Fic: Ritual (28): One on Sunday
Title: Ritual (28): One on Sunday
Pairing/Characters: Nathan/Peter, Meredith (in a way)
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: pre-series; contextual spoilers for all of Season One
Word Count: 5000
Warnings: Incest, language, explicit m/m sex, angst
Summary: Troubled by disturbing dreams, Peter and Nathan realize that their newfound intimacy has to end - at least, for now. Conclusion of the Vermont story arc (begun in Ritual 4 and Ritual 10).
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24) :: (25) :: (26) :: (27)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fan fiction.
"It's not supposed to be this way..."
"Maybe that's why it's really good."
***
30 MAY 1999
OUTSIDE LAKE BOMOSEEN, VERMONT
That night, exhausted and head-full, Peter and Nathan slept deeply.
***
Nathan dreamed about the rusty, clogged pipes in the basement of the summer house, which he'd spent yesterday clearing and cleaning. Black, slimy, mucky, disgusting U-bends and straight lengths, yard after yard, vanishing into the darkness. He went further and further back into the house, beginning to feel lost, wishing he'd brought a work lamp with him. How far back did the house go, he wondered? It seemed like he'd been down in the chilly darkness forever, trying to hang onto his tools with slippery fingers. He hated plumbing work, and had already vowed to never do it again. So what was he doing?
Finally he reached a wall, and the main pipe disappeared into the brick, while others looped away overhead along the ceiling. He put his tools back into the toolbox, and climbed a flight of rickety stairs that rose along the brick wall. He emerged into a room - the kitchen - and it was dark outside, even though it had been morning when he started on the plumbing work. He tried to flip a light switch, but it stayed dark. He grunted in annoyance.
"It won't work, you know," came her voice out of the darkness. "You were supposed to fix the fuse box, remember? Isn't that why you went down there?"
She leaned against the kitchen cabinets in the dark, her fair hair luminous, wearing the same shy smile that he remembered, the same slightly astonished look in her eyes that was there all the time. Meredith. That girl he'd loved (at least, for a little while - he hadn't allowed himself to feel anything about her for seven years), the girl who made a mistake, the girl who wasn't a mistake, no matter what Nathan's mother believed. Meredith, the girl who wasn't anything anymore. Dead and gone Meredith, alive and standing right in front of him.
"Nice to see you," Nathan said. He guessed he had to be dreaming, but he still felt a sharp pang of grief in his chest. She had been too young to die. She and the baby. That was a tragedy too awful for Nathan to contemplate, so he'd just let it take on the status of fact, something that happened in the past, not a loss that he himself had suffered. If he thought about it too closely, with any part of how he felt, it would destroy him, and there was too much at stake for him to let that happen. But he was thinking about it now, feeling it now. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
"You can't see me, though," Meredith replied with a laugh. "It's too dark in here."
She set her hand down on the countertop, and a strip of fire spread from her hand, like she'd laid it down, as though the fire spread from her fingertips.
And then he could see her. She was exactly as he remembered, from the last time he'd seen her - denim jacket, white lacy blouse, jeans and high-heeled sandals, her breasts swelling full in the blouse, a lovely, round, six-months-pregnant belly. She smiled cheerfully at him, as though nothing was wrong, when the entire kitchen was burning now, all the cabinets, the curtains, flames licking toward the cookstove and refrigerator. "I got the money," she told him. "That'll help a lot once the baby gets here. You tell your mama thank you for me."
He reached for her, shouting that it wasn't safe and they needed to get out, but no sound came from him. He turned his head for a moment, looking for an escape route, and when he looked back, she had vanished.
Nathan ran through the apartment - not the summer house in Vermont, but the cheap, tacky, linoleum-floored apartment that Meredith used to live in, or some version of it with more staircases and more twists and turns than had actually existed. Nathan forgot that he was dreaming. He had to find her; he had to save her this time. This was his chance to save her, save the baby.
Meredith was gone, though, like she'd never been there.
Nathan ran down stairs, arms in front of his face to protect him from falling, flaming tinder, and ran toward the front room - where he remembered the front room should be, perhaps, and a door to the outside, so he could at least get out and call for help. But Peter stood in the front room, shaking with fear, calling out, "Nathan!" Peter saw him, opened his arms, and Nathan ran toward his brother, grasping Peter tightly to him. Peter hugged back hard, gasping for breath. "Help me," Peter begged. The burning walls began to collapse, and the ceiling groaned ominously above them.
"We've got to get down," Nathan yelled, his voice thin and distant in his ears. He tackled Peter down onto the floor, and lay down on top of him, feeling the fires rush into the room, filling the room with the unmistakable scream of flames consuming carpet and timber and wallpaper. Somewhere nearby, something made of glass exploded; Nathan tucked his head close to Peter's, protecting him, wrapping his hands over Peter's hair, covering Peter's body completely with his. Smoke surrounded them, filled Nathan's lungs, so Nathan stopped breathing. It was easy. As he stopped breathing, the roar of the flames died down in his ears, and he felt heavy, calm, and sleepy. He would undoubtedly die, but at least Peter was safe.
Then everything was quiet again. Nathan took a breath, and found the air was clear. He opened his eyes and sat up. It was morning again, or at least light. Beneath him, Peter was perfectly all right, not even dirty, not a single smudge marring his innocent face or his slender, pale arms. Nathan was also completely unharmed and clean, even his back, which should have gotten the full brunt of the upper level falling onto him. He and Peter both stared around them at their surroundings. They lay on the ground in the midst of smoking, ashy devastation, stretching out as far as the eye could see in all directions. It wasn't just the apartment building that had burned - everything had. The world. Only black dust and charcoal and rising plumes of gray smoke remained. And in the middle of it, Peter looked as perfect as a painted angel. Everything else had been destroyed.
Nathan didn't know if all this was Peter's fault, or his own. But it was one of them. Or maybe both.
"I love you," Peter said, and Nathan backhanded him in the face, as hard as he could.
***
Peter dreamed of being underneath Nathan, on top of Nathan, beside him, in front of him, being fucked. He couldn't see anything, but he felt everything with sizzling clarity - stretching as Nathan forced himself inside, tingly stinging on the surface, and the delicious deep disruption inside, oily-soft or glycerine-slick, the sweat on their sliding bodies lubricating their skins. Raw, hurting, but glorious. He begged Nathan to stop without actually meaning it, and Nathan paid no attention to Peter's words, only gave a wordless growl and fucked harder, deeper, more.
Peter turned over onto his back and held his knees up, and the fuck became even more intense, more viciously painful and splendid. Peter felt like he was being pummelled apart from inside, and he said "Stop" and "Yes" at the same time, both words clearly audible in his own voice, almost as if creating a harmony with himself. Nathan put his hands palm-down against Peter's belly, and Peter felt - through Nathan - the movement of Nathan's cock inside Peter, from the outside, feeling his own cock through Peter's skin, shoving harder still. Peter actually opened his eyes and looked down wonderingly, feeling his belly genuinely breaking apart, and saw that there was no blood or innard ugliness, but that he had indeed been opened. From navel to crotch, the exposed insides where his guts should be was instead comprised of a consistent pale-gold substance, like cake or bread or cheese. Or the fluffy, crumbly inside of a shortbread cookie. It looked, to his baffled amusement, pretty tasty.
The sight made Peter laugh, and Nathan kissed him, and consumed his lips. Literally. He just chewed them right off, swallowed them, and said, "Mmmm, that's good." Nathan kissed him more, ate some more, ate teeth and tongue, scooped his fingers into Peter's exposed insides and brought them to his mouth. "Yum," he said, "you taste great!" Peter laughed again - somehow; his body was missing some essential parts - because he could still feel the parts of his body that Nathan had eaten, in Nathan's mouth and in his stomach. And it felt wonderful. Nathan licked his lips, moved his mouth down to Peter's belly and ate, and it was the sexiest thing Peter had ever seen. Or felt. Being inside Nathan; still being himself, still feeling everything. Nourishing Nathan, passing cell by cell, molecule by molecule, into his brother, strengthening him and keeping him alive, and now they'd never be apart.
Then he was all eaten up, and seeing the world through Nathan's eyes.
A kitchen on fire. A kitchen Peter didn't recognize, with tacky gauze curtains with bread loaves printed on them, a sink full of dirty dishes, a pack of cigarettes on the table which caught a tongue of flame and was instantly incinerated. Fire and chaos. Peter felt calm but Nathan didn't; he ran to and fro like a panicked animal, finally rushing through an open doorway into another room, this one mostly untouched by flames, but rapidly filling with smoke.
And he was standing there, too. Peter. Weird to see himself. And his consciousness leaped dizzily across the room, from Nathan's eyes to his own, and then he could see Nathan. And, involuntarily, yanked back to seeing himself, and then back yet again, vacillating back and forth between the two, faster and faster until he felt like he was drowning, while the flames gushed silently into the room and splashed all around them like waves.
***
Nathan was awakened by the sound of Peter moaning in his sleep; soft, tiny, sobbing sounds. For a moment Nathan just stared at him, fully expecting a red, knuckle-shaped welt to rise on the side of Peter's face, but of course that didn't happen. It was just Peter, passed out, pale sleep-sand stuck to his eyelashes, as though he really had been crying all night, his naked body sweaty and sticky and stinking of sex.
Nathan edged away slowly and carefully, trying not to wake Peter, but Peter opened his eyes immediately, staring blindly at the pillow where Nathan's head had recently lain. He blinked to clear his vision, and stared at Nathan in confusion. Then he turned over and mashed his face into the pillow with a groan.
Nathan stood up, wrapped a towel around himself, and slipped quietly into the bathroom. He got immediately into a cold shower and stood under it for a few minutes, grateful for the coolness after being next to Peter the Radiator all night. (For the second night in a row, as the weather got hotter and hotter.) Nathan stuck his soapy head under the cold spray, wishing he could wash the dream out of his head so easily. A nightmare, really. He hadn't had a nightmare in years, and he'd never dreamed about Meredith, even when they were together. And the baby!... and protecting Peter, and Peter untouched and perfect and clueless, and the instinct-deep thrill of rage and pleasure of hitting Peter because this was all his fault, everything, this whole business... it was all his fault. All of it.
But really, it was all Nathan's fault, because he'd allowed it to happen.
He'd decided that if Peter came in, he'd make the water warmer, but Peter never showed up, so Nathan got out of the shower and examined himself as he dried off. His body was covered in fine scratches and finger-bruises, mostly on his ass, as Peter had grabbed him and demanded to be broken. Stupid kid had no idea what he was asking for. Nathan's cock was sore and bruised, too tender at the tip to bear his touch. When he had first awakened, he had an erection, but the cold shower had sent it away, and soothed the rawness on the surface of the skin. His fault. Too much fucking, too passionate and thoughtless, and completely unprotected. The last time he'd done something so stupid, he'd gotten some poor girl pregnant, and then she ended up dead.
No. Accident. You told her not to smoke. It was an accident. It was in the past. It has nothing to do with you now. Get a grip, Petrelli.
When Nathan returned to the guest room, Peter was gone, as were the clothes and shoes he'd been wearing last night, and the rest of the towels they'd used. Nathan was grateful to have the room to himself as he got dressed. He needed a little more time before he could pretend that things were all right.
In the other bathroom down the hall, Peter showered by himself, too. He had to have some privacy for a moment or he was going to start crying. The way Nathan had been looking at him when he woke up had freaked Peter out far more than his dream; he couldn't even describe the expression, beyond "weird and scared and kind of nauseated," and what would make Nathan look at him that way? For a moment, Peter wondered if Nathan had shared the same dream, and had been grossed out by it. It would be a little bit weird.
Peter remembered his own dream precisely, and he went over the details in his mind until he knew he'd at least remember them long enough to write them down if he wanted to. Now that he was awake, Peter couldn't decide if the dream was funny and sexy, or just the product of a severely disturbed and sick mind. It was such a dumb dream, really, probably brought on by having seen that Tom Petty video too many times. Still, the feeling of being chewed on and swallowed was so bizarre, torn apart and dug into like he was a dish of lasagna at a buffet. The memory of seeing his cake-like insides gave him the creeps now. That, and the weird blurry effect of jumping back and forth between sets of eyes... it made him feel dizzy, even now, just remembering.
He hurt inside today, much more so than he had yesterday morning. His asshole and lower abdomen hurt like he'd been punched with brass knuckles, his jaw and neck ached from sucking Nathan's cock, and his own cock was too sore to touch. He still touched it, though; he had to. When his orgasm came, it stung like a slap. And yet, it felt really good, at least to relieve the relentless pressure in his balls and send his cock back to sleep.
Peter rinsed off, got out of the shower, and went back to the first guest room, where Nathan was dressed and patiently tying his shoelaces. Peter slumped onto the bed wrapped in his towel and lay down again. Nathan dropped another towel over Peter's damp nakedness, and went back to his shoes.
"Hey," Peter said after a long pause, "can we go back to the cafe in town for breakfast?"
"Sure," said Nathan.
Not a word about the fact that Nathan was supposed to bring Peter coffee in bed that morning. Peter didn't know what to say. He looked at Nathan curiously, but Nathan wasn't looking back; he was already leaving the room, heading downstairs. Peter sat up and hugged himself, rocking comfortingly. Somehow, everything had changed again already. He wished he was home; he wished he could undo everything and start over. But at what point would he start?
They didn't talk much in the car, and didn't look at each other. Peter tried to put music on, but Nathan told him that he'd rather it were quiet. Peter didn't protest, even though the silence was killing him, smothering him like a sticky tar. He kept on opening his mouth to speak, only to have the words dry in his throat before he could get them out.
They were seated at the same table as they had been last night, though this morning, the cafe was full of other tourists and locals and bustling waitresses in starched skirts. Peter got a coffee with cream and sugar, waffles with jam, and scrambled eggs, and asked that the sausage be left off his order. Nathan got dry toast, the fresh fruit cup, and black coffee, which was what he usually ate when he was in the city. "Already getting ready to go home?" Peter asked casually.
"I'm leaving tonight," Nathan confirmed. "Gotta work tomorrow. Do you not like sausage anymore? You could have gotten bacon."
"I just... I don't want to eat meat anymore," Peter said.
"You ate meat yesterday."
"Yeah," said Peter. "I just... don't want to now."
"Hmm," said Nathan, and opened his newspaper. Peter stared at him, wanting so badly to be asked why, so he could tell Nathan about his dream, and have something to laugh about. But Nathan was buried in the business section of the Sunday Times, and Peter could only try to comb through the pile of newspaper for the comics.
After Peter eaten his breakfast and read all the comics, and Nathan still studied the business section like he was memorizing every single stock, he just couldn't stand the silence anymore. Obviously, it was up to him to lift the mood, and make them friends again. "Hey," he said to Nathan, lightly kicking him under the table. Nathan folded his newspaper and glared. Peter smiled, trying to look charming. "What do you want to do today?"
"I know what you're doing today," Nathan replied, his voice hard and cold. He sounded just like their father. "You're doing laundry. I notice you didn't do it last night."
"We were busy," Peter said.
"It needs to be done today, before Mom and Dad get here," Nathan said, and raised the newspaper again. Peter sighed in frustration and looked away, wrapped his arms around himself and slumped against the wall until Nathan was done.
There was no discussion of whether or not they wanted to spend any time in town; they both just got into the car. On the drive back to the house, Peter cleared his throat, and to his satisfaction, Nathan glanced over at him. "Can I tell you something?" Peter asked.
"Go ahead," said Nathan, not sounding very receptive.
"I dreamed last night that... we kinda became one," Peter mumbled, not sure how to say it. It sounded even stupider out loud than he'd feared. "We were... fucking, and... I felt what you felt. I saw what you saw. I could barely hang onto it, but... It felt really real."
Nathan tightened his jaw. "It was a dream, Peter. That's not the truth."
"No, of course not... I just... thought it was kind of cool." Peter hugged himself and rocked in his seat. Despite the blazing noontime heat, he felt like someone had just dumped ice water into his veins. He recognized the feeling, and it scared him.
Nathan spoke as coldly as Peter felt. "We're not 'one.' There are experiences that I've had that... I hope you never have."
"I've had experiences too, that..." Peter trailed off and shook his head. Enough of this metaphorical bullshit; Nathan was so much better at it, and Peter would never get anywhere if he took that tactic. Okay; forget the dream. "Are you mad at me?"
No hesitation. "Yeah, a little bit."
Peter was surprised. "Why?"
Nathan paused for a moment before he answered. "We shouldn't have done... that," he said. "None of it. We wouldn't have, if you hadn't brought it up."
"So it's my fault?" Peter said in disbelief. "It's all me? You didn't do anything?"
"I shouldn't have."
"So you shouldn't have. We did, though, and you shutting me out isn't going to take it back. It wasn't just me, and it wasn't just you. We both... I needed it. You needed it, too."
"I didn't need anything," Nathan snapped.
Peter smiled mirthlessly. "You needed me to give myself to you," he said.
"No," said Nathan, his tone helpless, shaking his head. He sounded almost like he was on the verge of tears.
"You needed to give yourself to me," Peter insisted.
"No," said Nathan, louder. "No, I didn't. I made a mistake. And we can't do it again. This is a mistake, Peter. A weakness. A weakness that I can't afford. This is wrong, and I don't have room for it in my life. It ends here, Peter."
"No, it doesn't," said Peter, just as firm, just as loud. "It doesn't end here... it never ends. Nathan, don't you understand?"
"Don't you understand that limits exist for a reason?"
"Limits? Mistakes? I don't understand what you mean," said Peter, shaking his head again. "I'm not a mistake. Our love is not a mistake." It sounded incredibly lame, but it was true, so he had to say it. The time for pride was past.
"Our love? Our love - doesn't exist."
"Bullshit," Peter laughed. "Bullshit. Listen to yourself. Are you telling me you don't love me?"
"There's a difference, and stop being such a stupid little twat. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Peter, for Chrissake, I fucked you... how many times?"
"Four," Peter replied, and couldn't resist the little smile that came to his lips.
"Four times," Nathan echoed, his voice quieter now, regretful. "Hurting you; I know I did. I don't want to do that to you. No one should have to hurt like that."
"Even if that's what they want, more than anything in the world?"
"That's not the point. You're my little brother. I fucked you four times. Unprotected."
"If you care, Nathan, you're the only one," Peter broke in.
"That's beside the point. You're not the only one. It's dangerous."
"Let's just be careful from now on," Peter offered.
"I don't - From now on - Peter, no. I'm telling you - it's over. We stop. Now. You stop. You leave me alone. I don't want to think about it." Nathan's cheeks were red, and a vein stood out on his forehead. He had looked like that in Peter's dream, too; that look of panic and loss and despair, but still trying to hold it together.
"Because you want it so much," Peter whispered. "You want it so much, it'll drive you crazy if you don't get it. Am I wrong? Are you gonna lie to me again, and tell me I'm wrong?" He laughed a little, cold, wolflike, without a trace of humor. "I can tell you right now that I want it so much it'll drive me crazy if I don't get it. So I guess I have to learn how to talk to boys, and start dating boys, and start fucking as many as I can to get as close to what I really want, all I really want, which is you, you fuckin' asshole; you know it's you. So go ahead; send me to the crazy house, send me to the bath house, so I can get my ass plowed by as many guys as I possibly can on the off chance that it'll help me forget you. Okay?"
"You shut the fuck up right now," Nathan snapped. He guided the car up the gravel driveway, slammed the parking brake into place, and ripped the car keys from the ignition. He and Peter both got out of the car at once, moving in perfect sync with each other, slamming their car doors with the same motion without being aware of it. Peter ran ahead and beat Nathan inside the house, and once Nathan came through the door, Peter shoved him with his hands flat against his chest, making Nathan slip a little on the hallway rug.
"Shut the fuck up, huh?" Peter taunted, shoving him again. "You can just silence me, and it's over? You never have to think about it again, because you shut me up?"
Nathan shoved back. "Don't touch me," he hissed.
"Don't touch you because you can't stop yourself, huh?" Peter shoved him again, teeth set in anger. "Because you can't stop yourself when I touch you, because it reminds you of all those nasty things you want to do to me and all that stuff you can't stop yourself from doing. Huh? Am I the ugly part of you? The nasty slutty part that won't shut up? Huh? Your weakness? Your fucking faggot counterpart? You think it's a secret? It's not a secret. I'm onto you, and no, I'll never leave you alone, because I want to watch you break. I know you're fuckin' weak and I'll see you break if it kills me. Do you get it? Do you understand me?"
Nathan raised his fist and had it in mid-swing before he caught himself. Or, rather, Peter caught him; Peter grabbed onto Nathan's fist and twisted it, painfully wrenching Nathan's wrist. Peter pulled the fist to his own face, lightly knocking the knuckles against his jaw, against his lips, his teeth, then covered the knuckles with wet, sucking, passionate kisses. Nathan wrenched his hand free, brought up the other fist, fully intending to let this punch connect, but Peter did the same thing again, painfully unlocking Nathan's fingers to suck them.
Then he twisted Nathan's arm again, pulling him off balance, and swept his legs, toppling them both to the hardwood floor, landing in a tangle of limbs and rug and muttered curses. Nathan was disoriented; he tried to struggle away, but Peter held him still and crushed his lips against Nathan's, biting and sucking. Nathan grabbed for hair, ears, anything that stuck out that he could reach, and got the upper hand, flipping them over, Peter now underneath him with his red mouth open in a bestial snarl. Nathan secured Peter's arms, leaned down, and bit Peter's neck hard, hard enough to bring tiny blossoms of blood to the surface. Peter screamed, and Nathan sucked at this bite mark he'd just made, making the bruising worse. He ground down with his hips, trying to ignore the pain, but there was no way; his cock was getting very hard, and it hurt and it felt bitterly delicious.
It was happening yet again.
"Ahhh - uh - ahhh!" Peter cried out, arching up against Nathan, struggling to free his arms. Nathan let him go, but didn't let him up, and Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan, one around his shoulder blades and the other around his waist, and arched up definitively, giving little yelps as he ground his dick against cloth. The arm around Nathan's waist slid away and down, and then between them, then both hands, and Peter's fingers fumbled until he had loosened his waistband and Nathan's, and pushed both of their jeans down until flesh contacted flesh.
They groaned as one; they came as one, sharing the pain and release, the fear, the anger, lust, confusion, loneliness, everything.
Peter didn't even wait till his breathing calmed. He squirmed out from under Nathan, pulled his jeans back up, and ran as fast as he could up the stairs. He tore off his clothes as soon as he was in the bathroom, and got back into the shower, sobbing as the warm water touched his painfully ravaged genitals, as he ran water over the bruise on his neck. He sat down on the floor of the shower stall, and stayed under the shower spray until he could stop crying. He took comfort in the fact that Nathan hadn't seen his tears.
Nathan lay face down on the floor, feeling the last drops of his semen puddling beneath his belly, blank and empty. He couldn't feel anything. Peter had gotten him to break, all right. It was terrible how easy it had been. Terrible how right Peter was. He was fated to be locked in this bond with Peter, or for that bond to drive them both mad. He did have a choice, of course. But he didn't know if he could choose madness, or force Peter to do the same. Or, more likely, they were both already insane.
He had no idea what to do.
Peter, dressed in yesterday's dirty clothes, came slowly back down the stairs. Nathan didn't look up at him, just kept lying there with his head in his hands, hoping that Peter felt a fraction of the pain that he felt, hating himself for wishing his brother pain, for wishing his beloved pain, for the fact that they were one and the same.
Hoping Peter hated himself for that, too.
Peter just walked on past him, out the front door. The sound of his shoes crunched down the gravel path, around the house, out to the pond and the rocky shore. Peter sat on a high rock overlooking the water, rested his head on his crossed arms, and stared into nothingness.
He loved Nathan, and that was all there was to it. If Nathan didn't want him - didn't want to act on it, anyway - that was that. Obviously, Nathan wanted him. But Nathan was horrified by it - something had happened between last night and this morning that had frightened him out of his mind. Maybe Peter had just gotten too close, too demanding. Peter didn't want either one of them being destroyed; everything he'd said or done was trying to prevent that. But Nathan just didn't understand what Peter was trying to do. So much of what Nathan was would never allow this, even though so much of what Nathan was needed this. But there was only so much Peter could do. The rest was up to Nathan.
Peter whispered forlornly to himself, "I just want to play, that's all..."
Nathan didn't try to follow Peter outside. He stood up once the sound of Peter's footsteps had died away, went to the kitchen and got a damp hand towel to wipe the floor clean, then went upstairs to clean himself up. He couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror. How could I have done this, let Peter do this? This wasn't him. This wasn't Nathan Petrelli, the hero, top of his class, the man of infinite potential, the ladykiller. He didn't even know who this was, this strange impulse guiding his hand, and he didn't know where he went when it took over. But still, it was him. It was his love. This was the shape and dimension of his love, terrible, wretched, rotten, immoral. This was the depth of his sacrifice. He couldn't have given it if he didn't have it to give.
He tidied his clothes, packed what he had to pack, and left without saying goodbye. Out by the pond, as the car drove away and left him alone in this strange, isolated place, Peter picked up a big rock and threw it at the departing car.
He missed.
END PART (28)
A/N: This is an unhappy, angsty little tale. But a necessary one for my need for completion. (Only 18 stories later...) It proves a couple of things - Nathan is the king of repressed memories, and Peter is made out of waffles. ^_^ Fun with dream symbolism... The next step for Nathan and Peter is described in Ritual 17, the second part set at Christmas, where they actually work out that whole "committed to unsafe sex" thing, even if that discussion doesn't actually make it into the story. Anyway... Thanks for reading.
Pairing/Characters: Nathan/Peter, Meredith (in a way)
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: pre-series; contextual spoilers for all of Season One
Word Count: 5000
Warnings: Incest, language, explicit m/m sex, angst
Summary: Troubled by disturbing dreams, Peter and Nathan realize that their newfound intimacy has to end - at least, for now. Conclusion of the Vermont story arc (begun in Ritual 4 and Ritual 10).
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24) :: (25) :: (26) :: (27)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fan fiction.
"It's not supposed to be this way..."
"Maybe that's why it's really good."
***
30 MAY 1999
OUTSIDE LAKE BOMOSEEN, VERMONT
That night, exhausted and head-full, Peter and Nathan slept deeply.
***
Nathan dreamed about the rusty, clogged pipes in the basement of the summer house, which he'd spent yesterday clearing and cleaning. Black, slimy, mucky, disgusting U-bends and straight lengths, yard after yard, vanishing into the darkness. He went further and further back into the house, beginning to feel lost, wishing he'd brought a work lamp with him. How far back did the house go, he wondered? It seemed like he'd been down in the chilly darkness forever, trying to hang onto his tools with slippery fingers. He hated plumbing work, and had already vowed to never do it again. So what was he doing?
Finally he reached a wall, and the main pipe disappeared into the brick, while others looped away overhead along the ceiling. He put his tools back into the toolbox, and climbed a flight of rickety stairs that rose along the brick wall. He emerged into a room - the kitchen - and it was dark outside, even though it had been morning when he started on the plumbing work. He tried to flip a light switch, but it stayed dark. He grunted in annoyance.
"It won't work, you know," came her voice out of the darkness. "You were supposed to fix the fuse box, remember? Isn't that why you went down there?"
She leaned against the kitchen cabinets in the dark, her fair hair luminous, wearing the same shy smile that he remembered, the same slightly astonished look in her eyes that was there all the time. Meredith. That girl he'd loved (at least, for a little while - he hadn't allowed himself to feel anything about her for seven years), the girl who made a mistake, the girl who wasn't a mistake, no matter what Nathan's mother believed. Meredith, the girl who wasn't anything anymore. Dead and gone Meredith, alive and standing right in front of him.
"Nice to see you," Nathan said. He guessed he had to be dreaming, but he still felt a sharp pang of grief in his chest. She had been too young to die. She and the baby. That was a tragedy too awful for Nathan to contemplate, so he'd just let it take on the status of fact, something that happened in the past, not a loss that he himself had suffered. If he thought about it too closely, with any part of how he felt, it would destroy him, and there was too much at stake for him to let that happen. But he was thinking about it now, feeling it now. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
"You can't see me, though," Meredith replied with a laugh. "It's too dark in here."
She set her hand down on the countertop, and a strip of fire spread from her hand, like she'd laid it down, as though the fire spread from her fingertips.
And then he could see her. She was exactly as he remembered, from the last time he'd seen her - denim jacket, white lacy blouse, jeans and high-heeled sandals, her breasts swelling full in the blouse, a lovely, round, six-months-pregnant belly. She smiled cheerfully at him, as though nothing was wrong, when the entire kitchen was burning now, all the cabinets, the curtains, flames licking toward the cookstove and refrigerator. "I got the money," she told him. "That'll help a lot once the baby gets here. You tell your mama thank you for me."
He reached for her, shouting that it wasn't safe and they needed to get out, but no sound came from him. He turned his head for a moment, looking for an escape route, and when he looked back, she had vanished.
Nathan ran through the apartment - not the summer house in Vermont, but the cheap, tacky, linoleum-floored apartment that Meredith used to live in, or some version of it with more staircases and more twists and turns than had actually existed. Nathan forgot that he was dreaming. He had to find her; he had to save her this time. This was his chance to save her, save the baby.
Meredith was gone, though, like she'd never been there.
Nathan ran down stairs, arms in front of his face to protect him from falling, flaming tinder, and ran toward the front room - where he remembered the front room should be, perhaps, and a door to the outside, so he could at least get out and call for help. But Peter stood in the front room, shaking with fear, calling out, "Nathan!" Peter saw him, opened his arms, and Nathan ran toward his brother, grasping Peter tightly to him. Peter hugged back hard, gasping for breath. "Help me," Peter begged. The burning walls began to collapse, and the ceiling groaned ominously above them.
"We've got to get down," Nathan yelled, his voice thin and distant in his ears. He tackled Peter down onto the floor, and lay down on top of him, feeling the fires rush into the room, filling the room with the unmistakable scream of flames consuming carpet and timber and wallpaper. Somewhere nearby, something made of glass exploded; Nathan tucked his head close to Peter's, protecting him, wrapping his hands over Peter's hair, covering Peter's body completely with his. Smoke surrounded them, filled Nathan's lungs, so Nathan stopped breathing. It was easy. As he stopped breathing, the roar of the flames died down in his ears, and he felt heavy, calm, and sleepy. He would undoubtedly die, but at least Peter was safe.
Then everything was quiet again. Nathan took a breath, and found the air was clear. He opened his eyes and sat up. It was morning again, or at least light. Beneath him, Peter was perfectly all right, not even dirty, not a single smudge marring his innocent face or his slender, pale arms. Nathan was also completely unharmed and clean, even his back, which should have gotten the full brunt of the upper level falling onto him. He and Peter both stared around them at their surroundings. They lay on the ground in the midst of smoking, ashy devastation, stretching out as far as the eye could see in all directions. It wasn't just the apartment building that had burned - everything had. The world. Only black dust and charcoal and rising plumes of gray smoke remained. And in the middle of it, Peter looked as perfect as a painted angel. Everything else had been destroyed.
Nathan didn't know if all this was Peter's fault, or his own. But it was one of them. Or maybe both.
"I love you," Peter said, and Nathan backhanded him in the face, as hard as he could.
***
Peter dreamed of being underneath Nathan, on top of Nathan, beside him, in front of him, being fucked. He couldn't see anything, but he felt everything with sizzling clarity - stretching as Nathan forced himself inside, tingly stinging on the surface, and the delicious deep disruption inside, oily-soft or glycerine-slick, the sweat on their sliding bodies lubricating their skins. Raw, hurting, but glorious. He begged Nathan to stop without actually meaning it, and Nathan paid no attention to Peter's words, only gave a wordless growl and fucked harder, deeper, more.
Peter turned over onto his back and held his knees up, and the fuck became even more intense, more viciously painful and splendid. Peter felt like he was being pummelled apart from inside, and he said "Stop" and "Yes" at the same time, both words clearly audible in his own voice, almost as if creating a harmony with himself. Nathan put his hands palm-down against Peter's belly, and Peter felt - through Nathan - the movement of Nathan's cock inside Peter, from the outside, feeling his own cock through Peter's skin, shoving harder still. Peter actually opened his eyes and looked down wonderingly, feeling his belly genuinely breaking apart, and saw that there was no blood or innard ugliness, but that he had indeed been opened. From navel to crotch, the exposed insides where his guts should be was instead comprised of a consistent pale-gold substance, like cake or bread or cheese. Or the fluffy, crumbly inside of a shortbread cookie. It looked, to his baffled amusement, pretty tasty.
The sight made Peter laugh, and Nathan kissed him, and consumed his lips. Literally. He just chewed them right off, swallowed them, and said, "Mmmm, that's good." Nathan kissed him more, ate some more, ate teeth and tongue, scooped his fingers into Peter's exposed insides and brought them to his mouth. "Yum," he said, "you taste great!" Peter laughed again - somehow; his body was missing some essential parts - because he could still feel the parts of his body that Nathan had eaten, in Nathan's mouth and in his stomach. And it felt wonderful. Nathan licked his lips, moved his mouth down to Peter's belly and ate, and it was the sexiest thing Peter had ever seen. Or felt. Being inside Nathan; still being himself, still feeling everything. Nourishing Nathan, passing cell by cell, molecule by molecule, into his brother, strengthening him and keeping him alive, and now they'd never be apart.
Then he was all eaten up, and seeing the world through Nathan's eyes.
A kitchen on fire. A kitchen Peter didn't recognize, with tacky gauze curtains with bread loaves printed on them, a sink full of dirty dishes, a pack of cigarettes on the table which caught a tongue of flame and was instantly incinerated. Fire and chaos. Peter felt calm but Nathan didn't; he ran to and fro like a panicked animal, finally rushing through an open doorway into another room, this one mostly untouched by flames, but rapidly filling with smoke.
And he was standing there, too. Peter. Weird to see himself. And his consciousness leaped dizzily across the room, from Nathan's eyes to his own, and then he could see Nathan. And, involuntarily, yanked back to seeing himself, and then back yet again, vacillating back and forth between the two, faster and faster until he felt like he was drowning, while the flames gushed silently into the room and splashed all around them like waves.
***
Nathan was awakened by the sound of Peter moaning in his sleep; soft, tiny, sobbing sounds. For a moment Nathan just stared at him, fully expecting a red, knuckle-shaped welt to rise on the side of Peter's face, but of course that didn't happen. It was just Peter, passed out, pale sleep-sand stuck to his eyelashes, as though he really had been crying all night, his naked body sweaty and sticky and stinking of sex.
Nathan edged away slowly and carefully, trying not to wake Peter, but Peter opened his eyes immediately, staring blindly at the pillow where Nathan's head had recently lain. He blinked to clear his vision, and stared at Nathan in confusion. Then he turned over and mashed his face into the pillow with a groan.
Nathan stood up, wrapped a towel around himself, and slipped quietly into the bathroom. He got immediately into a cold shower and stood under it for a few minutes, grateful for the coolness after being next to Peter the Radiator all night. (For the second night in a row, as the weather got hotter and hotter.) Nathan stuck his soapy head under the cold spray, wishing he could wash the dream out of his head so easily. A nightmare, really. He hadn't had a nightmare in years, and he'd never dreamed about Meredith, even when they were together. And the baby!... and protecting Peter, and Peter untouched and perfect and clueless, and the instinct-deep thrill of rage and pleasure of hitting Peter because this was all his fault, everything, this whole business... it was all his fault. All of it.
But really, it was all Nathan's fault, because he'd allowed it to happen.
He'd decided that if Peter came in, he'd make the water warmer, but Peter never showed up, so Nathan got out of the shower and examined himself as he dried off. His body was covered in fine scratches and finger-bruises, mostly on his ass, as Peter had grabbed him and demanded to be broken. Stupid kid had no idea what he was asking for. Nathan's cock was sore and bruised, too tender at the tip to bear his touch. When he had first awakened, he had an erection, but the cold shower had sent it away, and soothed the rawness on the surface of the skin. His fault. Too much fucking, too passionate and thoughtless, and completely unprotected. The last time he'd done something so stupid, he'd gotten some poor girl pregnant, and then she ended up dead.
No. Accident. You told her not to smoke. It was an accident. It was in the past. It has nothing to do with you now. Get a grip, Petrelli.
When Nathan returned to the guest room, Peter was gone, as were the clothes and shoes he'd been wearing last night, and the rest of the towels they'd used. Nathan was grateful to have the room to himself as he got dressed. He needed a little more time before he could pretend that things were all right.
In the other bathroom down the hall, Peter showered by himself, too. He had to have some privacy for a moment or he was going to start crying. The way Nathan had been looking at him when he woke up had freaked Peter out far more than his dream; he couldn't even describe the expression, beyond "weird and scared and kind of nauseated," and what would make Nathan look at him that way? For a moment, Peter wondered if Nathan had shared the same dream, and had been grossed out by it. It would be a little bit weird.
Peter remembered his own dream precisely, and he went over the details in his mind until he knew he'd at least remember them long enough to write them down if he wanted to. Now that he was awake, Peter couldn't decide if the dream was funny and sexy, or just the product of a severely disturbed and sick mind. It was such a dumb dream, really, probably brought on by having seen that Tom Petty video too many times. Still, the feeling of being chewed on and swallowed was so bizarre, torn apart and dug into like he was a dish of lasagna at a buffet. The memory of seeing his cake-like insides gave him the creeps now. That, and the weird blurry effect of jumping back and forth between sets of eyes... it made him feel dizzy, even now, just remembering.
He hurt inside today, much more so than he had yesterday morning. His asshole and lower abdomen hurt like he'd been punched with brass knuckles, his jaw and neck ached from sucking Nathan's cock, and his own cock was too sore to touch. He still touched it, though; he had to. When his orgasm came, it stung like a slap. And yet, it felt really good, at least to relieve the relentless pressure in his balls and send his cock back to sleep.
Peter rinsed off, got out of the shower, and went back to the first guest room, where Nathan was dressed and patiently tying his shoelaces. Peter slumped onto the bed wrapped in his towel and lay down again. Nathan dropped another towel over Peter's damp nakedness, and went back to his shoes.
"Hey," Peter said after a long pause, "can we go back to the cafe in town for breakfast?"
"Sure," said Nathan.
Not a word about the fact that Nathan was supposed to bring Peter coffee in bed that morning. Peter didn't know what to say. He looked at Nathan curiously, but Nathan wasn't looking back; he was already leaving the room, heading downstairs. Peter sat up and hugged himself, rocking comfortingly. Somehow, everything had changed again already. He wished he was home; he wished he could undo everything and start over. But at what point would he start?
They didn't talk much in the car, and didn't look at each other. Peter tried to put music on, but Nathan told him that he'd rather it were quiet. Peter didn't protest, even though the silence was killing him, smothering him like a sticky tar. He kept on opening his mouth to speak, only to have the words dry in his throat before he could get them out.
They were seated at the same table as they had been last night, though this morning, the cafe was full of other tourists and locals and bustling waitresses in starched skirts. Peter got a coffee with cream and sugar, waffles with jam, and scrambled eggs, and asked that the sausage be left off his order. Nathan got dry toast, the fresh fruit cup, and black coffee, which was what he usually ate when he was in the city. "Already getting ready to go home?" Peter asked casually.
"I'm leaving tonight," Nathan confirmed. "Gotta work tomorrow. Do you not like sausage anymore? You could have gotten bacon."
"I just... I don't want to eat meat anymore," Peter said.
"You ate meat yesterday."
"Yeah," said Peter. "I just... don't want to now."
"Hmm," said Nathan, and opened his newspaper. Peter stared at him, wanting so badly to be asked why, so he could tell Nathan about his dream, and have something to laugh about. But Nathan was buried in the business section of the Sunday Times, and Peter could only try to comb through the pile of newspaper for the comics.
After Peter eaten his breakfast and read all the comics, and Nathan still studied the business section like he was memorizing every single stock, he just couldn't stand the silence anymore. Obviously, it was up to him to lift the mood, and make them friends again. "Hey," he said to Nathan, lightly kicking him under the table. Nathan folded his newspaper and glared. Peter smiled, trying to look charming. "What do you want to do today?"
"I know what you're doing today," Nathan replied, his voice hard and cold. He sounded just like their father. "You're doing laundry. I notice you didn't do it last night."
"We were busy," Peter said.
"It needs to be done today, before Mom and Dad get here," Nathan said, and raised the newspaper again. Peter sighed in frustration and looked away, wrapped his arms around himself and slumped against the wall until Nathan was done.
There was no discussion of whether or not they wanted to spend any time in town; they both just got into the car. On the drive back to the house, Peter cleared his throat, and to his satisfaction, Nathan glanced over at him. "Can I tell you something?" Peter asked.
"Go ahead," said Nathan, not sounding very receptive.
"I dreamed last night that... we kinda became one," Peter mumbled, not sure how to say it. It sounded even stupider out loud than he'd feared. "We were... fucking, and... I felt what you felt. I saw what you saw. I could barely hang onto it, but... It felt really real."
Nathan tightened his jaw. "It was a dream, Peter. That's not the truth."
"No, of course not... I just... thought it was kind of cool." Peter hugged himself and rocked in his seat. Despite the blazing noontime heat, he felt like someone had just dumped ice water into his veins. He recognized the feeling, and it scared him.
Nathan spoke as coldly as Peter felt. "We're not 'one.' There are experiences that I've had that... I hope you never have."
"I've had experiences too, that..." Peter trailed off and shook his head. Enough of this metaphorical bullshit; Nathan was so much better at it, and Peter would never get anywhere if he took that tactic. Okay; forget the dream. "Are you mad at me?"
No hesitation. "Yeah, a little bit."
Peter was surprised. "Why?"
Nathan paused for a moment before he answered. "We shouldn't have done... that," he said. "None of it. We wouldn't have, if you hadn't brought it up."
"So it's my fault?" Peter said in disbelief. "It's all me? You didn't do anything?"
"I shouldn't have."
"So you shouldn't have. We did, though, and you shutting me out isn't going to take it back. It wasn't just me, and it wasn't just you. We both... I needed it. You needed it, too."
"I didn't need anything," Nathan snapped.
Peter smiled mirthlessly. "You needed me to give myself to you," he said.
"No," said Nathan, his tone helpless, shaking his head. He sounded almost like he was on the verge of tears.
"You needed to give yourself to me," Peter insisted.
"No," said Nathan, louder. "No, I didn't. I made a mistake. And we can't do it again. This is a mistake, Peter. A weakness. A weakness that I can't afford. This is wrong, and I don't have room for it in my life. It ends here, Peter."
"No, it doesn't," said Peter, just as firm, just as loud. "It doesn't end here... it never ends. Nathan, don't you understand?"
"Don't you understand that limits exist for a reason?"
"Limits? Mistakes? I don't understand what you mean," said Peter, shaking his head again. "I'm not a mistake. Our love is not a mistake." It sounded incredibly lame, but it was true, so he had to say it. The time for pride was past.
"Our love? Our love - doesn't exist."
"Bullshit," Peter laughed. "Bullshit. Listen to yourself. Are you telling me you don't love me?"
"There's a difference, and stop being such a stupid little twat. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Peter, for Chrissake, I fucked you... how many times?"
"Four," Peter replied, and couldn't resist the little smile that came to his lips.
"Four times," Nathan echoed, his voice quieter now, regretful. "Hurting you; I know I did. I don't want to do that to you. No one should have to hurt like that."
"Even if that's what they want, more than anything in the world?"
"That's not the point. You're my little brother. I fucked you four times. Unprotected."
"If you care, Nathan, you're the only one," Peter broke in.
"That's beside the point. You're not the only one. It's dangerous."
"Let's just be careful from now on," Peter offered.
"I don't - From now on - Peter, no. I'm telling you - it's over. We stop. Now. You stop. You leave me alone. I don't want to think about it." Nathan's cheeks were red, and a vein stood out on his forehead. He had looked like that in Peter's dream, too; that look of panic and loss and despair, but still trying to hold it together.
"Because you want it so much," Peter whispered. "You want it so much, it'll drive you crazy if you don't get it. Am I wrong? Are you gonna lie to me again, and tell me I'm wrong?" He laughed a little, cold, wolflike, without a trace of humor. "I can tell you right now that I want it so much it'll drive me crazy if I don't get it. So I guess I have to learn how to talk to boys, and start dating boys, and start fucking as many as I can to get as close to what I really want, all I really want, which is you, you fuckin' asshole; you know it's you. So go ahead; send me to the crazy house, send me to the bath house, so I can get my ass plowed by as many guys as I possibly can on the off chance that it'll help me forget you. Okay?"
"You shut the fuck up right now," Nathan snapped. He guided the car up the gravel driveway, slammed the parking brake into place, and ripped the car keys from the ignition. He and Peter both got out of the car at once, moving in perfect sync with each other, slamming their car doors with the same motion without being aware of it. Peter ran ahead and beat Nathan inside the house, and once Nathan came through the door, Peter shoved him with his hands flat against his chest, making Nathan slip a little on the hallway rug.
"Shut the fuck up, huh?" Peter taunted, shoving him again. "You can just silence me, and it's over? You never have to think about it again, because you shut me up?"
Nathan shoved back. "Don't touch me," he hissed.
"Don't touch you because you can't stop yourself, huh?" Peter shoved him again, teeth set in anger. "Because you can't stop yourself when I touch you, because it reminds you of all those nasty things you want to do to me and all that stuff you can't stop yourself from doing. Huh? Am I the ugly part of you? The nasty slutty part that won't shut up? Huh? Your weakness? Your fucking faggot counterpart? You think it's a secret? It's not a secret. I'm onto you, and no, I'll never leave you alone, because I want to watch you break. I know you're fuckin' weak and I'll see you break if it kills me. Do you get it? Do you understand me?"
Nathan raised his fist and had it in mid-swing before he caught himself. Or, rather, Peter caught him; Peter grabbed onto Nathan's fist and twisted it, painfully wrenching Nathan's wrist. Peter pulled the fist to his own face, lightly knocking the knuckles against his jaw, against his lips, his teeth, then covered the knuckles with wet, sucking, passionate kisses. Nathan wrenched his hand free, brought up the other fist, fully intending to let this punch connect, but Peter did the same thing again, painfully unlocking Nathan's fingers to suck them.
Then he twisted Nathan's arm again, pulling him off balance, and swept his legs, toppling them both to the hardwood floor, landing in a tangle of limbs and rug and muttered curses. Nathan was disoriented; he tried to struggle away, but Peter held him still and crushed his lips against Nathan's, biting and sucking. Nathan grabbed for hair, ears, anything that stuck out that he could reach, and got the upper hand, flipping them over, Peter now underneath him with his red mouth open in a bestial snarl. Nathan secured Peter's arms, leaned down, and bit Peter's neck hard, hard enough to bring tiny blossoms of blood to the surface. Peter screamed, and Nathan sucked at this bite mark he'd just made, making the bruising worse. He ground down with his hips, trying to ignore the pain, but there was no way; his cock was getting very hard, and it hurt and it felt bitterly delicious.
It was happening yet again.
"Ahhh - uh - ahhh!" Peter cried out, arching up against Nathan, struggling to free his arms. Nathan let him go, but didn't let him up, and Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan, one around his shoulder blades and the other around his waist, and arched up definitively, giving little yelps as he ground his dick against cloth. The arm around Nathan's waist slid away and down, and then between them, then both hands, and Peter's fingers fumbled until he had loosened his waistband and Nathan's, and pushed both of their jeans down until flesh contacted flesh.
They groaned as one; they came as one, sharing the pain and release, the fear, the anger, lust, confusion, loneliness, everything.
Peter didn't even wait till his breathing calmed. He squirmed out from under Nathan, pulled his jeans back up, and ran as fast as he could up the stairs. He tore off his clothes as soon as he was in the bathroom, and got back into the shower, sobbing as the warm water touched his painfully ravaged genitals, as he ran water over the bruise on his neck. He sat down on the floor of the shower stall, and stayed under the shower spray until he could stop crying. He took comfort in the fact that Nathan hadn't seen his tears.
Nathan lay face down on the floor, feeling the last drops of his semen puddling beneath his belly, blank and empty. He couldn't feel anything. Peter had gotten him to break, all right. It was terrible how easy it had been. Terrible how right Peter was. He was fated to be locked in this bond with Peter, or for that bond to drive them both mad. He did have a choice, of course. But he didn't know if he could choose madness, or force Peter to do the same. Or, more likely, they were both already insane.
He had no idea what to do.
Peter, dressed in yesterday's dirty clothes, came slowly back down the stairs. Nathan didn't look up at him, just kept lying there with his head in his hands, hoping that Peter felt a fraction of the pain that he felt, hating himself for wishing his brother pain, for wishing his beloved pain, for the fact that they were one and the same.
Hoping Peter hated himself for that, too.
Peter just walked on past him, out the front door. The sound of his shoes crunched down the gravel path, around the house, out to the pond and the rocky shore. Peter sat on a high rock overlooking the water, rested his head on his crossed arms, and stared into nothingness.
He loved Nathan, and that was all there was to it. If Nathan didn't want him - didn't want to act on it, anyway - that was that. Obviously, Nathan wanted him. But Nathan was horrified by it - something had happened between last night and this morning that had frightened him out of his mind. Maybe Peter had just gotten too close, too demanding. Peter didn't want either one of them being destroyed; everything he'd said or done was trying to prevent that. But Nathan just didn't understand what Peter was trying to do. So much of what Nathan was would never allow this, even though so much of what Nathan was needed this. But there was only so much Peter could do. The rest was up to Nathan.
Peter whispered forlornly to himself, "I just want to play, that's all..."
Nathan didn't try to follow Peter outside. He stood up once the sound of Peter's footsteps had died away, went to the kitchen and got a damp hand towel to wipe the floor clean, then went upstairs to clean himself up. He couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror. How could I have done this, let Peter do this? This wasn't him. This wasn't Nathan Petrelli, the hero, top of his class, the man of infinite potential, the ladykiller. He didn't even know who this was, this strange impulse guiding his hand, and he didn't know where he went when it took over. But still, it was him. It was his love. This was the shape and dimension of his love, terrible, wretched, rotten, immoral. This was the depth of his sacrifice. He couldn't have given it if he didn't have it to give.
He tidied his clothes, packed what he had to pack, and left without saying goodbye. Out by the pond, as the car drove away and left him alone in this strange, isolated place, Peter picked up a big rock and threw it at the departing car.
He missed.
END PART (28)
A/N: This is an unhappy, angsty little tale. But a necessary one for my need for completion. (Only 18 stories later...) It proves a couple of things - Nathan is the king of repressed memories, and Peter is made out of waffles. ^_^ Fun with dream symbolism... The next step for Nathan and Peter is described in Ritual 17, the second part set at Christmas, where they actually work out that whole "committed to unsafe sex" thing, even if that discussion doesn't actually make it into the story. Anyway... Thanks for reading.