Fic: Ritual (47): Physical Therapy
Title: Ritual (47): Physical Therapy
Pairing: Nathan/Peter; implied Nathan/OC
Rating: R
Spoilers: none
Warnings: see pairing; underage character
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Nathan struggles to not think of Peter in "that way", but it's a losing battle. Another "early days, teenage Peter" story - I seem to be writing a lot of these recently! ^_^
Recent edit: Icon change, since I had the perfect one and forgot I had it! ^_^
JANUARY 1996 (seven weeks after Ritual 16: "Scars")
That day, Nathan had to go to his physical therapy appointment by himself. Usually, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Peter would accompany him there, and do homework in the lobby while Nathan had his twice-weekly battle between excruciating pain and sheer willpower. His damaged, atrophied muscles had to have their scar tissue broken down, and the muscles re-educated, but he didn't know what was worse -- the mind-wiping effort of stretching some tendon that didn't want to be stretched, or the vicious burn of anti-inflammatory ice on the small of his back or the inside of his thigh. At first it had been necessary to have Peter there to help Nathan out and into the car after the appointment was over. By now, though, Nathan was stronger, his spine was ramrod straight, and he could get around just fine on his own, but it was comforting to come out of the back rooms and see Peter's smile, watch his eyes light up like it was his birthday.
That kind of attention was addictive.
But the school year had started again in earnest, and Peter had gone out for the wrestling team, who practiced until six o'clock on Thursdays, the same time as Nathan's appointment. For a moment, when Nathan first heard the news, he considered actually changing his PT appointment schedule so he wouldn't conflict with Peter's. Fortunately, he'd come to his senses when Peter asked if Nathan was happy for him. Peter would probably still come with him on Tuesdays, and it was time to let Peter spend more time with people his own age. He'd had Peter almost all to himself for more than a month. "Of course," Nathan had replied, shaking Peter's hand with a firm grip. "Get out there and kick a lot of ass." Peter just laughed at that, and grabbed Nathan in a big hug. Peter wasn't thinking about Nathan's boring PT appointments. He was already moving on; it was time for Nathan to do the same.
So he went by himself that evening. Nathan endured the stretching, prodding, and lifting with a grim determination, pushing himself so hard that his therapist urged him to take it easy. As soon as he relaxed, the pain came flooding back, worse than ever. He finished his routine, and collapsed in place, suddenly pouring sweat. When he was able to stand up again, he actually felt good; he felt high, the kind of high that he used to get from running all day long, or hanging on the rings at the obstacle course until he was shaking and crying. Or from having the wrong kind of sex.
He took a taxi back to the house, his clear mind gradually clouding over again as he struggled to replace thoughts and associations with more appropriate ones. Yes to the runner's high, yes to that sense of release and accomplishment that came from testing physical limits. No to how great it felt when getting fucked in the ass was over. How great it felt while it was going on, even when it hurt. No. They were not the same thing. Some things were better not considered.
The house was brightly lit, but generally deserted. Cleaning staff were hard at work washing dishes and vacuuming the floor under the dining room table; dinner had happened without him as usual on his PT nights. He rarely came back with much appetite, and if he did, he and Peter would stop somewhere and grab a bite. He hung out in the kitchen, having a quick meal of yogurt and banana while standing in front of the dishwasher, enjoying the warmth and vibration against the backs of his thighs.
Oh, yeah, like that. You're a good little bitch, Petrelli. You take it real good.
Nathan frowned at the whispered voice in his memory. It wasn't a good memory; that was all very traumatic. He wanted it never to have happened. But the thought had taken root like a dandelion, and the more he tried not to think about it, the deeper it went, and trying to dig to remove it all seemed nearly impossible. He busied himself rinsing his spoon, drying it meticulously, and putting it away, and headed upstairs, wanting a shower to wash off the dried sweat of his exertions. The pain. Or the release? He hadn't started sweating until he stopped. Until he was finished.
He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He needed to take control of his thoughts. He needed a diversion. Something innocent, something so completely unlike that distasteful event, best forgotten altogether.
He went to Peter's room. The door was slightly cracked, and the light was on, so Nathan went in, quietly calling out, "Hey, Pete?"
"Hey, Nate," Peter replied, from over on the bed. He lay face-down across the dark-blue bedspread like an ivory knife, his bare skin glowing warmly in the light from his lamp, school books scattered around him on the bed. It took Nathan a moment to process the fact that Peter was naked. His younger brother looked up and over at him and grinned. "How was therapy?"
Nathan looked away. "Pete, geez. Put some clothes on, wouldja?"
"Why?" Peter asked.
"Anybody could walk in here."
Peter shook his head. "Nah," he replied. "Ma went out and Dad's in his office, and I don't care about either of them. Staff's downstairs; they aren't allowed up here after dinner." He shrugged as he recited the house rules; he was already on the record as considering them unfair. "That pretty much leaves you, and again, I don't care."
"You should," Nathan said, "really. There's nothing wrong with modesty."
Peter just looked at him. "How was therapy?" he asked again.
Nathan turned away and wandered around the perimeters of Peter's room as he spoke. "It was hard today," Nathan admitted, "it was painful. But I think I had a breakthrough. I can probably cut back to once a week." While Nathan's back was almost completely turned, Peter let out a sigh and reached over to where he'd left his T-shirt and underwear, and put them back on. As soon as he had, Nathan turned back with a big smile, and sat on Peter's desk chair. "And how was your first day of wrestling practice?"
"It was pretty good. Actually the first day was technically yesterday, where we all got to go to practice as our gym class, but today was the first time we were really on the mat doing anything. It's pretty hard too. Painful," Peter added with a grin. "But I knew that already. You always hurt me."
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Nathan replied, surprised. "I was just trying to teach you. You should have said something."
"'Ow, Nathan, my arm socket' didn't quite register with you, huh?" Peter chuckled. "You did teach me, actually. I already know a lot of the moves. Unfortunately I'm a total weakling, so I'm probably not going to be very good."
"That's crap. It's about knowledge and leverage, not strength. Otherwise there'd be no such thing as bantamweight."
"I am a bantamweight. I'm not even 120 pounds."
"C'mon. Aren't you psyched?" Nathan prodded. "You're on a team. I think that's fantastic."
Peter gave a slow, reluctant shrug. "I guess," he said. "I mean, it's good. It's great. It's... just..." he paused a moment, then continued, "it's more fun to wrestle with you."
"Oh, come on, Pete."
"It's true," Peter said. "I'm sorry."
"We haven't really wrestled for years."
"I know," Peter hastened to agree. "Not since before you left."
"It's different; you were just a kid then. Your body's different now."
"So's yours."
Nathan rocked back in the chair and regarded Peter through narrowed eyes. "We weren't really wrestling," Nathan pointed out. "We were just messing around. It wasn't really the sport."
"Yeah, and I think I care less about the sport than I thought I did," Peter said. "I liked the fun. And I mean, it's still fun, but..." He trailed off and shrugged again. Peter was a pretty well-spoken kid, but he was still prone to the occasional teenaged mumbling.
Nathan shook his head ruefully. "Are you gonna quit?" he asked.
Peter's eyes widened at the challenge. "No," he declared. "It's only seven weeks. It's not that big of a deal. You've been in PT for seven weeks. I mean, I can totally take this." He brightened again. "By the way, are you sore? Do you need anything rubbed?"
It made Nathan laugh. "No, no, Pete, I'm fine," he replied. "How about you? You sore?"
"As a motherfucker," Peter said with a relaxed, reflexive smoothness.
Nathan rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you don't talk that way in school."
Peter smiled. "Not in the classroom," he said reassuringly. "But in the hallways, oh, most definitely."
"Be careful. You say 'fuck' in front of Ma, she will show you a world of pain."
"Do you know from experience?"
"Do you really think I'm crazy enough to use profanity in front of Angela Petrelli?" Nathan broke down into dry laughter. "Oh, no. I value my personal safety entirely too much."
"Okay, okay, I'll be careful. But yeah. My shoulders are wrecked." He picked up a red-and-gold cylinder of Tiger Balm from his bedside table and tossed it over to Nathan, then rubbed his hands against the rise of his pelvis, underneath the slight curve of his waist and ribs. "This, too. I got a lot of points grabbing a dude around his thighs with my knees and breaking his balance, but yeah, it hurts to have to..." Peter suddenly paused and broke into an enormous grin and a furious blush at the same time. "You know. Open your legs a lot. And then close 'em. On a guy."
"You're ridiculous," Nathan muttered, joining Peter on the bed. Peter remained sitting up, but moved to the edge of the bed, stripping off his T-shirt and letting his head droop. Nathan gathered a little of the stiff, pungent, red balm onto his fingertips, and then took a moment to gaze at the back of Peter's neck. The hair rising up in dark crests from the neck to the back of his head, the French-vanilla-ice-cream skin, the bones of the spine just visible, sliding smoothly underneath, just begging to be nibbled.
"Nathan?" Peter asked, breaking into his brother's reverie.
"Oh. Sorry." Nathan rubbed the balm onto Peter's shoulders, and began to work it in with circular movements of his thumbs. The missing tip of his left thumb tingled, and he rubbed deep into Peter's flesh with the blunted, scar-tissue tip, making the most of a lack of a thumbnail. He could really jam it in there. Over and over again. Deep. Yes.
"Mmmm," Peter responded. "Shoulder blades especially."
Especially beautiful, he could have said. "Mmmm," Nathan echoed, without really even being aware of it. The spicy herbal scent of the balm rose up between them, released from the warmth and the motion.
Something changed. Peter's muscles loosened, his shoulders softening like butter melting in Nathan's fingers. Music was playing softly somewhere, but Nathan couldn't tell what it was; Peter's breath rose and fell along with the rhythm, and soon Nathan's breath joined it. He wasn't talented at massage, but this was such a simple thing to do, and a pleasant one at that. Maybe he'd massage Peter's hips, too.
But to make that happen, Peter would have to take his underpants off. And that would be wrong. Not that anything would happen, or that Nathan would think or feel anything he shouldn't. They were brothers. It wasn't like that between them.
It was agony not to bite down on those neck bones, though.
"Oh, yeah," Peter whispered. "Like that."
Nathan bit down on his lip hard, but he couldn't stop himself; it was too late. It had completely sneaked up on him, banked for a while, and Peter's whisper pulled the trigger. Nathan flinched a little, and let out a rueful sigh as he felt himself orgasm, a sharp flick like striking a spark from a stick of magnesium. Blindingly bright. And the surging in his cock changing to a warm, external wetness, puddling in the crotch of his boxers. "Shit," he grunted. And yet he couldn't leave; couldn't take his hands off Peter's back, Peter's hot, trembling arms.
"What's the matter?" Peter murmured, sounding half asleep.
Nathan slid his arms around Peter, holding him close and tight for as long as he dared. "I gotta go to bed," Nathan said dazedly. "I need a shower. I stink."
"You don't stink," Peter said, hugging back, hands clasped over arms. "And what about the rest of me?"
Nathan shook his head. "I can't touch you there."
"Sure you can," Peter said softly. He turned his head to look into Nathan's eyes, his expression self-assured, relaxed. He leaned in and gently kissed Nathan on the lips. "I trust you."
Nathan kissed him back, but only briefly. "No, I gotta go," he insisted, but his voice remained an affectionate murmur. He let go, and stood up, the semen in his pants suddenly cold against his skin. "Ehhhh... see you in the morning."
Peter stared at him oddly. Nathan turned away, flustered, knowing that Peter had seen the rapidly spreading wet stain. He tried to just get out of there, but Peter spoke, halting him before he could get to the door.
"Did you come?" he asked.
"Uhhhh," Nathan replied, not sure what he should admit.
"That's so..." He could hear the smile in Peter's voice. "That's so great. What happened?"
"Just an accident," Nathan said truthfully.
"Just at random?" Peter waited for an answer, and when there was none, he went on. "It happens to me too, sometimes. It happened this one time in class; it was so weird. I just hope it doesn't happen when I'm wrestling. That'd be really hard to explain." Nathan glanced over at Peter; he was indeed smiling, and gazing at Nathan with the same kind of wonder and joy that Nathan had grown so dependent on.
"Don't go," Peter said.
Nathan took a deep breath, smiled, shook his head. "No, I really. I gotta get rid of this. It feels really nasty. I mean, you know."
"Take a shower and come back," Peter said.
Nathan laughed softly. "Good night, Peter."
Peter's smile dissolved, and he lowered his eyes, like drawing the shades on a brilliant sunset. "Okay, g'night," he acknowledged. "Thanks for the shoulder rub. Hey," he broke in suddenly, raising his head again, "we should go swimming on Saturday morning. I know I could use it. You wanna?"
"Sure, Pete. That'll be fine."
Nathan wondered if he had imagined the tiny flicker of cunning that appeared in Peter's eyes. Yes, swimming, where neither of them would be wearing almost any clothing. An open invitation to look -- if he was willing to entertain the idea. A test. Nathan noded a little to himself. He wouldn't betray Peter; he'd keep his gaze fraternal, clinical if need be; he'd concentrate on Peter's swimming form, and not his way his body looked, not looking at it and wondering how it tasted. Peter didn't know what he was doing. It was up to him, Nathan, the big brother, the adult, to keep things in line. He knew he was up to the task. Nothing could defeat him; not even his brother. Looking at his brother. Touching him. Imagining him. Remembering something else even though it wasn't right, associating Peter with that. No, he was stronger than that.
"Good night," he said again.
He went out the door, closing it behind him. As the doorknob mechanism clicked, Nathan heard Peter moan out loud from inside the bedroom; and if he put his ear against the door, he could hear the soft shusshing sound of Peter masturbating furiously.
Nathan laughed silently as he returned to his own room, his own bathroom, his own shower. His own fury.
END (47)
Note: In case you're wondering or confused, Nathan is remembering Cadet Dixon, his nemesis and first sexual partner from military school as described in Ritual 27. This was also written very quickly; those other, more intriguing stories I hope to do will require some serious time and concentration, but this is what I'm capable of right now... thanks to mr_perker for the prompt! Not to get into too much detail, but send positive thoughts for my cat's health (and my bank account, and my sanity). Thanks for reading!
Pairing: Nathan/Peter; implied Nathan/OC
Rating: R
Spoilers: none
Warnings: see pairing; underage character
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Nathan struggles to not think of Peter in "that way", but it's a losing battle. Another "early days, teenage Peter" story - I seem to be writing a lot of these recently! ^_^
Recent edit: Icon change, since I had the perfect one and forgot I had it! ^_^
JANUARY 1996 (seven weeks after Ritual 16: "Scars")
That day, Nathan had to go to his physical therapy appointment by himself. Usually, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Peter would accompany him there, and do homework in the lobby while Nathan had his twice-weekly battle between excruciating pain and sheer willpower. His damaged, atrophied muscles had to have their scar tissue broken down, and the muscles re-educated, but he didn't know what was worse -- the mind-wiping effort of stretching some tendon that didn't want to be stretched, or the vicious burn of anti-inflammatory ice on the small of his back or the inside of his thigh. At first it had been necessary to have Peter there to help Nathan out and into the car after the appointment was over. By now, though, Nathan was stronger, his spine was ramrod straight, and he could get around just fine on his own, but it was comforting to come out of the back rooms and see Peter's smile, watch his eyes light up like it was his birthday.
That kind of attention was addictive.
But the school year had started again in earnest, and Peter had gone out for the wrestling team, who practiced until six o'clock on Thursdays, the same time as Nathan's appointment. For a moment, when Nathan first heard the news, he considered actually changing his PT appointment schedule so he wouldn't conflict with Peter's. Fortunately, he'd come to his senses when Peter asked if Nathan was happy for him. Peter would probably still come with him on Tuesdays, and it was time to let Peter spend more time with people his own age. He'd had Peter almost all to himself for more than a month. "Of course," Nathan had replied, shaking Peter's hand with a firm grip. "Get out there and kick a lot of ass." Peter just laughed at that, and grabbed Nathan in a big hug. Peter wasn't thinking about Nathan's boring PT appointments. He was already moving on; it was time for Nathan to do the same.
So he went by himself that evening. Nathan endured the stretching, prodding, and lifting with a grim determination, pushing himself so hard that his therapist urged him to take it easy. As soon as he relaxed, the pain came flooding back, worse than ever. He finished his routine, and collapsed in place, suddenly pouring sweat. When he was able to stand up again, he actually felt good; he felt high, the kind of high that he used to get from running all day long, or hanging on the rings at the obstacle course until he was shaking and crying. Or from having the wrong kind of sex.
He took a taxi back to the house, his clear mind gradually clouding over again as he struggled to replace thoughts and associations with more appropriate ones. Yes to the runner's high, yes to that sense of release and accomplishment that came from testing physical limits. No to how great it felt when getting fucked in the ass was over. How great it felt while it was going on, even when it hurt. No. They were not the same thing. Some things were better not considered.
The house was brightly lit, but generally deserted. Cleaning staff were hard at work washing dishes and vacuuming the floor under the dining room table; dinner had happened without him as usual on his PT nights. He rarely came back with much appetite, and if he did, he and Peter would stop somewhere and grab a bite. He hung out in the kitchen, having a quick meal of yogurt and banana while standing in front of the dishwasher, enjoying the warmth and vibration against the backs of his thighs.
Oh, yeah, like that. You're a good little bitch, Petrelli. You take it real good.
Nathan frowned at the whispered voice in his memory. It wasn't a good memory; that was all very traumatic. He wanted it never to have happened. But the thought had taken root like a dandelion, and the more he tried not to think about it, the deeper it went, and trying to dig to remove it all seemed nearly impossible. He busied himself rinsing his spoon, drying it meticulously, and putting it away, and headed upstairs, wanting a shower to wash off the dried sweat of his exertions. The pain. Or the release? He hadn't started sweating until he stopped. Until he was finished.
He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He needed to take control of his thoughts. He needed a diversion. Something innocent, something so completely unlike that distasteful event, best forgotten altogether.
He went to Peter's room. The door was slightly cracked, and the light was on, so Nathan went in, quietly calling out, "Hey, Pete?"
"Hey, Nate," Peter replied, from over on the bed. He lay face-down across the dark-blue bedspread like an ivory knife, his bare skin glowing warmly in the light from his lamp, school books scattered around him on the bed. It took Nathan a moment to process the fact that Peter was naked. His younger brother looked up and over at him and grinned. "How was therapy?"
Nathan looked away. "Pete, geez. Put some clothes on, wouldja?"
"Why?" Peter asked.
"Anybody could walk in here."
Peter shook his head. "Nah," he replied. "Ma went out and Dad's in his office, and I don't care about either of them. Staff's downstairs; they aren't allowed up here after dinner." He shrugged as he recited the house rules; he was already on the record as considering them unfair. "That pretty much leaves you, and again, I don't care."
"You should," Nathan said, "really. There's nothing wrong with modesty."
Peter just looked at him. "How was therapy?" he asked again.
Nathan turned away and wandered around the perimeters of Peter's room as he spoke. "It was hard today," Nathan admitted, "it was painful. But I think I had a breakthrough. I can probably cut back to once a week." While Nathan's back was almost completely turned, Peter let out a sigh and reached over to where he'd left his T-shirt and underwear, and put them back on. As soon as he had, Nathan turned back with a big smile, and sat on Peter's desk chair. "And how was your first day of wrestling practice?"
"It was pretty good. Actually the first day was technically yesterday, where we all got to go to practice as our gym class, but today was the first time we were really on the mat doing anything. It's pretty hard too. Painful," Peter added with a grin. "But I knew that already. You always hurt me."
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Nathan replied, surprised. "I was just trying to teach you. You should have said something."
"'Ow, Nathan, my arm socket' didn't quite register with you, huh?" Peter chuckled. "You did teach me, actually. I already know a lot of the moves. Unfortunately I'm a total weakling, so I'm probably not going to be very good."
"That's crap. It's about knowledge and leverage, not strength. Otherwise there'd be no such thing as bantamweight."
"I am a bantamweight. I'm not even 120 pounds."
"C'mon. Aren't you psyched?" Nathan prodded. "You're on a team. I think that's fantastic."
Peter gave a slow, reluctant shrug. "I guess," he said. "I mean, it's good. It's great. It's... just..." he paused a moment, then continued, "it's more fun to wrestle with you."
"Oh, come on, Pete."
"It's true," Peter said. "I'm sorry."
"We haven't really wrestled for years."
"I know," Peter hastened to agree. "Not since before you left."
"It's different; you were just a kid then. Your body's different now."
"So's yours."
Nathan rocked back in the chair and regarded Peter through narrowed eyes. "We weren't really wrestling," Nathan pointed out. "We were just messing around. It wasn't really the sport."
"Yeah, and I think I care less about the sport than I thought I did," Peter said. "I liked the fun. And I mean, it's still fun, but..." He trailed off and shrugged again. Peter was a pretty well-spoken kid, but he was still prone to the occasional teenaged mumbling.
Nathan shook his head ruefully. "Are you gonna quit?" he asked.
Peter's eyes widened at the challenge. "No," he declared. "It's only seven weeks. It's not that big of a deal. You've been in PT for seven weeks. I mean, I can totally take this." He brightened again. "By the way, are you sore? Do you need anything rubbed?"
It made Nathan laugh. "No, no, Pete, I'm fine," he replied. "How about you? You sore?"
"As a motherfucker," Peter said with a relaxed, reflexive smoothness.
Nathan rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you don't talk that way in school."
Peter smiled. "Not in the classroom," he said reassuringly. "But in the hallways, oh, most definitely."
"Be careful. You say 'fuck' in front of Ma, she will show you a world of pain."
"Do you know from experience?"
"Do you really think I'm crazy enough to use profanity in front of Angela Petrelli?" Nathan broke down into dry laughter. "Oh, no. I value my personal safety entirely too much."
"Okay, okay, I'll be careful. But yeah. My shoulders are wrecked." He picked up a red-and-gold cylinder of Tiger Balm from his bedside table and tossed it over to Nathan, then rubbed his hands against the rise of his pelvis, underneath the slight curve of his waist and ribs. "This, too. I got a lot of points grabbing a dude around his thighs with my knees and breaking his balance, but yeah, it hurts to have to..." Peter suddenly paused and broke into an enormous grin and a furious blush at the same time. "You know. Open your legs a lot. And then close 'em. On a guy."
"You're ridiculous," Nathan muttered, joining Peter on the bed. Peter remained sitting up, but moved to the edge of the bed, stripping off his T-shirt and letting his head droop. Nathan gathered a little of the stiff, pungent, red balm onto his fingertips, and then took a moment to gaze at the back of Peter's neck. The hair rising up in dark crests from the neck to the back of his head, the French-vanilla-ice-cream skin, the bones of the spine just visible, sliding smoothly underneath, just begging to be nibbled.
"Nathan?" Peter asked, breaking into his brother's reverie.
"Oh. Sorry." Nathan rubbed the balm onto Peter's shoulders, and began to work it in with circular movements of his thumbs. The missing tip of his left thumb tingled, and he rubbed deep into Peter's flesh with the blunted, scar-tissue tip, making the most of a lack of a thumbnail. He could really jam it in there. Over and over again. Deep. Yes.
"Mmmm," Peter responded. "Shoulder blades especially."
Especially beautiful, he could have said. "Mmmm," Nathan echoed, without really even being aware of it. The spicy herbal scent of the balm rose up between them, released from the warmth and the motion.
Something changed. Peter's muscles loosened, his shoulders softening like butter melting in Nathan's fingers. Music was playing softly somewhere, but Nathan couldn't tell what it was; Peter's breath rose and fell along with the rhythm, and soon Nathan's breath joined it. He wasn't talented at massage, but this was such a simple thing to do, and a pleasant one at that. Maybe he'd massage Peter's hips, too.
But to make that happen, Peter would have to take his underpants off. And that would be wrong. Not that anything would happen, or that Nathan would think or feel anything he shouldn't. They were brothers. It wasn't like that between them.
It was agony not to bite down on those neck bones, though.
"Oh, yeah," Peter whispered. "Like that."
Nathan bit down on his lip hard, but he couldn't stop himself; it was too late. It had completely sneaked up on him, banked for a while, and Peter's whisper pulled the trigger. Nathan flinched a little, and let out a rueful sigh as he felt himself orgasm, a sharp flick like striking a spark from a stick of magnesium. Blindingly bright. And the surging in his cock changing to a warm, external wetness, puddling in the crotch of his boxers. "Shit," he grunted. And yet he couldn't leave; couldn't take his hands off Peter's back, Peter's hot, trembling arms.
"What's the matter?" Peter murmured, sounding half asleep.
Nathan slid his arms around Peter, holding him close and tight for as long as he dared. "I gotta go to bed," Nathan said dazedly. "I need a shower. I stink."
"You don't stink," Peter said, hugging back, hands clasped over arms. "And what about the rest of me?"
Nathan shook his head. "I can't touch you there."
"Sure you can," Peter said softly. He turned his head to look into Nathan's eyes, his expression self-assured, relaxed. He leaned in and gently kissed Nathan on the lips. "I trust you."
Nathan kissed him back, but only briefly. "No, I gotta go," he insisted, but his voice remained an affectionate murmur. He let go, and stood up, the semen in his pants suddenly cold against his skin. "Ehhhh... see you in the morning."
Peter stared at him oddly. Nathan turned away, flustered, knowing that Peter had seen the rapidly spreading wet stain. He tried to just get out of there, but Peter spoke, halting him before he could get to the door.
"Did you come?" he asked.
"Uhhhh," Nathan replied, not sure what he should admit.
"That's so..." He could hear the smile in Peter's voice. "That's so great. What happened?"
"Just an accident," Nathan said truthfully.
"Just at random?" Peter waited for an answer, and when there was none, he went on. "It happens to me too, sometimes. It happened this one time in class; it was so weird. I just hope it doesn't happen when I'm wrestling. That'd be really hard to explain." Nathan glanced over at Peter; he was indeed smiling, and gazing at Nathan with the same kind of wonder and joy that Nathan had grown so dependent on.
"Don't go," Peter said.
Nathan took a deep breath, smiled, shook his head. "No, I really. I gotta get rid of this. It feels really nasty. I mean, you know."
"Take a shower and come back," Peter said.
Nathan laughed softly. "Good night, Peter."
Peter's smile dissolved, and he lowered his eyes, like drawing the shades on a brilliant sunset. "Okay, g'night," he acknowledged. "Thanks for the shoulder rub. Hey," he broke in suddenly, raising his head again, "we should go swimming on Saturday morning. I know I could use it. You wanna?"
"Sure, Pete. That'll be fine."
Nathan wondered if he had imagined the tiny flicker of cunning that appeared in Peter's eyes. Yes, swimming, where neither of them would be wearing almost any clothing. An open invitation to look -- if he was willing to entertain the idea. A test. Nathan noded a little to himself. He wouldn't betray Peter; he'd keep his gaze fraternal, clinical if need be; he'd concentrate on Peter's swimming form, and not his way his body looked, not looking at it and wondering how it tasted. Peter didn't know what he was doing. It was up to him, Nathan, the big brother, the adult, to keep things in line. He knew he was up to the task. Nothing could defeat him; not even his brother. Looking at his brother. Touching him. Imagining him. Remembering something else even though it wasn't right, associating Peter with that. No, he was stronger than that.
"Good night," he said again.
He went out the door, closing it behind him. As the doorknob mechanism clicked, Nathan heard Peter moan out loud from inside the bedroom; and if he put his ear against the door, he could hear the soft shusshing sound of Peter masturbating furiously.
Nathan laughed silently as he returned to his own room, his own bathroom, his own shower. His own fury.
END (47)
Note: In case you're wondering or confused, Nathan is remembering Cadet Dixon, his nemesis and first sexual partner from military school as described in Ritual 27. This was also written very quickly; those other, more intriguing stories I hope to do will require some serious time and concentration, but this is what I'm capable of right now... thanks to mr_perker for the prompt! Not to get into too much detail, but send positive thoughts for my cat's health (and my bank account, and my sanity). Thanks for reading!