Chimera Mimic

I'm straddling my brother. Beating the living hell out of him. He fucking deserves it. Little fuck won't even hit back. The most powerful of them all, my ass.

A sharp, biting pain stops me in the midst of my violence.

There is a bit of broken bottle embedded in my palm...more than a bit, actually.

I look down at Peter, and he's got blood all over his face, in his hair, but not a mark on him, of course. Jesus Christ, did he just spit out a tooth?

That is the sight that finally snaps me out of it entirely.

I pull the piece of glass out gingerly, and for a second, I wonder why it doesn't bleed. One second. Two.

There it goes. I feel my stomach flip: I cannot stand the sight of my own blood. I begin to panic as I watch the dark red rivulet flow down my wrist, soaking into the glaring white of my shirt sleeve.

All I know is that my left hand is cut wide open, and my right hand aches from all the blows I landed on Peter's face.

I turn my hand around to show him what I've done, and then my vision goes gray, then black.

Edited Date: 2009-11-24 05:25 am (UTC)

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I just let him stay there, stay on the floor on his back. I'm shaking like a leaf, even as I heal, my hands trembling as I try to remove the glass from the back of my head and my neck and shoulders. I feel pain. I might heal, but I feel all of it. Every hit, every laceration.

What did I say this time?

I clean up the glass. I wrap his hand. The cut isn't too bad, it won't need stitches. I could have done that too if need be. I ransack the kitchen. My kitchen. When he wakes up, I've found three more bottles I missed on the first sweep.

"You can leave," I tell him the moment I hear him groan and sit up. "I'm unstable myself. I can't deal with you too."

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For a moment, I don't know where I am, or what happened. My mouth is dry, my head is foggy, and both my hands are killing me.

I manage to sit up, but when I try to push myself up off the floor, my hands protest. One is entirely black and blue across the knuckles, and the other is bandaged tightly, neatly. I see the bloodstain on my shirt sleeve, and it all comes back to me. An angry red wave of hatred that consumed me and pushed me to commit yet another offense against the person I love most in the world.

Jesus Christ. I got totally smashed and violently assaulted my brother. After I told him I'd never hurt him again. What the fuck is wrong with me?

He just said something to me, but I don't know if I heard him right. Did he just tell me to leave?

"What?" I ask. No answer. When I can finally get up, I go into the kitchen. He is pouring alcohol out of bottles I didn't even know were still there. He's trembling with anger, and there's blood all over his face. I have no idea how badly I hurt him, because none of it shows. The only injury I can see is in his eyes as he glares at me.

"Are you okay?" I ask ridiculously, placing my hand on his shoulder, trying to ignore the pain.

He's definitely not okay.

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"Am I all-- Jesus Nathan!" I slam the bottle into the sink. Luckily, liquor bottles are made of thick glass and it doesn't break. That's all I'd need right now, more shattered things to pick up. I turn, shoving him off of me. Pushing him away. "You don't get to touch me," I inform him with a sneer.

I thought we were all right. I had found joy again in your arms, against your lips. And what do you do? You pound back liquor and then pound my face in? I'm livid. But he looks like he was the injured party. Again.

"Not everything is about you!" God, it feels good to scream. In the past twenty four hours I've been under Nathan's spell, his lust and his violence. And all because he's been drinking like a fish, like there's no tomorrow. Like I could just burn up in the atmosphere again and --

It sucks being an empath. Feeling...everything...that he feels is messing with my head.

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"You're right, Peter," I sigh, backing away from him. "Everything was about you."

A sudden thought occurs to me: I hope he knows how to control that radiation power now, because his eyes are positively burning a hole in me. He looks like he's seconds from proving to me that he does know how to hit back.

"I thought you were dead, Pete," I whisper, turning away so he won't see these stupid tears that are stinging my eyes again. I don't normally cry, but there's always an exception to the rules. I've broken many of the rules I've tried to set for myself because of my brother.

"I lost you, and everything else along with you. I let my life fall to pieces. I did this to myself. This isn't your fault. It's mine. You came back. I'm still lost."

Peter wants me to leave, and he has every right to. I start towards the door.

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"Yeah, that's right, just walk out!" Nevermind that I told him to leave just a moment ago. I want to throw something at him, and for a moment, the bottle in the sink lifts itself into my hand. I could so easily-- But where I'll come back, he won't.

As Nathan pulls open the door, I flick it closed. This is the most telekinesis I've used in a long time. I don't like it. I got this one from Sylar.

"Know what happened to me?" I whisper. "No, you didn't even care to ask. It's all about Nathan's suffering. Every last bit of it." I force him into a chair because I know I can. Sylar's power...there's a hunger there. It hurts, I swallow it down. "I'm the one that blew up. I'm the one that saved you."

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The doorknob wrenches itself out of my hand, and I open my mouth to curse at Peter. The sound dies in my throat as an invisible force grips me and sends me across the room. A crushing weight comes down on me and suddenly, I'm forced into a sitting position in one of Peter's well-worn armchairs.

I can't move. I'm just able to breathe. He's finally using his powers against me. Teaching me that yes, Peter Petrelli, my little brother, is the most powerful one of us all.

He asks me if I knew what happened to him, tells me I didn't care. Tells me he saved me. I don't know how to answer. I always had a feeling that the reason I lived through the explosion had something to do with him. I just couldn't remember enough to actually figure it out.

I try to fight against him, but his grip on me just tightens, and I can barely take in enough breath now, just short, shallow gasps. My heart is racing in my chest, and colors dance in front of my eyes. If his intent was to scare me, he's done a bang-up job.

I feel tears run down my face. "Please, Pete." He's not listening, and his eyes seem to look right through me. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that I've driven him so far over the edge that he's going to kill me.

"Peter," I rasp. "Let me go. Please. You're--you're hurting me."

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"I...am hurting...you...?" Now that's funny. So funny that I even laugh as I take a seat in the other chair, pulling up my knees as I watch him squirm. He's hurting himself, really. All I've done is clamped down on his wrists to keep him seated. I can still feel the panic attack as it comes. I decide to let him ride it out.

He's sweating. His face is red. He probably things I'm killing him, the way his heart's racing now.

But I am not a killer. I wouldn't even kill a man that raped me and hit me hard enough to kill me if I had been able to die.

I'm not like that.

"Go on Nathan, tell me how much I've hurt you."

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I can't believe it. He's laughing at me. Laughing at me while he's strangling the air out of me. How can he look so calm? How can my brother just snuggle up in that chair and watch me die?

Because I hurt him his whole life, and now he's hurting me back.

But Peter isn't a killer. He'd never kill any living creature. He wouldn't shoot that deer on our hunting trip. He would tie bells around the necks of the neighborhood strays so the birds and squirrels would hear the cats coming.

He's not going to kill me. He's just paying me back.

"Peter, stop!" I choke out, my voice pathetic and hoarse. "Please. You never hurt me, Peter!" I gasp. "Never like I have you--"

After another minute--few seconds?--an hour?--I can't keep track of time like this--the pressure in my chest eases. I can see normally again. I take in oxygen in huge gulps, as if I've never breathed before in my life.

Peter hasn't moved, and he isn't laughing anymore.

I did it to myself. The alcohol withdrawal, and my fear of Peter's power created an illusion, my mind playing a cruel trick on me. Peter was just an innocent bystander, really. He was never holding me down any harder than he is right now, just enough pressure on my wrists so that I can't get up from the chair.

I was having a fucking panic attack. And it's passing. My frantic heart rate slows.

Relieved, I start laughing myself, even while the sweat and tears roll down my face.

I hope he enjoyed watching every bit of it.

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I wait in silence for almost five minutes after Nathan's stopped breathing so hard and bows his head over his chest. The poor guy. I don't feel bad for him, I realize as sarcasm clouds my thoughts. After everything he's done to me in the past twenty-four hours, he deserves to suffer. He made me love him, physically, desire him, emotionally, despite the rape. I've forgiven him, cleaned him up, got him something to eat, shaved him, comforted him...and all for what?

So that he can beat the living shit out of me?

There's something wrong with me. Something broken inside of me. I've moved from the chair I've been sitting in without realizing it. I've been sitting in his lap for almost the entire time he's been quiet, my head against his neck, my eyes closed. I've made him hold me because I need to be held. I've made him cradle me because I'm falling apart.

"Nathan," I whisper, hearing my voice crack. "Nathan I love you."

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The last bit of this hell, the pressure from my wrists finally releases, and it's over.

I'm crying freely now, and laughing. But there's nothing funny about this tragedy. Peter hates me. He's finally found it within himself to disown me forever. I'm not his brother, not anymore. I'm his tormenter. I've hurt him for the last time he'll let me.

The tears turn to sobs, and until I lay my head on his shoulder I haven't realized he's been sitting in my lap the whole time. I've wrapped my arms around him tightly, and I'm sobbing into his shoulder.

He can't forgive me for this. I don't want him to. I deserve his hatred.

Nathan, I hear as he kisses my tears away. Nathan, I love you.

"No," I cry, fighting weakly against his arms as they circle me. "Please. No."

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I don't have any choice here. I never have a choice when it comes to Nathan. If I'm not his, I can't survive. I use to do all sorts of crazy things as a child to get him to stop being mad at me again. I've forgiven him for all of the shitty things he's ever done to me. I thought it was just what brothers do.

But it's not. It can never be that.

Nathan, my Nathan, is all I have. Our bond is deeper than that. I've fought against it, but the truth is very simple, something I knew when I was six years old when I told everyone I was going to marry Nathan. Or when I was fifteen and I felt a sting of pain in my gut as I watched him kiss his new bride.

For me, Nathan is my world. As messed up, as awful as that is, I don't have a choice but to cling to him. To love him. To give him the twisted things he wants from me.

"For God's sake, Nathan, please let me love you!"

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His outburst pierces into the armor of self-loathing and hatred I've fashioned for myself, and the truth wounds deeper than any blade ever could. It's not that I've done him so much wrong in his short life that he hates me. He'll never hate me.

I only hate myself. He loves me, but I don't love myself.

Peter will love me until the day he dies, and that really means forever, because thanks to my daughter, it looks like he never will.

He's almost like a puppy, ever faithful to his master, even if the person he loves most never has a kind word to say, even if his master is heavy-handed and cruel. People like that don't deserve that kind of unconditional love and devotion. People like me. I don't deserve him, and I've known that for a long time.

Now I know exactly why that is. There is one thing I don't know, and probably never will: why Peter continues to be my puppy.

I stop fighting him, and he continues to kiss my cheeks as the tears come down. He even wipes my nose with his sleeve. I whisper, "How can you love me when I can't love myself? When I don't know how to love you?"

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Why do we breathe? Why do we think? Why do we cry to express deep sorrow? I can't answer any of these questions, but I do know the hows and whys of loving Nathan Petrelli. "Because you're Nathan," I whisper, my fingers ins his curling hair as I gaze into his face. I've seen it blown up on billboards and passing me by on buses. I've watched him in commercials with his boys and his wife. I know this face, better than I know my own.

My eyes close as I kiss his lips again, slanting my mouth to his despite how I'm trembling. If he leaves me, I will have no idea what else to do with my life.

Saving the world can wait for now.

"I can love you enough for both of us." It hardly matters that I have not confirmed that he loves me. It doesn't make a difference.

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The tears finally stop, but Peter doesn't stop kissing me, and now he's kissing my mouth, his tongue sliding across my closed lips, trying to convince me to let him in once again.

Maybe Peter can love me enough for both of us. It may not be fair to him, or to me even, but it's the truth. He's a better person than I'll ever be, and that's another truth I cling to as I kiss him back, barely able to breathe because my head is swimming from the tears, my nose still running.

One more question comes to mind, one that I simply must ask or my heart might burst. My voice is weak and pathetic, just like my body right at this moment. And for once, I don't care. Peter will take care of me, I'm sure of it.

"I know you love me, but...do you forgive me, Peter? For all of this?"

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What a stupid question. I hardly dignify it with an answer, but I know Nathan needs it. "I'll always forgive you," I murmur against his lips. How could I not? I might have despised him for what he did to me, gotten so angry that I couldn't speak, but there was no change that forgiveness would not follow.

Even when he left me. God, that broke my heart, even if it was just for the few hours that I was asleep.

I lay my head against his shoulder and his fingers, still bruised from punching me, touch my cheek. I close my eyes. It's warm. I'm happy. This is ridiculous that I can feel this way for someone so unstable, for the closest person genetically to me.

I guess you can't cheat fate.

"What can I do for you, Nathan?" What will make it better for us?

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Peter's hand comes up to touch mine, the bruised one, the one I'm using to gently stroke his cheek, and as soon as his fingers close around mine, all the pain is gone. It's all in my mind. Pain is imaginary, when Peter is here. There's only him, only my brother, only his love for me.

I could tell him I love him. And I do. Three simple words that mean nothing when I hear them slip from my mouth. A basic emotion. I need Peter to know they mean so much more than what I've shown him up to now. I've raped him, hit him, called him names. Apologized to him, and hurt him over and over again. Made a liar of myself, over and over again.

Peter just nods, and his other hand comes up and he uses his sleeve to wipe my face, the tears and the sweat and my running nose.

"Teach me," I whisper. "Teach me how to love you. Show me what you want. What you need."

Peter sits up in my lap, straddling me, and he kisses me again, slowly, deeply, his tongue swirling around mine, tasting sweet like always. I'm becoming more aware of his body on top of me, and it hurts and feels wonderful to hold my brother in my arms like this again.

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