Fic: Ritual (18): The Illusion
Title: Ritual (18): The Illusion
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season 1
Word Count: about 6000
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, angst, language
Summary: Sometimes, even Peter isn't emotionally honest with himself - and Nathan's version of "helping" can be traumatic (at least, at first). Set in the months after 9/11. Big ups to indyhat and 47_trek_47 for the hand-holding - I really couldn't have done it without you! <3
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal, not me. This is a work of fan fiction.
JANUARY 2002
That night, Peter called Nathan at nine o'clock exactly.
Peter had bet himself that this would be the best time to catch Nathan and divert him from whatever he was doing. Unfortunately, he didn't know for sure; somehow he had lost track of Nathan's schedule, when for the last five months, he had been reasonably sure of where Nathan was and what he was doing, every hour of every day. Peter knew it was neurotic, but he begged his friends and family to indulge him by letting him call them to check on them at least once daily.
Ever since September 11th, Peter just felt better knowing where people were supposed to be.
But all of a sudden, Nathan disappeared off Peter's radar. He could guess - during certain hours, Peter knew he'd be at work, or asleep at home - but Nathan no longer answered Peter's monitoring calls.
Neither he nor Peter had been in New York on September 11th. Peter had been in Philadelphia on his first day of a week of intensive pediatric-nursing study before the semester started, and Nathan had been in Las Vegas. Neither one of them knew that the other was not in New York at the time. When they tried to call home, all the circuits were busy. Nathan's return flight had been delayed and then canceled altogether, so he hitched a ride back to New York on the private plane of an ex-military friend. After having to wait almost 24 hours, Peter rented a car, only to realize that he didn't know how to drive particularly well, especially since he had to pull over every twenty miles or so to vomit at the side of the road.
Both of them went straight to their parents' house once they made it into town. Nathan arrived first, Heidi having told him she'd be there. When Peter got there, his mother gave him a bone-crushing hug and a dozen kisses, then sent him straight to bed. Nathan left Heidi and baby Simon downstairs in the parlor, and lay in bed with Peter, neither of them moving or saying anything, just holding each other, breathing together in funereal silence until Peter fell asleep.
Everyone was okay, besides Peter's severe dehydration, and a $6,000 nursing course that he hadn't used. Other than that, he was absolutely fine, as long as he knew where his loved ones were.
In the days immediately after, he and Nathan began to habitually meet at their parents' house for an hour every afternoon at four-thirty, have tea, and simply be together. It was the highlight of Peter's day, that little down time after a morning of school or work, before an evening of school or work - eating some cake, chatting with his mother, finishing his father's half-done crossword puzzle, seeing Nathan, listening to Nathan, knowing Nathan was all right.
A few weeks ago, right after the start of the new year, Nathan had suddenly just stopped showing up for tea. Peter kept attending, half to check on his parents and score a quick sugary meal, and half to see if Nathan would appear. Peter was perfectly all right - once he'd gotten over being sick, he had gotten right back into the swing of things, going to classes, working at Starbucks three mornings a week, working at the hospital doing data entry four nights a week, volunteering when he had a spare hour - but without being able to see Nathan every day, Peter started having problems sleeping for the first time since the towers came down.
Because, of course, in the days after, he hadn't slept until he made it home, so that didn't count.
On the second day that Nathan didn't show up for tea, Peter called him anxiously, only to have Nathan tersely answer, "I'm fine, Peter, I can't talk right now," and hang up. After that, Peter called Nathan at least once a day, varying the time of day, trying to find a tiny blank spot in Nathan's schedule, and Nathan just didn't answer.
Peter asked his mother if Nathan was all right, and she replied off-handedly, "Oh, he's fine; I talked to him this morning."
"So why won't he pick up when I call him?"
"He doesn't want to talk to you," his mother shrugged.
Peter just couldn't figure it out. It didn't make sense. He worked out for an extra half-hour every day, trying to tire himself out enough to sleep. He drank valerian tea until his kidneys ached. He counted sheep. But he still spent the nights lying bolt awake, wondering what Nathan was doing, tracing his fingers over his chest in the way he imagined Nathan was stroking Heidi's breasts, just this once wishing that he could be her, having Nathan come home to her bed every night. He hoped she appreciated what she had.
And for some reason, when he called at nine o'clock on the dot on the eighteenth, Nathan answered. "Peter. What is it."
Peter couldn't believe his random luck. He blurted, "Come over and play with me. Please. I just need you for a little while. I keep... missing you." It was a little embarrassing for Peter to hear how crazy he sounded - his voice quivering, almost gasping like he'd been running. He took a huge steadying breath before continuing, "It's my night off and I want to see you."
"Peter, this is so not a good time for this."
"Why don't you come to Mom and Dad's anymore?"
"Because I don't have time for it. It was nice, but I've got all this stuff to do. You should look into it. Besides, Mom and Dad are sick of you, you know."
Peter hesitated for a long time before answering. "No, they're not," he said, his voice much more controlled now. "They'd tell me to my face if they were. The holidays are over; they don't have to be nice to me." He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "And I've got plenty to do."
"How about spending an extra hour on it every day, instead of running up your phone bill?"
"Nathan, please... please come over. I'll owe you one. I just... I feel like I need you tonight. I'm just not feeling very stable right now. Please. I can't deal with anybody but you right now. I don't want to be alone. I'm not sure what I'll do if you don't come."
It was a low blow, and Peter felt a flicker of guilt for playing on Nathan's fears; everybody in the family seemed to be operating under a vague suspicion that Peter was suicidal, when absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. He was more determined than ever to live to the fullest, help everyone he could, and love as much as he wanted to, no matter what happened. But it was true; Peter didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to be with anybody else, and he really didn't feel very stable.
More than anything, he wanted to be held for a long time, stroked and petted and fucked and kissed and reassured. And then he'd be okay - really okay.
"I'll be there in half an hour," said Nathan, and hung up.
Peter nodded in satisfaction as he put the phone down. Nathan was on to something; manipulation did feel good.
He took a shower in the hottest water he could stand, gulping down lungfuls of steam until he felt dizzy, trying to relax, heating himself up. It was cold in his apartment, but he'd radiate plenty enough warmth for him and Nathan both, once they were wrapped up in the decadent flannel of Peter's bed, in those luxurious sheets that Nathan had bought Peter himself.
"Merry Christmas, Pete," he'd said as he'd handed Peter the enormous gift box, kissing Peter on the side of the face, and whispering ever-so-softly against his ear, "I'm sorry." Considerate of him to be so gentle about it, Peter thought. Peter hadn't really expected anything to happen then, anyway; it was a somber and solemn holiday that year. It wasn't until he'd gotten home, put the sheets on the bed, and then lay on them that he began to wonder if Nathan wasn't sending him a message. And then spent the next twenty-four nights continuing to wonder.
Think of me when you're in bed.
But even between those cozy, fluffy sheets, Peter couldn't sleep.
Out of the shower, Peter put on a clean T-shirt, pajama bottoms, and a heavy terrycloth robe, then uncorked a bottle of good chianti. He "let it breathe" by pouring himself a glass, and drinking it straight down. And another. There'd be plenty left over, and he loved the round, tart feel of the wine in his mouth and throat. He spent the next few minutes trying in vain to straighten up his apartment, but the mess was too far gone for him to do more than make neat piles of unorganized stuff before the knock came on the door.
Nathan walked in, and Peter shut and locked the door behind him. "Hey," said Peter. Nathan turned and hung up his coat, then regarded Peter coldly. His face bore a faint sheen of stubble, and his hair was neatly combed, but a trifle longer than it should have been; he wasn't keeping himself up as well as he usually did. It seemed he hadn't had a haircut since Christmas. Maybe Nathan missed him, too. Peter cocked his head and attempted to smile cutely, shyly, appealingly. "Want a glass of chianti?"
Nathan shook his head, still looking at Peter with that same inscrutable expression. Without warning, his hands latched onto Peter's shoulders, grabbing him and pulling him close. He kissed Peter hard, unrelentingly, holding Peter's lower lip between his teeth and pressing down a little, as if threatening to bite it off. Peter grunted softly in protest and surprise, hands first flat against Nathan's chest, then sliding around Nathan's back and holding him, too, squeezing tight, fighting to keep up.
This wasn't what he wanted, but he did enjoy this too, and maybe if he stuck with it, it would eventually become what he wanted. As long as they could just be together and naked and loving each other, he could change its direction, get them into that bed with those dream-worthy sheets and all the sleepy, comforting heat in the world. The kiss was just a jump-start.
Without lifting his mouth for more than a moment, Nathan backed Peter over to the red leather chair in the front room. Nathan pulled back and drew in his breath, his dark eyes averted. "Hey," Peter protested, finally able to speak, "let's go to bed, huh? I've got the flannel sheets on. Hey... Oh." He laughed nervously as Nathan yanked down Peter's pajama bottoms, exposing his now-raging hard-on, sighed as Nathan took Peter's dick in hand, fondling it with a firm, unsentimental touch. Nathan used the other hand to push Peter's pelvis to one side, making Peter turn half around to keep his balance, then pulled his dick to complete the other half-turn, until Peter now faced the chair himself. Nathan sat down in the chair, opened his mouth, and pushed Peter's cock inside, sucking immediately.
Peter arched his back, his eyes widening. "You're ... you're going too fast," he protested.
Nathan actually shook his head, his mouth still full of cock, and turned the shaking motion into a side-to-side swiping lick that brushed his tongue firmly against the under-ridge of the shaft. Peter gave a helpless whine. "Oh... slow down, slow down," he begged. "Oh, no. Oh." Nathan deep-throated him, did a suck-swallow, then ran his tongue back up under the head, using the tip of his tongue to tickle the hypersensitive slit. Peter clenched his hands in Nathan's hair. "Christ! Don't! Ah, don't suck me off so fast - I want to - take my time - ah! Nathan, please, slow down, you're gonna hurt me."
Nathan just shook his head again, sucking long and relatively slow, moving his mouth all the way from the root to the tip of the glans, then sliding back down again and repeating it. His fingers dug hard into Peter's buttocks, holding him still, using Peter's hips to move Peter's rigid cock into and out of his mouth - never all the way out, no. He kept his mouth on at all times.
"Please, oh, God," Peter gasped, involuntarily bucking his hips, frowning as he had one of those quick, uninspiring orgasms that was barely worthy of the name. Nathan held the head of Peter's cock firmly against his tongue, massaging him, and sighing when the semen spurted into his mouth, gulping it down right away instead of tasting it. Nathan sat back slowly with a quiet, but obscenely contented smack of his tongue inside his mouth, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for just a second.
Peter stared at him. "Okay," he said, his voice dubious. He smiled hopefully.
Nathan stood up, pulling Peter's pajama bottoms back up in the same motion. He gave Peter another inscrutable look, then roughly tousled Peter's hair, and headed for the door.
"What the fuck?" Peter frowned. Nathan got his coat from the coat rack, and slipped it on, no longer looking at Peter. He didn't seem angry, or particularly concerned at all. Peter stood there stunned, blinking in disbelief. He was just leaving now, after... How could he? Bed! They needed to go to bed! Or - at least... Peter started shaking. "Nathan! Wait! Nathan! What did I do? Say something!" Peter begged, his voice cracking worse than it had since he was a teenager. Nathan opened the door, slid out sideways, and tugged the door shut behind him.
Peter sank down onto the chair, stunned, running his hands through his hair. He felt cold and nauseated - violated, almost. But violated by a lack, instead of an unwanted presence. He didn't know how to deal with this. Rape, he could counsel; he understood the healing mechanisms for that, he'd had extensive training, knew that it was an act of violence and Not Your Fault and... But... what was this?
"Come back," he whispered.
He needed Nathan so badly. He didn't need to get off; he could get off by himself just fine. He needed Nathan to pet him to sleep, tease him and talk to him and love him. But he wasn't coming back. Peter could tell he wasn't coming back.
He went to the bathroom and puked, destroying the lingering taste of Nathan remaining in his mouth, the faint ticklish trace of the sensation of Nathan's stubble scraping his lips.
He went to bed, and curled up, chewing his pinky finger, trying to rein in the oncoming panic attack, but he could feel a steady flow of tears beginning already to soak his flannel pillowcase. He wanted to get up and rip the cushy sheets off the bed, but he was paralyzed with despair now; it didn't matter what he did or felt or wanted. It didn't matter. Life was meaningless, pointless, and brutal. There'd be no hiding from it in bed; there'd be no more hiding in illusions. He couldn't make something happen just by wanting it.
The first sob nearly choked him. He cried violently for a while, expressing everything that he didn't know he had to express, all the helplessness and despair that he hadn't known he was feeling until now. He just felt so stupid - all that stuff he was doing, running himself ragged, trying to hold this back, when it was right behind him all along, but so enormous that he couldn't see it. He couldn't be to Nathan what Nathan wanted. He couldn't be to his parents what they wanted. He couldn't even be to himself what he wanted. He couldn't undo all the fucked-up things the world, all the hate and misunderstanding and vengeance and ugliness. He could only do what he could, and if that wasn't enough, it wasn't. And it wasn't. And then what?
Without realizing it, without even wanting it, he slept.
The next day, he spent the hour he ordinarily spent at his parents' house at the doctor's office, getting a prescription for sleeping pills that he didn't end up needing; he slept perfectly normally after that. He stopped going to his parents' house every day. He quit his job at Starbucks, trading it in for working mornings at a vegetarian coffeeshop where he spent half his time banging peace-activist college chicks in the utility closet.
He didn't call Nathan again.
***
APRIL 2002
Nathan called Peter at four-thirty.
Peter was out on the street, on his way to the library, and he checked the caller ID, then slid across the afternoon crowds to stand against the wall of a building while he stared at the phone. He hesitated until he knew that the voicemail would pick up if he left it, then hit the answer button. "Hello?" he said brusquely.
"It's Nathan."
They hadn't spoken at all since January 21st, at Nathan and Heidi's anniversary party, where they only said "hello", "congratulations", and "thank you." Nathan hadn't called him. He hadn't called Nathan. Their circles did not touch. Life had gone on.
"Pete, you busy tonight?"
"Yeah," said Peter.
"Doing what?"
"Studying."
"Ah, let it slide. I'm coming over."
"For what?"
"I want to see you."
"For what?" Peter said again, indignantly this time.
Nathan paused. "There's something I want you to give me," he said.
"Why don't you get Heidi to give it to you?" Peter said dryly.
Nathan's voice came back just as dry. "And I want to give you something, too."
Peter said, "Hmph. Typical. Whenever it's good for you, huh?"
"Correct. And tonight, I happen to be free. I thought I'd take you out for dinner, since I'm staying in Manhattan tonight, at Mom and Dad's. Heidi's mom's got Simon for the night, and Heidi specifically wants to be at home without me and the baby, since she's never had a chance. She's just going to take a bath, watch Sex and the City and go to sleep." Nathan laughed softly. "Her idea of a good time. She kicked me out for the night. So, I thought, what the hell."
Peter hoped to God that Heidi was cheating on Nathan. It would only be right. Preferably with six or seven tall, hunky firemen. "Dinner before or after?" he asked. Pedestrians on the street gave him a wide berth - he had the kind of expression everyone imagines a person about to go on a killing spree would wear - the bloodless cheeks, the glazed and burning eyes, eyebrows drawn together in a single bristling line. His voice was dead calm.
It took Nathan a moment to respond. "After," he said. "I've got reservations at nine-thirty. What say I meet you at your place at five-thirty."
"Fine," said Peter. "Show up." He found a convenient alley, and proceeded to kick the shit out of a pile of cardboard boxes until his legs ached.
Then he went home, took off his coat, and sat down, staring at a poster on the wall and trying to focus himself. Nathan knocked on the door within a minute, though, long before Peter wanted to deal with him, and Peter slowly got up to let him in.
"Hi," Nathan said personably, smiling a little, then his face fell as he looked at Peter, staring and blinking at him in a subtly hostile fashion. Then Nathan smiled again, one of his big smiles that was half-smirk. Maybe even more than half. "How you doin', Pete?"
Peter didn't reply. He arched his eyebrow, looked Nathan up and down, looked back into his eyes. The kind of look you couldn't do to somebody on the subway, or they'd be within their rights to shiv you. Nathan just took it all in, cocking his head to the side. "You're obviously pissed off at me," he said.
Peter smirked back, widening his eyes. No shit, Sherlock.
Nathan hung up his coat, unwound his scarf, looking over Peter, as if trying to find the right place to grab. He decided on the left arm, lightly wrapping his fingers around Peter's bicep. That was a mistake. Peter jerked away as if he'd been burned.
"When I'm ready," he snarled.
Nathan looked shocked at first, then his eyes softened, and he nodded. "Okay," Nathan said. "Well... I'm going to go lie in your bed." He added quietly, "Please come join me." He reached out to Peter again, and when Peter didn't flinch, leaned in and kissed him on the lips.
Then Nathan went to the bedroom, stepped out of his shoes at the bedside, took off his outer clothes, and frowned at Peter's unmade chaos of sheets and blanket and pillows, still in the churned mass he'd left it in from the night before. "Good Lord, Peter, you're twenty-one - are you ever going to start making your own bed?" He climbed on. "Well, too late for today, anyway."
Peter wished to God he didn't have the nice flannel sheets on right now; it had been cold for the last few nights, and he'd put them back on so he wouldn't shiver as he went to sleep. Now it would seem like he'd kept them on since January. He stood next to the bed, staring down at Nathan making himself comfortable, rubbing his body back and forth until he'd formed a hollow to his liking, like a settling cat. He looked like he belonged there; even the pale-gold-and-green colors of the stripes nicely complimented his olive complexion. "Mmmm, these are really nice. Aren't I nice to you?" He held out his arm. "C'mon, Pete," he said. "You're making me feel cold, looking at you standing there."
Peter took his pants and sweater off, left on T-shirt, underwear, and socks, and lay next to Nathan. Nathan pulled the covers over them entirely, plunging them into gold-green semi-darkness, and put his arm around Peter's shoulders, kissing him on the forehead. Peter lay still and silent, his half-lidded eyes focused downward. Nathan gazed at him at a distance of mere inches, running one finger down Peter's curtain of hair, brushing it off his forehead. He kissed Peter's unmoving mouth. "You're not alone," he whispered, kissing Peter again, kissing until Peter responded, however fractionally.
Nathan took Peter's hand, and placed it over his genitals, murmuring, "Go on, touch. I'm here. Right now, I'm yours. I need you, too. Did you forget that I'm your slave, too?" He kissed Peter's forehead again, his lips again. "Don't I come when you call?"
Peter drew in a shaky breath. He still didn't say anything, but his fingers tightened around Nathan's penis, which responded immediately to his touch. Nathan arched his hips toward Peter, pressing himself inward toward Peter's legs, trapping Peter's hand between them, between Nathan's cock and Peter's body. Nathan arched against the hand, his breaths deepening. "Yeah, that's right," he purred. "Don't you understand...? How much I love you? How much I... live for you... I love this so much. I live for this. Don't you appreciate how special this is?"
Peter kissed him on the mouth, just to make him be quiet and stop saying those things. He wanted to be angry. It was his right to be angry. But he didn't want to hurt Nathan. He loved this, too, all of it, including the discomfort, the painful angle of his wrist trapped between them, trying to figure out how to fit their bodies together in new ways. The same ways tended to present themselves. But that wasn't what they were doing now. It was awkward and a little difficult and tentative, like they'd forgotten how to do this. Like it was new again.
They were playing.
Peter took his hand back, and Nathan moaned softly in protest, catching the errant hand in his and pressing it to his back, pressing their lower bellies together. Heat built up behind the layers of T-shirt jersey; Peter wanted to feel it directly. He pushed up his shirt and Nathan's shirt and pressed his bare belly against Nathan's. "Oh, nice, you've got some definition there," Nathan breathed, stroking Peter's stomach with his fingertips. "Have you been working out? See, I did do you some good."
Peter could barely breathe all of a sudden - yes, he had been working out more, it felt good and helped him sleep better - he wanted to tell Nathan about it, about all the girls he'd fucked at his new job, about all the profound and random and boring stuff that had happened in the meantime - but he wasn't ready yet. Peter sharply pinched Nathan's ass with his fingernails instead. Nathan seemed to like that. He shrugged his undershirt off entirely, pulled off Peter's, bare chest against bare chest now, naked skin from shoulders to waistbands. And this was familiar too, rubbing their cocks together, next to each other, underneath thin fabric radiating dull heat. Peter slid his hand into Nathan's underwear, down the front, running his fingers through rough hair to get to incredibly hot, silky skin, already slightly moist from sweat and breath-steam. Peter kissed Nathan before Nathan could make a sound, so that he'd have to sigh into Peter's mouth. Peter concentrated on stealing Nathan's breath, hoping he could make Nathan pass out, and then Peter could get up and get dressed and leave and then laugh and...
No way could he leave this bed.
Peter released Nathan's mouth, and rolled away for a moment, trying to figure out what it was that he did want to do. Nathan solved one of the problems - he drew the covers back from their faces, giving them fresh air. Peter felt his head clearing, out in the open. It was almost dark, but for the lamp right in front of the front door, casting peculiar shadows around the room. He wanted to suck Nathan's cock, but for some reason it seemed too obvious; he didn't want to just get Nathan off and give him a fresh excuse to draw away.
Nathan made up Peter's mind for him by sliding his hand down the back of Peter's shorts, caressing his ass, curling his fingers into the crack. Peter moaned involuntarily. Nathan ducked his head back under the blanket and licked and bit Peter's nipples, his fingers still exploring Peter's ass, tugging down his underwear. Peter kicked it the rest of the way off, rolled over onto his stomach, offering himself up. Rather than attempting to penetrate Peter with his fingers, like Peter thought he would do, Nathan instead lay on top of him, covering him, placing his hardening cock between Peter's buttocks, rubbing gently and slowly back and forth. He kissed the back of Peter's neck, curled his fingers into Peter's.
Holding him. Exactly. Yes. Exactly this. Both of them rising up on their knees, Nathan between Peter's spread thighs, Peter's head down immersed into the flannel-covered pillows, Nathan simulating a slow, impossibly intense fuck, but holding Peter's hand while he did. "Oh, Pete... God..." he whispered, his voice awestruck. "It feels so good. Is this good? Please tell me."
Peter didn't want to give in, but his resistance had been worn away into nothing. "Yeah," he whispered back, then added with a laugh in his voice, "Oh, hey... you wanna fuck me for real?"
"I thought you would never ask," Nathan murmured.
They took it slow. Nathan lubricated both surfaces - the head of his cock and Peter's asshole - patiently rubbed and pressed until he made it just inside. Then he pulled out, added a handful of lube to himself, and slid in until it wasn't easy anymore. And did that again, and again until he was in all the way. Peter felt no more than a moment's discomfort, and instead found himself quivering with restrained lust, moaning like crazy even though nothing crazy was actually happening. Nathan wasn't even moving, just socketed in deep, holding Peter and nuzzling Peter's neck in the same rhythm Peter wanted to be used inside him. After an excruciating minute spent this way, Nathan said, "Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want."
Peter couldn't speak. There were too many things he wanted, all at once. He gritted his teeth and whined, bucking back against Nathan demandingly. "That's it, huh?" Nathan said. "Okay. Let's do it."
He lay back, still inside Peter, pulling Peter into a sitting position, facing away. He wrapped the blanket around Peter's shoulders, leaving his back exposed, naked to Nathan's stroking hands. Peter laughed, then bit his lip, set his newly-defined belly muscles, and got down to the business of fucking himself exactly as he wanted, different from moment to moment. Hard and deep; faster; drawn-out and slow with circles. Underneath him, Nathan sighed and gasped appreciatively. "Perfect," he murmured, stroking Peter's skin over and over, running his hand across Peter's side to reach for his cock, jerking it off for him. "You got it. You are the best. You know how to fuck me better than anybody. You live for it!"
"Fuck you," Peter hissed at him, offended, even though he knew it was true. He pushed Nathan's hand off his cock, and took it in hand himself. The head was slick and running with pre-come, which he spread down over his cock, shivering at how good it felt.
"Yeah," Nathan said. Peter looked over his shoulder at Nathan, who was grinning, laughing a little even though his eyes were narrowing and fluttering. Inside him, Peter felt Nathan's cock twitch hard. "Yeah, if I'm lucky... fuck me..." He descended into soft, wordless moans, his body shuddering. Peter rode him hard, knowing it was almost all over, not wanting to stop so soon, but it just brought him to orgasm that much sooner, running his orgasm right up against Nathan's, meshing together, wrapping them both in stinging bliss.
***
Nathan had gotten them dinner reservations at a new, painfully hip Thai/French restaurant in NoHo. Peter would have felt shaggy and out of place if he hadn't been with Nathan, who looked blatantly post-coital; his lips were still red and swollen, his eyes dazed, locks of his hair still standing on end. Peter couldn't help smiling at him, even as he said, "You owe me an apology."
"No, I don't," Nathan said, ignoring the menu. "I owe you an explanation."
"I'm all ears," Peter said.
Nathan poured a glass of pinot gris from the bottle on their table, frowning a little. "You were smothering me."
"I was-" Peter tried to cut in.
Nathan held up his finger to silence him. "You were smothering me," he repeated. "I really didn't have time for it. I've got a baby, Pete. And I had an anniversary party to plan, or at least approve all the catering, decorations, and all that shit. I've got a wife who I love, and I have to pay attention to." Nathan sipped his wine, and shook his head. He continued, speaking slowly and precisely, "I'm a lawyer. I work in the D.A.'s office. Our city was just hit by a major terrorist attack. We have a huge, completely unexpected workload, and with my military background, I'm in very high demand as a source of information. And then there's you." He laughed quietly. "And you need me more than anybody else. And you need to know where I am every minute of every day. And you need hugs and kisses and reassurance and explanations and protection... sometimes I just don't have it to give. And it's painful, because I love you more than anything."
Peter grimaced painfully, and gave a heavy sigh. "It's just that I thought you were dead," he said, all in a rush. "It's just that I thought you - that -" He dissolved into stuttering, clenched his fist and tapped it on the table until he got himself together. Nathan poured him a glass of wine. "I was worried," Peter clarified. "I literally worried myself sick. And I ... thought I was over it."
"Are you over it now?" Nathan asked quietly.
Peter drank some wine and shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "I gave up."
"You let go," Nathan clarified. "I made you let go. I cut you off. You wouldn't be over it if I hadn't done that."
"It was such a prickish way to do it, though. You gotta admit."
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said. "The way I see it, I was on my way home from a brutal day of work, and I dropped everything and turned back around and came over, because you called."
"Because you were afraid I'd..." Peter said snarkily, unwilling to listen to what Nathan was actually saying.
"Yeah," Nathan agreed.
Peter widened his eyes. "And you thought that'd keep me from hurting myself?"
"I knew it would," said Nathan, sipping his wine.
"So you didn't actually want to," Peter mumbled.
Nathan smiled sadly at him. "I didn't want to leave," he clarified. "And if I didn't leave right then, I wasn't going to. And if I spoke to you... I knew I..." He sighed heavily. "Pete, do you have any idea how hard this is for me?" He looked away from the table, eyes flickering out over the restaurant, his voice so quiet it almost got lost in the social noise. "I can't be with you as much as I want, either. I really can't now. But... sometimes I can. It's very lucky when I can. And... you do live for it. I know. If wanting me keeps you alive, please do. Please. But it's not going to be easy. It'll never be easy. And hell, if you had me around all the time, you'd get sick of me."
"I've never known what that's like," Peter said.
"Trust me. Sometimes a bath, TV, and an early bedtime is preferable."
"Maybe she's fucking around on you," Peter theorized. "She lets you get away with a lot."
"If she is, more power to her," said Nathan, though by the tone of his voice, the idea upset him. "I haven't noticed a thing."
Peter said slowly, "I'm... sorry... I was smothering you."
"I understand where it was coming from," Nathan replied. "I was worried, too. I got in touch with Heidi first, and then Mom, and nobody had heard from you and nobody could get in touch with you. I thought, Oh geez... I knew you'd want to run down there and try to save people." His voice held both laughter and terrible sadness. "You've got just enough nursing school to be dangerous. You'd want to be there. And then you'd get yourself killed. I see the whole thing."
"No, I was puking by the entrance to the freeway," Peter said. "Forgetting how to use my turn signal." He smiled, wiped his fingers roughly across his cheekbone before the tears made their way down his face. "I thought the same thing about you," he added. "Except that you'd be there. And you would be saving people. And then you'd get killed."
"We're both idiots," said Nathan crisply, looking up with a practiced smile at the sexy blonde waitress, and Peter watched her professional demeanor melt into that of a dazzled schoolgirl, thinking to himself, That's Nathan, all right.
The he realized as she looked over at him that he had had sex with her before, maybe a month ago in the utility closet of the coffee shop. He grinned at her; she gave him a watery-looking smile and retreated back to the kitchen. Nathan looked at Peter with admiration, throwing quick and elegant sign language: You? Her? Seriously? Good for you!
After dinner, outside Peter's apartment building Nathan turned off the car's engine at the curb and Peter leaned over and lay his head in Nathan's lap. Nathan stroked Peter's hair soothingly. "I will save people," Peter said. "I've decided. Somehow. One of these days, I won't suck."
"I'm gonna save people, too," Nathan replied. "I'm doing everything I can to make that possible. I promise I'll save you first."
"Aww."
"You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna go get some sleep." Peter sat up, smiled at Nathan, and kissed his cheek. "You want to stay over?"
"No," said Nathan. "Those flannel sheets make it too hot to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow. Check on you."
And he did. And the next day, and the next.
END PART (18)
A/N: My little tribute to flannel sheets, Milo's abs, and "getting over it." I'm still working on "getting over it" myself, but I kind of hope I never do - and you'd better believe I wish I had superpowers on that day. But that's a whole 'nother fic, and I am not going to write it. I think that the first season of Heroes is very much a version of that wish fulfillment about 9/11 (because why have the "bomb" in NYC, and not, say, L.A.?). Let's hope TPTB don't lose sight of the larger emotional and moral questions they can explore (and let Milo and Adrian wear less clothing - it's a shame to keep such beauty covered up!).
Thanks for reading!
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season 1
Word Count: about 6000
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, angst, language
Summary: Sometimes, even Peter isn't emotionally honest with himself - and Nathan's version of "helping" can be traumatic (at least, at first). Set in the months after 9/11. Big ups to indyhat and 47_trek_47 for the hand-holding - I really couldn't have done it without you! <3
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal, not me. This is a work of fan fiction.
JANUARY 2002
That night, Peter called Nathan at nine o'clock exactly.
Peter had bet himself that this would be the best time to catch Nathan and divert him from whatever he was doing. Unfortunately, he didn't know for sure; somehow he had lost track of Nathan's schedule, when for the last five months, he had been reasonably sure of where Nathan was and what he was doing, every hour of every day. Peter knew it was neurotic, but he begged his friends and family to indulge him by letting him call them to check on them at least once daily.
Ever since September 11th, Peter just felt better knowing where people were supposed to be.
But all of a sudden, Nathan disappeared off Peter's radar. He could guess - during certain hours, Peter knew he'd be at work, or asleep at home - but Nathan no longer answered Peter's monitoring calls.
Neither he nor Peter had been in New York on September 11th. Peter had been in Philadelphia on his first day of a week of intensive pediatric-nursing study before the semester started, and Nathan had been in Las Vegas. Neither one of them knew that the other was not in New York at the time. When they tried to call home, all the circuits were busy. Nathan's return flight had been delayed and then canceled altogether, so he hitched a ride back to New York on the private plane of an ex-military friend. After having to wait almost 24 hours, Peter rented a car, only to realize that he didn't know how to drive particularly well, especially since he had to pull over every twenty miles or so to vomit at the side of the road.
Both of them went straight to their parents' house once they made it into town. Nathan arrived first, Heidi having told him she'd be there. When Peter got there, his mother gave him a bone-crushing hug and a dozen kisses, then sent him straight to bed. Nathan left Heidi and baby Simon downstairs in the parlor, and lay in bed with Peter, neither of them moving or saying anything, just holding each other, breathing together in funereal silence until Peter fell asleep.
Everyone was okay, besides Peter's severe dehydration, and a $6,000 nursing course that he hadn't used. Other than that, he was absolutely fine, as long as he knew where his loved ones were.
In the days immediately after, he and Nathan began to habitually meet at their parents' house for an hour every afternoon at four-thirty, have tea, and simply be together. It was the highlight of Peter's day, that little down time after a morning of school or work, before an evening of school or work - eating some cake, chatting with his mother, finishing his father's half-done crossword puzzle, seeing Nathan, listening to Nathan, knowing Nathan was all right.
A few weeks ago, right after the start of the new year, Nathan had suddenly just stopped showing up for tea. Peter kept attending, half to check on his parents and score a quick sugary meal, and half to see if Nathan would appear. Peter was perfectly all right - once he'd gotten over being sick, he had gotten right back into the swing of things, going to classes, working at Starbucks three mornings a week, working at the hospital doing data entry four nights a week, volunteering when he had a spare hour - but without being able to see Nathan every day, Peter started having problems sleeping for the first time since the towers came down.
Because, of course, in the days after, he hadn't slept until he made it home, so that didn't count.
On the second day that Nathan didn't show up for tea, Peter called him anxiously, only to have Nathan tersely answer, "I'm fine, Peter, I can't talk right now," and hang up. After that, Peter called Nathan at least once a day, varying the time of day, trying to find a tiny blank spot in Nathan's schedule, and Nathan just didn't answer.
Peter asked his mother if Nathan was all right, and she replied off-handedly, "Oh, he's fine; I talked to him this morning."
"So why won't he pick up when I call him?"
"He doesn't want to talk to you," his mother shrugged.
Peter just couldn't figure it out. It didn't make sense. He worked out for an extra half-hour every day, trying to tire himself out enough to sleep. He drank valerian tea until his kidneys ached. He counted sheep. But he still spent the nights lying bolt awake, wondering what Nathan was doing, tracing his fingers over his chest in the way he imagined Nathan was stroking Heidi's breasts, just this once wishing that he could be her, having Nathan come home to her bed every night. He hoped she appreciated what she had.
And for some reason, when he called at nine o'clock on the dot on the eighteenth, Nathan answered. "Peter. What is it."
Peter couldn't believe his random luck. He blurted, "Come over and play with me. Please. I just need you for a little while. I keep... missing you." It was a little embarrassing for Peter to hear how crazy he sounded - his voice quivering, almost gasping like he'd been running. He took a huge steadying breath before continuing, "It's my night off and I want to see you."
"Peter, this is so not a good time for this."
"Why don't you come to Mom and Dad's anymore?"
"Because I don't have time for it. It was nice, but I've got all this stuff to do. You should look into it. Besides, Mom and Dad are sick of you, you know."
Peter hesitated for a long time before answering. "No, they're not," he said, his voice much more controlled now. "They'd tell me to my face if they were. The holidays are over; they don't have to be nice to me." He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "And I've got plenty to do."
"How about spending an extra hour on it every day, instead of running up your phone bill?"
"Nathan, please... please come over. I'll owe you one. I just... I feel like I need you tonight. I'm just not feeling very stable right now. Please. I can't deal with anybody but you right now. I don't want to be alone. I'm not sure what I'll do if you don't come."
It was a low blow, and Peter felt a flicker of guilt for playing on Nathan's fears; everybody in the family seemed to be operating under a vague suspicion that Peter was suicidal, when absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. He was more determined than ever to live to the fullest, help everyone he could, and love as much as he wanted to, no matter what happened. But it was true; Peter didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to be with anybody else, and he really didn't feel very stable.
More than anything, he wanted to be held for a long time, stroked and petted and fucked and kissed and reassured. And then he'd be okay - really okay.
"I'll be there in half an hour," said Nathan, and hung up.
Peter nodded in satisfaction as he put the phone down. Nathan was on to something; manipulation did feel good.
He took a shower in the hottest water he could stand, gulping down lungfuls of steam until he felt dizzy, trying to relax, heating himself up. It was cold in his apartment, but he'd radiate plenty enough warmth for him and Nathan both, once they were wrapped up in the decadent flannel of Peter's bed, in those luxurious sheets that Nathan had bought Peter himself.
"Merry Christmas, Pete," he'd said as he'd handed Peter the enormous gift box, kissing Peter on the side of the face, and whispering ever-so-softly against his ear, "I'm sorry." Considerate of him to be so gentle about it, Peter thought. Peter hadn't really expected anything to happen then, anyway; it was a somber and solemn holiday that year. It wasn't until he'd gotten home, put the sheets on the bed, and then lay on them that he began to wonder if Nathan wasn't sending him a message. And then spent the next twenty-four nights continuing to wonder.
Think of me when you're in bed.
But even between those cozy, fluffy sheets, Peter couldn't sleep.
Out of the shower, Peter put on a clean T-shirt, pajama bottoms, and a heavy terrycloth robe, then uncorked a bottle of good chianti. He "let it breathe" by pouring himself a glass, and drinking it straight down. And another. There'd be plenty left over, and he loved the round, tart feel of the wine in his mouth and throat. He spent the next few minutes trying in vain to straighten up his apartment, but the mess was too far gone for him to do more than make neat piles of unorganized stuff before the knock came on the door.
Nathan walked in, and Peter shut and locked the door behind him. "Hey," said Peter. Nathan turned and hung up his coat, then regarded Peter coldly. His face bore a faint sheen of stubble, and his hair was neatly combed, but a trifle longer than it should have been; he wasn't keeping himself up as well as he usually did. It seemed he hadn't had a haircut since Christmas. Maybe Nathan missed him, too. Peter cocked his head and attempted to smile cutely, shyly, appealingly. "Want a glass of chianti?"
Nathan shook his head, still looking at Peter with that same inscrutable expression. Without warning, his hands latched onto Peter's shoulders, grabbing him and pulling him close. He kissed Peter hard, unrelentingly, holding Peter's lower lip between his teeth and pressing down a little, as if threatening to bite it off. Peter grunted softly in protest and surprise, hands first flat against Nathan's chest, then sliding around Nathan's back and holding him, too, squeezing tight, fighting to keep up.
This wasn't what he wanted, but he did enjoy this too, and maybe if he stuck with it, it would eventually become what he wanted. As long as they could just be together and naked and loving each other, he could change its direction, get them into that bed with those dream-worthy sheets and all the sleepy, comforting heat in the world. The kiss was just a jump-start.
Without lifting his mouth for more than a moment, Nathan backed Peter over to the red leather chair in the front room. Nathan pulled back and drew in his breath, his dark eyes averted. "Hey," Peter protested, finally able to speak, "let's go to bed, huh? I've got the flannel sheets on. Hey... Oh." He laughed nervously as Nathan yanked down Peter's pajama bottoms, exposing his now-raging hard-on, sighed as Nathan took Peter's dick in hand, fondling it with a firm, unsentimental touch. Nathan used the other hand to push Peter's pelvis to one side, making Peter turn half around to keep his balance, then pulled his dick to complete the other half-turn, until Peter now faced the chair himself. Nathan sat down in the chair, opened his mouth, and pushed Peter's cock inside, sucking immediately.
Peter arched his back, his eyes widening. "You're ... you're going too fast," he protested.
Nathan actually shook his head, his mouth still full of cock, and turned the shaking motion into a side-to-side swiping lick that brushed his tongue firmly against the under-ridge of the shaft. Peter gave a helpless whine. "Oh... slow down, slow down," he begged. "Oh, no. Oh." Nathan deep-throated him, did a suck-swallow, then ran his tongue back up under the head, using the tip of his tongue to tickle the hypersensitive slit. Peter clenched his hands in Nathan's hair. "Christ! Don't! Ah, don't suck me off so fast - I want to - take my time - ah! Nathan, please, slow down, you're gonna hurt me."
Nathan just shook his head again, sucking long and relatively slow, moving his mouth all the way from the root to the tip of the glans, then sliding back down again and repeating it. His fingers dug hard into Peter's buttocks, holding him still, using Peter's hips to move Peter's rigid cock into and out of his mouth - never all the way out, no. He kept his mouth on at all times.
"Please, oh, God," Peter gasped, involuntarily bucking his hips, frowning as he had one of those quick, uninspiring orgasms that was barely worthy of the name. Nathan held the head of Peter's cock firmly against his tongue, massaging him, and sighing when the semen spurted into his mouth, gulping it down right away instead of tasting it. Nathan sat back slowly with a quiet, but obscenely contented smack of his tongue inside his mouth, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for just a second.
Peter stared at him. "Okay," he said, his voice dubious. He smiled hopefully.
Nathan stood up, pulling Peter's pajama bottoms back up in the same motion. He gave Peter another inscrutable look, then roughly tousled Peter's hair, and headed for the door.
"What the fuck?" Peter frowned. Nathan got his coat from the coat rack, and slipped it on, no longer looking at Peter. He didn't seem angry, or particularly concerned at all. Peter stood there stunned, blinking in disbelief. He was just leaving now, after... How could he? Bed! They needed to go to bed! Or - at least... Peter started shaking. "Nathan! Wait! Nathan! What did I do? Say something!" Peter begged, his voice cracking worse than it had since he was a teenager. Nathan opened the door, slid out sideways, and tugged the door shut behind him.
Peter sank down onto the chair, stunned, running his hands through his hair. He felt cold and nauseated - violated, almost. But violated by a lack, instead of an unwanted presence. He didn't know how to deal with this. Rape, he could counsel; he understood the healing mechanisms for that, he'd had extensive training, knew that it was an act of violence and Not Your Fault and... But... what was this?
"Come back," he whispered.
He needed Nathan so badly. He didn't need to get off; he could get off by himself just fine. He needed Nathan to pet him to sleep, tease him and talk to him and love him. But he wasn't coming back. Peter could tell he wasn't coming back.
He went to the bathroom and puked, destroying the lingering taste of Nathan remaining in his mouth, the faint ticklish trace of the sensation of Nathan's stubble scraping his lips.
He went to bed, and curled up, chewing his pinky finger, trying to rein in the oncoming panic attack, but he could feel a steady flow of tears beginning already to soak his flannel pillowcase. He wanted to get up and rip the cushy sheets off the bed, but he was paralyzed with despair now; it didn't matter what he did or felt or wanted. It didn't matter. Life was meaningless, pointless, and brutal. There'd be no hiding from it in bed; there'd be no more hiding in illusions. He couldn't make something happen just by wanting it.
The first sob nearly choked him. He cried violently for a while, expressing everything that he didn't know he had to express, all the helplessness and despair that he hadn't known he was feeling until now. He just felt so stupid - all that stuff he was doing, running himself ragged, trying to hold this back, when it was right behind him all along, but so enormous that he couldn't see it. He couldn't be to Nathan what Nathan wanted. He couldn't be to his parents what they wanted. He couldn't even be to himself what he wanted. He couldn't undo all the fucked-up things the world, all the hate and misunderstanding and vengeance and ugliness. He could only do what he could, and if that wasn't enough, it wasn't. And it wasn't. And then what?
Without realizing it, without even wanting it, he slept.
The next day, he spent the hour he ordinarily spent at his parents' house at the doctor's office, getting a prescription for sleeping pills that he didn't end up needing; he slept perfectly normally after that. He stopped going to his parents' house every day. He quit his job at Starbucks, trading it in for working mornings at a vegetarian coffeeshop where he spent half his time banging peace-activist college chicks in the utility closet.
He didn't call Nathan again.
***
APRIL 2002
Nathan called Peter at four-thirty.
Peter was out on the street, on his way to the library, and he checked the caller ID, then slid across the afternoon crowds to stand against the wall of a building while he stared at the phone. He hesitated until he knew that the voicemail would pick up if he left it, then hit the answer button. "Hello?" he said brusquely.
"It's Nathan."
They hadn't spoken at all since January 21st, at Nathan and Heidi's anniversary party, where they only said "hello", "congratulations", and "thank you." Nathan hadn't called him. He hadn't called Nathan. Their circles did not touch. Life had gone on.
"Pete, you busy tonight?"
"Yeah," said Peter.
"Doing what?"
"Studying."
"Ah, let it slide. I'm coming over."
"For what?"
"I want to see you."
"For what?" Peter said again, indignantly this time.
Nathan paused. "There's something I want you to give me," he said.
"Why don't you get Heidi to give it to you?" Peter said dryly.
Nathan's voice came back just as dry. "And I want to give you something, too."
Peter said, "Hmph. Typical. Whenever it's good for you, huh?"
"Correct. And tonight, I happen to be free. I thought I'd take you out for dinner, since I'm staying in Manhattan tonight, at Mom and Dad's. Heidi's mom's got Simon for the night, and Heidi specifically wants to be at home without me and the baby, since she's never had a chance. She's just going to take a bath, watch Sex and the City and go to sleep." Nathan laughed softly. "Her idea of a good time. She kicked me out for the night. So, I thought, what the hell."
Peter hoped to God that Heidi was cheating on Nathan. It would only be right. Preferably with six or seven tall, hunky firemen. "Dinner before or after?" he asked. Pedestrians on the street gave him a wide berth - he had the kind of expression everyone imagines a person about to go on a killing spree would wear - the bloodless cheeks, the glazed and burning eyes, eyebrows drawn together in a single bristling line. His voice was dead calm.
It took Nathan a moment to respond. "After," he said. "I've got reservations at nine-thirty. What say I meet you at your place at five-thirty."
"Fine," said Peter. "Show up." He found a convenient alley, and proceeded to kick the shit out of a pile of cardboard boxes until his legs ached.
Then he went home, took off his coat, and sat down, staring at a poster on the wall and trying to focus himself. Nathan knocked on the door within a minute, though, long before Peter wanted to deal with him, and Peter slowly got up to let him in.
"Hi," Nathan said personably, smiling a little, then his face fell as he looked at Peter, staring and blinking at him in a subtly hostile fashion. Then Nathan smiled again, one of his big smiles that was half-smirk. Maybe even more than half. "How you doin', Pete?"
Peter didn't reply. He arched his eyebrow, looked Nathan up and down, looked back into his eyes. The kind of look you couldn't do to somebody on the subway, or they'd be within their rights to shiv you. Nathan just took it all in, cocking his head to the side. "You're obviously pissed off at me," he said.
Peter smirked back, widening his eyes. No shit, Sherlock.
Nathan hung up his coat, unwound his scarf, looking over Peter, as if trying to find the right place to grab. He decided on the left arm, lightly wrapping his fingers around Peter's bicep. That was a mistake. Peter jerked away as if he'd been burned.
"When I'm ready," he snarled.
Nathan looked shocked at first, then his eyes softened, and he nodded. "Okay," Nathan said. "Well... I'm going to go lie in your bed." He added quietly, "Please come join me." He reached out to Peter again, and when Peter didn't flinch, leaned in and kissed him on the lips.
Then Nathan went to the bedroom, stepped out of his shoes at the bedside, took off his outer clothes, and frowned at Peter's unmade chaos of sheets and blanket and pillows, still in the churned mass he'd left it in from the night before. "Good Lord, Peter, you're twenty-one - are you ever going to start making your own bed?" He climbed on. "Well, too late for today, anyway."
Peter wished to God he didn't have the nice flannel sheets on right now; it had been cold for the last few nights, and he'd put them back on so he wouldn't shiver as he went to sleep. Now it would seem like he'd kept them on since January. He stood next to the bed, staring down at Nathan making himself comfortable, rubbing his body back and forth until he'd formed a hollow to his liking, like a settling cat. He looked like he belonged there; even the pale-gold-and-green colors of the stripes nicely complimented his olive complexion. "Mmmm, these are really nice. Aren't I nice to you?" He held out his arm. "C'mon, Pete," he said. "You're making me feel cold, looking at you standing there."
Peter took his pants and sweater off, left on T-shirt, underwear, and socks, and lay next to Nathan. Nathan pulled the covers over them entirely, plunging them into gold-green semi-darkness, and put his arm around Peter's shoulders, kissing him on the forehead. Peter lay still and silent, his half-lidded eyes focused downward. Nathan gazed at him at a distance of mere inches, running one finger down Peter's curtain of hair, brushing it off his forehead. He kissed Peter's unmoving mouth. "You're not alone," he whispered, kissing Peter again, kissing until Peter responded, however fractionally.
Nathan took Peter's hand, and placed it over his genitals, murmuring, "Go on, touch. I'm here. Right now, I'm yours. I need you, too. Did you forget that I'm your slave, too?" He kissed Peter's forehead again, his lips again. "Don't I come when you call?"
Peter drew in a shaky breath. He still didn't say anything, but his fingers tightened around Nathan's penis, which responded immediately to his touch. Nathan arched his hips toward Peter, pressing himself inward toward Peter's legs, trapping Peter's hand between them, between Nathan's cock and Peter's body. Nathan arched against the hand, his breaths deepening. "Yeah, that's right," he purred. "Don't you understand...? How much I love you? How much I... live for you... I love this so much. I live for this. Don't you appreciate how special this is?"
Peter kissed him on the mouth, just to make him be quiet and stop saying those things. He wanted to be angry. It was his right to be angry. But he didn't want to hurt Nathan. He loved this, too, all of it, including the discomfort, the painful angle of his wrist trapped between them, trying to figure out how to fit their bodies together in new ways. The same ways tended to present themselves. But that wasn't what they were doing now. It was awkward and a little difficult and tentative, like they'd forgotten how to do this. Like it was new again.
They were playing.
Peter took his hand back, and Nathan moaned softly in protest, catching the errant hand in his and pressing it to his back, pressing their lower bellies together. Heat built up behind the layers of T-shirt jersey; Peter wanted to feel it directly. He pushed up his shirt and Nathan's shirt and pressed his bare belly against Nathan's. "Oh, nice, you've got some definition there," Nathan breathed, stroking Peter's stomach with his fingertips. "Have you been working out? See, I did do you some good."
Peter could barely breathe all of a sudden - yes, he had been working out more, it felt good and helped him sleep better - he wanted to tell Nathan about it, about all the girls he'd fucked at his new job, about all the profound and random and boring stuff that had happened in the meantime - but he wasn't ready yet. Peter sharply pinched Nathan's ass with his fingernails instead. Nathan seemed to like that. He shrugged his undershirt off entirely, pulled off Peter's, bare chest against bare chest now, naked skin from shoulders to waistbands. And this was familiar too, rubbing their cocks together, next to each other, underneath thin fabric radiating dull heat. Peter slid his hand into Nathan's underwear, down the front, running his fingers through rough hair to get to incredibly hot, silky skin, already slightly moist from sweat and breath-steam. Peter kissed Nathan before Nathan could make a sound, so that he'd have to sigh into Peter's mouth. Peter concentrated on stealing Nathan's breath, hoping he could make Nathan pass out, and then Peter could get up and get dressed and leave and then laugh and...
No way could he leave this bed.
Peter released Nathan's mouth, and rolled away for a moment, trying to figure out what it was that he did want to do. Nathan solved one of the problems - he drew the covers back from their faces, giving them fresh air. Peter felt his head clearing, out in the open. It was almost dark, but for the lamp right in front of the front door, casting peculiar shadows around the room. He wanted to suck Nathan's cock, but for some reason it seemed too obvious; he didn't want to just get Nathan off and give him a fresh excuse to draw away.
Nathan made up Peter's mind for him by sliding his hand down the back of Peter's shorts, caressing his ass, curling his fingers into the crack. Peter moaned involuntarily. Nathan ducked his head back under the blanket and licked and bit Peter's nipples, his fingers still exploring Peter's ass, tugging down his underwear. Peter kicked it the rest of the way off, rolled over onto his stomach, offering himself up. Rather than attempting to penetrate Peter with his fingers, like Peter thought he would do, Nathan instead lay on top of him, covering him, placing his hardening cock between Peter's buttocks, rubbing gently and slowly back and forth. He kissed the back of Peter's neck, curled his fingers into Peter's.
Holding him. Exactly. Yes. Exactly this. Both of them rising up on their knees, Nathan between Peter's spread thighs, Peter's head down immersed into the flannel-covered pillows, Nathan simulating a slow, impossibly intense fuck, but holding Peter's hand while he did. "Oh, Pete... God..." he whispered, his voice awestruck. "It feels so good. Is this good? Please tell me."
Peter didn't want to give in, but his resistance had been worn away into nothing. "Yeah," he whispered back, then added with a laugh in his voice, "Oh, hey... you wanna fuck me for real?"
"I thought you would never ask," Nathan murmured.
They took it slow. Nathan lubricated both surfaces - the head of his cock and Peter's asshole - patiently rubbed and pressed until he made it just inside. Then he pulled out, added a handful of lube to himself, and slid in until it wasn't easy anymore. And did that again, and again until he was in all the way. Peter felt no more than a moment's discomfort, and instead found himself quivering with restrained lust, moaning like crazy even though nothing crazy was actually happening. Nathan wasn't even moving, just socketed in deep, holding Peter and nuzzling Peter's neck in the same rhythm Peter wanted to be used inside him. After an excruciating minute spent this way, Nathan said, "Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want."
Peter couldn't speak. There were too many things he wanted, all at once. He gritted his teeth and whined, bucking back against Nathan demandingly. "That's it, huh?" Nathan said. "Okay. Let's do it."
He lay back, still inside Peter, pulling Peter into a sitting position, facing away. He wrapped the blanket around Peter's shoulders, leaving his back exposed, naked to Nathan's stroking hands. Peter laughed, then bit his lip, set his newly-defined belly muscles, and got down to the business of fucking himself exactly as he wanted, different from moment to moment. Hard and deep; faster; drawn-out and slow with circles. Underneath him, Nathan sighed and gasped appreciatively. "Perfect," he murmured, stroking Peter's skin over and over, running his hand across Peter's side to reach for his cock, jerking it off for him. "You got it. You are the best. You know how to fuck me better than anybody. You live for it!"
"Fuck you," Peter hissed at him, offended, even though he knew it was true. He pushed Nathan's hand off his cock, and took it in hand himself. The head was slick and running with pre-come, which he spread down over his cock, shivering at how good it felt.
"Yeah," Nathan said. Peter looked over his shoulder at Nathan, who was grinning, laughing a little even though his eyes were narrowing and fluttering. Inside him, Peter felt Nathan's cock twitch hard. "Yeah, if I'm lucky... fuck me..." He descended into soft, wordless moans, his body shuddering. Peter rode him hard, knowing it was almost all over, not wanting to stop so soon, but it just brought him to orgasm that much sooner, running his orgasm right up against Nathan's, meshing together, wrapping them both in stinging bliss.
***
Nathan had gotten them dinner reservations at a new, painfully hip Thai/French restaurant in NoHo. Peter would have felt shaggy and out of place if he hadn't been with Nathan, who looked blatantly post-coital; his lips were still red and swollen, his eyes dazed, locks of his hair still standing on end. Peter couldn't help smiling at him, even as he said, "You owe me an apology."
"No, I don't," Nathan said, ignoring the menu. "I owe you an explanation."
"I'm all ears," Peter said.
Nathan poured a glass of pinot gris from the bottle on their table, frowning a little. "You were smothering me."
"I was-" Peter tried to cut in.
Nathan held up his finger to silence him. "You were smothering me," he repeated. "I really didn't have time for it. I've got a baby, Pete. And I had an anniversary party to plan, or at least approve all the catering, decorations, and all that shit. I've got a wife who I love, and I have to pay attention to." Nathan sipped his wine, and shook his head. He continued, speaking slowly and precisely, "I'm a lawyer. I work in the D.A.'s office. Our city was just hit by a major terrorist attack. We have a huge, completely unexpected workload, and with my military background, I'm in very high demand as a source of information. And then there's you." He laughed quietly. "And you need me more than anybody else. And you need to know where I am every minute of every day. And you need hugs and kisses and reassurance and explanations and protection... sometimes I just don't have it to give. And it's painful, because I love you more than anything."
Peter grimaced painfully, and gave a heavy sigh. "It's just that I thought you were dead," he said, all in a rush. "It's just that I thought you - that -" He dissolved into stuttering, clenched his fist and tapped it on the table until he got himself together. Nathan poured him a glass of wine. "I was worried," Peter clarified. "I literally worried myself sick. And I ... thought I was over it."
"Are you over it now?" Nathan asked quietly.
Peter drank some wine and shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "I gave up."
"You let go," Nathan clarified. "I made you let go. I cut you off. You wouldn't be over it if I hadn't done that."
"It was such a prickish way to do it, though. You gotta admit."
Nathan shook his head. "No," he said. "The way I see it, I was on my way home from a brutal day of work, and I dropped everything and turned back around and came over, because you called."
"Because you were afraid I'd..." Peter said snarkily, unwilling to listen to what Nathan was actually saying.
"Yeah," Nathan agreed.
Peter widened his eyes. "And you thought that'd keep me from hurting myself?"
"I knew it would," said Nathan, sipping his wine.
"So you didn't actually want to," Peter mumbled.
Nathan smiled sadly at him. "I didn't want to leave," he clarified. "And if I didn't leave right then, I wasn't going to. And if I spoke to you... I knew I..." He sighed heavily. "Pete, do you have any idea how hard this is for me?" He looked away from the table, eyes flickering out over the restaurant, his voice so quiet it almost got lost in the social noise. "I can't be with you as much as I want, either. I really can't now. But... sometimes I can. It's very lucky when I can. And... you do live for it. I know. If wanting me keeps you alive, please do. Please. But it's not going to be easy. It'll never be easy. And hell, if you had me around all the time, you'd get sick of me."
"I've never known what that's like," Peter said.
"Trust me. Sometimes a bath, TV, and an early bedtime is preferable."
"Maybe she's fucking around on you," Peter theorized. "She lets you get away with a lot."
"If she is, more power to her," said Nathan, though by the tone of his voice, the idea upset him. "I haven't noticed a thing."
Peter said slowly, "I'm... sorry... I was smothering you."
"I understand where it was coming from," Nathan replied. "I was worried, too. I got in touch with Heidi first, and then Mom, and nobody had heard from you and nobody could get in touch with you. I thought, Oh geez... I knew you'd want to run down there and try to save people." His voice held both laughter and terrible sadness. "You've got just enough nursing school to be dangerous. You'd want to be there. And then you'd get yourself killed. I see the whole thing."
"No, I was puking by the entrance to the freeway," Peter said. "Forgetting how to use my turn signal." He smiled, wiped his fingers roughly across his cheekbone before the tears made their way down his face. "I thought the same thing about you," he added. "Except that you'd be there. And you would be saving people. And then you'd get killed."
"We're both idiots," said Nathan crisply, looking up with a practiced smile at the sexy blonde waitress, and Peter watched her professional demeanor melt into that of a dazzled schoolgirl, thinking to himself, That's Nathan, all right.
The he realized as she looked over at him that he had had sex with her before, maybe a month ago in the utility closet of the coffee shop. He grinned at her; she gave him a watery-looking smile and retreated back to the kitchen. Nathan looked at Peter with admiration, throwing quick and elegant sign language: You? Her? Seriously? Good for you!
After dinner, outside Peter's apartment building Nathan turned off the car's engine at the curb and Peter leaned over and lay his head in Nathan's lap. Nathan stroked Peter's hair soothingly. "I will save people," Peter said. "I've decided. Somehow. One of these days, I won't suck."
"I'm gonna save people, too," Nathan replied. "I'm doing everything I can to make that possible. I promise I'll save you first."
"Aww."
"You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna go get some sleep." Peter sat up, smiled at Nathan, and kissed his cheek. "You want to stay over?"
"No," said Nathan. "Those flannel sheets make it too hot to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow. Check on you."
And he did. And the next day, and the next.
END PART (18)
A/N: My little tribute to flannel sheets, Milo's abs, and "getting over it." I'm still working on "getting over it" myself, but I kind of hope I never do - and you'd better believe I wish I had superpowers on that day. But that's a whole 'nother fic, and I am not going to write it. I think that the first season of Heroes is very much a version of that wish fulfillment about 9/11 (because why have the "bomb" in NYC, and not, say, L.A.?). Let's hope TPTB don't lose sight of the larger emotional and moral questions they can explore (and let Milo and Adrian wear less clothing - it's a shame to keep such beauty covered up!).
Thanks for reading!