Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/88051.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Nathan_Petrelli/Peter_Petrelli
  Character:
      Nathan_Petrelli, Peter_Petrelli, Mohinder_Suresh, Noah_Bennet, Claire
      Bennet
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Organized_Crime, Incest, Breathplay, Comeplay,
      Watersports, Threesome_-_F/M/M, Rough_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of Start_a_War
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-05-18 Words: 10361
****** Never had to hold you by the edges like I do now ******
by cm_(mumblemutter)
Summary
     Nathan and Peter are still arms dealers, and they still have way too
     much time on their hands.
(see those wings you gave me)
Peter has no issues with flying, it's where they happen to be flying over that
he has a problem with. Nathan snaps, "Then don't look out the fucking window,
Pete, and you won't be able to tell that we're not over dry land," when Peter
grips the armrests until his fingers turn white. It doesn't seem to work, so
Nathan digs through his carry-on, finds the pill bottle that he always brings
along for occasions like this. A tumbler of whiskey which Peter takes
gratefully, but his glare at the valium is suspicious. "For fuck's sake just
swallow them," Nathan says.
"Or what, are you going to force them down my throat?"
"Now there's a thought."
Peter narrows his eyes spitefully, but he takes the pills and chases them down
with the entire contents of the glass. He shies away from Nathan when he
reaches out, "Don't touch me," but Nathan ignores him and hauls him out of his
chair by the arm. Removes the glass from his hand and passes it over to Jones,
already standing and awaiting orders. Nathan nods his head sharply, and Jones
turns and leaves, makes his way to the cockpit.
Peter stares fitfully after him, his face hollow and distressed. Nathan lowers
his voice and says mockingly, "Alone at last," and Peter flinches away. He
comes back though, before Nathan can react, palms flat on Nathan's chest until
Nathan plops back into his seat. "Pete -" Nathan starts.
Peter says, "Shush, Nathan." He lifts the armrest dividing the seats so that he
has enough space to climb into Nathan's lap, settle there. His fingers on
Nathan's cheek, probing the bruises without care and ignoring Nathan's
protests. "I like you like this," Peter says fondly, his voice soft and his
gaze unfocusing as the valium takes effect. Nathan tolerates him for as long as
he can, until he's tired of it and he grabs Peter's wrist. Peter tries pulling
away but Nathan twists his hand and rises in one continuous movement, toppling
Peter off him. He falls to the floor, held up only by Nathan's fingers still
hard around his wrist. "Fuck," Peter says, and giggles fitfully. Nathan
releases him and crouches down, watches silently until he peters out, until he
notices the look on Nathan's face and his smile fades away.
When Nathan certain he's got Peter's attention, he says, "Strip."
"What?"
"Strip," Nathan repeats, with infinite patience. He tugs lightly on Peter's
tie, and Peter gets the message, real quick. First the jacket, then the shirt,
his fingers clumsy on the buttons and cufflinks. Nathan helps him to tug off
the belt, but lets Peter handle the rest of it, shedding clothes like skin
until he's naked, his skin pale and flawless under the soft lights.
He hugs his knees to his chest, the act rendering him strangely vulnerable, and
Nathan's breath catches. Peter's head dips down, then rises abruptly, his gaze
settling on Nathan, bright and feverish. Nathan tugs on him until he yields,
drags him up into the seat and rearranges his limbs until he's satisfied, his
cock hard and pressed up against his belly. Nathan runs his tongue
experimentally along the underside and Peter jerks his hips, but when Nathan
starts blowing him in earnest he mostly just slumps there, his chest rising in
shallow and uneven spurts, until at some point he comes, unexpectedly, into
Nathan's mouth. Nathan lets it sit there for a while, salt on his tongue that
mingles with his saliva, then he crawls up Peter's body and grabs his chin,
spits as hard as he can.
Peter gasps, hands coming up automatically to his eyes, but Nathan grabs his
wrists, holds him down and he bites and licks his face, every surface that's
wet and sticky with Peter's come and Nathan's spit; his cheeks and his forehead
and his chin, his teeth scraping hard enough that there'll be evidence left
behind later. And all the while Peter makes startled little bird noises, his
wrists straining against Nathan's until Nathan's done and his face is clean
again, except shiny and red and marked. Marked as Nathan's, the way he always
should be. The way he always is. His eyes are still squeezed shut, but Nathan
doesn't care.
"I'm going to let you go, Pete," Nathan says. "You're going to keep still,
okay?" It's not really a question, but he waits for Peter to nod his head, to
understand, before he releases Peter's wrists so that he can tug on his pants
and free his cock. Then he jerks Peter's thighs apart and drags him to the edge
of the seat, rising to his knees so Peter can feel his hard on against the
cleft of his ass. It's not working though, and eventually he sighs, sits back
until Peter notices, finally rubbing at his eyes before he opens them and
squints at Nathan. "What?"
"I don't know," Nathan admits. "Get up. Sit on my lap."
Peter frowns, but complies, gets off the seat so that they can switch places,
his knees landing on either side of Nathan's hips. Nathan kisses him for a
while, enjoying Peter being so accommodating for once, and Peter jerks him off
slowly, until he's slick enough that it's only a mild burn when Peter lowers
himself onto him. "Yeah, okay. This is good," and he buries his face in Peter's
neck, lets Peter ride him until he comes, and then Peter comes again, from the
friction of their bodies pressed together, and he slumps into Nathan, yawning
in drug-dazed exhaustion.
Nathan rubs Peter's back for a while, but when he tries to move because the hot
sticky mess they're in is getting uncomfortable Peter murmurs something
incomprehensible against his throat and curls in even deeper, so Nathan just
hugs him tight and listens to his brother's breathing even out.
 
(made a mess of all things)
The weather is beautiful and the waves are calm; on the yacht, Nathan pours
himself a drink and stretches out on a deckchair under some shade, prepares not
to move for the rest of the day. Beautiful, skimpily clad women mill around on
the deck, mostly for the benefit of the few men that are guests of theirs;
Nathan distantly recognizes them as business associates, ones that Peter has
cultivated rather than Nathan. Eventually he knows they will come around to him
and he'll have to make small talk, but for now he just wants to bask in the sun
and enjoy the excellent cognac that Peter stocked especially for Nathan.
He spots Noah, uncomfortable on another chair on the opposite side of the pool,
his jacket off and shirt-sleeves rolled up, worrying at his tie. Bennet catches
his eye and raises a glass ruefully in his direction; Nathan wonders just what
Peter had to bribe him with to get him here.
When Peter decides that you need a vacation, you end up going on a vacation,
whether you want one or not.
Of course, Nathan will never understand why Peter, who hates the water so
fucking much, considers any of this a good time, but at some point he'd
realized that Peter was just wired that way, and it was best to just go along
with it. "Hey," Peter says now, coming up from the cabin and flopping himself
down next to Nathan. "The weather's fucking awesome. You should get a tan. I
like you with a tan. You look like some Italian wine connoisseur or something."
"Wine connoisseur?"
"Yeah, like you own a vineyard and work with your hands all day. Calluses, like
a real man." He takes one of Nathan's hand in his own and traces the pads of
his fingers delicately.
"I have calluses," Nathan says defensively.
"Sure you do." He kisses each finger in turn, slipping them briefly into his
mouth before pulling away and saying, "Man, I wish we could get Noah to
unclench."
"Yeah, I don't think that's physically possible." Nathan shrugs. "Hey, at least
he took off his jacket."
"Baby steps. He'll be the life of the party yet."
"Oh, ha. Anyone else, perhaps. I'm surprised Elle isn't here. You didn't kill
her, did you?"
"No, of course not." Peter sounds affronted. "She's Bob's kid, I would never do
that. But no, I asked and she politely declined. Maybe she was unimpressed by
your cock."
"Everyone is impressed by my cock."
"Yeah, but you're hardly twenty anymore."
"I don't hear you complaining."
Peter's grin is wicked when his gaze wanders pointedly to Nathan's crotch.
"Practicing diplomacy. Isn't that what you always taught me?"
Nathan snorts and is about to respond when an overly tall shadow falls over the
two of them. "Hey, Nathan," Noah says. "Peter, do you mind if I have a moment
with your brother?"
"Sure," Peter says.
He shoots a curious glance at Noah but stands up willingly, ignoring Nathan
when he calls out to his retreating back, "Don't wander too close to the edge,
Pete. Wouldn't want you to fall overboard."
"It's about Claire," Noah says, once Peter's out of earshot.
Nathan says, "Oh?" and his heart starts to thud in his chest.
[Once, Nathan had fallen in love with a blonde waitress named Meredith. He'd
call her an unforseen complication afterwards; Arthur would call her "that
trailer-trash whore" that Nathan was under no circumstances to marry, even if
he had knocked her up. "The child's probably not yours anyway, Nathan. Who
knows who else that little slut spread her legs for. Don't think you're the
only one." Nathan somehow convinced himself at the time that a) his father was
right and b) cutting her off was for the best.
He paid for the abortion but didn't know that she hadn't gone through with it
until she sent him a photo of a smiling, chubby little girl, blonde curls
peeking out from under a pink bootie-cap. Nathan didn't blame Arthur for the
fire that allegedly killed them both, not outwardly at least, but he always had
his suspicions. By the time he found out the child had survived she was already
in the system, growing up in foster care, and he did the only thing he could do
at the time: give her to the one man in their organization that he could trust.
The only guy that was Nathan's.
Eleven years ago, and now his daughter was fourteen and beautiful, and Nathan
never intended for her to know.]
"They were doing some sort of experiment in school, I don't know what it was,
biology maybe. Anyway some blood tests were done, and she figured out that with
the bloodtype that she had, in comparison with Sandra's and mine's - well, she
knows she's not ours now."
"I see," Nathan says."Did you tell her?"
"No, of course not. But she's curious. Asking questions. I thought I'd run it
by you first, maybe we can think of something."
Nathan sips at his cognac and says carefully, "What's there to think about?
She's my daughter. I guess she had to figure it out some time or another." He
raises his head and distractedly watches Peter walk along the hull, dragging
his fingers across the railing as he does. "Peter doesn't know."
"Ah," Noah says. "Will he be -"
"Probably. Don't worry about it."
"I don't mean to question you, Nathan," Noah says, his voice cautious and too
calm, "But when it comes to your brother, there is always cause to worry."
A blonde girl in a bright red string bikini approaches Peter, million dollar
smile on her face that fades away as soon as Peter opens his mouth and snaps at
her, nothing that Nathan can discern from over here but he can guess well
enough. Out here, far out on the ocean surrounded by water, Peter's at his most
volatile, most unstable. But sometimes his fear makes him more malleable,
paradoxically easier to deal with. "I'll talk to him later this evening. Either
way, I promise you no harm will come to your daughter. Our daughter."
Nathan waits until they're back in dock, when everyone has left save for the
two of them, Bennet begging off to catch a flight back home even though Peter
tried persuading him to stay for at least another day. Below the deck, Peter
tosses off his clothes and jumps onto the bed, says, "Come here. Come on." He
scrambles back until he hits the wall, legs splayed in front of him like a
broken-down doll. Nathan sits down cautiously at the edge, catches Peter's
ankle when he pokes at his chest playfully with his toes.
"We need to talk."
"No, no talking. Sex now, talk later."
Nathan wonders, briefly, if Peter will be angrier if he fucks him first and
tells him about Claire afterwards, or if the post-coital bliss might mean he'll
be less inclined to pound Nathan's face in with his fists. The opposite is
likely to be true, however, and in the end he just sighs, and says, "No,
listen, Pete. I have to tell you something."
Considering the magnitude of Nathan's revelation, there's surprisingly little
hitting. Just Peter's hurt, betrayed face. "Claire? Noah's Claire? The
cheerleader?"
"Yeah. She's your niece. Isn't that something."
"Something doesn't quite cover it, Nathan. All these years. Why didn't you tell
me."
"I wanted to, but there was never a right time. It wasn't as if she was going
to be a part of our lives."
"I see. And now?"
"She found out she's adopted," Nathan admits. "Pretty sure she wants to meet
me. Listen, Pete - hey, where are you going?"
Because Peter's gotten off the bed and is haphazardly putting his clothes back
on, jerking the jeans angrily over his hips and grabbing at his shoes and t-
shirt. "I," Peter says, pausing on the stairs to turn around, his face eerily,
preternaturally calm. "I think if I stay here, Nathan. I'll kill you. And I
don't want to do that. You're precious to me, and I'll probably regret it. Not
today, maybe. But someday. So I'm leaving. Was there anything else you wanted
to say to me?"
"No. I guess not. I guess we're done." He puts his head heavily in his hands
and doesn't look up when the door clicks quietly shut above him.
 
(i have thought and think about, what and how to tell you)
Peter's new favorite place to hang out at is the R&D department, down in the
basement. Nathan's not sure if it's because he likes playing with all the toys
or if he likes toying with Dr. Mohinder Suresh, head of said department. As it
often is with Peter, Nathan doesn't notice him until he's gone, unreachable by
phone and unresponsive to his texts. He asks Bennet at some point where Peter
is, and receives a raised brow in response. "They're putting the final touches
on those new prototype semi-auto machine guns today. I passed him in the
hallway this morning, he said he'd be there all day."
"Right, reception is crap there. I'm going down, come find me if you need
anything."
"Of course." Noah pauses, says, "Does Peter know about the Parkman deal?"
Nathan stills. "No. And there's no need for him to find out."
"Understood."
Nathan stalks into the room, or the dungeon as everyone calls it, which isn't
far from the truth, the place is cavernous, white-walled and disorganized, as
if they'd set up space wherever the hell they felt like it, and then decided it
would do. When he hired Suresh he hadn't expected such chaos, but innovation,
apparently, comes with a requisite inability to bother with such frivolous
things as filing or even the need to properly partition. There are no cubicles
here, just tables filled with mind-boggling technology and various spaces where
said technology could be tested.
[Dr. Mohinder Suresh, PhD, graduated from Oxford with a doctorate in mechanical
engineering, made his way to America in search of his father, and somehow found
himself inheriting his position at their then burgeoning R&D division, when
Chandra Suresh had died under mysterious and yet unresolved circumstances. At
first Mohinder had suspected The Brothers had something to do with it, more
specifically the crazy younger Petrelli, but after a while he realized that a)
Peter had been extremely fond of the elder Suresh and b) his particular brand
of craziness did not extend to subterfuge or false displays of affection. A and
B put together meant that someone else had murdered his father, and although
that was his main priority when he'd joined, to seek justice for Chandra, at
some point that had fallen on the back burner and now he was just busy trying
his best to deliver on promises that Chandra had made when he'd started working
for them.
It wasn't such a tedium, to be honest. Mohinder liked his job, most days. He
even liked Peter, with caveats. You always had to remember: Peter was insane,
and proceed from there.]
Peter is sitting on one of the long tables that line the room, both his legs
swinging. Dr. Suresh in his labcoat leans against the table as well, his voice
low and indistinct in the low hum of the machines and the vague chatter of the
other engineers buzzing around. Peter looks happy, his grin crooked and
charming, open like it rarely is. He waves when he spots Nathan, the smile
fading away slightly as his body tightens. Nathan says, "Hey, Pete," and nods
his head genially at Dr. Suresh.
"Nathan, Mohinder was telling me here about the new RU-486s. The prototype's
ready, it seems. Funny, how you failed to tell me that you were experimenting
with DNA recognition technology."
"Really?" Nathan says. He wets his thumb with his tongue and wipes at a speck
of dirt on Peter's cheek. Peter ducks his head, but doesn't manage to
successfully avoid Nathan's touch. The easy grin finally fades away in its
entirety, and he's left with the Peter he's had to put up with ever since he
found out about Claire, sullen and unresponsive. Nathan sighs and fingers
Peter's jacket collar, but it's pointless to pursue the matter, not here.
Dr. Suresh shifts uncomfortably, sliding his hands into the pockets of his lab
coat and clearing his throat. "Yes, well. If you would like a demonstration,
Mr. Petrelli."
"Please." Nathan smiles thinly. "You can call me Nathan. Mr. Petrelli was my
father's name."
"Of course," Suresh replies. "I never met your father, but I'm told that -"
"That he was a bastard who deserved all that came to him? Yeah I've heard that
before, too."
Suresh's smile freezes, until Peter claps his hands together sharply and says,
"Show him what you've got, Mo."
"Right, yes. Apologies. Just give me a moment, I will get my team to set
everything up. You might want to put on some earmuffs and goggles, they're in
the drawer beneath you, Peter." He walks off towards a balding man in a lab
coat, who nods his head at Suresh's clipped directions and starts calling the
rest of the staff together, a fair number of whom throw cautious, wary glances
their way. Their reputation precedes them, even with their own employees.
Nathan's not met most of them before; he wonders vaguely if at some point they
should have some sort of meeting or get-together, if that's appropriate or
expected. Nathan's spent a lot of time building up to legitimacy, but sometimes
the minute intricacies of corporate life escapes him. Perhaps he should hire a
consultant.
"What, you're not going to say something disparaging about Dr. Suresh's
nationality or race?"
"Don't be crass, Peter. He's an employee. Besides, he sounds British. Is he
British?"
"You're the one that hired him. You tell me." He narrows his eyes. "There's
really no need for you to be here, you know. Don't you have other business to
attend to?"
Nathan ignores the question, says instead, "Mo? You're on a nickname basis
now?"
"Fuck you."
"Charming. Glad to see you've decided to deal with this by behaving like a
sixteen year old."
"I'm pretty sure you liked me better when I was sixteen, Nathan. Back then I'd
suck your cock and never ask where else you chose to put it."
Peter reaches into the drawer underneath him and slides it open to remove two
sets of protective goggles and earmuffs. He puts one set over his own ears and
eyes, blinking comically from behind the eyepiece. Instead of tossing the other
one to Nathan or placing them in his outreached hands though, he slides the
goggles onto Nathan's face, following it with the earmuffs. His fingers are
warm against Nathan's neck, his lips red and wet when he unconsciously licks
them.
They've not fucked since Somalia and Nathan's slightly unhinged because of it.
The random blondes, and even the short-haired brunettes he's taken to fucking
aren't a sufficient enough substitute. Flaunting them in front of Peter hasn't
quite achieved the desired effect either, Peter only glares disdainfully at him
and turns away. On the upside, none of them have ended up dead, although at
this point he'd take some gratuitous violence on Peter's part; it is after all
how his brother shows he cares. "Peter," Nathan breathes, surprised at how
muffled his own voice sounds, as Peter draws aimless, concentric circles onto
Nathan's neck.
Peter's eyes have brightened, the delighted smile returning once more to his
face. There is very little Peter likes more than killing people, and one of
them is killing people while blowing shit up. "Boom," he mouths, and when
Nathan slides his fingers over his wrist, he doesn't pull away.
Mohinder taps Nathan on the shoulder and nods when Nathan turns to him. They're
ready for the demonstration. They both follow Mohinder to the other side of the
room, Mohinder talking animatedly and gesturing even though neither one of them
can hear him. It must not be that important, all that really matters in the end
is that small, handheld weapon, laying waste to reinforced steel, cutting
through it like it's so much waxpaper.
"Impressive," Nathan says, once it's over and they're safe to take off the
protective gear.
"Can I have one?" Peter says, beaming.
"No."
"I wasn't asking you -"
"No." Nathan hands the headgear over to someone in a labcoat and tells
Mohinder, "We already have five orders for these, of varying size. Delivery's
in two months. I trust that it won't be a problem."
"Well, we're ready to go into production next week, so barring any unforseen
circumstances it shouldn't be a problem. The DNA recognition is optional of
course. Not everyone wants a gun that will only fire in the hands of its
rightful owner." Mohinder's smile is distracted, no doubt because Peter's
crossed his arms and is glaring mutely at Nathan. "I'm sorry, if you don't mind
excusing me I have to get back to work."
"Of course. Thanks, Suresh." He squeezes Suresh's shoulder reassuringly, but he
only looks mildly alarmed in response, backing away slowly before spinning
around and striding in the other direction, long legs taking him quickly to the
other end of the room.
"You're not getting one," Nathan says, because Peter's opened his mouth again.
Around them both, engineers scatter, until it's just him and Peter's quiet,
inscrutable rage.
Peter says, "I do everything you ask me to. Everything."
"Since when? You never do anything I tell you to do, you just bitch and whine
and sulk like a fucki-"
"And you impregnate random women and you make business decisions that you don't
tell me about because I'm not important enough to know? Is that it, Nathan?" He
continues as if Nathan hadn't spoken, his face pale and incandescent save for
two bright spots high on his cheeks, and Nathan wants him, right here and right
now, wants to grab his neatly gelled hair until it's mussed up, drag him to his
knees and fuck his sinful, delinquent mouth until he stops speaking. Until he's
incapable of speech. "You say I act like I'm sixteen? Well, that's how you
treat me sometimes. Like I'm a fucking child that's incapable of making his own
decisions, of being responsible for my own actions. I can take you branding me,
Nathan. I can take you dressing me up like I'm a fucking Ken doll because
that's who you are, but I can't take your inability to show me some simple
respect. Surely it is not that hard."
He spits his last words with a viciousness that Nathan's not seen before, and
Nathan braces himself for the blow that's surely about to come, but Peter only
uncrosses his arms and cups Nathan's face, his fingers splaying across his
cheeks and forehead, almost covering his eyes.
"Peter -"
"Shh, Nathan. Sometimes, when I look at you, all I want to do is eat your
fucking face. And I love you. No-one else in the whole world matters. Only you.
You think about that." He releases Nathan and pushes him slightly,
conspicuously not touching him as he passes him by, stalking away without once
glancing back. Nathan watches him as he leaves, his hands in his pants pockets,
until he realizes he's been staring into blank space for a while and Peter's
long gone.
 
(the heart will always remember)
Nathan gets Jones to pick up dinner from that French place in the city, and by
the time Peter gets home the food's laid out on the table - Nathan even managed
to find some candles to light for some romantic effect. Peter doesn't seem
impressed though, he only stands at the entrance to the dining room briefly
before disappearing from view. Nathan follows him upstairs, passes their
bedroom on the way to where Peter's been holing himself up in instead. He leans
against the doorframe and says, "Six weeks."
"What?"
"That's how long it's been since you've actually said more than five words to
me that weren't about business."
"Yeah," Peter says distractedly. "Danko wants you to know that production's
ahead of schedule. Mohinder's offering to -"
"I could give a fuck about the production schedule. Or Mohinder. Would you
fucking talk to me? I got us dinner, at that awful French place you keep waxing
lyrical about. The least you could do is show some fucking gratitude."
"Is that what you want? My gratitude?"
"Yes." And Nathan's suddenly incredibly tired of this. He's Nathan Petrelli,
and he doesn't have to put up with temper tantrums, not even from Peter.
Especially not from Peter. Five long strides and he's got Peter by the lapels
of his shirt, shoving his surprised face down onto the floor. Peter recovers
quickly, and this is actual, honest to god resistance but Nathan's ready for
him, Nathan's always ready for him. He jams his forearm against Peter's throat,
cutting off air-supply until he stops struggling, says, "This is what we're
going to do, Peter. You're going to come downstairs. You're going to behave
like an adult and have an adult conversation with me. We'll talk about the
fucking weather or something, I don't know. You won't be rude, or sullen, or at
any time snap unreasonably. After dinner, which by the way you'll thoroughly
enjoy even though the food's fucking atrocious, we're going to go back to our
bedroom and I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a week.
And maybe, just maybe, if you're good enough and you don't piss me off, I'll
let you come at some point."
He grabs Peter's hair with his free hand and releases the other one, letting
Peter breathe while simultaneously dragging him up onto his knees. "You get it,
right? Tell me you get it." Peter looks shell-shocked, but Nathan doesn't care.
They're just words. Only words. He's always been careful not to use the same
tone of voice that Arthur used with Peter, in the same manner. Even though it
comes so easy, because he is his father's son. He wipes gently at a tear
escaping from the corner of Peter's eye and waits for the whispered yes, which
comes soon enough. "Good," Nathan says, letting him go. Peter sinks back down
onto the floor, his entire body weight collapsing into itself. Not looking up
once, but when Nathan tries to leave the room he grabs at Nathan's legs, clings
to them, his shoulders heaving hard. Nathan doesn't know how to respond to
that, so he just pets Peter's head awkwardly until he calms down and stops
shaking so much.
They don't end up eating dinner, not then. Instead Nathan draws a bath and they
both slide in, Peter's back to Nathan's chest and Nathan's arms wrapped around
him. Nathan presses kisses to the side of Peter's throat and chatters
aimlessly, inanely. Afterwards he wraps Peter up in his favorite bathrobe and
they both head downstairs. Nathan leaves Peter sitting by the pool and goes
back into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses and, as an
afterthought, reaches for some leftover chicken from the fridge to make
sandwiches. When he finally makes his way back to Peter, Peter takes the
offered sandwich with a small smile and says, "You really hate that food, don't
you."
"It's just that it's cold now. I'll get Michelle to make reservations for lunch
tomorrow, how about that."
"Sure." He bites down and makes a face, but doesn't comment, instead just
finishes the sandwich gamely and washes it down with copious amounts of
alcohol.
When Nathan kisses him he tastes of nothing but dry, white wine, sweet and
faintly flowery. Peter reaches for the belt on Nathan's bathrobe but Nathan
pushes him gently away, says, "I'm tired, okay, Pete. Maybe tomorrow?" He
kisses him again, this time on the forehead, and holds him close.
 
(i have made a rescue raft)
Like all social functions, Nathan has to bribe Peter to attend, this time with
a promise that he'd get to personally handle the Juarez account. He was going
to anyway, but Peter doesn't have to know that. He's trying his best to
delegate, to trust Peter more. Even though there's no-one he trusts besides
Peter.
Once they're there, Peter seems to be in an irrepressibly cheerful mood,
although that might have something to do with the large amounts of champagne
he's consuming as if it's water. "You might want to pace yourself," Nathan
says, surveying the crowd, during a brief moment when no-one's stopping by to
say hello.
He's pretty sure they're here for charity, although he wrote the check without
bothering to pay much attention to precisely what charity they were plopping
down two thousand dollars a plate for. Pa always insisted that socializing was
women's work, even as he recognized the importance of making the right
connections with the right people. Fortunately, Angela was bred into this, and
she passed along the ability to smile and make inane conversation to Nathan,
all while keeping your guard up and an ear out for any opportunity that might
come by. They're somewhat resented here regardless, Nathan's aware of that, but
the Petrellis' money and influence overrides whatever classist sensibilities
they might have, at least for tonight.
Nathan has half a mind to sic Peter on one of their precious debutant
daughters, just to watch him tear the girl apart, piece by piece. Knowing Peter
though, he'll probably fall in love with the girl and do something immensely
foolish like ask her to marry him. He also has his own daughter to worry about;
Claire's here somewhere, hopefully still by Bennet's side. The girl, once
introduced to them, seems to have taken quite the shine to Peter, and Peter to
her. They try not to touch each other inappropriately in front of her, although
she will probably figure it out at some point; Claire isn't dumb.
"She's your daughter," Peter's been fond of saying lately. "You should get to
know her better. She deserves that much from you." Personally, Nathan's certain
that the last thing Claire needs is being inflicted upon by either one of them,
but it's hard to dissuade Peter of a notion once he's got it in his head.
"Where's Claire," Peter asks now. "Do you see her?"
"No," Nathan replies shortly.
Peter only shrugs easily though, and says, "I'm trying to decide which blonde
you're going to insist on sneaking away with. Probably the one in that knock-
off Prada, she's been eyeing you ever since you got here."
Nathan pats him affectionately on the cheek. "I only have eyes for you, Pete,"
he replies. "Besides, I'd never fuck someone who wears imitation designer
dresses. I have standards."
"No, Nathan. You really don't." He sounds marginally more cheerful though, and
he grin he flashes Nathan is honest, if brief. Nathan grabs ahold of one of his
wrists and lets his thumb slide along the inside, until Peter's eyes darken and
he sways, almost imperceptibly, towards Nathan. "I'd let you fuck fake-Prada if
you'd like," he says, his lips close to Nathan's ear. "If you'd let me watch."
"The last time that happened I had to burn the sheets and throw away my
mattress."
"Sheesh Nathan, why must you be such a pain in the ass." He sighs. "Okay, I
promise not to kill her. There, are you happy?"
"It's not that I don't trust you, Pete. It's that -"
"It's that you don't trust me?" Peter widens his eyes, gives him the patented
Peter Petrelli I can't believe what I'm hearing why must you be so mean stare
of earnestness. "I said I promised. What more do you want? I mean at the very
least I should think you'd want me there, I'd make sure you didn't
inadvertently knock her up. God knows how many illegitimate children you have
littered around the world."
"I've since learned how to use a condom, thanks." Nathan grits his teeth and
sips his drink, considers his next words carefully. "She's not my type," he
says finally.
"Fine, pick someone who's your type."
"You want this so badly? You choose someone."
"Fine. The brunette leaning against that pillar in the corner. At least her
clothes didn't come from Hong Kong." Nathan makes a face. Peter would choose
someone who looks like that. "She's beautiful," Peter says, wrapping one arm
around Nathan's shoulders. "You never did have any taste."
"No taste, no standards, that's me all right. What does that say about you,
though?"
"The exception that proves the rule." He smiles and snags another glass of
champagne that's sailing by on a waiter's tray, mouths, "Wish me luck," before
disappearing into the crowd.
The brunette says yes, as Nathan knows she would. Once Peter turns on his not
so inconsiderable charm, they always say yes. In college, before Peter moved in
with him, Nathan would sometimes drop by his dorm room and there was always
some girl or another in there, hanging on to his every word. Sometimes there
were boys as well, lithe little things with pale skin and pink lips, but Nathan
never could stand that, and after he cut Peter off for two months Peter finally
got the message and there were no more cute little boys. Or girls, for that
matter, although Nathan doesn't particularly care to keep track of Peter's sex
life.
Peter leads the girl over and Nathan kisses the back of her hand, murmurs
something polite and appropriate for the occasion. Peter says, "Ten minutes,
we'll meet you outside. We have to say goodbye to the hosts first."
"She's an accountant," he tells Nathan as they make their way to the middle of
the room where their hosts are holding court. "I love accountants."
"Of course you do," Nathan says, not bothering to ask why. They say their
farewells, air-kisses and hearty handshakes all around, and Peter manages not
to hit the husband, a middle-aged man who's the COO of one of the largest
private security firms in the country, when he punches him lightly in the arm.
Instead he just laughs, which is always slightly disconcerting, so Nathan leads
him out of there as fast as he can.
In the limo, the accountant, whose name is Cindy apparently, writhes in
Nathan's lap, but Nathan's more uneasy rather than turned on. Things are still
strange between Peter and him, an undercurrent of uneasiness that's quite new
and not something he's equipped to handle. He's always known exactly where he
stands with Peter, more or less. Now though, Peter's watching him with bright
eyes, one hand tapping aimlessly on his thigh and the other one wrapped around
a tumbler of whiskey. At some point Cindy slides down onto her knees and works
on Nathan's belt and zipper, drawing him out. Nathan's cock remains
uninterested until Peter leans forward, elbows on his knees, then it stands to
attention and Cindy chuckles in amusement. "Come here," Nathan says, but Peter
only shakes his head. "Come here." Finally he comes, landing lithely in the
seat next to Nathan, grabbing his chin to kiss him hard.
Cindy's laugh is one of startlement. She stops jerking Nathan off long enough
that Nathan breaks away from Peter to blink heavily at her. "I thought you guys
were brothers," she says.
"We are," Nathan replies, and goes back to fucking Peter's mouth. They kiss
slow, and deep, and he thinks that Cindy mutters something along the lines of
kinky fucks, but he doesn't care. All that matters is Peter's hot mouth and his
hand unbuttoning Nathan's shirt and his hips jerking against Nathan's thigh.
"God, Peter. I want to fuck you, right here, right now."
Peter pulls away and puts his palm over Nathan's mouth. "I want you to fuck
her. Right here, right now." He grabs Cindy by the arm and draws her up, spins
her around to settle once again on Nathan's lap but facing the other direction
this time. She seems willing enough, her smile is indulgent when Peter takes
her position on the floor and hikes her skirt up above her waist. "White cotton
thongs," he murmurs in approval, hooking his fingers under said thongs and
dragging them down to her feet, then spreading her thighs apart so her knees
rest on the outside of Nathan's. "I fucking love accountants."
Nathan laughs, says, "Come on baby, you should ride me." She's warm and soft
and curvy against him, unlike most of the blondes that he fucks. Nathan cups
her round breasts under her dress and she moans, throws her head back. Somehow
he manages to get a condom on before he slides into her, or she down onto him,
hot-wet-slippery tightness, and this is why Nathan loves women, why he will
always love women, from the way they smell to the way their bodies fit so well
next to his to the perfection of their cunts, he fucking adores them.
Except of course, not a single one of them is Peter, sitting at Nathan's feet
with an odd, rapt expression on his face. Nathan pushes Cindy's hair aside with
his nose to get a better look at Peter, who has risen higher up on his knees to
push his face in-between Cindy's thighs. In-between Nathan's. Nathan gasps, and
almost comes, just from Peter's mouth on his balls, from his tongue sliding up
whatever part of his cock isn't inside of Cindy. It's too much to take, he lets
his head fall back into the seat, rides the sensation out. Vaguely, he can hear
Cindy's gasps turn high and unsteady, feel her clenching around him, but all
Nathan can register is Peter. He thinks he comes at some point, and then
Cindy's gone and it's just Peter in his lap, kissing him sloppily, tasting of
whiskey and musk and accountant. "I love you," Peter says, before he shakes,
and Nathan's only distantly aware that Peter's coming until most of it lands
heavily on his chest and neck.
"Christ," Nathan says, coming down fast as Peter attempts to rub the come into
Nathan's skin. He'd thought they were alone, but Cindy's curled up on the
opposite seat, yawning sleepily as she watches the two of them. "What do we do
with her?"
"I asked Jones to drive her back to her apartment first." He drops a fast kiss
on Nathan's sweat-sheened forehead. "Unlike you, I always keep my promises."
 
(do you know how to show, how to show these things?)
Peter, at some point, started collecting teeth. Just one incisor from each
person, usually ripped out after Peter's done killing them. Nathan doesn't get
it, but there are a lot of things about Peter Nathan doesn't get. He bought
Peter a slim, engraved pair of sterling silver pliers for his birthday; Peter
keeps it together with the ornate box that he keeps the teeth in, in a drawer
by his bedside.
At last count, there are twelve incisors inside the box, only five of which
Nathan can personally account for. He doesn't ask about the rest, although
once, when they're lounging on the bed one lazy Sunday morning, Peter brings
the box out and painstakingly explains to him which ones belonged to someone
Nathan had fucked. "It's largely your fault," he tells Nathan calmly. "It's as
if you want me to kill them."
"Yes, Pete. I want you to murder beautiful women just because you can." He
slams the box shut, grabs it from Peter's hands. "Enough of this," he says,
avoiding Peter's grabbing hands and tossing it carelessly onto the side table.
Peter glares at him and Nathan circles his wrists with his fingers, drags him
onto his lap. "Hey," he says, drawing both of Peter's arms up behind his back,
as high as it can go.
"Hey," Peter replies. "Maybe you could give me one of your teeth to add to my
collection. Replace with a gold one. You'd look nice I think with gold. I like
your teeth."
"I like my teeth too. In my mouth, where I can use them."
"Shame. We'd have fun if I could knock them all out just for a night. I know a
good dentist, he'd replace them afterwards and no one would ever know the
difference."
Nathan tightens his grip on Peter's arms as Peter lets his gaze flicker from
his mouth to his eyes. "Pete -"
"Don't worry, Nathan. It's not as if I could do it while you sleep or
anything."
"Of course you could," Nathan says, and grins, the sharp, toothy smile he knows
Peter hates.
"You should be more afraid of me, I think." He shifts in Nathan's lap and
Nathan's cock twitches. Peter's smile turns wicked, accessing, only fading when
Nathan jerks his wrists up even higher, making him suppress a wince. "That
hurts," he says.
"No." He lets go of Peter's arms and wraps his fingers around his throat, uses
Peter's surprise to slam him flat onto his back, one leg leveraged against his
sternum and the other one pressed flat near his head for support. "Now it
hurts," he says, and squeezes. He waits until Peter's face turns red and he's
grasping at Nathan's wrist, trying to jerk him free, before he leans in and
says, near Peter's ear, "Tell me again why I should be more afraid of you."
When he finally releases his grip, just a little so that Peter can breathe,
heave in great big gasps of air, it's only to say, "Go on. Tell me."
"Fuck you." His voice is harsh, strained. Nathan wets his thumb with his tongue
and slides it across Peter's forehead, smooths down his furrowed brow. Peter
only continues to glare at him, until Nathan kisses that sweet red mouth of
his, slides his tongue in and fucks him slowly, leisurely. Peter doesn't yield
and Nathan doesn't expect him to, but the bite, that he doesn't see coming.
"Fuck," he says, and rears back. He puts his fingers to his lips and is
surprised when they come away red and wet. Peter grins spitefully at him, his
lips as bloody as Nathan's must be. "Oh Pete. You really shouldn't have done
that." He hauls Peter up by the scruff of his neck and threads his fingers
through his hair to snap his head back as far as it can go, then shoves him
face-down onto the sheets before he can orientate himself and think of fighting
back.
There's a belt from where he left it last night on the floor, he picks it up
and swiftly binds Peter's hands behind his back, high up and crossed over so
most of his spine is exposed and vulnerable, jerking the leather tight enough
that he knows it will leave bruises when Peter struggles against it. Nathan's
cock is too hard, maybe, if there's such a thing. He tugs Peter's pants down
past his hips and slides it along the crack of his ass, just to relieve the
pressure a little. It's good, it helps, but Peter's pushing back against him,
as if he's welcoming it, as if he wants it, and that won't do, so Nathan just
says, "I'm going to fuck you so hard, little brother. Then we'll talk about how
afraid I should be of you," and Peter laughs, wet and broken, and everything
tilts back to right once again.
It gets even better when Nathan lets go, once he's concentrated enough that his
hard-on settles down, the force of the stream hitting the small of Peter's back
at first, darkening the tattoo as it sluices across, and Nathan pictures his
piss sinking into Peter's skin, gold mixing and melding with black ink until
it's rendered entirely new and different. Peter twists his head up and back,
mouth open in surprise, waiting. Nathan says, "Suck," and holds wet fingers to
his mouth, a command that Peter has no choice but to obey. He expects to be
bitten, but Peter just licks at them delicately, and Nathan tires of it soon
enough and shoves them into his mouth and then he does clamp down,
involuntarily, but not enough to even mark the skin.
He goes in not quite as dry as he'd like, too much piss and pre-come, but maybe
that's a blessing, the last time he tore into Peter he refused to let Nathan
touch him for a month, curled up in the guest bedroom with the door locked and
Nathan would wake up in the mornings to find him standing over the bed, knife
loosely held in one hand and contemplative look on his face. It's still enough
friction that Peter moans though, turns his face into the mattress until Nathan
grabs his hair and pushes it sideways, because he likes to see Peter's face
like this, flushed and shiny with fear-sweat.
He fucks Peter slow and deliberate, ignoring his whispered pleas, to stop, to
move faster, to do anything but what Nathan's doing right now, taking his time,
marking the burn until it hurts. It's as if he has tunnel-vision, the world is
reduced to the shiny golden wet line of Peter's back and the tightness of his
corded muscles as he strains against the belt, its darkness stark against his
skin, to his own cock, dark and hard and forcing itself into Peter, forcing
Peter to bear it. When he comes, it's with the sound of thunder in his ears, of
his own laughter, harsh and relentless, of feeling Peter clench around him in
disgust, in despair.
He collapses bonelessly on top of Peter, gasping and hysterical, whispers into
the shell of his tiny, perfect ear, "You could kill me if you'd like, Peter. I
wouldn't stop you. I might even let you fuck me, if you wanted to do it that
way. Just make sure you finish me off properly, afterwards. Use that knife you
love so much, the one I used to rip you out of Mom's body." All that mess, the
stench and gore and Peter's high, anguished wail when Nathan grabbed hold of
him with slippery hands, and it's perilously close to the one that he's making
right now, mouth open and soft and wet. Nathan's been trying to get the stain
off his hands ever since, scrub them both until they're shiny and clean, but
the only thing he ever accomplishes is even more bleeding, on both their parts.
"It was raining, did you know that. I caught fucking pneumonia, had to be
hospitalized for a week." He stops, too exhausted to keep talking, energy
fading as Peter's whimpers grow faint, then disappear completely.
Peter turns his head, says, again, "I like your teeth," and kisses him, the
taste of his mouth copper tinged with Nathan's blood.
[The tattoo came about as a result of one lust-fueled night spent in Tijuana
when Peter was sixteen and Nathan had his face pressed against the base of
Peter's spine, idly marking the curve of his hips. "I want you to do something
for me," Nathan said, as the idea struck him.
"Sure, Nathan," Peter replied sleepily. "Anything you want."
It was easy enough to pay someone to come to their hotel room so that Nathan
wouldn't have to go and search out somebody. "Very skilled, clean and most
importantly discreet," the hotel manager said, because he was under the
impression that Nathan was some kind of closeted public figure and Peter was
his underaged whore. It was close enough that Nathan didn't bother to correct
him.
The girl that showed up was tiny and had skin the color of burnt caramel where
it wasn't covered in ink, but when Nathan eyed her speculatively all she said
was, "No." Nathan grinned and shrugged, not taking offense. You couldn't win
them all. "What did you have in mind," she asked Peter, and when Peter shook
his head she raised a thick brow and turned to Nathan. "Allright, so what did
you have in mind."
Peter flopped face forward onto the low bench she had set up next to the bed.
"Please try not to be so gauche as to stamp your name into my skin, Nathan."
"Shush," Nathan said. "The adults are having a conversation." He showed her the
sketch, the symbol that emblazoned their company letterheads. It wasn't quite
what he'd planned on doing, but maybe even back then he'd already decided upon
their future course of action. Decided whose side he was going to choose.
She nodded her head and traced the base of Peter's spine with her index finger.
Peter shivered slightly. "Right here?"
"Perfect." He dragged a chair over and sat by Peter's side as she bent her head
to work, held his hand as the needle hit home and he winced in pain. With his
hair plastered over his forehead and his eyed narrowed but fixed upon Nathan's,
he was exquisite and perfect and most of all, he was Nathan's.]
 
(i was put together wrong, still i was made for you)
They drive deep into the desert, to meet a business associate and potential
partner. Peter disapproves, he doesn't trust Parkman, and, as he's pointed out
more than once in the past few days, "You cut this deal without informing me,
and now you just want me to tag along with you?"
"Yeah, pretty much." He reaches for his briefcase and puts it on his lap with
the lid facing outwards, snaps it open. "I got you a gift though. Suresh sends
his regards."
"The 486," Peter says, his eyes widening.
"Modified, so it's lightweight enough for you to holster. Only twelve rounds
rather than the thirty-six, but -"
"I'll take it."
"Well good, because it's coded to your DNA and your DNA only."
"Awesome." He holds the weapon almost reverently before tugging off his jacket
and removing his old holster, replacing it with the one Nathan had made to
especially fit Peter's body and the gun. Mostly Nathan's still uncertain about
giving it to him, but then again Peter can probably do worse with just his
trusty pair of pliers and a hunting knife.
In the end, Peter's right and Nathan's wrong. A surprise, that. Fucking
Parkman. He shakes Nathan's hand with sweaty palms while Peter glares
suspiciously at him, glancing all the while over his shoulder. "Are you okay,
Parkman," Nathan asks. "You seem nervous."
"I'm fine, just. You know. The 486s."
"What about the 486s," Nathan says, his voice sharp, wariness crawling up his
spine. "This meeting has nothing to do with the 48-" And that's when everything
goes boom. Their car exploding behind them and Parkman ducking down, gun in
hand as another blast of fire hits the ground with a high blast right in front
of them, knocking Nathan off his feet. The last thing he sees before he blacks
out is Peter, lying unnaturally still three feet away from him and his face
drenched in blood.
The first time he wakes up: almost everything hurts. He tries moving but his
hands are bound behind him, and so are his feet. "Fuck," Nathan says. "Son of a
bitch."
"You really shouldn't swear. It's unseemly."
"And who the fuck are you?"
The man crouched in front of him says, "My name is Maury Parkman, Mr. Petrelli.
I was an associate of your father's. Now, that was a man who understood the
important things in life. Like loyalty to old friends, not to mention family.
Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, after the trail of
bodies you left behind while ascending to your throne."
[Maury Parkman always had high hopes, both for his future prospects in the
Petrelli Organization and for his son. Unfortunately, as it so happened, Arthur
Petrelli was overthrown by his sons, and everyone else that got in their way
was summarily executed. Maury always told everyone that the reason he'd
survived was his foresight to grab Matt and run as soon as he'd gotten wind
that things were going bad. Privately, Matt always figured that the only reason
they'd not been killed was because Nathan Petrelli didn't see Maury as a big
enough threat to care. Possibly Nathan didn't even know who Maury was, seeing
as how low on the totem pole he was at the time.
Matt never shared those thoughts with Maury, but he grew up with a chip on his
shoulder and enough resentment to fuel a four-engine passenger plane across the
Atlantic. So when the opportunity presented itself for revenge, he told his
father about it and Maury clapped Matt on the shoulder and said, "Son, for once
in your life you might actually do me proud."]
Nathan tugs experimentally on his restraints, but they're much too secure.
"Here, let me help you to sit up."
He drags Nathan into sitting position and smooths down his jacket for him.
Nathan looks around the room, trying to figure out where they are, but it's
nondescript. Bare walls, no furniture and a hard, broken-tiled floor. Nathan
finally turns back to Maury and says, "What the fuck do you want from me?"
"Your co-operation, of course."
Nathan spits in his face. Maury smiles, and slams Nathan's head into the
nearest wall.
The second time he wakes up: someone's forcing water down his throat. Maury
again. "You need to keep hydrated if you're going to fix our problems for us."
Nathan chokes down the rancid tasting liquid and squints at him. "What possible
problems would you need me to fix for you?"
"Your weapons don't work."
"No, my weapons work fine if you're the one that bought them. If you stole them
like the fucking thief you are, then no, they won't work."
"It doesn't matter," Maury says. "You're going to fix them for me."
"Do I look like fucking Tony Stark to you? I'm not an engineer. I'm a
businessman. I couldn't fix your stolen weapons even if I were so inclined."
"That's unfortunate." The hard, unmistakable barrel of a gun is pressed against
Nathan's forehead. "Your father at least knew all about the weapons he was
trading in. He'd be ashamed to know that his son turned out to be nothing more
than a bureaucrat. I guess we don't need you alive then. Of course, we could
always trade you for someone more useful. I'm sure your brother will be willing
to negotiate to get you back."
"My brother's alive?" Nathan starts laughing, an uncontrollable burst that's
part joy and part hysteria and part plain amusement.
"This isn't a laughing matter."
"Sure it is. My brother's alive, so that means you're dead, you old bastard.
I'd ask you to worry about your teeth, but then I think after he's done with
you you're not gonna need them anymore."
"Mr. Petrelli. Nathan - can I call you Nathan? Let me tell you something about
trust and loyal-"
"You know my brother likes to say," Nathan interrupts, tired of this already.
"That speechifying is only really of interest to the one speaking. For the
first time I'm starting to realize that he's right."
The third time he wakes up: he sees Peter's face. Drenched in blood like the
last time he saw it, and so Nathan assumes he's hallucinating, "You're not
real," he says.
"Of course I am, you fucking jerk."
"Oh. Then I guess you are." He groans as Peter turns him over and starts to
work on his restraints. "Why is there so much blood on you?"
"Don't worry, Nathan. None of it's mine." Nathan pulls his hands apart as
they're finally free, shaking as his muscles ache and scream in protest. Peter
kneels at his feet and cuts through the rope around his ankles as well, the
knife in his hand dark and vivid with gore and blood. He says conversationally
as he the knife slices through the last strand of rope, "Can you believe the
sheer nerve? Did they really think they could take you away from me? Hold you
for ransom?"
"See, that's exactly what I told them," Nathan says tiredly. "Some people are
just that stupid."
"Yeah." He helps Nathan to stand up, supporting him when his legs start to
give. "Come on, this place is wired to blow in about five minutes. Bennet's
waiting in the chopper outside. According to him Claire's going to be really
pissed if her brand new bio-dad ends up dead so soon after she finds out who he
is. That girl scares me, Nathan. It's as if she's a mixture of both you and
Bennet. I don't even know what to do." Nathan turns his head into the curve of
Peter's neck and tunes the rest of his words out as they limp outside to the
waiting chopper and Bennet. The last thing that he sees as the chopper lifts
off and he passes out in Peter's arms is the building exploding, fire reaching
high into the sky.
The fourth time he wakes up: He's at home in bed, naked and safe under the
covers. Peter's worried face hovering over him, free of blood and unblemished
once again. "How are you?"
"Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch."
"Yeah," Peter says unsympathetically. "You got banged up pretty good. You'll
live though." His face disappears from view.
"Wait," Nathan says, reaching out for him. Or trying to. Mostly his arms seem
content to stay underneath the covers. "Don't go, Pete."
"I'm not going anywhere." Peter's hands are hot, soothing over Nathan's bruised
and battered body. He feels warm, and infinitely loved, when Peter lifts the
covers and presses up against him. Nathan nuzzles against his cheek and sighs,
the pleasure faint and drifting as fingers cup his balls, stroke him gently to
full hardness. When the heat moves away he groans in displeasure, but it's back
soon enough, Peter's face swimming into focus in front of him, five fingers wet
and sticky, held out to Nathan for display. "I want to fuck you, Nathan," he
says, all the seriousness of a child. "But I need you to tell me it's okay. I
need you to say yes."
He peppers Nathan's face with kisses and Nathan squeezes his eyes shut, the
word caught in his throat. It's no, of course it is, not now, not ever. It's
not how they work; he can't. Not even now, when all he wants is to sink into
the sheets and let Peter devour him. Especially not now, when this is all he
wants. "Please, Nathan." He's surprised then, that when the word finally
escapes from his mouth, in a whisper meant for Peter and Peter alone, how easy
it is, how the shame and humiliation that he expects to follow his submission
doesn't come. Peter sighs, delighted, content, and says, "I love you, Nathan.
I'm going to make you feel so good. It's going to be so good."
Drowsily, Nathan thinks, this changes everything. But then Peter's thighs are
heavy between his legs, and it doesn't hurt, he thought it would hurt, but it
doesn't, it's just Peter, his hands on Nathan's hips and his lips against
Nathan's cheek and he's going "Nathan, I'm in you, oh god," and he sounds like
he's sixteen again and everything that Nathan did, everything that they did,
was new and exciting and overwhelming, and Peter was just a teenager who didn't
keep a boxful of teeth by his bedside, who thought his brother hung the moon.
"Are you okay, Nathan," he asks, his hands framing Nathan's face. "Are you
good? Tell me you're good."
"Peter," Nathan says, "Would you shut the fuck up already. You're ruining the
moment."
 
(when our stitches come undone, we come together like glue)
 
 
                               The Mountain Goats - International_Small
                               Arms_Traffic_Blues | my love is like a
                               powder keg
                               The National - Start_a_War | walk away now
                               Carina Round - Do_You | but i meant every
[http://whateverish.org/stuff/ word i said, from deranged to divine
thebrothers/(cover).jpg]       Audrey - Mecklenburg | been moaning,
                               quiet, his small voice, been living a
                               steady low, hand or knife
                               Florence and The Machine - Howl | i want
                               to find you and tear out all of your
                               tenderness
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