hackthis_archive | Heroes - Five Scenes From a Life Not Led (Peter/Nathan, R, AU)

I had all these ideas that I realized I was never going to get a chance to fully explore, so I wrote this. I like it; I hope you do too.

Heroes
Peter/Nathan, R
Five Things AU

Five Scenes From a Life Not Led

i.

Nathan is on the phone naked. To be more specific: Nathan is standing next to the end table, which the phone is on, and he's talking to someone else while he's naked. Well, he's not entirely naked -- he's wearing a towel -- but Peter's imagination has always been startlingly vivid, so the towel might as well not exist at all.

Nathan is cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and he's holding onto the towel loosely with one hand. It's clear, however, based on the way the towel is danger of slipping off at any moment that Nathan's attention is firmly on the conversation he's having with someone else. It's a low-volumed conversation, full of 'uh huh's and 'yes's and 'no, that's not acceptable's.

Peter's brain isn't really paying attention, mostly because he's brain dead. Afternoon sex with Nathan tends to do that to him. Decadent, epic Sunday afternoon sex, with the sun streaming in through the gauzy curtains and the fading feelings of Nathan inside of him really tends to make Peter stupid.

Peter watches lazily as Nathan picks up a pen and jots something down on a white pad. Nathan's long, thick fingers wrap around the slender black pen, and Peter's left calf twitches when he thinks about what Nathan's fingers were doing to him just a little while ago.

Nathan's fingerprints are all over Peter's skin. All over Peter's heart. Nathan's hands have helped craft Peter's soul. Every ache, every breath, every fibre of Peter's being has Nathan written all over it.

Haphazard rivulets of water dare to wind their way from Nathan's hairline down his chest, and Peter's mouth is dry; he wants to lick them away. When he exhales softly, Nathan glances upward curiously as though he's forgotten Peter still stretched out on the thousand-count sheets in this particular hotel bed. An arch of Nathan's eyebrow tells Peter that he hasn't been forgotten at all, and Peter rolls over onto his side and scratches at his chest idly.

The flat sheet drapes itself over Peter's hip, highlighting his desire for yet even more indulgence, but Peter thinks telling Nathan to come back to bed is cliché. Just because he's sleeping with the President of the United States is no reason to act like some vapid mistress, so instead he just stares until Nathan hangs up the phone and drops his towel and his pretenses on the floor.

ii.

The beautiful thing about running the world from the 102nd Floor of the Petrelli Building -- the White House had been destroyed during one of Peter's outbursts several years ago -- is that it's hard for anyone to actually surprise Nathan unless they just happen to be flying past and land on the roof.

The roof, however, is calibrated to accept only three weights, 172 pounds, 156 pounds or their combination. Never anything more. And so Nathan knows Peter is in the room before he sees him -- not because his pulse starts to race (it does) or because he can feel Peter's eyes on the nape is his neck (he can) -- but because his secretary's voice falters and she starts to stutter.

The Secretary to the Supreme Dictator of the United States should not have a stuttering problem, but Peter tends to have that effect on people. It's called fear.

"Is there anything else, Janeane?" Nathan asks resignedly, setting down his pen before scratching the place where the collar of his shirt is rubbing against a mark that Peter left on him last night.

"No, no sir." Janeane is a perfectly competent assistant. Well, if nothing else she hasn't run off screaming every time Peter materializes through a wall, but Nathan can see it's starting to take a toll.

Nathan watches as she stacks various manila folders bearing the dictatorial seal on top of each other, smiling perfunctorily when she gives him a wobbly nod of the head and scurries out of the room.

She makes a squeaking noise when Peter takes a step towards her and Nathan frowns. "If you scare off all the help, I'll have to waste my time writing these decrees myself, and then you'll be sorry."

Peter rolls his eyes, the scar bisecting his face making the action seem that much more exaggerated. "I'm already sorry that I made you Supreme Dictator," he says, discarding his black wool coat on the sofa as he crosses the office to Nathan's desk.

Nathan smirks as he sits on the edge of his desk and crosses his arms. "And why's that?"

Peter's bottom lip juts out in what could be pout on anyone who isn't the Supreme Enforcer -- Nathan objected to Supreme Consort and Peter didn't like anything that didn't say he had the right to blow up, kill, maim or destroy at his whim. "Because you work too hard."

Nathan laughs even as Peter moves into his personal space and shoves him flat on his desk. The solid wood gives a mild quiver as Peter climbs up on the desk and straddles Nathan's hips.

Nathan licks his lower lip as Peter deftly undoes his shirt, sending white buttons flying off into the ether, but when he reaches up, his hands are slammed back onto the desk. Peter tends to like his telekinesis a lot, and Nathan's nostrils flare as Peter yanks his own tee shirt over his head, exposing scars and red scratch marks that he's purposefully left unhealed.

"You know," Nathan says conversationally as Peter yanks Nathan's belt out of the belt loops and unzips his trousers, "most people just say, 'I want to fuck,' instead of going through all the theatrics."

Peter gets on all fours and begins to move backwards, floating in the air when he moves beyond the length of the desk. "Yeah, I know, but you've always liked it when I'm melodramatic."

Nathan opens his mouth to reply but instead lets out a soft groan when Peter's mouth closes over the head of his cock.

The other great thing about running the world from a castle in the sky is that Nathan can have floor to ceiling windows and loud, messy, physical sex with Peter in the middle of the day and not worry about voyeurs.

iii.

Nathan's holding a butter knife between his teeth as he twists the lid off of a jar of peanut butter, and Peter pauses in the entry way.

He's been living with his fraternal twin -- oh, his entire life -- but this is the first time he's come upon Nathan making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his boxer-briefs. Peter's not sure which part of the equation he finds more strangely erotic, that his twin can make something as boring as making a sandwich seem hot, or that Nathan's wearing his underwear while he does this.

Peter drops his backpack on the floor noisily. "Honey, I'm home," he says by way of greeting, eyeing his brother as he pushes dark locks behind his ear.

To his credit, Nathan doesn't even look up from his art project as Peter kicks off his sneakers and crosses the room to where Nathan's being haloed by the sun filtering greyly through their filthy kitchen windows.

When Peter sticks his finger in the open jar of Jif peanut butter, Nathan whaps the back of his hand with the butter knife. "I know exactly where your hands have been, so stop it," Nathan says mildly.

Peter sticks a glob of peanut butter in his mouth, before he replies. "You've never complained about where my hands have been before."

"I'm sick, I don't need more of your germs." Nathan upends the better part of half a jar of grape jelly on a slice of the organic seven-grain bread that Peter loves. Nathan hates organic food.

Peter immediately puts a hand on Nathan's forehead, but Nathan pulls away. "You don't feel hot," Peter remarks. "Is it your stomach? Why didn't you call me? Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

Nathan snorts. "It's not that kind of take-time-away-from-Pete's-dying-stiffs illness. It's the illness of 'the playoffs are in the middle of the afternoon, and Judge Kanji dismissed the court early, and I didn't feel like going back to the office.'"

Peter blinks. "You didn't want to spend yet another maddeningly long day in the yellowing, dank, asbestos-filled halls of the District Attorney's office? Okay, now I really do think you're not feeling well."

In reply, Nathan wetly slaps his slabs of peanut butter and jelly together and takes a large bite. "Bite me," Nathan says around a mouthful of food, jelly staining the corners of his mouth.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "That can be arranged," he says, crowding his brother against the counter. Faint hints of soap and aftershave and hair gel hang indolently in the air around Nathan, and Nathan smirks as Peter's hands hook into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

"I feel like I've seen these somewhere before -- oh, yeah, I think I was wearing them."

Nathan wipes at the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. "Do you want them back? Now?"

Peter tugs with a little bit more force. "Yeah, I think I do."

Nathan takes another bite of his sandwich. "Make me an offer I can't refuse."

Peter's grin is all lecherous promise. "How about I just blow you here?"

Nathan pretends to think it over for a moment. "Yeah, that works for me."

iv.

It's hot. It's too hot for clothing. It's too hot for breathing. Peter has no idea why he thought coming to the desert was going to save him from exploding. At the moment all it's doing is making him melt.

The air-conditioning in this backwater motel only seems to work for fifteen minutes at any given clip, so Peter's taken to lying around in his underwear and trying to stay as still as possible. Every couple of hours he gets up and goes to take a cold shower. He's been doing this for a little over a week, and he's bored out of his mind. He's already gone through two yellowing romance novels from Mindy at reception and caught up on the last seven years of General Hospital in three hours -- Sonny hasn't aged a day, but Peter misses the old Carly.

The knock on the door of his motel room startles him, but Peter's been waiting for it for three days now. Nathan doesn't even blink when Peter answers the door in his briefs. "Nice sartorial choice," Nathan says wryly, looking Peter up and down once.

Peter smirks and leans against the doorframe. "I'm channeling my inner hustler."

Nathan shakes his head and brushes past, stepping inside the room. "If you're hustling, how much for the hour?"

Peter blinks against the bright Nevada sun and turns back inside the room. He's not expecting it when Nathan loosens his tie and looks at him expectantly.

There are lots of things that belong inside this tacky motel, Nathan isn't one of them, and yet there's something about his presence that's incontrovertibly right. At least for Peter. Peter cocks his head to
the side and smiles honestly for the first time in days.

"You can't rent me for the hour," he says, turning back briefly to shut the door and fasten the cheap bolt, "but you can have me for the day." Nathan's eyes narrow slightly as Peter crosses the room. "Or for the night."

Nathan's hands hang by his sides as Peter takes hold of his tie and pulls it free. This is them. This is their thing. They never talk about this -- but they never talk about a lot of things.

Peter's breathing seems loud in his own ears as he unfastens the neck of Nathan's Oxford and his fingers brush against the hollow of Nathan's throat. Nathan's skin is smooth and hot under Peter's fingers, and Peter inhales sharply as Nathan's hands hook around Peter's waist and dip under the elastic band of Peter's briefs.

Nathan's fingers are collecting sweat in the small of Peter's spine, and a few inches south they're brushing the crease of Peter's ass. Peter feels like he's being branded as Nathan's lips graze his forehead. "Maybe I should just buy you outright."

Peter smirks against the column of Nathan's neck. "I thought you already had -- or did you sell me again for more percentage points in the polls?"

Peter's taken completely off guard when Nathan shoves him away and he lands sprawl-eagled on the bed. He blinks under the intensity of Nathan's glare, and then grins. "You always have to do things your way, don't you?"

Nathan unfastens his cufflinks, slips them into his right pocket and then begins to unfasten his shirt. "Look who's talking about doing things the hard way. I suppose I should just be happy you didn't run off to save this theoretical cheerleader and get yourself killed."

v.

Nathan remembers the falling. And he remembers that his name is Nathan. He doesn't know how he wound up on the beach with the tide washing over him and sand crabs crawling over his stomach. He does know that they're sand crabs though, just as he knows that he shouldn't be running around naked.

The palm fronds itch in the wrong place, but something tells him that he prefers a little discomfort over immodesty. Nathan is fairly certain that he's conservative about a lot of things. Well, maybe not everything. There's piece of gold melded to his ring finger and another to his pinkie, so he's liberal enough to be married, or possibly a really careless blacksmith. The metal melding-to-skin thing is very disconcerting though, and the gold pulls on his skin like a nagging memory that he can't recall, but Nathan can't recall anything right now anyway.

In the end, it's just another irritation, but so is being naked (except for some scratchy palm leaves) and not having a clue where he is or why he's there or how he got there. Nathan has things that he knows: too much sun is bad, he's got really awful burns on his hands and forearms, and he needs to get up and explore the island. Or the peninsula. Or whatever this place is. When he sees the other man sitting on the beach, staring into the surf, Nathan can feel the pull between them. It's like the gold on his skin and the nagging memories that he can't find just now.

The other man turns his head at the same time that Nathan comes around the bend in the island as though he could hear Nathan coming, which is just stupid, since the waves are loud and the wind is blowing. Nathan can hardly hear himself think, there's no way anyone could hear him slogging through the sand. All the same, Nathan stops, because he's uncertain, and he's fairly sure that he doesn't like being uncertain, and he stands there warily as the other man gets to his feet and walks towards him.

Nathan can feel something instinctive thrumming in his gut, something telling him to turn tail and run, but Nathan doesn't think he's a runner. He thinks he's supposed to fly, but that’s just foolish because he can't fly, and there's this naked man coming closer and closer and then Nathan's on his back in the sand being thoroughly kissed by some man he doesn't even know. But if Nathan doesn't know him then why is Nathan kissing him back? Why is Nathan's body responding to a total stranger?

Nathan lies there, pliant and willing and then instinct kicks in and he rolls them over until he's on top and the stranger is on his back. Sand falls from Nathan's hair onto the stranger's lips and Nathan stares at him for long seconds before reaching down and brushing the sand from the stranger's mouth.

The man blinks up at Nathan and bats long black hair out of his eyes and Nathan's mouth opens without a second thought. When Nathan says Peter's name, he understands it's something that doesn't come from his brain, but from his heart.

-end-

Beta by the most awesome

antheia. Story initially inspired by ~~soft porn~~ Sunday Morning, an art house book by Fred Gordon.

Current Mood: pleased
Current Music: Joe Purdy 'Waiting on Something Good

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

thisissirius.livejournal.com

These are all awesome! TWINCEST, HOMG. I think that would just be WOAH.

Although I have a thing for Dictator!Nathan and Enforcer!Peter :D This should be explored more!

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

Heroes - Five Scenes From a Life Not Led (Peter/Nathan, R, AU)

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