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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[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.