt, grabbed pajamas and pillow, and shoved all of it into his laundry hamper. He lay back on his bed, burning up, almost feverish, staring at the ceiling. He felt like he was never going to sleep again. He was locked into the memory now, replaying it over and over in his mind; the pleasure of cleaning Nathan's wounds, the pleasure of kissing him and being kissed, telling Nathan to go to bed. Nathan's naked body, crisscrossed with stitches and cuts and scrapes too small to need stitches, the muscles all sharply defined against the skin because Nathan had barely eaten in a month. The genitals as they should be, no more pornographic than those of a statue, except for the sudden realization that it was Nathan's cock, and that it grew and changed and wanted and demanded and penetrated and dripped... that they were Nathan's balls, which no doubt itched and ached like Peter's did, which no doubt were tender like Peter's, which no doubt liked to be held and caressed, like Peter's. That maybe he wanted someone to lick them, soothe them with a tongue, and the desire drove him crazy.
Peter touched himself, and thought about it, and felt sick and delirious and terrible.
"I'm not gay," he whispered at his ceiling. He thought furiously about big breasts and pouty lips with red lipstick and the delicious mystery inside a girl. Only, he had no idea what that felt like. He resolved to find out as soon as possible. Because he wasn't gay. And even if he was (because it was all right to be gay, even though he didn't want to be, and wouldn't he have known before now? but maybe he had... but he liked girls so much, too...) he couldn't think about Nathan like that. Well, he could. He could think about whatever he wanted. But he couldn't do what he'd done ever again...
"I love you," Nathan had whispered, after he'd felt Peter come. He knew it. He knew what Peter had done, and he said it anyway.
The memory of it made Peter come again.
He went to the hamper and grabbed his T-shirt out of it, used it to wipe himself off, then put on his robe and went out into the hall to go to the bathroom. It was very late; he'd been at it for hours and hours. He washed up as quietly as he could, then, on his way back to his room, paused in the hallway and listened.
He heard it again - a faint moaning, coming from Nathan's room.
Peter crept to Nathan's door, and heard it again. Nathan's voice floated out, so distinct that it made Peter jump, thinking he'd been seen. "Not there," Nathan said. "It won't stay."
"Nathan?" Peter called in a whisper. He slipped into the room and stood close to the side of the bed, but still in the shadows.
Nathan gave a soft grunt. He had never drawn the blankets over him, and his head tossed a little on the pillows. His eyes were shut tight. "Capps," Nathan said. "You're the one who wanted to do that." He blew out his breath, his mouth tightening, his left arm jerking up and then slowly lowering again. "It's just a bone. Spit it out." He whimpered, and his left arm twitched again.
Peter shook his head sadly. He wanted to wake Nathan, and even more so wanted to crawl onto the bed next to him and hold him, love the nightmares out of him. But he knew he shouldn't. He didn't know what Nathan was dreaming about, but he knew Nathan's brain needed to replay the scenarios, discarding details and making new ones. It was how healing was done, and most of the time, healing left scars. He had to let Nathan have his.
He went back to his own room, put on fresh pajamas, and fell asleep.
In the morning, he woke up as soon as the alarm went off, and jumped happily out of bed. He hurried through his shower, got dressed, and ran down to the dining room. Already, his mother and Nathan were there, sipping coffee and eating croissants. "Good morning," Peter chirped, pouring himself a cup of coffee before ducking back into the kitchen to tell the cook that he wanted scrambled eggs with Swiss cheese and ketchup. He returned to the table grinning. "Good morning."
"You said that already," Nathan said. He looked tired, but alert and determined. He had put bandages back onto his face.
"Did you sleep okay?" Peter asked.
Nathan blinked, as if slightly bothered by Peter's question. "Fine," he said. "It's a great bed. It's not as good as my old one, but it'll do. I didn't expect to see you up this early."
"You either," Peter replied. "It's not like you have to go to work or anything - you can sleep in." His eggs arrived, and Peter thanked the cook and attacked his food.
"Slow down, Peter, you'll choke," said their mother. "You've got twenty minutes before you have to leave for school; what's your hurry?"
"Can I stay home from school today?" Peter asked.
She scoffed at him. "Why?"
"I want to hang with Nathan today. He needs me. He shouldn't be alone." Peter gazed across the table at Nathan, watching his reaction. Nathan looked sad and scared for a moment, then relaxed and smiled, his eyes softening. Peter smiled back. His guess had been correct. "It's only one day," Peter insisted, turning his eyes on his mother. "I'll call and get all my homework assignments and I'll do 'em all. I just feel like I should stay home today. I haven't seen him for such a long time. Do you mind, Nathan?"
"No," Nathan said huskily, "I don't mind."
Their mother shrugged. "All right," she said. "I'll call for you, just to make sure you don't pull any funny stuff. And then I've got to go to the Cloisters to discuss the New Year's Ball. I'll be gone until afternoon, but I'll return for tea, and Nathan, please order whatever you like for dinner. Your father should be up by ten, and home by dinner as well. Oh, it's so nice to have you back." She stood up and rested her hand on Nathan's shoulder, then leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, instinctively trying to wipe off lipstick she hadn't yet put on. She laughed at herself, and kissed Nathan again, and they shared an embrace. Peter watched them, his chest aching with love. They were a family again; all of them together, for the first time in such a long time. He felt that he would kill or die to keep them together, to give them a chance at happiness. Maybe they could be a normal family now. Maybe Nathan would stop running away.
"Don't let him drink too much coffee," their mother said to Nathan, heading out of the kitchen. "It makes him manic."
"Okay, Ma," Nathan chuckled. "Here, you want my croissant?"
Peter shook his head. "You should eat it. You're too skinny."
Nathan laughed. "What are you, Italian or something?" He winced as all that smiling made his face hurt.
"Eat some eggs with Swiss and ketchup. I'm telling you, it's genius. It's so good. Did you take your pills yet?"
Nathan narrowed his eyes a little. "I took one," he said.
"Okay," Peter said. "That's good. I'm going to make sure you take them regularly today, so you won't have another big flare-up like you did last night. There's no reason why you should be in pain if you're keeping to a regular dosage schedule." Peter got up with his empty plate, and took the half-eaten croissant from Nathan. He kept moving, kept his voice brisk and friendly, not letting on anything. Everything was normal and good, and he was normal and good.
Together they went to the study on the ground floor, and Peter applied himself to his schoolwork while Nathan filled out page after page of official paperwork. Peter's homework was easy - some reading, a couple of math problems, and composing a paragraph on the Louisiana Purchase - and he was done in an hour. "Kicked that ass," Peter said.
"No way are you finished already," Nathan complained. "Let me see that." He took the pages from Peter and examined them carefully. "Well, that's wrong," he said, erasing Peter's pencil marks and writing the correct ones in. "Triangle geometry. I love this stuff... Okay, the rest of this is right. Do you see here - it should be negative one-over-B."
"Oh, right," said Peter. "Okay. You're right."
"And..." Nathan looked at the history paragraph. "Mm, yeah. That's pretty good. It was all about Napoleon's bad deal. Your handwriting is terrible, though."
"Might as well drop out of school," Peter murmured, taking his schoolwork back. "How's your stuff coming?"
Nathan grunted. "It's dull," he admitted. "I already filled out the accident report and my debriefing notes back when I was still in the hospital. This is all just filling out my social security number a bunch of times. It's not due till after the first of the year."
"Well, let's slack," Peter urged. "Do you want to go for a little walk? Get some New York in you? There's a new magazine stand down the street that makes a really good egg cream."
"Sure," Nathan said, with a reluctant, but cheerful smile.
"I gotta remind you how to have fun."
They put on coats and hats and scarves, and went out onto the wintry street. Peter got caught up in the excitement of showing Nathan something new, and he was ten steps ahead before he realized how slowly Nathan was moving. Peter skipped back, trying to be casual, but he linked his arm through Nathan's, and matched his step. "I'm fine," Nathan said. "I'm just kind of spacy. It's more obvious out here, in the daylight."
"It's cool," Peter said. "I'm not going anywhere."
Manhattan blocks are long, and by the time they made it to the newsstand, Nathan was pale and out of breath. Peter ordered two egg creams at the counter, almost sick with anger at himself; just because the injuries on Nathan's skin were superficial didn't mean there weren't internal injuries he still was trying to heal. Of course Nathan didn't complain, but he was clearly in distress. "Chocolate," he said, smiling at Peter. "My favorite."
Peter couldn't hold it in anymore. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have come."
"No, no, no." Nathan shook his head. "It's wonderful. It's all worth it."
"I don't want you to hurt anymore," Peter said miserably.
Nathan sipped his egg cream, and pleasure suffused his face. "God, that's so good. I love a good egg cream. It's good to see you, Peter. I missed you... so much." He gently stroked Peter's eyebrow. "I had a picture of you everywhere I went. But I had it in my pocket when the accident happened, and it got lost. Seeing you again, sitting right in front of me, is just amazing. You've grown up so much."
Peter gazed at him, then shook his head. "Too much, probably."
"We can't be kids forever, Peter. Being a grown-up isn't so bad. I like how you've grown. I like you." Nathan sighed, and slurped down his egg cream. "God damn, I forgot how good these are."
"Told you they were good," Peter said. "I had to share." They stared at each other, sinking into each other's eyes, and Nathan covered Peter's hand with his. Peter turned his hand over, and squeezed Nathan's. "Finish up. You ready to go back?"
"I'm ready."
They returned home, and Nathan took another pill. While they were waiting for lunch to be prepared, Peter said, "I've got something for you. But you have to promise not to lose it." He took off for his room before Nathan had a chance to reply, and came back with his eyes shining and his hands in fists. "Pick a hand," he said.
Nathan tapped the left hand. Peter turned the hand over and opened it. Nathan frowned at it, and Peter explained, "I was going to wait 'til Christmas, but I think I should give it to you now."
"What is it?" Nathan picked up the little carved silver object from Peter's palm. It was about the size of his thumb, a stylized blob with paws and a face and a tail curled around the body. "A monkey?"
"Yeah. It's a macaque. They've got 'em at the Boston Zoo. I bought this for you when I was there this summer."
Nathan was confused. "What is it, a pendant? A Christmas ornament? There's no hole. It's too small to be a paperweight."
"No, it's just a... like a little toy, I guess." Peter blushed, suddenly feeling stupid. "I just thought it was cute. I thought of you. I'll get you a real Christmas present, of course, I just... well, you lost your picture of me."
"Uh, thanks, I guess." Nathan smiled at him, shrugged, and slipped it into his pocket. "You don't look like a monkey or anything."
"Thanks," Peter said, feeling like an idiot.
Nathan put his arm around Peter and kissed him on the side of the head. "Thanks, Pete," he said. "I promise I won't lose it. Now let's go eat - I am officially starving."
Their brief walk in the cold had the effect of making lunch particularly delicious. Nathan ate well, finishing half a sandwich and plenty of soup. "I'm wiped," he said, folding his napkin. "You know what I want to do?"
"What?" Peter polished off his third sandwich, and drank his soup straight from the bowl.
Nathan grinned at him. "I just want to watch TV."
"It's the middle of the day. There's nothing on," Peter said.
"Perfect," Nathan replied. "I just want to watch the pictures."
"Can I watch with you?"
"I was hoping you would. Not soap operas, though. It hasn't gotten that bad yet."
Nathan and Peter at first sat beside each other on the big sofa in the TV room, watching Bass Fishing USA, but gradually they both began to slump until they were lying spooned together, Peter in front facing the television. At the end of one program, before the start of the next one, Peter got up and got a blanket, and covered his and Nathan's feet with it. Nathan resettled his left arm over Peter when Peter lay down again. He was sure that Nathan was drifting off to sleep periodically, depending on how floppy his arm got, but he didn't mind; it was sure better than school. Better, really, than anything else in the world.
"It's three-thirty," Peter announced. "Time for X-Men."
"Cartoons?" Nathan asked with amusement. "Aren't you too old?"
"You're never too old for X-Men. Batman is on after it. They're both really good shows, actually."
"I figured you'd be out of your comic book phase by now."
"Nope," Peter snapped, switching channels. Nathan chuckled, and gave Peter a little hug, and kissed him on the back of the neck. Peter sighed happily, his momentary bad mood vanished. He asked, "Hey... were you having nightmares last night? I got up to go to the bathroom, and I heard you making noises in your sleep."
Nathan hesitated for a moment before answering. "Yeah," he admitted, gently stroking Peter's hair. "I was having the nightmare. There's only one."
"Tell me about it?" Peter asked, kissing Nathan's left wrist, where bandages became skin.
Nathan sighed. "I go back to Rwanda to get my thumb back. They tell me they found the end of my thumb, and that I should come back and they can reattach it. So I fly back there, and I'm happy and excited, and I sit down in a doctor's office and they sew it back on. Or sometimes, when I get there, it's just back. But then, I get ready to go back home, and I can't. I can't leave the country. All the planes are down. No more flights. All the planes are broken, or there's a shooting war happening, or all the computers are down. Something. And I leave one building and try to go get a second opinion, but when I turn around, I can't find the building I just left. And I'm surrounded by dead people. And then the thumb - the part that got cut off - starts to degenerate. My body starts to reject it. It's rotting and stinking and gangrenous and I start to feel really sick, and I realize that I'm going to die if I don't cut it off again, but I just can't. And then I wake up. It's the pain that wakes me."
Peter lay silent, frozen with horror. The nightmare seemed as real to him as though he'd experienced it himself. He felt sick. He took a deep breath, and tried to shake it off.
"I've had some version of that dream every night since I got back to the States," Nathan said, the hand that had been stroking Peter's hair now stopped, and even when Peter nudged him to continue, the hand remained still. Paralyzed. "I can't get out."
"You're not there," Peter whispered intensely, turning over, staring into Nathan's eyes until they focused on him, drawing Nathan out of himself. At the moment of eye contact, Peter gave him a big smile. "You're here. At home. With me. That's not real - this is real."
Wordlessly, Nathan took Peter into his arms and held him tight. Peter hugged back as hard as he dared, harder even, knowing Nathan would say something if he went too far. He could trust Nathan to know. "I love you," Peter said. "This is what's real."
They remained clinging together until their mother came into the room to tell them it was teatime, and even then, separated reluctantly, letting their fingers linger on each other.
***
After dinner, Peter followed Nathan to his room again, without even asking, and shut the door behind them. Nathan went to the bathroom, swallowed a pill and a half, and gave Peter a stern look. "I don't really need help tonight," he said.
Peter didn't budge. "Somebody's got to help you with your thumb."
"The stitches come out day after tomorrow. It's fine. I can almost flex the joint."
"Shut up and let me help you," Peter said.
"Let me put my pajamas on," Nathan said. "In privacy, please."
Peter frowned, taken aback. "Why? It's not like I haven't seen you."
"Maybe I don't want you seeing me right now." Nathan frowned, unable to meet Peter's eyes.
"But - but I have to take a look at your back," Peter insisted. "You've got a lot of stitches there, too, and you can't see 'em. Look, it's fine, okay? I promise I won't molest you. Just let me help you."
Peter went to the other room, and got a fresh pair of pajamas out of the bureau, handing them to Nathan. Slowly, painstakingly, without Peter's help, Nathan took his outer clothes off, and stood in his boxer shorts with his back to Peter. "Your back bled a little today," Peter pointed out. "You're going to scar a little right here..." He lightly traced a line with his fingertip, and Nathan drew in his breath in a hiss. "The stitches kinked. Probably in your sleep. But it's healing up okay." Peter kept tracing, and Nathan drew in his breath again, but this time in a big, long, slow inhale; it felt good, what Peter was doing. Peter tried not to smile, knowing he could be seen in the mirror. "How's that cut on your hip?"
"It looks good; you did a good job."
"Thank you." Peter moved around Nathan and wet some washcloths with water, then some gauze pads with rubbing alcohol. "Pain warning," he said, and dabbed at the kinked stitches with the alcohol pad. Nathan barely reacted at all. "You're tough."
"I'm high," Nathan corrected. "On Percocet." He chuckled. "I miss morphine. It's so elegant. Percocet is more clumsy - it's like a St. Bernard puppy, whereas morphine is more like a jaguar. It just slips in and caresses you and before you know it, you're dead. Percocet more licks the pain off you - big and sloppy."
"Nathan..." Peter cut him off. He was glad that Nathan was facing away from him, so he wouldn't see the painfully hard erection that had sprung up in Peter's trousers. "You should hit that cut up front with some alcohol, too. You do it; it's going to hurt. I'll make some new tape strips." Peter turned away, but he still knew - he still saw out the corner of his eye - Nathan taking off his underwear, the smooth, downy curves of Nathan's bare behind. Peter bit his lip. What did you call "molesting" when the molested didn't mind? At any rate, Peter knew he was going to prove himself a breaker of promises.
"I don't think it needs new tape strips, Pete. It looks really well sealed up."
"Great," said Peter in a strangled voice. "Let's get your thumb and then you can go to bed."
Peter didn't look at Nathan's face as he worked on unwrapping and washing the thumb. "Thanks for helping me, Peter," Nathan murmured. "You take really good care of me. I think I'm going to sleep pretty well tonight."
"Good," Peter said. He couldn't resist kissing the base of the thumb, much less swollen and discolored today. "You deserve it."
Once the wound was dressed again, Nathan went and lay down in bed. Peter drew the covers up over his brother this time, smoothing them across Nathan's body, then climbed onto the bed anyway, over the covers. Nathan laughed, but kissed him across his crooked mouth, and embraced him. "You're not mad at me?" Peter asked.
"No," said Nathan. "Why would I be?"
Peter relaxed in the embrace, and settled down softly alongside, one hand on Nathan's chest, the rest of him in the same posture from the night before.
It was just so comfortable, so right. Peter couldn't help it. He was fractionally more insistent now, no squirming, just a slow but straightforward up-and-down rub, heart pounding furiously, his breathing quiet and heavy.
Nathan sighed, "Any time you want to stop doing that is fine." He didn't sound angry or upset or even longing; he just sounded tired and gentle.
"...I can't stop. Please don't be mad. I need you."
"Peter... I'm... I'm not mad."
Peter felt his heart skip with happiness, a muscle in his groin fluttering in response, giving him a good hard squeeze of ecstasy that vanished as soon as it had come. He sighed with frustrated joy. It wasn't even close to approaching enough. It might not ever be enough. "So... it's fine if that time is never, is what you're saying," he murmured, trying to be clever, but the thickened, growling tone of his own voice turned him on even more.
Nathan laughed ruefully, lazily. "Go to bed, Peter. I'm kicking you out."
Peter knew he had to leave then, or he'd never leave. He stood up, and walked to the doorway, then paused and stared at the still figure in the bed. "You didn't say no," he said wonderingly.
Nathan rolled his eyes and looked away, and turned over, turning his back to Peter. "Good night," he insisted.
Peter went back to his room, undressed, and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he didn't feel worse, why he didn't feel ashamed or sickened or guilty. Why most of what he felt was wonder, delight, the thrill of a challenge, the comfort of belonging.
Nathan hadn't said no or never or don't or we can't. And as long as Nathan was okay with it, it was okay with him - no, better than okay - it was everything he had ever wanted, it was everything in the world that made sense and didn't make sense. It was Faith. It was Love. It was his.
end part (16)
A/N: This story is partially inspired by Adrian Pasdar's various injuries which have given him such fascinating scars, which have not as yet been used as part of Nathan Petrelli's storyline. But why waste 'em? And I'm sure that having a part of a finger cut off doesn't hurt as much as I make it sound, but when you've got a bunch of little injuries, the biggest one seems ten times worse. Also, Nathan's kind of a softie, which we all know. ^_^ ... Obviously, this seems somewhat incomplete, but it really is only the beginning, and they spend the next eleven years trying to figure out what's going on... Thank you again for reading.
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: mild spoilers for the webcomic series "War Buddies"
Word Count: about 9000
WARNINGS: Incest, underage sexuality, prescription drug use, description of injury and war atrocities, language
Summary: A badly injured, but recovering Nathan returned home from the Navy, and teenage Peter was eager to act as his caretaker - setting in motion a chain of events that would eventually become the Ritual. Chan, PTSD, and fluff battle it out. (Fluff wins, IHMO!)
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15)
Heroes and associated characters are copyright NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Production, used without authorization. This story is fiction and does not describe any actual events, nor does it intend to condone what it describes.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO...
It began with the most unpleasant family meal in Nathan's entire life.
It was intended to be a happy occasion. He was the guest of honor, having a lavish dinner with his family, neighbors and friends, lauded as a hero. He was home and safe.
Even if he was not exactly in one piece.
He'd been honorably discharged, given an early release and sent back home to New York, and more importantly to him, no longer took up a hospital bed that would better serve someone else who had gotten blown up worse than he had.
But the fact that he was out of hospital didn't mean that he was recovered. The fact that he was out of the peacekeeping force, out of the idiotic nightmare of Rwanda, away from the relentless chaos and confusion and death that somehow he was supposed to fix, didn't mean that he had left it behind. He had left a part of himself behind instead.
He had only been there on the ground for a week. Seven days. He couldn't even take seven days in Hell without folding like a house of cards.
He wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be tougher. He was supposed to be able to handle anything that life threw at him, or that he got himself into, because he wasn't just hard and strong, he was smart. He didn't get himself into things that he couldn't handle. He was Nathan fucking Petrelli, which apparently didn't mean Jack Shit, when it all came down to it.
He struggled to hide his distress all through the meal. He tried to smile. All the adults played along, pretending that Nathan wasn't pushing the food around on his plate rather than eating it. Pretending that he was the one making conversation instead of letting his mother and father make it for him, leaving him space to say, "Yeah" or "I'm not sure." Letting Nathan sit there and be the handsome, wounded figurehead of patriotism and determination, choosing to interpret his agonized silence as strength, when really all Nathan wanted was to eat a fistful of Percocet.
The adults at the dinner, impressed by his self-control, discreetly allowed Nathan's ruse. But then there was Peter.
Peter wasn't old enough to care about any of those social niceties, or understand why they might be a more diplomatic approach. Peter never had been any good at diplomacy... or tact, or self-control, or discipline, or...
But for once he was acting like a very well-behaved young man at this dinner, seen and not heard. Still, he openly stared at Nathan the whole night, his dark eyes too large, too searching, uncomfortably direct. Peter had wolfed down his food before anyone else finished half their plates, then sat silently with his cutlery crossed on his plate, occasionally sipping water, but mostly just gazing at his brother with a look halfway between panicked worry and devoted worship. The fact that everyone else let their eyes approach and then politely slide away from the thick white patch of gauze on Nathan's face or the bandages covering half of his left hand just highlighted Peter's unrelenting stare even more.
Nathan squirmed under the scrutiny, feeling his mask of self-control start to fade. He felt the pain coming back, wishing that he had thought to take a pill or two before dinner. He was trying hard to cut back on them, but the pain that had been negligible an hour ago increased until he had to dig his right-hand fingernails into his palms to keep from groaning out loud. He wondered how long he could stand it without screaming (back, leg, shoulder, face, his fucking thumb for God's sake!!), the pain coming from too many places to concentrate on and control. Points of stinging or throbbing, slowly growing till they became fireworks and then just fire. The color steadily drained from his face. As he clenched his jaw to keep the expression of pain inside it tugged the healing injuries along his chin and he couldn't help flinching.
Peter turned to their mother and said quietly, "I think Nathan needs to go to bed."
She looked at Nathan, and her lips quivered for a moment, her eyes suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. He hadn't been hiding the pain as well as he'd hoped. As usual, his mother's expression of raw emotion was brief, and she smiled and folded her napkin. "I'm afraid Nathan's going to have to call it an early night," she announced to the table, creating a chorus of polite groans of disappointment. "Peter," she said in a lower voice, "go with him and make sure that he has everything he needs. Good night, my dear."
Nathan stood up slowly and rounded the table to kiss his mother and father. "Good job, Nathan," said his father, the sad, resigned look his eyes showing Nathan that he hadn't fooled his father, either.
Nathan was grateful that at least the old man acknowledged what a hard time he was having. He didn't want to make too big of a deal of it, though; it was one thing for his parents to admit that he was in pain, it was another matter entirely for him to do it. Honor, courage and committment, and not acting like a pansy-ass just because your face got ripped open and it stings a little. "You bet. Thanks, Ma. Dinner was great," he said, barely moving his lips or jaw, like a bad ventriloquist.
"I'm just glad you're home," she replied with a heartfelt, loving smile. "Peter, don't keep him up too late - you've got school in the morning." She turned back to the dinner guests with her society voice on, gushing, "Peter is simply overjoyed to have Nathan back home safe - absolutely devoted to his brother..."
At first, Peter didn't say anything as he walked with Nathan to his room. Trying to take his mind off the pain, Nathan studied Peter as the teenager walked close beside him, within arms' reach, as though Peter was afraid that Nathan would collapse.
Peter had seemingly doubled in size since last time Nathan saw him, and it had only been two years. Now he was barely an inch shy of Nathan's height, but his body lacked Nathan's well-balanced proportions. Peter seemed to have been carelessly and hastily constructed, put together by a distracted artisan. Everything about him was asymmetric, crooked, and lanky, from his hair to his shoulders, from his legs to his smile. Still, somehow, his movements had a awkward, shambling, self-conscious grace, like he'd had to learn to dance before he could walk. His absurdly shiny, over-the-ears-length hair bothered Nathan. It was both too long and too short to be in style, and Nathan hadn't seen much besides the high-and-tight standard military buzz for a long time. Hair that long, that smooth, belonged on a girl. But the mop-top almost looked good on Peter, especially as he looked up from underneath it, smiled, and averted his eyes again, now shy all of a sudden.
Or maybe just pretending to be. All of the Petrellis were pretenders.
It would take a while for him to figure Peter out. Once again, Nathan had been gone a long time, and didn't know who Peter was anymore. He obviously wasn't the furious little terror he'd been when he was two, or the annoyingly, heartbreakingly overattached seven-year-old, or the bookish eleven-year-old who didn't really want to do anything and was scared of everything. Peter was in high school now, and maybe it had toughened him up. Or maybe it just taught him to play it cool when grown-ups were around. Nathan didn't know if Peter considered him a grown-up or not; at the moment, Nathan sure as hell didn't feel like one.
It was comfortable to be back in his parents' home, even though his room had been changed into a guest room and Peter had claimed his old bed; he still knew the room's dimensions, and could navigate it even half-blinded with pain. Nathan walked through the bedroom to the attached bathroom, and fumbled through his toiletry bag for the bottle of Percocet. His bandaged left hand clumsily held the bottle and the right hand struggled to manage the childproof cap, but the pain stabbing its way down his left arm swamped his consciousness, making the world recede in a blur of red agony.
Peter watched him for a moment, chewing his lip anxiously. Nathan turned to look at him, struggling back to awareness. "I'm okay," Nathan said, the lie making his voice hollow.
"Yeah, I know," Peter replied softly, nodding, adding a tiny smile. "Here, let me get that for you." He came into the bathroom, took the pill bottle, and swiftly opened the cap. "How many do you want?"
"Three," Nathan mumbled. It was one more than he needed for pain relief, but he didn't care. He wanted to blot out his consciousness for a while.
Peter tapped three pills into Nathan's right palm. He raised his eyebrows as Nathan shot them all into his mouth at once and crunched them, then washed them down with a few swallows of water. "Don't ever do that," Nathan advised, grimacing.
"That must taste so gross," Peter said, his eyes shining with amazement.
"They'll kick in faster that way." Nathan took another mouthful of water and swished it around, running his tongue all over and behind his teeth, then swallowed. He wondered if he'd get to the point where he'd be crawling on the floor trying to find fragments of pills that he'd dropped, and vowed once again to cut back. But not tonight; tonight it was too late. Whatever was going to happen would happen.
"Sometimes... sometimes I think of how much that must hurt," said Peter hesitantly. "Your thumb. I - I imagine it. And... I don't blame you. For chewing your pills."
"You shouldn't try to imagine things like that," Nathan said.
"I can't help it," Peter shrugged. "It happened to you. I can't help but imagine it now."
"Well... see if you can stop." Nathan walked back to the bed, and sat down with a massive sigh. Peter tiptoed over, sat beside Nathan, and carefully hugged him, barely making any contact. Nathan grumbled, "Oh, c'mon, I'm not made out of glass. I'm not gonna break."
"Sorry. I know." Peter's arms tightened immediately, clasping Nathan against him. It felt as warm, good and right, as immediate and beautiful, as Peter's earlier touch had seemed insulting and ticklish. That crap belonged to that false world of grown-ups and smiling through the pain, and Nathan didn't want that here, not between them. He was strong enough to take a proper hug from Peter; that much, he knew he could do. "I just don't want you to hurt anymore," Peter whispered. He pushed his lips in a solid kiss against the unmarked right side of Nathan's neck. "I don't want you to hurt ever again."
"Oh, Pete..." Nathan sighed, overwhelmed, joy and gratitude surging through his body. All that dinner-table adulation, when all Nathan really needed was a hug and a kiss. Simple human contact and unconditional affection. How did Peter know? How did he always know? This was what Nathan had to rediscover, every time he returned; this was why it hurt so much to see Peter, why it hurt so much to leave him, why it was still something of a relief to leave. No gloves and no masks with Peter. No hiding. No way to shield himself from the fierceness of Peter's love.
Too much, for right now. Nathan drew back and murmured, "Would... you go get me a glass of water with lemon? I don't want the pills to wreck my stomach."
"Tsk! You should have eaten more," Peter reproached. "Want me to bring you a snack?"
Nathan smiled as he remembered Peter wolfing down his supper from a plate piled twice as high as anyone else's. "No, no... Just some water. Thanks."
Peter beamed and nodded, stood up, and left on his mission.
Nathan smiled after his brother, then felt despair rising back up again, stronger than he was; he squinted and pressed the ball of his right hand against his eye, trying to drive it out. He couldn't just fold up like this every single time he was alone; he'd have to get stronger, defeat this feeling, dilute the poison in his thoughts. But right now, he was powerless, and the pain, the fear, the revulsion, the horror swept over him and stole the air from his lungs.
Seven days of hell, on the ground. Too many bodies. Too many body parts. And the thing that horrified Nathan most was that he knew that he could get used to it. He could just start seeing it all as an abstraction, as ants crawling on the ground, the mites on the ants, the bacteria on the mites. He could just fly away and keep his hands clean. He'd never have to see faces he recognized in the dead bodies stacked up by the side of the road, and know that he'd never actually known these people, he didn't even know their language, but he was there to help them, somehow, defend themselves against... themselves. He was just helping out; this was the UN's deal, and he was just a flyboy there on a job, a quickie, a field trip, a vacation almost. An African vacation. Drop in, shake some hands, fuel up, make a few runs of weapons and supplies and intel. A piece of cake, after the clusterfuck in Bosnia. Nathan and a few other Good Men with the wildness of flight in their eyes, Americans, the best and brightest, beloved by the barefoot, hungry, dirt-skinned refugees who should have been glad to see them. Unfortunately there was almost no one left alive on the ground by the time they got there. And the ones that were looked like famine-stricken versions of some of the guys Nathan had gone to military school with, some of the guys in his division, some of the cute dark girls he'd see on the street in New York and Texas and San Francisco. Just people. They were human, and he recognized them. Recognized too much. Seen too much blood. And decided it'd be easier if they just stopped being human, but they wouldn't stop.
And then he had a bad day.
"...Nathan?" A sound coming from far away that Nathan couldn't reach. It wasn't real. The sounds had no meaning.
Peter gently touched Nathan's shoulder. "Nathan. Hey."
Yanked back to the world. Nathan pulled his hand away from his face and saw that his brother had gotten dressed for bed on his way back from the kitchen, now barefoot and in green flannel pajama bottoms and a big, faded T-shirt. He had to have been gone for a little while, but to Nathan it felt like no time had passed at all. Or that days had. At the sight of Peter, he felt very warm and cozy and disoriented. "You okay?" Peter asked.
"I'm... kind of out of it," Nathan explained. "I'm tired. I ought to go to sleep."
Peter handed Nathan the glass of water. "Don't you have to... clean your...uh, wounds?"
Nathan sighed. With a swallow of lemon water, he felt the analgesic effect of the pills, washing away the top level of stinging pain. "Ahhh... only a couple of them," he admitted wearily. "I could use your help."
They returned to the bathroom, Nathan swaying a little, but feeling more solid, more positive, more... present, here in New York, in his parents' house, in his own room, with Peter. Peter helped Nathan with his clothes, unfastening the buttons on his shirt and the slide fastener on his pants. "You should have just worn sweats to dinner," Peter teased, smiling from under his fringe.
Nathan pushed the hair back from Peter's face and kissed his forehead before he thought that there was a chance that Peter wouldn't go in for that sort of stuff anymore. But Peter just kept smiling, humming faintly as he set out clean, dry bandages. Nathan answered, "Sweats? With Mom? I hardly think. I'm amazed she lets you keep your hair this long."
"She doesn't like it," Peter admitted. "It's a compromise. I wanted a dog."
Nathan smiled as he shrugged off his shirt and stepped out of his pants, which Peter dutifully picked up and smoothed out and put onto a hanger. "Get my pajamas, would you. Middle drawer."
While Peter was in the other room, Nathan pulled off his undershirt and boxers, grimacing at a smudge of blood along the waistband. Peter returned, carrying the pajamas and a robe, and stopped in his tracks, staring at Nathan's body with that same look again - worry and worship. He connected the dots with his eyes - shoulder, flank, hip, belly, thigh. Hand. Face. The ragged cuts on his back, like he'd been mauled by a bear. "Wow..."
"Eighty-two stitches. It's nothin', really. Just this son of a bitch..." Nathan indicated the cut on his left hip, the one that had bled. "They should have put stitches in this. It keeps opening up."
It came back to him again as he watched the blood seep out - the bad day. The accident. No one's fault. No awards. No bravery or service or anything that he was supposed to be there for. He was suited up, but hadn't put his headgear on yet. Making jokes, happy to get into the air again. His back to the copter, maybe ten or twelve meters away, looking for Capps, who'd be piloting this busted-ass old bird, Petrelli in the bitch seat. Capps nowhere to be seen, maybe aboard already. Someone yelling "Spark!" and then the shockwave hitting him like a brick wall, the high-pitched whistle of spinning metal panels gone sharp as guillotine blades - one dashing razor cuts across his back before flipping down to stab him belly-hip-thigh - and the other blade, as he turned toward the sound, coming right at his face, swinging up his arm to protect his face but not in time -
"Hey," Peter's voice broke in, and Nathan was so grateful to have the distraction that he let out a shaky gasp. "You with me?" Peter stared deep into Nathan's eyes, as if trying to see Nathan's thoughts.
Nathan shook his head a little. "Oh... it's so bad, Pete. I'm trying really hard." He hadn't meant to speak aloud, or meant to say something else.
After a moment, Peter lowered his eyes and nodded a little, as though he understood everything. "Have a seat. I'll take care of you. Let's get that bleeder dealt with first."
"Yeah... go ahead," Nathan said shakily, sinking down onto the toilet seat, and stretching out his left leg. The plastic seat was cold on his bare ass and thighs, but any sensation that wasn't pain was welcome.
Peter examined the wound, and raised his eyebrows a little. "Hmm, at least it's superficial. Good thing, too - a little lower, and it could have hit this big artery right here." Peter lightly touched the skin next to the crest of his pelvic bone, then did it again, and Nathan could feel the blood vessels in his leg reacting even to that slight contact. It felt good. "Could have been way worse. You were obviously meant to come back." Peter squeezed a careful stream of water from a wet washcloth over the bleeding cut, catching the spillage with another towel. He patted the wound dry, then fixed the cut together tightly with little strips of gauze tape, and topped it all off with a large, square adhesive bandage. "Now, don't scratch it," he said. "I can see where you've been scratching it. That's probably why it won't heal. You should put a little hydrocortisone cream right around it to make sure it doesn't itch when you're asleep."
"Thanks," said Nathan, genuinely impressed. "You're pretty good at this."
Peter shrugged. "I did an advanced first-aid course at school. It was cool." Peter took particular care with the dozens of crisscrossing stitches on Nathan's chin and jaw, dabbing and drying the stitches with alternating squares of gauze. "This must have looked horrible when it happened."
"I lost a lot of blood. I'm just lucky my jaw wasn't broken," responded Nathan. "I got a nice big piece of rotor for lunch." Nathan relaxed under Peter's light but expert touch, resisting the urge to close his eyes; he didn't want to fall asleep too soon. It had been too long since he'd been able to spend time with Peter. He didn't want to waste this on passing out. Peter smelled good, like plain soap and mint, and he wore the intent look of concentration on his face that Nathan associated with young doctors and scientists. Pure dedication. Nathan wanted to kiss him again.
Peter finished and then, as if he'd read Nathan's mind, gave Nathan a quick, feather-gentle kiss on the stitches on his chin. "You look kinda like a baseball," Peter teased with a lopsided grin. "But you should leave the bandages off. The air'll help it to heal faster."
Nathan brought up his right hand to almost touch the wounds. "It's gonna scar worse that way."
"Stop being so vain. Chicks dig scars."
"What do you know about chicks?" Nathan teased back.
Peter smirked. "More than anybody suspects. Okay, now, I'm going to look at your thumb." He gave Nathan a pointed, regretful look. "You should put your pajamas on now. You're gonna need to lie down afterwards, I bet."
"Yeah," Nathan agreed, wishing he was already lying down. He gingerly pulled on the loose cotton garments and sat down again. "You sure you want to do this? It's really, really gross."
"I'm sure."
Peter carefully cut and unwrapped the gauze on Nathan's hand, and he grimaced and went slightly pale at the sight. The top inch of the thumb was gone, cut off right below the thumbnail, but the first joint was intact, somewhere underneath the swelling. Nathan had forgotten what it felt like to bend that thumb. Shiny-tight grafted skin covered the stump, stitched into place with twenty-two fine sutures. Nathan kept his eyes on the light fixture, but Peter said, "Look at it. It's okay. It doesn't look that bad."
"I've seen it," Nathan replied. "I get to keep seeing it."
"Yeah, it sucks to be imperfect, doesn't it? Welcome to the club."
Nathan stared at Peter, shocked into silence. Peter casually took Nathan by the elbow and held his hand over the sink, then ran water over the wound. Nathan couldn't help flinching, but he gave no other reaction to the sudden return of searing pain, like the lukewarm water had come to a sudden boil. "It hurts to be cut up, Peter," he said.
"I'm sure it does," Peter replied softly, meeting Nathan's eyes in the mirror. "Look at me, though. Look at me and tell me if I don't know that it sucks to be imperfect."
The funny thing was, when Peter's mouth was still, he looked like he could have been a young Biblical shepherd painted by da Vinci. "You are perfect, Peter." Nathan lightly ran his right forefinger across Peter's eyebrows, nose, and chin, as though he were sketching him into existence. Peter gazed back at Nathan solemnly, then looked back to the sink, the cloth, the stitches.
"You're perfect, Nathan."
"God, no. No, I'm not." Nathan laughed, then flinched and hissed again as Peter wiped the skin on his hand too hard. "I'm pretty great, but I'm not perfect."
Peter rolled his eyes. "I think," he said, smiling, "you should go get in bed."
"You gotta wrap it up."
"It has to dry first. Go lay down."
Nathan rolled his eyes too, but did as he was told. Peter followed Nathan with bandages in his hand, switching off all of the lights but for the tiny lamp on the bedside table. The darkness was a balm to Nathan's eyes. Peter sat down beside Nathan, and carefully wrapped the thumb, securely but not tightly. He tore off the tape with his teeth when he was done, pressed the tape against the back of Nathan's wrist, then sealed the job with a kiss. He kissed again, higher up the hand, on the side, approaching the injury itself. "There," Peter said. Another kiss. Kissing it, kissing the point of loss. So bold. It didn't hurt. "There."
What a little freak. A loving, quiet-voiced, velvety-soft little freak. Nathan drew in his breath in a grateful sob, exhaled with a shuddering laugh. "Aw, Pete."
Peter kissed the side of Nathan's hand, pressing his mouth quick and brief against the gauze, then held the hand against his heart. "You're okay," Peter whispered.
"Yeah, Pete, I'm okay."
Peter drew his feet up and lay next to Nathan, resting his head against Nathan's shoulder, still holding onto Nathan's left arm, embracing it really, cradling the wrist in his arms as if it were a small, scared animal. Nathan tried to laugh, but lying down had made his consciousness turn another corner, and now he just wanted to relax, melt into a puddle of not-pain. Peter kissed Nathan's wrist again, then the crook of the elbow, then leaned over to briefly kiss Nathan on the lips. "There. All better?"
"...Yeah."
Melting into not-pain, into the delicious darkness and quiet, soundtracked only by the throbbing of his heart. Drifting on sensation. Peter kissing his shoulder, dropping his lips in quick smacks against the fabric of Nathan's thin pajama top, thin enough to feel the warmth of Peter's breath. Peter kissing his neck, inches away from where the stitches began, where the skin was painfully sensitive. But Nathan couldn't feel any pain now. Kissing the stitches themselves. Lifting Nathan's pajama top to brush his lips across the stitches on his lower belly. Nathan drifted, soft and warm, breathing in sync with Peter.
"You're okay. I'm gonna take care of you." Peter's voice dropped to an almost silent whisper, as if he knew how sinful his words would be. "I missed you. So much. It's... almost worth it, to have you home."
"Aw, Pete. Ssh."
Peter folded Nathan's arm across Nathan's torso, and resettled his arms around Nathan's waist, nestling his head against Nathan's shoulder. Peter shifted his weight, relaxing, settling in, but then shifted again, like his legs were restless. Another kiss, against Nathan's temple, then settling again, sighing, his arms pleasantly heavy against Nathan's belly. Then shifting again, rocking a little against Nathan's hip, never touching the part that hurt. Relax, squirm, and shift again.
"What're you doing, Pete?" Nathan asked, his voice barely emerging.
"Tucking you in," Peter murmured back, kissing Nathan's neck. "Making sure you're okay."
He squirmed and shifted again, pressing himself in and holding himself there. Peter's breath caught faintly. Nathan opened his eyes, feeling a sudden thrill of understanding. But maybe it was all in Nathan's mind. He should say something, stop him, put an end to this before it went too far... but nothing was happening. Nothing could happen. They were just brothers cuddling in bed. Nothing was happening; it couldn't be, because he felt too good. He'd feel like something was wrong. But nothing was wrong. It felt good to be held and kissed. They were just brothers, and Peter was just helping him, just...
He could feel Peter's erection against his thigh (impossibly hard like a tube of lip balm in his pocket, a roll of Lifesavers, a pocketknife, but bigger than that, not much but bigger, warm and strange and utterly familiar - it'd been a long time since he'd felt that, but he knew it. When did Peter grow up into this? When did this happen... what was...), and there was more squirming to his motion now - no, not really even squirming. Rubbing very slowly back and forth against the long, lean muscle of Nathan's leg.
Nathan regretted the sigh that escaped his lips too late to keep it from happening. He's not...
The movements of Peter's hips got a little faster, in time with his measured, careful breath. Then he stopped completely, and gave a miniscule sigh.
Oh, God. He did. How beautiful. Yes, yes, oh Peter, now you, too. Welcome to this world.
"I love you," Peter murmured.
"It's okay." Again, Nathan noted his own response with a distant, dizzy surprise. It was okay. It was freaky and a little disgusting, but ... so wonderful, something snatched out of time, out of the world. So important, that moment. So bizarre.
He wondered if it was Peter's first. Hoped that it was.
Peter was so different now, and so was he... all chopped up, with a head full of junk, and grateful for it; grateful to have his brother's long, hot arms around him. Drifting, warm and slow and soft.
"I love you, too."
Peter kissed Nathan's neck again, quick little pops of his lips against the skin, then letting his lips linger, the breath from his nostrils tingling on Nathan's stitches. Peter lay back again for a moment, trailing his fingers gently across Nathan's collarbone, but his fingers came to a halt abrupt enough to break Nathan from his own reverie. He struggled to focus his eyes on Peter's blushing red face, and followed Peter's line of sight down.
Even though his narcotic haze, he could see his own cock, straining hard against the crotch of his pajamas, gently and visibly throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Peter edged slowly away from Nathan, tearing his eyes away from Nathan's erection and looking at Nathan's face, and finding that no safer, turning away entirely. "I'm sorry, I... gotta go to bed," Peter stammered. When he stood up, the small wet stain darkening the green flannel of the leg of his pajamas was clearly, almost comically visible. Nathan couldn't help smiling, and wanted to say good night, but Peter left too quickly, barely pausing to switch off the bedside lamp before he rushed away.
Nathan didn't pause to think. A few swift strokes under the waistband of his pajama bottoms brought him to an intense, overwhelming orgasm that seemed to mount and crest into infinity, too profound even to moan about. Yes, come for me, Peter, come for me, and I'll come for you, so hard, I'll get lost. I want to get lost.
Gradually he drifted back down. He comforted himself into sleep with the reassurance that it was never going to happen again; it was okay to have that happen once, but it had to stop there. Peter wouldn't get that carried away again. It was just a physical and emotional response, nothing to get upset about, as long as it stopped there, and stayed between them.
Still, how beautiful.
***
Peter went to his own room, shut the door, kicked off his pajama bottoms, lay face down on Nathan's bed, and humped his pillow until it was too sticky and wet to provide any friction.
My God, he thought, rolling over, grabbing his sore, limp dick, pulling on it some more, willing it to work again. My God, what did I do?
He sat up, pulled off his T-shirt, grabbed pajamas and pillow, and shoved all of it into his laundry hamper. He lay back on his bed, burning up, almost feverish, staring at the ceiling. He felt like he was never going to sleep again. He was locked into the memory now, replaying it over and over in his mind; the pleasure of cleaning Nathan's wounds, the pleasure of kissing him and being kissed, telling Nathan to go to bed. Nathan's naked body, crisscrossed with stitches and cuts and scrapes too small to need stitches, the muscles all sharply defined against the skin because Nathan had barely eaten in a month. The genitals as they should be, no more pornographic than those of a statue, except for the sudden realization that it was Nathan's cock, and that it grew and changed and wanted and demanded and penetrated and dripped... that they were Nathan's balls, which no doubt itched and ached like Peter's did, which no doubt were tender like Peter's, which no doubt liked to be held and caressed, like Peter's. That maybe he wanted someone to lick them, soothe them with a tongue, and the desire drove him crazy.
Peter touched himself, and thought about it, and felt sick and delirious and terrible.
"I'm not gay," he whispered at his ceiling. He thought furiously about big breasts and pouty lips with red lipstick and the delicious mystery inside a girl. Only, he had no idea what that felt like. He resolved to find out as soon as possible. Because he wasn't gay. And even if he was (because it was all right to be gay, even though he didn't want to be, and wouldn't he have known before now? but maybe he had... but he liked girls so much, too...) he couldn't think about Nathan like that. Well, he could. He could think about whatever he wanted. But he couldn't do what he'd done ever again...
"I love you," Nathan had whispered, after he'd felt Peter come. He knew it. He knew what Peter had done, and he said it anyway.
The memory of it made Peter come again.
He went to the hamper and grabbed his T-shirt out of it, used it to wipe himself off, then put on his robe and went out into the hall to go to the bathroom. It was very late; he'd been at it for hours and hours. He washed up as quietly as he could, then, on his way back to his room, paused in the hallway and listened.
He heard it again - a faint moaning, coming from Nathan's room.
Peter crept to Nathan's door, and heard it again. Nathan's voice floated out, so distinct that it made Peter jump, thinking he'd been seen. "Not there," Nathan said. "It won't stay."
"Nathan?" Peter called in a whisper. He slipped into the room and stood close to the side of the bed, but still in the shadows.
Nathan gave a soft grunt. He had never drawn the blankets over him, and his head tossed a little on the pillows. His eyes were shut tight. "Capps," Nathan said. "You're the one who wanted to do that." He blew out his breath, his mouth tightening, his left arm jerking up and then slowly lowering again. "It's just a bone. Spit it out." He whimpered, and his left arm twitched again.
Peter shook his head sadly. He wanted to wake Nathan, and even more so wanted to crawl onto the bed next to him and hold him, love the nightmares out of him. But he knew he shouldn't. He didn't know what Nathan was dreaming about, but he knew Nathan's brain needed to replay the scenarios, discarding details and making new ones. It was how healing was done, and most of the time, healing left scars. He had to let Nathan have his.
He went back to his own room, put on fresh pajamas, and fell asleep.
In the morning, he woke up as soon as the alarm went off, and jumped happily out of bed. He hurried through his shower, got dressed, and ran down to the dining room. Already, his mother and Nathan were there, sipping coffee and eating croissants. "Good morning," Peter chirped, pouring himself a cup of coffee before ducking back into the kitchen to tell the cook that he wanted scrambled eggs with Swiss cheese and ketchup. He returned to the table grinning. "Good morning."
"You said that already," Nathan said. He looked tired, but alert and determined. He had put bandages back onto his face.
"Did you sleep okay?" Peter asked.
Nathan blinked, as if slightly bothered by Peter's question. "Fine," he said. "It's a great bed. It's not as good as my old one, but it'll do. I didn't expect to see you up this early."
"You either," Peter replied. "It's not like you have to go to work or anything - you can sleep in." His eggs arrived, and Peter thanked the cook and attacked his food.
"Slow down, Peter, you'll choke," said their mother. "You've got twenty minutes before you have to leave for school; what's your hurry?"
"Can I stay home from school today?" Peter asked.
She scoffed at him. "Why?"
"I want to hang with Nathan today. He needs me. He shouldn't be alone." Peter gazed across the table at Nathan, watching his reaction. Nathan looked sad and scared for a moment, then relaxed and smiled, his eyes softening. Peter smiled back. His guess had been correct. "It's only one day," Peter insisted, turning his eyes on his mother. "I'll call and get all my homework assignments and I'll do 'em all. I just feel like I should stay home today. I haven't seen him for such a long time. Do you mind, Nathan?"
"No," Nathan said huskily, "I don't mind."
Their mother shrugged. "All right," she said. "I'll call for you, just to make sure you don't pull any funny stuff. And then I've got to go to the Cloisters to discuss the New Year's Ball. I'll be gone until afternoon, but I'll return for tea, and Nathan, please order whatever you like for dinner. Your father should be up by ten, and home by dinner as well. Oh, it's so nice to have you back." She stood up and rested her hand on Nathan's shoulder, then leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, instinctively trying to wipe off lipstick she hadn't yet put on. She laughed at herself, and kissed Nathan again, and they shared an embrace. Peter watched them, his chest aching with love. They were a family again; all of them together, for the first time in such a long time. He felt that he would kill or die to keep them together, to give them a chance at happiness. Maybe they could be a normal family now. Maybe Nathan would stop running away.
"Don't let him drink too much coffee," their mother said to Nathan, heading out of the kitchen. "It makes him manic."
"Okay, Ma," Nathan chuckled. "Here, you want my croissant?"
Peter shook his head. "You should eat it. You're too skinny."
Nathan laughed. "What are you, Italian or something?" He winced as all that smiling made his face hurt.
"Eat some eggs with Swiss and ketchup. I'm telling you, it's genius. It's so good. Did you take your pills yet?"
Nathan narrowed his eyes a little. "I took one," he said.
"Okay," Peter said. "That's good. I'm going to make sure you take them regularly today, so you won't have another big flare-up like you did last night. There's no reason why you should be in pain if you're keeping to a regular dosage schedule." Peter got up with his empty plate, and took the half-eaten croissant from Nathan. He kept moving, kept his voice brisk and friendly, not letting on anything. Everything was normal and good, and he was normal and good.
Together they went to the study on the ground floor, and Peter applied himself to his schoolwork while Nathan filled out page after page of official paperwork. Peter's homework was easy - some reading, a couple of math problems, and composing a paragraph on the Louisiana Purchase - and he was done in an hour. "Kicked that ass," Peter said.
"No way are you finished already," Nathan complained. "Let me see that." He took the pages from Peter and examined them carefully. "Well, that's wrong," he said, erasing Peter's pencil marks and writing the correct ones in. "Triangle geometry. I love this stuff... Okay, the rest of this is right. Do you see here - it should be negative one-over-B."
"Oh, right," said Peter. "Okay. You're right."
"And..." Nathan looked at the history paragraph. "Mm, yeah. That's pretty good. It was all about Napoleon's bad deal. Your handwriting is terrible, though."
"Might as well drop out of school," Peter murmured, taking his schoolwork back. "How's your stuff coming?"
Nathan grunted. "It's dull," he admitted. "I already filled out the accident report and my debriefing notes back when I was still in the hospital. This is all just filling out my social security number a bunch of times. It's not due till after the first of the year."
"Well, let's slack," Peter urged. "Do you want to go for a little walk? Get some New York in you? There's a new magazine stand down the street that makes a really good egg cream."
"Sure," Nathan said, with a reluctant, but cheerful smile.
"I gotta remind you how to have fun."
They put on coats and hats and scarves, and went out onto the wintry street. Peter got caught up in the excitement of showing Nathan something new, and he was ten steps ahead before he realized how slowly Nathan was moving. Peter skipped back, trying to be casual, but he linked his arm through Nathan's, and matched his step. "I'm fine," Nathan said. "I'm just kind of spacy. It's more obvious out here, in the daylight."
"It's cool," Peter said. "I'm not going anywhere."
Manhattan blocks are long, and by the time they made it to the newsstand, Nathan was pale and out of breath. Peter ordered two egg creams at the counter, almost sick with anger at himself; just because the injuries on Nathan's skin were superficial didn't mean there weren't internal injuries he still was trying to heal. Of course Nathan didn't complain, but he was clearly in distress. "Chocolate," he said, smiling at Peter. "My favorite."
Peter couldn't hold it in anymore. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have come."
"No, no, no." Nathan shook his head. "It's wonderful. It's all worth it."
"I don't want you to hurt anymore," Peter said miserably.
Nathan sipped his egg cream, and pleasure suffused his face. "God, that's so good. I love a good egg cream. It's good to see you, Peter. I missed you... so much." He gently stroked Peter's eyebrow. "I had a picture of you everywhere I went. But I had it in my pocket when the accident happened, and it got lost. Seeing you again, sitting right in front of me, is just amazing. You've grown up so much."
Peter gazed at him, then shook his head. "Too much, probably."
"We can't be kids forever, Peter. Being a grown-up isn't so bad. I like how you've grown. I like you." Nathan sighed, and slurped down his egg cream. "God damn, I forgot how good these are."
"Told you they were good," Peter said. "I had to share." They stared at each other, sinking into each other's eyes, and Nathan covered Peter's hand with his. Peter turned his hand over, and squeezed Nathan's. "Finish up. You ready to go back?"
"I'm ready."
They returned home, and Nathan took another pill. While they were waiting for lunch to be prepared, Peter said, "I've got something for you. But you have to promise not to lose it." He took off for his room before Nathan had a chance to reply, and came back with his eyes shining and his hands in fists. "Pick a hand," he said.
Nathan tapped the left hand. Peter turned the hand over and opened it. Nathan frowned at it, and Peter explained, "I was going to wait 'til Christmas, but I think I should give it to you now."
"What is it?" Nathan picked up the little carved silver object from Peter's palm. It was about the size of his thumb, a stylized blob with paws and a face and a tail curled around the body. "A monkey?"
"Yeah. It's a macaque. They've got 'em at the Boston Zoo. I bought this for you when I was there this summer."
Nathan was confused. "What is it, a pendant? A Christmas ornament? There's no hole. It's too small to be a paperweight."
"No, it's just a... like a little toy, I guess." Peter blushed, suddenly feeling stupid. "I just thought it was cute. I thought of you. I'll get you a real Christmas present, of course, I just... well, you lost your picture of me."
"Uh, thanks, I guess." Nathan smiled at him, shrugged, and slipped it into his pocket. "You don't look like a monkey or anything."
"Thanks," Peter said, feeling like an idiot.
Nathan put his arm around Peter and kissed him on the side of the head. "Thanks, Pete," he said. "I promise I won't lose it. Now let's go eat - I am officially starving."
Their brief walk in the cold had the effect of making lunch particularly delicious. Nathan ate well, finishing half a sandwich and plenty of soup. "I'm wiped," he said, folding his napkin. "You know what I want to do?"
"What?" Peter polished off his third sandwich, and drank his soup straight from the bowl.
Nathan grinned at him. "I just want to watch TV."
"It's the middle of the day. There's nothing on," Peter said.
"Perfect," Nathan replied. "I just want to watch the pictures."
"Can I watch with you?"
"I was hoping you would. Not soap operas, though. It hasn't gotten that bad yet."
Nathan and Peter at first sat beside each other on the big sofa in the TV room, watching Bass Fishing USA, but gradually they both began to slump until they were lying spooned together, Peter in front facing the television. At the end of one program, before the start of the next one, Peter got up and got a blanket, and covered his and Nathan's feet with it. Nathan resettled his left arm over Peter when Peter lay down again. He was sure that Nathan was drifting off to sleep periodically, depending on how floppy his arm got, but he didn't mind; it was sure better than school. Better, really, than anything else in the world.
"It's three-thirty," Peter announced. "Time for X-Men."
"Cartoons?" Nathan asked with amusement. "Aren't you too old?"
"You're never too old for X-Men. Batman is on after it. They're both really good shows, actually."
"I figured you'd be out of your comic book phase by now."
"Nope," Peter snapped, switching channels. Nathan chuckled, and gave Peter a little hug, and kissed him on the back of the neck. Peter sighed happily, his momentary bad mood vanished. He asked, "Hey... were you having nightmares last night? I got up to go to the bathroom, and I heard you making noises in your sleep."
Nathan hesitated for a moment before answering. "Yeah," he admitted, gently stroking Peter's hair. "I was having the nightmare. There's only one."
"Tell me about it?" Peter asked, kissing Nathan's left wrist, where bandages became skin.
Nathan sighed. "I go back to Rwanda to get my thumb back. They tell me they found the end of my thumb, and that I should come back and they can reattach it. So I fly back there, and I'm happy and excited, and I sit down in a doctor's office and they sew it back on. Or sometimes, when I get there, it's just back. But then, I get ready to go back home, and I can't. I can't leave the country. All the planes are down. No more flights. All the planes are broken, or there's a shooting war happening, or all the computers are down. Something. And I leave one building and try to go get a second opinion, but when I turn around, I can't find the building I just left. And I'm surrounded by dead people. And then the thumb - the part that got cut off - starts to degenerate. My body starts to reject it. It's rotting and stinking and gangrenous and I start to feel really sick, and I realize that I'm going to die if I don't cut it off again, but I just can't. And then I wake up. It's the pain that wakes me."
Peter lay silent, frozen with horror. The nightmare seemed as real to him as though he'd experienced it himself. He felt sick. He took a deep breath, and tried to shake it off.
"I've had some version of that dream every night since I got back to the States," Nathan said, the hand that had been stroking Peter's hair now stopped, and even when Peter nudged him to continue, the hand remained still. Paralyzed. "I can't get out."
"You're not there," Peter whispered intensely, turning over, staring into Nathan's eyes until they focused on him, drawing Nathan out of himself. At the moment of eye contact, Peter gave him a big smile. "You're here. At home. With me. That's not real - this is real."
Wordlessly, Nathan took Peter into his arms and held him tight. Peter hugged back as hard as he dared, harder even, knowing Nathan would say something if he went too far. He could trust Nathan to know. "I love you," Peter said. "This is what's real."
They remained clinging together until their mother came into the room to tell them it was teatime, and even then, separated reluctantly, letting their fingers linger on each other.
***
After dinner, Peter followed Nathan to his room again, without even asking, and shut the door behind them. Nathan went to the bathroom, swallowed a pill and a half, and gave Peter a stern look. "I don't really need help tonight," he said.
Peter didn't budge. "Somebody's got to help you with your thumb."
"The stitches come out day after tomorrow. It's fine. I can almost flex the joint."
"Shut up and let me help you," Peter said.
"Let me put my pajamas on," Nathan said. "In privacy, please."
Peter frowned, taken aback. "Why? It's not like I haven't seen you."
"Maybe I don't want you seeing me right now." Nathan frowned, unable to meet Peter's eyes.
"But - but I have to take a look at your back," Peter insisted. "You've got a lot of stitches there, too, and you can't see 'em. Look, it's fine, okay? I promise I won't molest you. Just let me help you."
Peter went to the other room, and got a fresh pair of pajamas out of the bureau, handing them to Nathan. Slowly, painstakingly, without Peter's help, Nathan took his outer clothes off, and stood in his boxer shorts with his back to Peter. "Your back bled a little today," Peter pointed out. "You're going to scar a little right here..." He lightly traced a line with his fingertip, and Nathan drew in his breath in a hiss. "The stitches kinked. Probably in your sleep. But it's healing up okay." Peter kept tracing, and Nathan drew in his breath again, but this time in a big, long, slow inhale; it felt good, what Peter was doing. Peter tried not to smile, knowing he could be seen in the mirror. "How's that cut on your hip?"
"It looks good; you did a good job."
"Thank you." Peter moved around Nathan and wet some washcloths with water, then some gauze pads with rubbing alcohol. "Pain warning," he said, and dabbed at the kinked stitches with the alcohol pad. Nathan barely reacted at all. "You're tough."
"I'm high," Nathan corrected. "On Percocet." He chuckled. "I miss morphine. It's so elegant. Percocet is more clumsy - it's like a St. Bernard puppy, whereas morphine is more like a jaguar. It just slips in and caresses you and before you know it, you're dead. Percocet more licks the pain off you - big and sloppy."
"Nathan..." Peter cut him off. He was glad that Nathan was facing away from him, so he wouldn't see the painfully hard erection that had sprung up in Peter's trousers. "You should hit that cut up front with some alcohol, too. You do it; it's going to hurt. I'll make some new tape strips." Peter turned away, but he still knew - he still saw out the corner of his eye - Nathan taking off his underwear, the smooth, downy curves of Nathan's bare behind. Peter bit his lip. What did you call "molesting" when the molested didn't mind? At any rate, Peter knew he was going to prove himself a breaker of promises.
"I don't think it needs new tape strips, Pete. It looks really well sealed up."
"Great," said Peter in a strangled voice. "Let's get your thumb and then you can go to bed."
Peter didn't look at Nathan's face as he worked on unwrapping and washing the thumb. "Thanks for helping me, Peter," Nathan murmured. "You take really good care of me. I think I'm going to sleep pretty well tonight."
"Good," Peter said. He couldn't resist kissing the base of the thumb, much less swollen and discolored today. "You deserve it."
Once the wound was dressed again, Nathan went and lay down in bed. Peter drew the covers up over his brother this time, smoothing them across Nathan's body, then climbed onto the bed anyway, over the covers. Nathan laughed, but kissed him across his crooked mouth, and embraced him. "You're not mad at me?" Peter asked.
"No," said Nathan. "Why would I be?"
Peter relaxed in the embrace, and settled down softly alongside, one hand on Nathan's chest, the rest of him in the same posture from the night before.
It was just so comfortable, so right. Peter couldn't help it. He was fractionally more insistent now, no squirming, just a slow but straightforward up-and-down rub, heart pounding furiously, his breathing quiet and heavy.
Nathan sighed, "Any time you want to stop doing that is fine." He didn't sound angry or upset or even longing; he just sounded tired and gentle.
"...I can't stop. Please don't be mad. I need you."
"Peter... I'm... I'm not mad."
Peter felt his heart skip with happiness, a muscle in his groin fluttering in response, giving him a good hard squeeze of ecstasy that vanished as soon as it had come. He sighed with frustrated joy. It wasn't even close to approaching enough. It might not ever be enough. "So... it's fine if that time is never, is what you're saying," he murmured, trying to be clever, but the thickened, growling tone of his own voice turned him on even more.
Nathan laughed ruefully, lazily. "Go to bed, Peter. I'm kicking you out."
Peter knew he had to leave then, or he'd never leave. He stood up, and walked to the doorway, then paused and stared at the still figure in the bed. "You didn't say no," he said wonderingly.
Nathan rolled his eyes and looked away, and turned over, turning his back to Peter. "Good night," he insisted.
Peter went back to his room, undressed, and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he didn't feel worse, why he didn't feel ashamed or sickened or guilty. Why most of what he felt was wonder, delight, the thrill of a challenge, the comfort of belonging.
Nathan hadn't said no or never or don't or we can't. And as long as Nathan was okay with it, it was okay with him - no, better than okay - it was everything he had ever wanted, it was everything in the world that made sense and didn't make sense. It was Faith. It was Love. It was his.
end part (16)
A/N: This story is partially inspired by Adrian Pasdar's various injuries which have given him such fascinating scars, which have not as yet been used as part of Nathan Petrelli's storyline. But why waste 'em? And I'm sure that having a part of a finger cut off doesn't hurt as much as I make it sound, but when you've got a bunch of little injuries, the biggest one seems ten times worse. Also, Nathan's kind of a softie, which we all know. ^_^ ... Obviously, this seems somewhat incomplete, but it really is only the beginning, and they spend the next eleven years trying to figure out what's going on... Thank you again for reading.