A Long Trip Home

[chimeramimicry]

The door is two yards away but I can't move from the top of the stairs.  It's been months, four or so, since I've been here, in this spot.  Gone were the days of trudging up the stairs with my satchel on the way home from work because my building's landlords refused to fix the elevators properly.  Gone too was the pleasure I had of returning to this apartment I paid for with my own money and not from my trust fund.  I donated all of that to charity the moment I turned twenty-five and finished paying off my loans to school.  It was two years ago.  It feels like forever.

I'm not the same man I had been.  I'm not a child anymore.  At least, I want to think that.

I'm still clutching the photograph of my brother and I in our tuxedos.  There's a smudge on it from my thumb and full of creases.  I've not let it go since I opened that box containing everything that I am.  Everything I was.  I left Ireland without looking back.  There was, there is only one thing on my mind.  Nathan.

Nathan.

Nathan.

I know he's here.  I've always felt a connection to him.  Mohinder Suresh called it part of my empathy, to feel things like that.  Funny to be so empathically linked to someone I spent my whole life pining for, who has always had a life to live without me.  He's never had time for me.  Never.

"Just walk, Peter," I whisper to myself as I move to a door I have not touched in a long time.  I swallow.  And knock.  I know he's in here without knowing it.  I almost lose the nerve to knock.  Please answer, Nathan.  Please.

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[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I reach for the phone and consider winging that against the far wall, too. If it were mine, I would, but it's Peter's, and I think I've broken enough that belongs to him.

I sit up and clear my throat, suddenly furious at Peter for doing this to me. For taking it upon himself to be a one-man intervention. Telling Heidi I'm drunk at nine in the morning. Telling her I'm not going to be home to spend Christmas with my kids. Peter is not going to be his brother's keeper, much as he wants to.

"Nathan, honey? Are you there?" I hear her saying while I deliberate how to fix this fucking mess Peter's made.

He will not force me to do this. I can fly away just as fast as he can. And leave him alone? Look what happened the last time...

"Yes, Heidi, I'm here. I'm not drunk." Not yet. "You have some nerve, after what you said to me when I left. I wasn't going out to fuck one of my whores, Heidi. I was going to--" fuck Peter "--see Peter. His birthday was yesterday! How could you forget?" Easily. I almost did. My guilty conscience just never seems to shut up.

Heidi is silent for a moment, and I can hear tears in each breath she takes, before she speaks again. "Come home, Nathan. Your mother is here; she decided since we're all together again, we'd have Christmas Eve here this year."

God, I can't believe I wanted to leave this woman. She's hurt and angry and doesn't trust me, but she loves me still, wants me still, after everything I've done.

I can't help but smile as I see her in my mind's eye. Rome wasn't built in a day. I can't give up what's meant so much to me, more than ten years of my life, because of some stupid marriage counselor and the fact that I can't keep the bottle out of my mouth and my dick in my pants. I have to fix all that if I hope to keep the woman I love.

But not right now.

"I'll be home later on tonight," I promise her, and she breaks down into tears. "Don't cry, honey. Okay? I love you. See you soon."

I flip the phone shut, and I give Peter a look that would have killed him if he'd been able to die. "You're not doing this to me right now. I'm going home. Tonight."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I can not say that I am not jealous because I really am. I know he loves her, and while I was there first, he went into his marriage not knowing what I was to him. I wait for him, now, to finish his speech and to give me a look that tells me how much he does not care for me. This will be tough. I knew it then and I know it now too. "You're not," I say softly. "You can go back to hurt when this is over."

I pull his ring off of my finger, well aware of the symbolism in my heart for what it meant. What it means. I move towards my brother, my lover, the man I would give my life and my world to if he asked and place his ring in the palm of his hand. I sigh as I kiss him.

And knock him out with a power that I hate using even more than I had before. Telekinesis deprives his brain of oxygen just long enough to make him pass out.

It's an hour before my brother wakes up to some sort of strange bondage scenario, though I had meant nothing sexy by the ties lashing him to bed. I wait for him to scream. Or struggle. Or beg. I'm not sure what my brother will do, but I have to remind myself not to let him break my heart this time.

Not until he doesn't need alcohol any more.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

My eyes open, and I'm staring up at the ceiling again. At least I think it's the ceiling. It's quiet and dark, the thick curtains drawn to keep out the weak afternoon sun.

Everything is blurry, and my head's a little foggy. "Peter?" I whisper. Christ, I'm drooling on myself. I make a move to wipe my mouth, but my arm doesn't comply. I blink a few times till I can see straight, shake my head to clear it, and I try again. I yank my arm towards myself, and all I succeed in doing is pulling a muscle in my shoulder.

I'm really regretting the day when Peter was ten years old and I was home on shore leave, and I instructed him in the tying of knots. The silk rope chafes my wrist as I fervently try to pull loose, testing the strength of his knot. The little bastard.

He's got each of my limbs tied to the bedposts, and I'm dressed only in my pants, no shirt, no socks. This would be erotic if I didn't know the real reason why he's keeping me here.

"Peter," I say again, trying to sound authoritative and intimidating as I possibly can in this position. "Untie me, now. This is childish and ridiculous. You know it."

As much as I try not to think about it, Peter is infinitely stronger than I'll ever be. Physically, that is. Maybe it's time to use honey instead of vinegar. I'm going to have to trick him into letting me go so I can get the hell out of here.

"Pete, just untie me. I'll stay here if you want me to, okay? This is just...humiliating. Come on, Pete."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I want to believe him, more than anything. I want to, but I know better. He's burned me too many times. Sinking further back into the chair I've pulled in from the sitting room, I gently shake my head. "I can't, Nathan. I'm sorry."

I know how this will go. He'll be nice to me, promise me the world and everything in. He'll probably tell me that he'll stay with me and only me. We'll go to Canada. Or London. No one will know us and we can live as more than brothers.

Next, he'll beg me. He'll beg me to let him go. He might cry or flail. He'll say he's going crazy, that he's going to hurt himself. He might tell me he's going to be sick or crap his pants.

Finally, there will be the rage. Now that I'm familiar with. I know all about my brother's anger issues...but they'll still be the hardest to deal with.

He'll make me cry for him. Pity him. He'll bring me to the edge. But I can not let go. Not if I want him to be a man again. A father.

And a husband.

Because yes. Yes, I will return him to his wife. He might have been mine first, but I'm only kidding myself to think that he'll be mine always. Even if I love him far more than he'll ever deserve.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

Hours pass. They feel like years in the silence, in the everlasting dark, the only sound my brother's breathing. Sometimes he comes to me and he kisses my cheek, strokes my face, my hair, all over my body. He tells me he loves me, that this is for my own good. He knows when the pain finally sets in, the vicious need in my blood for alcohol, and he eases me into unconsciousness.

Every time I wake up, it hurts even more.

I slip in and out of my dreams...but a pressing need wakes me fully. The bright green numbers on the cable box now read 6:01 pm. It's been six hours. Feels like six years.

"Peter," I croak. I can barely speak. My mouth is too dry. He gives me water. I hate him right now. I hate him. I want to kill him. He'll just come back. He's killing me. I'm going to die here in this place.

"I have to--" I start. I've been holding my bladder for hours, and I really need to use the bathroom. Will he humiliate me even further, or will he untie me?

I'm crying. Finally. Though I told myself I wouldn't. "I hate you," I choke.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, I know," I whisper as I stroke his hair and kiss his forehead again. He's going into cold sweats and while I have already gone and picked up the medication I know he's going to need soon. Getting him to the bathroom is lesson in futility, but cleaning him up when we don't get there in time is pure love. I know he doesn't understand this, but he will.

When it gets really bad -- and it happens soon than I expect -- I hold my brother, my lover, close to my chest in the shower as he weakly pushes me away. The bruises he causes on my skin fade easily and I kiss the top of his wet head like a parent does to a child.

I make sure to tell him that I love him, over and over again. It's a mantra. A prayer. I rock him gently....but I am not sorry that I am doing this to him.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I'm too weak to even fight him now, as he pulls my urine-soaked pants off me and puts me into the shower, holding me up, washing me gently. I'm a patient to him now. I'm dying. He's killing me. I just want to fall to my knees and give up. The pain so bad all I can do is cry.

"Peter, please," I moan, as he kisses my lips, my face. He pulls me in and I rest my head on his chest. "Please make it stop. Let me go. Please. It hurts. I can't do this...I'm going to die...Peter..."

He dries me with a soft white towel, leads me to the bed, professing his love for me even as I tell him I hate him. I find some strength deep within me to swing at him. I know I've split his lip with one errant punch, but he heals. I just hurt even more. I see his blood on my hand, and it makes me even sicker.

He lays me down, and I'm crying so hard I feel like I'm going to throw up. I need a drink so badly...that's all it would take to end this suffering. "Have mercy on me, Peter. Help me. Please. Please."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

It takes all of my soul and all of my strength not to let him go. It would be so easy to run down to the bar and snag a few bottles to let my brother pull himself together, but then all of this would have been for nothing. I can't allow that. His hands are tied now as he lays on his side and I press myself against his back, spooning him as he usually does to me.

I keep on singing against the back of his head, songs from Mass, songs from childhood, sweet little things that have no name and just came to me as I wait out this torture with him.

Sometimes, as the days stretch by in front of us, Nathan seems perfectly lucid. Other times, he offers me the things I know he would, wounding me with promises of marriage in Canada and a new life if I'll just pull him out of hell. Sometimes he laughs pitifully, shaking out his addiction. Or he's violent and tries to hurt me.

Or himself.

But it gets better. It always does. Even in the blackness, there's light. I'm going to save someone that means everything to me, even if it costs me the very thing I love.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

How many days has it been? Five, six? My brother is now my tormentor. He doesn't love me, not when he's doing this to me. He keeps telling me he does, whispering it into my hair when I'm shaking and crying, when I'm silent and refuse to talk to him. There's one day I spend completely out of the restraints, and I think maybe it's over, maybe he'll give in, but when I try to hit him, try to escape, he stops me with that Godforsaken telekinetic power, ties me to the bed again. I call him the worst names I can think of. I tell him I never loved him, that I only used him. He laughs and tells me he loves me anyway. I tell him that I'll take him away, spend the rest of my life with him, give him all of me, everything he's ever wanted. He just smiles and shushes me, kisses me, holds me.

He's killing me.

Sometimes I'm all right, and it's like we're just on vacation together, and we laugh and talk about sports, about my children, about when we were younger. Sometimes it's so bad I'm heaving nothing but bile into the ice bucket Peter's reserved for just that purpose. Sometimes I can't keep down anything that's not water and crackers. He loves me still.

There's some kind of medication that he's got stashed away, and I do my best to make him give it to me. But my tormentor, my brother, he always knows when I'm faking it, making it out to be worse than it really is, and when it's really bad and I need it. Then I feel the cool swipe of alcohol against my arm, a quick, almost painless slide of a needle under my skin. It never hurts after that, and it lasts sometimes for hours.

Maybe a few days more go by, I'm not sure anymore. They're marked by the good times and the bad times. Peter stops me from cutting myself with the safety razor that he leaves unattended while shaving me. He sings to me and rocks me as if I'm his child, and he tells me he loves me. But he doesn't love me. Not when he's hurting me like this.

Today I wake up, and something is different, maybe. I can't trust myself yet. I don't know. I'll let Peter decide. He's his brother's keeper. My tormentor. My savior.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I'm so tired. My body regenerates itself with or without sleep, but the mental exhaustion is not something that even Claire's powers can cure me of. I am in the shower myself, sobbing away the pain I gather from him and purge when he is passed out, when my brother stirs. I don't need super hearing to figure that one out. Washing my face -- though it will take some time for the redness to leave my eyes -- I leave the shower and dry as quickly as possible.

Nathan's sitting up in bed. His hands are tied, but not to the headboard. He can get up, grasp things, feed himself...but he's still impaired. He can not get too far. And that's the point, really. I have to watch him at every step of the way. He's worse than a child. Worse than my patients.

It's all I can do not to break down on a daily basis.

This morning, though, his eyes are clear. He's not really looking at me, just at the sun spots on the wall, watching them as if he can actually see their patterns. I can't get my hopes up though. "Nathan?" It takes him a moment, but he looks at me with those striking eyes of his and I edge closer to the bed, t-shirt and hair sticking damply to my skin.

I smile. He does not, but I'm use to that. My lips find his the moment I crawl into bed with him, hands on either side of his face. He tastes stale, like morning breath.

"What do you want for breakfast?"