Fic: Ritual (27): Dixon
Title: Ritual (27): Dixon
Pairing/Characters: Nathan/Peter, Nathan/OC, Heidi, various OCs
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: season 1
Word Count: about 8600
Warnings: Incest, language, noncon, dubcon, underage character, explicit m/m sex, angst
Summary: Nathan is confronted with traumatic memories from his past that he'd rather forget - his freshman year at military school under the authority of Cadet Commander Dixon, what Dixon did to him, and how Nathan eventually prevailed - but he continues to bear the emotional scars. Peter just wants to help Nathan heal. (Very dark and melodramatic, but very funny at the same time... or at least I hope so...)
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24) :: (25) :: (26)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fanfiction inspired by the property. I do not condone almost anything that's in this story, besides the impulse to be healing and compassionate to abuse survivors, fighting against bigotry, and using your wits to triumph over bad guys (who are still only human, after all). Those, to me, are the fundamental principles of Heroes, anyway...
JANUARY 2005.
[four months before Ritual 1: "Bring It Here"]
Mitch Powell was one of Nathan's oldest friends - one year above him at the military high school they had both attended, they had been in the same physics class and had bonded over their mutual love of civics, guns, and Van Halen. Nathan had always thought that Mitch would become career military, but instead he'd gone to grad school and returned to the Academy as a teacher, administrator, and editor of the school's alumni magazine. Mitch and Nathan had fallen out of touch in the years after high school, ran into each other again a few years back, and picked up their friendship from where it had left off. Once in a while, when business brought Mitch into the city, he and Nathan would grab a drink together at the end of the work day.
That January night, sipping cognac in front of the fireplace at Mitch's oak-paneled social club, they chatted pleasantly. They talked about the Knicks and how poorly the team was doing that year. They discussed their wives and kids, how their holidays had gone, how they were dealing with frustrations on the job. Mitch shared a little alumni gossip, too, which Nathan always appreciated. After a comfortable pause, Mitch swirled the cognac in his glass and asked casually, "By the way, did you hear the news about Dixon? Remember, Kenyon Dixon?"
Nathan raised his eyebrows and blinked in surprise. "Huh! I haven't heard that name in a while," he said. In the firelight, even if he'd been looking, Mitch couldn't have seen the gradual reddening of Nathan's face, or the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped his cognac glass. "No, what's the skinny?"
"Damn shame," Mitch said, shaking his head. "He passed on recently."
"What?" Nathan had the forethought to set his glass down, before the grip of his fingers snapped the delicate stem. "He's dead?"
"Yeah. He got blown up out in Baghdad. Couple of months ago. Supposedly a truck he was in got shot up, but... there's a rumor that it might have been friendly fire. Wouldn't surprise me, either way. That place is chaos. Still, shame, though - he was just a few months away from retirement."
"Huh," Nathan said in a bored tone of voice. "That is a shame." He picked up his cognac again; his hands were steady as a rock, even though his temples had become damp with sweat. "I hardly knew the guy, though."
"What? C'mon," Mitch said, surprised. "You were his lieutenant, man; his favorite. And he wouldn't shut up about what a good soldier you were. You were held up as an example of what we were all supposed to be. You two guys made the rest of us look bad. I never could figure out how you were able to stand him."
Mitch didn't know.
Some guys hadn't. Not everybody had known, or even suspected. He wished that nobody knew, but he knew that wasn't true. He wished that he could just forget about it completely, have the knowledge wiped from his mind. He wished Dixon had never existed. He wished... Oh God. You have to get ahold of this right now, Petrelli. Mitch doesn't know, and he won't know, if you keep your shit together.
"He was a good C.O., but I never considered us friends or anything," Nathan said. He struggled to sound indifferently, politely sad, but his voice came out flat. That was fine. Anything was better than expressing even a fragment of the simmering rage coursing through his veins. "Did he leave any family?"
"No," Mitch said. Without looking at Nathan he added, "He was a queer."
"You don't say," Nathan replied. He set down his glass again.
"Yeah, who'd've thought? Bigoted asshole like him. God rest him. His 'partner' is apparently trying to get Dixon's survivor benefits. Wrote to me to see if I could help further his cause. Writing skills of a ten-year-old. He can forget about it." Mitch scoffed. "Can you believe the nerve? Some of these dead soldiers have wives and kids; what, does he think there's enough money to go around to everybody who feels like they ought to get something?" He took a drink and waved his hand. "I don't have anything against... any of that stuff," he added, "but seriously, c'mon. What's the guy think we're gonna do?"
Nathan just shrugged and smiled, and went on autopilot for the rest of the evening, even after he'd left the club, gone home, had dinner, tried to make love to his wife. Heidi told him he was acting strange, and he told her that he'd found out that night that one of the guys he'd gone to school with had been killed in Iraq. She was quiet then, and let him hold her and kiss her until she went to sleep; and Nathan stayed up, holding her in his arms without feeling her.
Running through his mind like a ticker-tape: He's dead, and I didn't kill him. He's gay and he's dead and I didn't get the chance to kill him. I thought I was done with wanting to kill him, but no, I'm not done. He's dead, and I'm not done with wanting to kill him. He's dead. Dixon's dead and he died fighting like a soldier, a real soldier, and he left behind some illiterate boyfriend, some boy who maybe loved him, some boy who isn't afraid to tell the world, the whole world, that Dixon was ... Did anyone know? Did everyone know? They all know now, anyway; about Dixon, anyway. They don't know about... Dixon's dead, and I have to try to forget about it all over again. Again. Because now I can't kill him myself.
***
SEPTEMBER 1983.
Cadet Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon. Loved to say his whole name and title, would probably have added "Mister", except that it was against regs. Descendent of the Dixon who had surveyed the line that later would define North and South; a proud son of the country on the Southern side. Loved to spout that fact, too. Commander of D-Wing, the dormitory where Nathan lived. A year older than he should have been; intelligent but dyslexic. A little over six feet tall, towering over most of the freshman cadets, so that he had to lean over to shout in their faces.
"My name is Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon! But to you, my name is sir! You will address me, and all other cadets of my rank, as sir! Or you will receive a demerit! I am watching you at all times and I expect perfect comportment and discipline on my wing! I did not rise to my current rank by slacking and bullshittery - I was raised to my current rank by a consistent track record of excellence! Not just of my person, but of the cadet wing under my command! Each and every one of you will provide excellence in word! Deed! Academics! Extracurriculars! And appearance! Not just of your person, but of this entire wing! We do not have maids here! You will keep this place spotless and neat - you will keep yourself spotless and neat! If you cannot provide this, please - call your saggy-titted momma to come pick you up right now! This is the Academy you're in now, and you are in D-Wing with myself your commander, and I will not tolerate slacking, backtalk, or second-best! You will do what I tell you, and we will end up on top of this school, with all of the privileges and reputation which such status deserves! You! Midget! What is your name, cadet?"
"Sir, Petrelli, sir."
"Puh-trelli? That ain't no kinda name. You some kinda wop or somethin'?"
Some snickers came from the other cadets. For some reason, iron discipline or no, Dixon let the laughter slide without comment. He glared at Nathan from a distance of mere inches. Nathan could see the blood vessels in Dixon's fixed, unwavering, unblinking eyes. "No, sir," Nathan replied, a little nervously.
"We ain't got no room for no mafia here, boy. This ain't no New York City, and I ain't your goddamn godfather. You're a shit-spoiled, pansy-assed Boy Scout, and it is my job to make you into a soldier. And I'm gonna do it. Somehow. Ain't much I got to work with here. Fi' demerits on them unshined boots, and you get fi' more tomorrow if it ain't good enough." He turned away, and Nathan winced; five demerits could take an entire semester to work off, doing some of the crappiest jobs in the whole school and getting straight A's in all his classes. It was idiotically excessive, especially on his very first day. Dixon started yelling at the next guy, who actually flinched away from him. Nobody laughed this time. Nathan thought to himself, I have to live here, with this guy as my leader. In charge of everything I do; in charge of the place where I sleep. Somehow, I have to figure it out. I want this school. I worked hard to get into this school, and I won't let some racist bully run me out of here. If I have to take him down, I will.
He watched out the corner of his eye as Dixon went through the room of cadets standing at painful attention, singling out boy after boy for violations in dress code, posture, and physical condition, slinging demerits around. To hear him say it, this group of freshman was the most worthless collection of retards, niggers, chinks, pussies, lard-asses, and beaners ever to pollute the Academy - but nobody got five demerits except Nathan. Nathan was apparently the worst.
Nathan examined Dixon as closely as he could, using only his peripheral vision. The cadet commander was still lanky for his height, but growing into it, broad-shouldered and muscular. Reddish-blond hair cut just long enough to show its color, like a coppery frost on the surface of his skull. Narrow, pale-green eyes, thick dandelion-fluff blond eyelashes, muscled jaw, no doubt well-exercised from screaming at cadets. A handsome face made blank and unreadable with hostility. Every detail of his uniform was razor-sharp perfect, from his crisply ironed epaulets to the faultless gleam of his boots. Nathan wondered if Commander Dixon looked like this all day, every day.
Is that what it takes to make it here?
Nathan felt very strange suddenly, but it wasn't until he got into bed that night and tried to go to sleep that he realized what the feeling was. It was loneliness. And homesickness. Nathan had never felt lonely or homesick in his life. He'd spent most of the last three years away from home in boarding schools and summer camps, and he had never once wished that he could just go home, hug and kiss his mom and his baby brother. Hug and kiss someone. He had mocked other kids for crying because they were homesick. Now that he knew what it felt like, he could never make fun of anyone for it ever again.
He didn't cry, but he wished that he could.
***
SEPTEMBER 2000.
[four days after Ritual 9: "Like A Tiger"]
Peter's bare stomach was so flat and smooth, Nathan saw it as a challenge to bite the skin, seize enough of it in his teeth to draw into his mouth and suck, leaving glistening blossoms of saliva on the surface. Peter squirmed and hummed happily, sliding his hand down over the suck marks into the waistband of his underwear, fondling himself. Nathan followed suit. Peter's cock was still soft, somehow, even after ten minutes of hard tongue-kissing. Usually Peter would get hard if Nathan so much as looked at him a certain way, but not today. Nathan withdrew his hand and impatiently pinched Peter's nipple, then stroked against his cock again. He was getting there, but slowly.
Peter sighed and pulled his shorts off, sliding out of them, and returned to fondling himself. Nathan kissed Peter's mouth again, their teeth clicking together. He needed Peter erect and aroused right now; they didn't have much time before their parents returned to the house, and both of them wanted to get as far as they could. If Peter would just cooperate, there would probably be enough time for both of them to get off. Making Peter come was his first priority; he'd been thinking about it, wanting it all day, wanting to see and taste it, hear what new sound Peter would make this time.
It was one of those weeks where their mutual lust was never far away, deliciously heightened by brief, coded phone discussions, carefully planned interactions, stealing every minute they could touching each other. It was never enough. Just a few nights ago, Peter had fucked Nathan for the first time, and they were anxious to recapture that, to experiment further, smashing limits and inhibitions, experience new possibilities. Nathan was amazed with Peter, amazed with himself, gripped with the kind of relentless lust that he hadn't felt in a long time. Peter just wanted Nathan, all of Nathan, all the time, and the more he had, the more he wanted. Nathan couldn't even process how much of himself he had already surrendered. What was left? What else could he give Peter?
Peter moaned and laughed, giddy with sensuality. He slid his fingers into Nathan's hair, grabbed it, and gripped almost painfully tight. "Suck my dick," he whispered, his voice faint and playful, but demanding.
"No, not yet," Nathan said, touching Peter's still-soft, supple penis with his fingertips, then drawing his hand away.
"Now," Peter said in full voice, clenching Nathan's hair harder. Now it hurt.
"No. Quit it - let up."
Peter pushed down on Nathan's head with the heel of his hand. "Do it, I said," Peter insisted. "Suck it now. Suck it till it's hard. Now!"
"No," Nathan said.
"Do it!" Peter said, raising his voice, pushing Nathan's head harder, brushing Nathan's mouth against his cock.
Nathan swung his arm, looping it through Peter's, shoving Peter's hand off him, away from him. He felt the impact of his arm against the bones inside Peter's, knowing it hurt Peter ten times more than it hurt him, and would probably leave a bruise. He didn't care. He hoped it hurt like hell. The blow nearly knocked Peter off the bed. "I said no!" Nathan shouted through gritted teeth, stared down at Peter, and wanted to punch the daylights out of him, punch Peter's face until it pulped under his knuckles, break all his teeth off in his mouth, choke the life out of him.
Not - not Peter. Not him. No. Wrong. Oh, shit. No.
Peter stared in shock, fear, confusion, grabbing the swelling bruise on his arm. Nathan slid away and sat up, taking a deep breath. "You know what," Nathan said, "just forget it, okay? I'm gonna go."
"No - wait - I'm sorry," Peter begged.
"Forget it." Nathan stood up, combed his fingers through his mussed hair, buttoned his shirt again. He was shaking so badly he could hardly fasten the buttons, but his voice was cool and still. "Tell Mom I'm sorry; I'll catch up with her this weekend."
"Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't - what's wrong?"
"Bye," was all Nathan could say. He stepped into his shoes and left the bedroom. Peter, naked, ran out into the hall after him, babbling apologies and concern, but Nathan didn't really hear him. He left the Petrelli townhouse and got into his car and drove, kept driving, didn't know or care where he was going. All of him just shut down, all except his mind, his memory, connections flashing together in his mind.
I can't tell him.
His cell phone rang while he was on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Nathan glanced at the caller ID, and saw that it was his parents' house's phone number. It was probably his mother, wondering why her evening plans with her sons had suddenly changed. He picked it up. "Yeah."
"Nathan? I'm sorry." Peter, his voice desperate, thick with tears and trying not to be. "I went too far."
"No, seriously, Pete, don't worry about it."
"You wouldn't even look at me," Peter said. His breath shuddered, holding back a sob. "Please, forgive me, I was stupid. I shouldn't have. I - I wrecked everything, didn't I?"
"No, Peter, it's fine, I said. You didn't do anything wrong. We play rough sometimes. It's, um... really. It's fine. It's something else; nothing you did."
"What? What is it?"
"I can't tell you," Nathan confessed. A horrible feeling settled in his chest. His heart breaking. He'd never known that it was a physical sensation; before now, he'd thought it was a metaphor. But he could feel it now, like a fist clenching inside him, and he had to make himself hollow to overcome it. But he couldn't break down; Peter needed him to be strong, and if strong meant "cold and distant", it would be.
Peter said miserably, "You have to tell me. Nathan, please. I need to know. Please, so I don't make the same mistake again."
"You didn't - I - look, I'll tell you about it later, I promise. Just not tonight. I can't give you anything tonight. It's actually nothing to do with you. It's me; it's not you."
"That's how I know," Peter said. "When you actually take the blame. I know you. It's something... something serious, isn't it? Do you promise you'll tell me?" He sounded much less hysterical, less tearful. Believing what Nathan said. He was great that way sometimes; when Nathan really needed Peter to believe something, he would.
"One of these days, yeah," Nathan said. "Just not now. Please don't lean on me about this, okay? When I'm ready to tell you, I will."
"Okay. I love you," said Peter, unnecessarily. Still, it felt good, soothing.
"I love you, too. Gotta go. Bye."
***
OCTOBER 1983.
The Academy's janitorial staff did not handle the cleaning and maintenance of the dormitory wings; this was a task that was in the hands of the cadets themselves. There was a rotating shift of students assigned to clean various areas, but the worst part, the lavatories, were the exclusive domain of cadets working to undo demerits. Knowing that, the other cadets made absolutely no effort to tidy up after themselves in the lavatories, and frequently made the bathrooms as disgusting as possible.
Nathan had to learn that fact first-hand. The task of cleaning the toilet stalls at the end of the night, just before lights out, fell to him right away. For the last six weeks, instead of free time in the evenings, he spent every night scrubbing the tiles, spraying and wiping porcelain toilet bowls, picking up wet toilet paper off the floor, and trying not to guess the origins of the stains and smudges on the metal dividers between stalls and urinals. He did this without complaining, leaving the lavatories spotless before he was allowed to get into his bunk and try to go to sleep. His fellow D-wing freshman cadets took pity on him and didn't deliberately make a mess, and sometimes sneaked Nathan an extra dessert or a comic book, but the older cadets didn't care. One week of cleaning duty erased one-fifth of one demerit. Unfortunately, he had accumulated another demerit for not being in bed at lights-out, having a particularly nasty cleaning job one night, and he was almost back where he'd started from.
One particular Monday night, Nathan had barely slept at all. In his first-period economics class the next day, the instructor sprang an unscheduled test on the students. Nathan looked at his test sheet with dismay - he had been planning on looking at the relevant section of the textbook today, during study hall - two hopeless hours in the future. He was almost completely unprepared. He was going to fail this test.
He had never failed a test before in his life.
He scribbled away the best he could, answering the questions as far as common sense would take him, but on the last three, he couldn't remember the necessary formulas. If it was just one question, he might have tried to wing it, but three? Out of a total of seven questions? That wouldn't fly at all.
Nathan was seated next to the best student in the class - a junior, who had taken the class before but never completed it. The junior was filling out his test sheet slowly, spending half his time staring into space with his arms crossed, bored. It was no effort at all for Nathan to glance at the junior's desk, to catch a glimpse of the painstakingly neat handwriting, and let the correct formulas blossom in his mind. Nathan looked back at his own worksheet, and answered the final three questions with ease.
He had never done that before, either. His life was full of new, horrible things.
The rest of the day was uneventful; geometry class, study hall, formation and inspection, lunchtime, history class, Spanish class, afternoon football practice, more formation, dinnertime. During his fifteen minutes of allowed free time after dinner, he called home and talked to his father. Nathan told his father that everything was fine, and that he loved the Academy, and thanked him for being allowed to attend. Nathan's father said that he was proud, and sounded like he meant it.
After that, Nathan gathered up all his cleaning products and prepared to do battle with the demons of the third-floor lavatory for another night, feeling better than usual. It was good to talk to his father and feel that he was doing his family proud. He even hummed to himself as he sprayed bleach solution on the shower-stall tiles. It was probably the repetitive sound of the spray bottle that concealed the sound of footsteps.
"Soldier," said Dixon, right behind Nathan.
Nathan flinched, and then immediately hated himself for it. He drew himself up to full attention and fired off a crisp salute. "Sir!"
"At ease," Dixon said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. Nathan wasn't sure he'd ever seen Dixon smile before. It almost completely transformed his face; he had a big smile, dimples in both cheeks, and his eyes narrowed so much that they almost disappeared underneath the pale fluff of his eyelashes. It made him look not just handsome, but cheerful, roguish, ready to have fun. Just a rebellious teenager, teasing the girls at the drive-in. Nathan just stared, taking a step sideways and standing stiffly in the regulation "at ease" posture. Dixon chuckled. "How's that shitter duty treatin' you?" he asked.
"Sir, just fine, sir."
Dixon could stare like nobody's business. He just never seemed to need to blink, and it made Nathan blink more, just to compensate. "So how you think you did on that Econ quiz today?" Dixon asked pleasantly.
Nathan just stood there, blinking, and said nothing, but all of his skin went suddenly cold, like he'd fallen through a hole in the ice on a frozen lake.
"You didn't know I was there, did you?" Dixon continued, his voice quieting as he stepped closer to Nathan. With one finger, he pushed against Nathan's chest, backing him up away from the showers, toward the toilet stalls. "I came in later; you're always early, ain't you? Sat behind you. Making up a class I missed last week - I got the same class, just fifth period, after lunch. I'm sure pissed off that they had that quiz - that was a real bitch, wasn't it? But you shoulda been expecting it - if you had read ahead in the textbook, you woulda known Dr. O'Malley would prob'ly hit you with that stuff. And here I was, thinking you were a good student."
"Sir, I-"
Another finger-push backed Nathan completely into the handicapped-access stall, the one that was twice as big and roomy as the others, and Dixon followed him inside, and locked the door behind him. "Shut up, Petrelli," Dixon said. The smile was leaving his face, widening his icy eyes, staring hard at Nathan. He kept advancing, and Nathan kept backing up until his shoulder brushed the painted steel wall. "Ain't it a shame, what we come to?" Dixon whispered. "Ain't it a shame when a promising young student like you gets kicked out for cheatin'?"
"Don't," Nathan bleated, briefly, desperately.
"Can't you see your momma's face when she comes to pick you up? Your daddy? Your rich, strict... powerful daddy? Won't that just break their hearts?" Dixon rested both hands on the wall next to Nathan's head, one on either side, looking down at him, and making a peculiar, hypnotic swaying motion with his hips, like a snake charmer taunting a cobra, as he moved closer still. "There is a solution, though," Dixon added. "If you just do everything I tell you... nobody needs to know what you did."
"Sir, I..." Nathan gulped. He felt sweaty and disoriented, his heart surging with fear. "Please. Don't tell. Please?"
"Do what I say?" Dixon murmured.
"Yeah." Nathan's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir."
"That's better." The quirky smile returned to Dixon's face. This close, Nathan could see that some of his eyelashes were the same coppery-red as the hair on his head, and that his lips were chapped, and a faint trace of reddish stubble grew on his upper lip. He smelled like sweat, boot polish, sports chalk. His nostrils flared; he was smelling Nathan too.
"Now here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna get down on your knees and you're gonna suck my dick," he whispered, so faintly that Nathan could only hear the aspirations and the edges of consonants, the meaning of the words almost veiled, as though he were seeing them through steam. "Now. Do it."
Nathan stood frozen, except for his rapidly blinking eyes. He couldn't believe he'd heard that right, but he was too freaked out to ask for clarification. There's no way. What does he think I am? What is he? He's not -
Dixon grabbed Nathan's hair - on top, the only part of his hair long enough to grab - and yanked his head downward. Nathan almost lost his balance on the slick, recently mopped floor. "I said now," Dixon said. "Suck it 'til it's big and hard." Nathan had to catch himself against Dixon - hands against his chest and belly, touching him; he didn't want to touch him. Didn't want to do this. He started shaking as Dixon unfastened his belt, unzipped his pants; Nathan wanted to cry, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't let Dixon make him cry. Dixon let go of Nathan's hair, instead wrapped his fingers around the back of Nathan's neck. Nathan didn't want to get on his knees on the wet floor; he compromised by crouching down, having to hold onto Dixon's legs to keep his balance. Dixon pulled down his own underwear - the same BVD's with the striped elastic waistband as Nathan had, as part of their uniform - and pulled his cock out, letting it rest against the lowered waistband. It didn't look so big. It wasn't hard. Red pubes, too; ginger all over. Nathan hesistated, grimaced, and thought, I will take responsibility for my own life. I did something wrong, and this is my punishment. It doesn't have to be bad. Please, God, let it not be bad. But I will not be run out of here. I will not humiliate my parents. I will not humiliate myself. I am Nathan Petrelli and I am strong, inside and out. This doesn't change me.
"Suck on it," Dixon said, and then, even as Nathan was doing just that, said it again. "Suck on it. That's right, you little bitch. I knew it. Your secret's safe with me." He laughed softly. "Not a peep of protest. I thought so. I saw you; I knew."
Nathan had never before in his life wanted to kill someone. He wondered if he could get away with it. Nobody would convict him or send him to jail if he killed this bastard, and then no one would ever have to know about any of it. But how could he explain it? How could he look his mother in the eye and explain to her what happened?
When his cock had gotten completely hard, Dixon let Nathan go, but stayed behind in the stall until he was finished. Nathan rushed out of the stall, rinsed out his mouth with mouthwash, then went back to the showers and completed his cleaning job. His hands were steady, his mind a perfect blank. When Dixon emerged from the toilet stall, Nathan snapped to attention and saluted him. Dixon gave Nathan an appraising look and a little chuckle, like he was impressed, and left.
The next day, at morning formation, Nathan was informed that, thanks to his loyal and unflinching janitorial service, he now only had one demerit remaining. He accepted the news stoically, but as they finished formation and returned to the dormitory to dress for class, he caught the eye of Kirkpatrick, one of his fellow D-wing cadets, a junior, two years ahead of him. Kirkpatrick just gave him a weird little grimace and a shrug, then glared hatefully at Dixon as he continued on his way.
Nathan kept the same mask of stoicism on his face all day. When Dixon showed up in the lavatory that night during the cleaning cycle, Nathan once again did as he was told.
He passed his Economics test with a perfect score.
***
JANUARY 2005.
Nathan rose carefully from the bed, leaving the sleeping Heidi lying peacefully on her side. Soundlessly he walked through the hallway of his home, peeking through the door to glimpse his sleeping young sons, and then went downstairs to the kitchen where his cell phone sat in its charger. He picked it up, and hit speed-dial #3.
Several rings happened before the other line picked up. "Hey, Nathan, it's... one forty-six A.M.," Peter answered sleepily. "What's wrong?"
"I need to talk to you about something," Nathan said in a strained whisper, "something important. Can I come over?"
"Hmmm... yeah. Could you bring me a coffee?"
"Dunkin Donuts okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Thanks - I'll see you in an hour."
When Nathan got there, and Peter let him in, Peter looked tousled, but alert. He was in what passed for warm-weather pajamas for him - a pair of cotton boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt. Nathan smiled at him without really looking at him. He handed Peter his coffee, and tossed away the empty cup he'd been drinking from. He wasn't going back to sleep tonight, he knew. As Peter sipped and watched, Nathan got undressed, down to his T-shirt and boxers, too, and went to Peter's bedroom. He sat on the bed, then lay down on it, holding a pillow in his arms, feeling a paradoxical wave of sleepiness wash over him. "Mmm... your bed's really nice," he murmured.
Peter had followed, still sipping his coffee. "What is it?" he asked softly, curiously. "Middle of the night... emergency... what is it?"
"You know that guy?" Nathan said, then added as Peter shook his head and shrugged, "The guy who fucked me? Back at the Academy?"
Peter sank down on the bed beside him, eyes wide. "Yeah?"
"I want to tell you about him now," Nathan said. "I have to tell you about him now. I can't... I can't deal with this by myself anymore. And I've been... using you to try to deal with it, all this time."
Peter took a long swallow of his coffee and set it down on his bedside table, then stripped off his shirt with one motion, and his boxers with the other. He slid closer to Nathan, and held out his hand. "Yes," Peter said. "Use me. Go ahead. Keep using me."
Nathan chuckled quietly, and didn't take Peter's hand - instead he sat up and removed the rest of his clothes, too. Then he put his arm around Peter and brought their bodies together so that they touched, warm naked skin-on-skin, all the way from shoulders to toes. "I like you for more than that, of course," Nathan laughed.
"I know," Peter smiled. "So tell me. What is it? What's going on?"
"I have to tell someone. I have to tell you. And nobody else. Nobody else, Peter. Right?"
"Of course. Just start at the beginning. Or wherever. Wherever you want."
Nathan sighed heavily. It was terrifying. If he hadn't been holding Peter - if Peter hadn't been holding him - he could never have even tried. But maybe... maybe... it wasn't too late. Maybe, as Peter always suggested, between the two of them, they could change this into something else. Polish the millstone around Nathan's neck into a gem.
"Tell me about the first time," Peter gently prompted.
"The first time he fucked me?" he said. "The first time... it was first thing in the morning. He and I had managed to score equestrian care, which meant that at five in the morning once a week, he and I would head out to the stables, and we'd feed and check the horses. This was really high-end stuff; only seven groups of people got to do it each semester, and we were the only ones where it was just the two of us, because we were both really good at it, and we were in such high standing at the school. We were just exemplary. We did everything right and the teachers and the staff loved us. We were kind of a team, Cadet Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon and his faithful sidekick-slash-manservant Petrelli. So they let us do stuff all by ourselves. Just the two of us." He paused for a long time, gently caressing the curve of Peter's lower back, before continuing, "It was November, really cold, still dark. We got the horses fed, then... went back to the tack room. And he made me pull my pants down, and it was so cold, I remember... it was nice when he touched me. He didn't make me suck him first; he was already hard... he used to make me suck his cock until it got hard, which sickened me... a soft cock always makes me feel like I'm choking... and then he'd come in my mouth or he'd make me watch him jerk himself off... but not that day. He was already hard. He spit in his hand, and he rubbed it on me, and he fucked me, just with that. Just spit. And he'd brushed his teeth first thing and I could feel the menthol in his mouthwash inside my asshole. And it hurt so much. It burns; it stings. I guess it stings anyway, but..." Nathan made soft sounds that were almost laughter, but weren't. Peter gripped his hand tightly, but Nathan could barely feel it. "It hurt so much I thought I was going to pass out. But it was... so good at the same time. He fucked me from behind, and for a little while, I was warm. He came really quick, inside me, and then he just walked away and left me there, bent over the table in the tack room. I ran to the bathroom and thought I was going to puke, but I didn't. I thought I was going to be walking funny all day, but nobody seemed to notice. Dixon acted like nothing had happened. That's how I lost my virginity. Not to Jenny Lieber at the Christmas mixer, like I told you. No, that was different. And that was December. I was already experienced by then. I didn't do it because I wanted to. But I didn't say no, either. I never said no. Never said no to him." Nathan opened his eyes and smiled at Peter, and rubbed his fingertips across his dry cheekbones. "I'm still not crying about it. I told myself he wouldn't make me cry, and I haven't."
"Maybe you should," Peter murmured. He had the kind of look on his face where he felt overwhelmed, but also completely in his element - the realm of painful honesty. He let Nathan's hand go, then squeezed it again. This time, Nathan felt it. Felt all of Peter, his heartbeat, the sloshing of the coffee in his stomach, the gradual rising and falling of breath in his lungs. Nathan gave Peter a kiss just for existing.
"No. No, 'cause I got mine. I don't need to cry. Over Kenyon Marbury Dixon. The next time we had EC, equestrian care that is, I tossed him a jar of Vaseline, and said, 'Gimme a break, huh, buddy?'" Nathan laughed over his imitation working-class Brooklyn-ese, and Peter responded with a tentative smile. "And oh, my God, that was good. Such a difference from the first time. I started to understand how anyone could like it. It's a really good, really amazing feeling. I didn't mind. And he knew; and he could tell; he knew I had started to like it. He knew I started to look forward to it. Want it. In some fucked-up way... I wanted it. I hated his guts... but he had the cock that could go inside me. I could feel what it felt like when he came; he started making sure that I came while he was fucking me, inside me, because it feels so good - you know, right? You know now?"
"Nathan," Peter breathed. "I'm so sorry."
"And it hurt every time," Nathan added. "Every fucking time, it hurt. Almost like he was doing it on purpose. I never said anything because I didn't want to make it worse, but... I think he just didn't know what the hell he was doing. He never gave me a chance to adjust; he never relaxed me first." He lowered his voice to a solemn whisper. "I got to like that, too. I got to like how much it hurt. It just became part of it. You know that now, too, don't you?"
Peter shook his head and squirmed uncomfortably. That felt good against Nathan's body, so he hugged Peter, kissed the side of his face, rubbed his nose against Peter's. He could feel Peter's cock against his hip, hard, full, throbbing heavily. Nathan ran his finger up the shaft of Peter's cock, and caught a clear drop of fluid off the tip. He brought it to his mouth and sucked it, savored it on his tongue. Peter blinked worriedly, and Nathan rubbed noses again. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," Nathan said. "He hurt me because he didn't care. I hurt you because... I want you. I want you to have me. I know you're brave enough to ... I know you know I love you."
"Yeah," Peter agreed with a nod. Tears ran out of both of his eyes, and he sniffled. "I guess I'll cry for you." He laughed a little and smiled. The tears didn't slow down. "I don't mind. I'll take it. I'll help feel this for you."
"Thank you," Nathan said.
"No problem." He kissed Nathan on the lips, dampening them with wet, bitter salt. "Any time, for you."
Nathan sighed and held Peter close again, unwilling to give up the marvelous presence, the simple joy of just being there with Peter. He almost could have slept, except for the 24-ounce Dunkin Donuts Robust Roast, which would keep him wired until lunchtime. "I didn't just sit there and take it, though," he added, running his finger down Peter's torso, taking Peter's stiff cock in his hand, and beginning to stroke his fist up and down its length. Peter sighed and shuddered, reached over to his bedside table, and handed Nathan a bottle of hand lotion. Nathan poured lotion into his hand, gathered Peter back into his arms, and began to rub the lotion into Peter's hard cock as he spoke. "I just paid attention to everything he did, everyone he talked to... how he talked to them. Dixon was a total kiss-ass to all the teachers, and the commanders of the other sections all thought he was a swell guy. But to the freshman cadets, he was a complete piece of shit. This was military school; that stuff is not called for. We respect each other in the armed services; nobody talks to each other like that. But we were in school, and they depended on us to police ourselves, and nobody-but-nobody likes a snitch, even the authorities. You've seen Full Metal Jacket, right? Well, Dixon was like that, except nineteen years old, Mississippi white trash, racist, bigoted... fucking faggot." Nathan laughed with disbelief and embarrassment. "He never called anybody that, which is funny, in retrospect. He called everybody everything else - pussy, nigger, Jap, double-wide fatso, you name it. He called me the Tortellini Midget. Real way with words, that guy. But he never called anybody a faggot or a queer. Maybe he did know. I guess. What the hell." Nathan couldn't help laughing. "Maybe he was just kidding. Maybe he said all that shit because he was scared someone would call him out." He looked at Peter, and Peter managed to shake himself out of his daze of arousal for long enough to nod. "But I got him. Baby, I got him in the end."
***
APRIL 1984
"Hey, Jimenez," Nathan said, catching up to his classmate as they left the mess hall, on their way back to the common rooms for evening free time. The small, painstakingly neat Puerto Rican saw Nathan and smiled.
"Hey, Petrelli, how's it hanging?" Jimenez said, falling into step with him. When Nathan had begun school, he had been shorter than Jimenez; now Nathan had an inch or two on him. The upperclassman had been relatively supportive and protective of Nathan from the beginning, as they were often placed as sports opponents, being roughly the same size, and Jimenez helped Nathan with his conversational Spanish until Nathan was as fluent in Puerto Rican curse words as anybody down in Alphabet City.
"I bet you're gonna be glad to get out of here soon," Nathan said. "Just three more weeks, and you don't have to deal with Dixon anymore."
"Damn right," Jimenez replied fervently; he was transferring to public high school for his senior year. "I had enough of this military shit. Learned all I need to know about it, you know? Enough to know it really ain't for me."
"Sometimes, y'know?" Nathan agreed. "Especially not with total tools like the commander."
"You really got it out for Dix right now, huh, Petrelli?" Jimenez asked curiously. "Ain't you guys friends?"
Nathan shook his head. "He says such shit about you," he said, the comfort of telling the truth polishing and relaxing his words. "I can't deal with it, you know? You're a cool guy, and I don't want to hear Dix calling you a greasy Mexi anymore. It's just stupid."
"A what?" Jimenez said, calmly, smiling like a crocodile, his eyes glinting cold black.
Nathan answered with an innocent blink. He was telling the truth. "He calls you the greasy Mexi," he reported. "Or Dicky Dickardo. Or... Jim-Jim the Ass-Faced Boy. I've heard him say that before, too. Actually it tends to be 'Heem-Heem, las machos dos nachos'." Nathan grinned, struggling not to laugh. Jimenez would beat the crap out of Nathan if he laughed.
Jimenez just stared off into the middle distance, keeping the same smile on his face. "Oh yeah," he said, "I'm very much looking forward to getting out of here." Nathan smiled too, and let Jimenez continue on his way, and felt very warm and happy inside. Two cadets down; one to go. He was talking a lot of people these days, about Dixon, and his particular brand of wit.
At breakfast the next morning, the mess hall was loud and boisterous; French toast that morning, one of the meals they made that was really good, and they all were allowed seconds (but no thirds; if you wanted thirds, you had to switch to oatmeal). Nathan sat at the officer's table, next to the empty seat where Dixon sat, where Nathan had fetched Dixon's firsts, seconds, and oatmeal, and had set them up precisely, with cutlery arranged just so, as he did every morning. All the cadet commanders had their "bitches", though, as far as Nathan had been able to find out by asking the others, their bitch duties didn't extend as far as his. Then again, who would admit it?
Commander Dixon strutted into the mess hall, immaculate in his dress uniform, all ready to attend rehearsal for the valedictorian's ceremony at graduation; he wasn't supposed to be in full dress at breakfast, but Dixon would never waste an opportunity to show off. He did cut a handsome figure, flaming-red hair grown in a little, a hint of an affectation of a blonde mustache on his lip, grins, dimples, and finger-guns for all his fans, real or imagined.
Rolling his eyes nonchalantly, Alex Jimenez stuck his foot out into the aisle, right in Dixon's oblivious path. Dixon took a spectacular tumble, almost cartwheeling, running into a fully-laden table with milk, syrup, somebody's oatmeal already, flaps of French toast sailing through the air and sticking to Dixon's dress uniform as though magnetically attracted. And then Dixon slipped on a piece of French toast on the floor, and skidded underneath the table, which came crashing down on top of him.
That moment of silence was excruciating. And then everyone laughed. Everyone. From the tiniest cadet to the teachers and the President of the school himself - they all cracked up. All except Nathan. Nathan just smiled and felt warm and cozy inside. Oh, yes, I could get used to this. Oh, yes.
Dixon leaped to his feet and ran at Jimenez with fists flying. The commotion in the mess hall went from laughter to shouts of encouragement and bloodlust. Nathan calmly sat down and drank his orange juice, and started on his French toast. It was particularly excellent that day.
Later that week, cadets were called in, one by one, to a sort of tribunal. Nathan heard all the details through the rumor mill - Jimenez was being kicked out for fighting, but before he left, he explained that he had beaten Dixon down because of the continuous stream of racist abuse that Dixon had subjected him to. The school took such accusations very seriously - they had an international reputation to uphold - and were honor-bound to investigate. Nathan was friends with most of the black students in D-wing, and he encouraged them to step up and volunteer any information they had. All of them did. All the Latinos did, too, and the two Korean guys in D-wing who had started at the same time as Nathan. Even the fat guy, Schuster, came forward; he wasn't that fat - you couldn't be, with all the running around you had to do - but he was still heavy for his height, and Dixon had never let up on the insults, no matter how fit Schuster actually was (he could bench press three times what Nathan could, and could run faster, too). All the guys who put down words for Dixon thanked Nathan afterwards. Nathan felt happier and happier. He wasn't homesick anymore. Now half the school were his friends, and he didn't have a bone to pick with anyone. Dixon was done for.
Then it was Nathan's turn. Of course. He made sure he looked sharp, and sat down in the chair opposite the vice president, the school nurse (and counselor), Dixon, and a man who, by his looks, could only be Dixon's father. He was a ruddy blond hulk of a man, so massive he made Dixon look slim and delicate in comparison, with hands huge, rough, and stained from working. "I'm sure you know by now what this is about," said the school counselor to Nathan. "You are on the record. Have you ever been the target of bigoted and offensive comments from Cadet Dixon?"
"Repeatedly," Nathan said. "Repeatedly and consistently. From the very first day."
"Have you ever heard or overheard Cadet Dixon using racist or offensive language toward or about other students, faculty, or staff?"
"Repeatedly and consistently," Nathan said again. He stared at Dixon. Dixon stared straight ahead, maintaining his ramrod-straight, rigid posture, his face completely blank. "I was tempted to make a catalogue of his comments, because they were so varied and colorful. Almost like something out of Mark Twain." Dixon blinked at that, his face going thoughtful all of a sudden; Dixon loved Mark Twain. Nathan kept smiling. A compliment was a great way to widen the wound, so he could add more salt to it.
The VP and the counselor seemed a little impressed at that too. "Is there any possibility..." the counselor said slowly, "that he might have been kidding?"
"I doubt it," said Nathan. "And it doesn't matter whether or not he means it. It's terrible to hear. It makes it hard to concentrate on classwork, chores, and duties. And I don't think he was kidding, no. He enjoys hurting people. It's not a very good environment, especially not for the freshman class, who are looking up to him as a role model... as someone to provide guidance."
The adults all looked at each other with troubled expressions, and Nathan kept staring at Dixon. Dixon kept staring into space, the empty, proud, fixed look on his face now gone, replaced with bitterness and resignation. Nathan smiled again, and thanked the VP for his time.
Nathan skipped back to the dormitory as soon as dinner was over, and went to the back corner of the hall where Dixon's private quarters had been located, where they had spent more than one morning study-hall period, Dixon taking what he wanted, and Nathan giving it without complaint. He leaned against the doorway and watched as Dixon laid his belongings in his suitcase. It was the first time Nathan had seen him out of uniform; in his chambray button-down shirt and khaki pants, Dixon looked ordinary. Shorter in sneakers than in his boots, his hair too precise for the casual clothes. Inferior to Nathan in uniform. Dixon lifted his head and glared at Nathan. "What the fuck do you want?" he snapped.
"Just wanted to tell you something," Nathan said. "Just a word of advice. Don't fuck the Petrellis," Nathan replied, adding a little smile. "The mafia's got nothing on us."
Nathan turned and went back down the hall, back to his school, back to his friends.
***
JANUARY 2005
"It's over now," Peter said softly. "It's behind you." His voice was quiet, hitching slightly as he thrust into Nathan's hand. Peter kissed Nathan's collarbone lightly, then flung himself back against the surface of the bed, giving himself up completely. "Ah... ah... you're with me now. That's all behind you and now you're with me, and I love you... it'll always be with you, though, but I'm here... and you're with me..." His eyes rolled back and his whole body went briefly into spasm as his warm semen spurted into Nathan's hand. Nathan bent over and kissed Peter's lips over and over. Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan's torso and held him tightly, not minding the sticky smudge of cum and lotion that Nathan wiped over his belly, not minding the hot saltwater dripping onto his face from Nathan's eyes. "It's all right now," Peter insisted, kissing Nathan, tasting his tears. "It's all right now."
"It's for you," Nathan said. "Not him."
Peter smiled. "I know." He wrapped his legs around Nathan's waist for a moment, then relaxed, relaxed more, melting, his eyes drifting closed. "I want to fuck you some more," Peter said. "I think it'll be good for you. You want it... I'll do it to you the right way. You won't think about him when you're with me."
"No, I don't..."
"It's just you and me. Nobody else. Nobody." Peter sighed. "You and me."
Somehow, even with the coffee he'd just had, Peter fell back to sleep. It made sense; it was three-thirty in the morning, and he worked hard. He was so beautiful when he slept, even when he began to snore. Nathan got up for the second time that night, tucked Peter in, closed his mouth, and kissed him, then washed up and went home. He got there in time to meet Heidi for a shower and a cup of coffee, and then they went jogging together. She knew that he'd been up, but she had no idea that he'd left.
All for the good.
Nathan went to work, organizing his fundraising campaign, and juggling his cases at the D.A.'s office by turns. It was all about justice, change, and personal power; both jobs, both responsibilities, both challenges. That was his life.
At lunchtime, he got another coffee and a sandwich, went back to his desk, and got back on the phone. He called his bank to check his account, and then he called the alumni-affairs office of the Academy, and asked to speak to Mitch's assistant.
"What can I do for you?" chirped a young woman's voice.
Nathan wondered if Mitch was nailing her. "I'm wondering if you could go through your files, and dig up the contact information for Kenyon Dixon's surviving partner? I was talking to Mitch about it yesterday."
"Uh - sure. Let me put you on hold for a second." The woman returned to the phone after a brief wait, and gave Nathan a return address, e-mail, and phone number. "Do you want me to tell Mitch that you called?" she added.
"No, that's all right. I'll see him next time. Thank you."
Nathan called his bank again, and arranged a wire transfer of one hundred eight thousand dollars to the address he'd been given. He requested that the bank provide the money anonymously, but to attach a message to the transfer:
This is the equivalent payout of the military survivor's benefits which you will not receive, nor, by law, are you are entitled. Nonetheless, anyone who could put up with Kenyon Marbury Dixon voluntarily is obviously not in his right mind, and as such, could benefit from charitable assistance. Please don't try to find out who sent this to you; I wouldn't acknowledge it if you asked me. My life has moved on from Dixon; I suggest that you seek to do the same. And read some Mark Twain, if you can; he's a really funny guy.
END PART (27)
A/N: I have been working toward writing this story for more than eight months. I don't feel like I did it justice - there's so much more to this that it could easily become its own series - but I will put this out there anyway, and I will not elaborate on Dixon any further. I resist creating original characters as main characters in my fanfic, because if I'm going to do that, I figure I might as well just write original fiction. (This is my way of doing things - I don't disparage anybody else's.) Trying to create the right balance between depicting statutory rape and abuse, PTSD (yet again), black comedy (because Dixon is a surprisingly witty guy, in the same vein as, say, Eddie Murphy) and of course, the necessary thread of erotica that is the whole point of Ritual has been really challenging. So please forgive this for being rough. (Actually, the hardest part of writing this was writing the summary!) I may use this as an outline for a much larger piece of "original" fiction to be written "one of these days", that won't be Heroes fic on its surface. Your suggestions for what can be improved, and other aspects of Nathan and Dixon's relationship you'd like to see extended, framed differently, or anything like that is welcome.
Also, if you like, this can be somewhat disregarded as Ritual canon if you don't like it. It was just a story that I've been wanting to write since the very beginning, as I imagined these events in Nathan's past as being an essential part of his character. But of course you are not required to feel that way... Anyway. Thanks for reading.
Pairing/Characters: Nathan/Peter, Nathan/OC, Heidi, various OCs
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: season 1
Word Count: about 8600
Warnings: Incest, language, noncon, dubcon, underage character, explicit m/m sex, angst
Summary: Nathan is confronted with traumatic memories from his past that he'd rather forget - his freshman year at military school under the authority of Cadet Commander Dixon, what Dixon did to him, and how Nathan eventually prevailed - but he continues to bear the emotional scars. Peter just wants to help Nathan heal. (Very dark and melodramatic, but very funny at the same time... or at least I hope so...)
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24) :: (25) :: (26)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. This is a work of fanfiction inspired by the property. I do not condone almost anything that's in this story, besides the impulse to be healing and compassionate to abuse survivors, fighting against bigotry, and using your wits to triumph over bad guys (who are still only human, after all). Those, to me, are the fundamental principles of Heroes, anyway...
JANUARY 2005.
[four months before Ritual 1: "Bring It Here"]
Mitch Powell was one of Nathan's oldest friends - one year above him at the military high school they had both attended, they had been in the same physics class and had bonded over their mutual love of civics, guns, and Van Halen. Nathan had always thought that Mitch would become career military, but instead he'd gone to grad school and returned to the Academy as a teacher, administrator, and editor of the school's alumni magazine. Mitch and Nathan had fallen out of touch in the years after high school, ran into each other again a few years back, and picked up their friendship from where it had left off. Once in a while, when business brought Mitch into the city, he and Nathan would grab a drink together at the end of the work day.
That January night, sipping cognac in front of the fireplace at Mitch's oak-paneled social club, they chatted pleasantly. They talked about the Knicks and how poorly the team was doing that year. They discussed their wives and kids, how their holidays had gone, how they were dealing with frustrations on the job. Mitch shared a little alumni gossip, too, which Nathan always appreciated. After a comfortable pause, Mitch swirled the cognac in his glass and asked casually, "By the way, did you hear the news about Dixon? Remember, Kenyon Dixon?"
Nathan raised his eyebrows and blinked in surprise. "Huh! I haven't heard that name in a while," he said. In the firelight, even if he'd been looking, Mitch couldn't have seen the gradual reddening of Nathan's face, or the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped his cognac glass. "No, what's the skinny?"
"Damn shame," Mitch said, shaking his head. "He passed on recently."
"What?" Nathan had the forethought to set his glass down, before the grip of his fingers snapped the delicate stem. "He's dead?"
"Yeah. He got blown up out in Baghdad. Couple of months ago. Supposedly a truck he was in got shot up, but... there's a rumor that it might have been friendly fire. Wouldn't surprise me, either way. That place is chaos. Still, shame, though - he was just a few months away from retirement."
"Huh," Nathan said in a bored tone of voice. "That is a shame." He picked up his cognac again; his hands were steady as a rock, even though his temples had become damp with sweat. "I hardly knew the guy, though."
"What? C'mon," Mitch said, surprised. "You were his lieutenant, man; his favorite. And he wouldn't shut up about what a good soldier you were. You were held up as an example of what we were all supposed to be. You two guys made the rest of us look bad. I never could figure out how you were able to stand him."
Mitch didn't know.
Some guys hadn't. Not everybody had known, or even suspected. He wished that nobody knew, but he knew that wasn't true. He wished that he could just forget about it completely, have the knowledge wiped from his mind. He wished Dixon had never existed. He wished... Oh God. You have to get ahold of this right now, Petrelli. Mitch doesn't know, and he won't know, if you keep your shit together.
"He was a good C.O., but I never considered us friends or anything," Nathan said. He struggled to sound indifferently, politely sad, but his voice came out flat. That was fine. Anything was better than expressing even a fragment of the simmering rage coursing through his veins. "Did he leave any family?"
"No," Mitch said. Without looking at Nathan he added, "He was a queer."
"You don't say," Nathan replied. He set down his glass again.
"Yeah, who'd've thought? Bigoted asshole like him. God rest him. His 'partner' is apparently trying to get Dixon's survivor benefits. Wrote to me to see if I could help further his cause. Writing skills of a ten-year-old. He can forget about it." Mitch scoffed. "Can you believe the nerve? Some of these dead soldiers have wives and kids; what, does he think there's enough money to go around to everybody who feels like they ought to get something?" He took a drink and waved his hand. "I don't have anything against... any of that stuff," he added, "but seriously, c'mon. What's the guy think we're gonna do?"
Nathan just shrugged and smiled, and went on autopilot for the rest of the evening, even after he'd left the club, gone home, had dinner, tried to make love to his wife. Heidi told him he was acting strange, and he told her that he'd found out that night that one of the guys he'd gone to school with had been killed in Iraq. She was quiet then, and let him hold her and kiss her until she went to sleep; and Nathan stayed up, holding her in his arms without feeling her.
Running through his mind like a ticker-tape: He's dead, and I didn't kill him. He's gay and he's dead and I didn't get the chance to kill him. I thought I was done with wanting to kill him, but no, I'm not done. He's dead, and I'm not done with wanting to kill him. He's dead. Dixon's dead and he died fighting like a soldier, a real soldier, and he left behind some illiterate boyfriend, some boy who maybe loved him, some boy who isn't afraid to tell the world, the whole world, that Dixon was ... Did anyone know? Did everyone know? They all know now, anyway; about Dixon, anyway. They don't know about... Dixon's dead, and I have to try to forget about it all over again. Again. Because now I can't kill him myself.
***
SEPTEMBER 1983.
Cadet Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon. Loved to say his whole name and title, would probably have added "Mister", except that it was against regs. Descendent of the Dixon who had surveyed the line that later would define North and South; a proud son of the country on the Southern side. Loved to spout that fact, too. Commander of D-Wing, the dormitory where Nathan lived. A year older than he should have been; intelligent but dyslexic. A little over six feet tall, towering over most of the freshman cadets, so that he had to lean over to shout in their faces.
"My name is Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon! But to you, my name is sir! You will address me, and all other cadets of my rank, as sir! Or you will receive a demerit! I am watching you at all times and I expect perfect comportment and discipline on my wing! I did not rise to my current rank by slacking and bullshittery - I was raised to my current rank by a consistent track record of excellence! Not just of my person, but of the cadet wing under my command! Each and every one of you will provide excellence in word! Deed! Academics! Extracurriculars! And appearance! Not just of your person, but of this entire wing! We do not have maids here! You will keep this place spotless and neat - you will keep yourself spotless and neat! If you cannot provide this, please - call your saggy-titted momma to come pick you up right now! This is the Academy you're in now, and you are in D-Wing with myself your commander, and I will not tolerate slacking, backtalk, or second-best! You will do what I tell you, and we will end up on top of this school, with all of the privileges and reputation which such status deserves! You! Midget! What is your name, cadet?"
"Sir, Petrelli, sir."
"Puh-trelli? That ain't no kinda name. You some kinda wop or somethin'?"
Some snickers came from the other cadets. For some reason, iron discipline or no, Dixon let the laughter slide without comment. He glared at Nathan from a distance of mere inches. Nathan could see the blood vessels in Dixon's fixed, unwavering, unblinking eyes. "No, sir," Nathan replied, a little nervously.
"We ain't got no room for no mafia here, boy. This ain't no New York City, and I ain't your goddamn godfather. You're a shit-spoiled, pansy-assed Boy Scout, and it is my job to make you into a soldier. And I'm gonna do it. Somehow. Ain't much I got to work with here. Fi' demerits on them unshined boots, and you get fi' more tomorrow if it ain't good enough." He turned away, and Nathan winced; five demerits could take an entire semester to work off, doing some of the crappiest jobs in the whole school and getting straight A's in all his classes. It was idiotically excessive, especially on his very first day. Dixon started yelling at the next guy, who actually flinched away from him. Nobody laughed this time. Nathan thought to himself, I have to live here, with this guy as my leader. In charge of everything I do; in charge of the place where I sleep. Somehow, I have to figure it out. I want this school. I worked hard to get into this school, and I won't let some racist bully run me out of here. If I have to take him down, I will.
He watched out the corner of his eye as Dixon went through the room of cadets standing at painful attention, singling out boy after boy for violations in dress code, posture, and physical condition, slinging demerits around. To hear him say it, this group of freshman was the most worthless collection of retards, niggers, chinks, pussies, lard-asses, and beaners ever to pollute the Academy - but nobody got five demerits except Nathan. Nathan was apparently the worst.
Nathan examined Dixon as closely as he could, using only his peripheral vision. The cadet commander was still lanky for his height, but growing into it, broad-shouldered and muscular. Reddish-blond hair cut just long enough to show its color, like a coppery frost on the surface of his skull. Narrow, pale-green eyes, thick dandelion-fluff blond eyelashes, muscled jaw, no doubt well-exercised from screaming at cadets. A handsome face made blank and unreadable with hostility. Every detail of his uniform was razor-sharp perfect, from his crisply ironed epaulets to the faultless gleam of his boots. Nathan wondered if Commander Dixon looked like this all day, every day.
Is that what it takes to make it here?
Nathan felt very strange suddenly, but it wasn't until he got into bed that night and tried to go to sleep that he realized what the feeling was. It was loneliness. And homesickness. Nathan had never felt lonely or homesick in his life. He'd spent most of the last three years away from home in boarding schools and summer camps, and he had never once wished that he could just go home, hug and kiss his mom and his baby brother. Hug and kiss someone. He had mocked other kids for crying because they were homesick. Now that he knew what it felt like, he could never make fun of anyone for it ever again.
He didn't cry, but he wished that he could.
***
SEPTEMBER 2000.
[four days after Ritual 9: "Like A Tiger"]
Peter's bare stomach was so flat and smooth, Nathan saw it as a challenge to bite the skin, seize enough of it in his teeth to draw into his mouth and suck, leaving glistening blossoms of saliva on the surface. Peter squirmed and hummed happily, sliding his hand down over the suck marks into the waistband of his underwear, fondling himself. Nathan followed suit. Peter's cock was still soft, somehow, even after ten minutes of hard tongue-kissing. Usually Peter would get hard if Nathan so much as looked at him a certain way, but not today. Nathan withdrew his hand and impatiently pinched Peter's nipple, then stroked against his cock again. He was getting there, but slowly.
Peter sighed and pulled his shorts off, sliding out of them, and returned to fondling himself. Nathan kissed Peter's mouth again, their teeth clicking together. He needed Peter erect and aroused right now; they didn't have much time before their parents returned to the house, and both of them wanted to get as far as they could. If Peter would just cooperate, there would probably be enough time for both of them to get off. Making Peter come was his first priority; he'd been thinking about it, wanting it all day, wanting to see and taste it, hear what new sound Peter would make this time.
It was one of those weeks where their mutual lust was never far away, deliciously heightened by brief, coded phone discussions, carefully planned interactions, stealing every minute they could touching each other. It was never enough. Just a few nights ago, Peter had fucked Nathan for the first time, and they were anxious to recapture that, to experiment further, smashing limits and inhibitions, experience new possibilities. Nathan was amazed with Peter, amazed with himself, gripped with the kind of relentless lust that he hadn't felt in a long time. Peter just wanted Nathan, all of Nathan, all the time, and the more he had, the more he wanted. Nathan couldn't even process how much of himself he had already surrendered. What was left? What else could he give Peter?
Peter moaned and laughed, giddy with sensuality. He slid his fingers into Nathan's hair, grabbed it, and gripped almost painfully tight. "Suck my dick," he whispered, his voice faint and playful, but demanding.
"No, not yet," Nathan said, touching Peter's still-soft, supple penis with his fingertips, then drawing his hand away.
"Now," Peter said in full voice, clenching Nathan's hair harder. Now it hurt.
"No. Quit it - let up."
Peter pushed down on Nathan's head with the heel of his hand. "Do it, I said," Peter insisted. "Suck it now. Suck it till it's hard. Now!"
"No," Nathan said.
"Do it!" Peter said, raising his voice, pushing Nathan's head harder, brushing Nathan's mouth against his cock.
Nathan swung his arm, looping it through Peter's, shoving Peter's hand off him, away from him. He felt the impact of his arm against the bones inside Peter's, knowing it hurt Peter ten times more than it hurt him, and would probably leave a bruise. He didn't care. He hoped it hurt like hell. The blow nearly knocked Peter off the bed. "I said no!" Nathan shouted through gritted teeth, stared down at Peter, and wanted to punch the daylights out of him, punch Peter's face until it pulped under his knuckles, break all his teeth off in his mouth, choke the life out of him.
Not - not Peter. Not him. No. Wrong. Oh, shit. No.
Peter stared in shock, fear, confusion, grabbing the swelling bruise on his arm. Nathan slid away and sat up, taking a deep breath. "You know what," Nathan said, "just forget it, okay? I'm gonna go."
"No - wait - I'm sorry," Peter begged.
"Forget it." Nathan stood up, combed his fingers through his mussed hair, buttoned his shirt again. He was shaking so badly he could hardly fasten the buttons, but his voice was cool and still. "Tell Mom I'm sorry; I'll catch up with her this weekend."
"Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't - what's wrong?"
"Bye," was all Nathan could say. He stepped into his shoes and left the bedroom. Peter, naked, ran out into the hall after him, babbling apologies and concern, but Nathan didn't really hear him. He left the Petrelli townhouse and got into his car and drove, kept driving, didn't know or care where he was going. All of him just shut down, all except his mind, his memory, connections flashing together in his mind.
I can't tell him.
His cell phone rang while he was on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Nathan glanced at the caller ID, and saw that it was his parents' house's phone number. It was probably his mother, wondering why her evening plans with her sons had suddenly changed. He picked it up. "Yeah."
"Nathan? I'm sorry." Peter, his voice desperate, thick with tears and trying not to be. "I went too far."
"No, seriously, Pete, don't worry about it."
"You wouldn't even look at me," Peter said. His breath shuddered, holding back a sob. "Please, forgive me, I was stupid. I shouldn't have. I - I wrecked everything, didn't I?"
"No, Peter, it's fine, I said. You didn't do anything wrong. We play rough sometimes. It's, um... really. It's fine. It's something else; nothing you did."
"What? What is it?"
"I can't tell you," Nathan confessed. A horrible feeling settled in his chest. His heart breaking. He'd never known that it was a physical sensation; before now, he'd thought it was a metaphor. But he could feel it now, like a fist clenching inside him, and he had to make himself hollow to overcome it. But he couldn't break down; Peter needed him to be strong, and if strong meant "cold and distant", it would be.
Peter said miserably, "You have to tell me. Nathan, please. I need to know. Please, so I don't make the same mistake again."
"You didn't - I - look, I'll tell you about it later, I promise. Just not tonight. I can't give you anything tonight. It's actually nothing to do with you. It's me; it's not you."
"That's how I know," Peter said. "When you actually take the blame. I know you. It's something... something serious, isn't it? Do you promise you'll tell me?" He sounded much less hysterical, less tearful. Believing what Nathan said. He was great that way sometimes; when Nathan really needed Peter to believe something, he would.
"One of these days, yeah," Nathan said. "Just not now. Please don't lean on me about this, okay? When I'm ready to tell you, I will."
"Okay. I love you," said Peter, unnecessarily. Still, it felt good, soothing.
"I love you, too. Gotta go. Bye."
***
OCTOBER 1983.
The Academy's janitorial staff did not handle the cleaning and maintenance of the dormitory wings; this was a task that was in the hands of the cadets themselves. There was a rotating shift of students assigned to clean various areas, but the worst part, the lavatories, were the exclusive domain of cadets working to undo demerits. Knowing that, the other cadets made absolutely no effort to tidy up after themselves in the lavatories, and frequently made the bathrooms as disgusting as possible.
Nathan had to learn that fact first-hand. The task of cleaning the toilet stalls at the end of the night, just before lights out, fell to him right away. For the last six weeks, instead of free time in the evenings, he spent every night scrubbing the tiles, spraying and wiping porcelain toilet bowls, picking up wet toilet paper off the floor, and trying not to guess the origins of the stains and smudges on the metal dividers between stalls and urinals. He did this without complaining, leaving the lavatories spotless before he was allowed to get into his bunk and try to go to sleep. His fellow D-wing freshman cadets took pity on him and didn't deliberately make a mess, and sometimes sneaked Nathan an extra dessert or a comic book, but the older cadets didn't care. One week of cleaning duty erased one-fifth of one demerit. Unfortunately, he had accumulated another demerit for not being in bed at lights-out, having a particularly nasty cleaning job one night, and he was almost back where he'd started from.
One particular Monday night, Nathan had barely slept at all. In his first-period economics class the next day, the instructor sprang an unscheduled test on the students. Nathan looked at his test sheet with dismay - he had been planning on looking at the relevant section of the textbook today, during study hall - two hopeless hours in the future. He was almost completely unprepared. He was going to fail this test.
He had never failed a test before in his life.
He scribbled away the best he could, answering the questions as far as common sense would take him, but on the last three, he couldn't remember the necessary formulas. If it was just one question, he might have tried to wing it, but three? Out of a total of seven questions? That wouldn't fly at all.
Nathan was seated next to the best student in the class - a junior, who had taken the class before but never completed it. The junior was filling out his test sheet slowly, spending half his time staring into space with his arms crossed, bored. It was no effort at all for Nathan to glance at the junior's desk, to catch a glimpse of the painstakingly neat handwriting, and let the correct formulas blossom in his mind. Nathan looked back at his own worksheet, and answered the final three questions with ease.
He had never done that before, either. His life was full of new, horrible things.
The rest of the day was uneventful; geometry class, study hall, formation and inspection, lunchtime, history class, Spanish class, afternoon football practice, more formation, dinnertime. During his fifteen minutes of allowed free time after dinner, he called home and talked to his father. Nathan told his father that everything was fine, and that he loved the Academy, and thanked him for being allowed to attend. Nathan's father said that he was proud, and sounded like he meant it.
After that, Nathan gathered up all his cleaning products and prepared to do battle with the demons of the third-floor lavatory for another night, feeling better than usual. It was good to talk to his father and feel that he was doing his family proud. He even hummed to himself as he sprayed bleach solution on the shower-stall tiles. It was probably the repetitive sound of the spray bottle that concealed the sound of footsteps.
"Soldier," said Dixon, right behind Nathan.
Nathan flinched, and then immediately hated himself for it. He drew himself up to full attention and fired off a crisp salute. "Sir!"
"At ease," Dixon said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. Nathan wasn't sure he'd ever seen Dixon smile before. It almost completely transformed his face; he had a big smile, dimples in both cheeks, and his eyes narrowed so much that they almost disappeared underneath the pale fluff of his eyelashes. It made him look not just handsome, but cheerful, roguish, ready to have fun. Just a rebellious teenager, teasing the girls at the drive-in. Nathan just stared, taking a step sideways and standing stiffly in the regulation "at ease" posture. Dixon chuckled. "How's that shitter duty treatin' you?" he asked.
"Sir, just fine, sir."
Dixon could stare like nobody's business. He just never seemed to need to blink, and it made Nathan blink more, just to compensate. "So how you think you did on that Econ quiz today?" Dixon asked pleasantly.
Nathan just stood there, blinking, and said nothing, but all of his skin went suddenly cold, like he'd fallen through a hole in the ice on a frozen lake.
"You didn't know I was there, did you?" Dixon continued, his voice quieting as he stepped closer to Nathan. With one finger, he pushed against Nathan's chest, backing him up away from the showers, toward the toilet stalls. "I came in later; you're always early, ain't you? Sat behind you. Making up a class I missed last week - I got the same class, just fifth period, after lunch. I'm sure pissed off that they had that quiz - that was a real bitch, wasn't it? But you shoulda been expecting it - if you had read ahead in the textbook, you woulda known Dr. O'Malley would prob'ly hit you with that stuff. And here I was, thinking you were a good student."
"Sir, I-"
Another finger-push backed Nathan completely into the handicapped-access stall, the one that was twice as big and roomy as the others, and Dixon followed him inside, and locked the door behind him. "Shut up, Petrelli," Dixon said. The smile was leaving his face, widening his icy eyes, staring hard at Nathan. He kept advancing, and Nathan kept backing up until his shoulder brushed the painted steel wall. "Ain't it a shame, what we come to?" Dixon whispered. "Ain't it a shame when a promising young student like you gets kicked out for cheatin'?"
"Don't," Nathan bleated, briefly, desperately.
"Can't you see your momma's face when she comes to pick you up? Your daddy? Your rich, strict... powerful daddy? Won't that just break their hearts?" Dixon rested both hands on the wall next to Nathan's head, one on either side, looking down at him, and making a peculiar, hypnotic swaying motion with his hips, like a snake charmer taunting a cobra, as he moved closer still. "There is a solution, though," Dixon added. "If you just do everything I tell you... nobody needs to know what you did."
"Sir, I..." Nathan gulped. He felt sweaty and disoriented, his heart surging with fear. "Please. Don't tell. Please?"
"Do what I say?" Dixon murmured.
"Yeah." Nathan's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir."
"That's better." The quirky smile returned to Dixon's face. This close, Nathan could see that some of his eyelashes were the same coppery-red as the hair on his head, and that his lips were chapped, and a faint trace of reddish stubble grew on his upper lip. He smelled like sweat, boot polish, sports chalk. His nostrils flared; he was smelling Nathan too.
"Now here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna get down on your knees and you're gonna suck my dick," he whispered, so faintly that Nathan could only hear the aspirations and the edges of consonants, the meaning of the words almost veiled, as though he were seeing them through steam. "Now. Do it."
Nathan stood frozen, except for his rapidly blinking eyes. He couldn't believe he'd heard that right, but he was too freaked out to ask for clarification. There's no way. What does he think I am? What is he? He's not -
Dixon grabbed Nathan's hair - on top, the only part of his hair long enough to grab - and yanked his head downward. Nathan almost lost his balance on the slick, recently mopped floor. "I said now," Dixon said. "Suck it 'til it's big and hard." Nathan had to catch himself against Dixon - hands against his chest and belly, touching him; he didn't want to touch him. Didn't want to do this. He started shaking as Dixon unfastened his belt, unzipped his pants; Nathan wanted to cry, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't let Dixon make him cry. Dixon let go of Nathan's hair, instead wrapped his fingers around the back of Nathan's neck. Nathan didn't want to get on his knees on the wet floor; he compromised by crouching down, having to hold onto Dixon's legs to keep his balance. Dixon pulled down his own underwear - the same BVD's with the striped elastic waistband as Nathan had, as part of their uniform - and pulled his cock out, letting it rest against the lowered waistband. It didn't look so big. It wasn't hard. Red pubes, too; ginger all over. Nathan hesistated, grimaced, and thought, I will take responsibility for my own life. I did something wrong, and this is my punishment. It doesn't have to be bad. Please, God, let it not be bad. But I will not be run out of here. I will not humiliate my parents. I will not humiliate myself. I am Nathan Petrelli and I am strong, inside and out. This doesn't change me.
"Suck on it," Dixon said, and then, even as Nathan was doing just that, said it again. "Suck on it. That's right, you little bitch. I knew it. Your secret's safe with me." He laughed softly. "Not a peep of protest. I thought so. I saw you; I knew."
Nathan had never before in his life wanted to kill someone. He wondered if he could get away with it. Nobody would convict him or send him to jail if he killed this bastard, and then no one would ever have to know about any of it. But how could he explain it? How could he look his mother in the eye and explain to her what happened?
When his cock had gotten completely hard, Dixon let Nathan go, but stayed behind in the stall until he was finished. Nathan rushed out of the stall, rinsed out his mouth with mouthwash, then went back to the showers and completed his cleaning job. His hands were steady, his mind a perfect blank. When Dixon emerged from the toilet stall, Nathan snapped to attention and saluted him. Dixon gave Nathan an appraising look and a little chuckle, like he was impressed, and left.
The next day, at morning formation, Nathan was informed that, thanks to his loyal and unflinching janitorial service, he now only had one demerit remaining. He accepted the news stoically, but as they finished formation and returned to the dormitory to dress for class, he caught the eye of Kirkpatrick, one of his fellow D-wing cadets, a junior, two years ahead of him. Kirkpatrick just gave him a weird little grimace and a shrug, then glared hatefully at Dixon as he continued on his way.
Nathan kept the same mask of stoicism on his face all day. When Dixon showed up in the lavatory that night during the cleaning cycle, Nathan once again did as he was told.
He passed his Economics test with a perfect score.
***
JANUARY 2005.
Nathan rose carefully from the bed, leaving the sleeping Heidi lying peacefully on her side. Soundlessly he walked through the hallway of his home, peeking through the door to glimpse his sleeping young sons, and then went downstairs to the kitchen where his cell phone sat in its charger. He picked it up, and hit speed-dial #3.
Several rings happened before the other line picked up. "Hey, Nathan, it's... one forty-six A.M.," Peter answered sleepily. "What's wrong?"
"I need to talk to you about something," Nathan said in a strained whisper, "something important. Can I come over?"
"Hmmm... yeah. Could you bring me a coffee?"
"Dunkin Donuts okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Thanks - I'll see you in an hour."
When Nathan got there, and Peter let him in, Peter looked tousled, but alert. He was in what passed for warm-weather pajamas for him - a pair of cotton boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt. Nathan smiled at him without really looking at him. He handed Peter his coffee, and tossed away the empty cup he'd been drinking from. He wasn't going back to sleep tonight, he knew. As Peter sipped and watched, Nathan got undressed, down to his T-shirt and boxers, too, and went to Peter's bedroom. He sat on the bed, then lay down on it, holding a pillow in his arms, feeling a paradoxical wave of sleepiness wash over him. "Mmm... your bed's really nice," he murmured.
Peter had followed, still sipping his coffee. "What is it?" he asked softly, curiously. "Middle of the night... emergency... what is it?"
"You know that guy?" Nathan said, then added as Peter shook his head and shrugged, "The guy who fucked me? Back at the Academy?"
Peter sank down on the bed beside him, eyes wide. "Yeah?"
"I want to tell you about him now," Nathan said. "I have to tell you about him now. I can't... I can't deal with this by myself anymore. And I've been... using you to try to deal with it, all this time."
Peter took a long swallow of his coffee and set it down on his bedside table, then stripped off his shirt with one motion, and his boxers with the other. He slid closer to Nathan, and held out his hand. "Yes," Peter said. "Use me. Go ahead. Keep using me."
Nathan chuckled quietly, and didn't take Peter's hand - instead he sat up and removed the rest of his clothes, too. Then he put his arm around Peter and brought their bodies together so that they touched, warm naked skin-on-skin, all the way from shoulders to toes. "I like you for more than that, of course," Nathan laughed.
"I know," Peter smiled. "So tell me. What is it? What's going on?"
"I have to tell someone. I have to tell you. And nobody else. Nobody else, Peter. Right?"
"Of course. Just start at the beginning. Or wherever. Wherever you want."
Nathan sighed heavily. It was terrifying. If he hadn't been holding Peter - if Peter hadn't been holding him - he could never have even tried. But maybe... maybe... it wasn't too late. Maybe, as Peter always suggested, between the two of them, they could change this into something else. Polish the millstone around Nathan's neck into a gem.
"Tell me about the first time," Peter gently prompted.
"The first time he fucked me?" he said. "The first time... it was first thing in the morning. He and I had managed to score equestrian care, which meant that at five in the morning once a week, he and I would head out to the stables, and we'd feed and check the horses. This was really high-end stuff; only seven groups of people got to do it each semester, and we were the only ones where it was just the two of us, because we were both really good at it, and we were in such high standing at the school. We were just exemplary. We did everything right and the teachers and the staff loved us. We were kind of a team, Cadet Commander Kenyon Marbury Dixon and his faithful sidekick-slash-manservant Petrelli. So they let us do stuff all by ourselves. Just the two of us." He paused for a long time, gently caressing the curve of Peter's lower back, before continuing, "It was November, really cold, still dark. We got the horses fed, then... went back to the tack room. And he made me pull my pants down, and it was so cold, I remember... it was nice when he touched me. He didn't make me suck him first; he was already hard... he used to make me suck his cock until it got hard, which sickened me... a soft cock always makes me feel like I'm choking... and then he'd come in my mouth or he'd make me watch him jerk himself off... but not that day. He was already hard. He spit in his hand, and he rubbed it on me, and he fucked me, just with that. Just spit. And he'd brushed his teeth first thing and I could feel the menthol in his mouthwash inside my asshole. And it hurt so much. It burns; it stings. I guess it stings anyway, but..." Nathan made soft sounds that were almost laughter, but weren't. Peter gripped his hand tightly, but Nathan could barely feel it. "It hurt so much I thought I was going to pass out. But it was... so good at the same time. He fucked me from behind, and for a little while, I was warm. He came really quick, inside me, and then he just walked away and left me there, bent over the table in the tack room. I ran to the bathroom and thought I was going to puke, but I didn't. I thought I was going to be walking funny all day, but nobody seemed to notice. Dixon acted like nothing had happened. That's how I lost my virginity. Not to Jenny Lieber at the Christmas mixer, like I told you. No, that was different. And that was December. I was already experienced by then. I didn't do it because I wanted to. But I didn't say no, either. I never said no. Never said no to him." Nathan opened his eyes and smiled at Peter, and rubbed his fingertips across his dry cheekbones. "I'm still not crying about it. I told myself he wouldn't make me cry, and I haven't."
"Maybe you should," Peter murmured. He had the kind of look on his face where he felt overwhelmed, but also completely in his element - the realm of painful honesty. He let Nathan's hand go, then squeezed it again. This time, Nathan felt it. Felt all of Peter, his heartbeat, the sloshing of the coffee in his stomach, the gradual rising and falling of breath in his lungs. Nathan gave Peter a kiss just for existing.
"No. No, 'cause I got mine. I don't need to cry. Over Kenyon Marbury Dixon. The next time we had EC, equestrian care that is, I tossed him a jar of Vaseline, and said, 'Gimme a break, huh, buddy?'" Nathan laughed over his imitation working-class Brooklyn-ese, and Peter responded with a tentative smile. "And oh, my God, that was good. Such a difference from the first time. I started to understand how anyone could like it. It's a really good, really amazing feeling. I didn't mind. And he knew; and he could tell; he knew I had started to like it. He knew I started to look forward to it. Want it. In some fucked-up way... I wanted it. I hated his guts... but he had the cock that could go inside me. I could feel what it felt like when he came; he started making sure that I came while he was fucking me, inside me, because it feels so good - you know, right? You know now?"
"Nathan," Peter breathed. "I'm so sorry."
"And it hurt every time," Nathan added. "Every fucking time, it hurt. Almost like he was doing it on purpose. I never said anything because I didn't want to make it worse, but... I think he just didn't know what the hell he was doing. He never gave me a chance to adjust; he never relaxed me first." He lowered his voice to a solemn whisper. "I got to like that, too. I got to like how much it hurt. It just became part of it. You know that now, too, don't you?"
Peter shook his head and squirmed uncomfortably. That felt good against Nathan's body, so he hugged Peter, kissed the side of his face, rubbed his nose against Peter's. He could feel Peter's cock against his hip, hard, full, throbbing heavily. Nathan ran his finger up the shaft of Peter's cock, and caught a clear drop of fluid off the tip. He brought it to his mouth and sucked it, savored it on his tongue. Peter blinked worriedly, and Nathan rubbed noses again. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," Nathan said. "He hurt me because he didn't care. I hurt you because... I want you. I want you to have me. I know you're brave enough to ... I know you know I love you."
"Yeah," Peter agreed with a nod. Tears ran out of both of his eyes, and he sniffled. "I guess I'll cry for you." He laughed a little and smiled. The tears didn't slow down. "I don't mind. I'll take it. I'll help feel this for you."
"Thank you," Nathan said.
"No problem." He kissed Nathan on the lips, dampening them with wet, bitter salt. "Any time, for you."
Nathan sighed and held Peter close again, unwilling to give up the marvelous presence, the simple joy of just being there with Peter. He almost could have slept, except for the 24-ounce Dunkin Donuts Robust Roast, which would keep him wired until lunchtime. "I didn't just sit there and take it, though," he added, running his finger down Peter's torso, taking Peter's stiff cock in his hand, and beginning to stroke his fist up and down its length. Peter sighed and shuddered, reached over to his bedside table, and handed Nathan a bottle of hand lotion. Nathan poured lotion into his hand, gathered Peter back into his arms, and began to rub the lotion into Peter's hard cock as he spoke. "I just paid attention to everything he did, everyone he talked to... how he talked to them. Dixon was a total kiss-ass to all the teachers, and the commanders of the other sections all thought he was a swell guy. But to the freshman cadets, he was a complete piece of shit. This was military school; that stuff is not called for. We respect each other in the armed services; nobody talks to each other like that. But we were in school, and they depended on us to police ourselves, and nobody-but-nobody likes a snitch, even the authorities. You've seen Full Metal Jacket, right? Well, Dixon was like that, except nineteen years old, Mississippi white trash, racist, bigoted... fucking faggot." Nathan laughed with disbelief and embarrassment. "He never called anybody that, which is funny, in retrospect. He called everybody everything else - pussy, nigger, Jap, double-wide fatso, you name it. He called me the Tortellini Midget. Real way with words, that guy. But he never called anybody a faggot or a queer. Maybe he did know. I guess. What the hell." Nathan couldn't help laughing. "Maybe he was just kidding. Maybe he said all that shit because he was scared someone would call him out." He looked at Peter, and Peter managed to shake himself out of his daze of arousal for long enough to nod. "But I got him. Baby, I got him in the end."
***
APRIL 1984
"Hey, Jimenez," Nathan said, catching up to his classmate as they left the mess hall, on their way back to the common rooms for evening free time. The small, painstakingly neat Puerto Rican saw Nathan and smiled.
"Hey, Petrelli, how's it hanging?" Jimenez said, falling into step with him. When Nathan had begun school, he had been shorter than Jimenez; now Nathan had an inch or two on him. The upperclassman had been relatively supportive and protective of Nathan from the beginning, as they were often placed as sports opponents, being roughly the same size, and Jimenez helped Nathan with his conversational Spanish until Nathan was as fluent in Puerto Rican curse words as anybody down in Alphabet City.
"I bet you're gonna be glad to get out of here soon," Nathan said. "Just three more weeks, and you don't have to deal with Dixon anymore."
"Damn right," Jimenez replied fervently; he was transferring to public high school for his senior year. "I had enough of this military shit. Learned all I need to know about it, you know? Enough to know it really ain't for me."
"Sometimes, y'know?" Nathan agreed. "Especially not with total tools like the commander."
"You really got it out for Dix right now, huh, Petrelli?" Jimenez asked curiously. "Ain't you guys friends?"
Nathan shook his head. "He says such shit about you," he said, the comfort of telling the truth polishing and relaxing his words. "I can't deal with it, you know? You're a cool guy, and I don't want to hear Dix calling you a greasy Mexi anymore. It's just stupid."
"A what?" Jimenez said, calmly, smiling like a crocodile, his eyes glinting cold black.
Nathan answered with an innocent blink. He was telling the truth. "He calls you the greasy Mexi," he reported. "Or Dicky Dickardo. Or... Jim-Jim the Ass-Faced Boy. I've heard him say that before, too. Actually it tends to be 'Heem-Heem, las machos dos nachos'." Nathan grinned, struggling not to laugh. Jimenez would beat the crap out of Nathan if he laughed.
Jimenez just stared off into the middle distance, keeping the same smile on his face. "Oh yeah," he said, "I'm very much looking forward to getting out of here." Nathan smiled too, and let Jimenez continue on his way, and felt very warm and happy inside. Two cadets down; one to go. He was talking a lot of people these days, about Dixon, and his particular brand of wit.
At breakfast the next morning, the mess hall was loud and boisterous; French toast that morning, one of the meals they made that was really good, and they all were allowed seconds (but no thirds; if you wanted thirds, you had to switch to oatmeal). Nathan sat at the officer's table, next to the empty seat where Dixon sat, where Nathan had fetched Dixon's firsts, seconds, and oatmeal, and had set them up precisely, with cutlery arranged just so, as he did every morning. All the cadet commanders had their "bitches", though, as far as Nathan had been able to find out by asking the others, their bitch duties didn't extend as far as his. Then again, who would admit it?
Commander Dixon strutted into the mess hall, immaculate in his dress uniform, all ready to attend rehearsal for the valedictorian's ceremony at graduation; he wasn't supposed to be in full dress at breakfast, but Dixon would never waste an opportunity to show off. He did cut a handsome figure, flaming-red hair grown in a little, a hint of an affectation of a blonde mustache on his lip, grins, dimples, and finger-guns for all his fans, real or imagined.
Rolling his eyes nonchalantly, Alex Jimenez stuck his foot out into the aisle, right in Dixon's oblivious path. Dixon took a spectacular tumble, almost cartwheeling, running into a fully-laden table with milk, syrup, somebody's oatmeal already, flaps of French toast sailing through the air and sticking to Dixon's dress uniform as though magnetically attracted. And then Dixon slipped on a piece of French toast on the floor, and skidded underneath the table, which came crashing down on top of him.
That moment of silence was excruciating. And then everyone laughed. Everyone. From the tiniest cadet to the teachers and the President of the school himself - they all cracked up. All except Nathan. Nathan just smiled and felt warm and cozy inside. Oh, yes, I could get used to this. Oh, yes.
Dixon leaped to his feet and ran at Jimenez with fists flying. The commotion in the mess hall went from laughter to shouts of encouragement and bloodlust. Nathan calmly sat down and drank his orange juice, and started on his French toast. It was particularly excellent that day.
Later that week, cadets were called in, one by one, to a sort of tribunal. Nathan heard all the details through the rumor mill - Jimenez was being kicked out for fighting, but before he left, he explained that he had beaten Dixon down because of the continuous stream of racist abuse that Dixon had subjected him to. The school took such accusations very seriously - they had an international reputation to uphold - and were honor-bound to investigate. Nathan was friends with most of the black students in D-wing, and he encouraged them to step up and volunteer any information they had. All of them did. All the Latinos did, too, and the two Korean guys in D-wing who had started at the same time as Nathan. Even the fat guy, Schuster, came forward; he wasn't that fat - you couldn't be, with all the running around you had to do - but he was still heavy for his height, and Dixon had never let up on the insults, no matter how fit Schuster actually was (he could bench press three times what Nathan could, and could run faster, too). All the guys who put down words for Dixon thanked Nathan afterwards. Nathan felt happier and happier. He wasn't homesick anymore. Now half the school were his friends, and he didn't have a bone to pick with anyone. Dixon was done for.
Then it was Nathan's turn. Of course. He made sure he looked sharp, and sat down in the chair opposite the vice president, the school nurse (and counselor), Dixon, and a man who, by his looks, could only be Dixon's father. He was a ruddy blond hulk of a man, so massive he made Dixon look slim and delicate in comparison, with hands huge, rough, and stained from working. "I'm sure you know by now what this is about," said the school counselor to Nathan. "You are on the record. Have you ever been the target of bigoted and offensive comments from Cadet Dixon?"
"Repeatedly," Nathan said. "Repeatedly and consistently. From the very first day."
"Have you ever heard or overheard Cadet Dixon using racist or offensive language toward or about other students, faculty, or staff?"
"Repeatedly and consistently," Nathan said again. He stared at Dixon. Dixon stared straight ahead, maintaining his ramrod-straight, rigid posture, his face completely blank. "I was tempted to make a catalogue of his comments, because they were so varied and colorful. Almost like something out of Mark Twain." Dixon blinked at that, his face going thoughtful all of a sudden; Dixon loved Mark Twain. Nathan kept smiling. A compliment was a great way to widen the wound, so he could add more salt to it.
The VP and the counselor seemed a little impressed at that too. "Is there any possibility..." the counselor said slowly, "that he might have been kidding?"
"I doubt it," said Nathan. "And it doesn't matter whether or not he means it. It's terrible to hear. It makes it hard to concentrate on classwork, chores, and duties. And I don't think he was kidding, no. He enjoys hurting people. It's not a very good environment, especially not for the freshman class, who are looking up to him as a role model... as someone to provide guidance."
The adults all looked at each other with troubled expressions, and Nathan kept staring at Dixon. Dixon kept staring into space, the empty, proud, fixed look on his face now gone, replaced with bitterness and resignation. Nathan smiled again, and thanked the VP for his time.
Nathan skipped back to the dormitory as soon as dinner was over, and went to the back corner of the hall where Dixon's private quarters had been located, where they had spent more than one morning study-hall period, Dixon taking what he wanted, and Nathan giving it without complaint. He leaned against the doorway and watched as Dixon laid his belongings in his suitcase. It was the first time Nathan had seen him out of uniform; in his chambray button-down shirt and khaki pants, Dixon looked ordinary. Shorter in sneakers than in his boots, his hair too precise for the casual clothes. Inferior to Nathan in uniform. Dixon lifted his head and glared at Nathan. "What the fuck do you want?" he snapped.
"Just wanted to tell you something," Nathan said. "Just a word of advice. Don't fuck the Petrellis," Nathan replied, adding a little smile. "The mafia's got nothing on us."
Nathan turned and went back down the hall, back to his school, back to his friends.
***
JANUARY 2005
"It's over now," Peter said softly. "It's behind you." His voice was quiet, hitching slightly as he thrust into Nathan's hand. Peter kissed Nathan's collarbone lightly, then flung himself back against the surface of the bed, giving himself up completely. "Ah... ah... you're with me now. That's all behind you and now you're with me, and I love you... it'll always be with you, though, but I'm here... and you're with me..." His eyes rolled back and his whole body went briefly into spasm as his warm semen spurted into Nathan's hand. Nathan bent over and kissed Peter's lips over and over. Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan's torso and held him tightly, not minding the sticky smudge of cum and lotion that Nathan wiped over his belly, not minding the hot saltwater dripping onto his face from Nathan's eyes. "It's all right now," Peter insisted, kissing Nathan, tasting his tears. "It's all right now."
"It's for you," Nathan said. "Not him."
Peter smiled. "I know." He wrapped his legs around Nathan's waist for a moment, then relaxed, relaxed more, melting, his eyes drifting closed. "I want to fuck you some more," Peter said. "I think it'll be good for you. You want it... I'll do it to you the right way. You won't think about him when you're with me."
"No, I don't..."
"It's just you and me. Nobody else. Nobody." Peter sighed. "You and me."
Somehow, even with the coffee he'd just had, Peter fell back to sleep. It made sense; it was three-thirty in the morning, and he worked hard. He was so beautiful when he slept, even when he began to snore. Nathan got up for the second time that night, tucked Peter in, closed his mouth, and kissed him, then washed up and went home. He got there in time to meet Heidi for a shower and a cup of coffee, and then they went jogging together. She knew that he'd been up, but she had no idea that he'd left.
All for the good.
Nathan went to work, organizing his fundraising campaign, and juggling his cases at the D.A.'s office by turns. It was all about justice, change, and personal power; both jobs, both responsibilities, both challenges. That was his life.
At lunchtime, he got another coffee and a sandwich, went back to his desk, and got back on the phone. He called his bank to check his account, and then he called the alumni-affairs office of the Academy, and asked to speak to Mitch's assistant.
"What can I do for you?" chirped a young woman's voice.
Nathan wondered if Mitch was nailing her. "I'm wondering if you could go through your files, and dig up the contact information for Kenyon Dixon's surviving partner? I was talking to Mitch about it yesterday."
"Uh - sure. Let me put you on hold for a second." The woman returned to the phone after a brief wait, and gave Nathan a return address, e-mail, and phone number. "Do you want me to tell Mitch that you called?" she added.
"No, that's all right. I'll see him next time. Thank you."
Nathan called his bank again, and arranged a wire transfer of one hundred eight thousand dollars to the address he'd been given. He requested that the bank provide the money anonymously, but to attach a message to the transfer:
This is the equivalent payout of the military survivor's benefits which you will not receive, nor, by law, are you are entitled. Nonetheless, anyone who could put up with Kenyon Marbury Dixon voluntarily is obviously not in his right mind, and as such, could benefit from charitable assistance. Please don't try to find out who sent this to you; I wouldn't acknowledge it if you asked me. My life has moved on from Dixon; I suggest that you seek to do the same. And read some Mark Twain, if you can; he's a really funny guy.
END PART (27)
A/N: I have been working toward writing this story for more than eight months. I don't feel like I did it justice - there's so much more to this that it could easily become its own series - but I will put this out there anyway, and I will not elaborate on Dixon any further. I resist creating original characters as main characters in my fanfic, because if I'm going to do that, I figure I might as well just write original fiction. (This is my way of doing things - I don't disparage anybody else's.) Trying to create the right balance between depicting statutory rape and abuse, PTSD (yet again), black comedy (because Dixon is a surprisingly witty guy, in the same vein as, say, Eddie Murphy) and of course, the necessary thread of erotica that is the whole point of Ritual has been really challenging. So please forgive this for being rough. (Actually, the hardest part of writing this was writing the summary!) I may use this as an outline for a much larger piece of "original" fiction to be written "one of these days", that won't be Heroes fic on its surface. Your suggestions for what can be improved, and other aspects of Nathan and Dixon's relationship you'd like to see extended, framed differently, or anything like that is welcome.
Also, if you like, this can be somewhat disregarded as Ritual canon if you don't like it. It was just a story that I've been wanting to write since the very beginning, as I imagined these events in Nathan's past as being an essential part of his character. But of course you are not required to feel that way... Anyway. Thanks for reading.