The explosion came without warning, a gasline rupuring in the wing of Nathan's F/A-18, and in a heartbeat he went from a perfect landing to cartwheeling across the deck of the carrier. All he had time to think was "Shit," and then the jet slid, sideways, and jerked to a sudden, jarring halt. He was hanging by his harness straps and the cockpit was twisted around him like a crumpled tin can. He couldn't move, and everything hurt and he couldn't see out of his left eye because that whole side of his face was covered in something that had to be blood, and oh fuck he could smell fuel.
He heard shouting, people running, and then Crazy Jay's voice shouting up to him, "Shit! Hey! Hey, Mafia! You ok? Talk to me buddy!"
He tried, but there was something wrong with his jaw, and something wet in his throat. He coughed and it felt like an explosion in his chest.
"Listen, man, we're gonna get you out of there. You stay calm. You keep breathing."
That was harder than it sounded. He could feel the pressure building in his chest with every breath he dragged in. Fuck, he thought, Fuck, I've done it this time. He couldn't feel the toes on his left foot at all, but he could feel the ones on his right, and they were wet, and he didn't want to know if that was blood or jet fuel.
He was awake the whole time, as they hacked away at the metal wreckage of his jet. It hurt every time he inhaled, hurt horribly every time something they did made the jet shudder or rock. It took two and a half hours. He knew, because the clock was still working. Through it all, Peter gazed at him with a bright, silly smile from the picture taped to the instrument panel. "You'll be fine," he remembered Peter saying. "You're you."
So he kept breathing.
***
It was a few days before he could remember anything more than flashes of sensations. His journey from the carrier's infirmary back to a military hospital in the States was nothing but a drugged haze. He could remember the feeling of impersonal hands touching him, moving him, doing things that he could feel only as vague pressure after the drugs kicked in. He could remember the sight of the IV bags swaying back and forth on its pole over his head, dripping one bag of clear fluid and one bag of dark, deep red blood into his vein, the sound of the deep thrum of the of the plane's engines. And that was all, really.
It was four days later before he started to really remember much of anything at all. He woke up in a bed in a VA hospital with his jaw wired shut, a cast on his left arm, lines of stitches across his chest and abdomen and his left leg suspended over the bed and encased in a metal cage-like contraption that seemed like something out of some horrific sci-fi film.
Once someone noticed he was awake, a doctor came in and rattled off a litany of all that had happened. His left leg had borne the brunt of the impact and he lost track of everything the doctor listed, though it seemed to include something about every bone, muscle, ligament and tendon he possessed. The upshot was he now had metal pins holding the broken and shattered bones together. He also had one pin in his broken left wrist, and a the broken bone in his lower arm that would heal sans cybernetic contributions. His jaw had been fractured and dislocated and was now wired in place. He had three broken ribs, one of which had punctured his lung. He'd had a concussion. He was also now lacking a spleen, as it had ruptured and nearly caused him to bleed out internally and die during transport.
He'd stopped the doctor at that point with a weak wave of his right hand, and written out on the notepad he'd been given, "Don't I need my spleen?"
"Not really," the doctor said. "So, the nurses will be in and out regularly. We've got you on a morphine drip, they'll be in in a bit to show you how to use that. They'll mostly be checking your incisions and keeping them clean, making sure you're still all in one piece."
Except for my spleen, Nathan thought, still feeling shocky.
"You're a lucky young man," the doctor said, with a tone suggesting he was leaving soon. "It could have been a lot worse." Then he clipped his pen to his clipboard and said, "I understand your parents are on their way down from New York. They should be here by this evening."
Nathan's "What?" was stopped by the jaw wires, and the doctor left before he could think to write out a message. By the time the nurse came in, he'd been awake long enough to start feeling the pain, and all he cared about was getting a shot of morphine and returning to comforting unconciousness.
When he woke again, he could remember talking to the doctor. And then, a moment later, that became irrelevent, because his father's voice said, "Welcome back, Nathan."
He couldn't answer, of course, but he could turn his head enough to see his father standing at his right side, with his hands braced on the bed rail and a gentle, uncharacteristic smile on his face. If Nathan could have said something, it would have been something along the lines of What the hell? I haven't spoken to you in four years.
But his father seemed to ignore his expression, continuing on blithely, "I'm so proud of you."
Ma was standing silently off behind his left shoulder, watching Nathan's face. She wasn't smiling, he noted, until she caught him looking, and then she did. "The doctor says you'll be fine," she said, her expression changing to something comforting and hopeful and also extremely out of character. "Maybe a slight limp, he said."
He almost would have wondered if this was a dream, if it weren't for the slow, low pulse of pain that was building at various points all along his left side.
Without trying to look down, he felt around with his right hand until he found the pen and pad. "Why are you here?" he wrote.
His father tilted his head, seemed to take a moment to decipher Nathan's sideways, chicken-scratch writing, then said, "Because we love you, Nathan. We don't know what made you so angry, but we love you. We missed you. You're still our son, and you're hurt. You need us. So we're here. And like I said, we are so, so proud of you."
Then Ma stepped forward and reached out, stroking her fingertips through the hair above his ear, and his eyes closed almost instictively, and some part of him simply reacted to that touch, that simple, rare, real moment of maternal concern and comfort, because, damn it, he was hurt, and he was scared and he was lost, and these were his parents, they'd always been his support system...
It wasn't that the anger was gone. He simply pushed it aside. It wasn't practical right now. He was in no position to be independent. He couldn't even get out of bed right now. He didn't open his eyes, he just reached and found his father's hand--warm skin contrasting with the cool metal bar--and laid his own over it and squeezed. Ma's hand moved to rest on his shoulder, and he let himself take the comfort she offered.
"We've already arranged to have you transferred up to a private facility in New York as soon as you're well enough," Ma said.
He moved his hand from Pop's just long enough to write, "Thank you," and let himself leave it at that. He could sort everything out later.
***
Nathan was staring out the window through the narrow gap in the pale blue curtains of the private care facility when he heard a light knock at the door frame. The nurses didn't knock, so he rolled his head over on his pillow to see who it was.
For a moment, he didn't even recognize the lanky young man hovering at the doorway, long-limbed, skinny, with a shank of dark hair falling in his eyes. And then the kid pushed his bangs back behind his ear and it clicked. Peter.
He felt a rush of emotions: joy, love, surprise, and ultimately, anger. He hadn't wanted Peter there. He wasn't even sure why, but he knew that he didn't want Peter in this room, seeing him like this.
"Peter?" he said. "Damn it, I told them not to let you come here."
Peter straightened up, a familiar expression of annoyance crossing his almost-unfamiliar aged features. "You?" he said, "You told them that? I talked Ma into it," he added, with a flash of defiance.
"I didn't want you to have to see... all this," Nathan said.
"I'm not a kid anymore, Nathan! I can handle it!" Peter snapped, and even pitched higher with anger, his voice was at least an octave or so lower than the last time Nathan had heard it.
Nathan slumped back against his pillow, exhausted by even that much strain. "You shouldn't have to, Pete." His old protective instinct was back in full, but still he didn't speak as forcefully as he could have, because the truth was--always was--he was glad Peter was there.
He heard the vistor's chair screech against the floor as Peter pulled it closer and sat down. Then Peter said, "I'm your brother. You need me."
"I don't--" He turned his head again. Peter had crossed his arms across the siderail and was leaning forward, giving Nathan a better look at him. He had a couple pimples up near his temple. A trace of faint, dark stubble around his upper lip and in the hollow of his chin. His hands and fingers seemed longer, more solid and his fingernails looked blunter and tougher. His eyes were the same, though, if seemingly smaller, perhaps, than when he was a little kid. His lips were the same crooked shape they'd always been. Small details, all adding up to these mixed sensations of familiarity and strangeness.
"Just chill, okay?" Peter said. Then he said, much more gently, "How are you?" and reached out to lay his hand on Nathan's shoulder.
Nathan sighed and felt as though all his tension had left him at just that simple touch. There was no manipulation in Peter's touch, no hidden meaning, no price, it was pure altruistic comfort and concern.
"I'm better," he said. "A lot better."
With a gentle squeeze of his hand, Peter said, with that new, quiet maturity, "Good. That's really good."
"Yeah," Nathan said. He thought to himself, Ma wouldn't let him win unless she meant to. This is my reward. I gave in, I came back to them, so she gave me Peter.
***
It was summer, so Peter didn't have school, so he showed up every day during visiting hours. He always brought something to do, a board game, a hand-held video game, a video, the newspaper. He got a kick out of mocking Nathan's bad stock picks.
"Don't you have friends?" Nathan asked him one day as Peter was reading off the comics with all the flamboyance he could muster.
"Huh?" Peter said, brought up short mid-Apartment 3G.
"You know, friends. That you, you know, do stuff with. You're here all the time."
"Sure I do," Peter said. "I can see 'em in the evening after visiting hours."
"Yeah, but do you?"
Peter tossed aside the paper and leaned on the edge of Nathan's bed. "Look, Nathan. I can see them any time. You? I never get to see you."
Something panged inside Nathan at that, and he reached out and cupped Peter's cheek. "I always intended to be around more often. I'm sorry."
Peter leaned into his touch even as he said, drily, "Is this the touching hospital room reconciliation scene? Because I totally forgot to bring a box of tissues."
"Har har," Nathan said, changing his caress to a light tap. "Your sense of humor is not improving with age, Pete. I think you may have peaked with potty humor."
"Oh, see, now you're hitting me and verbally abusing me. This is definitely turning into a Lifetime movie."
"And you would know that because...?" His hand was still on Peter's cheek and Peter didn't show any signs of pulling away. Nathan stroked lightly with his fingertips, feeling Peter's soft, downy stubble.
"Rumors," Peter said easily. "All hearsay and rumors."
Nathan felt like he'd smiled--really smiled--more in the past week than he had in the past year. "You know, I love you to bits, Peter," he said.
Peter just smiled and turned his head slightly, planting a quick, glancing kiss on the swell of Nathan's palm. "I love you, too," Peter said, simply and easily.
Nathan wondered where Peter had come about that emotional honesty. He certainly hadn't gotten it from anyone in their family. Maybe it was the providence of being the youngest child.
"All right," Nathan said, finally pulling his hand away when the soft warning bell in the back of his mind got a little louder. "I can't stand the suspense anymore. You'd better finishing reading Apartment 3G."
***
He was in the hospital for two weeks before he was released. Their parents got a medical transport company to take him and Peter up to the beach house on Long Island, so that Nathan could spend the summer "recuperating in peace and quiet."
Nathan wasn't a hundred percent sure Peter had ever even encountered the concept of peace and quiet, but he was still glad to have him there.
The house had been made wheelchair accessible, since Nathan was going to be in one for at least a month before the nasty cast on his leg with the horribly disturbing (even to him) bone pins could come off and he could switch over to crutches.
"That thing on your leg is still the most disturbing thing I've ever seen in real life," Peter said, conversationally as he pushed Nathan up the new wooden ramp to the front door of the beach house.
"Yeah. Note to self: Do not break femur ever again," Nathan said, looking down at it. In the hospital, it had been nicely covered up most of the time.
"Darn right," Peter said. "And no crashing jets, either."
"Definitely not," Nathan said, although that suddenly hurt, because he wouldn't be crashing any more jets. Or flying any more jets, for that matter. The Navy had given him a purple heart and an honorary discharge.
Peter backed them through the door and into the foyer of the beach house, and they were greeted with fresh, cool air. Whoever prepped the place must have turned the air conditioner on, too. It was blissful after the muggy heat outside, and enough to drive away any melancholy thoughts.
"Mom said they had some guys come by with groceries and stuff, so we should be all set for now. I was thinking we could make some sandwichs and have lunch out on the deck, watch the waves?"
Nice though that sounded, all Nathan really wanted was a nap. He said as much. Peter didn't mock him. "Oh, yeah. Shi--Shoot. I should have thought of that."
"Oh, please. I gave up on stopping you from cursing years ago."
"All right, then, shithead. Let's fucking get you to bed."
"You're still not funny, Pete."
"Then why are you laughing?"
***
"So, uh," Peter said, that evening, standing in the bathroom in his swim trunks with Nathan. "Are you regretting turning down the nurse thing now?"
Nathan nodded. "Little bit, yeah. You?"
"Kinda, maybe."
Ma had already found a caregiver to stay with them and do their shopping, some cleaning, and most importantly, help Nathan with the little things he couldn't do with the damn cast, primary among them being get into and out of the shower. Which was the task that was before them at the moment.
Peter took a deep breath, let it out, and said, briskly, "Ok, this is stupid, it's not even a big deal."
"Yeah," Nathan said. "Sure."
"All right," Peter said, with a look of determination. "I'm gonna take your pants off now, so... brace yourself."
"Thank you for the warning," Nathan said, drily.
Peter's expression made it clear he'd rather be grabbing hot coals than the waistband of Nathan's sweatpants, but to his credit, once he'd committed to it, he just tugged the pants down and off, clumsily manuevering them over the bulky external fixator. At the very end, the waistband caught on one of the screws and tugged, causing one sharp spike of pain.
Nathan hadn't bothered with the hassle of underwear. Bad enough getting the stretchy sweatpants on and off over the contraption.
"Okay," Peter said, releasing his held breath with a woosh. "Not too bad. Sorry, I think I bumped your... metal thingy there."
"Nah, you did good. Didn't even feel it," Nathan said.
"Cool," Peter said. "Uh, so. Now I guess we get you into the shower."
They were fortunate that their mother demanded extreme extravagence in the area of bathrooms, so the shower stall was easily big enough for three people, or two, if one happened to have an extremely bulky apparatus attached to their left leg and had to sit down.
Peter pulled Nathan's wheelchair over to the edge of the stall then walked in, getting the shower seat closer to the door. "You ready?"
"Yeah. Come around on my left. I think that'll work better."
Peter came around and leaned in to hook his arm around Nathan's back, under his armpits.
"No," Nathan said, "You do it like that you'll be lifting with your back and you'll regret it in the morning. Bend your knees."
"Right, right, right," Peter said, changing his posture even as he rolled his eyes.
"You say that because you've never lifted a forty-pound air tank the wrong way," Nathan said.
"Okay, on three," Peter said. He counted, and together, they got Nathan up onto his good foot. He sucked in a hard breath at the cascade of pain from his still-healing ribs and his leg, shifting against the bone pins.
"You okay?" Peter said, quickly.
Nathan nodded, still gritting his teeth. "Let's go."
Three hard, hopping steps, and they were in. Nathan dropped onto the shower stool with a sigh, thinking he'd run easier marathons.
"So, uh. You just want me to get your feet and the pins, right?"
Nathan waited until he'd caught his breath before he said, "Yeah. I think I can manage the rest."
"'K," Peter said, taking down the handheld showerhead and turning on the water to warm.
He started to bend down, paused, then kneeled by Nathan's feet instead. Nathan glanced away, disturbed and embarassed.
"Water," Peter said, shortly, and then started wetting down Nathan's calves and feet with the warm, gentle spray. A moment later, his hands went where the water had, spreading suds up Nathan's shin and down between his toes. Nathan bit his lip as Peter's thumbs ran along the arch of his foot. He'd always had a bit of a thing about that spot, which he'd discovered when he'd had a girlfriend who'd liked licking feet.
"Sorry," Peter muttered. "Ticklish?" Then, abruptly, "Oh."
Nathan clenched his jaw and stared at the tile as Peter switched over to his other leg and started gently working the antibacterial soap around the pins that held Nathan's tibia and femur in place. He did Nathan's left foot last, and Nathan couldn't help but notice his fingers shied away from the arch of his foot this time. Which was, quite frankly, fine by him.
Peter rinsed off the soap and stood up, and Nathan finally let himself look at him again.
"Okay, then?" Peter said, subdued.
Nathan nodded. "Yeah. Thanks. I can... take it from here."
"Cool," Peter said. "Just, call me when you're done."
Nathan let out a shaky breath after Peter'd left.
***
"This," said Peter, lying blissed-out on a pool chair in the sun, "Is what summer vacation is supposed to be."
"Yeah. I should have almost-mortally injured myself years ago," Nathan said. Then frowned slightly. "Or just taken a vacation."
Peter peered at him over the tops of his sunglasses. "I think the latter, Great White Hope."
Nathan just rolled his eyes. He was sprawled out in a papasan chair in the shade with his bad leg propped on a table and a fluffy novel in his hand. Well, he considered Tom Clancy fluffy, anyway.
Peter went back to his sun-worshipping.
"You're going to get skin cancer, you know," Nathan said, just to be contrary.
Peter flipped him the bird.
He's a good-looking guy, Nathan thought, idly. Skinny, yeah, but that'd be the growth spurts, once he grew out of the gawky phase... And as ridiculous as his hair was, Nathan had to admit it worked for him, though it must have been endlessly annoying, always falling in his eyes. As Nathan watched, Peter arched his back and stretched and for a brief moment, his cock was outlined against his swim trunks. Nathan hasily averted his eyes, but the image stuck with him. Peter's body, taut and shining with sunscreen, half-hard cock pressing against his shorts.
Okay, he thought. I didn't need to see that.
"You ok?"
Nathan didn't risk more than a glance. "Yeah, uh. Clancy screwed something up again."
"You know, some people actually enjoy reading books, not just nitpicking them."
"Really? I had no idea," Nathan said, trying to sound light even though he was still unsettled.
Forcing his eyes back to the page, he thought, So your little brother's become a man. Deal with it.
***
"God, what is with you tonight? You're like a cranky two-year-old, 'No! I can do it!'"
"Well, you should know, you were that two-year-old."
"Everyone's that two-year-old. Just not usually when they're twenty-eight!"
"Look, just because I'd like to regain some sense of modesty and personal space doesn't mean I'm being immature--"
"Except that you are being immature, and you're going to fall and break some more bones if you don't let me help you. And I've been helping you all damn week!"
"Exactly! You haven't left me alone all week. Every damn second you're right there like some weird tumor stuck to my side! Maybe I need a fucking break!"
Peter couldn't have looked more shocked, appalled, and wounded if Nathan'd punched him, and already Nathan was filled with a cold wash of horror and regret.
"Shit. Peter, I didn't mean that."
"Yeah, I'll bet," Peter said, his face closed and hard. He took a couple steps backwards and grabbed onto the doorjam. "You know, you could have just asked me to leave you alone for awhile. I would have. I'm not trying to--"
"Pete--"
"Don't, ok? Just don't. I get it. And have fun killing yourself in the fucking shower, ok? I'm going for a walk. On the sand."
"Peter!" But he was gone. A moment later, the patio door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass.
***
It was midnight before Nathan heard Peter return. He hadn't been able to shower. Hadn't even managed to get the plastic wrapped around the damn cast, for that matter, but he had managed to get all his meds and wash his face, brush his teeth and strip down to his shorts and climb into bed.
A moment later, Peter appeared as a dark shadow in the doorway. "You awake?" he asked softly.
"Yeah," Nathan said. "Com'ere. Please."
Peter came over and sat on the side of the bed. "Look," he began, "I'm sorry I--"
"Don't, don't, Pete. You've got nothing to apologize for. I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry. I was tired, I was stressed, I was frustrated. I love having you here, okay? I feel like I've been waiting my whole life--your whole life, anyway--to have some time like this. Just us. Getting to know each other, be brothers, you know?"
"But we're not, really. Brothers," Peter said.
Utterly at a loss, Nathan said, "What?"
"I mean, we are. But... Brothers grow up with each other, you know? Brothers... know each other. I don't even... know you, really. Sometimes. We're just... only children who happen to be siblings."
Nathan reached through the darkness and found Peter's hand, wrapping his own around it. "We're brothers, Peter. Doesn't matter how old we are, or how far apart we were. I can see why you wouldn't think so, but you're the most important person in my life. Whereever I was, whatever I was doing, you were there." He tightened his grip, shut his eyes, and said, "In that cockpit... I... thought I was gonna die. It was a close thing. But... there was this picture, on my instrument panel. Taped there, right where I couldn't not see it. This picture of you. And I just... I couldn't let you down."
"Okay," Peter said, "That's... that's heavy."
Nathan still couldn't open his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry. I... Sorry."
"No, it's ok," Peter said. He shifted around, laying down alongside Nathan. "Heavy can be good."
Nathan finally got his eyes open. "You've been watching those Lifetime movies again, haven't you?"
"I have, Mr. I-Lived-For-You?"
"Shut up. We never speak of this again."
"Never ever. Unless I need good blackmail material."
Nathan just sighed, resigned.
***
It hadn't gone away. That awareness of Peter's body. The next morning, he was still in Nathan's bed, asleep on his back with one arm flung over his head, bare-chested.
Peter's face was soft with sleep, his chest rising and falling gently. Even now, though, relaxed and innocent and at peace, he seemed to be a completely different person than the five-year-old that had cuddled, sniffling, in Nathan's lap. Older, maybe wiser, and just... different somehow. Nathan felt like he'd missed some important transition, like instead of a gradual process, the little boy he'd known had been swapped out for this young almost-man. A stage trick played by the universe.
Peter's eyes opened and he said, "Hey." Even his voice had changed. Deeper and richer now.
"Hey," Nathan answered, and that suddenly gave the morning a disconcerting, post-coital feel. Not that Peter would know. Whatever he may have gotten up to, Nathan was guessing he hadn't yet spent a night with a lover.
For a moment, they just watched each other. Peter seemed to be taking him in, cataloguing him, with an intensity that was strange, particularly when Peter's gaze dropped to Nathan's chest, then swept back up along his bicep, lingering for a moment on his squadron tattoo.
"So are you going to let me help you take a shower today?" Peter asked. "Because I'm leaving if you plan on stinking up the place."
Nathan still wasn't thrilled about thinking about Peter and showers. "Later, Pete, ok?"
Peter was getting into it, though. "What's your issue, anyway? I mean, if you'd tell me--"
"Not now, ok? Can we not do this now?"
Peter gave in. "Yeah, ok."
For a moment, they both just lay there, side-by-side on their backs, listening to the morning birds and watching the light play on the ceiling. Then, abruptly needing to get out of the house, Nathan said, "Hey, let's go into town. Get some breakfast somewhere."
"Well, if you're sure you're willing to put up with my terrifying amateur learner's-permit driving skills this early in the morning."
"Hey, I've done a barrelroll at 35,000 feet. Your driving's got nothing on that, kid."
"That's not what Mom says."
***
He finally gave in after breakfast. His hair felt oily and his armpits stank and he just couldn't deal with that.
Peter wore his swim trunks for this operation--lucky bastard--but of course, Nathan was naked. And now, Peter was on his knees, rubbing soap between Nathan's toes.
"Y'know," Peter said, "If this," he jerked his chin in the direction of Nathan's groin, "Is what you're freaking out about, you really don't need to. I mean, I've seen an erection before. I do have a penis. And am a teenaged male."
Nathan cringed. "The less we discuss your penis--or mine, for that matter--the better."
"Okay," Peter said, agreeably. "Maybe we should talk about your foot fetish instead." He punctuated this by digging his thumbs into the taut muscle along the bottom of Nathan's foot, making Nathan grunt involuntarily.
"Not funny, Pete. Seriously. Inappropriate."
Peter just smiled up at him beatifically as he ran his soapy hands up Nathan's calf to the crook of his knee, then rinsed the soap away with the hand-held showerhead and stood.
"All right. Holler when you're ready to get back out." He grinned and practically sashayed out of the room, grabbing a towel from the rack as he went.
He's fifteen. He doesn't know what he's doing, Nathan thought, as he brought himself off quickly with a soapy hand, resolutely thinking about the hot waitress from the cafe.
***
They'd picked up a few videos while they were in town, so that evening they settled down in the media room. Peter poked and prodded the various electronics until finally they had both video and sound, and were actually seeing the movie rather than the evening news.
"What is this about, anyway?" Nathan asked as the previews started and Peter dropped onto the couch beside him.
"Uh," Peter said, snuggling up to Nathan's side as though Nathan were a convenient pillow. "Explosions?"
"Surely it's at least got a pretense of a plot," Nathan said. For a moment, he wasn't sure about Peter's proximity, then he remembered that, hell, Peter had been a cuddler since the day he was born. With a mental shurg, he pulled his arm out from behind Peter's back and settled it around his shoulders.
"Ah-nold Schwarzenneger running around a lot," Peter said. "I think there's something about his daughter? She's hot, actually."
"I thought you'd seen this movie already?"
"Uh, well. I did. But I was kinda making out for most of it."
"Ooooooh," Nathan said, mostly amused, though a part of him tensed. "I see. You got your girlfriend to go to a Schwarzenneger flick for a date?"
Peter shrugged. "Uh. Well, I'm pretty sure we both knew we were going to be making out for most of it."
"You two still together?"
"Nah, it was just a summer thing. We go to different schools. You know how it goes."
"You dating anyone now?"
Peter crossed his arms over his chest and snuggled deeper into Nathan and the couch. "No," he said, suddenly sullen. Nathan realized he may have just stumbled across a landmine.
But, before he could change the subject, Peter was off, "She broke up with me for the summer because her family's going on a big cruise and staying down in Bermuda."
Nathan started to say something about how typical that was for teenaged romances, but Peter cut him off before he could speak, "I'm totally in love with her! And she just dumped me like I don't even matter."
"Aw, Pete. You're young--"
"Don't, ok? I already got the 'you're too young to be in love' speech from Mom, and the 'high school romances never last' speech, too."
"Ah. I was just going to give you the 'there's plenty more fish in the sea' speech. And maybe the 'she probably didn't deserve you, anyway' speech."
Peter thunked the coffee table with his foot. "I don't want other fish. It's not the same. She's her. No one else is her."
Nathan ruffled Peter's hair.
"We'd been dating since October. Do you know how long that is? That's, like, eight months. That's forever in high school."
For a moment, he seemed to be done, and the movie was starting, so that worked out. But, a few minutes in, he quietly said, "We even, y'know... did it. Oh, man, don't tell Mom. But, anyway, then, like--" He snapped his fingers. "--that, she dumps me a week later." He twisted his head back to look at Nathan--who was still trying to process the fact that his fifteen-year-old brother had had sex--and said, worriedly, "D'you think I was, like, that bad?"
"No," Nathan said, quickly. "I'm sure that wasn't it." He tried to gather his thoughts. "Sex is... a weird thing, Peter. Powerful thing. Sometimes it's just... not what we were expecting it to be. She might just need time to think it over."
"Yeah," Peter said in a small voice. "Yeah. It was... It was different. And... I dunno. Awkward? Kinda?"
What did I say about discussing penises? Nathan thought helplessly.
Peter sighed an utterly lovelorn sigh, but fortunately, he did not press the issue, just turned his attention back to the movie.
***
That night, he kept thinking about it. What are you supposed to say to that kind of thing? Should he have asked if they used a condom? Given a Peter a lecture about waiting 'til he was older? About the potential consequences? God knew, Nathan knew about those all too well, but Peter had never known about that. And what would he say, anyway? "Don't have sex, Peter, you might end up with a daughter who dies two years later and leaves you with a strange hole in your soul for the rest of your life?" Would it make a difference, anyway? And did it even matter? Teenagers had sex all the time and most of them survived it undamaged, so it wasn't like it was really all that bad, he just felt like he had some older, wiser brother obligation to discourage it. But it wasn't like he would have listened to anyone, himself.
He wasn't getting to sleep, so he hauled himself from his bed to his wheelchair--a manuever he was getting fairly talented at--and went out on the deck.
The full moon had just risen over the horizon, spreading a path of cool, white light across the dark ocean. Out at sea he could see the slowly blinking lights of passing tankers and barges.
The waves rolled up on the beach, steady and constant. Somewhere out there a war was going on. His squadron was flying without him. Dagger and Crazy Jay and Flattop were missing a teammate. He wondered who'd replaced him. He hoped not Cheetah. That guy was a fuck-up.
He shut his eyes and he could almost feel his jet rumbling around him. The G-force of a turn at Mach 3. Pulling back the throttle and diving up, into the sky, with heavy, swimming-pool-clear blue all around him, nothing to ground him but the force of acceleration pressing down on his chest, as though gravity had lost track of him and he had shaken off the laws of physics entirely. Sometimes he felt like his jet was a part of him, and he was simply flying.
And now he opened his eyes, grounded on the deck in a wheelchair. Never again. He'd never sit in a pilot seat again.
He could, he knew. Commercial aviation, perhaps, or a helicoptor for a news station. But he was kidding himself. It was over. Whatever chance he'd had for a life of his own, a life he chose, had shattered along with his leg bones.
Perhaps it had even before that, when he'd buried his daughter.
Either way, it was gone. Ma had been talking law school the almost as soon as he'd arrived back in the States, and she was right. It was his destiny, for lack of a less dramatic term. He'd known since he was a kid that he would follow in his father's footsteps. He'd wanted it. The Navy had been nothing but a means to an end, a stepping stone on the way to something else, something greater. Law school, law firm, politics.
But out there, up there, for a time, it had been enough. It had been his life. His life.
No sense in thinking about it. It's one of those things, he told himself. The world seems to be ending, but it's nothing but the path opening up to something different, something better. He'd lost his way, become distracted, and now he could focus again, on what he'd planned, what he'd wanted for as long as he could remember wanting anything.
He turned himself around and went back inside, navigating through the quiet, dark house back to the hallway where his bedroom faced Peter's on the opposite side. Peter's door was open and Nathan paused outside it, looking in until his eyes adjusted to the curtain-filtered moonlight. He could just barely make out the shape of Peter under the sheets, on his back again with his cheek resting on the bicep of his arm, flopped over the top of his head. His chest rose and fell with the quiet rhythm of sleep.
Something twisted inside Nathan. He wanted to go to the side of Peter's bed, reach out and stroke back that long, wild hair. Touch him and feel the warmth of his skin, the softness of his relaxed muscles, smell his hair, kiss his forehead. The instinct was strong, as though some part of him doubted Peter was real, or feared he wasn't alive. Love--fierce and strong as rage--squeezed his chest and the urge grew stronger. He wanted to go in there, hold Peter in his arms, in his lap, and warn him of the dangers, keep him off the path he himself had tread. Tell him to be free, to do what he loved, to cling to those he needed.
He lifted his hand and rested it against the doorjamb instead, and whispered, "Love you, Peter. I love you so much."
Then he returned to his own bed, where he would lie awake in the dark for hours. In the morning, Peter would tease him for the dark circles under his eyes, and he would snap at him and regret it. By that evening, they'd be friends again, and all of this late-night angst would be forgotten, and he'd get some rest.
***
That weekend, their parents were coming up. They'd be arriving in time for dinner on Friday, so Nathan and Peter had ventured miles to the nearest speciality grocery store to pick up something that would make an impressive-enough meal, without requiring any ability to actually cook, which neither of them actually possessed.
"How can you not know how to cook, anyway?" Peter asked as they left the kitchen, having set the timer on the oven for the pre-prepped leg of lamb.
"The military fed me," Nathan said with a shrug. They reached the couch and Peter hooked an arm under his, easily helping him switch over from the wheelchair.
He flopped down next to him and turned on the TV. "Shit. And here I was, thinking you were all independant and stuff."
"You don't join the military to gain indepence," Nathan said. "Ugh. Not this channel," he added.
"Yeah, but at least you had your own life and everything. What do you want to watch, anyway?"
"Not MTV. Or golf."
"No golf? Oh man, you're breaking my heart," Peter said, drolly, flipping through the channels so rapidly Nathan had to look away from the TV.
"I've never had my own life," Nathan said. He didn't mean it to sound as self-pitying as it did.
The television stopped on a movie channel. "Sure you did," Peter said.
On screen, Sigourney Weaver was panting and sweaty, gripping a gun and hiding from something slimey. Peter's shoulder was pressed to Nathan's. It was like the kid had no concept of personal space at all. Nathan found himself not minding.
"You were out in the world, doing stuff," Peter said. "Me I'm... I just sit at home, go to school. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself."
"You're fifteen, Pete. You're not supposed to know yet. I knew what I was going to do with myself since I was--god--three? It's a good thing. Keep your options open."
He glanced at Peter who looked at him curiously. "What are you going to do with yourself?"
Nathan shrugged. "Law school. Politics."
"Politics?" Peter said, then the alien burst out of nowhere and for a moment they were both too enthralled by the action sequence to speak. After the scene changed, Peter continued, "Didn't know you were into that."
"Yeah," Nathan said. "I'd like to--do something. For the world. If I can."
Peter didn't respond right away, so Nathan looked over at him, finding him looking back.
"What?" Nathan said, self-conscious under Peter's wide-eyed gaze.
"Nothing. That's cool, is all."
Nathan ducked his head, embarassed to be blushing a bit at the awe in Peter's voice. "I guess. It just seems like the thing to do. Not such a big deal."
"Maybe you'll be President," Peter said.
"Nah," Nathan said, even though his insides shuddered with something almost like lust at the idea. "Probably not. Maybe Congress," he said, trying to sound dismissive.
"I'd vote for you," Peter said.
Nathan smiled and slung his arm around Peter's shoulders. He tugged him close, enjoying the simple intimacy. "You'd better," he said.
***
Ma handed Nathan a giant, paper-backed book the moment she stepped through the door. LSAT prep. He stared down at the glossy cover boasting of examples and practice tests as Ma said, "I registered you for the test on July 10th. It's at a local high school. The information is in the envelope in the book. I'm sorry it's such short notice, but if you want to get your applications in for next year that's as late as you can do it."
"Geeze," Peter said, from over his shoulder. "That's a hell of a book."
"Thanks, Ma," Nathan said, even as he couldn't quite stop staring glumly at the book. So much for relaxation and rejuvenation. Fuck, it had been a long time since he'd been in college. Ask me anything about an F-18, he thought, just don't ask me about habeus corpus.
He tamped down his sigh and accepted Ma's kiss on the cheek. "You look well," she said.
"I feel good," he said, then glanced over his shoulder. "Pete's been taking good care of me. Where's Pop?"
"I'm afraid he wasn't able to make it. Something came up at the firm."
Nathan was well-versed in hiding his disappointment over that kind of thing. Peter, however, was less subtle.
"What?" Peter said, as he turned them around and started for the kitchen. "Oh, come on. Some dumb lawyer thing is more important than the wounded war hero? That's the most idiotic--"
"That's enough, Peter," Ma said, sharply.
Peter was sullenly silent the rest of the way to the dining room. He tucked Nathan into his place at the table and said, without enthusiasm, "We've got appetizers, lemme go get 'em. The lamb should be done in maybe ten minutes." Then he stalked out of the room.
Ma sighed. "You were such a respectful young man," she said.
"I was such a military-schooled young man," Nathan said, neutrally. He was oddly, secretly pleased by Peter's sulky attitude. In part perhaps because it was on his behalf, and in part because up until now, Peter hadn't been behaving that way at all.
Ma sniffed. "Can you imagine Peter at a military school?"
"God, no," Nathan said. That was an awful thought. There'd be nothing left of Peter after that.
"Sometimes I just don't know what to do with him," she said.
"He's a great kid, Ma. He's just a teenager. He's fine the way he is."
The kid in question returned to the dining room at that point, carrying the tray of warmed-up hors d'oerves, still a walking thundercloud of teenaged resentment. Nathan was caught somewhere between a part of him that wanted to tell Peter to shape up and behave himself, and a part of him that just wanted to cheer him on.
He settled for saying, "Really, Pete. It's fine."
Peter shrugged and sat down in the chair beside him, letting Nathan be a buffer between him and Ma.
"It's just that he goes on and on about respect and then he does something like this and he doesn't even bother to call or anything. It's so hypocritical."
"He works hard," Nathan said, before Ma had a chance to say anything. "And he cares for his family the best he knows how."
Peter didn't comment. He glumly ate a potato puff.
Ma apparently decided to ignore him. "I've sent in information requests to a few schools, using this address, so you should start receiving application packets soon. Most of the deadlines are around October and November. Have you given any thought to where you might want to go?"
"Yale's where Pop went," Nathan said, though in truth, he hadn't exactly given the subject any thought at all. He'd rather been enjoying not thinking lately. "So, I'd have the legacy in my favor."
That seemed to be the right answer, because Ma just hummed agreeably in response.
They chatted for awhile about the pros and cons of the various Ivy Leagues, while Peter listened mostly silently, until the timer rang announcing that the lamb was ready. Peter slipped off and returned with it and then the baked asparagus and potatoes au gratin on a second trip, setting it all on the table next to the bread basket.
Ma pronounced it all edible, though not impressive, which, all in all had been what they'd been going for, and they finished the meal relatively companionably.
***
Later, they'd all settled on the deck. Peter was sulking over them refusing to allow him a glass of wine. Nathan and Ma were discussing his father's current case.
"Ultimately," Ma said, "It all boils down to Michelson being a complete fool. He hardly even broke the law, he simply managed to muck things up enough that the auditors couldn't have missed the embezzelment if they'd tried. And then he went and made matters worse by trying to bribe a Mormon.
"I've been telling your father for years he just needs to drop him as a client and move on, but I think he's begun to see him as a challenge, and god knows it's hopeless once your father decides something's become a matter of honor."
"What's he going to do?" Nathan said, sipping at his wine and watching Peter, who was leaning against the railing, looking out at the dark ocean.
"At the moment, he's hoping he can convince the jury it was all a misunderstanding. If that doesn't look like it's working, they'll have to try for an out-of-court settlement. The company seems to be willing to go for that, at least. They seem to just want to get their money back and move on."
Unexpectedly, Peter spoke up, without turning from the view. "He broke the law. He should go to jail," he said.
Then, while Nathan and Ma were still thrown by the sudden pronouncement, Peter turned around, leaning back against the railing. "Helping a criminal get away with a crime? That's usually called being an accessory. Except when it's called being a lawyer. Then it's ok, for some reason."
"Peter, you are oversimplifying," Ma said.
Peter was looking right at Nathan, not at Ma, when he said, "It is simple. It's right and wrong. Option 1 or Option 2. Just because some guy found a loophole in some legal language doesn't mean there's really an Option 1a or 1b. It's just semantics."
"The law is a subtle and maleable thing. It's made that way," Ma said.
Peter focused on her again, and Nathan felt himself relax a bit, no longer under that intense, judgemental scrutinity. "Not intentionally. That's just an artifact of the imprecise nature of language."
Nathan blinked at that. "What have you been reading, Peter?" He didn't mean it to sound so degrading, he was actually curious, but the question came out all wrong.
Peter's head snapped back around and his eyes flashed with anger. "Et tu, Brute?" he said, then stormed inside.
"That was Julius Ceaser," Nathan called after him, bewildered almost to the point of amusement. The door slammed in response.
Nathan looked over to Ma, who was looking at him. She shrugged. "Sometimes I'm not entirely sure he's related to us at all."
Nathan couldn't see a way to disagree with her at the moment.
***
Peter helped him through his nightly routine in tense silence. Once Nathan was in bed, he simply turned to leave. Nathan caught his wrist.
"Pete. Hey, Pete, wait."
Peter shook his hand off. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.
He walked out without another word, and spent most of the rest of the weekend out on the beach or hanging around with Marco, badgering him to take him out for driving practice.
Consequently, Nathan spent the weekend with Ma, making awkward small talk, mostly.
Even after Ma left, Peter remained evasive, which wasn't so bad, because Nathan had to start going through the damn LSAT book, anyway.
***
Nathan looked up from his practice test as the back door opened with its usual rattle, admitting Peter and three other teenagers: a couple with their arms wrapped around each other and a younger boy with hair that looked just like Peter's only blond. The teenagers followed Peter's gesture to the sitting room and Peter went to the table, leaning on the chair beside Nathan's and saying, "Hey, Nathan, sorry, the party was getting crazy so we wanted to cut out before the police showed up. Hope you don't mind."
Even a foot away he reeked of cigarettes and beer.
Nathan leaned back so he could see around Peter into the sitting room. The couple was already making out on the couch and the single boy was rifling through the magazine basket. "Who are they?"
Peter shrugged, turning around and leaning his hip on the table, now only inches from Nathan, his knee brushing Nathan's hip. "Just some guys I met. They're up here for the next couple weeks, just down the beach."
Nathan sighed, and said, "You're not drinking here, Pete. I don't like that you're doing it at all, but you're sure as hell not doing it here on my watch."
"Whatever," Peter said with a wave. "Who says I was drinking anyway? Some guy spilled his beer on my shirt."
"Just make sure they know that, too," Nathan said. "If you get caught, it's my ass on the line more than it is yours."
Peter suddenly thunked the point of his index finger down in the center of the open page. "This... is already turning you into a loser, Nathan. Just so you know."
Nathan batted his hand away. "Go, I'm timing myself. And try to keep it quiet."
Peter flounced away. Nathan heard him flop on the couch and say, "Sorry guys, told you my brother was a drag."
Nathan frowned down at his test. I'm a drag? So much for being the cool older brother.
Peter's teenaged attitude was becoming much less cute.
***
The newly-formed foursome seemed to spend most of the next week either out on the beach, off at some party (Nathan knew his mother would kill him if she knew he kept letting Peter go), or at the Petrelli beach house. Mostly, they rolled into the beach house during the hot part of the afternoon and at random times in the evening when the beach party scene failed to live up to their expectations.
Right now, they were sprawled all over the sitting room like Dali's melting watches while Peter and the older boy beat the shit out of each other in Mortal Kombat as the girl and the younger boy egged them on.
The thumps of fists on virtual flesh booming from the sound system and the shouts of passionate victory or agonized defeat were not exactly the most effective study soundtrack, but by now, Nathan was getting so sick of LSAT prep, he was basically grateful for the distraction.
"Oh, yeah," Peter roared, suddenly, as his character did something obscenely violent to the other character. "I totally kicked your ass!"
He bit back the disapproving comment on the tip of his tongue.
"You got lucky!" Older Boy (whose name may have been Terry), said. "Play again!"
"Aw, man," Younger Boy (Zeke? Was that even a name?) put in, "You said, loser this round gives the controller to me, come on!"
"Yeah, you did, Ter," the girl said, from the couch.
"Ah, fuck it," Terry said, tossing the controller in the direction of Maybe-Zeke.
"Oh, yeah," Zeke said. "It's on, Pete."
Only I call him 'Pete,' Nathan thought, then quickly thought, Oh for god's sake.
"You're doomed, Z," Peter informed him, as they navigated through the game menus.
"Oh, man," Zeke said, "I'm gonna beat your ass so hard you won't be able to sit down."
"Like beating is what you wanna do to his ass," commented Terry from the couch, where he'd curled up with the girl.
"Shut up," Zeke snapped. "Jerkface."
"Faggot," Terry replied.
Before he could stop himself, Nathan snapped, "Hey! Not in my house."
He suddenly found himself with four pairs of eyes fixed on him. Peter looked surprised, then suddenly smiled, turned to Terry, and lobbed his empty soda can at him. "Yeah, asshole," he said, and that drew all their attention around to Terry.
Terry rolled his eyes and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever. Only sayin' it 'cause it's true."
Zeke flipped Terry off without comment and he and Peter turned back to the screen and resumed pummeling each other. Terry slumped on the couch with a look of teenaged resentment Nathan was coming to know all too well.
Nathan turned back to his studies with a sigh.
***
The next night, Nathan put aside his book as the teens began debating dinner and said, "How about we all go out? My treat, save you guys some pocket money?"
After the expected dubious looks, the kids had given in to the lure of free food.
"So," Nathan said, after they were all seated around a table at one of the better seafood joints on the island, "Let me see if I've got this right. You," he said, "are Terry. This is your lovely girlfriend, Mona, and that's her brother, Zeke. Am I right?"
"Were you listening to us?" Peter said, looking vaguely horrified.
Nathan raised his brows. "Only when you were yelling loud enough that I couldn't help it. I have no interest in teenaged drama, I had enough of that when I was one."
"Yeah, that's us," Mona said. She was a quiet girl, and he wasn't sure what she was getting out of hanging out with this bunch of rambunctious boys.
"Where are you from?"
"Queens," she said. The two boys were still eyeing him like he was about to reveal that he was the secret police, or possibly an agent for their parents. "We're staying at me and Zeke's parents' timeshare thing, just 'til next Sunday."
"Alone?" he said.
"Yeah. Well, they come up on the weekends."
At the other side of the table, Zeke and Peter had ducked their heads together and were discussing something in low tones. Nathan picked up the words 'Enterprise' and 'Picard,' and carefully concealed his amusement that they were discussing Star Trek like they might a drug deal. Terry was looking faux-casually around the restaurant as if he'd been caught out in public with his parents.
"So," Mona said, "When d'you get this thing off, anyway?"
"Two days!" he said, with genuine glee. "Thank god."
"Doesn't it, y'know, hurt?" she asked, with a grimace.
"Not really, actually. My leg used to, but they had me on some massive dose of Vicodin, so I didn't really notice. This, uh, thing just looks nasty."
"That's good," she said.
You're a nice kid, he thought. You deserve better than that jackass.
The waiter arrived, and they all ordered in a dignified-enough manner, and once she was gone, Zeke and Peter resumed their murmuring and Mona said, "Our dad was in the military," she said. "Air Force."
"That's great," he said, biting off the almost-instinctive insults any mention of another branch provoked. "Pilot?"
"Yeah. Some kind of jets. I don't really know. It was a long time ago, I was really little. Peter said you were a pilot, too?"
His stomach tightened at the past tense, but just said, "Yeah. I flew an F/A-18. Navy."
"Did you get shot down?" Terry asked, suddenly speaking.
"Ter!" Mona said.
"Uh, no," Nathan said. "A gas line burst while I was landing. Tipped the jet, my wing hit the deck and that was it." Suddenly, the table was very quiet. "I got lucky, actually. My wheel strut caught on the tow cable. It stopped me just short of sliding off the deck into the ocean. That would have... Well, it wouldn't have been good," he wrapped up, awkwardly.
"Jesus," Peter said, suddenly. "I didn't know about that."
Nathan shrugged, looking anywhere but at him. "Not a big deal. It all worked out."
"Wow," Mona said, finally, after a lingering silence. "You're really brave."
He shrugged again, "Just doing my job," he said. "So, how about you guys? Any thoughts on what you're going to do when you, uh, grow up or whatever?"
God, spend too long around teenagers and you start talking like them, he thought.
Mona shrugged, now. "Oh, I dunno." She took hold of Terry's arm and said, "Terry wants to be an astronaut."
"Oh, really?" Nathan said, politely, even as he thought, Not a chance in hell, kid. "Are you thinking of going to one of the service academies?"
"Yeah, maybe," Terry said, diffidently.
You don't get into the Naval Academy with a 'Yeah, maybe,' idiot.
"Got a sponsor yet?"
Terry suddenly looked interested. "Not yet."
Nathan sniffed. "That was just a question, not an offer."
"Oh. Did you go?"
"Naval Academy," he said. "Graduated with honors."
"Who was yours?"
"The headmaster of the New York Military Academy."
"Huh," Terry said. "Guess he sponsers a lot of guys, considering."
"Just one a year, actually," Nathan said, and took a sip of his wine. He saw Peter biting his lip, holding back a grin out of the corner of his eye.
"Oh," Terry said. "So, can it be, like, your guidance counselor or something?"
"If they're military. It probably wouldn't look very good, though. It's usually best to try and get an internship somewhere, get someone impressive. Of course, it can take years to get the attention of someone like that."
"Whatever," Terry said. "I don't care so much, anyway. I might be an architech instead."
***
A couple of nights later, Nathan finally had the fixator off. It had been replaced with a leg brace, a pair of crutches, and a packet of information on exercises to do to build up his strength again. Peter and the Trio of Don't-They-Have-Their-Own-House had apparently settled in to stay for the night, stocked up on soda and potato chips and rented video games, so Nathan enjoyed his first private shower in weeks and then went to bed.
When he woke, it was still dark. He turned his head and the clock said it was just after three a.m. A light was still on out in the hall, and the ocean was roaring as the tide came in.
Nathan got up, hobbled to his crutches and then swung his way out into the hallway. He flicked off the hallway light and continued on out to the deck.
The lights in the pool were on, glowing and wavering, blue under the water. Nathan set aside his cruches and leaned against the railing as a wave rumbled up onto the beach. He tilted his head back, looking up at the stars, breathing in the cooler night air, the smell of salt and sand.
Then he looked down and his eyes caught a bit of movement. He looked closer and saw someone in one of the pool chair. No, he realized. Two someones. Peter was the one with his back to him, and there an arm wrapped around his back.
He started to grin as he thought maybe Mona had decided to move on to greener pastures, but then the other person rolled Peter over and Nathan blinked in surprise.
Blond, skinny, and male--Zeke.
Oh, Peter, he thought, his heart sinking, No.
Cocksucker, faggot, cornholer, every dark word he'd ever heard from his classmates and squadmates crashed down on him again, and now it wasn't Thomas he saw, but Peter. "If a fag ever came onto me," Cheetah had said once, loudly and drunkly and cheerfully, to the roaring approval of the rest of the unit, "I'd cut off his boy-loving dick and shove it down his throat. Except, wait... he'd probably like it."
Nathan felt his jaw creak he had it clenched so hard. Both of the boys were in their swimsuits, and Peter's arm was vanishing under the waistband of Zeke's, moving in an unmistakable way, and Zeke was returing the favor.
Then Peter whispered something in Zeke's ear, and they parted. Peter was sitting up, in the way, but Nathan saw Zeke's dark swimsuit hit the ground, and then Peter hopped up to grab the cushion from the next chair, leaving Zeke briefly alone and naked.
Nathan averted his eyes, thinking, Christ. Don't watch, you sick fuck.
But he didn't go in. He found himself looking back again, as Peter laid the cushion on the concrete at the foot of the chair and knelt on it. Nathan couldn't tear his eyes away as Zeke scooted down to the end of the chair, planting his feet on either side of Peter, and Peter settled his hands in the hallows of Zeke's hips. The two boys were looking at each other, saying something quietly. Zeke had himself propped up on his elbows, looking down at Peter.
Then Peter shut his eyes, took Zeke's cock in one hand, pulling it up from Zeke's stomach and inclining towards himself, and bent his head down. He took the head in his mouth, and Nathan felt like someone had plucked a chord in his gut. His teeth ached and he could feel himself breathing, each breath rushing from his nose down his throat to his lungs and back.
He wanted to go down there and rip them away from each other, scream his lungs out at Zeke, drag Peter back inside where he belonged. Peter who was licking up the other boy's cock like a fucking ice cream cone, like he liked it. Nathan's fingers hurt and he realized he was gripping the railing.
Peter was sucking now, experimentally sort of. In a lull in the waves, Nathan heard Zeke make some sound, but he wasn't looking at Zeke. He was looking at Peter, kneeling there, eyes shut, expression downright blissful.
So this is why you lost interest in me, huh, Pete? Found yourself a boyfriend. More fun than a brother. I'm old news already, huh?
Peter suddenly pushed his mouth down, all the way to the base of Zeke's cock, and Nathan felt a jolt of unmistakable lust, burning in concert with the anger. A moment later, Peter fell back, half-choking, half-laughing, and Nathan heard him say, "Ok, that didn't quite work."
Zeke kicked his shoulder lightly with a bare foot. "Dork," he said.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Nathan thought. He could feel himself trembling from tension as Peter returned to his place between Zeke's knees and set to it again with the resiliance of a kid getting back on a bike.
He watched in something like a trance, feeling one step removed from reality. It could have been a dream. A very lucid dream. Eventually, Zeke pushed Peter away, grabbed his own cock and finished himself off with Peter still kneeling there, watching. Peter's bangs were falling over his eyes and he was apparently too entraced to even brush them back, and Nathan wished he could see his face better. Closer. See his lips, red and swollen, his eyes dark and half-shut with desire. Nathan was staring down with such intensity he wasn't even sure he'd blinked for minutes on end.
Zeke sat up, said something, and Peter scrambled to his feet as Zeke slid off the chair onto the cushion. Nathan felt something loosen, and let go of the railing for a moment, feeling the blood rush back into his knuckles with a burning tingle. He could go in. The boys were talking, Zeke sitting crosslegged on the cushion, Peter standing over him, his back to Nathan.
Nathan swallowed hard even though his mouth was dry, and then settled his hands on the railing again, leaning his weight forward to take some of it off his good leg which was burning now from the prolonged effort of being his sole support. I'm going to hell for a lot of reasons, he thought. What's one more?
Peter pushed off his swimsuit, stepping out of it, and the rippling blue light played all along his side. Nathan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them as Peter straddled the chair and sat, tilting his cock down to Zeke's lips. Peter leaned back a bit, planting his hands behind himself to hold him up as Zeke took over. Nathan still felt one step outside himself, completely numb but for the heat of arousal, which was almost painfully intense, outweighing even the pain in his leg, in his knuckles, in his jaw.
Should have known you'd be a slut, Pete. Always whoring for attention any way you knew how.
Peter was noisy. His grunts and groans drifted up to the deck in the quiet between waves.
Nathan had never been so hard without touching himself before. It was painful, urgent, needing, but good. Every time he shifted, trying to ease the pain in his leg, his boxers brushed his erection and it felt like the most intense sex he'd ever had.
Peter had his head hanging back, mouth open, eyes shut. His hands had curled into fists agianst the chair cushion, and his hips were twitching now and then, restless, needfully. Zeke was nothing but a blur, inconsequential.
"Oh, god, I'm gonna--"
Then he was holding himself, pumping himself frantically, saying, "Yeah, yeah, oh my god, yeah," and then coming, twisting and shoving up into his own hand like he'd been shocked by a high voltage power line.
Oh, Peter. Peter. Beautiful Peter. Always.
Nathan staggered back from the railing, just biting back a cry of pain as he thoughtlessly brought his full weight down on his injured leg. He nearly fell, but caught himself on the railing in time. Down below, Zeke had crawled back up into the chair and Peter was kissing him again, with his hands buried in Zeke's blonde hair. Nathan grabbed his crutches, his fingers feeling weak on the crossbars as he got them settled under his arm. Every jolting step jarred his hypersensitive cock and he groaned each time, until finally he was back in his room, back in his bed, with the door shut behind him. He shoved his hand into his boxers and it only took three rough strokes for him to come. It didn't even feel good. It hurt, and his small, cut-off cry was more one of pain than pleasure.
He wrestled his boxers off and swiped himself clean with them then rolled heavily on his side. Sleep crashed down on him as though he'd been awake for years.
***
He woke up angry. His body still felt strange, like his skin was too tight. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep but it was useless. All he could feel was a formless horror, and the anger. He wasn't even sure what he was angry about, specifically.
Peter wasn't awake yet. Nathan didn't look into his room. He had a fairly good idea what he'd see.
His stomach was too unsettled for breakfast. He headed out of the house and drove into town. Standing in the contraceptives aisle of the local drugstore, he thought, Just let it go. Let it go.
When he got back, Peter and Zeke were sitting at the dining room table, eating cereal.
"Hey," Peter said, when Nathan came up next to his shoulder, not really looking up from the Comics. "It got late so Zeke stayed over."
Nathan slammed the box of condoms down on the table in front of him, and both Peter and Zeke jumped at the bang.
"You're supposed to use those," Nathan said, already grabbing the LSAT book off the table and tucking it under his arm. "And next time find somewhere more private than the fucking pool deck."
He hurried down the hall to Pop's office before Peter or Zeke could get a word out. He locked the door behind himself and turned up the sound system.
***
A few days later, Zeke was back in Queens and Nathan and Peter were alone in the house again. Nathan was studying at the dining room table again. Sitting at his father's desk creeped him out.
He flinched as his watch began to beep, signaling the end of the time for the section. He'd just been rechecking his answers, but he'd only gotten a third of the way through and already caught three mistakes. He pulled out the scoring guide and began to go through the whole practice test. By the time he was halfway through, he already had a good idea of the score he was looking at, and it wasn't what he wanted it to be. It wasn't what Yale would want it to be, either.
Two solid weeks of this, and all he'd accomplished was proving that he didn't remember half of the stuff he'd learned at the Academy.
He flipped through a few pages, watching the Latin phrases blurring together, then suddenly, violently, flung the book across the room. He heard it hit the wall in a flurry of pages and roared, "Fuck!"
Peter appeared a moment later, from where he'd been reading in his room. He skidded to a halt and stared at Nathan as though looking for the bleeding headwound. "Nathan?"
Nathan buried his face in his hands. "Sorry. Sorry, it's nothing."
"Uh huh. 'Nothing' makes you yell 'fuck' so loud the neighbors probably heard."
"Just go away, Peter."
Peter didn't. Instead he came around behind Nathan's chair and rested his hands on Nathan's shoulder. Warm hands, digging into his tense muscle. Nathan shuddered. "Peter."
"Why are you so pissed off?" Peter said. "No, why are you being such a jackass?"
Peter rocked forward a bit, bringing his body in line with Nathan's, pressing his weight down on Nathan's shoulders for a moment like a lover. Nathan shuddered again, feeling a tightening at the base of his cock. "Peter, just-- go home. You obviously don't want to be here--"
"Who said that?" Peter said, stepping back. Nathan felt his absense all down his back.
"You did," he said.
"I asked you why you were being a jackass, I didn't say I wanted to leave." He grabbed the chair next to Nathan's, turned its back to Nathan and straddled it backwards. "So, what's your problem?"
His eyes were wide and sincere and he was too fucking beautiful. Nathan looked away, feeling the knife in his chest twist.
"Look, I get it, Pete," he said. "It's ok. I was a novelty, I was interesting, now I'm just me, and you're bored. I don't blame you, ok?"
"What?" Peter snapped, sounding genuinely angry. "What makes you think-- I love you, Nathan. You're my brother. I've wanted to do this forever. Why on earth would you think--Look, is this about Zeke? Because that was just--"
"No!" Nathan cut him off, glaring at him. "This is about you. Ever since Ma showed up, you've been acting like I'm nothing but a thorn in your side, a... crimp in your style. What am I supposed to think?"
"You're one to talk. Mom showed up and you suddenly started treating me like a dumb kid."
I couldn't let her see. What I feel about you is private. It's you and me. It's not safe for her to know.
The thought caught him off-guard, because he'd never quite thought of it so directly. He hid it by looking over at Peter ruefully. "She's Ma. You know she does funny things to people's heads."
Peter managed to continue looking annoyed for about three seconds before he gave in and cracked a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, she does."
Nathan nodded knowingly. "Ok, so how about... I stop treating you like a stupid kid, and you stop acting like one."
"Ha ha," Peter said, then nodded. "Ok. It's a deal."
Nathan was still thinking about that, why it was such a secret. He said, "Sometimes, I think the more I wanted to see you, the more she kept you away from me."
Peter said, "She always told me you had more important things to do."
Nathan quirked a small smile. "Funny, she always said the same about you."
Peter just shook his head. "She's so weird." Then, switching tracks, he said, "So, really. Why are you so mad?"
Nathan looked across the room, where the LSAT book was still splayed against the wall. "I'm never going to get into Yale," he said, mournfully. And then chuckled, because it sounded so ridiculous outloud, so self-pitying.
"Nathan," Peter said, rolling his eyes. "You graduated fifth in your class from the Naval Academy. And you got straight A's in school. I don't think they're going to reject you because you scored a little low on a pointless test. Also--wounded war hero."
"Wounded war idiot," Nathan said, feeling the flare of self-hatred again. "I crashed my own jet, remember? My own sixteen-point-five million dollar property-of-the-US-Government jet. That's a lot of taxes."
"Purple Heart," Peter said.
Nathan sighed.
"You," Peter said, "Need to relax. Come on, you haven't seen Speed yet and I wanna watch it again. You'll like it. There's bombs."
***
Nathan settled on the couch in the sitting room as Peter unplugged the Nintendo and plugged the VCR back in and coaxed the TV into showing the video. Then Peter threw himself onto the couch. He wriggled around, getting closer and closer until he was tucked against Nathan's side again. Nathan could feel him breathing and it was a little too interesting. A little too much like having a girl tucked under his arm with her breast against his ribs and her hair tickling his neck. Peter's hair was brushing against his neck. "Pete--" he said.
"What? Are you too manly to snuggle now?"
"Don't you think you're a little old for this?"
"No," Peter said, simply. "I like it. Deal."
Nathan focused his eyes on the movie, but his attention was all on Peter. Warm, soft, solid Peter. If it had been a girl, right about now would be when he whispered something like, "You're so beautiful," while slipping his hand down to cup her breast to test the waters. He did move his hand, just slightly, down to Peter's elbow and back up to his shoulder. It felt almost the same inside, the same flutter, the same tension in his groin.
God help me, he thought.
Peter just rolled closer, resting his head in the crook of Nathan's neck, hot, curved pressure along Nathan's throat, solid skull under his chin, so warm, and Peter smelled so familiar and safe. Peter's back was no longer against the couch. Nathan's arm slipped down naturally, settling around Peter's hip, his fingers ending up curled just slightly around Peter's thigh.
"Mmm," Peter said as the previews rolled by onscreen.
His hand settled on the top of Nathan's thigh, just above his knee, like a hot iron on Nathan's nerves. The impulse jumped straight to his cock, bypassing his brain. Oh, fuck, Peter I want you. Want you closer. Now. My beautiful boy. Love you so much.
He stopped himself, told himself, No. No, this isn't love. This is evil, this has nothing to do with love.
Peter wasn't even watching the damn screen. His head was tucked under Nathan's chin now, tilted down, looking down, at his hand maybe. He can't be doing this on purpose, Nathan thought. It's not possible. He can't be as fucked up as me. Not Peter. God, not Peter. He's the good one.
"How much did you see?" Peter said, suddenly.
Nathan sucked in a breath, trying to drag himself back to reality, even though Peter's hand had shifted and ended up an inch or so further up his thigh.
"What?" Nathan said.
Peter sat back, letting blessedly cool air between them, but his hand stayed on Nathan's thigh, and Nathan's arm was still around his shoulder, and he looked drowsy and flushed. "Me and Zeke."
"Nothing," he said, immediately. "Basically nothing," he amended when he realized that lie wouldn't work. He forced humor into his voice even though he felt none. "I came, I saw, I went right back in the house."
'You saw, you came' is more like it, he thought.
Peter seemed to relax a bit.
"What about your girlfriend?" Nathan said, trying to switch to a safer subject.
Peter shrugged, and leaned against Nathan again, laying his cheek on Nathan's shoulder. "Me and Zeke were just messing around. Having fun."
"You need to be more careful," Nathan said, and this time, it was only concern that motivated the admonition.
"Yeah. Condoms. Gotcha. You made that point very emphatically."
They were both quiet for a moment. Nathan let himself pull Peter a little closer, grasped for the purer feelings, the closeness, the fondness even as his body still stirred at the contact.
"Nathan?" Peter said. His hand had moved up from Nathan's knee to his arm, and Peter began trailing his fingers down and up Nathan's bicep, sending a flurry of sensation up his spine. "Have you ever been with a guy?"
Nathan inhaled sharply at the question. "Uh," he said.
"Come on. Only fair," Peter said. His fingertips had drifted down to Nathan's upturned forearm, making invisible patterns on the thin, bare skin there.
Nathan couldn't quite think. The way it felt, Peter might as well have been touching his cock. For a moment, too long a moment, he didn't answer. Thomas. Then, finally, he said, "Just once. And no, I'm not giving you details."
"Did you like it, though?" Peter's hand had reached Nathan's, and he slid his palm flat across Nathan's palm, then folded their fingers together, watching himself as he did it.
"Peter..."
"Because," Peter said, breathing the words against Nathan's cheek, "I wanna suck you off so, so bad."
"Christ, Peter!" That broke the spell, freed him just enough to jolt away. His leg screamed in painful protest as he pushed off with it, and he couldn't stop his short cry of pain as he dropped back onto the couch a foot or so away.
Peter started towards him as he was scrabbling for his crutches. "Don't," he said. "Don't, Peter."
Peter stopped. "Wait, wait, ok? Just forget it. Forget it, I didn't mean it, it was stupid. Please, Nathan, please. Don't. Come on, please. We just got over this fighting thing. Please. I'm sorry."
Nathan slumped back onto the couch, pushing aside his crutches. "Jesus, Peter. You can't--You can't just say things like that. You--Why on Earth would you say that?"
"Because it's true," Peter said, looking only at the TV, sitting with his back flat to the couch, tense and self-contained and nothing like the young man that had been half-melted in his lap only moments ago. "Sorry. I'm fucked up. I thought maybe... I dunno. I was wrong, ok? I get it. Can we just watch the movie?"
You weren't wrong, Nathan thought, as his eyes lingered for a moment on Peter's soft, pink lips. He shivered as Peter's tongue poked out for a second to wet them. That's the problem.
***
The next day, they went down the boardwalk over the dunes to the beach, the first time Nathan had ventured out to the sand since arriving at the beachhouse. Peter walked beside him, at a slow pace to match Nathan's swinging, crutch-assisted gait. The wood thunked beneath them and the ocean hissed, and gulls squawked, but between them it was silent. Peter hadn't said much last night. They'd finished Speed and then Peter had dug out their old Star Wars tapes buried in the back of the tape cabinet and put in Episode Four. After the credits rolled, he'd quietly gone to bed. This morning, he was still withdrawn.
The sun was hot on Nathan's bare shoulders. It felt good after so long in the dry air conditioning, even with the suffocating humidity. They reached the end of the boardwalk and Nathan leaned his crutches on the rail. Peter silently stepped closer, offering his shoulders. Nathan didn't let himself hesitate to take the offer. He layed his arm along Peter's back as Peter curled his around Nathan's waist, cinching them together for stability. Peter's skin was hot from the sun and tacky with sunscreen, which made their bare sides catch and stick, rhythmically joining and unjoining like fucking as they hobbled together down the stairs and onto the sand. Nathan felt Peters hand curl and loosen against his side when their hips collided and they momentarily lost their balance. He had to suck in a steadying breath to hide the jolt of lust. They made it out to about halfway down the sloping sand. Peter slung the fold-up chair off his shoulder and set it up and Nathan sat, all in silence.
"I'm gonna--" Peter said, inclining his head toward the ocean.
"Yeah, go on," Nathan said.
He trotted away, drenched in morning sunlight.
God, he's beautiful, Nathan thought. He lowered his sunglasses over his eyes, as though the polarization could block out those thoughts, and leaned back to soak in the sunlight and the sounds of the beach. There was the smallest of breezes, just enough to ruffle the hair at his temples and on his arms, raising goosebumps, and suddenly he was remembering Peter's fingers on the soft skin beneath his wrist.
His eyes flew open. Fuck. This can't go on. This cannot keep happening. This is disgusting. What the hell is wrong with me?
Without realizing what he was doing, his eyes had sought out Peter, who was standing at the tideline with a thick rush of foam swirling around his feet. The wave drew back and Peter staggered on the shifting sand, and Nathan could see him laughing, his whole body transformed by it, loose and bright with glee, and it wasn't lust he felt then. Just love. Adoration. Deep, true joy at seeing him smile. Sometimes he would get one of Peter's letters, full of that teenaged pain that was so typical, and yet still so real, and he would be terrified for him. Sometimes all he wanted was to cross the ocean and pull him into his arms, hold him, and keep the world away. He knew that was ridiculous, but that had been what he'd craved.
He still wanted to hold him. See him smile. I could make you feel so good, he thought, as he watched Peter chase the next wave out into the ocean and fling himself into the next surge, vanishing for a moment in the roaring wave. Irrationally, his heart stuttered with terror for a moment before Peter popped up, wet and shining, throwing his drenched bangs back off his forehead. Nathan let out the breath he'd held.
It's not going to go away, he thought. I've loved him forever. Peter dove and swam out deeper. Accepting that doesn't mean I'm going to act on it.
***
He shut and locked his door that night and laid down on top of the covers before he'd even showered. He pushed his jeans down just to mid-thigh and grabbed the bottle of hand lotion on his nightstand, flipping it over one handed to get a dollop in his palm as he reached down with his other hand, cupping his half-hard cock and pressing it with the heel of his palm, sighing at feeling. "Yeah," he muttered, softly, his mind still flittering with mundane thoughts of the LSAT and groceries. He rubbed his cock, pressed between his palm and his belly, feeling it swell harder and hotter and grow under his hand. He dipped his hand down, letting his fingertips brush across his balls, and gasped softly as the sparks shattered up his spine.
Peter's fingers, he thought. It was like touching a socket. His hips pushed up off the bed and he groaned, his mind substituting Peter's pale, slim fingers for his blunt, callused ones as he curled them around his balls, squeezing gently, just enough to feel his testicles slide under the skin. So good, oh god, yes, yes. Peter. Oh, god. More.
He pushed his hand down deeper, cupping his balls, making room for his other hand to curl around his shaft, lifting it from his stomach and sliding his hand from base to tip, coating himself with the lotion.
I want to suck you off, Peter's voice echoed in his mind.
Fuck, that's hot. He said that. Actually said it. He didn't bother to tease himself anymore. He didn't think he could have if he'd wanted to. His mind spun with images of Peter's red lips stretched around, the feeling of Peter's bare body lying between his thighs, his tongue moving against Nathan's shaft as he tried to take him deeper--
That was all it took; Nathan was coming, and it was good, like he'd been waiting for days for that orgasm, sparks behind his eyelids, body lit up from head to toe.
He slumped back down with a sound between a sigh and a groan, his fingers still lightly moving against his softening shaft, creating mixed sparks of pleasure and pain.
Love you, Pete.
***
"Military acronyms don't count," Peter said, as Nathan surveyed the Scrabble board.
Nathan glanced again at his letters. He had an easy four-pointer, but he thought he could get something better. "Not even FUBAR?" he asked.
The dictionary fell out of the air in front of him. "If it's in there, then you're good."
FUBAR. A very appropriate acronym for his current situation. Peter sat across the table from him, freshly showered and still damp. He'd neglected to put a shirt back on, so from Nathan's point of view, he might as well be sitting there naked. Nathan was spending more time trying not to think what it would be like to run his tongue along Peter's collarbone than he was thinking how to make a good word when his only vowel was 'o'. Peter crossed his arms on the table and dropped his chin on them with a sigh. "Any day now would be good," he said. A few locks of his wet hair slipped down over his face and he puffed a breath at them irritably, and Nathan realized he was still looking at Peter not at the game board.
A moment later, before he could pull his gaze away, Peter noticed, too. He sat up. "You're staring at me," he said.
Nathan knew he should have denied it, but the words didn't make it out of his mouth. He actually didn't say anything, which was probably the worst thing he could have done. Peter's eyes narrowed a bit.
"Peter--" Nathan said, but still, he was lost for words.
Peter cut him off, anyway. "You got a hard-on every single time in the shower, Nathan."
"Don't," Nathan said, feeling fear tighten his throat. Don't. Don't, I'm barely in control of this, Peter. I couldn't bear to hurt you. Don't.
Peter's voice quavered, but he spoke on, slow and even, his hands pressed flat and spread across the polished wood. "You want me. And I want you. So why can't we just do it?"
I shouldn't even be discussing this. I shouldn't even be admitting this. "Because you're my brother, Peter. And you're fifteen. And you're a guy."
"You said--"
"It doesn't matter," Nathan said, arguing as much with himself as with Peter. "Because even putting that aside, there's still the other two--"
"No one'll know!" Peter said. "No one but us."
"Exactly! I'll know. You'll know. I can't do that to you, Peter. I can't--I can't hurt you."
Peter threw his hands in the air and shouted, "How's it gonna hurt me? I want it."
"I don't know! It just... it could. It would. It doesn't matter. You're young, you don't--"
"You said you wouldn't treat me like a kid!"
"I didn't mean I was going to fuck you! Jesus!"
Peter looked away, suddenly, his jaw tensed, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Then he looked back. "Fine. Fine, whatever. It's stupid, but whatever." Then, he added, "Are you ever gonna play?"
Disappointed. He felt disappointed. God, a part of him had wanted Peter to convince him. But now Peter was just sulking and kicking the tableleg.
Nathan played the stupid four-point, two-letter word.
"That? That was what you spent so much time thinking up?" Peter said. "'Be?' That's the dumbest thing I've ever seen in my entire life."
Nathan drew a 'q.' He groaned, then said, "Like you could do any better with these shitty letters."
Peter immediately began slapping down four tiles. "You could always discard 'em and draw new ones," he said. His voice was back to normal as though they hadn't fought at all. As he drew new tiles, he said, "All right. I'll just go and read the unabridged War and Peace while you think, ok?"
The game went on, amiably. Peter won. Nathan blamed this loudly on the letters.
As Nathan was sweeping the tiles off the board, Peter captured a few with his fingertips and scooted them together into two two-letter words.
"DO ME"
Nathan froze midway through knocking the tiles into the box lid. He looked up at Peter, who was looking back at him with his lips tight and almost smiling, like a young child who knows they've been bad and are waiting to see if they get away with it. Gathering his wits back about him, Nathan carefully finished getting his handful of tiles in the box, then set the box aside, and pointed at the message. "So, is this supposed to prove to me how adult and mature you are?"
"Sure," Peter said, easily, guilelessly, as though if he acted confident enough about it, Nathan might buy it.
Nathan just shook his head. "Give it up, Pete. It isn't going to happen."
"So you say," Peter intoned, then hopped up from the table. "So, movie?"
***
"Movie" quickly became Peter's codeword for "let's spend an hour and a half cuddling on the couch in a manner which is not at all appropriate for two brothers of vastly disparate ages."
Well, Peter didn't put it quite like that at any point, but his actions spoke louder than words, and Nathan--to his shame--found himself going along with it. Looking forward to it, even.
They were really scraping the bottom of the barrel tonight. The English Patient contained very, very few explosions.
"But it won an Oscar," Peter said. "It's deep."
Nathan just acquiesed, because... hell. It wasn't about the damn movie, was it?
A couple hours later, Nathan was regretting his decision, because Peter was actually watching the movie and sniffling over it, and that made him have to face up to the fact that he was disappointed about that, and somewhat jealous of it for stealing Peter's attention.
As the credits began to roll, Peter sniffed loudly and snuggled up to him, tucking his face against Nathan's neck. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm such a goob."
"It's ok," Nathan said. All he could think about for a second was how his squadmates would have reacted to a guy crying over a chick flick. Peter was... brave... was the word that came to mind. He wondered again how Peter had stayed so sensitive in the midst of a family like theirs.
Peter snuffled against his shirt again. Nathan reached down, finding his chin and gently turning his face up towards his own. Peter blinked, seeming confused.
"Don't ever change," Nathan said, quietly.
Confusion carved a small furrow between Peter's brows, and almost without thinking, Nathan bent closer and kissed it. He didn't pull away immediately. He could feel each breath, one, then another, then another, before Peter leaned his head back, cupped his hand behind Nathan's head, and kissed him back, on the lips, leaving behind a trace of salty tears. Nathan continued to breathe, slowly, deliberately. He could still feel the echo of Peter's lips. Peter's face was so close they were essentially still kissing.
His eyes were closed tight, and the darkness seemed safe and quiet. Peter was wrapped around him and for all he could tell, they could have been the only thing in the world. No one will know. No one ever needs to know. This is between us. Ours.
He closed the gap between them and kissed him. It felt like mouths and heat and wet, like love and need and relief, friction and slickness, hard teeth and soft lips, fingers clutching his hair, breath cool on his cheek. His nerves crackled, Peter gasped, his heart hammered against his ribs. As they parted--the air cool on their wet lips--it felt like desire and satiation and yes and nothing at all like regret.
"What now?" Peter said.
"I dunno," Nathan answered, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember his own name.
"Kiss me again," Peter said, his eyes drowsy and smoldering.
"Yeah."
***
The next Friday, as the sunlight faded from the sky, Nathan sat on the couch working through the previous Sunday's crossword puzzle while Peter lay with his head resting on his thigh, reading his summer reading book. Nathan had the paper folded on his other thigh, pencil in his non-dominant left hand because he preferred to use his right to idly toy with Peter's hair. Peter didn't seem to mind.
He'd almost finished the right, top quarter of the puzzle, but for the last few minutes, he'd just been staring at the page, because his attention was more focused on Peter than on the eight-letter word he was missing.
Peter hadn't turned a page in awhile either.
Nathan moved his hand down to Peter's cheek, lightly running his thumb along Peter's cheekbone, watching Peter's face: his small smile, his eyes closing. Then Peter opened his eyes and leaned his head back, looking up at Nathan upside-down.
"Wanna pet more than my hair?" he said.
Nathan's body said 'yes' instantly, his groin tensing, his arms prickling with goosebumps. He didn't speak, but slid his hand down to cup Peter's chin, laying his thumb across Peter's lips. He moved it lightly back and forth, and then Peter stuck his tongue out just enough to lick the pad of it.
"I'm guessing that's a 'yes,'" Peter said, in response to Nathan's sharp breath.
Peter tossed his book on the floor and rolled over to get up on his knees. Nathan caught him by the shoulders and stopped him just before Peter's lips reached his. He held him there for a moment just looking at him, finding the flecks of color in Peter's eyes and feeling a moment of panic, a token protest before he shut his eyes and let Peter finish the movement, let their mouths touch as Peter braced his hands on the back of the couch behind Nathan.
And then someone knocked on the door.
They sprang apart like repelled magnets and stared at each other for a moment, panting. Then another knock shook them out of it. "Uh, Pete--" Nathan said.
"Yeah," Peter said, swiping the back of his hand across his lips. "On it. Right."
He disappeared towards the front door, and Nathan realized he was holding in a breath. He let it out in a long, shaky stream. It had never crossed his mind they might be interrupted. Who the hell--
Pop, he realized, as he heard his father's voice greeting Peter by the door. Holy shit, if he'd used his key instead of knocking, he'd have walked in on us. Holy fuck. The thought made him dizzy.
Then Pop and Peter appeared in the room, and he shoved his panic aside and got to his feet, even as his father protested, "No, no, don't get up, Nathan--"
"Dad," he said, making himself smile until it began to feel genuine.
"You look so much better," Pop said.
"I am," Nathan said, and then his father hugged him, quickly, thumping him on the back and then stepping away.
"Please, sit," Pop said, so Nathan did, though standing was only difficult because his knees were still watery, not because of his injuries. They all sat, Pop in the armchair, Peter on the far side of Nathan on the couch, silent. "How have you been? I hear the weather's been lovely this summer."
That simple, ritual inquiry was enough to shift Nathan's mind back into the proper gear and he said, "Yeah, it's been beautiful."
***
They passed the evening with small talk and catching up. It wasn't until Peter had slunk away to do his own thing elsewhere, leaving Nathan and Pop alone on the deck, that Pop said, "How has your studying been?"
Nathan sipped at his drink before he said, "It's an adjustment. I spent so long worrying about... gauges and throttles, it took me some time to start thinking about analyzing arguments and comprehending readings."
"Yes," Pop said, walking to the railing and leaning on it, tilting his head back to look up at the stars. "Coming back from 'Nam... I had a difficult time returing to the courtroom. It all seemed so... petty after what I'd seen. What I'd done."
"Well," Nathan said, carefully, "I'm not saying Bosnia was Vietnam--"
His father looked over his shoulder with a small smile. "Oh, don't worry, I wasn't offended. Merely agreeing with you." He turned around. "It's a different world. In the military, everything is very black and white. It's painted that way on purpose, because if you see the shades of grey... you'll eventually drive yourself mad. But it's much like going from bright sunlight to a dim room. It takes time for your sight to adjust again. But it will."
Nathan looked down at his drink, wondering. He wanted to believe that. He wanted to agree with his father. He always had. But he wasn't sure. "I don't--" he said, then stopped, not sure if he should continue. But then he remembered how his father hated cowardice, so he said, "I don't know if this is what I want. I don't know what I want."
His father drew in a deep breath, let it out, and pursed his lips for a moment before he said, "Nathan, when you were eight, you came to me in my office, and you said, 'Pop, I want to go to military school.'"
"Yeah, sure."
"And I said--well, I censored myself of course, but I said--'Hell no, no son of mine is going to waste his life in the military.' And you... god, I remember this like it was yesterday. You stepped up to my desk with your hands folded and you said, very seriously, 'It's not about the military. It's about getting elected.'"
Nathan ducked his head and smiled as Pop roared with laughter, and said, "Eight years old. Eight years old, my boy. And you were already planning your campaign."
"Yeah," Nathan said, softly. "But... people change, Pop. I was a kid. I thought it was glamorous. People told me I should be president," he said, making it sound mocking. "It's just... not that simple anymore."
"It never was simple, Nathan. Nothing is ever simple."
Nathan tightened his jaw for a moment, thinking, then he said, "Did Ma put you up to this?"
Pop laughed, again, softer. "No. No, she didn't. I came out here to see you, no ulterior motives. But I know you, Nathan. You're so much like me. I would hate to see you spend your life miserable. My point is, ever since you were a boy you've been driven. You need something. So do I. We're like sharks, Nathan. We stop swimming, we die. Or wish we would."
He paused there, the implications of that statement, coming from him, hanging in the air between them. Then he said, "Tell me, honestly, that you were content there, that a simple life is what you want, and you can have it. I can't say I won't be disappointed, because I know you can be so much more. But I'll accept it."
"Ma wouldn't," Nathan said.
"No, she wouldn't," Pop agreed, mildly.
Nathan was silent for awhile, listening to the waves, thinking about flying.
"I miss it," he said. "I miss my jet. I miss my men."
"All change involves loss."
Nathan just nodded, feeling his throat tighten as his body viscerally recalled the shaking plane around him, the endless clouds stretched out below him.
"By the way," his father said, "I have a position open at the firm, for a paralegal. It's yours if you want it."
Do I? he thought.
"Thanks, Pop," he said. "I'll think about it. I will."
***
Nathan woke the next morning to find someone else in bed with him.
Peter, under the sheets, tucked up with his back to Nathan's side, fast asleep. This provoked a flurry of sleepy questions in Nathan's mind, How'd he get here? and Why is he here? chief among them, although the most pressing question by far was What the hell was he thinking?
Nathan had stripped down to his boxers last night, and so had Peter, judging by the amount of bare skin touching between them. It wasn't that their father was likely to poke his head into Nathan's bedroom, but good god, the man was right upstairs, and there was really no way in hell to make this look remotely like something two normal, sane, right-in-the-head siblings would do.
"Peter!" Nathan hissed, scooting away and shaking Peter's shoulder with one hand. "Peter, wake up."
"Mmph," Peter said, "Sleepin'."
"Are you insane?" Nathan continued in a hissed whisper. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Peter rolled onto his back and looked up at Nathan with half-closed, sleepy eyes. "Missed you," he said.
"That's stupid," Nathan snapped. "For fuck's sake, our father is right upstairs, this is hardly the time to be--"
He stopped there because Peter's eyes had gone all wide and wounded.
"Oh, for god's sake," Nathan said, half to Peter and half to himself for feeling guilty for berating Peter for something he damn well should be berated for. It was like being around their parents made Peter's IQ drop twenty points. "Stop being a baby, Peter. Think for a goddamn second, would you?"
Peter blinked at him, looking more and more like a kicked puppy every second, but not showing one damn sign of getting the point. "He's not going to know," he said. "He's upstairs."
"Pop gets up before dawn half the time, he could be out there reading the damn paper right now. What the hell do you think he'd think if he saw you walking out of my room half-naked?"
Peter looked startled by that. "I dunno? That we... I dunno? Spent the night hanging out?"
Nathan could only stare at him for a second, trying to read his expression for any signs of humor, but Peter seemed to be genuinely convinced that there was nothing strange about two brothers--one fully grown, one nearly so--spending the night together.
"Are you actually that naive?"
Peter finally looked angry instead of hurt. He scooted out of bed and stalked towards the door. "Apparently," he said, before storming out. "Sorry. I'll try not be affectionate ever again."
Nathan huffed a sigh and dropped back flat on his back. Sure, Pete. Make me the bad guy.
***
That evening found them sitting around the table in a tiny Italian place. Peter was slouched over the table, picking at the calamari and not looking at either of them. Nathan was watching him as his father talked about life at the firm.
"Of course, my partner's thinking of retirement at this point, so we'll likely be looking for a replacement for him in the next few years. I've got my eye on one of the junior partners, Alicia Longfellow. She's done some good work for us, and the Longfellows' are a strong family, lots of connections. Granted, she's a bit young--Peter, sit up straight--but I think she may be up for the job."
Peter glared in response to the sharp, offhand critique, but he did sit up, slightly, pushing his shoulders back a bit. He looked like he would rather be sitting in an electric chair than at a table with his family, and by now, his attitude was beginning to just piss Nathan off. It was hardly a hardship to sit and have a civil meal at an excellent restaurant, and Peter couldn't possibly still be angry at Nathan for kicking him out of bed that morning. Surely by now the logic of it had kicked in?
"Your mother, of course, is still agitating for me to promote Lewis Donnelly. I've never been able to see what she sees in that man, I have to admit. Granted, my client, Mr. Linderman, has always been fond of him as well, so maybe there's something I'm missing--"
"You should probably fire him, if Linderman likes him," Peter put in, still not looking at them as he made this cranky pronouncement. Pop was looking at him now, though, sharp-eyed and angry.
"I've told you before, Peter," he said, quietly, "That I will not tolerate your lack of respect. You are quite old enough to know what is appropriate behavior by now, and just because your mother seems willing to let you become some uncouth wild child does not mean that I'll stand for it."
"He's not even here. It doesn't even matter."
"I'm here," Pop said, and Nathan saw the anger get sharper and hotter in his eyes, even though he was still sitting with his hands neatly folded in his lap. "And I do not appreciate your attitude. It's people like Mr. Linderman who make it possible for us to live the way we do. As long as you are under our roof, Peter, you owe them a debt of gratitude whether they are present or not."
"It's dirty money," Peter said, leaning in just enough to make the words private, and now he was no sulking teenager, he looked just as angry. "Blood money. That's what pays for us to be rich snobs."
"Peter," Nathan said, suddenly, sharply, knowing that if this didn't end now, the consequences could be... he didn't even know. Didn't want to. "Stop."
Pop and Peter were still facing off, as though they couldn't even hear Nathan. "I think," Pop said, "this time away from home hasn't been good for you. When we get back to the house, you'll be packing your things and returning home with me."
That did it.
"No!" Peter shouted, literally jumping to his feet. "No, you can't--Nathan needs me, you can't--"
"Get. Ahold. Of yourself." Pop said. "Now."
Nathan stood almost faster than he thought he could and grabbed Peter's arm with one hand and the back of his chair with the other, holding himself up. "Pete. Peter, relax."
"No," Peter said, still staring at their father who stared back with a look of total calm conviction. "Dad, come on--"
Nathan tugged him closer, so his shoulder bumped against Nathan's chest, and leaned close enough to say, quietly in Peter's ear. "Pete, just go to the car, ok? Let me talk to him. Go."
Peter went, the eyes of the other patrons following him out. Nathan sat back down, and realized he was trembling. Somewhere in his mind, he was hearing the echo of something his father had said over a decade ago, Someone shut the little monster up.
"Pop," he said, speaking slowly to hide the quaver. "He's just a kid."
"He's old enough to know what appropriate behavior in public is. And, quite frankly, Nathan, if you are tolerating behavior like that, then the best place for him is at home, with us. After all, you've never had to deal with a child before."
Nathan sucked in a sharp breath at that, and it felt like a knife in his chest. "Pop--" he said, but stopped. No point in bringing Claire into this. He didn't even like to think about her around his parents. That brought back the coincidence that might not have been a coincidence and in the face of his father's cold anger, in the face of that precisely-aimed dart--he turned his thoughts back to Peter. "He's helping me. Please. You'd be punishing me more than you would him." Which was possibly a lie. Nathan wasn't honestly sure.
He saw some of the tension go out of his father's shoulders. "You're right, I suppose. But that boy needs discipline."
"I know, Dad," Nathan said. "I'll talk to him. Maybe he'll listen to me."
***
Ultimately, their father left and Peter stayed.
"I hate him," Peter said. He was leaning on the deck railing, staring out towards the ocean, every inch of his body tensed.
"Pete--" Nathan said, moving over to the railing so he could set his crutches aside and lay his hand on Peter's rock-hard back. "He just wants what's best--"
Peter turned around suddenly, his eyes blazing. "That's bullshit. He doesn't want what's best for me. He wants what's best for him. He doesn't give a shit about me."
"Peter," Nathan said, instinctively, feeling the disapproval in his voice.
"You left, Nathan," Peter said. "You left. You know. They're... they're into something. Up to their fucking eyebrows. Both of them. And you knew, and you left, and now you're trying to pretend like you don't know--"
"Peter, wait--"
"--because it's convenient for you and maybe that means you're just as bad as they are."
That was too much to process all at once, and Nathan couldn't begin to reply right away. Peter stared at him, waiting, like he'd expected a quick comeback, a denial, something he didn't get.
He thought of Claire, of Meredith, of the hot sun and flat plains of Texas. Ma's disapproving look, a too-neat contract and then a too-neat death, if such a thing were possible.
But when Nathan finally spoke, what he said was, "They're our family, Peter. No one's perfect, but they're what we've got. And I'd rather have a family, even a fucked-up family, than nothing. Because I tried that, and it was... hard. Way harder than I thought it would be."
Peter turned back to the ocean abruptly. "Dad and I--we just don't... I don't get him. I don't think he gets me."
"Yeah," Nathan said, because truer words had rarely been spoken. "I don't know why--" he paused for a moment, not sure if he should say this, but then he went ahead and did. "--he's so hard on you." He laid his hand on Peter's back again, finding it still tense. "Pete, you're a great guy. Smart. Thoughtful. Kind. Sometimes it's like you're almost trying not to let them see that."
Peter shrugged under his hand, then hung his head down. "I just get... mad."
Nathan smiled slightly and rubbed his hand across Peter's shoulders, trying to smooth away some of the tension. "Yeah. Well, that's a common side effect of being a teenager, I guess."
Peter laughed darkly. "Yeah, I guess, maybe. But it's real."
"I know," Nathan said, quickly. "Oh, I know."
He could feel Peter breathing under his palm, and suddenly couldn't think of anything but exactly how he wanted to soothe him.
"Sorry," Peter said, suddenly. "About this morning. You're right. It was stupid. I think I just--I dunno. I just almost... wanted to..." he stopped, then said, "Really stupid. Sorry."
"Well," Nathan said, "I'm sorry I was such an asshole about it."
He heard Peter swallow, then say, as he shook his head slightly, "Sometimes everything gets so fucked up, I don't even know what's going on, and it's like... being with you... I mean, even just being around you, makes it all make sense again, somehow. For a little while."
It was like Peter had read those words straight out of Nathan's mind.
"Yeah," Nathan said. His hand was curved around Peter's far shoulder now, his arm lying across Peter's back. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
Peter looked up, meeting his eyes finally. "Do you?"
Nathan looked back, finding that security there like he always did. "Yeah. I do. More than you know."
Peter smiled his crooked half-smile at that, a smile that pushed away the darkness that had lurked in his eyes since their father had shown up. "Cool," he said.
***
A week later, the goddamn LSAT was the next day, and instead of studying, he was in bed with Peter sprawled over him, their lips, cheeks, and jaws wet with both their saliva, their bodies moving slightly against each other as they kissed. Outside, rain rattled against the window, pounding like something trying to get in. Nathan ran his hand down Peter's back, across the sweat-damp jersey knit of Peter's T-shirt. He stopped himself at the small of Peter's back and curled his hand into a fist with the effort of restraint. Peter made a small sound between their lips, then pulled back just a bit, saying, "Nathan, com'on."
"No," Nathan said as he pushed both hands up to Peter's shoulder, tugged him down again. "No, I told you." Don't make this end, he thought, with an edge of desperation. Please, Peter, please.
There were lines, so many lines, and he'd crossed one, yes, but there were more, so many more, and he was stopping here, going no further. It was all he could do, but he could plant his feet and hold on, even if backing up was impossible.
He nuzzled Peter's chin. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Peter. I can't. I can't."
Peter was still, resisting Nathan's downward pull, so Nathan finally had to open his eyes, to find Peter looking down at him, heavy-lidded, cheeks pink and flushed, lips swollen and red, his hair hanging down around it all like a frame. "I've wanted this since I was a kid, did you know?" he said.
Nathan sucked in a breath, terrified, exhilerated, shocked. "Pete--"
"Thinking about you hugging me made me feel good. Really good. I would imagine you holding me, and... I didn't understand it at first. I didn't really get that I was jerking off thinking about you until I was in middle school."
God, you're more fucked up than I am, Nathan thought, but at the same time, he was thinking, How? Why? What does this mean? Why are we like this? Can we fix this? Do we have to?
Peter shifted and laid down, still on top of Nathan, but with his head resting on his shoulder, as though the effort of holding himself up had become too great. "Look, I know... I know this is weird, ok? I know it's fucked up. I know it's... I know what people call it. But I want it," he said, and then again, "I want it, anyway."
Nathan stared up at the ceiling, slowly turning this over in his mind. Peter was idly stroking his arm, over his sleeve, and Nathan shut his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by that simple touch, suddenly feeling it as though magnified a thousand times, like pure comfort, home, love. His arm was around Peter's back and Peter was breathing softly against his throat, and it only seemed right.
Quietly, he said, like a confession, "Doesn't it terrify you?"
Then he realized that, after all the years he'd leaned on Peter when the rest of his world crumbled so badly he wasn't sure if he could stand, this was the first time he'd truly, truly spoken to him as an equal, as just another human being, here with him, alone.
Peter was quiet for a moment, gathering his answer, perhaps, then he said, "No. Because you're here. I told you, you always make me safe."
Squeezing his eyes more tightly shut against the pain of that, he whispered, "I don't, Peter. I'm not. If I was, we wouldn't be here. We--I--wouldn't be doing this. Don't you get that?"
He felt Peter lift up over him again. He could almost feel Peter's gaze boring down on him.
"Nathan, look at me," Peter said. "Look."
He opened his eyes.
Peter watched him closely, and said, "Put your arms around me."
Nathan continued to watch Peter's eyes as he did that, sliding his arms around until he was embracing Peter fully, with his forearms lying side-by-side across Peter's slim back. Peter smiled, just slightly, one small twitch of his lip. He shifted positions, spreading his legs just a bit wider, enough to rest his body flush against Nathan's stomach, with his erection unmistakably hard and hot pressing against Nathan through their clothes.
"Hold me tighter," Peter said, closing his eyes, but keeping himself propped up on his elbows, hovering over Nathan.
Curious, hopeful, Nathan did, as though perhaps doing so would yield some kind of answers. He cinched his arms tight around Peter, almost too tight. But not tight enough, never enough, because he could never have him close enough. Still, this close, he couldn't miss Peter's cock getting harder, or Peter moaning, or Peter's lips parting and his lungs heaving in a deep breath that pushed out against Nathan's arms, that made them seemed pressed even closer together, still not close enough, even when Nathan pushed his hips up, craned his neck to mouth Peter's bared throat, lick at the sweat in the hollow of it.
"Yeah," Peter said. "Oh, yeah. Like that. Just like that. You get it," he said, then opened his eyes. "See, you understand."
I don't understand, Nathan thought. But he wasn't sure it mattered so much anymore.
***
The room was cold. Freezing cold. He was in a T-shirt, and almost all he could think was cold. A million little bubbles on a thin peice of paper, marked in wavering patterns with number two pencil would determine pretty much his entire future, and all he could really think about was turning down the damn A/C.
Most of the other people in the room were young. Still in college, probably. He felt out of place, crammed into this little desk in some middle school. It was like one of those dreams where you're back in school and taking an exam for a class you forgot to go to. At least he'd reached the writing section, which meant the end of the test. It had been nearly three hours, and even analyzing a simple decision like the question was asking seemed difficult. Hell, even writing was difficult. He'd had a cramp in his wrist since the Reading Comprehension section.
Still, he pushed on, then went back and made sure he'd punctuated properly and spelled everything right, and just as he was rechecking his last paragraph, they called time.
He put his papers together, handed them to the docent when she passed by, and then struggled back up to his feet, groaning as his leg moved again after too long crammed in one position. The college kids were chattering to one another, exclaiming over mistakes and comparing answers. He pushed through them and got out as quickly as he could, sighing with relief at the sticky heat outside.
He rushed to the car, not thinking, just moving, swinging along at a pretty good clip on the crutches he still wasn't quite comfortable with. He felt like the more distance he put between himself and the damn exam, the better.
The heat may have been a relief, but the blast oven that the car had become in the sunlight was hell. Just get me home, he thought at it, as he started it up and immediately rolled the windows down.
Driving was such a relief, after the month in the wheelchair. It felt like freedom. Like being an adult again.
He pulled out of the parking lot and started following the interstate signs. Do I even want this? he thought. Have I even really thought about it? Ma had shoved that book in his hands and started talking about Yale and he hadn't even tried to resist her. He hadn't even thought about doing something different.
Because I don't want to do anything different, he realized, suddenly, as he pulled to a stop at a red light. The last four years I've been lost.
Lost. Aimless. He'd followed orders and flown his plane and just... drifted, sustained by some paranoid delusion of conspiracy and a false idea of independence. He'd never had his own life, whatever that was. He'd had nothing.
That's why it matters so much, he thought.
Someone behind him honked and he realized the light had changed.
This is my life. This is what I wanted. This is what I planned. This is who I am.
It hit with the force of an epiphany. He hadn't been happy. He hadn't been free. He'd been miserable and confused and aimless, and now finally, finally he was back where he belonged. He couldn't even resent the thought that Ma had been right. Of course she was right. She was his mother, and she knew him.
I want this, he thought. He let himself think it. Finally. After all those damn years of trying to hide from it. Law school. Politics. Hell, the Presidency. He wanted it. He could maybe even have it.
His hands tightened on the wheel and he felt himself literally shudder, even in the heat. Yes, he thought. This is me.
And maybe somewhere, at that moment, his mother smiled.
It didn't matter. He was smiling, too.
***
Peter looked up from his book with an arched brow. "You're... chipper," he said, in a suspicious tone.
Nathan was rather chipper, actually. He grinned and admitted as much. Chipper? Hell, his shrink might have called it manic. He didn't care. He felt good. He felt confident. "Come on, I just finished the damn test. Let's go out, somewhere nice. Put some real clothes on, do the whole celebration thing."
Because he wanted to see Peter in a suit, to take him out, see him smile. Hell, he was even willing to admit that, later, he wanted to get Peter out of a suit. Peter shrugged, like he was deciding to just go along with this bout of good spirits and said, "Sure."
***
Nathan drove them out to the family's favorite seafood place. It still felt good to be driving. Better to be in a suit and tie. Like wearing his own skin again. He bribed the matre' de to get a better table, just because he could.
"Seriously," Peter said, after they'd been seated, "what did they do to you during that test?"
"Froze me to death," Nathan said, glibly.
Peter just gave him a look.
Nathan shrugged, and gave a more real answer, "I guess I'm just... figuring some stuff out."
"What kinda stuff?" Peter said, pressing.
"What I want. Who I am," Nathan said. He opened the menu and began perusing the appetizers.
"Who are you, then?" Peter said.
"Who do you think I am?" Nathan asked, glancing up. Peter's brow was furrowed deep enough to cast shadows in the candlelight.
"My brother," Peter said. "Smart guy. Brave guy. Wants to be a politician."
Nathan looked up again, for real this time. "Yeah. That's me. I just..." he could feel some of the giddiness easing, and it was actually a relief. Some of the tension went with it. "I tried to be someone else for a long time. I tried to convince myself that's who I wanted to be. But it wasn't."
Peter shook his head slowly. "I can't imagine you ever doing that. You always know. You always have."
Nathan looked out the window at the ocean. "I got lost," he said. Then, after a moment, he said, "And it scared me."
"Well," Peter said, covering Nathan's hand with his own warm palm, "Now you're found. And that's good."
Nathan looked across the table again. Peter was looking back, calm and quiet, and the look in his eyes wasn't even remotely brotherly, and he wasn't even trying to hide it. Neither was he, Nathan realized. Peter was here, Peter loved him, he loved Peter, and now he never had to leave again, not really. Law school, yeah, but then he'd be home, for good.
"Don't leave again," Peter said, low and cracked.
"I won't," Nathan said. "I won't."
Peter licked his lips and said, "God, I want to--" he stopped himself there, though, but Nathan heard the unspoken kiss you, and agreed, deeply. Couldn't look away from Peter's burning eyes or his soft, dampened lips.
"Me too," he said. "Not here."
"Yeah, I know," Peter said. Then, surprising Nathan, he was the one to pull his hand away, and set it primly back in his lap. "Later," he said, and the promise in that word made Nathan's insides burn.
"Later," Nathan said. "Yes."
***
Later, they were in Nathan's bed, both of them naked, Peter all hot skin, smooth under Nathan's hands, with his back arched against Nathan's chest. It was the first time they'd been naked, the first time Nathan just let himself go. He wasn't fighting it anymore. He knew who he was now, and this was part of who he was, damn the consequences.
"Tell me you want this," he whispered, pulling Peter into the crook of his body with one hand splayed across Peter's hip, holding him close.
Peter gasped, "I want this. I want this, I want this, I want this. Please let me."
Nathan ducked his head down alongside Peter's, kissing down Peter's shoulder, up his neck, reveling in every touch of lips on skin, in the taste of Peter's sweat, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering near his ear. Different than Nathan's cologne and their father's. Peter always had to be different.
"I will," Nathan whispered, lips brushing Peter's ear. "Oh, I will."
He curled his hand around Peter's cock, holding it and lightly squeezing just to feel how hot it was, how hard. Feeling Peter writhe in his arms and hearing him cry out in pleasure hit Nathan hard, right in the spine, lighting up his body from head to toe. He'd never, never felt like that before. Never. It would have been terrifying, but he was through with being afraid.
"Oh, my god, Peter, you are so. Fucking. Amazing."
"Please," Peter said, one hand clenched around Nathan's wrist so tight it hurt. "Please, Nathan, please."
"Yeah," Nathan said, "Yeah." And then rolled to his back and parted his knees, letting them fall open, feeling the cool air on his groin. Peter rolled over, too, up to his hands and knees over him, breathing hard enough to move his whole body, his eyes wide and feral. His cock hung down at an angle, red and slick at the tip. Nathan couldn't stop staring at it. He didn't want to; he liked Peter naked, he liked him hard, liked him desperate. It did things to him he'd only heard about.
Then Peter slid down, dropping down on his stomach between Nathan's legs, and Nathan's attention was diverted. He took his own cock in his hand, pushing it up from his belly, up to Peter's waiting lips. He heard Peter exhale heavily and felt it on the damp head of his cock. He groaned at the feeling, and then again when Peter wrapped his lips around him and rubbed him experimentally with the tip of his tongue.
"Oh, god, yeah. Yeah, Pete."
Peter looked up, and said, "What do you like?" Nervous. Oh, Peter, Nathan thought.
"Anything. Anything. Whatever you want." Then, after a moment's thought, "Whatever you've imagined."
Show me, he thought, Show me what goes on in that pretty head of yours.
Instead of taking him in his mouth again, Peter ducked his head down, pressing his face near the base of Nathan's cock and inhaling. Sniffing him. Nathan felt himself make a sound, overwhelmed by the simple desire of that gesture. "Peter..."
Peter turned up just his eyes, watching Nathan through his lashes as he nuzzled Nathan's cock, teasing it with small darts of his tongue. Didn't say anything, but as he dragged the flat of his tongue up the vein along the underside of Nathan's cock, his actions spoke loud and clear, I like this. I like your cock. I like you. I want you.
That was when Nathan had to shut his eyes, drop his head back, and just give himself over to Peter entirely, lose himself in the sensation of a hot, wet mouth working him. Licking him, mouthing him, taking him in and fucking him. Peter's initial nerves seemed gone: he moved with assurance, with enthusiasm, making small sounds of pleasure that vibrated against Nathan's skin.
It was deep, slow pleasure. Meditative, almost. The kind he could get lost in. Nathan's own voice seemed far away when he said, "That feels so good. Does it feel good?"
He needed to hear Peter say it, needed to know Peter liked it, needed proof, maybe, that this was his fantasy, too.
"Yeah," Peter mumbled, "So good. This is--" he cut himself off, taking Nathan in his mouth again, pushing down Nathan's shaft, so good Nathan arched his back, lifted his shoulders off the bed, swore from the pleasure of it.
Felt the swell inside that meant he was close. He gasped, "Peter, I'm going to come. Do you want--"
"Yeah, yeah," Peter said, quickly, "Do it. In my mouth. Can you?"
"Fuck. Yes. God, yes, I can." Nathan said.
"That's so hot." Peter dropped down on him again, rubbing the underside of his shaft with his tongue, pushing the head of his cock up against the ridges of his palate.
"Fuck, oh fuck. Suck me. Suck me, Pete."
And Pe