Fic - Ritual (13): Gratitude, part one
Title: Ritual (13): Gratitude (1/3)
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, power/pain play, alcohol use, angst, language
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: During the Thanksgiving holiday, Peter and Nathan struggle to communicate with each other. Their tangled web of fear, desire, and love threatens to tear them apart, but instead holds the key to keeping them together. Written for the heroes_bigboom Challenge. Completely off the rails. ^_^
Illustration by deani-bean! Check it out - it makes me go all tingly...
Part One
--
TEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
The Petrellis did holidays.
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, all of the immediate family converged at the house on the Upper West Side, and did things together as a family - dinners, parties at the homes of friends, outings to the theater, and the like - for five or six days at Thanksgiving, and usually the nine days surrounding Christmas and New Year's Day.
Once upon a time, when he was little, it had been Peter's favorite time of year. Presents and chocolates and lights, and everyone together - and Nathan would be there, and that was really all that mattered. Nathan made Mom and Dad so happy, and it was nice to have him as the center of attention, not to mention the fact that it was Nathan, and Nathan made everything better. A day without Nathan was like a day without sunshine, and Peter had spent so much of his childhood under dark and gloomy skies.
But as Peter grew up, and was able to better understand the adult interactions that he witnessed, he found it harder and harder to enjoy himself at the holidays. Sometimes he didn't want to be trapped into being around his parents almost 24 hours a day, for days at a time, doing whatever they wanted to do. They never asked Peter what he wanted.
Not that he exactly knew what that was... nothing he could tell anybody about, anyway.
For a couple of pleasant childhood years, Nathan and Peter would break away for an afternoon and go do something on their own that was more fun - the zoo, a movie, playing catch in the park while Mom wrapped presents - but by the time Peter was sixteen, Nathan seemed to prefer staying home with Mom and Dad, talking about boring grownup stuff like politics and lawyer gossip. If Peter tried to join in the conversation, they would cut him down and shut him up. He spent as much time as he could alone in his room playing video games, reading books or comics, or just thinking. (Masturbating was out of the question; Mom seemed to have a sixth sense about it and always barged in when he wanted to have some "alone time" at the holidays, which just added to his frustration.) And if Peter tried to leave, Mom would make him "participate," which took the form of having him sit there while she and Dad grilled him about every little thing he was doing, then being dismissive of whatever he said. Of course. And Nathan would just shrug at him, as if to say, You have to admit, you're pretty lame, dude.
The whole concept of "the holidays" was an artificial construct, and Peter felt like he was the only one who noticed how fake it all was.
Peter hoped that the holidays would get better once he graduated from high school. But they didn't, really.
He hoped that he'd get some more respect once he moved out, and started looking after his own money and his own school. That was a wash-out, too.
He hoped (desperately) that things would get better once Nathan got married. They did, a little bit, for a while. Nathan's wife, Heidi, was ferociously smart and self-assured, and she held her own, coming in to this close-knit family. But sometimes even she got intimidated and a little lost. And Peter was someone non-threatening and open-minded she could talk to. Well... at first, she needed their conversations, and it was nice for Peter to feel like he had an ally in the house. Once Simon was born, though, that was that. She lost interest in standing up for Peter; if she felt tense, she could just pay attention to her baby, and no one could possibly fault her for doing that. It was a very "family" thing to do.
And Peter just sat by the fireplace, not listening, thinking about other places, other things to do and be.
Thinking about how he could get Nathan alone for a moment, wondering if Nathan would be willing, or if he'd just be a jerk for the pleasure of self-denial, self-discipline; the pleasure of believing himself to be in control.
That was all right with Peter; smashing Nathan's illusions to pieces gave Peter quite a bit of pleasure, too.
Peter was a Petrelli, after all.
~~~~~
WEDNESDAY.
Peter stood in the kitchen of his apartment, drinking the potato-leek soup made by the weird vegan Montessori teacher who lived at the end of the hall, which she gave to her neighbors for free because she always made too much. Most of the other neighbors wouldn't touch it, but Peter was desperate. For days, Peter had been living on the stuff, and he was sick to death of it; he had just barely enough money to cover his electric bill this month, and his refrigerator was empty of all but some packets of Chinese mustard. But that was life, sometimes. Not everybody had enough money to pay for everything they needed, and at least he had a warm place to sleep, and something to eat, even if it was about as appetizing as wallpaper paste. Living on his own in Manhattan, even if his rent was being paid by someone else, was almost impossible on what he made.
But he was making it. Badly, sure; clumsily, at times painfully, but he was making it.
He rummaged around in a cupboard and shook some lemon pepper into the soup. His cellphone rang, startling him and causing him to dump in about three times as much lemon pepper as he'd meant to use. Peter set down the bowl and picked up the phone, scowling at the speckled mess, knowing that he had no choice but to eat it anyway. "This is Peter," he answered heavily.
"Aw, cheer up. It's almost Thanksgiving."
"Hey, Nathan," Peter replied, sadly stirring the soup. "I just wrecked my dinner."
Nathan made a sympathetic tutting sound. "Awww. Let me take you out and get you something."
"There isn't time," Peter said. "I gotta be at work in an hour and a half. You're at home, right?"
"No, I'm still at the office. I was just leaving. Let me at least take you out and get you a hot dog or something."
"A hot dog? I'm a vegetarian, Nathan."
"Seriously. Come downstairs, and I'll meet you at your door. I'll get you something you can eat on the way. No arguments, Pete."
"Okay, whatever," said Peter, hanging up, but breathing a sigh of relief. He took an experimental sip of the soup - it was even worse than before, however lemony and peppery - before pouring it out. He hadn't bothered to take off his boots and scarf after getting home from class, so all he needed was his coat, stocking cap, and his messenger bag, and he was ready.
He only had to wait a few minutes before Nathan screeched to a stop in the middle of the street, across a line of parked cars, immediately bringing an angry chorus of car horns from the vehicles suddenly stuck behind him. Peter hustled over a ridge of dirty, half-frozen plowed snow, and slid into the passenger seat. "Hey, thanks," he said, pressed back into his seat by Nathan's abrupt acceleration, only to be jerked forward as Nathan stopped at a red light, and tossed around some more as the car turned a corner. Nathan's driving only seemed reckless; he had extensive defensive-driving skills and superb reflexes, and he drove for pleasure, not out of necessity.
"Whaddya want to eat?" Nathan asked calmly.
"I can get a slice at this place that's right around the corner from work - you can just drop me there. I know you don't want to actually drive up to my work - somebody might see you," Peter teased.
In the driver's seat, Nathan made a face like he could smell the huddled masses just by thinking about them. "You're still at the East Lang Center?" he asked with thinly veiled distaste.
"Yeah, I'd have told you if I switched jobs."
"They still got you on delousing duty?"
Peter hesitated for a moment, controlling a quick spark of anger before replying. "We don't bathe people, Nathan; they can usually do it themselves. If they can't, most of the time they don't make it to a shelter; they tend to just die in the streets."
"Or stand next to me on the sidewalk." Nathan shook his head dubiously. "Well, what exactly do you do there again?"
Peter sighed; he'd had to explain this about ten times since he'd started working at the shelter. "I greet the residents as they come in, get their name and place of origin, outside contact info, and any medical information, and tell I them the score. And then I have a bunch of maintenance, kitchen work, and paperwork to do, too, but I end up spending a lot of time just talking to the guys. Almost all of them are really grateful to me for talking to them like they're human beings - when you're homeless, you don't get a lot of that."
"I can't imagine why."
"They only get two nights," Peter said, staring out the side window; the snow had started to fall again, in tiny, frozen, icy bits instead of flakes. "Can you even believe that? In this kinda weather. I see the same guys over and over again, and once they stay five times, they can't come back until the end of the season. Like anybody's going to be homeless for just ten days. Almost nobody's that lucky, not at East Lang. Tonight, I'm sure I'm going to have to send a couple dozen guys away, and hope they didn't already fill their quota at the Spelling, or the New Methodist, because otherwise, if they want a warm place to sleep, it's best to try to get arrested. Not too hard to do; just take a dump on the subway platform, or snatch somebody's purse, and hope you don't get maced or shot. Your tax dollars at work, Nathan. Did you know it used to be a three-day limit, but the city voted to cut that to give tax breaks to people like Dad? And that Spelling is starting to turn men away, because they have so many women, and so many little kids?"
"So are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?" Nathan said, as though Peter had just been talking about something he saw on TV. "It's the big kick-off. We're having dinner at home, and then drinks and late supper at the Coopers'."
Peter had been about to launch into his usual tirade about Nathan's thoughtlessness, but instead he laughed and put his hand to his forehead. "The Coopers," he echoed, his mind now somewhere else entirely. "Oh, man. I wonder if they still have that bathroom."
"I'm pretty sure they do."
"Do you remember?" Peter asked, his voice suddenly childlike, playful, vulnerable. Like a melody - three words that encapsulated so much longing, such profound sensations. The touch, the taste, the kiss, the sight, the violation, the promise. Open me... hold me... trust me. With us forever, no matter what.
"Of course I remember," Nathan replied dryly. "Anyway, Mom says to be home at five."
Peter, snapped out of his sensual nostalgia, suddenly frowned and shook his head. "I can't," he said. "I've got to work. It's a really heavy time of year."
"You don't have the night off?" Nathan said incredulously. "It's Thanksgiving. It's a federal holiday."
"No," Peter replied, with a confused and hurt tone. "What would you think if they closed the hospitals on the holidays? Anyway, you guys can do without me this year."
"It's not about that, Peter."
"You can do without me," Peter insisted, raising his voice. "I'd just sit there, anyway, waiting to..." A laugh broke his sentence. "Get you alone for a second."
Nathan frowned. "I'm telling you, it's not about that. Mom would flip. You can't miss Thanksgiving dinner, especially since we're invited guests. All of us are. You know how that would look?"
"Like I'm fucking working for a living. Is that so fucking wrong? I need the money, okay?"
"Stop cussing so fucking much, Pete. Do you talk like that at work? Look, I'll pay you whatever wages you're missing; it can't be that much. Because you have to be there for this whole weekend. Seriously."
Peter threw his head back and stared at the ceiling of the car, taking a deep breath. "Look, people need me. These guys have no one else."
"You've got co-workers. Get someone to cover for you. Call in sick if you need to, but you'd better show up to dinner tomorrow night. And you'd better be clean-shaven, too, and get a haircut if you've got time. You should wear your Prada suit; you look good in that. It still fits, doesn't it?"
Truthfully, the suit didn't fit all that well anymore, even though it had been tailored, since Peter had lost so much weight in the last year, courtesy of his irregular eating schedule. Peter sighed. "Maybe I just don't want to go. I hate the Coopers."
"Have you ever considered the fact that it's not about whether or not you want to go?" Nathan asked. "This is family, Peter. I hate the Coopers, too, but... they're friends of Dad's."
"Because he makes sure they can keep laundering money," Peter replied, shaking his head.
It was Nathan's turn to sigh. "They have a shell company; it's not money-laundering, Peter."
"No, it's semantics."
"Do you even know what that means?" Nathan said, his standard response whenever Peter used a word that impressed him.
As usual, Peter was irritated by it. "Nathan, I'm twenty-five. I've been to college, okay? I took women's studies. I know what 'semantics' means. Do I ever. I wrote a paper on the semantics of the term 'chick', for God's sake."
Nathan almost smiled. He hadn't looked at Peter once on the whole drive, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove fast through the snowy, icy downtown streets with easy grace and total confidence. "Just show up, and grin and bear it, Peter. When Mom and Dad are gone, you'll be glad you spent time with them. It's not about what you want; it's about what's important. Please. Please, okay. I'm begging."
"Begging, huh," Peter echoed softly, chuckling, his voice now quiet and intimate. Thinking about something else yet again. "Supper at the Coopers'. Crap. I'm gonna have to get really drunk to deal with that."
"That's okay; just keep a martini glass in your mouth, and smile and nod. That's all anybody expects. You might just pleasantly surprise Dad if you take that tactic. There'll be a lot of other families there, too. I'm sure at least one of them has a hot daughter your age; you never know. You might get lucky."
Nathan had pulled to a stop outside a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, its blue-and-red neon OPEN sign a bright light in an otherwise grim, half-boarded-over building façade; and when he turned to Peter, the soft two-color glow played along the smooth, elegant angles of Nathan's face, illuminating his deep, dark eyes. Without even thinking of what he was doing, Peter reached out his hand and traced the bow-like curve of Nathan's upper lip. "Will you find me?" Peter whispered.
Nathan took Peter's hand and kissed the caressing fingertips, then held Peter's hand to his chin and gazed at Peter from under his long eyelashes. He looked so ridiculously beautiful that it nearly took Peter's breath away. "There probably won't be time, Peter," Nathan said, his voice pinched with regret. "Too many people there." Peter pulled his hand back, smiled nervously, and tucked the trailing edge of his hair behind his ear. Nathan insisted, "Pete... okay? Five o'clock?"
"Do you love me for real?" Peter asked, not looking at his brother.
"Yeah," Nathan replied, nodding. "Yeah. For real."
"If there's a hot babe there, could you... please send her to me when you're done with her?" He looked up, and gave Nathan a crooked, uncertain smile.
Nathan laughed gently, squeezing Peter's shoulder with his fingers, then patting him. "Five o'clock, Peter. Be on time. And get your hair cut, okay?" He reached into his wallet, and flicked Peter a twenty-dollar bill. "Go get your slice. And just think... Thanksgiving dinner. Looks like you could use it; you're way too skinny."
"I won't eat all day, I can guarantee you that," Peter replied, picking up the twenty and realizing that he could buy three or four slices, with it, five if they were plain cheese. At least he wouldn't go hungry tonight. He pocketed the money, then leaned over and kissed Nathan quickly on the lips. "Thanks."
"Wear that green knitted silk tie Mom got you for your birthday - it really brings out your eyes."
"All right, Queer Eye." Peter opened the door and slid out onto the sidewalk. He grinned, feeling optimistic for a change.
"Don't ever call me that in public." Nathan got in the last word, slammed the door behind Peter, and sped off in a burst of kicked-up slush that soaked the legs of Peter's jeans, and dampened his optimism along with them.
As if that weren't bad enough, the price of a slice of pizza had gone up to $4.50 since Peter had last been in a few weeks ago. Peter sat alone at the counter with one cheese slice, one veggie combo slice, and a watery Coke, feeling the knowledge sink into him that he'd just been manipulated. Again. And now he had to go in to work and tell his supervisor that he couldn't work what promised to be one of the heaviest intake nights of the year, because his Mommy wanted him to come to Thanksgiving dinner. It was so painfully bourgeois that it ruined Peter's appetite, and he took his cheese slice in to work and gave it to the first homeless guy he saw.
~~~~~
THURSDAY.
"Peter, you're late."
Peter slid quickly into his chair at the table, set with what was, in Angela Petrelli's mind, a light dinner - about ten different plates of crepes, cheeses, olives, bread, onion soup, and pastries, with the requisite elegant centrepiece of fresh flowers and beeswax candles. "Well, the 6 line was late because of the snow... plus holiday schedule... so it's kind of amazing that I got here this early." Peter sneaked a glance at his cell phone; it was six minutes after five. He gave a pained smile. The usual. Being anything more than five minutes late invited commentary.
Peter's mother waved her hand dismissively. "You shouldn't bother with the subway when the weather's like this. You should have just gotten a taxi-"
"I'm flat broke, Ma."
Peter's father rolled his eyes and sighed. Angela sounded hurt. "I'd have covered it; you know that."
Peter shook his head and stared at the table. "Anyway, I'm here."
"It's nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, smiling at him.
"Thank you," Peter replied, knowing that he sounded bitchy, and not caring. He smiled back at Heidi. "It's nice to see you, too. Where're Simon and Monty?"
"They're at home, with Mandy," Heidi explained. "Simon has a cold. They'll be here tomorrow."
"No way can they escape that," Peter said under his breath.
"Shall we say Grace, then?" Angela said, in a loud, cheerful voice, as if to drown out the lingering rasp of Peter's voice. Everyone sat up straight, and, almost as one gesture, linked their fingers together in front of them on the table. This was the only time of year that Angela showed even a flicker of religious sentiment, but Grace before meals was part of their holiday tradition, started before Peter was born, probably for the purpose of impressing some long-forgotten visitor. Fucking fake-ass holidays, Peter thought, even that pretty little religious gesture making him bitter. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out his tension, trying to relax and just accept the Now, then opened them again as Angela began the brief prayer.
Everyone had their eyes closed, except Nathan.
Nathan's eyes were focused intently on Peter.
"Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts..."
Peter and Nathan watched each other across the table, breathing in sync, for a brief moment all defenses gone. Peter cocked his head slightly and glanced down at Nathan's mouth, then back to his eyes, asking a subtle and complex question. Nathan knitted his brow just a fraction, his eyes going soft and sad. Then, looking back fully into Peter's eyes, he seemed to draw from an internal well of strength and determination, squaring his shoulders and giving a subtle nod. Peter smiled, feeling that they shared the same thought, that they were supernaturally intertwined.
I am here, and I see you, oh yes, and I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too, I know what you're feeling... me too... for this moment, we are the only two people in this room, the only two people in the world, right now it's just you and me, and only we could ever understand. Our secret, our beautiful, horrible secret.
"Amen."
"Amen," came the answering chorus. Nathan immediately broke the gaze and busied himself with his place setting. Peter looked rapidly around the table. His parents and Heidi opened their eyes, shattering the moment of quiet and calm and connectedness, yanking Peter back into this unpleasant "reality" where he was alone, he couldn't read minds, and Nathan was all the way across the table and didn't want him, not really, not right now. Nathan shook out his napkin into his lap, and the maid appeared out of nowhere and began pouring wine into their glasses.
It was like the moment had never happened. At times like this, Peter wondered whether he was actually delusional, and he was dreaming up all of this, and nothing he had experienced privately with Nathan had ever been real. How could it be?
But it had to be. Peter was a Petrelli, and he knew he wasn't crazy. Well, a little crazy, maybe - but not wrong.
"Thank you, Augustine, that will be all for now. Serve yourselves as you like," their mother said. "The Coopers will be having a full catered buffet, so you just need something to keep your strength up till then."
"What's in the crepes?" Peter asked.
"They are prosciutto and morel, and masala chicken with apple chutney."
"So..." Peter said, then didn't continue; frowning, he got up and put some cheese, bread, and olives on his plate.
"What is it, Peter?" his mother asked, laughing faintly in genuine confusion.
"He's a vegetarian," Nathan said with distaste, sliding a few crepes onto a plate and handing it to Heidi. She thanked him prettily and smiled.
Angela gave an aggrieved sigh. "Oh, that's right... I'm so sorry; I completely forgot. There've just been so many other things on my mind this year-" To Peter's ears, she sounded more annoyed than apologetic.
"You managed to completely forget something that's been a fact for years?" Peter said. "For something that's supposed to be this huge deal? That's not like you, Ma. You got it right last year, somehow. Who's on your list to impress this year?"
"Hey, cut it out. You're giving me indigestion before I even have a chance to eat," his father interrupted. "Peter, please just save it, okay? Forgive your mother for not bending over backwards to remember every tiny detail of your lifestyle. If you don't want it, don't eat it. If you had bothered to call your mother yesterday, you could have told her to have Overton make you something vegetarian. You've got plenty to eat right there; I suggest you eat it."
"How are the cases treating you, Dad?" Nathan segued in effortlessly, without missing a beat, as if just continuing on with the conversation already in progress. Heidi gazed at Nathan with open affection and respect, as though she would have liked nothing better than to kiss him for being so wonderful, and Angela daintily took one of the prosciutto crepes onto her plate and ladled up a cup of soup. Peter sullenly made little sandwiches with cheese and bread, and washed them down with gulps of wine.
Just drink. Just drink.
"...And how is work treating you, Peter?"
"What?" Peter zoned back in, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of bread and sipping his water.
Heidi smiled brightly and patiently at him. "How is work treating you?" she asked him again. "You work at a downtown homeless shelter, right? I think that's very admirable. I think that's part of civic duty." She looked at Nathan. "Don't you think so, honey?"
"It's a very rough job," Nathan offered.
"She wasn't asking you, Nathan," Peter replied, giving Nathan a pointed look. He turned back to Heidi and tried not to look at his parents, who were watching with sudden interest. "It's treating me... okay," Peter continued. "I agree with you. I think it is important."
"She didn't say it was important, Pete," Nathan broke in. "She said it was admirable."
Peter just stared at him for a moment, and then looked at Nathan's wine glass. It was untouched - so he wasn't being nasty because he was drunk. There was something else going on. Peter's mind spun, trying to keep his bearings while he figured out what it was. "It really is a very hard job, even though there's nothing really to it. There's something about... seeing all those people come in, and hearing their stories, and giving them... something. It's inadequate. Trying to give them as much as we can, even if we don't have a lot. Wishing we could... y'know... give some more. Get some more people in there. It's really cold outside."
Heidi nodded in agreement. "I'm sure it's very difficult."
"It's the wrong job for somebody like you," said his father.
"What?" Peter said, stunned.
"He's right, Peter," Angela added, looking up at him through the candles. "You're too sensitive for a place like that."
"I've been doing it for three months," Peter said, his voice going quieter. He just couldn't find the words to express how he felt, what he'd seen. He knew he sounded weak and vague. "It's fine. I can handle it. It's part of my school, kind of. I see a lot of... sick and injured people... under a lot of... really severe conditions..." His voice finally trailed away into nothing.
"Nursing school," said his father, sighing and shaking his head. "I suppose."
"Fuck you," Peter whispered.
"Peter." Angela spoke with quiet menace. "Don't speak to your father that way."
"Sorry, Dad, I'm sure you've never heard anything that crude before in your life."
"Peter! Do you need to go outside?" Angela demanded.
Peter laughed soundlessly, shrugged, and took another swallow of his wine. "No," he said after a long pause, and then speaking in an exaggeratedly stupid voice, "no, I don't need to go outside; I'm housebroken." His face burned red with anger and embarrassment, ashamed that he'd risen to Nathan's bait so easily. "Sorry. I just have low blood sugar right now, is all."
"Well, eat!" Peter's father said, grunting impatiently. "Low blood sugar. Low 'respect and common sense' is more like it."
"It is admirable that you're doing something about the city's homeless problem, Peter," his mother interrupted in a much gentler tone of voice. "I just don't think you have to stay in the same position there if you don't want to. You could easily be working in a city council office, working with the city on increasing funding for your projects. It's very Horatio Alger of you to want to start from the bottom and work your way up, but you're twenty-five years old; it's time you did better for yourself."
"I don't want to work in a city council office," Peter said. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I could have gotten a job there. But I'm in school during the day, and most of the weekend; the hours don't work. East Lang's better than working at Starbucks. Sure, it's hard, but that's okay. At least I'm helping people. I just... want to help."
"Of course you do," Angela said comfortingly. "That's my good boy. You always
want to do the right thing."
"Thanks, Ma."
"I just don't think this is the way to go about it," said Nathan.
Peter snapped, "Yeah, but who else is going to do it?"
"Somebody else. Peter, have you even asked for a promotion?" Nathan asked.
"I've only been there three months!"
"I asked for a promotion at my job after three months," Nathan pointed out, "and I got it. You've gotta ask for what you want. At the very least."
"Sometimes I do," Peter said, quiet again, letting his eyes lose focus until the candle flames merged into a bright, dancing blur, a curtain of fire between him and his brother. "That doesn't mean I get it."
Nathan seemed unaffected by the softening of Peter's voice. "That doesn't mean that you shouldn't ask. And keep asking. And if you're told 'no'... figure out a way around it." He looked calm and smug and wickedly handsome, thoroughly enjoying himself.
"I think I know exactly what you mean," Peter replied, focusing and narrowing his eyes. He shook his head, glaring at Nathan. "And I think maybe none of you are actually listening to what I'm saying."
"He doesn't want a promotion, Nathan, leave him alone," Angela cut in. "Can we please behave ourselves? You're an awful bully sometimes. Be nice to your brother. It's the holidays. Now. The Coopers are also celebrating a new boat they just got, down in Miami. I'm sure there'll be photographs, so prepare yourselves. But I sneaked a glance at the guest list, and there'll be quite a few notables there, including some people you don't yet know, Nathan, but you should..."
Peter sat silent for a while, drinking wine and eating bread and olives, only half listening to his mother listing off the names of prominent families. He excused himself with a few tell-tale glances toward the kitchen, through which a restroom was located. No one watched him as he left, and he took the opportunity to turn instead into the front room, heading for the winding staircase.
His bedroom had been completely re-done when he left, as had Nathan's, and was now just another spare bedroom, every detail immaculate and untouched like something out of a catalog. It was creepy to see the same dimensions, but to have every other thing about the room changed. He sat on the floor next to the bed and sighed, wondering how he was going to get through the next few days if his composure was breaking so badly already. He found it easier to breathe, now that he was out of the dining room, away from the smothering combination of Mom's energy and Dad's energy and Nathan's energy, and Heidi just smiling and watching it all go on without turning a hair... She was more one of them than Peter was.
"Pete."
Nathan stood in the doorway. Peter looked up, then dropped his eyes and shook
his head again, sighing impatiently. "What?"
"Were you planning on... coming back downstairs?" Nathan asked.
"What, are they asking for me?"
"No," Nathan said. "I just figured I'd go look for you before they did."
"Of course they weren't asking for me... because why would they?"
"Peter, come on. Don't sulk. You have to get over that tendency."
"I'm not sulking," Peter replied, "I'm saving my sanity. You people exist to fuck with my head."
"That's right, Peter," Nathan said with mock-patience. "The whole world is about you."
Peter held out his hands. "Look, I just want to make a difference. Why are you riding me about it?"
"The job is wrong for you. Look at what it's done to you - you're on edge like I've almost never seen you before. If working there was right, you wouldn't feel the need to justify it so constantly... and you wouldn't have lost twenty pounds."
"It's only ten. I needed to lose it, anyway."
"What, so we could see through you? C'mon." Nathan held out his hand to Peter, and Peter stood up, but without Nathan's help. "I just want you to be okay. We all just want you to be okay; we love you."
"Then let me do what I'm doing, would you? Look, I'm not crazy about the fact that you're a lawyer, but I wouldn't ask you not to do it."
"What's the matter with being a lawyer? Don't tell me you're one of those people. That's called prejudice, and in principle, I think you're supposed to be opposed to that."
"Nathan, I'm serious." Peter stared pleadingly into his brother's eyes. "Leave it alone."
"Do you promise to keep your mouth shut about it tonight? Maybe just talk about the bowl games? You did watch the games, didn't you?" Nathan asked.
"I don't have a TV," Peter confessed. "I did listen to Detroit/Indianapolis on the radio this afternoon, but I was studying and getting ready, so I probably missed some details."
"Well, you can get filled in on it tonight, I'm sure."
"That'd be great, if I cared. Fuck the Colts. Look - I don't need your protection. And no, this is not a negotiating session. We are not engaged in trade. You - stay out of it." Peter offered him a tight smile. "That's it. My life. Mine. Do you get it?"
Nathan stood silent for a moment, arching his eyebrow, then blinked innocently, as if wondering what the big deal was. "Just come back downstairs. I won't talk about it anymore," Nathan said. "You heard what I had to say."
"Yeah, you cornered me. Real compassionate." Peter just stared at him for a moment. "Are you mad at me about something?"
Nathan sighed. "I'm frustrated with you, that's all. I'm frustrated about you. I don't know what to do about you."
"Don't do anything," Peter replied, walking out of the bedroom. He leaned in close to Nathan, and said in an angry whisper, "I'm not a child, and I'm not your toy. Quit playing with me. You want to actually talk with me, instead of at me, I'll be around. Now go sit next to your adoring wife."
Nathan stood at the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and watched Peter go before he followed.
********
Part Two
Part Three
--
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, power/pain play, alcohol use, angst, language
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: During the Thanksgiving holiday, Peter and Nathan struggle to communicate with each other. Their tangled web of fear, desire, and love threatens to tear them apart, but instead holds the key to keeping them together. Written for the heroes_bigboom Challenge. Completely off the rails. ^_^
Illustration by deani-bean! Check it out - it makes me go all tingly...
Part One
--
TEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
The Petrellis did holidays.
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, all of the immediate family converged at the house on the Upper West Side, and did things together as a family - dinners, parties at the homes of friends, outings to the theater, and the like - for five or six days at Thanksgiving, and usually the nine days surrounding Christmas and New Year's Day.
Once upon a time, when he was little, it had been Peter's favorite time of year. Presents and chocolates and lights, and everyone together - and Nathan would be there, and that was really all that mattered. Nathan made Mom and Dad so happy, and it was nice to have him as the center of attention, not to mention the fact that it was Nathan, and Nathan made everything better. A day without Nathan was like a day without sunshine, and Peter had spent so much of his childhood under dark and gloomy skies.
But as Peter grew up, and was able to better understand the adult interactions that he witnessed, he found it harder and harder to enjoy himself at the holidays. Sometimes he didn't want to be trapped into being around his parents almost 24 hours a day, for days at a time, doing whatever they wanted to do. They never asked Peter what he wanted.
Not that he exactly knew what that was... nothing he could tell anybody about, anyway.
For a couple of pleasant childhood years, Nathan and Peter would break away for an afternoon and go do something on their own that was more fun - the zoo, a movie, playing catch in the park while Mom wrapped presents - but by the time Peter was sixteen, Nathan seemed to prefer staying home with Mom and Dad, talking about boring grownup stuff like politics and lawyer gossip. If Peter tried to join in the conversation, they would cut him down and shut him up. He spent as much time as he could alone in his room playing video games, reading books or comics, or just thinking. (Masturbating was out of the question; Mom seemed to have a sixth sense about it and always barged in when he wanted to have some "alone time" at the holidays, which just added to his frustration.) And if Peter tried to leave, Mom would make him "participate," which took the form of having him sit there while she and Dad grilled him about every little thing he was doing, then being dismissive of whatever he said. Of course. And Nathan would just shrug at him, as if to say, You have to admit, you're pretty lame, dude.
The whole concept of "the holidays" was an artificial construct, and Peter felt like he was the only one who noticed how fake it all was.
Peter hoped that the holidays would get better once he graduated from high school. But they didn't, really.
He hoped that he'd get some more respect once he moved out, and started looking after his own money and his own school. That was a wash-out, too.
He hoped (desperately) that things would get better once Nathan got married. They did, a little bit, for a while. Nathan's wife, Heidi, was ferociously smart and self-assured, and she held her own, coming in to this close-knit family. But sometimes even she got intimidated and a little lost. And Peter was someone non-threatening and open-minded she could talk to. Well... at first, she needed their conversations, and it was nice for Peter to feel like he had an ally in the house. Once Simon was born, though, that was that. She lost interest in standing up for Peter; if she felt tense, she could just pay attention to her baby, and no one could possibly fault her for doing that. It was a very "family" thing to do.
And Peter just sat by the fireplace, not listening, thinking about other places, other things to do and be.
Thinking about how he could get Nathan alone for a moment, wondering if Nathan would be willing, or if he'd just be a jerk for the pleasure of self-denial, self-discipline; the pleasure of believing himself to be in control.
That was all right with Peter; smashing Nathan's illusions to pieces gave Peter quite a bit of pleasure, too.
Peter was a Petrelli, after all.
~~~~~
WEDNESDAY.
Peter stood in the kitchen of his apartment, drinking the potato-leek soup made by the weird vegan Montessori teacher who lived at the end of the hall, which she gave to her neighbors for free because she always made too much. Most of the other neighbors wouldn't touch it, but Peter was desperate. For days, Peter had been living on the stuff, and he was sick to death of it; he had just barely enough money to cover his electric bill this month, and his refrigerator was empty of all but some packets of Chinese mustard. But that was life, sometimes. Not everybody had enough money to pay for everything they needed, and at least he had a warm place to sleep, and something to eat, even if it was about as appetizing as wallpaper paste. Living on his own in Manhattan, even if his rent was being paid by someone else, was almost impossible on what he made.
But he was making it. Badly, sure; clumsily, at times painfully, but he was making it.
He rummaged around in a cupboard and shook some lemon pepper into the soup. His cellphone rang, startling him and causing him to dump in about three times as much lemon pepper as he'd meant to use. Peter set down the bowl and picked up the phone, scowling at the speckled mess, knowing that he had no choice but to eat it anyway. "This is Peter," he answered heavily.
"Aw, cheer up. It's almost Thanksgiving."
"Hey, Nathan," Peter replied, sadly stirring the soup. "I just wrecked my dinner."
Nathan made a sympathetic tutting sound. "Awww. Let me take you out and get you something."
"There isn't time," Peter said. "I gotta be at work in an hour and a half. You're at home, right?"
"No, I'm still at the office. I was just leaving. Let me at least take you out and get you a hot dog or something."
"A hot dog? I'm a vegetarian, Nathan."
"Seriously. Come downstairs, and I'll meet you at your door. I'll get you something you can eat on the way. No arguments, Pete."
"Okay, whatever," said Peter, hanging up, but breathing a sigh of relief. He took an experimental sip of the soup - it was even worse than before, however lemony and peppery - before pouring it out. He hadn't bothered to take off his boots and scarf after getting home from class, so all he needed was his coat, stocking cap, and his messenger bag, and he was ready.
He only had to wait a few minutes before Nathan screeched to a stop in the middle of the street, across a line of parked cars, immediately bringing an angry chorus of car horns from the vehicles suddenly stuck behind him. Peter hustled over a ridge of dirty, half-frozen plowed snow, and slid into the passenger seat. "Hey, thanks," he said, pressed back into his seat by Nathan's abrupt acceleration, only to be jerked forward as Nathan stopped at a red light, and tossed around some more as the car turned a corner. Nathan's driving only seemed reckless; he had extensive defensive-driving skills and superb reflexes, and he drove for pleasure, not out of necessity.
"Whaddya want to eat?" Nathan asked calmly.
"I can get a slice at this place that's right around the corner from work - you can just drop me there. I know you don't want to actually drive up to my work - somebody might see you," Peter teased.
In the driver's seat, Nathan made a face like he could smell the huddled masses just by thinking about them. "You're still at the East Lang Center?" he asked with thinly veiled distaste.
"Yeah, I'd have told you if I switched jobs."
"They still got you on delousing duty?"
Peter hesitated for a moment, controlling a quick spark of anger before replying. "We don't bathe people, Nathan; they can usually do it themselves. If they can't, most of the time they don't make it to a shelter; they tend to just die in the streets."
"Or stand next to me on the sidewalk." Nathan shook his head dubiously. "Well, what exactly do you do there again?"
Peter sighed; he'd had to explain this about ten times since he'd started working at the shelter. "I greet the residents as they come in, get their name and place of origin, outside contact info, and any medical information, and tell I them the score. And then I have a bunch of maintenance, kitchen work, and paperwork to do, too, but I end up spending a lot of time just talking to the guys. Almost all of them are really grateful to me for talking to them like they're human beings - when you're homeless, you don't get a lot of that."
"I can't imagine why."
"They only get two nights," Peter said, staring out the side window; the snow had started to fall again, in tiny, frozen, icy bits instead of flakes. "Can you even believe that? In this kinda weather. I see the same guys over and over again, and once they stay five times, they can't come back until the end of the season. Like anybody's going to be homeless for just ten days. Almost nobody's that lucky, not at East Lang. Tonight, I'm sure I'm going to have to send a couple dozen guys away, and hope they didn't already fill their quota at the Spelling, or the New Methodist, because otherwise, if they want a warm place to sleep, it's best to try to get arrested. Not too hard to do; just take a dump on the subway platform, or snatch somebody's purse, and hope you don't get maced or shot. Your tax dollars at work, Nathan. Did you know it used to be a three-day limit, but the city voted to cut that to give tax breaks to people like Dad? And that Spelling is starting to turn men away, because they have so many women, and so many little kids?"
"So are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?" Nathan said, as though Peter had just been talking about something he saw on TV. "It's the big kick-off. We're having dinner at home, and then drinks and late supper at the Coopers'."
Peter had been about to launch into his usual tirade about Nathan's thoughtlessness, but instead he laughed and put his hand to his forehead. "The Coopers," he echoed, his mind now somewhere else entirely. "Oh, man. I wonder if they still have that bathroom."
"I'm pretty sure they do."
"Do you remember?" Peter asked, his voice suddenly childlike, playful, vulnerable. Like a melody - three words that encapsulated so much longing, such profound sensations. The touch, the taste, the kiss, the sight, the violation, the promise. Open me... hold me... trust me. With us forever, no matter what.
"Of course I remember," Nathan replied dryly. "Anyway, Mom says to be home at five."
Peter, snapped out of his sensual nostalgia, suddenly frowned and shook his head. "I can't," he said. "I've got to work. It's a really heavy time of year."
"You don't have the night off?" Nathan said incredulously. "It's Thanksgiving. It's a federal holiday."
"No," Peter replied, with a confused and hurt tone. "What would you think if they closed the hospitals on the holidays? Anyway, you guys can do without me this year."
"It's not about that, Peter."
"You can do without me," Peter insisted, raising his voice. "I'd just sit there, anyway, waiting to..." A laugh broke his sentence. "Get you alone for a second."
Nathan frowned. "I'm telling you, it's not about that. Mom would flip. You can't miss Thanksgiving dinner, especially since we're invited guests. All of us are. You know how that would look?"
"Like I'm fucking working for a living. Is that so fucking wrong? I need the money, okay?"
"Stop cussing so fucking much, Pete. Do you talk like that at work? Look, I'll pay you whatever wages you're missing; it can't be that much. Because you have to be there for this whole weekend. Seriously."
Peter threw his head back and stared at the ceiling of the car, taking a deep breath. "Look, people need me. These guys have no one else."
"You've got co-workers. Get someone to cover for you. Call in sick if you need to, but you'd better show up to dinner tomorrow night. And you'd better be clean-shaven, too, and get a haircut if you've got time. You should wear your Prada suit; you look good in that. It still fits, doesn't it?"
Truthfully, the suit didn't fit all that well anymore, even though it had been tailored, since Peter had lost so much weight in the last year, courtesy of his irregular eating schedule. Peter sighed. "Maybe I just don't want to go. I hate the Coopers."
"Have you ever considered the fact that it's not about whether or not you want to go?" Nathan asked. "This is family, Peter. I hate the Coopers, too, but... they're friends of Dad's."
"Because he makes sure they can keep laundering money," Peter replied, shaking his head.
It was Nathan's turn to sigh. "They have a shell company; it's not money-laundering, Peter."
"No, it's semantics."
"Do you even know what that means?" Nathan said, his standard response whenever Peter used a word that impressed him.
As usual, Peter was irritated by it. "Nathan, I'm twenty-five. I've been to college, okay? I took women's studies. I know what 'semantics' means. Do I ever. I wrote a paper on the semantics of the term 'chick', for God's sake."
Nathan almost smiled. He hadn't looked at Peter once on the whole drive, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove fast through the snowy, icy downtown streets with easy grace and total confidence. "Just show up, and grin and bear it, Peter. When Mom and Dad are gone, you'll be glad you spent time with them. It's not about what you want; it's about what's important. Please. Please, okay. I'm begging."
"Begging, huh," Peter echoed softly, chuckling, his voice now quiet and intimate. Thinking about something else yet again. "Supper at the Coopers'. Crap. I'm gonna have to get really drunk to deal with that."
"That's okay; just keep a martini glass in your mouth, and smile and nod. That's all anybody expects. You might just pleasantly surprise Dad if you take that tactic. There'll be a lot of other families there, too. I'm sure at least one of them has a hot daughter your age; you never know. You might get lucky."
Nathan had pulled to a stop outside a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, its blue-and-red neon OPEN sign a bright light in an otherwise grim, half-boarded-over building façade; and when he turned to Peter, the soft two-color glow played along the smooth, elegant angles of Nathan's face, illuminating his deep, dark eyes. Without even thinking of what he was doing, Peter reached out his hand and traced the bow-like curve of Nathan's upper lip. "Will you find me?" Peter whispered.
Nathan took Peter's hand and kissed the caressing fingertips, then held Peter's hand to his chin and gazed at Peter from under his long eyelashes. He looked so ridiculously beautiful that it nearly took Peter's breath away. "There probably won't be time, Peter," Nathan said, his voice pinched with regret. "Too many people there." Peter pulled his hand back, smiled nervously, and tucked the trailing edge of his hair behind his ear. Nathan insisted, "Pete... okay? Five o'clock?"
"Do you love me for real?" Peter asked, not looking at his brother.
"Yeah," Nathan replied, nodding. "Yeah. For real."
"If there's a hot babe there, could you... please send her to me when you're done with her?" He looked up, and gave Nathan a crooked, uncertain smile.
Nathan laughed gently, squeezing Peter's shoulder with his fingers, then patting him. "Five o'clock, Peter. Be on time. And get your hair cut, okay?" He reached into his wallet, and flicked Peter a twenty-dollar bill. "Go get your slice. And just think... Thanksgiving dinner. Looks like you could use it; you're way too skinny."
"I won't eat all day, I can guarantee you that," Peter replied, picking up the twenty and realizing that he could buy three or four slices, with it, five if they were plain cheese. At least he wouldn't go hungry tonight. He pocketed the money, then leaned over and kissed Nathan quickly on the lips. "Thanks."
"Wear that green knitted silk tie Mom got you for your birthday - it really brings out your eyes."
"All right, Queer Eye." Peter opened the door and slid out onto the sidewalk. He grinned, feeling optimistic for a change.
"Don't ever call me that in public." Nathan got in the last word, slammed the door behind Peter, and sped off in a burst of kicked-up slush that soaked the legs of Peter's jeans, and dampened his optimism along with them.
As if that weren't bad enough, the price of a slice of pizza had gone up to $4.50 since Peter had last been in a few weeks ago. Peter sat alone at the counter with one cheese slice, one veggie combo slice, and a watery Coke, feeling the knowledge sink into him that he'd just been manipulated. Again. And now he had to go in to work and tell his supervisor that he couldn't work what promised to be one of the heaviest intake nights of the year, because his Mommy wanted him to come to Thanksgiving dinner. It was so painfully bourgeois that it ruined Peter's appetite, and he took his cheese slice in to work and gave it to the first homeless guy he saw.
~~~~~
THURSDAY.
"Peter, you're late."
Peter slid quickly into his chair at the table, set with what was, in Angela Petrelli's mind, a light dinner - about ten different plates of crepes, cheeses, olives, bread, onion soup, and pastries, with the requisite elegant centrepiece of fresh flowers and beeswax candles. "Well, the 6 line was late because of the snow... plus holiday schedule... so it's kind of amazing that I got here this early." Peter sneaked a glance at his cell phone; it was six minutes after five. He gave a pained smile. The usual. Being anything more than five minutes late invited commentary.
Peter's mother waved her hand dismissively. "You shouldn't bother with the subway when the weather's like this. You should have just gotten a taxi-"
"I'm flat broke, Ma."
Peter's father rolled his eyes and sighed. Angela sounded hurt. "I'd have covered it; you know that."
Peter shook his head and stared at the table. "Anyway, I'm here."
"It's nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, smiling at him.
"Thank you," Peter replied, knowing that he sounded bitchy, and not caring. He smiled back at Heidi. "It's nice to see you, too. Where're Simon and Monty?"
"They're at home, with Mandy," Heidi explained. "Simon has a cold. They'll be here tomorrow."
"No way can they escape that," Peter said under his breath.
"Shall we say Grace, then?" Angela said, in a loud, cheerful voice, as if to drown out the lingering rasp of Peter's voice. Everyone sat up straight, and, almost as one gesture, linked their fingers together in front of them on the table. This was the only time of year that Angela showed even a flicker of religious sentiment, but Grace before meals was part of their holiday tradition, started before Peter was born, probably for the purpose of impressing some long-forgotten visitor. Fucking fake-ass holidays, Peter thought, even that pretty little religious gesture making him bitter. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out his tension, trying to relax and just accept the Now, then opened them again as Angela began the brief prayer.
Everyone had their eyes closed, except Nathan.
Nathan's eyes were focused intently on Peter.
"Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts..."
Peter and Nathan watched each other across the table, breathing in sync, for a brief moment all defenses gone. Peter cocked his head slightly and glanced down at Nathan's mouth, then back to his eyes, asking a subtle and complex question. Nathan knitted his brow just a fraction, his eyes going soft and sad. Then, looking back fully into Peter's eyes, he seemed to draw from an internal well of strength and determination, squaring his shoulders and giving a subtle nod. Peter smiled, feeling that they shared the same thought, that they were supernaturally intertwined.
I am here, and I see you, oh yes, and I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too, I know what you're feeling... me too... for this moment, we are the only two people in this room, the only two people in the world, right now it's just you and me, and only we could ever understand. Our secret, our beautiful, horrible secret.
"Amen."
"Amen," came the answering chorus. Nathan immediately broke the gaze and busied himself with his place setting. Peter looked rapidly around the table. His parents and Heidi opened their eyes, shattering the moment of quiet and calm and connectedness, yanking Peter back into this unpleasant "reality" where he was alone, he couldn't read minds, and Nathan was all the way across the table and didn't want him, not really, not right now. Nathan shook out his napkin into his lap, and the maid appeared out of nowhere and began pouring wine into their glasses.
It was like the moment had never happened. At times like this, Peter wondered whether he was actually delusional, and he was dreaming up all of this, and nothing he had experienced privately with Nathan had ever been real. How could it be?
But it had to be. Peter was a Petrelli, and he knew he wasn't crazy. Well, a little crazy, maybe - but not wrong.
"Thank you, Augustine, that will be all for now. Serve yourselves as you like," their mother said. "The Coopers will be having a full catered buffet, so you just need something to keep your strength up till then."
"What's in the crepes?" Peter asked.
"They are prosciutto and morel, and masala chicken with apple chutney."
"So..." Peter said, then didn't continue; frowning, he got up and put some cheese, bread, and olives on his plate.
"What is it, Peter?" his mother asked, laughing faintly in genuine confusion.
"He's a vegetarian," Nathan said with distaste, sliding a few crepes onto a plate and handing it to Heidi. She thanked him prettily and smiled.
Angela gave an aggrieved sigh. "Oh, that's right... I'm so sorry; I completely forgot. There've just been so many other things on my mind this year-" To Peter's ears, she sounded more annoyed than apologetic.
"You managed to completely forget something that's been a fact for years?" Peter said. "For something that's supposed to be this huge deal? That's not like you, Ma. You got it right last year, somehow. Who's on your list to impress this year?"
"Hey, cut it out. You're giving me indigestion before I even have a chance to eat," his father interrupted. "Peter, please just save it, okay? Forgive your mother for not bending over backwards to remember every tiny detail of your lifestyle. If you don't want it, don't eat it. If you had bothered to call your mother yesterday, you could have told her to have Overton make you something vegetarian. You've got plenty to eat right there; I suggest you eat it."
"How are the cases treating you, Dad?" Nathan segued in effortlessly, without missing a beat, as if just continuing on with the conversation already in progress. Heidi gazed at Nathan with open affection and respect, as though she would have liked nothing better than to kiss him for being so wonderful, and Angela daintily took one of the prosciutto crepes onto her plate and ladled up a cup of soup. Peter sullenly made little sandwiches with cheese and bread, and washed them down with gulps of wine.
Just drink. Just drink.
"...And how is work treating you, Peter?"
"What?" Peter zoned back in, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of bread and sipping his water.
Heidi smiled brightly and patiently at him. "How is work treating you?" she asked him again. "You work at a downtown homeless shelter, right? I think that's very admirable. I think that's part of civic duty." She looked at Nathan. "Don't you think so, honey?"
"It's a very rough job," Nathan offered.
"She wasn't asking you, Nathan," Peter replied, giving Nathan a pointed look. He turned back to Heidi and tried not to look at his parents, who were watching with sudden interest. "It's treating me... okay," Peter continued. "I agree with you. I think it is important."
"She didn't say it was important, Pete," Nathan broke in. "She said it was admirable."
Peter just stared at him for a moment, and then looked at Nathan's wine glass. It was untouched - so he wasn't being nasty because he was drunk. There was something else going on. Peter's mind spun, trying to keep his bearings while he figured out what it was. "It really is a very hard job, even though there's nothing really to it. There's something about... seeing all those people come in, and hearing their stories, and giving them... something. It's inadequate. Trying to give them as much as we can, even if we don't have a lot. Wishing we could... y'know... give some more. Get some more people in there. It's really cold outside."
Heidi nodded in agreement. "I'm sure it's very difficult."
"It's the wrong job for somebody like you," said his father.
"What?" Peter said, stunned.
"He's right, Peter," Angela added, looking up at him through the candles. "You're too sensitive for a place like that."
"I've been doing it for three months," Peter said, his voice going quieter. He just couldn't find the words to express how he felt, what he'd seen. He knew he sounded weak and vague. "It's fine. I can handle it. It's part of my school, kind of. I see a lot of... sick and injured people... under a lot of... really severe conditions..." His voice finally trailed away into nothing.
"Nursing school," said his father, sighing and shaking his head. "I suppose."
"Fuck you," Peter whispered.
"Peter." Angela spoke with quiet menace. "Don't speak to your father that way."
"Sorry, Dad, I'm sure you've never heard anything that crude before in your life."
"Peter! Do you need to go outside?" Angela demanded.
Peter laughed soundlessly, shrugged, and took another swallow of his wine. "No," he said after a long pause, and then speaking in an exaggeratedly stupid voice, "no, I don't need to go outside; I'm housebroken." His face burned red with anger and embarrassment, ashamed that he'd risen to Nathan's bait so easily. "Sorry. I just have low blood sugar right now, is all."
"Well, eat!" Peter's father said, grunting impatiently. "Low blood sugar. Low 'respect and common sense' is more like it."
"It is admirable that you're doing something about the city's homeless problem, Peter," his mother interrupted in a much gentler tone of voice. "I just don't think you have to stay in the same position there if you don't want to. You could easily be working in a city council office, working with the city on increasing funding for your projects. It's very Horatio Alger of you to want to start from the bottom and work your way up, but you're twenty-five years old; it's time you did better for yourself."
"I don't want to work in a city council office," Peter said. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I could have gotten a job there. But I'm in school during the day, and most of the weekend; the hours don't work. East Lang's better than working at Starbucks. Sure, it's hard, but that's okay. At least I'm helping people. I just... want to help."
"Of course you do," Angela said comfortingly. "That's my good boy. You always
want to do the right thing."
"Thanks, Ma."
"I just don't think this is the way to go about it," said Nathan.
Peter snapped, "Yeah, but who else is going to do it?"
"Somebody else. Peter, have you even asked for a promotion?" Nathan asked.
"I've only been there three months!"
"I asked for a promotion at my job after three months," Nathan pointed out, "and I got it. You've gotta ask for what you want. At the very least."
"Sometimes I do," Peter said, quiet again, letting his eyes lose focus until the candle flames merged into a bright, dancing blur, a curtain of fire between him and his brother. "That doesn't mean I get it."
Nathan seemed unaffected by the softening of Peter's voice. "That doesn't mean that you shouldn't ask. And keep asking. And if you're told 'no'... figure out a way around it." He looked calm and smug and wickedly handsome, thoroughly enjoying himself.
"I think I know exactly what you mean," Peter replied, focusing and narrowing his eyes. He shook his head, glaring at Nathan. "And I think maybe none of you are actually listening to what I'm saying."
"He doesn't want a promotion, Nathan, leave him alone," Angela cut in. "Can we please behave ourselves? You're an awful bully sometimes. Be nice to your brother. It's the holidays. Now. The Coopers are also celebrating a new boat they just got, down in Miami. I'm sure there'll be photographs, so prepare yourselves. But I sneaked a glance at the guest list, and there'll be quite a few notables there, including some people you don't yet know, Nathan, but you should..."
Peter sat silent for a while, drinking wine and eating bread and olives, only half listening to his mother listing off the names of prominent families. He excused himself with a few tell-tale glances toward the kitchen, through which a restroom was located. No one watched him as he left, and he took the opportunity to turn instead into the front room, heading for the winding staircase.
His bedroom had been completely re-done when he left, as had Nathan's, and was now just another spare bedroom, every detail immaculate and untouched like something out of a catalog. It was creepy to see the same dimensions, but to have every other thing about the room changed. He sat on the floor next to the bed and sighed, wondering how he was going to get through the next few days if his composure was breaking so badly already. He found it easier to breathe, now that he was out of the dining room, away from the smothering combination of Mom's energy and Dad's energy and Nathan's energy, and Heidi just smiling and watching it all go on without turning a hair... She was more one of them than Peter was.
"Pete."
Nathan stood in the doorway. Peter looked up, then dropped his eyes and shook
his head again, sighing impatiently. "What?"
"Were you planning on... coming back downstairs?" Nathan asked.
"What, are they asking for me?"
"No," Nathan said. "I just figured I'd go look for you before they did."
"Of course they weren't asking for me... because why would they?"
"Peter, come on. Don't sulk. You have to get over that tendency."
"I'm not sulking," Peter replied, "I'm saving my sanity. You people exist to fuck with my head."
"That's right, Peter," Nathan said with mock-patience. "The whole world is about you."
Peter held out his hands. "Look, I just want to make a difference. Why are you riding me about it?"
"The job is wrong for you. Look at what it's done to you - you're on edge like I've almost never seen you before. If working there was right, you wouldn't feel the need to justify it so constantly... and you wouldn't have lost twenty pounds."
"It's only ten. I needed to lose it, anyway."
"What, so we could see through you? C'mon." Nathan held out his hand to Peter, and Peter stood up, but without Nathan's help. "I just want you to be okay. We all just want you to be okay; we love you."
"Then let me do what I'm doing, would you? Look, I'm not crazy about the fact that you're a lawyer, but I wouldn't ask you not to do it."
"What's the matter with being a lawyer? Don't tell me you're one of those people. That's called prejudice, and in principle, I think you're supposed to be opposed to that."
"Nathan, I'm serious." Peter stared pleadingly into his brother's eyes. "Leave it alone."
"Do you promise to keep your mouth shut about it tonight? Maybe just talk about the bowl games? You did watch the games, didn't you?" Nathan asked.
"I don't have a TV," Peter confessed. "I did listen to Detroit/Indianapolis on the radio this afternoon, but I was studying and getting ready, so I probably missed some details."
"Well, you can get filled in on it tonight, I'm sure."
"That'd be great, if I cared. Fuck the Colts. Look - I don't need your protection. And no, this is not a negotiating session. We are not engaged in trade. You - stay out of it." Peter offered him a tight smile. "That's it. My life. Mine. Do you get it?"
Nathan stood silent for a moment, arching his eyebrow, then blinked innocently, as if wondering what the big deal was. "Just come back downstairs. I won't talk about it anymore," Nathan said. "You heard what I had to say."
"Yeah, you cornered me. Real compassionate." Peter just stared at him for a moment. "Are you mad at me about something?"
Nathan sighed. "I'm frustrated with you, that's all. I'm frustrated about you. I don't know what to do about you."
"Don't do anything," Peter replied, walking out of the bedroom. He leaned in close to Nathan, and said in an angry whisper, "I'm not a child, and I'm not your toy. Quit playing with me. You want to actually talk with me, instead of at me, I'll be around. Now go sit next to your adoring wife."
Nathan stood at the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and watched Peter go before he followed.
********
Part Two
Part Three
--