fic: Ritual (51): A Dream at Pinehearst
Title: Ritual (51): A Dream at Pinehearst
Pairing, Other Characters: Peter/Nathan, Arthur, Angela
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: spoilers through episode 3.13: "Duel" and webcomic "Truths"; story takes place pre-series
Warnings: see pairing; Peter is 17, sub/dom kink, angst
Word Count: 4800
Summary: As the Petrelli family takes a holiday trip to the Berkshires, Peter has been having increasingly vivid dreams about Nathan.
Note: If you're looking for good-guy, schmoopy Nathan, this is not that. Maybe next week. ;)
Ritual Reader's Guide - all past Ritual stories in chronological order
Heroes is not my property. No revenue is generated or accepted for its publication on the internet. I wish the show was on tonight, but since it's not, let me roll up my sleeves...
DECEMBER 1997
OUTSIDE LENOX, MASSACHUSETTS
Once again, Peter Petrelli's parents had conspired to ruin his life.
Three days before Christmas, Angela announced that they would be spending Christmas in the Berkshires, instead of at home, and participation, as usual, was mandatory. She'd tried to soften the blow by telling Peter that Nathan would be accompanying them, too, but it didn't cheer him up much. Peter didn't want to spend Christmas outside New York City. There were parties he was missing, he'd just met a new girl he was hoping to ask out, he'd had had to give up his volunteer shift at the community center, and he wanted to catch up on his sleep in the comfort of his own bed.
He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before he and his parents and brother set off on their trip. He'd been walking around in the snow all day, avoiding going home, and he had fallen exhausted into bed before midnight. Less than thirty minutes later, he was awake again, his legs aching and throbbing. He rubbed some Tiger Balm into his joints, and got back into bed, ready to try again.
He closed his eyes and saw Nathan, eyes closed, leaning back, lips slightly parted, sighing impatiently. "C'mon," Nathan whispered.
Peter woke up again and looked at the clock. An hour had gone by, though all that he could recall from his dream was a moment. That look on Nathan's face, the curve of his mouth, the sound of his voice. Peter couldn't understand what was happening in the dream, and figured he was just too sleepy to think. He rolled over and drifted back down.
Nathan, again. Same posture, but Peter could see more of him. A plain white T-shirt, his Adam's-apple, his hands busy down there. Down there. Touching... And once again, he said, "C'mon," but this time he added, "Come on, Peter." And Peter sucked his thumb. He wasn't sure if it was his own or if it was Nathan's; he just wanted to suck it as hard as he could. Nathan growled softly, and Peter's legs hurt like hammer blows and fire. He tried to wrap them around Nathan and get warm and comfortable, but he couldn't move. "Come on," Nathan whispered again, soft, encouraging. "You can do it." Peter ached; he hurt so much he wanted to cry. He couldn't do it. Whatever it was.
When Peter woke again, he lay face down with his belly resting in a big, damp come-stain. He groaned and got up. He pulled the sheets off the bed, wadded them up, and tossed them on the floor. He wrapped himself in his quilt and tried once again to sleep.
This time, it didn't work. The details of the dream wouldn't leave him alone, his legs hurt unless he moved them around, and he was cold. He got up and took a shower, then went downstairs and fixed himself some coffee and toast. It was a quarter to five; the housekeeper would be arriving soon, and then Angela would get up, and there was no way he was going back to sleep. They would all have to go to the Berkshires and spend money and be a family. The more Peter thought about it, the angrier he got. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He hadn't gotten any damn sleep, and he was in pain, and he hated this whole situation.
****
It was a long drive, and without music, because music annoyed Arthur and kept him from concentrating on the road. Peter rubbed his legs and tapped his feet and thought of songs he'd like to be hearing right now.
Arthur and Angela were having their weird sort of half-conversation where they talked around stuff, but didn't provide any specifics. It was still obvious that they were talking about business, maybe the law firm or the medical charity or whatever, but Peter was too annoyed to listen closely. It was crooked, whatever it was; otherwise, why wouldn't they just talk about it?
Nathan didn't seem to know, or care. He had come with them, leaving his own car back in the city, and he sat next to Peter in the back seat of the Mercedes, contributing nothing to Arthur and Angela's conversation. Peter thought it was funny, to have Nathan sitting in the back seat like a kid even though he was almost thirty and a successful lawyer in his own right. Peter wondered if being treated like a child made Nathan as angry as it did him; but Nathan didn't say anything about it, and after all, he had volunteered to come up with them in the same car.
It was all too weird, and it made Peter tired. Despite all the coffee he'd had earlier, he began to nod off. Nathan was right there, and he wasn't using his shoulder for anything more important, so Peter settled his head onto it and made himself comfortable.
Nathan gave a soft, impatient sigh. Kind of like in Peter's dream from last night, but not quite. He did not add, C'mon, Peter, so Peter closed his eyes and drifted away.
Once again, the image of Nathan appeared before him. Instead of leaning back, though, now he leaned forward, gripping Peter's arms so tightly that Peter could see the tendons and veins pop. His muscles were immense. His lips were drawn back in a savage snarl. A dangerous growl, like that of a threatening wolf, purled out from his throat. "You're mine," he said.
Peter shook his head a little, pulled back into consciousness. Underneath his temple, Nathan's warm, solid shoulder held a faint scent of bay rum and dry-cleaning. Peter sighed. It was just a dream.
"Nathan, don't let him do that," came Arthur's voice from the front seat. "He's not a baby. Make him sit up."
Nathan didn't reply, and did nothing to dislodge Peter.
"You're gonna spoil him," Arthur commented.
"He's already spoiled," Nathan said wryly.
Angela laughed at that. "You can say that again."
"No need to make it worse," Arthur shot back.
"It's okay, Dad," Nathan murmured. Peter wanted to kiss him for that, but he didn't want them to know that he was awake. It was nice to lean against Nathan's body, concentrating until he could hear Nathan's pulse and breathing. Peter could match his breathing to Nathan's, but he wondered what would happen if he managed to synchronize their heartbeats. Maybe Nathan would love him, then. Peter wished that he could perform magic, because it would take magic for something like that to happen. Some things happened in the world that were impossible; maybe magic was his only chance.
Not long after that, they arrived at the inn outside Lenox. Nathan roughly jostled Peter's head aside as he unfastened his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Nobody spoke to him, and he felt extraneous, like some random punk kid who had stowed away, instead of having been dragged out here against his will. He got out of the car slowly, favoring his sore legs, and hurried after his family as they walked up the snowy path to the front door. Nathan was talking to his father now, and Peter heard him ask, "Think we'll be able to make a trip out to Pinehearst?"
"No!" Peter yelled, bumping into Nathan as he slipped on the slick path. "We are not going out to Pinehearst!"
Arthur and Nathan turned to him at once, both of them arching their eyebrows in the same way. "Afraid you'll fail again?" Arthur countered smoothly.
"Shut up," Peter snapped. "It was horrible. I didn't fail."
"No, Nathan didn't fail," Arthur said airily, walking inside. "That's why I've got six-point antlers in the wall of my office. It wasn't you."
Peter just glared in reply, and Nathan gave a casual shrug, turning away, literally taking Arthur's side. Peter wished that Angela was there to back him up, but she was already at the front desk, inquiring about their rooms. "I didn't fail," he muttered to himself. "I just didn't do the wrong thing."
Angela approached him, holding out a key card. "You have room 16," she said. "Arthur and I have room 3, and Nathan is in room 5."
When Peter tried to find his room, he found that it was on an upper floor, at the opposite end of the building from the rest of his family. He ran back downstairs to room 3. "Way to get rid of me!" he bellowed.
Angela slowly turned from her toiletries case to look at Peter. "What are you talking about?" Across the room, at the closet, Arthur looked over too, rolled his eyes, and went back to staring inside the closet like he was looking for architectural mistakes.
"I'm at the opposite end of the whole place from you," Peter pointed out.
"That's just the way the reservations shook out, dear," Angela replied mildly, finding the lipstick she sought, and applying a few dots of scarlet to her thin lips. "It's nothing personal. Though, I have to admit, if you're going to keep screaming like that, I'll be glad to have the place between us. Now go get dressed for dinner."
"I don't know why we're even in a shithole like this," Peter grumbled. "Wouldn't you rather stay at the Hampton or something? A nice, big hotel with monogrammed towels?"
"Peter!" Angela retorted. "Go get dressed for dinner. I will not tell you again." She slipped the lipstick back into the case. "I find this to be sufficiently elegant for my tastes. If yours are so much more refined, I encourage you to find your own lodgings. The Hampton. Imagine." She tutted and shook her head. To make matters worse, Arthur snickered in reply.
Peter trudged back to his own room. It wasn't that this place wasn't nice-it was, from the dark-wood arched doorways to the sumptuous carpets, probably the nicest place to stay in the whole region-it just wasn't different enough from their house back in Manhattan for him to wonder why they bothered. He knew that his mom and dad had no intention of skiing, and the shopping was better in the city, too. But maybe his father-or worse, Nathan-really did want to go to Pinehearst.
He couldn't take that.
It wasn't that he hadn't been back to Pinehearst with Nathan and their dad since that horrible hunting trip. They came out in the summer to fish sometimes, and that was all right; Peter was so clumsy with fishing lines and hooks that they let him just hang out. But every time they went, it was weird; Peter always had nightmares about it, before or after the trip, remembering the snap of the buck deer's head, the violence with which the poor animal was flung back from the bullet's impact. The blood in the snow, and the cold efficiency with which Nathan and Arthur handled the deer's corpse. The sound of the gunshot, and the look of satisfaction on Arthur's face, that his son could and would kill on his command.
The right son, of course. Not Peter. He didn't tell his mother about the nightmares; he knew she'd have no sympathy. He told Nathan, because he couldn't not tell Nathan, and Nathan just tousled Peter's hair and airily told him, "You'll get over it." He wouldn't get over it. He'd never get over it. The best thing he could hope was to forget it, and he'd succeeded for years and years, until Nathan thoughtlessly reopened the wound.
He returned to his room and put on a tie and a V-neck sweater, but didn't bother to comb his hair, since he was just going to put a hat on again. When he went down to the foyer to meet the rest of his family, Angela grabbed him by the collar and clucked at him. "Oh, Peter, for God's sake. You couldn't run a comb through this haystack?"
"What-ever, Ma," Peter protested, pulling himself free. "What, will they refuse to serve me at the restaurant?"
"Go get your comb," Angela ordered him. "You are not wearing a stocking cap for the whole dinner."
Peter glared at Nathan, who had an innocent, smug smile on his face. His hair was perfect. "What are you lookin' at?" Peter grumbled, returning to his room. "Ass face," he added, under his breath, way beyond earshot. "Why don't you sit on your ass face, ass face?" He grabbed his comb from his bag, frowning as he thought, Why don't you sit on my face?
What a stupid thought. Nobody could sit on anyone's face without suffocating them. Or could they? People talked about it and he'd read about it, but he had no idea how that was actually done. Some guys bragged that they'd had a girl sit on their faces, but Peter just couldn't believe them. That was one of those impossible things. He wondered how he could have a whole adult man sitting on his face and live through it. Have Nathan. Sitting. With his... hanging down... no... it was impossible.
He silently continued this line of thought on the journey to the restaurant, and didn't snap out of it until he realized he was sitting at a table, next to his mother, across from Nathan. He looked up and saw Nathan staring at him, eyes narrowed. "Earth to Peter," he said.
"Huh?" Peter said, blinking. "What?"
"What would you like to drink?" Nathan prompted.
"Oh. Steamed milk," he replied.
"Peter, that'll ruin your appetite," Angela said mildly, opening a long, thin menu.
"No, it's what I want," Peter corrected her.
"Spoiled," Arthur said under his breath.
"Oh, my God. Shut up, Dad," Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You ever say that to me again," Arthur said, fractionally raising his calm voice, "I'll see that you regret it."
"How? By taking me out to Pinehearst?"
"Peter," Nathan said warningly.
Arthur raised his hand. "Nathan, don't. If Peter wants to have it out, I'm right here, and I can fight my own battles. No need to step in."
"There shouldn't be a battle," Angela pointed out. "Now, do we want to base our meal around the wine, or the wine around the meal?"
"If you want to be upset over something that happened ten years ago," Arthur continued, as though she hadn't said anything, "that's your prerogrative, but that's internal to you and has nothing to do with me. I have given you every chance, Peter, and you seem to fight me every step of the way. Why is that?"
"You don't actually want to know why," Peter said. "Do you?"
"Well, no, Peter," Arthur replied dryly. "I don't. What I want you to do is to make the most out of the opportunities presented."
"I do, Dad."
"No, you don't. You know that perfectly well yourself. What you're feeling is guilt. That's your problem."
"Guilt?" Peter blurted. "Why would I feel guilt? I didn't do anything."
"Exactly," Arthur said, slipping on his glasses, and closely perusing the menu. The conversation was over, like a door being shut in Peter's face. He looked at Nathan, who just shook his head and sighed.
"Get over it, Pete," he said. "You couldn't do it. That's that."
"I'm not hungry," Peter mumbled, pushing away from the table.
"Sit down," Angela said, her voice like a cold iron cuff. Peter had never stood up, but he scooted back in close to the table. "You are going to eat what's put in front of you, you are going to stop antagonizing your father, and you are either going to end this childish tantrum and behave normally, or you are going to be silent. Take your pick."
Peter chose silence. Or, more accurately, falling mute. He didn't say a word, but he kept up a steady barrage of aggrieved sighs, eye-rolling, and using his silverware in a noisy fashion. The others tried their best to ignore him. Nathan broke first. He didn't say anything to Peter, but he glared across the table like he wished he could make Peter burst into flames. Peter flashed him a huge, fake grin, and angled his middle finger under the side of his plate, so that his parents couldn't see it, but Nathan could. Nathan's cheeks got red, and he blinked quickly a bunch of times, like he was trying to keep himself under control. He turned toward his parents and tried to butt into their conversation, but succeeded only in derailing it. Peter was satisfied with this.
He hadn't expected to be hungry, but the steamed milk didn't dent his appetite for the excellent food. Trust his parents to find the best Italian cuisine in the region. As usual, he finished eating before anyone else, perhaps because he wasn't talking. "Can I be excused?" he asked when he was finished.
"No," Angela said, and continued her conversation without missing a beat.
Since he was trapped at the table, Peter helped himself to a glass of wine. Nobody made a move to stop him, but Nathan was looking at him again, eyes narrowed, but with a sort of cunning interest rather than anger. Peter recognized that expression; it was like that night where he asked Nathan to tie him up, and he did. Or that night at the Coopers', last Christmas. Almost a year to the day, in fact. Tomorrow it'd be the anniversary.
Was Nathan thinking about last Christmas?
Dinner finally ended, and Arthur and Angela went to the whisky bar at the carriage house across the lawn. "Why don't you go with them?" Peter said to Nathan, observing his hesitation.
"I don't feel like drinking," Nathan responded, watching his parents walk arm in arm.
"Go on, have a drink," Peter said. "It'll get your head out of your ass."
"Fuck you, Peter," Nathan replied tightly, and left, heading after his parents.
Peter was again satisfied. He went to his room and lounged in the chair beside the window, looking out the other side of the inn at the perfect white snow blanket, deep and untouched. He got up after a moment, put his shoes and hat back on, and went outside. He walked across the lawn to the other side, and sunk his foot into the snowbank, feeling like the first man on the moon. "One small step for a man," he said to himself, falling forward onto his face, getting snow up his nose and everything. He ran around the whole lawn, rolling around in the snow, churning it up and stomping his footprints in. After ten minutes, he was starting to lose all sensation in his hands, so ran back inside to his room, covered head to toe in snow. He stripped himself naked and went back to the window, staring down joyfully at his chaotic masterpiece.
Unfortunately, guilt wasn't far behind. He'd seen something pristine and perfect, and he'd had to go and screw it up just because he was angry. He hated his father for being right about him.
He took a hot shower and put his pajamas on. It was too early for bed, and he wasn't looking forward to the nightmare that awaited him. He wished he'd thought to bring some comic books with him, and not just a big thick novel that would require actual concentration to read. And TV was a holiday wasteland. There was nothing to do except sit around and think.
But then there was a knock at the door.
Peter checked to make sure that he was actually clothed, and went to the door, opening it without even thinking. "Hello?" he inquired softly.
Nathan shouldered past him into the room, shutting the door behind himself. Peter tried to block him with his body, but Nathan roughly grabbed him by the arms and wrestled him, face down, to the floor. "Ow! What the fuck?" Peter protested, trying to protect his elbows and chin.
"I am sick of your shit," Nathan said, breathing hard, smelling like scotch and cigars. He pinned Peter's wrists to the floor. "Why can't you ever just play along? Why can't you just ever be grateful?"
"I am," Peter groaned, trying fruitlessly to resist. "I just-ow! I just refuse to just sit there and take that kind of... of..."
"You don't even know," Nathan replied. "You just want to push back. Don't push back, Peter. It's not worth it."
His body had held an aura of cold air from outside, but it disappeared rapidly with his body pressed tight against Peter's, muscles straining to keep him immobilized down on the floor. His breath was hot on the back of Peter's neck. "I can have my own thoughts! I can say what I want to say! They don't own me!" Peter gasped. He lifted his hips off the floor, pressing his behind into Nathan's groin, and Nathan pressed back, adjusted the lie of his feet against the floor to settle between Peter's legs, and pushed down again. Peter rocked up, declaring, "I'm not their slave!"
"You're my slave," Nathan whispered, so faintly that Peter wouldn't have heard it if they hadn't been touching.
"...Yes," Peter said, bucking his hips upward again, feeling Nathan push back, trying to push him down. Up again, down again. Again. "Ahhhh... yes. I'm your slave."
Nathan thrust in hard. "No, little fucker; you're not."
"Ahh, yes, I am," Peter moaned, pushing back. A rhythm, back and forth, both of them, rocking against each other. Harder. Faster. "Unh! Oh, God," Peter begged breathlessly, hoping against hope for magic, for the impossible. "Inside me... please... again... please..."
"Fuck," Nathan spat. He bit the back of Peter's neck, then let go one of Peter's wrists, freeing a hand to tug down Peter's pajama bottoms, exposing his butt to the cool air of the room. Peter obediently lay still, holding his breath, listening to Nathan sucking on a finger. He offered himself up, angling his ass into the air and spreading his legs a little more, biting his lip hard in anticipation.
"Please," he whispered.
Good. So good, that sweet penetration; moist and cool, violating and delicious. Peter let out a strangled cry of lust, and tried to use his freed hand to fondle his cock. As soon as Nathan percieved that, he yanked his middle finger out of Peter and grabbed his wrist again, slamming it down on the floor.
It was kind of loud, and it hurt. Nathan let Peter go and moved back, returning to his feet. Peter stood up, hoping to turn to Nathan and starting removing his clothes and messing up his hair, but Nathan grabbed Peter's arms again and threw him down onto the bed. "You're a manipulative little bastard," Nathan snarled. "Grow the fuck up. Not everything is about you and your feelings." He roughly wiped his fingers on Peter's bedspread, and left the room, closing the door with a slam.
For a while, Peter just lay there blinking on the bed with his pajama bottoms halfway down his thighs, wondering what the hell had just happened.
He rolled over and got under the bed covers, touching himself, hoping to get off and clear his mind, gain some understanding. But the hearty dinner, wine, and steamed milk had ganged up on him, along with his destructive dance through the snow, and he fell asleep before he reached orgasm. And once again, as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Nathan, the vision clearer than it had ever been before.
****
Those corded, furious arms. The white T-shirt, those shoulders, the slope of the Adam's apple, droplets of sweat collecting at the hollow of his throat.
Whisky on the breath makes him think that Nathan's lips would be hard and rough, but instead they are yielding. Slick. Already licked and glistening.
"C'mon, Pete," he growls. His arms shake Peter hard, then let go, run fingers through his hair, pushing him down. Gentle, but firm and demanding. "Come on, Pete. Give me what you want."
Nathan is across the room now. Still in the white T-shirt, hair tousled, arms crossed over his chest. "What did I tell you?" Nathan says. "Get over here."
And Peter crawls. His knees are raw and achy, but he crawls. He doesn't know how he got down on the floor, but he doesn't want to get to his feet. Not until he has crossed the room and is in front of Nathan.
Then he raises his fists.
Nathan easily catches Peter's wrists in his hands, and draws Peter close enough for their mouths to make contact. It's sweet, and yet Peter struggles. The harder he struggles, the tighter Nathan holds him. "Just give in," Peter whispers, kissing Nathan hard, tooth on tooth.
Nathan releases Peter's wrists, grasps Peter's ears, holding him tight. The kiss isn't enough; it doesn't feel real. Peter wants more. He wants to know it's happening.
"C'mon, Pete," says Nathan again, and they are back to that. Peter accepts the déjà vu without recognizing its nature as such. It's happening. It's what he wants.
"Suck it," Nathan says.
Peter wants it, but doesn't know what it feels like, and so it can't happen. His mind makes a guess-his throat filling up with a yielding mass, like he's swallowing a chewed wad of bubble gum-but that's not it. The taste is wrong; he knows the taste. He's tasted his own seminal fluid, he's tasted his own spunk, he's tasted his own unique, salty, pungent sweat. But he knows that's not how Nathan tastes. Frustrated, he nuzzles Nathan's belly, gulping in deep breaths of Nathan's smell. "Inside me," he whispers. "I want it inside me. I know that; I want that."
"Be grateful for Pinehearst," Nathan says. "It shows you what you really are." He's got his cock in his hand, jerking on it gently, then roughly, more roughly than is safe. Peter wants to suck it so badly, but he doesn't know how. He knows how it feels to be sucked, and he doesn't know why Nathan isn't doing it. Nathan is on top, pumping himself up, readying himself. His cock glistens wetly, not just at the tip, but all over; wet with come already, slick streaks across the dark surface. Nathan groans softly in his throat. "Can I trust you?"
"I won't screw it up this time; I promise," Peter whispers. "I want to taste it. Please. Put it in me.You own me."
"You tell me what to do," Nathan murmured.
"Let me taste it," Peter demands.
It tastes just like his own come. It could be. It's not good enough, not different enough, not real enough, but he is satisfied. Except for wanting more. He wants to fuck, to feel the sweat, to smell it, to hear the gasping. He needs it. Nathan says, "Now, it's time."
Now, yes. On his face, on the floor, his ass exposed, the carpet scraping his knees. Nathan slides a slick finger inside Peter and twists it. "Yes," Peter approves. Nathan pulls one of Peter's arms behind his back, pivoting the shoulder. A hand tightens around his throat, then strokes his hair; throttling him, caressing him. Yes. Exactly. Nathan knows exactly, magically, everything Peter wants.
Perfect. Nathan's body against his, pressing against him, rocking back and forth, and then, there's more. More. Yes, oh, God, yes, that, cock pushing into his asshole, filling him to capacity, a hard, rapid, slamming fuck, turning the world upside down with joy and fear and astonishment. "Oh, yes," Peter breathes. "I'm grateful. I won't screw it up this time. I won't. I'll take it. I'll take it."
The intensity overwhelms him until he can't breathe.
But he finds his breath, and lets it out. Reality flips like a rollercoaster loop. He finds himself face down in a field of what he first thinks are white daisies, but upon further reflection, are giant snowflakes. Giant, white, knife-edged, ceramic snowflakes. He is all sliced up and bloody. He should be blind, in pieces, bleeding to death; but he just stands up, and he's fine.
He thinks to himself, That's impossible. I'm dreaming. I am asleep.
***
Peter woke up in another giant, cold, wet lake of nocturnal emission. The bright morning sun slanted through his open window. Once again, he got out of bed, wadded up his damp bedding, and left it in a pile for housekeeping to deal with.
He took another shower, then got dressed and combed his hair before going downstairs for breakfast. His parents were nowhere to be seen, but Nathan was there, drinking coffee and eating a soft-boiled egg with toast.
Nathan looked beautiful in the morning light, his angular jaw freshly shaven, his cuffs and collar perfect, and his hair brushed into a brilliantined wave that would have looked cartoonish on anyone but him. Nathan didn't look like a cartoon; he looked like a comic-book superhero in his secret-identity disguise that fooled no one and yet everyone.
Peter slid into the booth across from him. "Hi," he said shyly.
His brother glanced over the edge of the Wall St. Journal, pursed his lips, and lifted the newspaper again. "Morning," he replied.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"You don't look like you're dressed for hunting," Peter pointed out.
"I'm not going hunting on Christmas Eve. Christ, Peter, use your head."
"You're the one who brought up Pinehearst."
"I didn't mean for you to overhear that," Nathan replied, setting down the newspaper and lifting his coffee cup, nodding toward the waiter to bring more. "I want to go out there with Dad. Without you."
"And do what?" Peter asked in a small voice. He couldn't forget his dream, but now, he wanted to. It hadn't been real; he couldn't even make it up correctly. The man he desired sat right across from him, but he might as well have been a stranger.
"I want to talk to him," Nathan says. "Privately. It's a nice setting; no one else should be there. We can just go down to the lake and take a walk. And you know what? Don't ask 'About what?' It's none of your business."
"I'm sorry to have bothered you," Peter said, standing up, and sitting down somewhere else. He stared into his oatmeal, wondering if there was any way he could get a bus or something back to New York City. He dared glance over at Nathan, and saw his brother drop his gaze back behind his newspaper.
END (51)
A/N: Obviously inspired by the frozen hell that my city has become over the last few days. Also, Merry Christmas! Have some angst! :) Peter is indeed experiencing Angela's ability here, and as so often happens with Angela's visions, it's more metaphorical than literal. But Peter is seeing the future in some ways, just in a very scattered, broken way. This one, as with so many others, goes out to 47_trek_47. I hope you'll find that feeling again. Thanks for reading.
Pairing, Other Characters: Peter/Nathan, Arthur, Angela
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: spoilers through episode 3.13: "Duel" and webcomic "Truths"; story takes place pre-series
Warnings: see pairing; Peter is 17, sub/dom kink, angst
Word Count: 4800
Summary: As the Petrelli family takes a holiday trip to the Berkshires, Peter has been having increasingly vivid dreams about Nathan.
Note: If you're looking for good-guy, schmoopy Nathan, this is not that. Maybe next week. ;)
Ritual Reader's Guide - all past Ritual stories in chronological order
Heroes is not my property. No revenue is generated or accepted for its publication on the internet. I wish the show was on tonight, but since it's not, let me roll up my sleeves...
DECEMBER 1997
OUTSIDE LENOX, MASSACHUSETTS
Once again, Peter Petrelli's parents had conspired to ruin his life.
Three days before Christmas, Angela announced that they would be spending Christmas in the Berkshires, instead of at home, and participation, as usual, was mandatory. She'd tried to soften the blow by telling Peter that Nathan would be accompanying them, too, but it didn't cheer him up much. Peter didn't want to spend Christmas outside New York City. There were parties he was missing, he'd just met a new girl he was hoping to ask out, he'd had had to give up his volunteer shift at the community center, and he wanted to catch up on his sleep in the comfort of his own bed.
He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before he and his parents and brother set off on their trip. He'd been walking around in the snow all day, avoiding going home, and he had fallen exhausted into bed before midnight. Less than thirty minutes later, he was awake again, his legs aching and throbbing. He rubbed some Tiger Balm into his joints, and got back into bed, ready to try again.
He closed his eyes and saw Nathan, eyes closed, leaning back, lips slightly parted, sighing impatiently. "C'mon," Nathan whispered.
Peter woke up again and looked at the clock. An hour had gone by, though all that he could recall from his dream was a moment. That look on Nathan's face, the curve of his mouth, the sound of his voice. Peter couldn't understand what was happening in the dream, and figured he was just too sleepy to think. He rolled over and drifted back down.
Nathan, again. Same posture, but Peter could see more of him. A plain white T-shirt, his Adam's-apple, his hands busy down there. Down there. Touching... And once again, he said, "C'mon," but this time he added, "Come on, Peter." And Peter sucked his thumb. He wasn't sure if it was his own or if it was Nathan's; he just wanted to suck it as hard as he could. Nathan growled softly, and Peter's legs hurt like hammer blows and fire. He tried to wrap them around Nathan and get warm and comfortable, but he couldn't move. "Come on," Nathan whispered again, soft, encouraging. "You can do it." Peter ached; he hurt so much he wanted to cry. He couldn't do it. Whatever it was.
When Peter woke again, he lay face down with his belly resting in a big, damp come-stain. He groaned and got up. He pulled the sheets off the bed, wadded them up, and tossed them on the floor. He wrapped himself in his quilt and tried once again to sleep.
This time, it didn't work. The details of the dream wouldn't leave him alone, his legs hurt unless he moved them around, and he was cold. He got up and took a shower, then went downstairs and fixed himself some coffee and toast. It was a quarter to five; the housekeeper would be arriving soon, and then Angela would get up, and there was no way he was going back to sleep. They would all have to go to the Berkshires and spend money and be a family. The more Peter thought about it, the angrier he got. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He hadn't gotten any damn sleep, and he was in pain, and he hated this whole situation.
****
It was a long drive, and without music, because music annoyed Arthur and kept him from concentrating on the road. Peter rubbed his legs and tapped his feet and thought of songs he'd like to be hearing right now.
Arthur and Angela were having their weird sort of half-conversation where they talked around stuff, but didn't provide any specifics. It was still obvious that they were talking about business, maybe the law firm or the medical charity or whatever, but Peter was too annoyed to listen closely. It was crooked, whatever it was; otherwise, why wouldn't they just talk about it?
Nathan didn't seem to know, or care. He had come with them, leaving his own car back in the city, and he sat next to Peter in the back seat of the Mercedes, contributing nothing to Arthur and Angela's conversation. Peter thought it was funny, to have Nathan sitting in the back seat like a kid even though he was almost thirty and a successful lawyer in his own right. Peter wondered if being treated like a child made Nathan as angry as it did him; but Nathan didn't say anything about it, and after all, he had volunteered to come up with them in the same car.
It was all too weird, and it made Peter tired. Despite all the coffee he'd had earlier, he began to nod off. Nathan was right there, and he wasn't using his shoulder for anything more important, so Peter settled his head onto it and made himself comfortable.
Nathan gave a soft, impatient sigh. Kind of like in Peter's dream from last night, but not quite. He did not add, C'mon, Peter, so Peter closed his eyes and drifted away.
Once again, the image of Nathan appeared before him. Instead of leaning back, though, now he leaned forward, gripping Peter's arms so tightly that Peter could see the tendons and veins pop. His muscles were immense. His lips were drawn back in a savage snarl. A dangerous growl, like that of a threatening wolf, purled out from his throat. "You're mine," he said.
Peter shook his head a little, pulled back into consciousness. Underneath his temple, Nathan's warm, solid shoulder held a faint scent of bay rum and dry-cleaning. Peter sighed. It was just a dream.
"Nathan, don't let him do that," came Arthur's voice from the front seat. "He's not a baby. Make him sit up."
Nathan didn't reply, and did nothing to dislodge Peter.
"You're gonna spoil him," Arthur commented.
"He's already spoiled," Nathan said wryly.
Angela laughed at that. "You can say that again."
"No need to make it worse," Arthur shot back.
"It's okay, Dad," Nathan murmured. Peter wanted to kiss him for that, but he didn't want them to know that he was awake. It was nice to lean against Nathan's body, concentrating until he could hear Nathan's pulse and breathing. Peter could match his breathing to Nathan's, but he wondered what would happen if he managed to synchronize their heartbeats. Maybe Nathan would love him, then. Peter wished that he could perform magic, because it would take magic for something like that to happen. Some things happened in the world that were impossible; maybe magic was his only chance.
Not long after that, they arrived at the inn outside Lenox. Nathan roughly jostled Peter's head aside as he unfastened his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Nobody spoke to him, and he felt extraneous, like some random punk kid who had stowed away, instead of having been dragged out here against his will. He got out of the car slowly, favoring his sore legs, and hurried after his family as they walked up the snowy path to the front door. Nathan was talking to his father now, and Peter heard him ask, "Think we'll be able to make a trip out to Pinehearst?"
"No!" Peter yelled, bumping into Nathan as he slipped on the slick path. "We are not going out to Pinehearst!"
Arthur and Nathan turned to him at once, both of them arching their eyebrows in the same way. "Afraid you'll fail again?" Arthur countered smoothly.
"Shut up," Peter snapped. "It was horrible. I didn't fail."
"No, Nathan didn't fail," Arthur said airily, walking inside. "That's why I've got six-point antlers in the wall of my office. It wasn't you."
Peter just glared in reply, and Nathan gave a casual shrug, turning away, literally taking Arthur's side. Peter wished that Angela was there to back him up, but she was already at the front desk, inquiring about their rooms. "I didn't fail," he muttered to himself. "I just didn't do the wrong thing."
Angela approached him, holding out a key card. "You have room 16," she said. "Arthur and I have room 3, and Nathan is in room 5."
When Peter tried to find his room, he found that it was on an upper floor, at the opposite end of the building from the rest of his family. He ran back downstairs to room 3. "Way to get rid of me!" he bellowed.
Angela slowly turned from her toiletries case to look at Peter. "What are you talking about?" Across the room, at the closet, Arthur looked over too, rolled his eyes, and went back to staring inside the closet like he was looking for architectural mistakes.
"I'm at the opposite end of the whole place from you," Peter pointed out.
"That's just the way the reservations shook out, dear," Angela replied mildly, finding the lipstick she sought, and applying a few dots of scarlet to her thin lips. "It's nothing personal. Though, I have to admit, if you're going to keep screaming like that, I'll be glad to have the place between us. Now go get dressed for dinner."
"I don't know why we're even in a shithole like this," Peter grumbled. "Wouldn't you rather stay at the Hampton or something? A nice, big hotel with monogrammed towels?"
"Peter!" Angela retorted. "Go get dressed for dinner. I will not tell you again." She slipped the lipstick back into the case. "I find this to be sufficiently elegant for my tastes. If yours are so much more refined, I encourage you to find your own lodgings. The Hampton. Imagine." She tutted and shook her head. To make matters worse, Arthur snickered in reply.
Peter trudged back to his own room. It wasn't that this place wasn't nice-it was, from the dark-wood arched doorways to the sumptuous carpets, probably the nicest place to stay in the whole region-it just wasn't different enough from their house back in Manhattan for him to wonder why they bothered. He knew that his mom and dad had no intention of skiing, and the shopping was better in the city, too. But maybe his father-or worse, Nathan-really did want to go to Pinehearst.
He couldn't take that.
It wasn't that he hadn't been back to Pinehearst with Nathan and their dad since that horrible hunting trip. They came out in the summer to fish sometimes, and that was all right; Peter was so clumsy with fishing lines and hooks that they let him just hang out. But every time they went, it was weird; Peter always had nightmares about it, before or after the trip, remembering the snap of the buck deer's head, the violence with which the poor animal was flung back from the bullet's impact. The blood in the snow, and the cold efficiency with which Nathan and Arthur handled the deer's corpse. The sound of the gunshot, and the look of satisfaction on Arthur's face, that his son could and would kill on his command.
The right son, of course. Not Peter. He didn't tell his mother about the nightmares; he knew she'd have no sympathy. He told Nathan, because he couldn't not tell Nathan, and Nathan just tousled Peter's hair and airily told him, "You'll get over it." He wouldn't get over it. He'd never get over it. The best thing he could hope was to forget it, and he'd succeeded for years and years, until Nathan thoughtlessly reopened the wound.
He returned to his room and put on a tie and a V-neck sweater, but didn't bother to comb his hair, since he was just going to put a hat on again. When he went down to the foyer to meet the rest of his family, Angela grabbed him by the collar and clucked at him. "Oh, Peter, for God's sake. You couldn't run a comb through this haystack?"
"What-ever, Ma," Peter protested, pulling himself free. "What, will they refuse to serve me at the restaurant?"
"Go get your comb," Angela ordered him. "You are not wearing a stocking cap for the whole dinner."
Peter glared at Nathan, who had an innocent, smug smile on his face. His hair was perfect. "What are you lookin' at?" Peter grumbled, returning to his room. "Ass face," he added, under his breath, way beyond earshot. "Why don't you sit on your ass face, ass face?" He grabbed his comb from his bag, frowning as he thought, Why don't you sit on my face?
What a stupid thought. Nobody could sit on anyone's face without suffocating them. Or could they? People talked about it and he'd read about it, but he had no idea how that was actually done. Some guys bragged that they'd had a girl sit on their faces, but Peter just couldn't believe them. That was one of those impossible things. He wondered how he could have a whole adult man sitting on his face and live through it. Have Nathan. Sitting. With his... hanging down... no... it was impossible.
He silently continued this line of thought on the journey to the restaurant, and didn't snap out of it until he realized he was sitting at a table, next to his mother, across from Nathan. He looked up and saw Nathan staring at him, eyes narrowed. "Earth to Peter," he said.
"Huh?" Peter said, blinking. "What?"
"What would you like to drink?" Nathan prompted.
"Oh. Steamed milk," he replied.
"Peter, that'll ruin your appetite," Angela said mildly, opening a long, thin menu.
"No, it's what I want," Peter corrected her.
"Spoiled," Arthur said under his breath.
"Oh, my God. Shut up, Dad," Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You ever say that to me again," Arthur said, fractionally raising his calm voice, "I'll see that you regret it."
"How? By taking me out to Pinehearst?"
"Peter," Nathan said warningly.
Arthur raised his hand. "Nathan, don't. If Peter wants to have it out, I'm right here, and I can fight my own battles. No need to step in."
"There shouldn't be a battle," Angela pointed out. "Now, do we want to base our meal around the wine, or the wine around the meal?"
"If you want to be upset over something that happened ten years ago," Arthur continued, as though she hadn't said anything, "that's your prerogrative, but that's internal to you and has nothing to do with me. I have given you every chance, Peter, and you seem to fight me every step of the way. Why is that?"
"You don't actually want to know why," Peter said. "Do you?"
"Well, no, Peter," Arthur replied dryly. "I don't. What I want you to do is to make the most out of the opportunities presented."
"I do, Dad."
"No, you don't. You know that perfectly well yourself. What you're feeling is guilt. That's your problem."
"Guilt?" Peter blurted. "Why would I feel guilt? I didn't do anything."
"Exactly," Arthur said, slipping on his glasses, and closely perusing the menu. The conversation was over, like a door being shut in Peter's face. He looked at Nathan, who just shook his head and sighed.
"Get over it, Pete," he said. "You couldn't do it. That's that."
"I'm not hungry," Peter mumbled, pushing away from the table.
"Sit down," Angela said, her voice like a cold iron cuff. Peter had never stood up, but he scooted back in close to the table. "You are going to eat what's put in front of you, you are going to stop antagonizing your father, and you are either going to end this childish tantrum and behave normally, or you are going to be silent. Take your pick."
Peter chose silence. Or, more accurately, falling mute. He didn't say a word, but he kept up a steady barrage of aggrieved sighs, eye-rolling, and using his silverware in a noisy fashion. The others tried their best to ignore him. Nathan broke first. He didn't say anything to Peter, but he glared across the table like he wished he could make Peter burst into flames. Peter flashed him a huge, fake grin, and angled his middle finger under the side of his plate, so that his parents couldn't see it, but Nathan could. Nathan's cheeks got red, and he blinked quickly a bunch of times, like he was trying to keep himself under control. He turned toward his parents and tried to butt into their conversation, but succeeded only in derailing it. Peter was satisfied with this.
He hadn't expected to be hungry, but the steamed milk didn't dent his appetite for the excellent food. Trust his parents to find the best Italian cuisine in the region. As usual, he finished eating before anyone else, perhaps because he wasn't talking. "Can I be excused?" he asked when he was finished.
"No," Angela said, and continued her conversation without missing a beat.
Since he was trapped at the table, Peter helped himself to a glass of wine. Nobody made a move to stop him, but Nathan was looking at him again, eyes narrowed, but with a sort of cunning interest rather than anger. Peter recognized that expression; it was like that night where he asked Nathan to tie him up, and he did. Or that night at the Coopers', last Christmas. Almost a year to the day, in fact. Tomorrow it'd be the anniversary.
Was Nathan thinking about last Christmas?
Dinner finally ended, and Arthur and Angela went to the whisky bar at the carriage house across the lawn. "Why don't you go with them?" Peter said to Nathan, observing his hesitation.
"I don't feel like drinking," Nathan responded, watching his parents walk arm in arm.
"Go on, have a drink," Peter said. "It'll get your head out of your ass."
"Fuck you, Peter," Nathan replied tightly, and left, heading after his parents.
Peter was again satisfied. He went to his room and lounged in the chair beside the window, looking out the other side of the inn at the perfect white snow blanket, deep and untouched. He got up after a moment, put his shoes and hat back on, and went outside. He walked across the lawn to the other side, and sunk his foot into the snowbank, feeling like the first man on the moon. "One small step for a man," he said to himself, falling forward onto his face, getting snow up his nose and everything. He ran around the whole lawn, rolling around in the snow, churning it up and stomping his footprints in. After ten minutes, he was starting to lose all sensation in his hands, so ran back inside to his room, covered head to toe in snow. He stripped himself naked and went back to the window, staring down joyfully at his chaotic masterpiece.
Unfortunately, guilt wasn't far behind. He'd seen something pristine and perfect, and he'd had to go and screw it up just because he was angry. He hated his father for being right about him.
He took a hot shower and put his pajamas on. It was too early for bed, and he wasn't looking forward to the nightmare that awaited him. He wished he'd thought to bring some comic books with him, and not just a big thick novel that would require actual concentration to read. And TV was a holiday wasteland. There was nothing to do except sit around and think.
But then there was a knock at the door.
Peter checked to make sure that he was actually clothed, and went to the door, opening it without even thinking. "Hello?" he inquired softly.
Nathan shouldered past him into the room, shutting the door behind himself. Peter tried to block him with his body, but Nathan roughly grabbed him by the arms and wrestled him, face down, to the floor. "Ow! What the fuck?" Peter protested, trying to protect his elbows and chin.
"I am sick of your shit," Nathan said, breathing hard, smelling like scotch and cigars. He pinned Peter's wrists to the floor. "Why can't you ever just play along? Why can't you just ever be grateful?"
"I am," Peter groaned, trying fruitlessly to resist. "I just-ow! I just refuse to just sit there and take that kind of... of..."
"You don't even know," Nathan replied. "You just want to push back. Don't push back, Peter. It's not worth it."
His body had held an aura of cold air from outside, but it disappeared rapidly with his body pressed tight against Peter's, muscles straining to keep him immobilized down on the floor. His breath was hot on the back of Peter's neck. "I can have my own thoughts! I can say what I want to say! They don't own me!" Peter gasped. He lifted his hips off the floor, pressing his behind into Nathan's groin, and Nathan pressed back, adjusted the lie of his feet against the floor to settle between Peter's legs, and pushed down again. Peter rocked up, declaring, "I'm not their slave!"
"You're my slave," Nathan whispered, so faintly that Peter wouldn't have heard it if they hadn't been touching.
"...Yes," Peter said, bucking his hips upward again, feeling Nathan push back, trying to push him down. Up again, down again. Again. "Ahhhh... yes. I'm your slave."
Nathan thrust in hard. "No, little fucker; you're not."
"Ahh, yes, I am," Peter moaned, pushing back. A rhythm, back and forth, both of them, rocking against each other. Harder. Faster. "Unh! Oh, God," Peter begged breathlessly, hoping against hope for magic, for the impossible. "Inside me... please... again... please..."
"Fuck," Nathan spat. He bit the back of Peter's neck, then let go one of Peter's wrists, freeing a hand to tug down Peter's pajama bottoms, exposing his butt to the cool air of the room. Peter obediently lay still, holding his breath, listening to Nathan sucking on a finger. He offered himself up, angling his ass into the air and spreading his legs a little more, biting his lip hard in anticipation.
"Please," he whispered.
Good. So good, that sweet penetration; moist and cool, violating and delicious. Peter let out a strangled cry of lust, and tried to use his freed hand to fondle his cock. As soon as Nathan percieved that, he yanked his middle finger out of Peter and grabbed his wrist again, slamming it down on the floor.
It was kind of loud, and it hurt. Nathan let Peter go and moved back, returning to his feet. Peter stood up, hoping to turn to Nathan and starting removing his clothes and messing up his hair, but Nathan grabbed Peter's arms again and threw him down onto the bed. "You're a manipulative little bastard," Nathan snarled. "Grow the fuck up. Not everything is about you and your feelings." He roughly wiped his fingers on Peter's bedspread, and left the room, closing the door with a slam.
For a while, Peter just lay there blinking on the bed with his pajama bottoms halfway down his thighs, wondering what the hell had just happened.
He rolled over and got under the bed covers, touching himself, hoping to get off and clear his mind, gain some understanding. But the hearty dinner, wine, and steamed milk had ganged up on him, along with his destructive dance through the snow, and he fell asleep before he reached orgasm. And once again, as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Nathan, the vision clearer than it had ever been before.
****
Those corded, furious arms. The white T-shirt, those shoulders, the slope of the Adam's apple, droplets of sweat collecting at the hollow of his throat.
Whisky on the breath makes him think that Nathan's lips would be hard and rough, but instead they are yielding. Slick. Already licked and glistening.
"C'mon, Pete," he growls. His arms shake Peter hard, then let go, run fingers through his hair, pushing him down. Gentle, but firm and demanding. "Come on, Pete. Give me what you want."
Nathan is across the room now. Still in the white T-shirt, hair tousled, arms crossed over his chest. "What did I tell you?" Nathan says. "Get over here."
And Peter crawls. His knees are raw and achy, but he crawls. He doesn't know how he got down on the floor, but he doesn't want to get to his feet. Not until he has crossed the room and is in front of Nathan.
Then he raises his fists.
Nathan easily catches Peter's wrists in his hands, and draws Peter close enough for their mouths to make contact. It's sweet, and yet Peter struggles. The harder he struggles, the tighter Nathan holds him. "Just give in," Peter whispers, kissing Nathan hard, tooth on tooth.
Nathan releases Peter's wrists, grasps Peter's ears, holding him tight. The kiss isn't enough; it doesn't feel real. Peter wants more. He wants to know it's happening.
"C'mon, Pete," says Nathan again, and they are back to that. Peter accepts the déjà vu without recognizing its nature as such. It's happening. It's what he wants.
"Suck it," Nathan says.
Peter wants it, but doesn't know what it feels like, and so it can't happen. His mind makes a guess-his throat filling up with a yielding mass, like he's swallowing a chewed wad of bubble gum-but that's not it. The taste is wrong; he knows the taste. He's tasted his own seminal fluid, he's tasted his own spunk, he's tasted his own unique, salty, pungent sweat. But he knows that's not how Nathan tastes. Frustrated, he nuzzles Nathan's belly, gulping in deep breaths of Nathan's smell. "Inside me," he whispers. "I want it inside me. I know that; I want that."
"Be grateful for Pinehearst," Nathan says. "It shows you what you really are." He's got his cock in his hand, jerking on it gently, then roughly, more roughly than is safe. Peter wants to suck it so badly, but he doesn't know how. He knows how it feels to be sucked, and he doesn't know why Nathan isn't doing it. Nathan is on top, pumping himself up, readying himself. His cock glistens wetly, not just at the tip, but all over; wet with come already, slick streaks across the dark surface. Nathan groans softly in his throat. "Can I trust you?"
"I won't screw it up this time; I promise," Peter whispers. "I want to taste it. Please. Put it in me.You own me."
"You tell me what to do," Nathan murmured.
"Let me taste it," Peter demands.
It tastes just like his own come. It could be. It's not good enough, not different enough, not real enough, but he is satisfied. Except for wanting more. He wants to fuck, to feel the sweat, to smell it, to hear the gasping. He needs it. Nathan says, "Now, it's time."
Now, yes. On his face, on the floor, his ass exposed, the carpet scraping his knees. Nathan slides a slick finger inside Peter and twists it. "Yes," Peter approves. Nathan pulls one of Peter's arms behind his back, pivoting the shoulder. A hand tightens around his throat, then strokes his hair; throttling him, caressing him. Yes. Exactly. Nathan knows exactly, magically, everything Peter wants.
Perfect. Nathan's body against his, pressing against him, rocking back and forth, and then, there's more. More. Yes, oh, God, yes, that, cock pushing into his asshole, filling him to capacity, a hard, rapid, slamming fuck, turning the world upside down with joy and fear and astonishment. "Oh, yes," Peter breathes. "I'm grateful. I won't screw it up this time. I won't. I'll take it. I'll take it."
The intensity overwhelms him until he can't breathe.
But he finds his breath, and lets it out. Reality flips like a rollercoaster loop. He finds himself face down in a field of what he first thinks are white daisies, but upon further reflection, are giant snowflakes. Giant, white, knife-edged, ceramic snowflakes. He is all sliced up and bloody. He should be blind, in pieces, bleeding to death; but he just stands up, and he's fine.
He thinks to himself, That's impossible. I'm dreaming. I am asleep.
***
Peter woke up in another giant, cold, wet lake of nocturnal emission. The bright morning sun slanted through his open window. Once again, he got out of bed, wadded up his damp bedding, and left it in a pile for housekeeping to deal with.
He took another shower, then got dressed and combed his hair before going downstairs for breakfast. His parents were nowhere to be seen, but Nathan was there, drinking coffee and eating a soft-boiled egg with toast.
Nathan looked beautiful in the morning light, his angular jaw freshly shaven, his cuffs and collar perfect, and his hair brushed into a brilliantined wave that would have looked cartoonish on anyone but him. Nathan didn't look like a cartoon; he looked like a comic-book superhero in his secret-identity disguise that fooled no one and yet everyone.
Peter slid into the booth across from him. "Hi," he said shyly.
His brother glanced over the edge of the Wall St. Journal, pursed his lips, and lifted the newspaper again. "Morning," he replied.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"You don't look like you're dressed for hunting," Peter pointed out.
"I'm not going hunting on Christmas Eve. Christ, Peter, use your head."
"You're the one who brought up Pinehearst."
"I didn't mean for you to overhear that," Nathan replied, setting down the newspaper and lifting his coffee cup, nodding toward the waiter to bring more. "I want to go out there with Dad. Without you."
"And do what?" Peter asked in a small voice. He couldn't forget his dream, but now, he wanted to. It hadn't been real; he couldn't even make it up correctly. The man he desired sat right across from him, but he might as well have been a stranger.
"I want to talk to him," Nathan says. "Privately. It's a nice setting; no one else should be there. We can just go down to the lake and take a walk. And you know what? Don't ask 'About what?' It's none of your business."
"I'm sorry to have bothered you," Peter said, standing up, and sitting down somewhere else. He stared into his oatmeal, wondering if there was any way he could get a bus or something back to New York City. He dared glance over at Nathan, and saw his brother drop his gaze back behind his newspaper.
END (51)
A/N: Obviously inspired by the frozen hell that my city has become over the last few days. Also, Merry Christmas! Have some angst! :) Peter is indeed experiencing Angela's ability here, and as so often happens with Angela's visions, it's more metaphorical than literal. But Peter is seeing the future in some ways, just in a very scattered, broken way. This one, as with so many others, goes out to 47_trek_47. I hope you'll find that feeling again. Thanks for reading.