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]

For the first few moments I hold my brother in my arms, reunited with him after all this time, I can't stop kissing him. I didn't realize until just this second how different he was as a woman.

I remind myself of everything I love about my brother...the scent of his skin, the taste of him as his tongue slides against mine. The light scratch of his facial hair against my cheek as I lower my head to his neck to kiss him there. I intend to take my time, get to know his body all over again, every last part of him.

"I missed you, Peter," I sigh against his shoulder. "Thought I'd never see you again..." I know it's strange, but I feel almost like I did when he came back to me after his explosion over New York. The woman I married, that I've been sleeping next to for months, quickly fades from my mind as I begin to rediscover the man my brother's always been.

He leans into each touch of my lips, rubbing himself shamelessly against me, hard already. I smile at that; I've barely even touched him yet. The insistent friction sends all the blood in my body rushing straight downward, and soon I've got him pinned against the wall, rocking my hips into him, just as hard as he is.

After a few more kisses, I force myself to pull away. "Let me see you, Peter. Let me see my beautiful brother."

He's still smiling shyly, but he does as I ask, taking off the frilly nightgown and dropping it to the floor.

It's like I'm seeing him for the first time all over again; these past eight months, all I've had of him was my memories and my dreams. Everything in its right place. Smooth chest, tight belly. Lightly muscled arms and thighs. Soft, white skin everywhere except for his cock, shaded pink from the blood trapped there. When he was a woman, he shaved everywhere, but a little bit of his body hair has come back with his transformation.

So perfect, and really, truly mine.