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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[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

Peter's accepted his fate, and so have I. The time for gentleness is over. He's pushing back into me, and it's hard to breathe, he's almost smothering me. The hot, musky taste and scent of him is driving me insane, and when I think of what the end result of all this will be, I moan, my mouth pressed to his ass.

Before I know it I've got two fingers inside him, and he's a little tighter around me than I would have liked. Doesn't matter, I think as I bury my fingers up to the knuckles into him. He'll heal.

I feel around in him, open him up, trying to get an idea of where his sweet spot is, and when I find it, I feel him shake against me. Tossing his head back, choking out impossibly wanton sounds. Lord, what a sight it is, disgustingly beautiful, watching my brother fucking himself on my fingers.

His insides are velvety soft and wet, and I can only imagine what it's going to feel like when I get my dick into him.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

There are sounds coming out of me that I had no idea I could make. There are words slipping from my lips that are unreal and unimaginable. So far I've growled, whined, whimpered, moaned and so many other things I can't even describe.

This is nothing like being with a woman. I've never had so much trust before. I don't even know what's going on. Nathan's got a different part of himself inside me now and my God, it hurts and it feels wonderful all at the same.

There's no describing this.

Fingers are not enough. The tongue was not enough. Nothing was enough. I press my face into the pillows. That's it. It's my turn to beg.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

"You like that?" I ask almost rhetorically; I know he does, because his incoherent sounds are muffled into the pillow now. I'm twisting my fingers up into him, deeply enough and roughly enough to hurt him now. He deserves the pain, for making me wait this long for what I've needed.

You didn't grow up fast enough, you little whore.

Where is this anger coming from? I love him and hate him right now, for keeping this from me, for making me wait, forcing me to control myself. He wouldn't let me take what I wanted when I wanted it. He made me feel guilty because he was just a child then, and I'm going to make up for it right now.

I give his ass an open-handed slap, and the sound cracks the silence. He wasn't expecting it, and he sobs into the pillow. The bright red handprint fades to white too quickly for my liking, so I do it again.

"You little slut," I hiss. "You like it up the ass, don't you?" I shove my fingers into him once more, then watch his stretched opening close up as I slide them out. I rub him with my thumb, teasing him a little now. Now that I've got him where I want him, I want to hear him say it.

"Say it, Peter. I won't fuck you unless I hear you say it."

That's a lie. Whether he wants it or not, he's getting it. No turning back, little brother.

I'm committing the worst sin of my life, panting with excitement as I line myself up with his asshole and push just past his resistance. Peter shrieks at the intrusion, and I don't care. The heat of him is intense, and he's way too tight. I still don't care.

Forcing myself to wait for his answer, I slap him again, and the shock runs through my own body. I have to stop myself from slamming into him.

"Answer me, Peter."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

A confession of love. Sweet kissing. His mouth on me. My hands around him-- And now this? THIS? I want to scream as he slams into me. I want to cry when he calls me a slut. Why am I a slut when I didn't for any of this? All I wanted was to see Nathan again and I get saddled with the responsibility of cleaning up a drunk, get tumbled into bed with him, and turned on to something I maybe thought about once. Or twice.

"Nathan--" I'm not admitting to anything. I'm turned on, I've got my older brother inside of me, and any damage he's doing me -- and by the feel of it, it's a lot -- is healed almost at once. I gasp as he pulls out and thrusts back in again. My head's swimming with shame. "Nathan!" It's the most strangled sound I've ever heard myself -- or anyone else come to think of it -- give.

I wish I could shut down. But I can't.

"Please."

So more begging is it? My brother isn't stopping. Or slowing. He's already against him. His breath is on the back of my neck. His stomach is against the small of my back. I don't know if I really want him to stop, not once he finds an angle that sends me to the roof, sends me to see God.

The shame doesn't stop though. I sob into the pillow. I don't want to like what's essentially become a rape.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I don't hear anything right now except for the sound of my blood beating a frantic rhythm in my ears. All I feel is my hands on Peter's hips, and the glorious repeated plunge into the slick grip of Peter's ass. It's been so long since I've done this with a man, and God, I never thought I would again, not after I married Heidi.

"God, you feel so good...you're so fucking tight, Peter..." I groan into his shoulder. Still too tight. This should alarm me, but I'm hardly paying any real attention to him over my body's demands. Peter's still crying too, but that doesn't bother me right away either. I slide in and out of him, and it feels almost like I'm flying.

An image flashes before my eyes, and a strange feeling comes over me; that overwhelming light and heat, my brother in my arms, as we hurtle through the New York City sky.

I remember thinking, I'm going to die, but you're gonna be fine, Peter.

Then I hear it.

Peter screams my name, and suddenly, I'm waking up into a nightmare. I don't know how much time has passed since I forced myself into him all the way that first time. Peter is a sobbing, shaking mess beneath me, and that's not the way I wanted this to be. I didn't want to hurt him. But I just can't stop myself from slamming deep into him again and again. Everything is spinning, and I don't know what I'm even doing anymore.

Of course I know what I'm doing: I'm fucking my little brother. That in itself is terribly, unforgivably wrong. But this was supposed to be consensual. I should be enjoying this, and so should he. But when he screams my name, it sounds like his world is ending.

And suddenly, so is mine.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

When it's over, I have one eye open looking at the wall under the window by my bed. I've actually scratched off some of the paper, there are two thin, ragged lines to prove it and the bunched up bits of the remains under my fingernails. I'm not breathing as hard as I had been. I'm not even crying anymore. Tilting my head, I feel the way that my body heals around my brother's intrusion, the weight of what can only be semen filling me in a way that I'm unsure how to classify. Unpleasant...or satisfying?

He's panting against my neck, his breath so hot it's burning me. I love the way he strokes my sides, counting my ribs and tracing patterns into my skin, but I feel disgusting, coated in sex and fear.

It could very well be over between us. I'm so afraid that it's the end. So much for the tears to have stopped. I close my eyes, feeling Nathan shift against him. I could use a shower, but if he leaves while I'm in there -- if I can even stand, of course -- I don't think I'll make it.

Whatever he is, whatever he's done, I still love him. I might not ever be able to look him in the eye again, but you can't just throw out family. You can't just stop loving them.

Nathan's done some pretty terrible things to me in my life. This...this wasn't the worst. My hand shakes as I put it over his. I'm not trying to condone this, but my need for my brother outweighs the shame of what he's done to me.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I hold my brother close to me, and lay my head on his shoulder. I don't know how I feel right now. There are so many mixed emotions running through my head.

I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, I think over and over, but I just can't bring myself to say the words. I feel disgusted with myself because of what I've done to him, and sick because the adrenaline has leeched out of my system, leaving me with a desperate, uncontrollable need for alcohol. I feel the shakes starting.

I deserve it. What I've done to him is unforgivable.

When I feel his hand close over mine, I can't hold it back anymore. "You should have stopped me, Peter," I choke, squeezing my eyes shut against tears, closing my throat on the sobs that threaten to come.

Once I'm sure I won't cry, I whisper, "You should have let me die. Then I'd never be able to hurt you again."

He came back to me, and I've pushed him away again, for what may be the last time. He was right. We're broken now, and there's nothing that can put it back together.

Why is he still lying in my arms, then? Why is Peter still here? Why is this happening?

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

There are many things I should have done, there are many more things I shouldn't have. These are all moot points, but I'm silent on the subject. My eyes close as Nathan rolls me thankfully out of the wet spot I've left in my sheets. There's physical evidence of what we've done and my own inner turmoil right there.

I've never been a poet. I just can't stop the thoughts in my head, running so fast that they're tripping over one another. Fight or flight, joy or sorrow, desire or emotionlessness. These are the things I can not bear to come to conclusions about. Each and every one of my choices will hurt me so terribly that I am positive I will never recover.

So long as Nathan holds me now, the world will go on turning. Even though, I note bitterly, that he's once again putting everything on my shoulders.

He is not sorry.

I should have stopped him. I should have left him die. Why can he never take care of me for my own sake? Why does his life, his needs, and his desires mean so much more to me? Why does he only protect me in his own selfish ways?

I can't move, but I want to press my face to his throat. I forgive him, I really do. I just can not find my tongue to speak.

Nathan's anger or dismay -- I can not tell his emotions, though time and again I've been told that I'm empathic -- at my silence makes him turn me around in his arms. My sticky belly pressing against him. I sigh, my fingers pressing into his ribs, my face against his shoulder. At least the sickness has stopped. At least he's not letting go.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

"Talk to me, Pete," I say, holding him against me, my hand at the back of his head. "Tell me you're okay. Tell me we're okay. Tell me I'm an asshole. Just...for God's sake, say something."

He is still silent, though. I can't force an answer out of him. I've forced enough on him already.

I try to ignore this desperate, sick feeling that's slowly taking conrol of me. I keep my hands from shaking by rubbing the back of Peter's neck with one, and letting my other hand glide over his back, his sides, his chest. Just touching him. This is something we always did, never in a sexual way, and I feel myself letting go of my guilt as I remind myself of how it used to be. Just needing to feel, to touch, to hold. I needed it then, and I need it now. To remember what we used to be. Can it ever be that way again?

I feel him shift against me, and his stomach is sticking to me. Does that mean he--?

He definitely did. I'm so confused, and I just want him to talk to me. I open my eyes, and I'm looking right into his. I can't tell what's going on in his head; he doesn't give much away with the expression he's wearing.

If anything, he looks lost. Like he's looking through me.

I don't blame him, because I wouldn't want to see the person I've become either. But I have to live with myself.

I drift off to an uneasy half-sleep for a little while, and when I open my eyes again, he's still here. Peter still hasn't made a move to pull away from my embrace. Some part of him still wants me to hold him, and that's what I'll do, until he tells me to let go. Just like he did right before he exploded over New York.

I'll let go if he wants me to, but I'm afraid I'll lose him for good if I do.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

In the short time that I've been laying in his arms, I've run the gambit of emotions. Blinking back tears is just about the only constant at the moment. I'm having trouble closing my eyes. When he sleeps against me, I want to hurt him. I can do it so easily, too. I've picked up quite the number of powers during my recent life as a super hero.

Telekinesis. Electricity. Either would certain do damage...

The breath against my neck is so familiar, however, that it makes me tremble. I can't sleep like he's able to. I can't do anything but follow the thoughts that are chasing around in my head like a hare, never tiring, never resting. I can't catch it. I can't stop the aches.

Each time he wakes, or perhaps between his dreams, he asks me to speak to him. But how can I do that? I still have not found my voice, all I can do is cling to him, my tormenter, my savior, my brother.

I'm so very sure that we are broken as I drop my head to his shoulder, tears wetting his skin. He's always lived to hurt me as a way to show his love. And I've always accepted that hurt as a means to express mine.

I can't let go of him. I need him now, more than ever.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I know my brother is crying when he rests his head on my shoulder, and I'm not sure what to do about it. I know he needs to, but God, it kills me when he does.

When he was five years old, running around outside, suddenly tripping and skinning a knee, I'd lean down and I'd wipe those tears away, say something silly or make a funny face to make him smile.

I wipe the tears away with my thumb, and they keep coming. I'm so ashamed of myself. This is no skinned knee. I've sexually abused my brother.

I can't get any further on what he's feeling because he won't talk to me. The only special ability I have, besides being able to break the sound barrier in flight, is to hurt the person I love most in the world, over and over again, so much that maybe he thinks that's how it's supposed to be. "I never wanted this to hurt you," I sigh.

But I wasn't, not entirely. He was enjoying himself, somewhat...the evidence of that has dried on our skin. Oh, Christ, what if I've twisted him up so badly that pain is pleasure for him?

That's ridiculous, I tell myself. But it's not.

"I'm sorry, Peter," I gasp finally. That's it. I'm going to be sick. I tear out of the bed and run for the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet, almost not quickly enough. I feel my own tears start to slip down my face as I heave and bring up nothing but bile.

The room lurches and spins violently, and I'm shaking uncontrollably.

Alcohol withdrawal is a terrible thing, and I deserve it. I did it to myself.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I roll into his warmth the moment he leaves my side. I can hear him retching pathetically in the bathroom. That's right, that's got to be my fault too. I don't know where this sudden bitterness has come from. No, actually, I am well aware of why it's clouding my life but I don't want to embrace it. My brother loves me. He loves me so much that--

I'm not sure how I manage to sit up, but I do. I cast about for something to wear, wobbling as I pull open my closet door. He's messed with my things, I can tell easily enough. I don't know what he was doing with my t-shirts and jeans. It's not like he can fit easily into them. He's broader in different areas than I am.

I clutch at the hangers as I get a flash of madness and bow my head as I pull on a shirt. It takes much too long for me to shuffle towards my underwear drawer. I'm not in any pain, but if feels like I should be, wincing without cause as I pull on my pants.

I don't really have any intention of leaving, but I can't just sit here and wait for him to finish what I should be doing. For all the love I have for him, I can't stop hating him just the same. I need something to eat, something to put in my stomach. Something to stop the conflict in my blood.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

Once the dry heaving stops, I get to my feet, my knees weak, and I splash water on my face, rinse out the taste of bile from my mouth. I hear my brother in his bedroom rifling through his closet.

He's leaving. That's it. It's over.

But I can't let him go, I just can't. My legs won't obey my command to leave the bathroom and stop him.

"Peter," I choke, my voice too weak, my throat raw and painful.

I hear him banging things around, probably not able to find something he's looking for. I finally have the strength to push open the door.

Peter is standing in front of me, fully dressed, holding out clothes in his hand. An old t-shirt of mine and a pair of boxer shorts, probably something I left here ages ago. Where he found those, I don't know. All that matters is they're clean. I take them gratefully and attempt to put them on, my body still shaking. He steadies me so I don't fall.

Always the nurse. Always taking care of me, even after what I've done. Right now, I don't want him to touch me. "Don't," I say, pushing his hands off my waist, and down I go.

"God damn it..." I say. The minute he walks out that door I have to find something to drink. Just enough so I can be functional.

I feel Peter's eyes on me, and I know they're filled with pity.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I sigh at my brother, bending down to help him up again. Does he think I'm going to leave him? I would have done so long before now, but I can not always be in my brother's head. Well. That's actually a lie, now isn't it?

I concentrate on his thoughts as I pull on Nathan's shirt and his boxers. I need to get him dressed first and foremost, even if I'm shocked to hear him think that I pity him. Pity him? Why I do I keep coming back to this man?

How can I possibly love him when he only thinks about himself? I'm out of his head as quickly as possible, setting him on the couch. Funny thought I still haven't found my voice, that I was forced into sex, that I've spent each moment of my return playing nurse to my brother, my tormenter. And I continue to do so, even fetching the man water.