fic: Ritual (60): Connection
Here; have a Thanksgiving treat!
Title: Ritual (60): Connection
Pairing, other characters: Peter/"Nathan", Emma
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Dark Romance/Angst
Spoilers: through episode 4.10 "Brother's Keeper"
Word count: around 7300 words
Warnings: see pairing and rating; mild bloodshed
Summary: A lost Nathan turns to the only thing in the world that he can truly believe in - the fact that Peter loves him.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Heroes and all associated characters are property of NBC/Universal Television, used without authorization. Continues the Ritual story arc from Ritual (58), "Possession". This story contains dialogue from the episode "Shadowboxing", written by Joe Pokaski and Misha Green.
Go, then, into thy turning and thy blame.
Seek bliss, then, brother, in my moment's shame.
-- Hart Crane, "Thou canst read nothing..."
now...
Peter came into his apartment, shut the door, and leaned against it, shoulders sagging wearily. He was alone tonight. Again. For the last couple of months, he'd been just fine with that; he hadn't wanted to see anyone once he got home to take a few hours of sleep. There was nothing in his apartment for anyone. But maybe, he had hoped for a moment, he could have gone somewhere else.
Back at the hospital, he had sat with Emma, reassuring her, being with her, playing piano with her. She was lovely, and smart, and strong, and snarky; he loved all of those things. He loved the expression that came over her face when she saw the etherial beauty created by the sounds she couldn't hear. Instead, she could feel it. And he felt it too. They had bonded. He knew that was true.
But she wasn't into him. It was humbling. She didn't need him, didn't want him, didn't want his company in any way more intimate than what they shared on the job. He had looked into her eyes, given her his best half-smile, and asked her if she wanted some company tonight. She responded with a smile that went from annoyed and indulgent to a kind of sad, grudging pity. First she signed to him without speaking, and her eyes told him everything he needed to know. As rude as he knew it was, he lowered his gaze when she finally spoke aloud. "I'm flattered," she told him, her voice with its gorgeous cooing, crooning quality, edges of consonants blunted and erased. "Peter," she insisted softly, and took his arm, forcing him to meet her eyes again. "You're only responding to the part of me that you want to take care of. You're a caring person. I know that. But what you're feeling is not something more serious. You know that too."
"But, it just could be simple," he protested, inwardly kicking himself. Asshole. Asshole. You don't pressure women. You don't have to. You're being a total cock. Just shut up before you lose a friend. "Just... fun."
Emma laughed faintly. "I'm a little different from that," she said. "My slut days are over." Her smile was wide and genuine. There was no pity in it anymore. "That was college. I don't... It has to mean something now. And my mind is somewhere else. You're a good friend." She shook her head, and signed gracefully, subtitling her words with her fingertips. "Don't fuck it up."
"Yeah," he said, "okay," and smiled too; and as much as he wanted to, he didn't hug her when he went to his own locker and got his stuff. When he turned back to steal a last glance, she was gone.
Fail, he murmured to himself, shut his locker, and left too.
Years ago, striking out on the first try, even with a girl he was really into, wouldn't have bothered him much. It just didn't happen very often. It had been a very, very long time since he didn't just get any chick he wanted, almost effortlessly. Everything was different now. He was different. Maybe she could see how hollow he was inside.
In his apartment, he methodically removed the newspaper clippings from the corkboard on his wall. All the lives he'd saved; they hadn't done anything to ease that hollowness. It would never be enough, not with just him. He could never save every endangered life. They didn't remember him; they didn't know. He had tried to keep it that way, but ... he just wanted to be someone's everything. Someone's savior. As egotistical as it was, he still wanted to be special. He wanted someone to love, to love him, utterly, and he'd been wrong in thinking that the whole world would love him back if he just did everything right, if he sacrificed himself to the last cell. It hadn't worked, and it never would. Emma had done him a favor, sending him home alone to think. To consider that one who he did love utterly, and who he had saved. And how it wasn't enough.
As he pulled push pins and gathered scraps of newspaper, he thought of the last time he was with Nathan.
Months back. A day or so after they had defeated Sylar, and saved the President, and the country, and the world, from certain devastation at the hands of the mad killer. They'd gone back to Nathan's apartment in D.C., and fucked. No, not just fucked; made love. It was making love, in all of its terrifying, alienating, delicious, connecting, vulnerable glory. He submitted his love before Nathan, and Nathan snatched it up, embellished it, and gave it back. As best he could. They were both so shattered they could barely recognize themselves.
And the next morning, Nathan had been so incredibly weird that Peter worried that Nathan's concussion was worsening, causing erratic behavior. He was obsessional, punishing, commanding, demanding. And yet (Peter thought, laughing a little) unlike himself, even if those things had always been present in Nathan. But this was different.
And that night? Yes, that night. That had been it. The last time.
~ ~ ~ ~
then...
In Nathan's apartment again, after a strange, strained dinner with Angela and some members of Nathan's staff, at a garishly fancy restaurant, chosen by their mother, of course. It had been shudder-inducing, and Peter had no appetite. Hadn't all day.
Nathan didn't turn on any of the lights. The entire space was dark but for the faint, eerie glow of LEDs on the television, on the microwave, on the security console on the wall. Peter was glad of it; he didn't want to look at Nathan right now. He needed to be near him, but the sight of him gave Peter knots in his stomach, and he didn't know why.
Nathan's hands came out of nowhere, seizing Peter's collar, yanking him in close. Peter flinched at the heat of Nathan's breath on his cheek.
"I wanna take you," Nathan whispered.
Peter said nothing. Nathan groped him roughly all over - arms, shoulders, ass, chest, groin, even squeezing and palpating his earlobes and his lips, rendering them as so much undifferentiated flesh. Peter felt like an animal being inspected; a young steer who would win first prize at the county fair and then be sent straight to the slaughterhouse.
At last, he was released, with a tiny shove in the vague general direction of the bedroom. "Go get undressed," Nathan muttered. "Get naked and get on your hands and knees on the bed."
Peter hated how he always responded, no matter how angry he was, no matter how offended and disgusted at being treated like this. But his cock was hard, hard, hard, straining so tightly against the inseam of his trousers (of Nathan's trousers, borrowed) that it hurt; all its veins and channels stinging and aching like it was going to explode. He went. And he hurried. He kicked off his shoes and stripped his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, panting, shaking his head, his eyes raw and irritated. He needed to cry. But he wasn't going to, not unless he was made to.
Maybe he did need this after all.
"Get on the fucking bed." Nathan was in the doorway behind him, a shadow, a growl coming from the darkness.
Again, Peter did not reply. He pulled off the trousers, careful not to damage them; they weren't his. He was eager to take off Nathan's clothes, and he promised himself that he wouldn't put them on again tomorrow; he'd go naked rather than wear Nathan's clothes again. They felt all wrong, all wrong.
Naked, on all fours on the surface of the bed, Peter let his head droop forward, closing his stinging eyes. They were as dry as the sandstorm that had taken away Angela's sister, a terrified, terrifying, confused spectre who would have eagerly killed him and felt nothing about it. Both of his bloodlines ran dark with poison. God, he wanted to cry so badly. Every minute brought to mind a fresh tragedy. "It's your fucking fault," he muttered.
"What's that?" Nathan took off his shirt, draped it over a chair. When Peter didn't speak up, Nathan barked, "What the fuck did you just say?"
"I said it's your fault. It's. Your. Fault. Goddammit, Nathan..." Awful. He wasn't even sure what he meant, but he felt it too deeply to keep it inside for a moment longer. He could always damn Nathan for something. For the kidnappings; for the terror and the deaths; for giving in to Ma; for making Peter love him despite all that ugliness and weakness. And the worst part was, Peter forgave him. But his heart was full of blame right now.
"Don't you think I know that?" Nathan emerged from the shadows when his clothes were off; his skin shining dull gold in the low light. "Don't you think I know?" His voice was slightly softer now. He didn't sit beside Peter; instead he stood behind him, and brought his hand down in a harsh blow against Peter's ass cheeks. Peter bit off a cry of pained surprise; he wasn't really surprised, and the pain was nothing compared to what was inside him. They weren't done. They might not ever be done. They might not ever be able to fuck this away completely.
Parting Peter's buttocks, Nathan launched a wad of spit into the crease, and roughly worked it around and inside with his fingers. Peter moaned loudly, brokenly. That was so perfect. Nathan did know; he crammed two fingers in, and pumped them, just hard enough. "It's your fault too, Pete," he said. "You little slut. Don't put this all on me."
"I've done everything I can to stop you," Peter groaned hoarsely. He arched his hips, backing himself up against Nathan's hand, whining faintly with frustrated arousal. "If it's my fault, why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"
"I can't do that," Nathan said. "Do you want me to?"
"I have... Uh... fuck me..."
Nathan snickered coldly. His fingers stabbed Peter's insides. "You don't want to talk? For once?"
"Why didn't you kill us all when you had the chance? Why, why, why? Just kill us all. Me and Ma and..." Peter was near delirium. He reached for his penis; all he needed was one stroke and he'd be off, and some of this tension would be gone from him...
Moaning, Nathan batted Peter's hand away, then pulled his fingers out, and struck Peter's ass with those wet, hot fingers. It wasn't a spanking; it was a beating. He'd bruise. Peter gagged on his yelps and sobs, but his eyes stayed stubbornly dry. Agony. "Aren't you satisfied with killing Dad?" Nathan shouted. "All of us, dead? Yes? It's what I want, too. So why didn't you?"
"Gah. Gah! Please! Fuck me! Just-"
"Stop it!" Nathan shoved Peter's face down onto the bed. "Just shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" He spit again, spit some more onto his hand, jerking it onto his cock. Peter whimpered, ass in the air, offering himself up for destruction. When the touch of Nathan's cock came, it was like balm on a burn; a soft kiss on a fevered forehead. Nathan silently guided himself inside, just a little, then pushing harder, all the way. Their thighs touched. Peter screamed into the mattress. He wished they could kiss. Or something. This was like they weren't even in the same place, except for that channel inside him, connecting them, full of Nathan. It hurt intensely and he wanted more of it.
"Break me," he whispered.
There was no way Nathan could have heard that tiny exhortation. But he responded as though he had heard the command, and followed it with the blind fervor of a soldier killing innocents.
Peter felt as though his bones were bending, Nathan's pelvis bruising his, cock shoving in rough and fast and deep. No lube. It wasn't right; it was so far beyond dangerous, so far beyond cruel, that Peter felt like his consciousness was leaving his body, floating above, watching with sad, helpless pity - and then was yanked back inside with the next thrust. He yelled as loud as he could, the sound swallowed in the mattress. Nathan bit him on the back of the neck, like a rutting animal, and Peter arched the other way, toward him, pushing himself off the surface of the bed with his palms. Nathan shoved him back down, slapped his ass again, and fucked even harder and faster. Oh my God, Peter mused silently, he is trying to kill me. He's trying to fuck me to death. Yes, please, God, do it now.
All at once Nathan staggered to a halt, and let out a strangled gasp. Peter could feel the flush of intense heat that traveled over Nathan's body, and the hot warmth and pressure inside him from Nathan's ejaculation. Peter began to shake badly, and collapsed, his hands sliding out from under him, dumping him onto the bedspread. He landed in an immense, wet, sticky patch; all of his own semen, forced out of him so roughly and continuously that he had no idea that he had come.
"Oh my God, Peter," Nathan said softly. His voice was so changed that he sounded almost like a different person than he had a few minutes ago. "Oh, God, Peter, I'm..." Peter finally scraped up enough strength to turn over and look at Nathan, to see what was wrong. Nathan's face was a mask of horror and shame; his still-hard cock was coated in a thin layer of semen mixed with blood.
"Jesus," Peter gulped, rubbing his hand over his forehead. His fingers smudged come all over his face, getting worse as he tried to wipe it off with spunk-wet fingers. "It's okay. It's okay." He rolled his eyes, feeling sticky, guilty, nauseated, filthy. Amazing. "It's okay. I'm gonna be all right. You-" He couldn't even think of anything else to say. "It's okay. I-" Nathan just shook his head in mute shock. Peter didn't blame him; it was kind of a lot of blood. Or it looked like it; it wasn't that bad, really. It wasn't anything worse than anything Peter had ever seen, even in his own sex acts. But apparently, it was more than Nathan had seen. Probably, Peter considered, because he hasn't fucked as many young teenage girls as I have... they were so delicate and they always wanted more, more, harder, harder...
"I should never have done that," Nathan whispered. "I don't know what came over me..."
"I've done it to you," Peter reassured, reaching up, taking Nathan's face in his come-slick hands, kissing his lips gently. "It's nothing worse than what I've done to you, and you were fine. I'll be okay. Kiss me. Hold me. I love you."
"I love you too, Peter," Nathan breathed, kissing, holding him tight. Their kiss tasted of Peter's come; heady and sour and sweet. Then, slicker, wetter, saltier, thinned with Nathan's tears. He sobbed, "I love you too... God, what's gonna happen to me? I just wanted to fuck you... I didn't mean to lose control like that..."
"Sure you did," Peter said. "You did. You needed that. I needed that. You know I can take it. You know I still love you. I will always love you. Always, and totally, and forever." He kissed and kissed, and hugged Nathan tightly to him. "We've been through so much. Of course we're fucked up. But don't worry; you didn't hurt me. Just pretend you popped my cherry or something... well, I mean, you did, but..." For some reason that made Nathan cry even more. Peter sighed. "Sweetheart. Ah, now, okay? Look at me." When Nathan met his eyes, Peter had never seen him look so scared. "I'm here. It's okay. We've been through this. And I'm still here." He broke into a smile. "We're gross. Let's go get cleaned up. Together, okay?"
He drew a hot bath instead of the customary shower. Nathan had a lovely bathtub, a massive claw foot with its own separate alcove, big enough for Nathan to lie down in completely. A seducer's bath. There was more than enough room for both of them. Nathan settled in, and Peter sat in front of him, his back to his brother. After preliminary washing was done, Nathan lay back, and Peter back against him, relaxing in the warm, soothing water as Nathan tenderly rubbed Peter's chest and belly with a soft cloth. Nothing hurt, and they were together, and the orgasms had stripped all the ugliness away. They were absolved.
Washing it all away. Coming clean.
Nathan changed the bedclothes, and they crawled into fresh sheets, clinging to each other, trading soft, open kisses until Nathan fell asleep. Moments later, Peter joined him in quiet, nighttime oblivion.
By morning, Peter felt a time had come.
"I'm not joining your staff," he said.
Nathan paused in dressing himself, frowning in confusion. "But- You said-"
"And I'm not staying here with you in Washington."
"Is this about last night?" Nathan whispered desperately, his expression panicked.
"No, no, no." Peter sighed and shook his head. He still lay in bed, reluctant to leave this soft, yielding paradise before he had to. "No, it's about me. And it's about you."
"What are you saying? Are we over?"
"No," Peter insisted. "Never. We are never over." He smiled when he thought of all the times that he had begged Nathan in just this same way, terrified of being deserted, of having to go back to pretending that they were just brothers. Pretending to be just normal. Just human. There was so much more now, and he was so sick of pretending. "But I'm gonna go home. My life is there. I think I can get my job back; the guy who drove with me will probably vouch for me. I'm a good EMT, if nothing else. I belong there. And you belong here. It's everything you ever wanted."
Nathan looked pained. "It's not everything."
"Well, nobody gets everything. But you got a lot. I just think I'll do a lot more good back home. I'm a New Yorker. It's where I should be. And I'll see you when you go back," Peter asserted calmly. "You are the senator from New York, after all. You've gotta come back sometime."
He sat up, climbed over the bed to his brother, and sealed his promise with a kiss. "I love you," he added.
"I love you too, Pete." Nathan sighed, and turned back to the mirror, staring at his reflection with a fragile, haunted expression. Peter gave him one more hug, and got up, looking for own his dirty clothes.
~ ~ ~ ~
now...
Just as the last clipping came free in Peter's fingers, a knock came on the door.
He approached in no big hurry; if it was good news, it could wait, and if it was bad news, even more so. It was almost midnight; it was almost definitely not good news.
When he peered quickly through the peep hole, he couldn't really believe his eyes; his brother stood there, wearing a striped shirt that was a little loud, even for him. Worse than that, Nathan's skin had a grayish, sallow cast, and he was shiny; sweating buckets. Bad news, then. Peter swung the door open.
"Nathan, what are you-" Peter began, but before he could say more, Nathan grabbed him and crushed him in a hug. He kissed Peter's neck. His lips were ice cold, even as sweat pooled on his forehead. His hair was standing straight up, and he smelled like snow. He'd been flying. "What's going on?" Peter asked, concern mounting in his chest.
"I think I'm in trouble, Pete," Nathan gasped.
"Well-" Peter led him in, wishing that he had some kind of soft furniture for Nathan to sit down on. He unhinged a folding chair and guided Nathan towards it. Nathan wouldn't sit; he waved his hand dismissively, and immediately began to pace. "Hey, calm down," Peter urged, and opened another chair, seating himself in it. He spoke slowly and soothingly. "Calm down. Tell me what's going on." He tried to keep a handle on his own emotions, but Nathan looked terrible; he looked like he'd aged five years in the last six months.
Nathan looked around Peter's apartment, first peering into the shadows (which were many and dense; Peter didn't usually bother to turn his lights on most of the time), then at the emptiness. "Something happened to me," he said suspiciously. "I-what day is this? Where's... all your stuff?"
"It's Tuesday," Peter said with a sigh, "and I sold it. Or put it out on the street. I simplified." He shook off the discomfort of having to justify himself to Nathan; when he thought about it, it seemed odd, even childish in its extreme. To grow up, get rid of everything that made you what you were; eliminate everything soft and sentimental. And now he missed it. "What happened to you? What's going on?" Peter patted the seat of the other chair. He wondered if he should get a blanket, if Nathan was in shock.
His brother sank into it with a sigh of bone-deep exhaustion, or despair; impossible to tell which. After a while they become the same thing. "Pete, it's the fucked-est thing. I can't even... I woke up this morning, and ... I was in a trailer. In a carnival."
"What?" This was a really twisted joke, if it was one.
Nathan nodded slowly and emphatically. "I don't quite believe it, either," he said.
"What were you doing at a carnival?" Peter frowned. "Were you drunk?"
"I don't know! I don't remember how I got there. It wasn't like a drunk blackout. It was... Last thing I remember clearly was..." Nathan abruptly fell silent, and his expression turned bitter. "Getting knocked out," he concluded. "In a parking garage." He grimaced. "I think Ma tried to have me killed, Peter."
Peter shook his head. "She wouldn't do that," he said, and before the words were out of his mouth, he realized how foolish and reflexive they were. Just as reflexive as her ability to lie, to manipulate. She had raised him well; he lied for her even in his own mind.
"Come on, Pete," Nathan muttered. He stared at the floor. "You know she would. If it... coincided with one of her plans." He sighed and raked his fingernails through his hair. "The parking garage. And... I... almost remember. I remember the sound of jets. I remember a woman. Nothing about her, but the feeling. You know it. That feeling of being with a woman; wanting her." He glanced up at Peter, and Peter nodded, remembering Emma, coming on to her without even thinking about it. "And then the wanting going away. Being fulfilled, I guess. But I don't remember that." A droplet of water fell onto the floor at his feet, then another one; then Nathan scraped his face with his hand. "Ah. God. I... don't know anymore, Peter. I don't know; I just..." He stared up at Peter, his eyes enormous in the low light, glistening with tears. "I told you, I don't know who I am without you. And I don't know who I am anymore. I should have never let you go."
"You couldn't have stopped me," Peter replied calmly. "Why would you? You know as well as I - "
"We shouldn't be apart, Peter," Nathan insisted. More tears joined the puddle. "Something horrible has happened. Something dreadful. A couple of things; so many dreadful things." His voice caught, and his shoulders shook. "Please... help me."
"Nathan..." Peter couldn't sit still any longer. He stood and went to Nathan's chair, bending over to wrap his arms around him. At the pressure of the embrace, Nathan broke down into full-voiced sobs, tightening his fingers in the cloth of Peter's shirt. It was awful; Peter hadn't seen Nathan cry like this for years. "Ssh, ssh. It's all right. I'm here. It's gonna be okay. It's safe here."
Nathan nodded jerkily, then stood up to return the hug and rest his head on Peter's shoulder. Peter rubbed his back and rocked him back and forth, intentionally slowing his breathing so that Nathan's would follow. It did, as always, and they stood holding each other, gently swaying and turning to the rhythm of Peter's shushes, rising and falling like ocean waves. Peter kissed along Nathan's damp, salty cheek, and then a planted a quick, firm one on the lips.
At once, they drew back and stared at each other for a long time. Nathan's tears had stopped. Peter could feel Nathan's ability leaking into him where their bare skin touched, hand to tear-wet hand. It felt good; it always felt good when an ability transferred itself to him, rewriting him on a sub-cellular level. A licking, electric warmth. But Nathan's, in particular, was especially right. It fit. It felt like something he should have. But over the last few months, Peter had learned to control his own innate ability, the ability to absorb the powers of another. He could choose to keep the one he had. He decided not to take Nathan's, not yet. Some feeling in his bones told him that it was not time yet. There would be a time when it would be important. There was still the chance, however slim, that he might save Hiro. Right now, he concentrated on healing Nathan. There were no physical injuries. None. At least he hadn't gotten hurt on his path to the mysterious carnival, or in his escape. Peter would heal him from inside, then. Heal him just by being there, and being a shoulder to cry on, if nothing else.
His brother was completely calm now. "I miss you so much," he said softly. "I miss touching you."
Peter shook his head. "I miss you too," he admitted. "But..." He saw Nathan wince. "But we need our own lives. We deserve that. Things can never be the way they were anymore."
"I know, I know." Nathan grasped him tight, and brushed his eyelashes against Peter's cheek. "Right now, I'd give anything just to pretend for a little bit longer."
Peter tilted Nathan's face up, and brushed his lips with his thumb. "It's not pretending," he said.
Nathan licked the tip of Peter's thumb, and narrowed his eyes at the taste of salt. "We are always together," Peter went on. "We always have this." He kissed the corner of Nathan's lips, and found the heavy bulge in Nathan's jeans, giving it a firm squeeze.
Nathan stared, his expression unreadable. He mostly looked alarmed. Or surprised? Peter was empathic, but this was like trying to read a newspaper through a brick wall.
Shrugging and laughing, Peter shook his head, thinking that he just wasn't having much luck tonight. At least Nathan wouldn't judge him. He hoped. "Hey," he said, taking a deep breath, "I want to distract you. I want to bring you back to yourself. And I want to... feel a connection. Tonight." He looked away, chewing nervously on his upper lip. "If that's not okay, we-"
"It's okay," Nathan responded softly. He nodded, his eyes clear. He even tried to smile. "Yeah. I think I'm up for it." Peter nuzzled his stubbly cheek, hugging him, his chest aching with gratitude. Nathan sighed with an unwinding pleasure, a relief, back on familiar ground. "You'll let me touch you again? After the last time?"
"I told you it was no big deal," Peter insisted, massaging Nathan's expanding bulge. This, too, felt right; felt like something he should have. "It would never keep me away from you. It didn't. I came here for me. I had something to prove to myself. I'm not sorry I left. But I still love you. I still love..." He paused, and gave a slightly harder squeeze. "Your physicality."
Nathan sighed, pressing against Peter's hand. "You always know what I need."
"Is this what you need?" Peter gently caressed Nathan's package again, feeling it grow warmer and more firm, rising to his touch. He kissed Nathan's bottom lip, stealing a taste. "Will this help you feel better? More stable?"
"Stable. Oh, what I wouldn't give to feel stable." Nathan shuddered. "I need you in me," he said, embracing Peter tightly again. "You." After he spoke, his body lost a good deal of its tension, shoulders dropping, head momentarily lolling as if he had almost passed out. "Yes, that's how it was with us, wasn't it? And wasn't it wonderful?"
"I need you in me, too." Peter pressed his lips against his brother's, firm and increasing pressure, delving inside with his tongue. Nathan kissed back hungrily, not fighting with Peter's tongue, but rather devouring it. It made Peter groan. That delicious, excruciating sensation, that dizzy lust that had blossomed into being one December night fifteen years ago; like a spark being blown into life, but the spark had always been there. They were connected. "Can we do that? Would you like that?"
"Yes, yes, all of it; everything. Please. Make it better, Peter. Make it all better."
Nathan maintained the kiss even as Peter backed him over to his sad little bed on the floor, but broke off to stare down at it. "I'm sorry I got rid of your old bed," Peter said quietly. "I had to sell it for money. My trust fund's blown, and Dad didn't leave me anything."
"Good thing, too," Nathan replied, arching his eyebrow a little. "How could you reconcile that with your conscience?" He kissed Peter's sudden frown. "It's fine, love. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
"You didn't say anything that's not true," Peter sighed. "It's like the old bitchy you. I'm glad to see it." He pushed Nathan down to the bed, anchoring him there with one more kiss, then stepped away, unfastening his clothes. He pulled off his white shirt and stepped out of black uniform pants, then stripped his underwear off, striding back and forth naked for a minute, showing off, glancing seductively over his shoulder like a pinup girl. "Still cute?" he asked casually.
Nathan gazed up at him admiringly, but a little sadly. His eyes had begun to glisten again. "You're beautiful," he said, "but it's better when I touch you. You feel more real. I don't... I don't trust what I see as much anymore."
Peter obligingly sat down on the bed, and started removing Nathan's clothes, slowly and lovingly, adding kisses and gropes as he went. Collarbones, neck; that matrix of scarring at the chin. Kissing the chest and nipples, suckling them and pulling them. Nuzzling the thick hair on the forearms, nosing down into the hair on the backs of Nathan's hands. Then roaming across to Nathan's hard, taut belly, the fur there, the indentation running into the navel. Goose pimples coursed across Nathan's skin, and he laughed softly and joyously. "It's been forever since I've had this kind of attention," he purred, his voice still wavery from crying. "Even if I did end up nailing that woman at the carnival. I don't rememeber. I was probably very, very drunk. Suits me right, huh? I can't even remember the last time I got laid; I was too fucked up to have any memory of it."
"The last time I got laid, it was with you," Peter said quietly.
They became silent and still for a while. "You know what I was going through right then, don't you?" Nathan pleaded.
"I was thinking about the bath, actually," Peter said. He smiled a little, and pulled Nathan's dirty jeans down. He wore nothing underneath. "How nice that was. I feel like it washed the negativity away from us. Guess it didn't wash all our troubles away, though." He kissed the dark bush of pubic hair, surrounding Nathan's half-hard cock, smelling him, letting all its complexities wind its way into him. "I wasn't all there, either," he confessed, lying alongside, pressing their bodies together. "I'm all here now, though. I'm here now. We're together now."
They kissed for a long time, chest to chest, fingers entwined, cocks nestled beside each other. Each time they brushed against each other, Nathan moaned, hypersensitive and highly strung. Peter rubbed their nipples together and sucked contentedly, then avidly, on Nathan's earlobe while Nathan traced lines down Peter's back with his fingernails. "Yes," Nathan whispered. "You. I'm here with you." His cock spread a long, wet stripe of pre-come across Peter's belly. "When you love me, I'm here."
He wasn't making a lot of sense, but Peter didn't really mind; his touch was genuine and sincere. Nonetheless, he drew away eventually, and murmured, "We should take a shower. I'm still grimy from work, and you..."
"I probably smell like a barroom floor."
Peter laughed. "Actually, you don't," he said. "You were really sweaty, though. You smell like someone having their first psychotic break."
"I wish that was funnier," Nathan said ruefully. "It might be true."
"If it is," Peter said, sitting up, "might as well learn to joke about it now, huh?" He stood up and extended his hand to Nathan to help him up, hoping that he was strong enough to handle this. Because there was a very good chance that despite his mother's lies, Nathan really was having a psychotic break; had maybe been having one for a while now. He hadn't been himself since he manifested, since Peter met Hiro, met Isaac. Since he'd cheated on his wife with someone other than Peter. Since he'd learned that he could fly. It made sense, really; a sick, cruel kind of sense. Abilities? It was a wonder that they hadn't driven more people insane. Peter had run across enough people who had fallen to that fate. Maybe it was Nathan's, too. Angela's sister was clearly mad; Sylar was mad; half the guys on Level 5 were bugfuck nuts. Adam... Elle... "Let's wash up," Peter said aloud, shaking himself, slapping his own face to get himself to snap out of this negative thought spiral. All the destruction and misery caused by their delusions was a shame, and he had done what he could to change that, but there was, as usual, only so much he could do.
"At least your bathroom's the same," Nathan said gratefully, turning on the water tap in the shower and waiting patiently to test it. "So many memories in here. My God, if this shower stall could talk."
"It'd probably be camp as Christmas," Peter quipped, giving Nathan a hand towel, and stepping under the water. His soap was cheap and basic, but it was plentiful, and did the trick. He lathered up his hair and his chest, handed Nathan the soap. In very little time, the pale hand towel was dark with grime scrubbed off Nathan's face and hands. There was even dirt worked into the skin of his groin. "Hey, bend over a little," Peter said. "Let me wash you."
Obligingly, Nathan bent at the waist so that the shower water hit him right at the center of his back. Peter lathered up his hands again, rinsed them clean, then slowly and patiently probed Nathan's asshole with wet clean fingers. After a moment's flexing resistance, Nathan let himself be penetrated. Peter did what Nathan had first showed him to do - in, and deep, and rotate, and out; rinse, soap, rinse, and repeat. "Oh, yeah," Nathan sighed, stroking his cock. "God, yeah, that's right."
"Feels good?" Peter murmured.
"Mmmm-hmmm."
"You like that? You want to get off?"
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said. "Not right now. I'm just enjoying this." With the warm water and Peter's touch calming him, he was clearly relaxed, extremely aroused, but not eager or frantic. His hand on his cock slid gently and slowly up and down. Peter kissed Nathan's right buttock, and Nathan chuckled. "You're sweet," he said. "Okay. Your turn, dirty boy."
Peter just let out a groan between his teeth; he was becoming both eager and frantic himself. They turned around and Nathan returned the favor for Peter, without Peter bending over; instead, he lifted one leg, knee bent and balanced against the smooth tile back wall of the shower. Nathan fingered him deep inside, toying lightly with his prostate. "Yes? Ah," Peter hissed, and orgasm exploded in him like fireworks, pushing out from the depths of his balls, spurting a jet of semen against the tile wall. He stepped aside a bit, letting the shower water wash off the spunk, then straightened and turned, kissing Nathan on the mouth. He felt high. That was a good one.
He fondled his rapidly softening dick, quivering in pleasure at his own touch. "You first, I guess," he said.
Nathan smiled wolfishly, and pinched one of Peter's nipples. "My pleasure."
At bedside, in the wire milk crate that served him as a bedside bureau, Peter had a bottle of CrystalSilk lube that had barely been used; if he was going to jack off at home, he tended to do it in the shower with a handful of soap suds. Truth be told, he hadn't even really been masturbating much; he worked two full shifts seven days a week, only returning home to sleep. Half the time he didn't even bother to go home. He'd take a nap in the staff lounge, too exhausted to take note of the constant activity and noise. He was a monk.
Not anymore. Once they had both settled onto the bed, Nathan parked himself between Peter's spread thighs, and avidly sucked Peter's clean, flaccid cock, teasing it back to fullness. Peter writhed and moaned and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Once there had been a time that Nathan would barely even touch his cock when it wasn't hard, but the Nathan of now seemed to like the soft cock, rolling it around his mouth like a caramel he was sucking and melting. Along with this, Nathan gently but firmly stroked his balls, circling his finger in the hollow between them, taking a moment to lick them and hold them in his mouth before releasing them again. Peter stroked Nathan's wet hair, encouraging him with soft exhortations: "Yeah. Yeah. Oh, suck 'em. Oh, you're the best. The best ever."
Nathan acknowledged that with a modest wink. "You gimme some," he murmured, straddling Peter, dangling his own rock-hard cock right near Peter's face. Nathan grabbed the bottle of CrystalSilk and poured a fat dollop of it into his palm, spreading a thick layer over Peter's entire pelvic region. Peter whined softly at the cold, wet touch of the lube, but he didn't let it keep him from sucking on his own prize. Thick, hard, dripping cock! Almost too big to fit into his mouth. Had Nathan's cock gotten bigger, or had his own mouth gotten smaller?
A sudden scream of an emergency siren right outside made Peter flinch, almost biting his mouthful of dick. Nathan quickly took his cock back, then switched around again until they were face to face. He gripped Peter's upper arms tightly. "Pay attention to me," he warned, his voice rough and dark. Peter blinked at him, still half dazed with arousal. Nathan's face crumpled, then, and with barely a second's change, he was crying again, whimpering in fear. "Please, Peter, don't leave me! Please."
Peter lightly slapped Nathan in the face, like their mother would do to them when they were talking nonsense. Nathan blinked, startled; he hadn't been expecting that. But it hadn't quite stopped him crying. Peter slapped him harder, then shoved his tongue into Nathan's mouth. "I'm right here, asshole," he muttered.
"Right?" said Nathan, eyes glittering. Changed again. But not crying anymore. Peter couldn't take any more crying without crying himself, and no... he didn't want that. He'd cried enough.
Nathan pushed Peter down onto his back, spreading his legs, mounting him. "Asshole? Right here." He stuck a heavily lubed finger into Peter. Peter moaned bestially; it felt divine, and he wanted more. Nathan put more lube onto himself, all over his cock and balls. He held Peter's hips still, legs slightly raised, and slid inside, encountering tender resistance a few inches in. Peter howled in arousal and distress. He couldn't help it; he remembered the last time anyone had been inside him, how rough it was, how much it hurt and how much he wanted it anyway... but mostly how much it hurt. He clenched his fists and tried to relax. His skin was all hot, his face on fire.
Nathan stared down at him in concern. Peter slapped him again, hissing, "Do it to me." Then added, more softly, "We can do this. Together. It's glorious. I love you. I love you; do it to me like nobody else."
"I love you," Nathan said. He resettled himself, found a new angle, and sunk the whole length inside. Peter's eyes crossed. He hissed and bit the back of his wrist. So good so good so good. There was no pain at all, just a slickness, a fullness, an eagerness. "Don't be scared," he said to Nathan. "Remember how I can take it. Remember. Ah! You were the last one; you fucked me so deep. Remember how good I take it."
Nathan paused, balls-deep, and smoothed some lube over his own asshole. His hands on Peter's hip and thigh were wet, but no longer cold; the warming agent in the lube had kicked in. Nathan took a deep breath, and began.
"Oh! Yeah? - Ah."
"Yes... oh, fuck, yes... ahhhhhhh."
Peter grunted and groaned blissful affirmations. They slid and locked, then jounced against each other, Nathan's cock deep and deeper inside. The tongues flicked across each other, and Peter laughed softly, purring with joy. After a minute or so, Nathan pulled out, opened his legs, pushed his weight forward onto his knees, positioned himself, and penetrated himself with Peter's now-hard, well-lubricated cock. Peter moaned, "Oh my God, that's brilliant; you are so good!"
Nathan rode, shifting up and down slowly and deliciously. Impatient, galloping toward ecstasy, Peter shoved up into him from below, as hard and fast as he could. For his reward, Nathan climbed off, and slid his cock back into Peter's ass again. They called out to God in unison. Alternating strokes in the slick, easy, messy swamp of lube between their legs, lube up to the nipples, trading strokes of who was inside who. Ten strokes here, five strokes there, hands of both jerking on the free cock of the moment. Peter's bed squeaked across the floor. Nathan actually laughed, and Peter nearly cried then; he had done it. He had saved his brother. Made him happy. Been the one he needed. And gotten such an incredible fuck out of it, too...
Thanks, Emma. I owe you one.
Nathan reached climax while Peter was inside him; spunk flew all over Peter's stomach. They moaned as one, hungering for the come, but neither willing to experience the taste. Peter rolled them both over, Nathan's back to the bed now and Peter fitting snugly between his straining thighs, and finished himself off, taking his time, minute piling upon wet, sticky, grunting minute, fucking his own cock almost raw before letting himself go. Beautiful images crowded his head; blazing through clouds, sunlight glittering off frozen snowflakes that had yet to fall, and then falling... falling... "Oh, fuck," he muttered to himself, half laughing, twitching like he'd been shocked. "I will never get sick of this. Never. Never." Nathan arched up to kiss him, and embraced Peter at the waist.
They settled into boneless bliss. Peter lay beside Nathan, not moving for a long time, finally reviving slightly in order to nuzzle Nathan's cheek and kiss him. "No more tears," he observed.
"No," Nathan said faintly. "No more."
Peter wiped their bodies roughly clean and dry with an ancient T-shirt that he kept for just that purpose, and then lay beside Nathan again. Nathan immediately re-enfolded Peter in his arms. "Can you sleep?" Peter asked.
Nathan just nodded, already undoubtedly mostly asleep. Peter kissed him on the forehead, now unwrinkled, smooth, untroubled. He was at peace.
"Then good night, beautiful," Peter said. "Don't worry about anything. I love you. I will always love you." Tomorrow, they'd see what they could figure out; but that was tomorrow. For tonight, all they had to do was be together and dream.
END (60)
A/N: This will be the last Ritual for a while; I've been thinking of 60 as a nice round number. Of course I'll probably wreck that eventually, but for now, I'm taking myself off the hook and working on original fiction for a while. Thanks to all the folks who have gone on this journey of pervy discovery with me. Love doesn't even begin to describe it.
Title: Ritual (60): Connection
Pairing, other characters: Peter/"Nathan", Emma
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Dark Romance/Angst
Spoilers: through episode 4.10 "Brother's Keeper"
Word count: around 7300 words
Warnings: see pairing and rating; mild bloodshed
Summary: A lost Nathan turns to the only thing in the world that he can truly believe in - the fact that Peter loves him.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
Heroes and all associated characters are property of NBC/Universal Television, used without authorization. Continues the Ritual story arc from Ritual (58), "Possession". This story contains dialogue from the episode "Shadowboxing", written by Joe Pokaski and Misha Green.
Go, then, into thy turning and thy blame.
Seek bliss, then, brother, in my moment's shame.
-- Hart Crane, "Thou canst read nothing..."
now...
Peter came into his apartment, shut the door, and leaned against it, shoulders sagging wearily. He was alone tonight. Again. For the last couple of months, he'd been just fine with that; he hadn't wanted to see anyone once he got home to take a few hours of sleep. There was nothing in his apartment for anyone. But maybe, he had hoped for a moment, he could have gone somewhere else.
Back at the hospital, he had sat with Emma, reassuring her, being with her, playing piano with her. She was lovely, and smart, and strong, and snarky; he loved all of those things. He loved the expression that came over her face when she saw the etherial beauty created by the sounds she couldn't hear. Instead, she could feel it. And he felt it too. They had bonded. He knew that was true.
But she wasn't into him. It was humbling. She didn't need him, didn't want him, didn't want his company in any way more intimate than what they shared on the job. He had looked into her eyes, given her his best half-smile, and asked her if she wanted some company tonight. She responded with a smile that went from annoyed and indulgent to a kind of sad, grudging pity. First she signed to him without speaking, and her eyes told him everything he needed to know. As rude as he knew it was, he lowered his gaze when she finally spoke aloud. "I'm flattered," she told him, her voice with its gorgeous cooing, crooning quality, edges of consonants blunted and erased. "Peter," she insisted softly, and took his arm, forcing him to meet her eyes again. "You're only responding to the part of me that you want to take care of. You're a caring person. I know that. But what you're feeling is not something more serious. You know that too."
"But, it just could be simple," he protested, inwardly kicking himself. Asshole. Asshole. You don't pressure women. You don't have to. You're being a total cock. Just shut up before you lose a friend. "Just... fun."
Emma laughed faintly. "I'm a little different from that," she said. "My slut days are over." Her smile was wide and genuine. There was no pity in it anymore. "That was college. I don't... It has to mean something now. And my mind is somewhere else. You're a good friend." She shook her head, and signed gracefully, subtitling her words with her fingertips. "Don't fuck it up."
"Yeah," he said, "okay," and smiled too; and as much as he wanted to, he didn't hug her when he went to his own locker and got his stuff. When he turned back to steal a last glance, she was gone.
Fail, he murmured to himself, shut his locker, and left too.
Years ago, striking out on the first try, even with a girl he was really into, wouldn't have bothered him much. It just didn't happen very often. It had been a very, very long time since he didn't just get any chick he wanted, almost effortlessly. Everything was different now. He was different. Maybe she could see how hollow he was inside.
In his apartment, he methodically removed the newspaper clippings from the corkboard on his wall. All the lives he'd saved; they hadn't done anything to ease that hollowness. It would never be enough, not with just him. He could never save every endangered life. They didn't remember him; they didn't know. He had tried to keep it that way, but ... he just wanted to be someone's everything. Someone's savior. As egotistical as it was, he still wanted to be special. He wanted someone to love, to love him, utterly, and he'd been wrong in thinking that the whole world would love him back if he just did everything right, if he sacrificed himself to the last cell. It hadn't worked, and it never would. Emma had done him a favor, sending him home alone to think. To consider that one who he did love utterly, and who he had saved. And how it wasn't enough.
As he pulled push pins and gathered scraps of newspaper, he thought of the last time he was with Nathan.
Months back. A day or so after they had defeated Sylar, and saved the President, and the country, and the world, from certain devastation at the hands of the mad killer. They'd gone back to Nathan's apartment in D.C., and fucked. No, not just fucked; made love. It was making love, in all of its terrifying, alienating, delicious, connecting, vulnerable glory. He submitted his love before Nathan, and Nathan snatched it up, embellished it, and gave it back. As best he could. They were both so shattered they could barely recognize themselves.
And the next morning, Nathan had been so incredibly weird that Peter worried that Nathan's concussion was worsening, causing erratic behavior. He was obsessional, punishing, commanding, demanding. And yet (Peter thought, laughing a little) unlike himself, even if those things had always been present in Nathan. But this was different.
And that night? Yes, that night. That had been it. The last time.
~ ~ ~ ~
then...
In Nathan's apartment again, after a strange, strained dinner with Angela and some members of Nathan's staff, at a garishly fancy restaurant, chosen by their mother, of course. It had been shudder-inducing, and Peter had no appetite. Hadn't all day.
Nathan didn't turn on any of the lights. The entire space was dark but for the faint, eerie glow of LEDs on the television, on the microwave, on the security console on the wall. Peter was glad of it; he didn't want to look at Nathan right now. He needed to be near him, but the sight of him gave Peter knots in his stomach, and he didn't know why.
Nathan's hands came out of nowhere, seizing Peter's collar, yanking him in close. Peter flinched at the heat of Nathan's breath on his cheek.
"I wanna take you," Nathan whispered.
Peter said nothing. Nathan groped him roughly all over - arms, shoulders, ass, chest, groin, even squeezing and palpating his earlobes and his lips, rendering them as so much undifferentiated flesh. Peter felt like an animal being inspected; a young steer who would win first prize at the county fair and then be sent straight to the slaughterhouse.
At last, he was released, with a tiny shove in the vague general direction of the bedroom. "Go get undressed," Nathan muttered. "Get naked and get on your hands and knees on the bed."
Peter hated how he always responded, no matter how angry he was, no matter how offended and disgusted at being treated like this. But his cock was hard, hard, hard, straining so tightly against the inseam of his trousers (of Nathan's trousers, borrowed) that it hurt; all its veins and channels stinging and aching like it was going to explode. He went. And he hurried. He kicked off his shoes and stripped his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, panting, shaking his head, his eyes raw and irritated. He needed to cry. But he wasn't going to, not unless he was made to.
Maybe he did need this after all.
"Get on the fucking bed." Nathan was in the doorway behind him, a shadow, a growl coming from the darkness.
Again, Peter did not reply. He pulled off the trousers, careful not to damage them; they weren't his. He was eager to take off Nathan's clothes, and he promised himself that he wouldn't put them on again tomorrow; he'd go naked rather than wear Nathan's clothes again. They felt all wrong, all wrong.
Naked, on all fours on the surface of the bed, Peter let his head droop forward, closing his stinging eyes. They were as dry as the sandstorm that had taken away Angela's sister, a terrified, terrifying, confused spectre who would have eagerly killed him and felt nothing about it. Both of his bloodlines ran dark with poison. God, he wanted to cry so badly. Every minute brought to mind a fresh tragedy. "It's your fucking fault," he muttered.
"What's that?" Nathan took off his shirt, draped it over a chair. When Peter didn't speak up, Nathan barked, "What the fuck did you just say?"
"I said it's your fault. It's. Your. Fault. Goddammit, Nathan..." Awful. He wasn't even sure what he meant, but he felt it too deeply to keep it inside for a moment longer. He could always damn Nathan for something. For the kidnappings; for the terror and the deaths; for giving in to Ma; for making Peter love him despite all that ugliness and weakness. And the worst part was, Peter forgave him. But his heart was full of blame right now.
"Don't you think I know that?" Nathan emerged from the shadows when his clothes were off; his skin shining dull gold in the low light. "Don't you think I know?" His voice was slightly softer now. He didn't sit beside Peter; instead he stood behind him, and brought his hand down in a harsh blow against Peter's ass cheeks. Peter bit off a cry of pained surprise; he wasn't really surprised, and the pain was nothing compared to what was inside him. They weren't done. They might not ever be done. They might not ever be able to fuck this away completely.
Parting Peter's buttocks, Nathan launched a wad of spit into the crease, and roughly worked it around and inside with his fingers. Peter moaned loudly, brokenly. That was so perfect. Nathan did know; he crammed two fingers in, and pumped them, just hard enough. "It's your fault too, Pete," he said. "You little slut. Don't put this all on me."
"I've done everything I can to stop you," Peter groaned hoarsely. He arched his hips, backing himself up against Nathan's hand, whining faintly with frustrated arousal. "If it's my fault, why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"
"I can't do that," Nathan said. "Do you want me to?"
"I have... Uh... fuck me..."
Nathan snickered coldly. His fingers stabbed Peter's insides. "You don't want to talk? For once?"
"Why didn't you kill us all when you had the chance? Why, why, why? Just kill us all. Me and Ma and..." Peter was near delirium. He reached for his penis; all he needed was one stroke and he'd be off, and some of this tension would be gone from him...
Moaning, Nathan batted Peter's hand away, then pulled his fingers out, and struck Peter's ass with those wet, hot fingers. It wasn't a spanking; it was a beating. He'd bruise. Peter gagged on his yelps and sobs, but his eyes stayed stubbornly dry. Agony. "Aren't you satisfied with killing Dad?" Nathan shouted. "All of us, dead? Yes? It's what I want, too. So why didn't you?"
"Gah. Gah! Please! Fuck me! Just-"
"Stop it!" Nathan shoved Peter's face down onto the bed. "Just shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" He spit again, spit some more onto his hand, jerking it onto his cock. Peter whimpered, ass in the air, offering himself up for destruction. When the touch of Nathan's cock came, it was like balm on a burn; a soft kiss on a fevered forehead. Nathan silently guided himself inside, just a little, then pushing harder, all the way. Their thighs touched. Peter screamed into the mattress. He wished they could kiss. Or something. This was like they weren't even in the same place, except for that channel inside him, connecting them, full of Nathan. It hurt intensely and he wanted more of it.
"Break me," he whispered.
There was no way Nathan could have heard that tiny exhortation. But he responded as though he had heard the command, and followed it with the blind fervor of a soldier killing innocents.
Peter felt as though his bones were bending, Nathan's pelvis bruising his, cock shoving in rough and fast and deep. No lube. It wasn't right; it was so far beyond dangerous, so far beyond cruel, that Peter felt like his consciousness was leaving his body, floating above, watching with sad, helpless pity - and then was yanked back inside with the next thrust. He yelled as loud as he could, the sound swallowed in the mattress. Nathan bit him on the back of the neck, like a rutting animal, and Peter arched the other way, toward him, pushing himself off the surface of the bed with his palms. Nathan shoved him back down, slapped his ass again, and fucked even harder and faster. Oh my God, Peter mused silently, he is trying to kill me. He's trying to fuck me to death. Yes, please, God, do it now.
All at once Nathan staggered to a halt, and let out a strangled gasp. Peter could feel the flush of intense heat that traveled over Nathan's body, and the hot warmth and pressure inside him from Nathan's ejaculation. Peter began to shake badly, and collapsed, his hands sliding out from under him, dumping him onto the bedspread. He landed in an immense, wet, sticky patch; all of his own semen, forced out of him so roughly and continuously that he had no idea that he had come.
"Oh my God, Peter," Nathan said softly. His voice was so changed that he sounded almost like a different person than he had a few minutes ago. "Oh, God, Peter, I'm..." Peter finally scraped up enough strength to turn over and look at Nathan, to see what was wrong. Nathan's face was a mask of horror and shame; his still-hard cock was coated in a thin layer of semen mixed with blood.
"Jesus," Peter gulped, rubbing his hand over his forehead. His fingers smudged come all over his face, getting worse as he tried to wipe it off with spunk-wet fingers. "It's okay. It's okay." He rolled his eyes, feeling sticky, guilty, nauseated, filthy. Amazing. "It's okay. I'm gonna be all right. You-" He couldn't even think of anything else to say. "It's okay. I-" Nathan just shook his head in mute shock. Peter didn't blame him; it was kind of a lot of blood. Or it looked like it; it wasn't that bad, really. It wasn't anything worse than anything Peter had ever seen, even in his own sex acts. But apparently, it was more than Nathan had seen. Probably, Peter considered, because he hasn't fucked as many young teenage girls as I have... they were so delicate and they always wanted more, more, harder, harder...
"I should never have done that," Nathan whispered. "I don't know what came over me..."
"I've done it to you," Peter reassured, reaching up, taking Nathan's face in his come-slick hands, kissing his lips gently. "It's nothing worse than what I've done to you, and you were fine. I'll be okay. Kiss me. Hold me. I love you."
"I love you too, Peter," Nathan breathed, kissing, holding him tight. Their kiss tasted of Peter's come; heady and sour and sweet. Then, slicker, wetter, saltier, thinned with Nathan's tears. He sobbed, "I love you too... God, what's gonna happen to me? I just wanted to fuck you... I didn't mean to lose control like that..."
"Sure you did," Peter said. "You did. You needed that. I needed that. You know I can take it. You know I still love you. I will always love you. Always, and totally, and forever." He kissed and kissed, and hugged Nathan tightly to him. "We've been through so much. Of course we're fucked up. But don't worry; you didn't hurt me. Just pretend you popped my cherry or something... well, I mean, you did, but..." For some reason that made Nathan cry even more. Peter sighed. "Sweetheart. Ah, now, okay? Look at me." When Nathan met his eyes, Peter had never seen him look so scared. "I'm here. It's okay. We've been through this. And I'm still here." He broke into a smile. "We're gross. Let's go get cleaned up. Together, okay?"
He drew a hot bath instead of the customary shower. Nathan had a lovely bathtub, a massive claw foot with its own separate alcove, big enough for Nathan to lie down in completely. A seducer's bath. There was more than enough room for both of them. Nathan settled in, and Peter sat in front of him, his back to his brother. After preliminary washing was done, Nathan lay back, and Peter back against him, relaxing in the warm, soothing water as Nathan tenderly rubbed Peter's chest and belly with a soft cloth. Nothing hurt, and they were together, and the orgasms had stripped all the ugliness away. They were absolved.
Washing it all away. Coming clean.
Nathan changed the bedclothes, and they crawled into fresh sheets, clinging to each other, trading soft, open kisses until Nathan fell asleep. Moments later, Peter joined him in quiet, nighttime oblivion.
By morning, Peter felt a time had come.
"I'm not joining your staff," he said.
Nathan paused in dressing himself, frowning in confusion. "But- You said-"
"And I'm not staying here with you in Washington."
"Is this about last night?" Nathan whispered desperately, his expression panicked.
"No, no, no." Peter sighed and shook his head. He still lay in bed, reluctant to leave this soft, yielding paradise before he had to. "No, it's about me. And it's about you."
"What are you saying? Are we over?"
"No," Peter insisted. "Never. We are never over." He smiled when he thought of all the times that he had begged Nathan in just this same way, terrified of being deserted, of having to go back to pretending that they were just brothers. Pretending to be just normal. Just human. There was so much more now, and he was so sick of pretending. "But I'm gonna go home. My life is there. I think I can get my job back; the guy who drove with me will probably vouch for me. I'm a good EMT, if nothing else. I belong there. And you belong here. It's everything you ever wanted."
Nathan looked pained. "It's not everything."
"Well, nobody gets everything. But you got a lot. I just think I'll do a lot more good back home. I'm a New Yorker. It's where I should be. And I'll see you when you go back," Peter asserted calmly. "You are the senator from New York, after all. You've gotta come back sometime."
He sat up, climbed over the bed to his brother, and sealed his promise with a kiss. "I love you," he added.
"I love you too, Pete." Nathan sighed, and turned back to the mirror, staring at his reflection with a fragile, haunted expression. Peter gave him one more hug, and got up, looking for own his dirty clothes.
~ ~ ~ ~
now...
Just as the last clipping came free in Peter's fingers, a knock came on the door.
He approached in no big hurry; if it was good news, it could wait, and if it was bad news, even more so. It was almost midnight; it was almost definitely not good news.
When he peered quickly through the peep hole, he couldn't really believe his eyes; his brother stood there, wearing a striped shirt that was a little loud, even for him. Worse than that, Nathan's skin had a grayish, sallow cast, and he was shiny; sweating buckets. Bad news, then. Peter swung the door open.
"Nathan, what are you-" Peter began, but before he could say more, Nathan grabbed him and crushed him in a hug. He kissed Peter's neck. His lips were ice cold, even as sweat pooled on his forehead. His hair was standing straight up, and he smelled like snow. He'd been flying. "What's going on?" Peter asked, concern mounting in his chest.
"I think I'm in trouble, Pete," Nathan gasped.
"Well-" Peter led him in, wishing that he had some kind of soft furniture for Nathan to sit down on. He unhinged a folding chair and guided Nathan towards it. Nathan wouldn't sit; he waved his hand dismissively, and immediately began to pace. "Hey, calm down," Peter urged, and opened another chair, seating himself in it. He spoke slowly and soothingly. "Calm down. Tell me what's going on." He tried to keep a handle on his own emotions, but Nathan looked terrible; he looked like he'd aged five years in the last six months.
Nathan looked around Peter's apartment, first peering into the shadows (which were many and dense; Peter didn't usually bother to turn his lights on most of the time), then at the emptiness. "Something happened to me," he said suspiciously. "I-what day is this? Where's... all your stuff?"
"It's Tuesday," Peter said with a sigh, "and I sold it. Or put it out on the street. I simplified." He shook off the discomfort of having to justify himself to Nathan; when he thought about it, it seemed odd, even childish in its extreme. To grow up, get rid of everything that made you what you were; eliminate everything soft and sentimental. And now he missed it. "What happened to you? What's going on?" Peter patted the seat of the other chair. He wondered if he should get a blanket, if Nathan was in shock.
His brother sank into it with a sigh of bone-deep exhaustion, or despair; impossible to tell which. After a while they become the same thing. "Pete, it's the fucked-est thing. I can't even... I woke up this morning, and ... I was in a trailer. In a carnival."
"What?" This was a really twisted joke, if it was one.
Nathan nodded slowly and emphatically. "I don't quite believe it, either," he said.
"What were you doing at a carnival?" Peter frowned. "Were you drunk?"
"I don't know! I don't remember how I got there. It wasn't like a drunk blackout. It was... Last thing I remember clearly was..." Nathan abruptly fell silent, and his expression turned bitter. "Getting knocked out," he concluded. "In a parking garage." He grimaced. "I think Ma tried to have me killed, Peter."
Peter shook his head. "She wouldn't do that," he said, and before the words were out of his mouth, he realized how foolish and reflexive they were. Just as reflexive as her ability to lie, to manipulate. She had raised him well; he lied for her even in his own mind.
"Come on, Pete," Nathan muttered. He stared at the floor. "You know she would. If it... coincided with one of her plans." He sighed and raked his fingernails through his hair. "The parking garage. And... I... almost remember. I remember the sound of jets. I remember a woman. Nothing about her, but the feeling. You know it. That feeling of being with a woman; wanting her." He glanced up at Peter, and Peter nodded, remembering Emma, coming on to her without even thinking about it. "And then the wanting going away. Being fulfilled, I guess. But I don't remember that." A droplet of water fell onto the floor at his feet, then another one; then Nathan scraped his face with his hand. "Ah. God. I... don't know anymore, Peter. I don't know; I just..." He stared up at Peter, his eyes enormous in the low light, glistening with tears. "I told you, I don't know who I am without you. And I don't know who I am anymore. I should have never let you go."
"You couldn't have stopped me," Peter replied calmly. "Why would you? You know as well as I - "
"We shouldn't be apart, Peter," Nathan insisted. More tears joined the puddle. "Something horrible has happened. Something dreadful. A couple of things; so many dreadful things." His voice caught, and his shoulders shook. "Please... help me."
"Nathan..." Peter couldn't sit still any longer. He stood and went to Nathan's chair, bending over to wrap his arms around him. At the pressure of the embrace, Nathan broke down into full-voiced sobs, tightening his fingers in the cloth of Peter's shirt. It was awful; Peter hadn't seen Nathan cry like this for years. "Ssh, ssh. It's all right. I'm here. It's gonna be okay. It's safe here."
Nathan nodded jerkily, then stood up to return the hug and rest his head on Peter's shoulder. Peter rubbed his back and rocked him back and forth, intentionally slowing his breathing so that Nathan's would follow. It did, as always, and they stood holding each other, gently swaying and turning to the rhythm of Peter's shushes, rising and falling like ocean waves. Peter kissed along Nathan's damp, salty cheek, and then a planted a quick, firm one on the lips.
At once, they drew back and stared at each other for a long time. Nathan's tears had stopped. Peter could feel Nathan's ability leaking into him where their bare skin touched, hand to tear-wet hand. It felt good; it always felt good when an ability transferred itself to him, rewriting him on a sub-cellular level. A licking, electric warmth. But Nathan's, in particular, was especially right. It fit. It felt like something he should have. But over the last few months, Peter had learned to control his own innate ability, the ability to absorb the powers of another. He could choose to keep the one he had. He decided not to take Nathan's, not yet. Some feeling in his bones told him that it was not time yet. There would be a time when it would be important. There was still the chance, however slim, that he might save Hiro. Right now, he concentrated on healing Nathan. There were no physical injuries. None. At least he hadn't gotten hurt on his path to the mysterious carnival, or in his escape. Peter would heal him from inside, then. Heal him just by being there, and being a shoulder to cry on, if nothing else.
His brother was completely calm now. "I miss you so much," he said softly. "I miss touching you."
Peter shook his head. "I miss you too," he admitted. "But..." He saw Nathan wince. "But we need our own lives. We deserve that. Things can never be the way they were anymore."
"I know, I know." Nathan grasped him tight, and brushed his eyelashes against Peter's cheek. "Right now, I'd give anything just to pretend for a little bit longer."
Peter tilted Nathan's face up, and brushed his lips with his thumb. "It's not pretending," he said.
Nathan licked the tip of Peter's thumb, and narrowed his eyes at the taste of salt. "We are always together," Peter went on. "We always have this." He kissed the corner of Nathan's lips, and found the heavy bulge in Nathan's jeans, giving it a firm squeeze.
Nathan stared, his expression unreadable. He mostly looked alarmed. Or surprised? Peter was empathic, but this was like trying to read a newspaper through a brick wall.
Shrugging and laughing, Peter shook his head, thinking that he just wasn't having much luck tonight. At least Nathan wouldn't judge him. He hoped. "Hey," he said, taking a deep breath, "I want to distract you. I want to bring you back to yourself. And I want to... feel a connection. Tonight." He looked away, chewing nervously on his upper lip. "If that's not okay, we-"
"It's okay," Nathan responded softly. He nodded, his eyes clear. He even tried to smile. "Yeah. I think I'm up for it." Peter nuzzled his stubbly cheek, hugging him, his chest aching with gratitude. Nathan sighed with an unwinding pleasure, a relief, back on familiar ground. "You'll let me touch you again? After the last time?"
"I told you it was no big deal," Peter insisted, massaging Nathan's expanding bulge. This, too, felt right; felt like something he should have. "It would never keep me away from you. It didn't. I came here for me. I had something to prove to myself. I'm not sorry I left. But I still love you. I still love..." He paused, and gave a slightly harder squeeze. "Your physicality."
Nathan sighed, pressing against Peter's hand. "You always know what I need."
"Is this what you need?" Peter gently caressed Nathan's package again, feeling it grow warmer and more firm, rising to his touch. He kissed Nathan's bottom lip, stealing a taste. "Will this help you feel better? More stable?"
"Stable. Oh, what I wouldn't give to feel stable." Nathan shuddered. "I need you in me," he said, embracing Peter tightly again. "You." After he spoke, his body lost a good deal of its tension, shoulders dropping, head momentarily lolling as if he had almost passed out. "Yes, that's how it was with us, wasn't it? And wasn't it wonderful?"
"I need you in me, too." Peter pressed his lips against his brother's, firm and increasing pressure, delving inside with his tongue. Nathan kissed back hungrily, not fighting with Peter's tongue, but rather devouring it. It made Peter groan. That delicious, excruciating sensation, that dizzy lust that had blossomed into being one December night fifteen years ago; like a spark being blown into life, but the spark had always been there. They were connected. "Can we do that? Would you like that?"
"Yes, yes, all of it; everything. Please. Make it better, Peter. Make it all better."
Nathan maintained the kiss even as Peter backed him over to his sad little bed on the floor, but broke off to stare down at it. "I'm sorry I got rid of your old bed," Peter said quietly. "I had to sell it for money. My trust fund's blown, and Dad didn't leave me anything."
"Good thing, too," Nathan replied, arching his eyebrow a little. "How could you reconcile that with your conscience?" He kissed Peter's sudden frown. "It's fine, love. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
"You didn't say anything that's not true," Peter sighed. "It's like the old bitchy you. I'm glad to see it." He pushed Nathan down to the bed, anchoring him there with one more kiss, then stepped away, unfastening his clothes. He pulled off his white shirt and stepped out of black uniform pants, then stripped his underwear off, striding back and forth naked for a minute, showing off, glancing seductively over his shoulder like a pinup girl. "Still cute?" he asked casually.
Nathan gazed up at him admiringly, but a little sadly. His eyes had begun to glisten again. "You're beautiful," he said, "but it's better when I touch you. You feel more real. I don't... I don't trust what I see as much anymore."
Peter obligingly sat down on the bed, and started removing Nathan's clothes, slowly and lovingly, adding kisses and gropes as he went. Collarbones, neck; that matrix of scarring at the chin. Kissing the chest and nipples, suckling them and pulling them. Nuzzling the thick hair on the forearms, nosing down into the hair on the backs of Nathan's hands. Then roaming across to Nathan's hard, taut belly, the fur there, the indentation running into the navel. Goose pimples coursed across Nathan's skin, and he laughed softly and joyously. "It's been forever since I've had this kind of attention," he purred, his voice still wavery from crying. "Even if I did end up nailing that woman at the carnival. I don't rememeber. I was probably very, very drunk. Suits me right, huh? I can't even remember the last time I got laid; I was too fucked up to have any memory of it."
"The last time I got laid, it was with you," Peter said quietly.
They became silent and still for a while. "You know what I was going through right then, don't you?" Nathan pleaded.
"I was thinking about the bath, actually," Peter said. He smiled a little, and pulled Nathan's dirty jeans down. He wore nothing underneath. "How nice that was. I feel like it washed the negativity away from us. Guess it didn't wash all our troubles away, though." He kissed the dark bush of pubic hair, surrounding Nathan's half-hard cock, smelling him, letting all its complexities wind its way into him. "I wasn't all there, either," he confessed, lying alongside, pressing their bodies together. "I'm all here now, though. I'm here now. We're together now."
They kissed for a long time, chest to chest, fingers entwined, cocks nestled beside each other. Each time they brushed against each other, Nathan moaned, hypersensitive and highly strung. Peter rubbed their nipples together and sucked contentedly, then avidly, on Nathan's earlobe while Nathan traced lines down Peter's back with his fingernails. "Yes," Nathan whispered. "You. I'm here with you." His cock spread a long, wet stripe of pre-come across Peter's belly. "When you love me, I'm here."
He wasn't making a lot of sense, but Peter didn't really mind; his touch was genuine and sincere. Nonetheless, he drew away eventually, and murmured, "We should take a shower. I'm still grimy from work, and you..."
"I probably smell like a barroom floor."
Peter laughed. "Actually, you don't," he said. "You were really sweaty, though. You smell like someone having their first psychotic break."
"I wish that was funnier," Nathan said ruefully. "It might be true."
"If it is," Peter said, sitting up, "might as well learn to joke about it now, huh?" He stood up and extended his hand to Nathan to help him up, hoping that he was strong enough to handle this. Because there was a very good chance that despite his mother's lies, Nathan really was having a psychotic break; had maybe been having one for a while now. He hadn't been himself since he manifested, since Peter met Hiro, met Isaac. Since he'd cheated on his wife with someone other than Peter. Since he'd learned that he could fly. It made sense, really; a sick, cruel kind of sense. Abilities? It was a wonder that they hadn't driven more people insane. Peter had run across enough people who had fallen to that fate. Maybe it was Nathan's, too. Angela's sister was clearly mad; Sylar was mad; half the guys on Level 5 were bugfuck nuts. Adam... Elle... "Let's wash up," Peter said aloud, shaking himself, slapping his own face to get himself to snap out of this negative thought spiral. All the destruction and misery caused by their delusions was a shame, and he had done what he could to change that, but there was, as usual, only so much he could do.
"At least your bathroom's the same," Nathan said gratefully, turning on the water tap in the shower and waiting patiently to test it. "So many memories in here. My God, if this shower stall could talk."
"It'd probably be camp as Christmas," Peter quipped, giving Nathan a hand towel, and stepping under the water. His soap was cheap and basic, but it was plentiful, and did the trick. He lathered up his hair and his chest, handed Nathan the soap. In very little time, the pale hand towel was dark with grime scrubbed off Nathan's face and hands. There was even dirt worked into the skin of his groin. "Hey, bend over a little," Peter said. "Let me wash you."
Obligingly, Nathan bent at the waist so that the shower water hit him right at the center of his back. Peter lathered up his hands again, rinsed them clean, then slowly and patiently probed Nathan's asshole with wet clean fingers. After a moment's flexing resistance, Nathan let himself be penetrated. Peter did what Nathan had first showed him to do - in, and deep, and rotate, and out; rinse, soap, rinse, and repeat. "Oh, yeah," Nathan sighed, stroking his cock. "God, yeah, that's right."
"Feels good?" Peter murmured.
"Mmmm-hmmm."
"You like that? You want to get off?"
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said. "Not right now. I'm just enjoying this." With the warm water and Peter's touch calming him, he was clearly relaxed, extremely aroused, but not eager or frantic. His hand on his cock slid gently and slowly up and down. Peter kissed Nathan's right buttock, and Nathan chuckled. "You're sweet," he said. "Okay. Your turn, dirty boy."
Peter just let out a groan between his teeth; he was becoming both eager and frantic himself. They turned around and Nathan returned the favor for Peter, without Peter bending over; instead, he lifted one leg, knee bent and balanced against the smooth tile back wall of the shower. Nathan fingered him deep inside, toying lightly with his prostate. "Yes? Ah," Peter hissed, and orgasm exploded in him like fireworks, pushing out from the depths of his balls, spurting a jet of semen against the tile wall. He stepped aside a bit, letting the shower water wash off the spunk, then straightened and turned, kissing Nathan on the mouth. He felt high. That was a good one.
He fondled his rapidly softening dick, quivering in pleasure at his own touch. "You first, I guess," he said.
Nathan smiled wolfishly, and pinched one of Peter's nipples. "My pleasure."
At bedside, in the wire milk crate that served him as a bedside bureau, Peter had a bottle of CrystalSilk lube that had barely been used; if he was going to jack off at home, he tended to do it in the shower with a handful of soap suds. Truth be told, he hadn't even really been masturbating much; he worked two full shifts seven days a week, only returning home to sleep. Half the time he didn't even bother to go home. He'd take a nap in the staff lounge, too exhausted to take note of the constant activity and noise. He was a monk.
Not anymore. Once they had both settled onto the bed, Nathan parked himself between Peter's spread thighs, and avidly sucked Peter's clean, flaccid cock, teasing it back to fullness. Peter writhed and moaned and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Once there had been a time that Nathan would barely even touch his cock when it wasn't hard, but the Nathan of now seemed to like the soft cock, rolling it around his mouth like a caramel he was sucking and melting. Along with this, Nathan gently but firmly stroked his balls, circling his finger in the hollow between them, taking a moment to lick them and hold them in his mouth before releasing them again. Peter stroked Nathan's wet hair, encouraging him with soft exhortations: "Yeah. Yeah. Oh, suck 'em. Oh, you're the best. The best ever."
Nathan acknowledged that with a modest wink. "You gimme some," he murmured, straddling Peter, dangling his own rock-hard cock right near Peter's face. Nathan grabbed the bottle of CrystalSilk and poured a fat dollop of it into his palm, spreading a thick layer over Peter's entire pelvic region. Peter whined softly at the cold, wet touch of the lube, but he didn't let it keep him from sucking on his own prize. Thick, hard, dripping cock! Almost too big to fit into his mouth. Had Nathan's cock gotten bigger, or had his own mouth gotten smaller?
A sudden scream of an emergency siren right outside made Peter flinch, almost biting his mouthful of dick. Nathan quickly took his cock back, then switched around again until they were face to face. He gripped Peter's upper arms tightly. "Pay attention to me," he warned, his voice rough and dark. Peter blinked at him, still half dazed with arousal. Nathan's face crumpled, then, and with barely a second's change, he was crying again, whimpering in fear. "Please, Peter, don't leave me! Please."
Peter lightly slapped Nathan in the face, like their mother would do to them when they were talking nonsense. Nathan blinked, startled; he hadn't been expecting that. But it hadn't quite stopped him crying. Peter slapped him harder, then shoved his tongue into Nathan's mouth. "I'm right here, asshole," he muttered.
"Right?" said Nathan, eyes glittering. Changed again. But not crying anymore. Peter couldn't take any more crying without crying himself, and no... he didn't want that. He'd cried enough.
Nathan pushed Peter down onto his back, spreading his legs, mounting him. "Asshole? Right here." He stuck a heavily lubed finger into Peter. Peter moaned bestially; it felt divine, and he wanted more. Nathan put more lube onto himself, all over his cock and balls. He held Peter's hips still, legs slightly raised, and slid inside, encountering tender resistance a few inches in. Peter howled in arousal and distress. He couldn't help it; he remembered the last time anyone had been inside him, how rough it was, how much it hurt and how much he wanted it anyway... but mostly how much it hurt. He clenched his fists and tried to relax. His skin was all hot, his face on fire.
Nathan stared down at him in concern. Peter slapped him again, hissing, "Do it to me." Then added, more softly, "We can do this. Together. It's glorious. I love you. I love you; do it to me like nobody else."
"I love you," Nathan said. He resettled himself, found a new angle, and sunk the whole length inside. Peter's eyes crossed. He hissed and bit the back of his wrist. So good so good so good. There was no pain at all, just a slickness, a fullness, an eagerness. "Don't be scared," he said to Nathan. "Remember how I can take it. Remember. Ah! You were the last one; you fucked me so deep. Remember how good I take it."
Nathan paused, balls-deep, and smoothed some lube over his own asshole. His hands on Peter's hip and thigh were wet, but no longer cold; the warming agent in the lube had kicked in. Nathan took a deep breath, and began.
"Oh! Yeah? - Ah."
"Yes... oh, fuck, yes... ahhhhhhh."
Peter grunted and groaned blissful affirmations. They slid and locked, then jounced against each other, Nathan's cock deep and deeper inside. The tongues flicked across each other, and Peter laughed softly, purring with joy. After a minute or so, Nathan pulled out, opened his legs, pushed his weight forward onto his knees, positioned himself, and penetrated himself with Peter's now-hard, well-lubricated cock. Peter moaned, "Oh my God, that's brilliant; you are so good!"
Nathan rode, shifting up and down slowly and deliciously. Impatient, galloping toward ecstasy, Peter shoved up into him from below, as hard and fast as he could. For his reward, Nathan climbed off, and slid his cock back into Peter's ass again. They called out to God in unison. Alternating strokes in the slick, easy, messy swamp of lube between their legs, lube up to the nipples, trading strokes of who was inside who. Ten strokes here, five strokes there, hands of both jerking on the free cock of the moment. Peter's bed squeaked across the floor. Nathan actually laughed, and Peter nearly cried then; he had done it. He had saved his brother. Made him happy. Been the one he needed. And gotten such an incredible fuck out of it, too...
Thanks, Emma. I owe you one.
Nathan reached climax while Peter was inside him; spunk flew all over Peter's stomach. They moaned as one, hungering for the come, but neither willing to experience the taste. Peter rolled them both over, Nathan's back to the bed now and Peter fitting snugly between his straining thighs, and finished himself off, taking his time, minute piling upon wet, sticky, grunting minute, fucking his own cock almost raw before letting himself go. Beautiful images crowded his head; blazing through clouds, sunlight glittering off frozen snowflakes that had yet to fall, and then falling... falling... "Oh, fuck," he muttered to himself, half laughing, twitching like he'd been shocked. "I will never get sick of this. Never. Never." Nathan arched up to kiss him, and embraced Peter at the waist.
They settled into boneless bliss. Peter lay beside Nathan, not moving for a long time, finally reviving slightly in order to nuzzle Nathan's cheek and kiss him. "No more tears," he observed.
"No," Nathan said faintly. "No more."
Peter wiped their bodies roughly clean and dry with an ancient T-shirt that he kept for just that purpose, and then lay beside Nathan again. Nathan immediately re-enfolded Peter in his arms. "Can you sleep?" Peter asked.
Nathan just nodded, already undoubtedly mostly asleep. Peter kissed him on the forehead, now unwrinkled, smooth, untroubled. He was at peace.
"Then good night, beautiful," Peter said. "Don't worry about anything. I love you. I will always love you." Tomorrow, they'd see what they could figure out; but that was tomorrow. For tonight, all they had to do was be together and dream.
END (60)
A/N: This will be the last Ritual for a while; I've been thinking of 60 as a nice round number. Of course I'll probably wreck that eventually, but for now, I'm taking myself off the hook and working on original fiction for a while. Thanks to all the folks who have gone on this journey of pervy discovery with me. Love doesn't even begin to describe it.