Fic: Ritual (22): Hot Cinnamon
Title: Ritual (22): Hot Cinnamon
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: very mild through 2x04 "The Kindness of Strangers"
Word Count: ~ 5400
Warnings: Incest, underage character, sexual situations, language, angst
Summary: The day after Ritual 21: Just A Kiss - Nathan doesn't understand his teenage brother (or himself) as much as he thought he did, or maybe he just doesn't want to. Feedback is love!
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fan fiction and no revenue is generated or accepted by the author by its publication on the internet.
TEN YEARS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
Nathan verbally outlined each of the bullet points listed on the sheet of paper he held in his hand, though he never actually looked down at the page. All part of his strategy; as an ambitious associate with hopes of making partner by next year, it was important for him to show that he had everything committed to memory. Across the room, law-firm partner Jack Vaughan had that look on his face that showed that he was only half listening, but he seemed deeply enmeshed in reading his copy of the page. Nathan wasn't just reciting what was on the paper; he had memorized another linguistic approach to the same material. He was damn well going to make partner next year; it was a done deal, but he couldn't help showing off.
Sitting near Vaughan, Nathan's secretary Jill gazed at Nathan with her usual adoring half-smile, transcribing what he said without having to actually listen to it. She'd already heard it that morning, as Nathan rehearsed it for her. She'd told him it was perfect, so he'd worked on it some more over lunch until he felt it was perfect. He had a higher standard of perfection. That's why he was an attorney, and she was a secretary. It was just the natural order of things.
What wasn't in the natural order of things was for her attention to waver away from Nathan, and for her smile to grow the way it did. Nathan bristled at her distraction, but he wasn't finished speaking his piece, so he didn't say anything at first. But when she spoke - interrupting him! - he fell silent.
"Well, hello there," she said.
Vaughan looked up, too, and Nathan turned to see what they were staring at - what Jill was smiling at, what Vaughan was wrinkling his brow about.
Peter stood in the doorway, all shining eyes and beaming smile, still wearing his school uniform - striped tie, white shirt with the untucked shirt-tails hanging out, blue sweater, and black slacks - and light-gray canvas Carhartt jacket. The wind had tousled his overgrown hair and pinkened his pale cheeks. He was smacking on a lollipop, one of those cheap, sticky cherry-flavored ones that dyed tongue, lips, and teeth a lurid red. He pulled the sucker out of his mouth and said, "Hey, bro," like he had a right to be there.
Nathan just stared, dumbstruck, for a moment. He hadn't seen anything so beautiful, so perfect, in a long time - his crazy, weird little brother, with his bad posture, sloppy clothes, hair that wouldn't stay out of his eyes, that rosebud mouth that always seemed to have some kind of sugar in it. But so beautifully proportioned, so unconsciously graceful. He was growing and changing so quickly that Nathan couldn't keep up. It seemed like every time Nathan looked at Peter, he felt that he had never really seen him before. Had last night's kiss changed him that much? Had Peter always looked that good in his school uniform? Was it the manual-labor, tough-guy look of the industrial jacket, so incongruous on such a delicate, obviously privileged kid? Maybe it was just the sticky, scarlet lips so dramatically defined against his face. Whatever it was, it made Nathan suddenly very aware of the feel of his clothing against his skin, very aware of the sudden dryness in his mouth, which he wanted to remedy by getting some of that cherry sweetness from Peter's.
But no, no, no, never. No more.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Nathan snapped.
Peter blinked in surprise, then he averted his eyes and shuffled his feet. Nathan blinked too; his voice had come out about ten times sharper than he'd intended. Behind him, he heard Jill ask, her voice curled with amusement, "Aren't you going to introduce us, Nathan?" Nathan turned to look at her, at Vaughan. Jill grinned, and Vaughan stared coolly back at Nathan, awaiting an explanation. Vaughan didn't seem annoyed, which was unusual; Nathan always had to step lightly around him, and always keep his cool. It wasn't good that he'd lost it here, in the middle of a strategy session.
Dammit, Peter, Nathan thought. "I'm sorry. This is my brother Peter. Peter, this is Jack Vaughan; he is a partner here at the firm. And this is Jill D'Israeli, my executive assistant."
"Like Benjamin Disraeli?" Peter piped up.
Jill's smile grew. "Yes," she said, pleasantly surprised. "He was my great-great-grand-uncle."
"Wow, cool," said Peter, his eyes shining with sincerity. It made Nathan want to smack him - Nathan had never made that connection himself, and he'd been working with Jill for months. "Nice to meet you. You too, Mr. Vaughan."
"Excuse us a moment," Nathan smiled at his co-workers, and took Peter by the elbow, steering him out into the hallway. Peter blinked at Nathan innocently. "What are you doing here? Why are you wearing your school clothes? I told you I'd meet you at home at six. It's not even five yet."
"I had to make up a test and there was a wrestling practice. Coach let us out early," Peter shrugged. "Plus, I was bored. I wanted to see where you work. I've never been here before - it's totally cool. I mean, the lobby is like whoa!"
Nathan thought so too, but he had to release some of his pent-up anger, even if he wasn't sure where it had come from. "You should be doing your homework right now. You need all the help with your grades that you can get."
Peter just stared at him, all the adoration gone from his expression. "My GPA's 3.5, Nathan," he replied.
Nathan refused to be cowed. "It should be four. And you know it."
"Excuse me, Petrelli." It was Vaughan, emerging from Nathan's office. Vaughan was smiling. He never smiled. "Thank you for your work on the prosecutory approach. I think I get the gist, and I have your printout. I figure you can get out of here for the day, if you have plans with your brother."
Nathan could actually feel the grin that broke out on Peter's face, since he couldn't bring himself to look at Peter right now. "Rad!" Peter piped up. "He does."
"...Thank you," Nathan accepted, smiling with relief. Anything to get Peter out of there sooner. It just seemed so incongruous for him to be there, like a stripper jumping out of a cake, or a litter of puppies suddenly loose and running around underfoot. He didn't want all those lawyers and paralegals and secretaries staring at his brother, knowing that about Nathan. He didn't want them to know. (Know what?...) "Yeah, it's... All right, I'll see you tomorrow."
Nathan got his coat and he and Peter strode through the outer office. "So what do you know about Disraeli, huh?" Nathan said, tousling Peter's hair even more.
"We're doing Queen Victoria in 19th Century History right now."
"You're 'doing' her, huh? Poor you," Nathan said, and to his satisfaction, Peter burst out laughing.
That was good. That was what they were supposed to be like. Like brothers.
Nathan got his car out of the garage and drove to the Petrelli family home. On the way they told each other all the jokes that they'd heard lately; Peter had some surprisingly good ones, and Nathan, laughing freely, found himself unwinding from the stress of his day. It hadn't been bad stress, but as he relaxed he realized exactly how tense he had been since last night. Peter could relax him faster and better than anyone or anything.
In the foyer of the house, Peter tossed his jacket onto a hanger in the coat closet, while Nathan carefully hung his coat up, still chuckling to himself. Peter turned to him, smiling, and quickly moving close, kissed Nathan on the lips with his warm, still-sticky, sugary mouth.
Nathan froze, a roaring in his ears, a sensation in his back like a hot wire pulling him upright. He shoved Peter away with his forearm and elbow, knocking Peter off-balance. "Goddamn it, Peter!" Nathan snapped. "You can't do that!"
Peter stared at Nathan in shock. Then, he dropped his eyes to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself. "I... I..." he stammered. "I'll go... change out of my school clothes a-a-and brush my teeth, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and rushed into the house, headed for the stairs.
The good feeling Nathan had only thirty seconds ago had completely evaporated. He should have been feeling better, having done the right thing, but it didn't feel right at all. It didn't feel right to yell at Peter, to strike at Peter, to shove him away. Not when he was being so funny and warm and wonderful and gorgeous and perfect. It was just an affectionate kiss. Not even like the one they'd shared last night. It wasn't Peter's fault that Nathan wanted Peter to kiss him, had been wanting it from the moment he lay eyes on him, wanting it more than anything, and maybe it showed, and Peter was just giving Nathan what he wanted.
But that didn't make it right. It wasn't right to look at Peter and want to kiss him and grab him and push him down to the floor and stick a finger in his mouth and demand that he suck it the way he sucked that lollipop. God no. And what was he doing feeling that way about a guy, and a teenager, anyway? Nathan wasn't particularly attracted to jailbait girls - no more than any other red-blooded heterosexual male, anyway. Heterosexual. Which he was. So he didn't understand what was happening here. It didn't make any sense that when he saw Peter, something happened in his chest that wasn't quite like pain or anxiety, but was more like... the physical sensation of hearing music. Like recognizing a favorite song. Like wondering how some songwriter he'd never met could write a piece of music that, in a particular moment, for him, was just so perfect.
But this was his brother. That feeling couldn't be happening here. Affection, sure. Camaraderie. Togetherness and belonging.
Not desire. God, no. Not love like that. No.
Nathan shut it down and put it away.
He took a deep breath, and thought about Peter as his little brother, thought about how Peter must feel. Peter would think that Nathan was angry at him, which wasn't true. He would feel lonely and misunderstood. And Peter was kind of emotionally delicate, way too close to his own feelings of mortality, too close to a desire for escape. If Peter did something stupid and self-destructive while Mom and Dad were in Japan, there'd be hell to pay. He was sure that was why they asked him to look after Peter while they were away, even if they hadn't stated it specifically. They didn't want Peter finding Dad's guns (the real ones, not the antiques that Peter knew about), or seeing how deep he could cut himself before he passed out from blood loss, or jumping off bridges. Nathan wasn't sure that he believed that Peter was capable of something like that, but...
He walked upstairs, to Peter's room.
The bedroom door was wide open, so Nathan went in, intending to lightly knock on the door frame to announce his presence. Instead he stopped in tracks, his knuckle stilled in mid-air.
Peter had shed his outer clothes, and stood in his underpants and socks, looking through his bureau with his back to the door. His pale back, lightly stippled with dark moles, shone, almost glowing, in the light of Peter's bedside lamp. His skin was amazing - Peter had a few small pimples on his face, but his back was practically perfect. His muscles were still only lightly defined under the skin, but he was starting to fill out more. One of these days, if he took care of himself, if he worked on it, Peter could have a beautiful body.
Not that it wasn't beautiful now, but right now, he was a beautiful kid. Well, not a kid, not with the fine, dark twiddles of hair under his arms, or the soft stripe of hair in a line from his navel to his white elastic waistband. A youth. Nathan had a hard time thinking of Peter as being a "young man" - he didn't know if he could ever get his head around that one.
Peter turned around, hearing the sigh Nathan hadn't meant to let out. Peter drew his eyebrows together and glared at Nathan, then rolled his eyes and turned away again. He yanked a black sweater from the bureau drawer and flung it against the bed. "What?" he grumbled.
Nathan walked up to Peter and put his hand against Peter's back, for some reason thinking his skin would be cold, but instead, finding Peter's skin pleasantly warm. And terribly silky. So soft. "Hey, I'm sorry," Nathan said gently. He rubbed his fingers into the muscles of Peter's back, felt them relax at his touch. "I didn't mean to hit you."
"You didn't," Peter said, not meeting Nathan's eyes. It seemed that he had brushed his teeth, because they were clean and white, even though his lips were still stained a scandalous red. His tongue would be, too. "You shoved me."
"Still. I overreacted. It's okay." Nathan drew Peter close to him and hugged him. Peter hugged back, half-heartedly. Not enough. Nathan wanted to feel forgiveness. He hugged Peter tighter, then drew back just a little to give him a kiss.
A little kiss. A nice one, between brothers. That was allowed. A quick one on the cheek, a quick one on the lips.
Just a quick one.
And then another one, not quite so quick.
Sweet, burning sugar. Artificial hot cinnamon like cheap candy. Nathan had forgotten that they made toothpaste in that flavor, and it took him by surprise. He was intrigued. And his mouth was open, tasting it. And Peter's mouth was open, providing it.
And then it was over. Peter had moved out of the embrace, swiping his hair out of his face and returning to his bureau. "I'm cold," he said, pulling out a white T-shirt and putting it on. "And I'm hungry. Can't wait 'til we get to Patsy's - I could eat, like, a whole pie by myself." His voice was dull and distant.
"Yeah," Nathan replied. His voice sounded strange to him, too. "We're gonna... right. Okay." He turned and left the bedroom, a little disoriented, confused, and ashamed of himself. The sad thing was, he was starting to become familiar with that sensation.
***
On the drive into Brooklyn, Nathan made small talk, asking Peter neutral questions about his classes at school and how the wrestling team was doing. Peter answered in brief syllables, staring out the window, no longer holding himself in his "lonely posture" (Nathan knew it so well by now; he knew so many of Peter's gestures and postures, gave them names) but not letting Nathan get close. Nathan kept his distance, trying to figure out what was actually going on in Peter's head.
They arrived at the little restaurant underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, and Peter visibly loosened up at the sight of it. It had been one of his favorite places to go since he was a little kid. When they went in, the manager loudly greeted them. "The brothers Petrelli!" he announced, leading them to their favorite table, underneath all the signed Frank Sinatra photographs. "Long time no see! You're looking good, young Peter! Are you still proud to be Italian?"
Peter blushed and laughed. Every time he came in, they reminded him of what he'd said when he was six years old, where his review of the pizza was "It makes me proud to be Italian!", to the raucous laughter and applause of everyone at the restaurant. He nodded and shrugged, a little too embarrassed to say anything.
The manager laughed back and lightly clapped Peter on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Nathan," he said. "But where are the older generation? Dining in town tonight?"
Nathan chuckled. "Actually, they're out of town right now," he said. "I'm on babysitting detail this week."
"Ah, it's very noble of you. You're one of the good guys. Now let me get you a pie in the oven - you want peppers and roasted garlic on it? They're real good today. Peter, you want a Coke? Nathan? A Coke and Jameson's. All right. Yusef'll be right out with those."
The manager cheerfully walked to the front door to greet the next customers, and Nathan watched him go, smiling to himself, and didn't notice Peter staring at him. When he did look over, he blinked at the intensity of Peter's glare. Peter looked royally, superlatively pissed; if looks could kill, there would be a smoking crater where Nathan was sitting. "Hey," Nathan shrugged, keeping the smile on his face.
"Babysitting detail," Peter said.
"It was a joke."
"Ha," said Peter, looking away. "Ha."
He didn't look at or speak to Nathan the whole time they were at Patsy Grimaldi's. Nathan watched in silent dismay as Peter ravaged the food, rapidly eating more than half of the enormous pizza by himself. It was almost as though he was eating so much and so continuously so that his mouth would never not be full, so he wouldn't have to talk. Nathan drank his first cocktail too quickly, and had to order a second one. By the time the meal was finished, he was too tipsy to drive.
"You want to go get dessert?" Nathan suggested, as they left Patsy's. Peter shrugged and nodded in response. Nathan sighed. "Come on, Pete. You're being really childish."
"Oh?" said Peter, arching his eyebrow.
"The silent treatment. It's ridiculous. I'm sorry, okay? It was a joke. A bad joke. Now let's go get a cannoli and move on. I need a cup of coffee before I'm okay to drive."
"Fine," Peter replied.
They still didn't speak as they walked a couple of blocks to a little cafe and got cappucinos and cannolis. It had gotten uncomfortably cold and windy outside, and they lingered over their coffees, not eager to go back out.
"You know what?" Peter said. Nathan had been trying not to look at Peter too much over the last hour, trying to ease the tension, but really, he'd only made it worse. Peter had powdered sugar all over his lips, highlighting their lingering unnatural redness. He licked his lips clean before he continued. "I totally miss Mom and Dad."
"Yeah?" said Nathan gently.
"It's kind of funny. I thought I'd be so glad to have them gone and have the house to myself - for the first time. First time ever. Mom usually takes me with her when she travels. Like she can't bear to let me out of her sight. It's just... they didn't want me to come this time. I mean, I wanna go to Tokyo. They know that."
"Well, you can't miss that much school right now," Nathan explained. "And they knew you'd be all right with me checking in on you."
"I... think you were supposed to stay," Peter said slowly. "I think you were supposed to live there while they're gone. Almost like house sitting. And babysitting." He gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, you're right. I'm a dick."
"No, you're a... a young man," said Nathan, "and you don't want to be referred to in public as a baby."
"Right," said Peter, sounding grateful to be understood. He gazed down into his empty cup. "But am I right? Were you supposed to stay?"
"I think Ma would have liked it that way," Nathan admitted. "But I can't do it. I've got my own place and my own routines; I can't just drop that. I'm doing the best I can. You've got all of me I can spare."
Peter raised his eyes to Nathan. "You can't spare any more?" he asked, somewhere between a question and a resigned, melancholy statement of fact.
Nathan smiled a little. He really didn't have an answer to that; instead, he asked, "Hey, do you still want to borrow that porn?"
That seemed to surprise Peter. "Well... um... yeah, I guess." He did seem interested.
This was good. Now they had a direction, and something specific to do. Nathan grinned and stood up. "Okay. Let's stop over to my place, and pick it up. I got a couple of choices for you. It's good to have choices in your pornography. You never know what you'll be in the mood for."
At Nathan's apartment, Peter sat on the leather couch in Nathan's study, his hands folded into his lap and his shoulders drawn up high and tense. Nathan would have loved to massage Peter's shoulders and neck, run his fingernails up through Peter's hair to the scalp until he sighed all that tension away. He slid a tape into the VCR and handed Peter the case, which was blank white plastic with Slut City written on the spine in black marker. Peter looked at the case and chuckled. "An acclaimed family film by Akira Kurosawa," he intoned.
"No, you're thinking of Shinjuku Pink Shots. You can borrow that one too, if you want." Nathan felt cheerful as he pressed the play button. Now this was an activity that brothers were supposed to share - nice, wholesome, heterosexual pornography (with the exception of a few scattered girl-on-girl moments). "I'll give you a preview..."
Nathan had seen this video several times now, and with the exception of a couple of scenes, it had lost its edge for him. Peter was transfixed by it, though, staring wide-eyed at the shaved and lubed genitals making contact. The first sequence in the film was the blonde female star giving a guy with an eight-inch bruiser a blow job, then being bent over a really hideous sofa and fucked doggy-style while she moaned repeatedly and professionally. This was not one of the memorable scenes, but it was pretty representative of the entire video, serviceable and straightforward, with very little kink, and no weird pain or domination going on. Something wholesome and appropriate for sharing with a sibling. Nathan owned stuff that he would never have shared with someone Peter's age, under any circumstances.
Peter watched silently, his cheeks first bright pink, then pale again. He didn't look amused or titillated in the slightest; he seemed to be analyzing what he saw, holding himself distant from it. Nathan wondered if he was having some kind of knee-jerk feminist response to it or something. He shouldn't; the blonde porn star looked healthy despite her fake tits, and seemed to be having a perfectly enjoyable time. Of course, even in this, Peter would have to be difficult.
Nathan popped out the tape after the sequence was done, and tried another tape, this one a bit more on the strange and dirty side. Peter gulped a little nervously while watching this one. His hands stayed in his lap, so Nathan couldn't tell by looking if Peter was physically aroused by the sight of men and women fucking. He'd have to be; he was human, after all, and it wasn't something that one could really control, especially not at his age. Nathan liked this video more than Slut City, and he felt himself getting a little hot under the collar. "I really like this girl," he said in a half-whisper, but the heavy, velvety arousal in his voice made him too self-conscious to explain why. Peter didn't ask.
At the end of that sequence, Peter cleared his throat and said, "Can I go home now?"
"You okay?" Nathan asked.
"Yeah," said Peter. "I just want to go home."
"Do you want to borrow either of those?"
"N-no, that's okay."
Nathan was too baffled to be gentle with him. "God, Peter. You act like you've never seen porn before."
"No, I'm just really picky," Peter said.
"Do you want more guys?"
"No," Peter replied, sounding extremely irritated. He sighed bitterly. "You don't understand."
"Help me understand," Nathan pleaded. Peter just looked at him, then looked away, and gave his head a little shake. Not quite a total denial, but a resignation. Giving up on Nathan. Shutting him out. Nathan tightened his jaw and turned off his AV equipment, and readied himself to leave again.
More silence in the car, so unbearable that Nathan, who didn't usually listen to music as he drove, turned the radio on. "The Wind Cries Mary" was playing on the classic rock station, and between that and Peter turned almost entirely away, Nathan fought off a sensation close to panic. He hated not knowing how to do something. He hated that overwhelming feeling in his chest, that sensation of wanting to beg Peter's forgiveness when he hadn't done anything wrong.
Nothing besides the greatest wrong, of course, and he'd do everything in his power to make sure Peter never knew Nathan was guilty of that. Except that he didn't seem to have much power these days. He wasn't controlling himself well at all. Maybe Peter already knew that Nathan had these impulses and desires - he had to. No wonder Peter didn't want to speak to him or look at him.
Arriving back at the house, Nathan hesitated for a moment before he got out of the car. Peter glanced at him, but didn't seem annoyed that Nathan was coming in, too; he seemed more surprised. In the foyer, Peter took off his Carhartt and hung it up slowly and carefully. Nathan made no move to take off his coat; he didn't feel like he had the right to stay. Peter gazed at him, frowning sympathetically.
"I'm so sorry, Peter," Nathan said.
"Don't be," Peter replied. "You didn't do anything."
"I screwed up. I don't know what went wrong. I tried so hard to give you a fun night, but... I guess... I guess I just don't understand you as well as I thought I did."
"Keep trying," Peter said, and fiercely embraced Nathan. "Just keep trying."
And this was right.
Peter's head cradled next to Nathan's, arms tight around each other. The physical sensation of forgiveness that Nathan had craved all evening. And also what he had been craving - having Peter wrapped in his arms, the faint sweet odor of the coffee shop still clinging to his hair, the softness of his sweater under Nathan's fingertips. The hot, angular contours of Peter's body, not quite fitting into Nathan's anymore. Once, it had. Once, tucked into a guest room bed in this house, Peter fit him exactly, sideways, like puzzle pieces fitting together. Peter had grown since then. Since last year. He wasn't finished growing yet; maybe another inch or so, and they would fit again, exactly, perfecly congruent, collarbone to collarbone-hollow, hipbone to belly, cock against cock.
Now Peter was hard and rigid right up against the deep scar on Nathan's thigh, and tracing the hard ridge of his erection up until it reached the scar on Nathan's hip - Peter knew exactly, exactly where it was. He touched it, then relaxed again, stiffness against the thigh scar. Nathan wanted to kiss Peter's forehead... no, his neck. His shoulder. Nibble on his throat. Suck his tongue out of his mouth. Taste him everywhere. Instead he just stood still and held Peter and breathed together with him, whispering faintly, "Yes." Yes to everything.
Yes to how much feeling Peter's hard-on against the scars made the scars throb and ache. But also yes to slipping his hand down there, over the scars, protecting them, palm out, not quite catching Peter's dick in his hand, but he could... he could at any moment... he longed to be asked. Peter didn't ask. He just pressed and rubbed against the hand instead, his breath catching in his throat, a soft, repetitive panting that no woman in any of Nathan's pornography would ever do.
"Yes..." With the other hand, Nathan held the back of Peter's head, scraped his fingernails through Peter's hair. He wanted so badly to kiss Peter, but... no never again, I said never again. I never said never this. Oh, let me have this. Please.
One moment, Peter was rubbing and arching, and the next, he had stopped. One moment, Peter was in Nathan's arms, and the next, he had torn himself away, and gone running into the house, his feet pounding up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed, and then there was silence, broken only by Nathan's deep, accelerated breathing, and Nathan's heavy, sharp sigh.
Should he follow? Run up there, slap the little brat for slamming a door - he knew he shouldn't do that, and just because Mom and Dad weren't home didn't mean that rule could be broken - hold him down on the bed, pull off that sweater and those school slacks and the T-shirt and the underwear and just lick him all over, see if he tasted like hot cinnamon everywhere, find other parts of him that were sticky and sweet.
Nathan balanced himself against a hand braced against the closet door. Uh, no. He was thinking of what he'd do to a woman. Not Peter. Peter wasn't sweet and wet and slippery; he was a boy, he was smelly and sweaty and dry... except for sometimes... sometimes (and Nathan knew how) he could make as much wetness as any girl, a warm, slippery, salty syrup from the tip of his NO STOP IT. You didn't like it. You did not like that. You were forced into that. You came into that military academy a straight male, and you left it a straight male. You did not develop a taste for cock just because you had no choice. You didn't learn to like it. You didn't ... always like it, somehow, tangled up with a love of a woman's hot wet interiors and the gorgeous jiggle of breasts, also the heavy, prickly delicacy of a ball sack, the ridge of the head, the tender slit... No, please, no, that is not me. Please. I don't want it to be me.
And I don't want it to be Peter.
He got in his car and drove home (Creedence on the radio now; good solid masculine Americana) and fished his little black book out of the top drawer of the desk in his study. He dialled a number and sat, pursing his lips and playing with a fountain pen, until the call was picked up.
"Yes, hello?"
"Annalise."
"Yes." She sounded pleased. "Nathan. Is very nice to hear from you. I wondered if you had forgotten me."
"That would never happen. Are you busy?"
"Not too busy for you." She had a lovely, husky, accented voice; Nathan could never remember if she was from Sweden or Denmark. Somehow, in all his go-getting, he was very bad at the details with women. He resolved to improve that.
"Would you come over to play?"
"I would be happy to. What kind of mood are you in tonight, Nathan?"
One of the things he loved about Annalise was that they could be utterly straightforward with each other. He said, "I want you to tie me up and eat my ass. Think you could do that?"
She gave a quick "Hm!" of agreement. "I will trade you for a fingerbang and a back massage; it was a long day."
"No problem," Nathan replied. "And yeah, it was."
"I'll be there in half an hour," she said, and hung up.
Nathan closed his phone, and poured two fingers of Macallan into a squat crystal shot glass. He savored the alcohol slowly, sitting at his desk; he and Annalise could shower together. Maybe not all was lost. He'd get his rocks off tonight and get some sleep, and maybe by the time his parents returned, Peter would be over this strange obsessive habit of his... and then Nathan wouldn't have to think about that part of himself ever again. Peter would be all right. He had to be. It was Nathan's responsibility.
He thought maybe he ought to get Peter a prostitute for Christmas. Something, anything, to save them both.
END PART (22)
A/N: Okay, this ended up becoming a very weird not-quite-coming-out story. Nathan is as cluelessly sexist and homophobic as only the closeted can be. Peter and Nathan are very much out of step here, but of course, by Christmas at the Coopers', they've figured a few things out. (But how?...) Stay tuned; this week isn't over, and a lot can change in a few days! ^_^ Continues in 23: It's Beyond My Control.
LATER EDIT: The amazing eryslash made an illustration to go along with this story... so for your viewing pleasure...
Thanks for reading!
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: very mild through 2x04 "The Kindness of Strangers"
Word Count: ~ 5400
Warnings: Incest, underage character, sexual situations, language, angst
Summary: The day after Ritual 21: Just A Kiss - Nathan doesn't understand his teenage brother (or himself) as much as he thought he did, or maybe he just doesn't want to. Feedback is love!
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fan fiction and no revenue is generated or accepted by the author by its publication on the internet.
TEN YEARS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
Nathan verbally outlined each of the bullet points listed on the sheet of paper he held in his hand, though he never actually looked down at the page. All part of his strategy; as an ambitious associate with hopes of making partner by next year, it was important for him to show that he had everything committed to memory. Across the room, law-firm partner Jack Vaughan had that look on his face that showed that he was only half listening, but he seemed deeply enmeshed in reading his copy of the page. Nathan wasn't just reciting what was on the paper; he had memorized another linguistic approach to the same material. He was damn well going to make partner next year; it was a done deal, but he couldn't help showing off.
Sitting near Vaughan, Nathan's secretary Jill gazed at Nathan with her usual adoring half-smile, transcribing what he said without having to actually listen to it. She'd already heard it that morning, as Nathan rehearsed it for her. She'd told him it was perfect, so he'd worked on it some more over lunch until he felt it was perfect. He had a higher standard of perfection. That's why he was an attorney, and she was a secretary. It was just the natural order of things.
What wasn't in the natural order of things was for her attention to waver away from Nathan, and for her smile to grow the way it did. Nathan bristled at her distraction, but he wasn't finished speaking his piece, so he didn't say anything at first. But when she spoke - interrupting him! - he fell silent.
"Well, hello there," she said.
Vaughan looked up, too, and Nathan turned to see what they were staring at - what Jill was smiling at, what Vaughan was wrinkling his brow about.
Peter stood in the doorway, all shining eyes and beaming smile, still wearing his school uniform - striped tie, white shirt with the untucked shirt-tails hanging out, blue sweater, and black slacks - and light-gray canvas Carhartt jacket. The wind had tousled his overgrown hair and pinkened his pale cheeks. He was smacking on a lollipop, one of those cheap, sticky cherry-flavored ones that dyed tongue, lips, and teeth a lurid red. He pulled the sucker out of his mouth and said, "Hey, bro," like he had a right to be there.
Nathan just stared, dumbstruck, for a moment. He hadn't seen anything so beautiful, so perfect, in a long time - his crazy, weird little brother, with his bad posture, sloppy clothes, hair that wouldn't stay out of his eyes, that rosebud mouth that always seemed to have some kind of sugar in it. But so beautifully proportioned, so unconsciously graceful. He was growing and changing so quickly that Nathan couldn't keep up. It seemed like every time Nathan looked at Peter, he felt that he had never really seen him before. Had last night's kiss changed him that much? Had Peter always looked that good in his school uniform? Was it the manual-labor, tough-guy look of the industrial jacket, so incongruous on such a delicate, obviously privileged kid? Maybe it was just the sticky, scarlet lips so dramatically defined against his face. Whatever it was, it made Nathan suddenly very aware of the feel of his clothing against his skin, very aware of the sudden dryness in his mouth, which he wanted to remedy by getting some of that cherry sweetness from Peter's.
But no, no, no, never. No more.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Nathan snapped.
Peter blinked in surprise, then he averted his eyes and shuffled his feet. Nathan blinked too; his voice had come out about ten times sharper than he'd intended. Behind him, he heard Jill ask, her voice curled with amusement, "Aren't you going to introduce us, Nathan?" Nathan turned to look at her, at Vaughan. Jill grinned, and Vaughan stared coolly back at Nathan, awaiting an explanation. Vaughan didn't seem annoyed, which was unusual; Nathan always had to step lightly around him, and always keep his cool. It wasn't good that he'd lost it here, in the middle of a strategy session.
Dammit, Peter, Nathan thought. "I'm sorry. This is my brother Peter. Peter, this is Jack Vaughan; he is a partner here at the firm. And this is Jill D'Israeli, my executive assistant."
"Like Benjamin Disraeli?" Peter piped up.
Jill's smile grew. "Yes," she said, pleasantly surprised. "He was my great-great-grand-uncle."
"Wow, cool," said Peter, his eyes shining with sincerity. It made Nathan want to smack him - Nathan had never made that connection himself, and he'd been working with Jill for months. "Nice to meet you. You too, Mr. Vaughan."
"Excuse us a moment," Nathan smiled at his co-workers, and took Peter by the elbow, steering him out into the hallway. Peter blinked at Nathan innocently. "What are you doing here? Why are you wearing your school clothes? I told you I'd meet you at home at six. It's not even five yet."
"I had to make up a test and there was a wrestling practice. Coach let us out early," Peter shrugged. "Plus, I was bored. I wanted to see where you work. I've never been here before - it's totally cool. I mean, the lobby is like whoa!"
Nathan thought so too, but he had to release some of his pent-up anger, even if he wasn't sure where it had come from. "You should be doing your homework right now. You need all the help with your grades that you can get."
Peter just stared at him, all the adoration gone from his expression. "My GPA's 3.5, Nathan," he replied.
Nathan refused to be cowed. "It should be four. And you know it."
"Excuse me, Petrelli." It was Vaughan, emerging from Nathan's office. Vaughan was smiling. He never smiled. "Thank you for your work on the prosecutory approach. I think I get the gist, and I have your printout. I figure you can get out of here for the day, if you have plans with your brother."
Nathan could actually feel the grin that broke out on Peter's face, since he couldn't bring himself to look at Peter right now. "Rad!" Peter piped up. "He does."
"...Thank you," Nathan accepted, smiling with relief. Anything to get Peter out of there sooner. It just seemed so incongruous for him to be there, like a stripper jumping out of a cake, or a litter of puppies suddenly loose and running around underfoot. He didn't want all those lawyers and paralegals and secretaries staring at his brother, knowing that about Nathan. He didn't want them to know. (Know what?...) "Yeah, it's... All right, I'll see you tomorrow."
Nathan got his coat and he and Peter strode through the outer office. "So what do you know about Disraeli, huh?" Nathan said, tousling Peter's hair even more.
"We're doing Queen Victoria in 19th Century History right now."
"You're 'doing' her, huh? Poor you," Nathan said, and to his satisfaction, Peter burst out laughing.
That was good. That was what they were supposed to be like. Like brothers.
Nathan got his car out of the garage and drove to the Petrelli family home. On the way they told each other all the jokes that they'd heard lately; Peter had some surprisingly good ones, and Nathan, laughing freely, found himself unwinding from the stress of his day. It hadn't been bad stress, but as he relaxed he realized exactly how tense he had been since last night. Peter could relax him faster and better than anyone or anything.
In the foyer of the house, Peter tossed his jacket onto a hanger in the coat closet, while Nathan carefully hung his coat up, still chuckling to himself. Peter turned to him, smiling, and quickly moving close, kissed Nathan on the lips with his warm, still-sticky, sugary mouth.
Nathan froze, a roaring in his ears, a sensation in his back like a hot wire pulling him upright. He shoved Peter away with his forearm and elbow, knocking Peter off-balance. "Goddamn it, Peter!" Nathan snapped. "You can't do that!"
Peter stared at Nathan in shock. Then, he dropped his eyes to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself. "I... I..." he stammered. "I'll go... change out of my school clothes a-a-and brush my teeth, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and rushed into the house, headed for the stairs.
The good feeling Nathan had only thirty seconds ago had completely evaporated. He should have been feeling better, having done the right thing, but it didn't feel right at all. It didn't feel right to yell at Peter, to strike at Peter, to shove him away. Not when he was being so funny and warm and wonderful and gorgeous and perfect. It was just an affectionate kiss. Not even like the one they'd shared last night. It wasn't Peter's fault that Nathan wanted Peter to kiss him, had been wanting it from the moment he lay eyes on him, wanting it more than anything, and maybe it showed, and Peter was just giving Nathan what he wanted.
But that didn't make it right. It wasn't right to look at Peter and want to kiss him and grab him and push him down to the floor and stick a finger in his mouth and demand that he suck it the way he sucked that lollipop. God no. And what was he doing feeling that way about a guy, and a teenager, anyway? Nathan wasn't particularly attracted to jailbait girls - no more than any other red-blooded heterosexual male, anyway. Heterosexual. Which he was. So he didn't understand what was happening here. It didn't make any sense that when he saw Peter, something happened in his chest that wasn't quite like pain or anxiety, but was more like... the physical sensation of hearing music. Like recognizing a favorite song. Like wondering how some songwriter he'd never met could write a piece of music that, in a particular moment, for him, was just so perfect.
But this was his brother. That feeling couldn't be happening here. Affection, sure. Camaraderie. Togetherness and belonging.
Not desire. God, no. Not love like that. No.
Nathan shut it down and put it away.
He took a deep breath, and thought about Peter as his little brother, thought about how Peter must feel. Peter would think that Nathan was angry at him, which wasn't true. He would feel lonely and misunderstood. And Peter was kind of emotionally delicate, way too close to his own feelings of mortality, too close to a desire for escape. If Peter did something stupid and self-destructive while Mom and Dad were in Japan, there'd be hell to pay. He was sure that was why they asked him to look after Peter while they were away, even if they hadn't stated it specifically. They didn't want Peter finding Dad's guns (the real ones, not the antiques that Peter knew about), or seeing how deep he could cut himself before he passed out from blood loss, or jumping off bridges. Nathan wasn't sure that he believed that Peter was capable of something like that, but...
He walked upstairs, to Peter's room.
The bedroom door was wide open, so Nathan went in, intending to lightly knock on the door frame to announce his presence. Instead he stopped in tracks, his knuckle stilled in mid-air.
Peter had shed his outer clothes, and stood in his underpants and socks, looking through his bureau with his back to the door. His pale back, lightly stippled with dark moles, shone, almost glowing, in the light of Peter's bedside lamp. His skin was amazing - Peter had a few small pimples on his face, but his back was practically perfect. His muscles were still only lightly defined under the skin, but he was starting to fill out more. One of these days, if he took care of himself, if he worked on it, Peter could have a beautiful body.
Not that it wasn't beautiful now, but right now, he was a beautiful kid. Well, not a kid, not with the fine, dark twiddles of hair under his arms, or the soft stripe of hair in a line from his navel to his white elastic waistband. A youth. Nathan had a hard time thinking of Peter as being a "young man" - he didn't know if he could ever get his head around that one.
Peter turned around, hearing the sigh Nathan hadn't meant to let out. Peter drew his eyebrows together and glared at Nathan, then rolled his eyes and turned away again. He yanked a black sweater from the bureau drawer and flung it against the bed. "What?" he grumbled.
Nathan walked up to Peter and put his hand against Peter's back, for some reason thinking his skin would be cold, but instead, finding Peter's skin pleasantly warm. And terribly silky. So soft. "Hey, I'm sorry," Nathan said gently. He rubbed his fingers into the muscles of Peter's back, felt them relax at his touch. "I didn't mean to hit you."
"You didn't," Peter said, not meeting Nathan's eyes. It seemed that he had brushed his teeth, because they were clean and white, even though his lips were still stained a scandalous red. His tongue would be, too. "You shoved me."
"Still. I overreacted. It's okay." Nathan drew Peter close to him and hugged him. Peter hugged back, half-heartedly. Not enough. Nathan wanted to feel forgiveness. He hugged Peter tighter, then drew back just a little to give him a kiss.
A little kiss. A nice one, between brothers. That was allowed. A quick one on the cheek, a quick one on the lips.
Just a quick one.
And then another one, not quite so quick.
Sweet, burning sugar. Artificial hot cinnamon like cheap candy. Nathan had forgotten that they made toothpaste in that flavor, and it took him by surprise. He was intrigued. And his mouth was open, tasting it. And Peter's mouth was open, providing it.
And then it was over. Peter had moved out of the embrace, swiping his hair out of his face and returning to his bureau. "I'm cold," he said, pulling out a white T-shirt and putting it on. "And I'm hungry. Can't wait 'til we get to Patsy's - I could eat, like, a whole pie by myself." His voice was dull and distant.
"Yeah," Nathan replied. His voice sounded strange to him, too. "We're gonna... right. Okay." He turned and left the bedroom, a little disoriented, confused, and ashamed of himself. The sad thing was, he was starting to become familiar with that sensation.
***
On the drive into Brooklyn, Nathan made small talk, asking Peter neutral questions about his classes at school and how the wrestling team was doing. Peter answered in brief syllables, staring out the window, no longer holding himself in his "lonely posture" (Nathan knew it so well by now; he knew so many of Peter's gestures and postures, gave them names) but not letting Nathan get close. Nathan kept his distance, trying to figure out what was actually going on in Peter's head.
They arrived at the little restaurant underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, and Peter visibly loosened up at the sight of it. It had been one of his favorite places to go since he was a little kid. When they went in, the manager loudly greeted them. "The brothers Petrelli!" he announced, leading them to their favorite table, underneath all the signed Frank Sinatra photographs. "Long time no see! You're looking good, young Peter! Are you still proud to be Italian?"
Peter blushed and laughed. Every time he came in, they reminded him of what he'd said when he was six years old, where his review of the pizza was "It makes me proud to be Italian!", to the raucous laughter and applause of everyone at the restaurant. He nodded and shrugged, a little too embarrassed to say anything.
The manager laughed back and lightly clapped Peter on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Nathan," he said. "But where are the older generation? Dining in town tonight?"
Nathan chuckled. "Actually, they're out of town right now," he said. "I'm on babysitting detail this week."
"Ah, it's very noble of you. You're one of the good guys. Now let me get you a pie in the oven - you want peppers and roasted garlic on it? They're real good today. Peter, you want a Coke? Nathan? A Coke and Jameson's. All right. Yusef'll be right out with those."
The manager cheerfully walked to the front door to greet the next customers, and Nathan watched him go, smiling to himself, and didn't notice Peter staring at him. When he did look over, he blinked at the intensity of Peter's glare. Peter looked royally, superlatively pissed; if looks could kill, there would be a smoking crater where Nathan was sitting. "Hey," Nathan shrugged, keeping the smile on his face.
"Babysitting detail," Peter said.
"It was a joke."
"Ha," said Peter, looking away. "Ha."
He didn't look at or speak to Nathan the whole time they were at Patsy Grimaldi's. Nathan watched in silent dismay as Peter ravaged the food, rapidly eating more than half of the enormous pizza by himself. It was almost as though he was eating so much and so continuously so that his mouth would never not be full, so he wouldn't have to talk. Nathan drank his first cocktail too quickly, and had to order a second one. By the time the meal was finished, he was too tipsy to drive.
"You want to go get dessert?" Nathan suggested, as they left Patsy's. Peter shrugged and nodded in response. Nathan sighed. "Come on, Pete. You're being really childish."
"Oh?" said Peter, arching his eyebrow.
"The silent treatment. It's ridiculous. I'm sorry, okay? It was a joke. A bad joke. Now let's go get a cannoli and move on. I need a cup of coffee before I'm okay to drive."
"Fine," Peter replied.
They still didn't speak as they walked a couple of blocks to a little cafe and got cappucinos and cannolis. It had gotten uncomfortably cold and windy outside, and they lingered over their coffees, not eager to go back out.
"You know what?" Peter said. Nathan had been trying not to look at Peter too much over the last hour, trying to ease the tension, but really, he'd only made it worse. Peter had powdered sugar all over his lips, highlighting their lingering unnatural redness. He licked his lips clean before he continued. "I totally miss Mom and Dad."
"Yeah?" said Nathan gently.
"It's kind of funny. I thought I'd be so glad to have them gone and have the house to myself - for the first time. First time ever. Mom usually takes me with her when she travels. Like she can't bear to let me out of her sight. It's just... they didn't want me to come this time. I mean, I wanna go to Tokyo. They know that."
"Well, you can't miss that much school right now," Nathan explained. "And they knew you'd be all right with me checking in on you."
"I... think you were supposed to stay," Peter said slowly. "I think you were supposed to live there while they're gone. Almost like house sitting. And babysitting." He gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, you're right. I'm a dick."
"No, you're a... a young man," said Nathan, "and you don't want to be referred to in public as a baby."
"Right," said Peter, sounding grateful to be understood. He gazed down into his empty cup. "But am I right? Were you supposed to stay?"
"I think Ma would have liked it that way," Nathan admitted. "But I can't do it. I've got my own place and my own routines; I can't just drop that. I'm doing the best I can. You've got all of me I can spare."
Peter raised his eyes to Nathan. "You can't spare any more?" he asked, somewhere between a question and a resigned, melancholy statement of fact.
Nathan smiled a little. He really didn't have an answer to that; instead, he asked, "Hey, do you still want to borrow that porn?"
That seemed to surprise Peter. "Well... um... yeah, I guess." He did seem interested.
This was good. Now they had a direction, and something specific to do. Nathan grinned and stood up. "Okay. Let's stop over to my place, and pick it up. I got a couple of choices for you. It's good to have choices in your pornography. You never know what you'll be in the mood for."
At Nathan's apartment, Peter sat on the leather couch in Nathan's study, his hands folded into his lap and his shoulders drawn up high and tense. Nathan would have loved to massage Peter's shoulders and neck, run his fingernails up through Peter's hair to the scalp until he sighed all that tension away. He slid a tape into the VCR and handed Peter the case, which was blank white plastic with Slut City written on the spine in black marker. Peter looked at the case and chuckled. "An acclaimed family film by Akira Kurosawa," he intoned.
"No, you're thinking of Shinjuku Pink Shots. You can borrow that one too, if you want." Nathan felt cheerful as he pressed the play button. Now this was an activity that brothers were supposed to share - nice, wholesome, heterosexual pornography (with the exception of a few scattered girl-on-girl moments). "I'll give you a preview..."
Nathan had seen this video several times now, and with the exception of a couple of scenes, it had lost its edge for him. Peter was transfixed by it, though, staring wide-eyed at the shaved and lubed genitals making contact. The first sequence in the film was the blonde female star giving a guy with an eight-inch bruiser a blow job, then being bent over a really hideous sofa and fucked doggy-style while she moaned repeatedly and professionally. This was not one of the memorable scenes, but it was pretty representative of the entire video, serviceable and straightforward, with very little kink, and no weird pain or domination going on. Something wholesome and appropriate for sharing with a sibling. Nathan owned stuff that he would never have shared with someone Peter's age, under any circumstances.
Peter watched silently, his cheeks first bright pink, then pale again. He didn't look amused or titillated in the slightest; he seemed to be analyzing what he saw, holding himself distant from it. Nathan wondered if he was having some kind of knee-jerk feminist response to it or something. He shouldn't; the blonde porn star looked healthy despite her fake tits, and seemed to be having a perfectly enjoyable time. Of course, even in this, Peter would have to be difficult.
Nathan popped out the tape after the sequence was done, and tried another tape, this one a bit more on the strange and dirty side. Peter gulped a little nervously while watching this one. His hands stayed in his lap, so Nathan couldn't tell by looking if Peter was physically aroused by the sight of men and women fucking. He'd have to be; he was human, after all, and it wasn't something that one could really control, especially not at his age. Nathan liked this video more than Slut City, and he felt himself getting a little hot under the collar. "I really like this girl," he said in a half-whisper, but the heavy, velvety arousal in his voice made him too self-conscious to explain why. Peter didn't ask.
At the end of that sequence, Peter cleared his throat and said, "Can I go home now?"
"You okay?" Nathan asked.
"Yeah," said Peter. "I just want to go home."
"Do you want to borrow either of those?"
"N-no, that's okay."
Nathan was too baffled to be gentle with him. "God, Peter. You act like you've never seen porn before."
"No, I'm just really picky," Peter said.
"Do you want more guys?"
"No," Peter replied, sounding extremely irritated. He sighed bitterly. "You don't understand."
"Help me understand," Nathan pleaded. Peter just looked at him, then looked away, and gave his head a little shake. Not quite a total denial, but a resignation. Giving up on Nathan. Shutting him out. Nathan tightened his jaw and turned off his AV equipment, and readied himself to leave again.
More silence in the car, so unbearable that Nathan, who didn't usually listen to music as he drove, turned the radio on. "The Wind Cries Mary" was playing on the classic rock station, and between that and Peter turned almost entirely away, Nathan fought off a sensation close to panic. He hated not knowing how to do something. He hated that overwhelming feeling in his chest, that sensation of wanting to beg Peter's forgiveness when he hadn't done anything wrong.
Nothing besides the greatest wrong, of course, and he'd do everything in his power to make sure Peter never knew Nathan was guilty of that. Except that he didn't seem to have much power these days. He wasn't controlling himself well at all. Maybe Peter already knew that Nathan had these impulses and desires - he had to. No wonder Peter didn't want to speak to him or look at him.
Arriving back at the house, Nathan hesitated for a moment before he got out of the car. Peter glanced at him, but didn't seem annoyed that Nathan was coming in, too; he seemed more surprised. In the foyer, Peter took off his Carhartt and hung it up slowly and carefully. Nathan made no move to take off his coat; he didn't feel like he had the right to stay. Peter gazed at him, frowning sympathetically.
"I'm so sorry, Peter," Nathan said.
"Don't be," Peter replied. "You didn't do anything."
"I screwed up. I don't know what went wrong. I tried so hard to give you a fun night, but... I guess... I guess I just don't understand you as well as I thought I did."
"Keep trying," Peter said, and fiercely embraced Nathan. "Just keep trying."
And this was right.
Peter's head cradled next to Nathan's, arms tight around each other. The physical sensation of forgiveness that Nathan had craved all evening. And also what he had been craving - having Peter wrapped in his arms, the faint sweet odor of the coffee shop still clinging to his hair, the softness of his sweater under Nathan's fingertips. The hot, angular contours of Peter's body, not quite fitting into Nathan's anymore. Once, it had. Once, tucked into a guest room bed in this house, Peter fit him exactly, sideways, like puzzle pieces fitting together. Peter had grown since then. Since last year. He wasn't finished growing yet; maybe another inch or so, and they would fit again, exactly, perfecly congruent, collarbone to collarbone-hollow, hipbone to belly, cock against cock.
Now Peter was hard and rigid right up against the deep scar on Nathan's thigh, and tracing the hard ridge of his erection up until it reached the scar on Nathan's hip - Peter knew exactly, exactly where it was. He touched it, then relaxed again, stiffness against the thigh scar. Nathan wanted to kiss Peter's forehead... no, his neck. His shoulder. Nibble on his throat. Suck his tongue out of his mouth. Taste him everywhere. Instead he just stood still and held Peter and breathed together with him, whispering faintly, "Yes." Yes to everything.
Yes to how much feeling Peter's hard-on against the scars made the scars throb and ache. But also yes to slipping his hand down there, over the scars, protecting them, palm out, not quite catching Peter's dick in his hand, but he could... he could at any moment... he longed to be asked. Peter didn't ask. He just pressed and rubbed against the hand instead, his breath catching in his throat, a soft, repetitive panting that no woman in any of Nathan's pornography would ever do.
"Yes..." With the other hand, Nathan held the back of Peter's head, scraped his fingernails through Peter's hair. He wanted so badly to kiss Peter, but... no never again, I said never again. I never said never this. Oh, let me have this. Please.
One moment, Peter was rubbing and arching, and the next, he had stopped. One moment, Peter was in Nathan's arms, and the next, he had torn himself away, and gone running into the house, his feet pounding up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed, and then there was silence, broken only by Nathan's deep, accelerated breathing, and Nathan's heavy, sharp sigh.
Should he follow? Run up there, slap the little brat for slamming a door - he knew he shouldn't do that, and just because Mom and Dad weren't home didn't mean that rule could be broken - hold him down on the bed, pull off that sweater and those school slacks and the T-shirt and the underwear and just lick him all over, see if he tasted like hot cinnamon everywhere, find other parts of him that were sticky and sweet.
Nathan balanced himself against a hand braced against the closet door. Uh, no. He was thinking of what he'd do to a woman. Not Peter. Peter wasn't sweet and wet and slippery; he was a boy, he was smelly and sweaty and dry... except for sometimes... sometimes (and Nathan knew how) he could make as much wetness as any girl, a warm, slippery, salty syrup from the tip of his NO STOP IT. You didn't like it. You did not like that. You were forced into that. You came into that military academy a straight male, and you left it a straight male. You did not develop a taste for cock just because you had no choice. You didn't learn to like it. You didn't ... always like it, somehow, tangled up with a love of a woman's hot wet interiors and the gorgeous jiggle of breasts, also the heavy, prickly delicacy of a ball sack, the ridge of the head, the tender slit... No, please, no, that is not me. Please. I don't want it to be me.
And I don't want it to be Peter.
He got in his car and drove home (Creedence on the radio now; good solid masculine Americana) and fished his little black book out of the top drawer of the desk in his study. He dialled a number and sat, pursing his lips and playing with a fountain pen, until the call was picked up.
"Yes, hello?"
"Annalise."
"Yes." She sounded pleased. "Nathan. Is very nice to hear from you. I wondered if you had forgotten me."
"That would never happen. Are you busy?"
"Not too busy for you." She had a lovely, husky, accented voice; Nathan could never remember if she was from Sweden or Denmark. Somehow, in all his go-getting, he was very bad at the details with women. He resolved to improve that.
"Would you come over to play?"
"I would be happy to. What kind of mood are you in tonight, Nathan?"
One of the things he loved about Annalise was that they could be utterly straightforward with each other. He said, "I want you to tie me up and eat my ass. Think you could do that?"
She gave a quick "Hm!" of agreement. "I will trade you for a fingerbang and a back massage; it was a long day."
"No problem," Nathan replied. "And yeah, it was."
"I'll be there in half an hour," she said, and hung up.
Nathan closed his phone, and poured two fingers of Macallan into a squat crystal shot glass. He savored the alcohol slowly, sitting at his desk; he and Annalise could shower together. Maybe not all was lost. He'd get his rocks off tonight and get some sleep, and maybe by the time his parents returned, Peter would be over this strange obsessive habit of his... and then Nathan wouldn't have to think about that part of himself ever again. Peter would be all right. He had to be. It was Nathan's responsibility.
He thought maybe he ought to get Peter a prostitute for Christmas. Something, anything, to save them both.
END PART (22)
A/N: Okay, this ended up becoming a very weird not-quite-coming-out story. Nathan is as cluelessly sexist and homophobic as only the closeted can be. Peter and Nathan are very much out of step here, but of course, by Christmas at the Coopers', they've figured a few things out. (But how?...) Stay tuned; this week isn't over, and a lot can change in a few days! ^_^ Continues in 23: It's Beyond My Control.
LATER EDIT: The amazing eryslash made an illustration to go along with this story... so for your viewing pleasure...
Thanks for reading!