Heroes - No More Keeping My Feet on the Ground (Peter/Nathan PG-13)
1. Happy Birthday, ethrosdemon. You know where to find me to redeem your raincheck.
2. I don't usual do this, but heidi8 told me if you vote here you can make Sony release Cupid on DVD and I really want to see Ari holding a quiver of arrows and shooting people in the ass.
3. Peter is Emo may very well be the all time best Heroes video ever. The title doesn't even begin to cover it, but as I told the person who linked me: You know that scene in Jurassic Park towards the end where the kids are eating ice cream and the boy sees the outline of the raptor behind his sister's head, and he just freezes holding the spoon and she's like 'What? What, motherfucker, WHAT?' -- Well, for the the first minute I sat in front of the screen I was that boy.
4. I have been in labor with this story for weeks. I first mentioned the idea to antheia last year, but scratched it, and then last week scribblinlenore and I made a pact that we each had to produce some Petrelli-fic, which put me back on the hot seat. Then antheia and literaryll started waving these photos in my face where Milo was dressed nicely and we all know I'm a sucker for a sharp-dressed man.
Heroes
Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (or possibly Peter/Nathan, it depends on your point of view), Angela Petrelli, Heidi Petrelli
Pre-series
Summary: "Nice suit," Nathan says mildly. "Did someone die?"
No More Keeping My Feet on the Ground
The face in the mirror is strangely blank -- pale skin, slightly chapped lips -- but his eyes give it away like always. Peter turns at another angle and tries to appraise himself the way someone else -- someone like Nathan might.
The tie is new. Paul Smith. Stripes. White and gold, with thin blue. It's very staid. Very sedate. Very expensive. Of course it's much easier to stand on your own two feet and refuse monetary assistance when you know where your family has accounts that can be charged without you spending a dime.
The figure looks like someone else, but Peter can feel the tightness across his own shoulder blades. He has a chronic muscle spasm in his right shoulder; his yoga teacher says it's all stress-related.
The stranger with his eyes looks like a political aide, like a young congressman that he would never vote for because he might look honest, but something makes you feel like he lies. Like any day now he's going to be exposed by political pundits and The New York Times for fooling the public at large.
"Oh, Peter, you look perfect." Peter grins to himself as his mother's trilling voice precedes her into the room -- the truth is she probably got chest pains when she heard a taxi had dropped him off on the grounds. "You must not be my son, unless -- did you fall and hit your head recently?"
"Hi, Mom," he says, turning from his reflection and her critical eyes to drop his keys on the table in the foyer. They'll magically be moved to the cut-glass bowl on the side credenza just as soon as they leave the room. "You look nice too."
Peter hasn't been to one of his parents 'casual' cocktail parties in a long time. His mother told him to stop coming if his shoes weren't going to be hole-free and his jeans clean. Tonight, however, is an experiment. It's not an entire new leaf -- just a testing of a theory.
He's been fighting the system for so long it's like he's going in reverse. So he's going to try it their way willingly this one last time to see if this will get him what he wants.
"Darling, 'nice' is for flowers and requesting bail money. Please don’t 'hi, mom' me." Angela Petrelli sweeps into every room as though being presented at court. She still likes to tell Peter about meeting Queen Elizabeth when she was eighteen. "The last time you wore a suit was Nathan's wedding -- why have you decided to be presentable tonight?"
Peter's mother is many things: slightly cruel and callous, a little dippy on occasion, she can also be as sharp as -- as an Italian mother.
"You're always saying you want me to dress the part," Peter mocks after kissing his mother's cheek. He gives her a grin she knows entirely too well. "I thought you'd be thrilled. Don’t I look just like Nathan?"
His mother makes a derisive noise. "That's what has me so worried," she says, studying him critically, brushing away imaginary lint and straightening his noose -- tie.
Peter has never really thought of his clothing as armor, because he buys his sweatshirts 2 for $20 in the Village on Sundays. He's read The Once and Future King, however, and he knows all about marching to the Crusades covered in 90 pounds of chain mail.
He tells himself that was a long time ago.
"You don't have to worry about me," Peter protests, watching over his mother's shoulder as the catering staff silently whiz back and forth from the garden to the kitchen. There are strands of multi-colored Chinese lanterns visible through the French doors because every party is subtly thematic.
Peter's mother is of that rare breed of hostess who know how to change the slightest accessory to make the same home appear different every time.
"All mothers do is worry," she chides, the area around her redolent of Jean Patou's Joy. Peter broke a bottle when he was six and poking around where he wasn't supposed to go -- he knows the smell very well. "Some worry about one child more than the other. Nathan was born self-sufficient. You -- you needed forceps."
Peter chuckles. His mother is special. Even his dad says so. "At least I'm not late," he says, "I can still surprise you a little."
His mother taps his cheek lightly. "Of course you're late, darling; you can't change everything with a thousand dollar suit -- which is very nice by the way. Charged to your father, I hope."
Her last is a statement as though she's already seen the bill. The button-holes of Peter's three-button suit are tight for a reason though -- he only picked it up from his father's tailor two days ago.
Peter ducks his head down in silent answer before coming back up with a wry grin and an offer of his arm. Her answering smirk says it all as they link arms. She leads the way. Like always.
"I might surprise you one day, mom," he says, as she they walk through the house, her shoes making sharp clacking noises on the marble.
She shakes her head as he pauses to open the door to the garden, and he's transported by the smell of cigars and gardenias and more expensive perfume into a world he'd thought he'd left behind.
"That's what I'm continually afraid of," she confesses with a smirk, handing him a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "Well, it's either afraid or thrilled -- I suppose I can decide later."
*
The cufflinks had given Peter a little trouble. Not because he didn't have experience with cufflinks -- Petrellis have experience with everything -- but because it took him twenty minutes to remember where he'd put the set he had; and then when he'd opened the robin-egg blue box, there was only one cufflink inside.
He had contemplated leaving the house with a cufflink and a paperclip -- it was better than nothing -- but tonight he had to get everything just right. Suit, tie, cufflinks, shoes -- he couldn't go into battle with a lame horse and a broken sword.
The matching set had been a graduation present from Nathan back when everyone thought that Peter was actually going to go to Columbia Law and do what he was supposed to, but Peter's never been very big on meeting expectations.
He's supposed to be in his second year of law school -- instead he's substitute teaching at P.S. 125, which is three blocks over from the Columbia School of Engineering.
In Harlem.
That's part of why he's trying to skirt around where his father is holding court right now with the Mayor and someone who might be the next head of the Metropolitan Police department.
Gordon Petrelli is an impressive figure by any stretch of the imagination. Luminous dark hair and a way with words -- Peter's dad could probably sell a Bible to the Devil if you listen to what his mom says. Sometimes Peter's dad is a little emotional -- sometimes he's very fanatical about what he believes.
He currently believes that Peter is disgracing the family by not toeing the line.
His mom says that's where Peter gets his passion from, but as far as Peter can tell he's never quite measured up to what his dad has wanted. He's never quite fit the way Nathan has.
Peter thinks his dad loves him -- he hopes he does -- because he doesn't really want to know different. So when he catches his father's eye, he waves with his champagne flute, and tries not to let his wingtips slip on the slightly damp grass.
Drinks outside in the fall are always a gamble, like him finding the matching cufflink in the bottom of a chipped coffee mug that normally holds cap-less pens and other crap.
It's only upon a second glance that he notices Nathan at their father's side, and for a moment Peter thinks he's going to slip in shoes that haven't even been broken in yet -- but tonight, apparently, grace is on his side.
Tonight, when Nathan sees him dressed for battle, he smiles.
*
"They're scary," Peter says, manufacturing a shudder with the help of five glasses of champagne. The fine cotton of his Oxford shirt rubs against his forearms, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Especially the yellow one."
Heidi grins, "But the boys love them."
"They're kids; they don't know any better. Can't you give them something more culturally sound, like Sesame Street?"
"The man in the bird costume is much better than the guy with the square on his head?" Heidi queries. "Peter, are you discriminating against the Teletubbies?"
"I didn't say the purple one was gay," he protests automatically. "I said they were scary -- with the bouncing and the just -- they're weird. That transcends costume color."
Heidi's laugh is rich and clear. It's full of honest enjoyment, and Peter can't help but smile. He doesn't know if he found Heidi or she found him, just that they've always had this bond that they can't seem to shake.
People close to Nathan seem to gravitate towards each other as though, if they're all close enough, Nathan might materialize.
Truly all Peter knows right now is that one minute he was trying to duck Julia Astor, and the next he and Heidi are standing by the gardener's prized orchids talking about Sesame Street and The Teletubbies.
"There are so many better things you could show them," Peter insists, "what about Schoolhouse Rocks?"
Heidi purses her lips. "What do you remember about Schoolhouse Rocks? You couldn't have been older than two or three."
Peter's hair falling in his eyes. "I saw the repeats," he says, pushing wayward locks behind his ear. "Three is a magic number you know."
Heidi laughs again. "I'm sure your kids must love you."
"I'd like to think they do," Peter confesses. "I think they're pretty great, too."
"But we all know Pete's a little deluded." Nathan's voice chimes in, and Peter can feel the vertebrae in his spine snapping to attention seconds before Nathan's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
Peter doesn't know whether his deep breath is one of relief or one of a man hoping not to drown. "It's always good to know you believe in me," Peter snipes.
"I used to believe in Santa Claus, too." Nathan's hand is heavy, and Peter can feel the muscles in his shoulders tightening. The muscle spasm makes more sense when he thinks about it in the context of Nathan's hands holding him down.
"You never believed in anything but yourself," Peter counters without thought, and in that moment he thinks it's true.
It's the difference in how they get their points across: Peter believes in things when he says them. He may not believe it five seconds later, but for that moment in time, Peter is a believer.
Nathan will just keep talking until something sticks. He believes in seeming to be inside the lines -- even when he's stepping outside of them. Especially when he's stepping outside of them.
"I believe in doing the right thing," Nathan retorts.
"That's right -- the Navy, law school, working for the district attorney -- it was probably hard for you with a fuck-up younger brother."
Nathan's jaw visibly tightens under Peter's assault. "You would know, wouldn't you? How many of those have you had to drink?" Nathan asks stiffly, nodding to the empty flute in Peter's hand
"Nathan," Heidi's tone is softly admonishing.
Peter had forgotten she was even still there. Nathan does that to him every time.
"Not enough," Peter says bitterly. "Not even close."
He doesn't even realize Nathan is still touching him until his hand falls away. "If you'll excuse me," Peter says to Heidi. "I need to be somewhere he's not."
*
Julia Astor is the sort of woman Peter's parents hope he marries: well-connected, well-bred, and completely and utterly vapid. She'll have beautiful children -- beautiful, spoiled, bratty children -- and her mouth will look really good wrapped around Peter's cock.
That's pretty much the only thought that's keeping Peter from stomping out the front door. Well, that and the fact that his keys have vanished from the cut-glass bowl in the foyer.
Julia is babbling about something and Peter's manners are too inbred for him not to nod in the right places. Plus, his mother is too deep in conversation with Gloria Vanderbilt -- Aunt Gloria to Peter and Nathan -- to save him. Even worse Peter can see his father circulating ever closer to where Peter is. He doesn't even know where Nathan's gone to, and this is a cause for some concern. Peter twitches automatically when a hand closes over his elbow.
He knows who it is beside him without turning his head. Julia smiles inanely. "Nathan, it's so nice to see you."
"Then keep looking," Peter urges, "just leave me out of it." He exhales loudly through his nose while trying to tug free, but Nathan is a man of war. In his dark grey suit and Brooks Brothers shirt with pale green stripes, he is prepared for battle.
"Julia, you look lovely this evening," Nathan interjects at the injured look Julia's shooting Peter. "You don't mind if I borrow my brother, do you?"
"I mind," Peter retorts, but Nathan's already frog-marching Peter away before Julia can answer. "Hey -- are you -- that hurts," Peter's protesting even as Nathan's dragging him into the house, through the kitchens, and into the library.
By the time, Nathan's propelled him through the doors, Peter's breathing through his nose like a racehorse. He can feel the anger streaking through his veins as he rounds on Nathan, who's now leaning against the closed doors smoothing out invisible wrinkles in a green tie.
"Nice suit," Nathan says mildly.
Peter narrows his eyes. "Thanks."
"Did someone die?"
"Not yet -- but it's still early," Peter spits. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. He truly believed that this time he'd say the right thing. Nathan would say what he wanted to hear in return and then --
They could never live happily ever after.
That's not how this story ends.
That's not how any story ever really ends.
"Did you learn that charming manner from your delinquents?" Nathan asks conversationally as he crosses the room to the wet bar.
"They're not delinquents," Peter snaps, crossing his arms. He should just leave; there's no reason for him to stay -- except for Nathan turning to him with a glass of scotch on offer. "I thought I'd had enough for the night," he says snidely.
There's something genuine about Nathan's smile, which is nothing but weird. Nathan shrugs and takes a sip of the proffered glass. "Suit yourself."
Peter scowls even as he's crossing to the wet bar himself. "You're an asshole," he spits, elbowing Nathan aside and by-passing the scotch for the vodka. His father says vodka is déclassé. His mother says it's better than water.
"Why are you here tonight?" Nathan's voice is right by Peter's ear and his breath ghosts over the side of Peter's face as Peter pours himself a drink.
Some of the vodka slops over Peter's fingers, and he absently licks it away. "Maybe I was trying to make my family happy," he says to his father's prized collection of Shakespeare folios. He can feel Nathan's eyes on the side of his face. His ears are going hot, and he pushes his hair behind his ear before grabbing the glass of vodka and knocking it back.
The vodka seeps into every fiber of his being, smooth down his throat and diluting his emotions, until Peter remembers the stomach of champagne he's already nursing. This is going to hurt in the morning.
"What are you doing, Peter? Really?"
When Peter turns his head, Nathan is right there all curious, amused eyes, and wicked, evil mouth. "Isn't this what you've always wanted from me? A mini-you?" Peter's hoping for righteous indignation -- it comes out as more of a pleading query.
Nathan raises an eyebrow and scratches the side of his face. "Who told you that?" he asks, his cufflinks catching Peter's eye. They're the same ones Peter's wearing: white gold squares of chain mail. Armor on display.
It's on Peter's tongue to say Nathan told him to be this way, but when he looks back, he can't remember the exact conversation that led him to this moment in time. They're just feelings.
Easily led astray feelings.
He moves to push his hair out of his face again -- stalling for time -- only to find Nathan's hand on his wrist.
"I thought you'd lost these," Nathan says, studying Peter's cuff appraisingly, "or given them away to some homeless guy to pawn by now."
Peter's eyebrows knit together in confusion and then he gets it. "You gave them to me," he says pointedly. "Why would I do that?"
Nathan raises an eyebrow. "Why do you do anything?"
Peter looks down at where Nathan's hand is closed over his wrist. Nathan's thumb is rubbing Peter's palm soothingly and the warmth is spreading everywhere. "You mean you thought I'd pawned them for my nasty coke habit," Peter says easily.
"If I ever thought you had a coke habit I'd buy it for you myself -- right before I had you locked down in Betty Ford for the rest of your life."
"It's always good to know you care."
Nathan rolls his eyes, but his thumb is still now, Peter's wrist held loosely in his hand. "You have all these ideas in your head -- about these things," Nathan's voice is deceptively even. "I don't even know how they got in there. Where do you come up with this stuff?"
Peter looks down at their hands, at Nathan's fingers which are slightly thicker and shorter than his own. "Faith," he says quietly. "I have faith."
Nathan has never been a man of faith. He's always been a man of fact. He doesn't seem to believe in much of anything intangible -- except sometimes he looks at Peter and Peter thinks that maybe that's not completely true.
"You don't have to wear this stuff," Nathan's hand releases him and Peter feels the absence everywhere he should be protected. Everything that he put on for war -- chain mail, gloves, boots, thousand-dollar suits -- and in the end he's just as naked as if he hadn't worn anything at all.
He almost misses it when Nathan's mouth brushes against his temple. "You look good," Nathan says quietly, his lips forming the words against Peter's skin. "But it's not you."
Nathan's shoes make quiet scuffing noise as he moves away, and Peter watches him all the way to the door. Nathan pauses with his hand on the knob. "Just be yourself, Pete. I'll take care of the rest."
-end-
Beta by the beloved serialkarma
These are the cufflinks in question. I'd originally chosen some from the Atlas collection, because I love the Atlas collection, but these seemed more appropriate.
2. I don't usual do this, but heidi8 told me if you vote here you can make Sony release Cupid on DVD and I really want to see Ari holding a quiver of arrows and shooting people in the ass.
3. Peter is Emo may very well be the all time best Heroes video ever. The title doesn't even begin to cover it, but as I told the person who linked me: You know that scene in Jurassic Park towards the end where the kids are eating ice cream and the boy sees the outline of the raptor behind his sister's head, and he just freezes holding the spoon and she's like 'What? What, motherfucker, WHAT?' -- Well, for the the first minute I sat in front of the screen I was that boy.
4. I have been in labor with this story for weeks. I first mentioned the idea to antheia last year, but scratched it, and then last week scribblinlenore and I made a pact that we each had to produce some Petrelli-fic, which put me back on the hot seat. Then antheia and literaryll started waving these photos in my face where Milo was dressed nicely and we all know I'm a sucker for a sharp-dressed man.
Heroes
Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (or possibly Peter/Nathan, it depends on your point of view), Angela Petrelli, Heidi Petrelli
Pre-series
Summary: "Nice suit," Nathan says mildly. "Did someone die?"
No More Keeping My Feet on the Ground
The face in the mirror is strangely blank -- pale skin, slightly chapped lips -- but his eyes give it away like always. Peter turns at another angle and tries to appraise himself the way someone else -- someone like Nathan might.
The tie is new. Paul Smith. Stripes. White and gold, with thin blue. It's very staid. Very sedate. Very expensive. Of course it's much easier to stand on your own two feet and refuse monetary assistance when you know where your family has accounts that can be charged without you spending a dime.
The figure looks like someone else, but Peter can feel the tightness across his own shoulder blades. He has a chronic muscle spasm in his right shoulder; his yoga teacher says it's all stress-related.
The stranger with his eyes looks like a political aide, like a young congressman that he would never vote for because he might look honest, but something makes you feel like he lies. Like any day now he's going to be exposed by political pundits and The New York Times for fooling the public at large.
"Oh, Peter, you look perfect." Peter grins to himself as his mother's trilling voice precedes her into the room -- the truth is she probably got chest pains when she heard a taxi had dropped him off on the grounds. "You must not be my son, unless -- did you fall and hit your head recently?"
"Hi, Mom," he says, turning from his reflection and her critical eyes to drop his keys on the table in the foyer. They'll magically be moved to the cut-glass bowl on the side credenza just as soon as they leave the room. "You look nice too."
Peter hasn't been to one of his parents 'casual' cocktail parties in a long time. His mother told him to stop coming if his shoes weren't going to be hole-free and his jeans clean. Tonight, however, is an experiment. It's not an entire new leaf -- just a testing of a theory.
He's been fighting the system for so long it's like he's going in reverse. So he's going to try it their way willingly this one last time to see if this will get him what he wants.
"Darling, 'nice' is for flowers and requesting bail money. Please don’t 'hi, mom' me." Angela Petrelli sweeps into every room as though being presented at court. She still likes to tell Peter about meeting Queen Elizabeth when she was eighteen. "The last time you wore a suit was Nathan's wedding -- why have you decided to be presentable tonight?"
Peter's mother is many things: slightly cruel and callous, a little dippy on occasion, she can also be as sharp as -- as an Italian mother.
"You're always saying you want me to dress the part," Peter mocks after kissing his mother's cheek. He gives her a grin she knows entirely too well. "I thought you'd be thrilled. Don’t I look just like Nathan?"
His mother makes a derisive noise. "That's what has me so worried," she says, studying him critically, brushing away imaginary lint and straightening his noose -- tie.
Peter has never really thought of his clothing as armor, because he buys his sweatshirts 2 for $20 in the Village on Sundays. He's read The Once and Future King, however, and he knows all about marching to the Crusades covered in 90 pounds of chain mail.
He tells himself that was a long time ago.
"You don't have to worry about me," Peter protests, watching over his mother's shoulder as the catering staff silently whiz back and forth from the garden to the kitchen. There are strands of multi-colored Chinese lanterns visible through the French doors because every party is subtly thematic.
Peter's mother is of that rare breed of hostess who know how to change the slightest accessory to make the same home appear different every time.
"All mothers do is worry," she chides, the area around her redolent of Jean Patou's Joy. Peter broke a bottle when he was six and poking around where he wasn't supposed to go -- he knows the smell very well. "Some worry about one child more than the other. Nathan was born self-sufficient. You -- you needed forceps."
Peter chuckles. His mother is special. Even his dad says so. "At least I'm not late," he says, "I can still surprise you a little."
His mother taps his cheek lightly. "Of course you're late, darling; you can't change everything with a thousand dollar suit -- which is very nice by the way. Charged to your father, I hope."
Her last is a statement as though she's already seen the bill. The button-holes of Peter's three-button suit are tight for a reason though -- he only picked it up from his father's tailor two days ago.
Peter ducks his head down in silent answer before coming back up with a wry grin and an offer of his arm. Her answering smirk says it all as they link arms. She leads the way. Like always.
"I might surprise you one day, mom," he says, as she they walk through the house, her shoes making sharp clacking noises on the marble.
She shakes her head as he pauses to open the door to the garden, and he's transported by the smell of cigars and gardenias and more expensive perfume into a world he'd thought he'd left behind.
"That's what I'm continually afraid of," she confesses with a smirk, handing him a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "Well, it's either afraid or thrilled -- I suppose I can decide later."
*
The cufflinks had given Peter a little trouble. Not because he didn't have experience with cufflinks -- Petrellis have experience with everything -- but because it took him twenty minutes to remember where he'd put the set he had; and then when he'd opened the robin-egg blue box, there was only one cufflink inside.
He had contemplated leaving the house with a cufflink and a paperclip -- it was better than nothing -- but tonight he had to get everything just right. Suit, tie, cufflinks, shoes -- he couldn't go into battle with a lame horse and a broken sword.
The matching set had been a graduation present from Nathan back when everyone thought that Peter was actually going to go to Columbia Law and do what he was supposed to, but Peter's never been very big on meeting expectations.
He's supposed to be in his second year of law school -- instead he's substitute teaching at P.S. 125, which is three blocks over from the Columbia School of Engineering.
In Harlem.
That's part of why he's trying to skirt around where his father is holding court right now with the Mayor and someone who might be the next head of the Metropolitan Police department.
Gordon Petrelli is an impressive figure by any stretch of the imagination. Luminous dark hair and a way with words -- Peter's dad could probably sell a Bible to the Devil if you listen to what his mom says. Sometimes Peter's dad is a little emotional -- sometimes he's very fanatical about what he believes.
He currently believes that Peter is disgracing the family by not toeing the line.
His mom says that's where Peter gets his passion from, but as far as Peter can tell he's never quite measured up to what his dad has wanted. He's never quite fit the way Nathan has.
Peter thinks his dad loves him -- he hopes he does -- because he doesn't really want to know different. So when he catches his father's eye, he waves with his champagne flute, and tries not to let his wingtips slip on the slightly damp grass.
Drinks outside in the fall are always a gamble, like him finding the matching cufflink in the bottom of a chipped coffee mug that normally holds cap-less pens and other crap.
It's only upon a second glance that he notices Nathan at their father's side, and for a moment Peter thinks he's going to slip in shoes that haven't even been broken in yet -- but tonight, apparently, grace is on his side.
Tonight, when Nathan sees him dressed for battle, he smiles.
*
"They're scary," Peter says, manufacturing a shudder with the help of five glasses of champagne. The fine cotton of his Oxford shirt rubs against his forearms, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Especially the yellow one."
Heidi grins, "But the boys love them."
"They're kids; they don't know any better. Can't you give them something more culturally sound, like Sesame Street?"
"The man in the bird costume is much better than the guy with the square on his head?" Heidi queries. "Peter, are you discriminating against the Teletubbies?"
"I didn't say the purple one was gay," he protests automatically. "I said they were scary -- with the bouncing and the just -- they're weird. That transcends costume color."
Heidi's laugh is rich and clear. It's full of honest enjoyment, and Peter can't help but smile. He doesn't know if he found Heidi or she found him, just that they've always had this bond that they can't seem to shake.
People close to Nathan seem to gravitate towards each other as though, if they're all close enough, Nathan might materialize.
Truly all Peter knows right now is that one minute he was trying to duck Julia Astor, and the next he and Heidi are standing by the gardener's prized orchids talking about Sesame Street and The Teletubbies.
"There are so many better things you could show them," Peter insists, "what about Schoolhouse Rocks?"
Heidi purses her lips. "What do you remember about Schoolhouse Rocks? You couldn't have been older than two or three."
Peter's hair falling in his eyes. "I saw the repeats," he says, pushing wayward locks behind his ear. "Three is a magic number you know."
Heidi laughs again. "I'm sure your kids must love you."
"I'd like to think they do," Peter confesses. "I think they're pretty great, too."
"But we all know Pete's a little deluded." Nathan's voice chimes in, and Peter can feel the vertebrae in his spine snapping to attention seconds before Nathan's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
Peter doesn't know whether his deep breath is one of relief or one of a man hoping not to drown. "It's always good to know you believe in me," Peter snipes.
"I used to believe in Santa Claus, too." Nathan's hand is heavy, and Peter can feel the muscles in his shoulders tightening. The muscle spasm makes more sense when he thinks about it in the context of Nathan's hands holding him down.
"You never believed in anything but yourself," Peter counters without thought, and in that moment he thinks it's true.
It's the difference in how they get their points across: Peter believes in things when he says them. He may not believe it five seconds later, but for that moment in time, Peter is a believer.
Nathan will just keep talking until something sticks. He believes in seeming to be inside the lines -- even when he's stepping outside of them. Especially when he's stepping outside of them.
"I believe in doing the right thing," Nathan retorts.
"That's right -- the Navy, law school, working for the district attorney -- it was probably hard for you with a fuck-up younger brother."
Nathan's jaw visibly tightens under Peter's assault. "You would know, wouldn't you? How many of those have you had to drink?" Nathan asks stiffly, nodding to the empty flute in Peter's hand
"Nathan," Heidi's tone is softly admonishing.
Peter had forgotten she was even still there. Nathan does that to him every time.
"Not enough," Peter says bitterly. "Not even close."
He doesn't even realize Nathan is still touching him until his hand falls away. "If you'll excuse me," Peter says to Heidi. "I need to be somewhere he's not."
*
Julia Astor is the sort of woman Peter's parents hope he marries: well-connected, well-bred, and completely and utterly vapid. She'll have beautiful children -- beautiful, spoiled, bratty children -- and her mouth will look really good wrapped around Peter's cock.
That's pretty much the only thought that's keeping Peter from stomping out the front door. Well, that and the fact that his keys have vanished from the cut-glass bowl in the foyer.
Julia is babbling about something and Peter's manners are too inbred for him not to nod in the right places. Plus, his mother is too deep in conversation with Gloria Vanderbilt -- Aunt Gloria to Peter and Nathan -- to save him. Even worse Peter can see his father circulating ever closer to where Peter is. He doesn't even know where Nathan's gone to, and this is a cause for some concern. Peter twitches automatically when a hand closes over his elbow.
He knows who it is beside him without turning his head. Julia smiles inanely. "Nathan, it's so nice to see you."
"Then keep looking," Peter urges, "just leave me out of it." He exhales loudly through his nose while trying to tug free, but Nathan is a man of war. In his dark grey suit and Brooks Brothers shirt with pale green stripes, he is prepared for battle.
"Julia, you look lovely this evening," Nathan interjects at the injured look Julia's shooting Peter. "You don't mind if I borrow my brother, do you?"
"I mind," Peter retorts, but Nathan's already frog-marching Peter away before Julia can answer. "Hey -- are you -- that hurts," Peter's protesting even as Nathan's dragging him into the house, through the kitchens, and into the library.
By the time, Nathan's propelled him through the doors, Peter's breathing through his nose like a racehorse. He can feel the anger streaking through his veins as he rounds on Nathan, who's now leaning against the closed doors smoothing out invisible wrinkles in a green tie.
"Nice suit," Nathan says mildly.
Peter narrows his eyes. "Thanks."
"Did someone die?"
"Not yet -- but it's still early," Peter spits. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. He truly believed that this time he'd say the right thing. Nathan would say what he wanted to hear in return and then --
They could never live happily ever after.
That's not how this story ends.
That's not how any story ever really ends.
"Did you learn that charming manner from your delinquents?" Nathan asks conversationally as he crosses the room to the wet bar.
"They're not delinquents," Peter snaps, crossing his arms. He should just leave; there's no reason for him to stay -- except for Nathan turning to him with a glass of scotch on offer. "I thought I'd had enough for the night," he says snidely.
There's something genuine about Nathan's smile, which is nothing but weird. Nathan shrugs and takes a sip of the proffered glass. "Suit yourself."
Peter scowls even as he's crossing to the wet bar himself. "You're an asshole," he spits, elbowing Nathan aside and by-passing the scotch for the vodka. His father says vodka is déclassé. His mother says it's better than water.
"Why are you here tonight?" Nathan's voice is right by Peter's ear and his breath ghosts over the side of Peter's face as Peter pours himself a drink.
Some of the vodka slops over Peter's fingers, and he absently licks it away. "Maybe I was trying to make my family happy," he says to his father's prized collection of Shakespeare folios. He can feel Nathan's eyes on the side of his face. His ears are going hot, and he pushes his hair behind his ear before grabbing the glass of vodka and knocking it back.
The vodka seeps into every fiber of his being, smooth down his throat and diluting his emotions, until Peter remembers the stomach of champagne he's already nursing. This is going to hurt in the morning.
"What are you doing, Peter? Really?"
When Peter turns his head, Nathan is right there all curious, amused eyes, and wicked, evil mouth. "Isn't this what you've always wanted from me? A mini-you?" Peter's hoping for righteous indignation -- it comes out as more of a pleading query.
Nathan raises an eyebrow and scratches the side of his face. "Who told you that?" he asks, his cufflinks catching Peter's eye. They're the same ones Peter's wearing: white gold squares of chain mail. Armor on display.
It's on Peter's tongue to say Nathan told him to be this way, but when he looks back, he can't remember the exact conversation that led him to this moment in time. They're just feelings.
Easily led astray feelings.
He moves to push his hair out of his face again -- stalling for time -- only to find Nathan's hand on his wrist.
"I thought you'd lost these," Nathan says, studying Peter's cuff appraisingly, "or given them away to some homeless guy to pawn by now."
Peter's eyebrows knit together in confusion and then he gets it. "You gave them to me," he says pointedly. "Why would I do that?"
Nathan raises an eyebrow. "Why do you do anything?"
Peter looks down at where Nathan's hand is closed over his wrist. Nathan's thumb is rubbing Peter's palm soothingly and the warmth is spreading everywhere. "You mean you thought I'd pawned them for my nasty coke habit," Peter says easily.
"If I ever thought you had a coke habit I'd buy it for you myself -- right before I had you locked down in Betty Ford for the rest of your life."
"It's always good to know you care."
Nathan rolls his eyes, but his thumb is still now, Peter's wrist held loosely in his hand. "You have all these ideas in your head -- about these things," Nathan's voice is deceptively even. "I don't even know how they got in there. Where do you come up with this stuff?"
Peter looks down at their hands, at Nathan's fingers which are slightly thicker and shorter than his own. "Faith," he says quietly. "I have faith."
Nathan has never been a man of faith. He's always been a man of fact. He doesn't seem to believe in much of anything intangible -- except sometimes he looks at Peter and Peter thinks that maybe that's not completely true.
"You don't have to wear this stuff," Nathan's hand releases him and Peter feels the absence everywhere he should be protected. Everything that he put on for war -- chain mail, gloves, boots, thousand-dollar suits -- and in the end he's just as naked as if he hadn't worn anything at all.
He almost misses it when Nathan's mouth brushes against his temple. "You look good," Nathan says quietly, his lips forming the words against Peter's skin. "But it's not you."
Nathan's shoes make quiet scuffing noise as he moves away, and Peter watches him all the way to the door. Nathan pauses with his hand on the knob. "Just be yourself, Pete. I'll take care of the rest."
-end-
Beta by the beloved serialkarma
These are the cufflinks in question. I'd originally chosen some from the Atlas collection, because I love the Atlas collection, but these seemed more appropriate.