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]

I don't know how long I've been asleep this time when I wake up, the tip of Nathan's flaccid penis still inside of me. We had just fallen over as we were, sweat and semen gluing us together, linking us to this sin we've both willingly partaken in this afternoon.

Leaving his arms and his body is incredably difficult. I'm of half a mind to jerk him hard again and go for another ride but he looks so peaceful. I cover him up with a quilt that smells like sex and head into the shower. I've come three times this morning. Three. And though it's just after one in the afternoon now, I find myself with a hand full of soap bubbles jerking off again after I clean his sweat from my skin and his seed from inside of me with aching, trembling fingers.

At least that holds me over for now. At least it lets me think. I pull on some clothing, a tight black shirt, a pair of jeans, and make him breakfast in bare feet. I think, briefly, of going to visit our mother as I flip the eggs. I'm not sure if that's a good idea.

I'm about ready to throw it from my mind when my phone vibrates across the table. Mom? Of course it is. "Peter! I've left you five messages!"

I sigh and pinch my nose at the bridge. "Mom... I'm sorry, Nathan--"

"Nathan was suppose to bring you here."

"I'm sorry, we...had some issues to work out."

"Are you boys fighting?" I almost laugh. Yeah, we fought. He busted my face in and fucked me. But we also made up. And he fucked me again.

"No, not anymore." I sigh. "We'll come by in an hour or two, all right? For dinner?"

She agrees and I hang up the phone. I'll let the smell of food rouse my brother. If I go in there... Christ, my mind's already focused on sex again. It's like I'm eighteen years old again. I should be over this need for constant pleasure.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I stretch out in Peter's bed, and reach over for him, but he's not there. All that's left of him is his scent on the sheets, and his come dry in my chest hair. For a brief moment, I worry that he's returned the favor, left me alone.

No, he's just in the kitchen, cooking us something to eat. My stomach growls almost violently as I breathe in the different scents that mingle in the air: bacon, eggs, fresh coffee. I head to the bathroom, intending to take a shower. I can hear him talking on the phone as I relieve myself, and I know it's Ma. I remember vaguely promising I would deliver her younger son to her as soon as I could.

Sorry, Ma, I had to beat the shit out of him and fuck him senseless first. Now that would go over well. My mother is no frail old lady, but I'm sure the thought of her two sons fucking would send her right to her grave.

My clothes are folded neatly on a shelf in the bathroom, and I look them over in disdain. If we're going to keep doing this, I have to start keeping more clothes here. My dress shirt is bloody, and my pants are wrinkled beyond belief.

I mentally slap myself. What the hell? You're thinking about him as if he's your boyfriend, not your brother. Get your fucking head on straight, Petrelli, I command myself as I turn the water on full blast, hot as I can stand it, and let the spray knead the aches and pains out of my back and my thighs.

The water stings the cut on my left hand, but it's nowhere near as bad as I thought it was. All the alcohol in my system just prevented the wound from closing as quickly as it should have. My right hand is in bad shape. It's bruised purple straight across the knuckles and the back of my hand, and my wrist aches as I try to rub the soap over my body.

At least Peter's found a different shampoo for me to use; I guess he didn't like his older brother smelling just like him.

After a few more agonizing moments, I give up, as clean as I'm going to get unless I drag Peter in here and have him do it for me. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

I find my toothbrush neatly stashed in the medicine cabinet along with the toothpaste, and I chase away enticing memories of yesterday from my mind, burn them away with a quick rinse of Listerine.

I walk into the kitchen wearing just my towel, and I just barely stop myself from slipping my arms around him. I heardr enough of Peter's conversation with Ma that I know we need to eat and get our asses over there.

Forty years old, and I feel like a kid who's out way past his curfew, but this strange guilt that suddenly rises in me is not because of my mother; it's because of Peter.

My brother. Jesus Christ. I fucked my brother, more than once. Three times in two days.

The need for alcohol is like a spike in my blood, in my gut. It's back, the withdrawal. I need to fight it, just until we get to Ma's. Peter can't say a word to me if I have just a goddamned cocktail, or a glass of wine during a family meal.

Peter doesn't turn around to look at me at all during this fight I have with myself; he's too busy buttering toast and draining the bacon, pouring coffee. I can't sit here like this; I'm uncomfortable, exposed.

I bolt back into the bathroom and put my pants on, smooth out the wrinkles as best I can. The shirt is next, rolling the sleeves up so that the blood stain is not visible. I comb my hair, swipe a little bit of Peter's hair gel through it.

Now I look, and feel a little bit more like myself again. The father, husband, politician I used to be. Not the deranged, twisted man who's in love with his brother.

With that thought, I can no longer face my reflection, and I nearly have to drag myself back to the kitchen, despite the fact that I'm starving. Because going into the kitchen means I have to face Peter.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I can tell that there is something on his mind and as I look up at him when he slinks back into the kitchen, I can feel the guilt resonating inside of him. That makes my eyebrows furrow and I nearly stick my hand in the bacon grease, still bubbling away merrily after I've scooped out the bacon itself and blotted it between napkins. Is he having second thoughts? Did I do something wrong? Was it just an itch that I've scratched for him? My blood runs cold, but I manage to plate some eggs and bacon for him. I pour him coffee. I place toast on a smaller dish for me...

I need to be domestic. I need to prove to him that I'm worthwhile to have around.

It occurs to be that he's probably thinking about his wife. His kids. How stupid am I to believe he could stay with me? He's got a life. A family. He's senator right? Christ, how could I get myself so caught up in him that I've forgotten who he is?

I join him at the little table. I only have toast on my plate. I don't feel hungry at all. I keep my eyes down as he eats, shoveling food into his mouth as if there's no tomorrow. I need to say something...but what?

I love you? No, cliche. I'm afraid I'll cry if I say it now. It'll be desperate.

"We have to see Mom...promised her we'd go to dinner over there." I break off a piece of toast and almost can't force it into my mouth. I chew slowly, mechanically. "Nathan--"

He looks up at me, and I can almost hear the hesitation in the sigh he makes, swallowing his eggs. I balk and sit back in my seat, mirroring that swallow.

"Is this where you tell me that it was a mistake? And not to speak of it again?"

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

My stomach churns again, this time at his bitter words. They're unexpected, and they cut like a blade. He's looking at me with a dark, pained stare.

I remember suddenly that around Peter, my thoughts and feelings are subject to his ability, which is nowhere near as simple as mine is. I can fly, faster than the speed of sound if need be. Nothing complicated about that. Just call me Superman. Peter is a totally different story, and oftentimes I forget just how many abilities he's picked up since his empathy manifested. And that's the one he's using right now, his primary ability. He wouldn't even have to look at my face to know something's not right with me. He can feel it.

But he doesn't need to confront me with a nasty attitude, and especially not when I'm eating the first decent meal I've had in God knows how long.

"Stay out of my head, Peter," I snap at him. "It's not enough that you share everything else with me? I don't need you in my goddamned head. I already have a fucking conscience. But you know that already, don't you?" I avert my eyes from his gaze, take a long swallow of my coffee, finish the rest of my eggs and bacon, then push my plate away. I don't leave the table though.

Peter appears genuinely stunned at my outburst, a piece of toast halfway to his lips. Instantly I regret it, and I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat. I hear what I want to say clear as a bell in my head. It wasn't a mistake, Peter. It wasn't.

If he wants to talk about what's happened, I will. But he can't jump to conclusions he comes to because of his ability.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I'm pretty sure that I'm going to throw up. Why do things change for him like night and day? I was sure that we were passed the moody Nathan. That he'd never lay a hand on me to hurt me again. I suppose he's not throwing fists, but my God, it hurts. It hurts because even though I was not reading his mind, he obviously assumes that I was.

And that means that my guess is accurate. I sit in silence at the table and let him yell at me. Nathan is in self preservation mode. He got the itch for me out of his system and now it's time to blame me for wanting it. The only thing I've ever been guilty of is loving him.

And for being his puppy. I want to tell him that I am sorry for hurting him, but I still have some pride! Remarkable, but true. I know that this is not my fault. I drop my toast onto my plate, collect it along with his, and head back to the sink. "Trust me, Nathan, I don't want to be in your head," I bite out, the bitterness of it not escaping my notice. "But you're probably right about us. I mean, how many 'Hail Mary's and 'Our Father's do they give out for having sex with your own brother?"

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I can't help but laugh at Peter's rhetorical question, even though there's a chance it'll piss him off even more. There is a thread of truth that runs through his words, though. Prayers can't fix this. Nothing will save us from this.

Is he feeling the same guilt that I am right now? Is that what he's trying to tell me? Or is he just pushing his own feelings aside to validate mine?

It makes perfect sense, really, now that I think about it. There is a major drawback to his empathy, a fatal flaw in the very fabric that makes Peter the man he is. He loses his sense of self, because he drowns in the emotions of others. Either he doesn't realize it, or he's learned to deal with it. Accepted that the feelings of others are more important than his own.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Peter needs to deal with this. With what we've done. It doesn't matter how I feel about it, because it's my fault. Not his. I have to make him understand that.

I grab my cup and get up to refill my coffee, and I look over at him. He's staring down into the sink, washing the same plate even though it's already clean. A repetitive, mindless action, an excuse not to look at me.

I reach over and take the plate away from him, and the sponge, and I drop them into the sink, turn the water off.

"Look at me, Peter," I implore him. He doesn't move, doesn't answer. "Please." But he doesn't.

I figure I'll cut straight to the point with this one.

"Don't you dare blame yourself, Peter," I whisper, and before I can think about it, before I can stop it, I pull him into my arms.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I don't want to blame myself, I don't want my tiny happiness to be sullied and lost. I drop my head to his shoulder and sniffle, my lips against his throat. My God, don't take this away from me. Don't take him away from me. I can feel myself shaking, and not even his arms can comfort me for the moment as I let myself become overwhelmed with the thoughts of being entirely, completely alone.

"Do you love me?" I can survive if it's true. "D'ya still love me, Nathan?" Because if I don't have that, I have nothing to go on anymore. There's no Sylar to track down and kill. No Simone or Kaitlyn to make me laugh or feel like a man. What good are these powers if I can't use them to keep what I want most?

I can feel his lips on my forehead, but even the most tender of kisses can not assuage my fears. I could easily use Parkman's powers on him...but no. Not when the sheer thought of it caused this rift.

He hasn't answered yet. I've counted fifteen heart beats. Oh God. I can almost feel it ending. I fear the worst.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I'm silent for a little while, because I'm not sure how to answer. Of course I still love him; he's my little brother first, before anything else. Regardless of what happened between us yesterday, or four months ago, or five years ago. Nothing changes the fact that Peter is the great love of my life.

My silence makes him cling harder to me, and he lowers his chin into my shoulder, presses his face against my neck, his tears wetting my skin.

"Let me tell you a story," I say, still hugging him tightly to me. "There was once this little boy, he was about eleven years old, and he had a perfect life. His parents had a lot of money, and he had everything he could have ever wanted. He had to be the best at everything. He had a lot of friends. He was popular, good at sports, perfect grades, even had a little girlfriend. Everything he did, he was trying to earn the love of his parents. But they were busy. They were hardly ever around. The little boy felt angry and scared. That even if he was perfect, no one really loved him or paid enough attention to him. You follow me?"

I feel Peter nod his head, and I rock him gently as I lean back against the counter, take a deep breath, and continue.

"All right. So this little boy comes home from school one day, and his Mom and Dad are actually home. They tell him they've got great news. 'You're going to be a big brother,' they say.

"The little boy pretends to be excited, and he holds it in until bedtime. He says his prayers and cries, and asks God why his parents thought they needed another child, when they didn't pay much attention to their first one?

"So as time goes on, the little boy becomes suspicious. Maybe he isn't perfect enough. Maybe his parents are having another baby because they think they messed up with the first one and they need to try again.

"The little boy starts to hate the little brother or sister he doesn't even have yet. And the time comes when Mom and Dad go to the hospital, and they leave him home with a babysitter. He's sure now that the new baby is going to steal all his glory.

"Then Mom calls the babysitter and tells her to bring the boy to the hospital so he can meet his new little brother. The boy doesn't want to, but they force him.

"When he gets there, he sees his Mom, holding a tiny little wrinkled thing all wrapped up in a blanket. 'Your new baby brother,' she says, and before he knows it, he's holding him in his arms, just like he is right now, and he thinks he understands why Mom and Dad had another baby."

I tilt Peter's face up, and look into his hazel eyes, the same color as mine, like looking into a mirror. Peter is smiling despite himself now.

"Because they didn't want me to be alone anymore. They wanted me to have someone to love, Peter. And I do.

"I'll always love you, Peter. Don't you ever, ever doubt it," I reassure him, tilting his face up to me. It's my turn to use my sleeve to wipe his face.

"You understand me?"

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

You should teach kindergarten.

No wonder you're such a good father.

Don't try to make me love you more than I do.

All of those would have been excellent responses, but I can not manage to make myself open my mouth to say anything. My eyes close as his fingers brush my cheeks and I lean up into him to kiss his mouth with longing and desire. I can feel it coming from him too, washing over me like a wave as I part my lips and his tongue joins mine in my mouth.

I let him hold me up, my beautiful strength, and lift my arms to wrap around his neck. If I had my way, if we didn't need to be somewhere in the next half an hour, I'd ask him to take me to bed.

He can.

Tonight. And we can make up in my new favorite way. Just the thought of it is making me hard and I draw back, a light blush on my face as I gently kiss his neck.

"Nathan?"

He's silent for a moment, but I want to make sure he's listening to me. "Hm?" It's a non committal sort of sound followed by the typical, "yeah, Pete?" that now simply holds so much of my heart at the mere mention of my name.

"I want this." I'm talking about our relationship, such as it is. I know he has a wife. I know he has two little boys. I'd never ask to keep him here. He has a whole career stretched out before him. "Me and you. When...you can."

I'm not only asking him to continue to be my lover, but to cheat on his family.