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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[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.