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]

I open the bathroom door and I'm almost knocked over by Peter's desperate clinging hug. He actually came back. I can feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, and I just stand there and hold him, a bit stunned.

I'm wondering if the alcohol, or maybe even the lack of it, is making me hallucinate. This is my brother, correct? My brother, whom I sexually assaulted only a few hours ago, my brother who cried in my arms afterward, his face now buried in the crook of my neck, his arms tight around my neck.

I have a feeling that the silent treatment Peter's always been so good at may finally end here. Maybe by getting away from me, from my worst of many transgressions, he's figured out how to deal with this. Honestly, I can't do anything until I know how he feels about it all.

I rub his back soothingly, and I ask, "You okay?" I notice over his shoulder the two brown paper bags on the kitchen table.

Peter just went to the supermarket. He went out to get something for us to eat. I can't really remember when I last ate anything substantial.

I don't deserve this love from him. I've known that for a long time. But he's always been this way.

Peter lets me go, and his face is drawn and tired. His eyes are ringed with slight circles, and I know he really needs to sleep.

Impulsively, I place a kiss at just the corner of his mouth. "Go sit down, I'll make you a sandwich."

The Petrelli brothers playing house, I think darkly, still angry at myself.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

A sandwich. My eyes turn as I follow Nathan, moving my head only when I have no other choice. I still haven't spoken to him, I haven't tried to. I don't want to. My vocal cords had frozen up. It's my last protest to the caring, loving attitude I'm showing Nathan even now. I was worried about him. I am worried about him. And my body simply is not happy about what my mind and heart can not help. It's not as if it was a protestor in the ordeal, not really. Not when it had...

I actually haven't showered yet. I still have dried semen on my stomach -- that's mine -- and dried semen between my legs. That's Nathan's, the spill off of after coital stickiness that I haven't actually thought about until this moment.

Something's wrong with me because I'm Mona Lisa smiling at him as he licks the mustard from his thumb, his shirt sticking to his wet back.

It's like we've never grown up. Like he's come home from college or grad school to watch me instead of going out with his girlfriend so that mom and dad could attend some rich person's swaray. He always gave up his time for me. Even if he usually ended up getting drunk or having his girlfriend over anyhow...

Every memory of us that I have is filled with these inconsistencies of what love should be.

All I've got is pieces of broken affection. And it's stolen my voice.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

"Pete, you want mustard?"

No answer. Maybe he doesn't hear me; he's turned the television on, and it's a bit loud.

I peek out of the kitchen and ask again, "Peter, do you want mustard on your sandwich?"

He looks at me and nods. I knew he wanted it, I know he likes it. But why the fuck hasn't he said a word to me? Especially after that crushing hug?

I put the finishing touches on ham and cheese sandwiches, mine mayonnaise, his mustard. I pour orange juice for both of us into two coffee mugs; it's all he's got. Mine gets a special addition of the vodka I'd hidden in the cabinet. I wonder if he bought that knowing what I'd use it for.

An alarming thought occurs to me: He can read minds, remember?

He mentioned off-hand once, when he was describing his ability to me, that he didn't like using it, that it gave him a headache, and that it was unfair to know such personal thoughts of other people.

I could think of a million times in court when that ability could come in handy. Then I'd really know if some scumbag-wife-beating piece of shit was lying when he said she only fell down the stairs...

I'd have known for sure that some sick child-molester was lying when he said that the girl he'd taken advantage of swore on her mother's grave that she was eighteen, when she was actually fifteen...

My heart aches when I can't stop the next self-deprecating thought that comes to my guilt-ridden mind.

I would have known if Peter didn't want me to show my love to him physically. I would have known I was tearing him apart...tearing us apart...

I should have known. I didn't need to be a mind-reader to know I was right that those defendants were full of shit. I unfailingly proved my case to the judge, elicited the guilty verdict time and time again.

It was my job to know when someone was perjuring themselves. It was my job to find their weakness and exploit it, and win.

What if, like Peter, those people were actually innocent?

What if, when I was winning, they were losing everything?

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I'm not hungry, not even when Nathan hands me a sandwich and some gold fish crackers on a plate. I look at it in my lap for a long time before I peel open the lid and lay the crackers between the mustard and the cheese. It's oddly satisfying when I hear them crunch under my hand a moment later.

I notice, whether he meant me to or not, the smell of liquor on him. I can't save him from it, not right now. If he wants to kill himself with alcohol...

As if I could let that happen. Once again I need to take care of my older brother when all I want is for him to take me back to bed, hold me, and make me unafraid of his hands and the way he can make me feel with them. I only manage two bites of a sandwich I know I have to eat when I put it aside and walk towards where he's sitting across from me. I take his mug. I don't need to sniff it, the alcohol is on the steam.

I still can't manage to speak to him, and I only give him a tired look before I go to dump it down the drain.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

He's caught me. I don't know what to say at first.

He doesn't understand what it's like to need alcohol. It's a disease. My own fault, yes, of course. Never said I was perfect, even if I was the Petrelli golden boy.

Peter was, even if Ma and Dad never saw it. Even if I never did.

Peter comes back, and he's brought me another glass of water. He loves me so much, he doesn't even know how he's hurting me.

But I hurt him worse.

Peter sits next to me this time, and puts my new drink on the table. He picks at his sandwich.

I want nothing more than to take him in my arms and hold him like I did before this whole fucked-up thing even started. Before he resented me, before he refused to speak to me. I need so badly to hear his voice again.

"You know I'm not well, don't you?" I ask. "I needed that."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

The more he talks, the more I just want to hit him. He pushed me too far, too quickly, and he's the one that needs the drink. I open my mouth to say something to him, trying to force something out of my mouth, but I can't. This is not some physical ailment. I'd have healed that. It's not my memory either. I could have fixed the scars in my mind without more than a thought.

There's something else blocking me. It's more than tears can let me release, more than a mustard and ham and cheese sandwich can fix, even with gold fish crackers.

Nothing Nathan is doing is trust worthy. I've already figured this out in the past. It wasn't too long ago that he betrayed me half a dozen times in rapid succession. And still I stay with the selfish bastard.

I wish I couldn't feel him. I wish I could leave. But I will, I need to, accept this broken connection we have. He's my life, he's been my life for longer than I can even remember.

Even if there are strings attached.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I take a sip of my water glass so that I don't say anything else. It's no use. Nothing I say is working. It's like he's been struck mute. He looks like he's thinking of something to say, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. It's beginning to scare me. I have to do something to help my little brother. But I don't know what.

I watch Peter as he tries to force himself to eat, but he doesn't get more than a bite down. He just crumbles the Goldfish crackers into orange powder between his forefinger and thumb. He loves those things, and he really must not be hungry, since he's breaking them. He looks like he's going to collapse under the weight of his exhaustion. His skin is paler than usual and his eyes are focused on nothing in particular. He looks like he wants to cry, and I don't think I'll be able to handle it if he does.

I can't tell what he's feeling, because he won't fucking tell me. I can guess, though. He must be angry at me. Afraid of me. Even though he loves me, he must truly hate me for the way I hurt him. "I just wish you'd talk to me, Peter," I whisper, stroking his cheek. I see him flinch slightly at my touch.

That doesn't stop me from putting my sandwich down and pulling him into my arms.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

Finally. It's all I can think as his arms warm me. I close my eyes and press my face against the crook of his neck. I breath him in, though he smells like me, my shampoo, my soap. This was what I wanted in the first place. I'm tired of being a caretaker. I want someone to care for me.

I have so many things to tell him, but nothing is actually coming out of my mouth, even when I try to move my lips against his shoulder.

I need to tell him why I hate what he did to me. He pushed me. He pushed me too far, too quickly. He degraded me, made something that should have been a bit of magic into nothing more than sweaty, grunting sex that meant little to me.

To start drinking again immediately after. To flee to the bathroom when all I needed was a little time and a little bit of affection. To be exactly like the older brother that told New York I tried to kill myself...these were unacceptable things. I thought we had moved past them.

AT least he's making an effort now. I nose against his skin, trying to hide away from the afternoon so that I can love him unconditionally again.

I'm sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry. Please, please be sorry too.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I take a deep breath, and all the words I know he can't say come spilling out of me.

"Peter, what I did to you was wrong, and I know that. I should have never kissed you. Should have never touched you. Shouldn't have called you a slut. Shouldn't have forced you..." The list goes on, and suddenly, I'm apologizing for everything I've ever done to him. Today. Four months ago. A year ago. His whole life.

I rock him as if he were a child, my arms so tight around him he probably can't breathe. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me. Please. I love you more than anything in the world."

I'm nearly gasping for breath now too, because Peter's arms tighten around me, and my heart is hammering in my chest; he must be able to feel it. But the words won't stop, and they pour from me like water.

"I kissed you because I love you, more than I should. I've loved you since the day Ma brought you home from the hospital, and I'll love you even when I'm dead and gone. We're connected. Forever. We have to put it back together, Pete. But you gotta let me."

I kiss away the tears that are slipping down his face. My voice shakes when I whisper, "Please don't cry, Peter. Please. You're killing me."

But I know it's only just started, so I hold him while he does. He's all I have now, all I ever really had. I need him.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I let Nathan talk because he needs to do just that. It's not up to me right now, my mind is blissfully blank of everything that is going on. To actually be comforted is what I need, though I know it is selfish once more on Nathan's part.

You're killing me.

"I'm not killing you," I manage to say, almost shocked to hear my voice, and the terrible pitch of it. It makes my stomach recoil, how dry and empty it all is. How dry and empty I've become, despite the tears. "You're killing me."

I'm not your slut, Nathan.

"I would have... I would have let you..."

That is truly the awful truth. What is moreso, I will let him do it again if he desires it. I know it already without having to do any soul searching.

"But you took it." It should have been bliss. It should have been romance and love and desire. Well. I guess the desire was there. I do not thrash in his arms, though I want to. I simply card through his hair with my fingers.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

Peter finally speaks, and the sound of his voice is like nothing I've ever heard before. Like dry, ancient paper crackling beneath fingertips. Peter stares right at my face, his accusing eyes still filled with tears.

You're killing me.And the worst part about it is, he's right. His tears aren't killing me. I caused them.

Because of my daughter, Peter can't die, not physically, but I can kill him just the same. I couldn't break his body, but I definitely broke his heart.

I took his innocence. I took something he would have given to me willingly, if I had just been able to control myself. If I'd just been able to remember, in the height of sexual desire, that he wasn't like every other barely legal boy I'd ever slept with. He is my brother, and I love him.

I should have made love to him.

But there's no way I'll ever touch him like that again. Never again.

"Never again." I repeat it like a mantra as I hug him still tighter. Peter's fingers are buried in my hair, almost hard enough to hurt. I rest my forehead against his, and I just sit there with him.

"I'll never hurt you again, Peter." Somehow, I know that's not true, because I've promised myself that for my whole life. But I know I'll never ever hurt him like that again.

I ruined something that should have been beautiful, just like him. I ruined him. The person I love most in the world hates me. I ruined everything.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

He still has no idea how I feel, but it hurts far too much to speak to actually do much more then let my own anger go. It will do no good sitting in the bowels of my stomach. Nathan smells like my shampoo, and I decide almost at once that I don't care for it. It's not that I don't like the things I use, but it's not the way my brother is and it's not the way I want him to be, either. Holding onto that is like holding onto fire. It doesn't matter if I can heal. It still hurts like hell.

Eventually, the tears fade and the exhaustion follows. We might have become a little broken, but it's nothing that togetherness can not fix. That, at least, is my goal.

Why?

"Hold me tighter," I rasp.

I need him. My lips curl against his throat. It's not quite important, the things I'm thinking. It's not even important that my sigh is more relaxed now than ever before. I love Nathan. He can do as he likes to me, but I'll never leave him.

And yes, that is troubling. Even to me.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I don't know what to do with my brother right this minute. Peter is holding on to me for dear life, as if I let him go, he'd fly away.

I wonder how he is even able to stand my touch after what I've done.

His face is still buried into my neck, his lips pressed against my skin in a perpetual kiss. I hear him sigh softly as I hug him a bit tighter like he asked.

"Hey. You look really tired, Pete. You want to go lie down? You'll feel better after you sleep awhile. I'll tuck you in if you want."

I turn his face up to mine; his eyes are closed, and his breathing is slow and steady. I wonder if he's fallen asleep already.

I can't help myself but watch him, and I stroke his cheek. Ordinarily I'd run my fingers through his hair, but he's hardly got any left. His hair hasn't been this short since he was twelve years old. I miss it; it was always so soft.

Peter doesn't move, and I'm pretty sure he is out. I decide I'll stay right here with him. I won't move until he wakes up.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

It's dark when I wake up, but I can't place where I am. There's something warm against me, and I realize that it's Nathan. I would have known by the smell, except he smells like me. Like I've marked him somehow by enforcing my soap and shampoo on him. "Take me to bed." It's probably not the first thing I should say to him, but he's my brother, he understands what I want.

It's not comfortable to be here on the couch, not for him at least though in his arms I could spend eternity. He lifts me so easily, rising from the chair with his powers and not the muscles of his legs.

It's like we're floating. Maybe we are. I feel light in his arms, my head against his shoulder as he lays me in bed and climbs in beside me.

I don't move away from him. It doesn't matter what he did to me, I decided this already but I can reaffirm it now with absolute certainty. The moment he's against me, I turn towards him and rest my head under his.

It's several moments before I can speak again, and my throat feels like it's cursed. "You...won't leave..."