
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/71135.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Peter_Petrelli/Nathan_Petrelli
  Character:
      Peter_Petrelli, Nathan_Petrelli, Angela_Petrelli
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Incest
  Series:
      Part 2 of Fever
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-03-16 Words: 3650
****** And Birds Were Singing to Calm Us Down ******
by A_(mumblemutter)
Summary
     Peter wants to see Las Vegas. Nathan doesn't even try to say no
     anymore.
Children of the grounds
Are making warring sounds
For those outside
With no care for time
They're full of love for life
 
When they arrive in Vegas, Nathan tired and faintly irritated and Peter wound-
up and restless, the first thing he notices is the brightness of it all. He has
never seen so much color and light in one place before and it makes his head
spin. He can sense Nathan getting out of the car and slamming the door shut,
not waiting for him to follow, but what he sees is just a blurry movement out
of the corner of his eye and then the endless brightness again. The neon signs
leave pulsing imprints on the inside of his eyelids when he squeezes his eyes
shut, so he opens them again and tries to adjust, to swim in the light instead
of drowning in it.
He's managed to get his breathing under control when Nathan gets back and
slides into the seat again, slightly less on edge now. "Okay, I got us a room.
One of the fancy ones somewhere on the thirtieth floor, and we're going to
enjoy every minute we spend in it, do you hear me. Do you think you can do
that."
Peter wants to say, yes, Nathan, I think I can just about manage to spend a
weekend in a city without making your life so very hard, and also, fuck you,
but then he grits his teeth and nods, watches as Nathan rolls his eyes and
says, "Oh great. This is going to be fun." He drives them down into the parking
garage where it's blissfully quiet and marginally less bright, and Peter
relaxes into the seat, lets out a slow breath. When Nathan half-turns to him,
frown on his face, Peter smiles a small smile at him, feeling the panic ebb
away. "Thanks, you know. You didn't have to tap into the emergency money for
this."
"Everything is an emergency with you, Peter. I'm just waiting for you to say,
'hey, let's go to the moon, Nathan, it's vitally important that we go to the
moon,' and then what. You'd probably find some dirty motel and a candy store up
there, too. It's your superpower."
"Now that you mention it--"
"Oh don't even start. We're in Vegas, we do this," and with that he swerves
into a parking space, shuts off the engine. "Maybe you have some hidden powers
for winning at Blackjack."
"I'm not Rain Man, Nathan."
"Whatever."
-
Peter doesn't take Nathan for granted, that's not it. He knows what Nathan
sacrificed, in a hazy, slightly blurred way, like watching someone's life
unfold through a milky glass pane, a life that once was, that could have been.
It's an elusive, jittery image and Peter doesn't dwell on it, focuses his
attention outward instead, on the warm sun on his skin and the wind in his hair
and the earth forever surrounding him, protecting him.
It was hard to understand at first, although understand is the wrong word, he
always understood when the earth was talking to him, whispering and murmuring
and every so often crying out in pain, and Peter would lash out then at whoever
was nearest at the time, because it hurt, because it made him bleed in ways he
couldn't articulate, couldn't show to anyone. Nathan would be there to calm him
down, and there'd be confusion in his voice, but also so much strength, a
steadfastness that would forever elude Peter, that he could only wrap himself
around but never quite make his own. He was small enough, back then, to curl
his arms and legs around Nathan and bury his face against his shoulder, and the
blood rushing through Nathan's veins and the thud-thud-thud of his heart felt
like sap pumping through a tree, felt like home, and that never changed.
Still, there was always a fear in his eyes that Peter found difficult to deal
with, because Nathan couldn't see and feel what Peter felt and saw, so he
should have been unafraid. Many years later, Nathan would say, "Other children
dream of the bogeyman and all you have to do is open the closet or look under
the bed and say, see, there's nothing here, there's nothing to be afraid of,
and I could never do that with you." Peter tried to understand, and maybe he
did, but he didn't quite know how to say, it was right to be scared, it was
necessary, because you couldn't hold on tight to anything without being a
little bit afraid of it, and he was always holding on to things, to the
overwhelming rush of life he felt all around him, at all times.
He understood all this implicitly, but he didn't quite know what to do, how to
react to the onslaught of noises and colors and all things blooming and aging
and dying in the world; didn't know how to explain to anyone that he could hear
death as the absence of sound, could see the shape it left behind, as clearly
as he could see the shapes of things being born. There were no words for any of
it, so instead he talked to the high grass and the birds and the wind and the
rain, who didn't need words and who told him, clear and bright: You can do
anything you want, and eventually Peter believed them.
-
In the end, Nathan finds him huddled in a corner of the casino, arms wrapped
around his shins and eyes squeezed shut against his knees, his entire body
going rigid when Nathan kneels down and grips his shoulder just a little bit
too hard.
"Peter," he says, almost calmly, "what the fuck."
It's not exactly what he means to say, it's not exactly what's wrong with this
place, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is, "I can't hear her,
Nathan," and Nathan's hand loosens its grip, slides down to rest between his
shoulder blades.
"Who?"
"The earth."
"Jesus, Peter."
There's nothing else he can say, not really, so he doesn't. He can sense people
looking at them and tries to curl more tightly in on himself, but when Nathan
presses his palm against his back, steady and warm even through the fabric of
his suit, he eases up a little, tries to make himself listen.
"We will leave this place now, Peter. You will get up and you will walk with
me, and you will try to behave like a normal person until we're outside. If
anyone asks, you had too much wine, and if we're lucky nobody will want to have
a second look at your ID and I feel we'll be lucky, Peter, how about you."
Breathe. "I feel so, too."
"Great. This should go swimmingly."
He keeps up a silent litany of don't look, don't look, don't look during the
whole endless walk around the tables and slot machines, Nathan never leaving
his side and his hand still on the small of his back, and then they're outside
and he can breathe again, but only just. Nathan lets out a rush of air and
takes away his hand to rub over his face, and Peter feels untethered all of a
sudden. The city is still crashing over him like waves, and he wants to run out
into the desert and not stop running until his lungs burn and he's surrounded
by nothing but dust and sky and night.
But then Nathan sighs and curls his hand around the side of Peter's neck, leans
in to kiss the hair above his ear. "Let's go back to the hotel, okay?" he says,
sounding tired, and Peter bends his head, lets the hair fall over his eyes.
They walk back in silence and Peter doesn't run.
-
The first time he laid his palm against the bark of a dying willow tree and
felt all its tired aching, all the quiet longing and despair threading through
him as if he himself was dying, was the first time he thought, as loudly as he
could, I want you to live, with everything he had inside him.
He was six, and when he ran into the house and dragged Nathan back to the
garden with him, his own fingers wrapped tightly around two of Nathan's, all
that existed in the world in that moment was this: the tree's luminous green
crown, surrounding them both and casting soft shadows onto the grass, the life
making its home underneath the bark once more, and Nathan, staring up into the
mesh of branches and sky, stunned into silence and as beautiful as spring.
-
Back at the hotel, Peter claws his way out of the suit immediately, pulling
hard on the too-tight collar and the tie Nathan had wound around his neck
earlier, swatting his hand away when Peter tried to protest. "You want your
clothes to let everyone know you have money," he'd said, "just as your ID
informs everyone that you're twenty-one," and Peter had scowled at him, already
feeling a sheen of sweat collecting at the back of his neck. He drops his
clothes one by one as he makes his way across the room, ends up naked in front
of the window that spans most of the wall, floor to ceiling.
"I'm gonna take a shower," Nathan says and Peter just hums at him, presses his
palms against the glass and rests his forehead against it, closes his eyes. The
air conditioning is turned up too cold and he can feel goosebumps creeping up
his arms, but he's too lazy to walk over and adjust the temperature. The
sensation reminds him that he has a body and that it reacts to the world around
him, and he needs to be reminded of this every now and then, or he feels he
might dissolve into thin air, vanish into the sky like so much smoke, unbound.
He's never tried to explain the feeling to Nathan, because he couldn't, but
sometimes he feels that Nathan might already understand, from the way he
touches him, keeping him close.
Then Nathan's out of the bathroom and warm and damp and solid behind him,
faintly smelling of citrus and soap, of lemon trees and rain on a spring day.
He doesn't speak, just drops his forehead against Peter's shoulder and wraps an
arm around him, hand over Peter's heart, saying "You okay?" close and muffled
and Peter moves his head against the window in something like a nod. His palms
are sweaty against the glass now, and he can't quite bring himself to move, to
break the flimsy connection between him and the night sky outside, but when
Nathan shifts against him and his skin slides against Peter's, the rush of want
is sharp and sudden and overwhelming. There's no sound coming in from outside
and in the room the air is perfectly quiet and still; they're caught behind the
glass, together, shielded.
He takes Nathan's hand into his own and moves it down, slowly at first,
stilling only when Nathan's breath hitches against his ear, loud and sharp in
the silence, but then they're moving again, together now, and all he can feel
is Nathan, warm breath on his neck and the shift of muscles and skin right
against his own. Then Nathan's hand is wrapped around him and he exhales
against the glass, breath condensing into fog, sinks into the feeling of
Nathan's lips and hands and warmth, all around him. He rocks into the touch,
presses back, makes Nathan gasp and bite at his shoulder, hard and wet and
perfect, and Peter hisses and lets his head fall to the side: more. Nathan
sinks his teeth into the same spot again, only harder, and it's sharp and hot
and exactly what he needs, not quite what he needs, so he turns his head to
catch a corner of Nathan's cheek with his lips, breath rushing out of him as he
says, "Need your mouth, Nathan, please--" and Nathan stills against him,
catches his breath. "Jesus, Peter," and Peter presses his lips against the
corner of Nathan's mouth, drags them wetly across his cheek and kisses the bone
just before his ear, touches the tip of his tongue against it.
"Fuck," Nathan says, "fuck," and then he slides himself into the space between
the window and Peter's legs, muttering, "Move, move," and Peter touches his
fingertips to Nathan's shoulder, to his neck, soft skin and rough stubble and
then the still-damp hair in his fist and Nathan's mouth around him, taking him
in. His other hand is still pressed against the glass and he stares out the
window and right up at the stars as Nathan wraps his fist around him, starts
moving his head, and then it's all wetness and heat and need and Nathan's hand,
gripped tight around his hip, bruising, anchoring him. He can hear his own
breath coming out in small hitching gasps, his entire world reduced to this,
now: his hand in Nathan's hair and Nathan's moans all around him, Nathan's
fingers leaving deep angry marks on his skin, Nathan pulling him back into his
body, gathering up all the pieces Peter can never hold on to and smoothing over
the jagged edges, all the painful brightness inside him giving way to a red-hot
sunrise glow, and then Nathan squeezes hard around him and whispers, "Come on,
let it go," and Peter comes, wordlessly, gratefully.
When he opens his eyes, Nathan is staring up at him, both his hands curled
around Peter's thighs and Peter's come sliding thickly down his neck and chest,
and he's perfect and he's entirely Peter's, all his, and it's overwhelming,
makes it hard to catch his breath, and when he tightens his fingers in Nathan's
hair again Nathan arches into the pull, so beautiful and just as lost as Peter
feels. "Please, let me see," he says, voice shaky. "Come for me," and Nathan
curls closer without thinking, hand on Peter's thigh and his forehead on the
side of Peter's belly, holding on to him as he rocks into his fist, his breath
a sharp, hot rhythm against Peter's skin and the sweat on the back of his neck
slippery under his palm, and then he groans, comes all over his thighs and
Peter's feet and the plush red carpet between them.
Peter sinks down to the floor, feeling heavy and solid now, arranges his limbs
and Nathan's until he's comfortable and Nathan doesn't protest anymore. "I love
you," he says, breathlessly, and kisses Nathan's face, then licks at a bead of
come on his neck.
Nathan's voice still sounds rough when he says, "It's dried, Pete, that's
gross," and Peter huffs out a laugh into the crook of his shoulder, a small,
happy sound.
"Whatever."
Nathan flicks him over the head and then leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet,
his hand on Peter's cheek and his fingertips in his sweaty hair, and if Peter
could he would stop time right now, would make the whole world skid to a halt
around them, but he isn't supposed to and he never gets to keep this.
-
Peter was six when his entire world collapsed for the first time. The week
after the willow tree he found Nathan in his bedroom, piling shirts into his
suitcase, and when he asked him where he was going, Nathan sighed and picked
him up, sat him down on the edge of the bed.
"I'm going to college, Peter. I'll be home on the weekend as often as I can,
and I will call you and Ma, okay? It's not too far away, maybe you can come
visit me some time."
"But you'll be gone."
"I'll be back on the weekends."
"But you'll be gone."
"Peter."
It made no sense to him. Nathan was supposed to be there when he woke up from
the nightmares, or when he made it rain in big, heavy drops that splashed
against the window, pitter-patter music as he curled up on Nathan's bed and
made him read stories until Nathan started complaining about his voice getting
hoarse, and then he'd tell the sun to come out again, watched Nathan squint
against the sudden brightness washing in. That's how it went, how it was
supposed to be, and there was no place in their life for college.
"It's what people do, buddy. They go to school and then to college and then
they get a job. You'll see when you get older."
He'd remember, later, the one week he spent in school as a dizzying cacophony
of colors and noise and his classmates' whooping laughter when he crouched down
in the corner to talk to the classroom pet, an aging guinea pig that winced
away from his touch at first, and more than anything else he'd remember how sad
that made him, how sorry he felt. He made Ma promise him that he'd never have
to go back to that place, and she just looked at him, her lips pressed together
and eyes shining, and brushed his hair from his forehead, nodding her head
eventually. "I promise," she said, and Peter wrapped his arms around her
middle, burrowed into the fabric of her skirt.
He learned to live without Nathan, the first couple of weeks, learned how to
carefully fill in the hole he'd left behind, a Nathan puzzle consisting of the
comforting chattering of birds, and the excitement of rain followed by sunshine
followed by a heavy storm, the sweetness of candy, bright and colorful and
entirely artificial in a way that he could deal with, could get used to. It was
a poor substitute and the pieces never quite fit together, never quite made one
whole, because how could they. He clung to Nathan when he came home and clung
to him when he left again, but he always promised Peter he'd be back and then
kissed the top of his head before leaving once more.
It was a routine, of a sort, that he tried to settle into. Ma started talking
about homeschooling and bought books and maps that he pored over because she
asked him to and because he didn't want to disappoint her. She made little
report cards for him that he showed to Nathan, and he'd read them out loud and
then smile down at Peter and ruffle his hair, or sigh and crouch down to talk
about responsibilities, depending on how many times he'd skipped out on Ma to
curl up under a tree instead. Ma would come up behind them and tell Nathan, "I
just don't know what to do with him anymore," and Peter promised him he'd do
better, he really would.
The first weekend Nathan didn't come home, this happened: a heavy rain that
didn't stop for a whole day and a whole night and turned the garden into a sea
of dirty mud and dead flowers floating atop the puddles, a rain so relentless
and furious it tinged the whole sky a menacing dark gray as far as the eye
could see and flooded whole basements in the lower parts of the town. Ma
threatened to call Nathan and tell him what Peter had done, and he screamed at
her until she put the phone down and buried her face in her hands, shoulders
shaking. He went outside into the rain and waded through the mud, collecting
flower stems and broken twigs in his hands, whispering I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
I'm sorry until the rain let up, became a fine drizzle and then stopped
altogether, the sudden quiet startling after the endless, rushing noise.
The sun came up like after a long night, and Peter fell to his knees and buried
his hands in the heavy wet earth, helpless and panicked, and it took all his
strength to repair the damage, until the grass was lush and green and soft
under his feet again. The flowers were slowly starting to turn their heads to
the sun and Peter wanted to grab Nathan's hand and tell him how beautiful they
were and that they had forgiven him, but Nathan wasn't there, was gone, and
that was the first time.
-
Peter wakes up at sunrise, as he always does. He peels himself from his blanket
cocoon and pads over to their bags, rummaging as quietly as he can until he
finds two packs of candy. He leaves one on the nightstand and opens the other
one, peanut butter cups that he pops into his mouth as he watches Nathan sleep,
legs folded under him and blanket drawn around his shoulders.
When Nathan stirs and squints at him he glances over to the clock and tells
him, "Seven thirty," and Nathan turns over with a groan, pulls the sheets up to
his chin. He can't see Nathan's face when he mumbles around the candy, "We can
stay another day," but he knows that Nathan opens his eyes then, trying to will
himself awake for a discussion.
"I don't think I can handle another day," he says finally, voice sleep-rough
and low.
"I'll be better today, really. I just-- wasn't prepared, I guess."
Nathan turns around, still wrapped in the sheet and hair messy against the
pillow. "It's Las Vegas, Peter, what did you expect."
"I don't know. I thought it might be fun."
Nathan snorts and Peter tilts his face to the window, closes his eyes against
the pale sunlight. "I have a feeling it might rain today," he says, then turns
back to Nathan. "I like rain."
Nathan looks at him, face unreadable, then shifts until he can snake an arm
across the bedsheet and cup his hand over Peter's knee. "Okay," he says.
"Okay."
 
                                                            Mother calling out
                                                       To bring the end around
                                                          We weren't quite done
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