The Circle Game

Characters: Nathan/Peter
Words: 5,000
Disclaimer: All characters belong to NBC, not me.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Peter goes back in time.


New York, NY. November 2006.

"He said ‘save the cheerleader, save the world,' and so I did," says Peter. "He was from the future. He knew."

This isn't usual for them: lying together and talking afterwards, but then again, nothing seems usual anymore. "Hiro Nakamura," says Nathan. "Very excitable, strong accent?"

"He didn't seem excitable. More like solemn. He had a sword."

"That's Hiro."

"So, you see. Claire has to be here. She saves us. Don't make her go."

Nathan sighs. "I can't make anyone do anything. Not Claire, not you, not the voters." He knows he sounds fatalistic, and Peter gives him a disappointed look. He wants Nathan fighting, not beaten.

He's alive, Nathan reminds himself like a mantra. He can't help coming back to that thought, even with Peter lying next to him, Nathan's sweat cooling on Peter's body. This time together feels like a honeymoon, a lull—this strange period of waiting before the election. The explosion. It's out of Nathan's hands. In a few days he'll be everything or nothing, but for now he's a side note, a foot note, a pawn to bigger forces.

Peter turns next to him, rolling over to face Nathan. "Nathan," he says. His voice is low and urgent. "We have to talk about this . . ."

Once that would have meant the two of them, but the coming storm has settled them into something safe and predictable, at least for now. "Do you know anything new?" asks Nathan. "Anything that might help?"

"No, but . . ."

"Then there's nothing to talk about." He kisses Peter's forehead and lets his lips linger there. Now each time feels like a last meal before execution.

Nathan lies back and Peter rests his head on Nathan's chest. He puts his hand on Nathan's stomach and they breathe together, listening to the quiet sounds of cars going past the park outside, the thin hiss of the radiator, a siren in the distance.

"Can you do what Hiro does?" Nathan asks. "Travel through time?" He's not sure what made him think of it.

Peter looks up and him and frowns at the non sequitur. He sits up and the curve of his back looks so familiar there that Nathan almost feels like he is falling back in time to that night. It was Peter, it had to be. Nathan's wondered for years—it seemed impossible, but Hiro's powers prove it.

"I don't know," Peter says. "I haven't tried."

"You can. It was you, wasn't it?" asks Nathan.

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Peter. He leans over to kiss Nathan again, and again the memory is so strong that Nathan can hardly tell the difference between that Peter, and this, that moment, and this one. Except then Nathan's body was slimmer and younger. Peter was exactly the same.

"Brad Siedelman's party. He got arrested that night," says Nathan. "And there was someone there. He looked like you . . ."

Peter frowns in concentration, and a distant look creeps into his eyes, like he's listening to something outside the normal range of sound. Nathan has seen that look before, knows what it means, but this time at least, he doesn't mind. The Peter of that night had worn that expression too, and he must have also read a much younger Nathan's mind.






Westchester, NY. June 1986.

"Brad's parents are going to be there, right Nathan?" asked Mrs. Petrelli from the family room.

"Right, Ma," said Nathan, a patent lie. But she knew it was a lie too, and didn't care. It gave her plausible deniability, placed any blame squarely on Nathan's shoulders.

"Be quiet when you come in," she called out as he neared the door. "It's a school night for some people."

"For me too," he said under his breath, nowhere near loud enough for her to hear. It was close enough to graduation that she probably didn't care anyway, her attention all on Peter, his kindergarten graduation.

He drove to Brad's party in the car his father had gotten him for his sixteenth birthday. It wasn't anything too special, just a Saab, but Nathan's parents didn't like to show off their wealth the way some of his classmates' families did, and Nathan had learned to live with that.

He arrived at the party around 9:30, a calculated half hour later than everyone who would want to see him. "Heeyyyy, Nate," said Brad when he opened the door.

Nathan smiled with only his mouth and said, "Hi, Bradley." Brad hated to be called Bradley almost as much as Nathan hated to be called Nate. "Where is everyone?"

"Downstairs," said Brad. "Pool's open."

Nathan smiled for real now. The girls would have remembered their bathing suits, and they'd swim around and show off and flirt without requiring too much real attention.

"Hey, Nathan," said Brad's twin sister, Sarah when Nathan went downstairs. "I hear you're going to be valedictorian."

Nathan smiled and bowed his head slightly. "Oh, I don't know," he said with false modesty. He knew precisely how close he'd come to missing it too, but this crowd didn't value grades as much as they did cars and clothes and expensive vacations, and no one liked a know-it-all. Still, Nathan intended to earn as much as he could on his own merit—Sarah and Brad might not mind owing their parents for everything, but Nathan already chafed at that dependence.

He found the beer in a cooler on the back patio. No one had gone in the pool yet, but a few girls in skirts dangled their feet in, swishing them back and forth through the greenly lit water. He recognized most of the people, either from Excelsior or from the nearby public high school. These were the children of his parents' friends, people he'd known forever.

Nathan made a full circuit through the party, keeping an eye on where Sarah was at all times. She was his plan for the evening—not pretty enough to date, but interested enough for a night of fun, with the added bonus of pissing off Brad. It wasn't time to talk to her again, though. Nathan could feel her eyes on his back when he went to talk to another girl; he could keep her waiting for a while yet.

By 10:30 the downstairs was packed, and Nathan was deep in conversation with a short blonde girl named Tara. He didn't know why he looked up at that moment—he'd been about to casually brush Tara's hair out of her face and let that gesture lead where it would—she was prettier than Sarah—when something behind her snagged his attention.

A man in his late twenties walked down the carpeted stairs of the finished basement, beer in hand, took a look around the party, bored eyes brushing past Nathan as if he were anyone else. He walked behind Nathan close enough that Nathan could feel the air of his passing, and went outside. Someone's older brother, he decided. His hair was slicked back—A bit guido, thought Nathan.

He turned his attention back to Tara, but something was off now. She scanned the room behind Nathan, looking for someone better to talk to. "You were saying about your sister?" asked Nathan, half-heartedly.

"Yeah, I think I see her. I gotta go talk to her."

Nathan picked up his beer from the Formica bar and walked outside. A few girls had decided to brave the pool, and Nathan watched them appreciatively for a moment. The air was chilly, and he could see Sarah's nipples standing out through her bikini top. Well, Tara was a lost cause, at least for the level of effort Nathan wanted to put in, but Sarah was certainly still a possibility.

He looked at her long enough for her to look back and then turned away. Under the eaves of the house, the man Nathan had noticed earlier sat in a Nantucket chair, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs, and listening to Brad talk about something. He had an amused smile on his face, but Nathan could tell he wasn't amused by anything Brad was saying.

He looked very familiar—he had a handsome face that might have been pretty without the stern set of his jaw, and his eyes were a gentle brown. Definitely Italian. He wore worn but high-quality clothes: flat-front khakis when everyone else wore pleats, a well-fitted polo shirt with a small logo on the chest, too small for Nathan to recognize.

Maybe he was a cousin that Nathan recognized from some wedding. Nathan wouldn't but it past his father to get someone to show up and spy on him—it was his level of deviousness, but not his level of effort. As long as Nathan brought home good grades and didn't get anyone pregnant, his dad didn't care what else he did.

The stranger caught Nathan's surreptitious glances at him, and his smile turned into something warmer, but still amused. He said something to Brad, put his hand on Brad's arm, and then stood up gracefully, beautifully, Nathan caught himself thinking, and walked over to Nathan.

"I'm Peter," he said, extending his hand. He was actually an inch or so shorter than Nathan, but he had a good twenty pounds on him, all muscle, and he had a strange charisma that made Nathan instantly jealous. "Oh, you'll get there," said Peter, half to himself.

"What?" asked Nathan.

Peter smiled and shook his head. "Never mind, Nathan."

"How do you know my name?" he asked. Peter made him feel uncomfortably naked. He looked at Nathan . . . the way I've been looking at the girls in the pool. Nathan fought back a nervous laugh. "You look familiar. You're not a cousin or something?"

"Next you're going to ask if I come here often," said Peter with a sweet laugh that softened any mockery in his words. He seemed younger than he had at first, vulnerable, touchable. Nathan wanted to touch him—just his shoulder, feel his solidity. He had to press his hand against his leg to quell the urge to reach out toward Peter.

Peter smiled as if he could read Nathan's thought. "Brad's going to get arrested," said Peter. "Want to get out of here before that happens?"

Nathan looked around. The party was loud but contained. "He's had worse parties than this," said Nathan. He wanted to ask Peter where they would go, or not even ask, just follow.

"I just think tonight's his night," said Peter. "Or not his night. You know what I mean."

"I wouldn't want to miss the excitement," said Nathan. And I'm not what you think.

Peter didn't say anything to that, and Nathan wondered what he was supposed to do next. He took a swig from his beer and looked toward the pool again. Sarah was still swimming, pretending that she wasn't keeping track of where Nathan was.

"Which one?" asked Peter with a grin.

Nathan jerked his chin up at Sarah. "The one in the blue bikini. Who's pretending she's not looking over here."

"The blonde, huh," said Peter. Nathan looked at him sharply. Peter looked like he wanted to say something, something important, he even opened his mouth slightly, but then shook his head. "She likes you," said Peter.

"Guess so," said Nathan, now diffident. He wanted to impress this Peter for some reason, and his little conquests tonight didn't seem worthy. "Who do you know here?" asked Nathan. And why are you at a high school party?

"I'm just visiting home for a day or so," said Peter.

Home from college, or grad school, or maybe he was one of those guys who never cut the apron strings. "Who are your parents?" asked Nathan, looking at Peter. He was definitely several years older than Nathan's eighteen, but there was something so young about him too, something needy that Nathan hadn't seen at first.

"Here they are," said Peter, as the sound of sirens could be heard, barely, over the Pat Benetar song playing in the basement.

"Did you call them?" asked Nathan.

"So cynical," he said. "I think Brad's parents wanted to make a point."

"Shit, my car's out front."

"Isn't there a path through the woods in back, along the creek?"

There was, and that answered Nathan's questions more. Peter must be a neighborhood kid, all grown up and visiting now, but veteran of his own high school parties, his own escapes. "I guess I'll pick it up in the morning. Where are you going?" asked Nathan.

"I'll make sure you get home safe first," he said, so gravely that Nathan felt he was being teased. When Nathan glanced at Peter, though, his face looked serious.

The moon was full and the air just slightly cool. The path took them along a small, v-shaped ravine that some of the nicer houses in the neighborhood backed up against. It was a few miles back to his house, but Nathan didn't mind the walk; he felt strangely happy next to Peter, away from the posing and artificial intimacy of the party.

They walked slower as they neared the bridge. It was five feet wide, made of two-by-fours nailed onto thicker struts. Nathan had kissed a few girls here, and he felt a strange frisson of excitement when Peter stopped walking and sat down on the bridge, dangling his feet over the water a few yards below.

"So you're going to Princeton?" asked Peter, as Nathan paced back and forth behind him.

"Brad told you that? He didn't get in to any of the Ivy . . ." Nathan trailed off as he saw Peter looking up at him, eyes round and questioning. Peter didn't seem like the type who'd care about that, that Nathan had achieved so much more than Brad. Peter would probably find him petty. "He's waitlisted. I hope he gets in somewhere good," he finished, trying to keep the scorn out of his voice.

Peter nodded and looked down the dark ravine. The trees cast sharp-edged moonlit shadows against the rocks below. Nathan stopped pacing behind Peter, and used Peter's shoulder to steady himself as he sat down next to Peter. He sat close enough that their arms touched, and didn't feel any urge to move away. He had never liked being touched before, found hugs awkward, and even people who stood too close to talk bothered him. His nanny had called him her little soldier when he was small and she hadn't meant it as a compliment.

But here was this Peter, strange and familiar at once, and Nathan wanted the warmth of Peter's shoulder against his. "Dad went to Princeton," said Nathan, after sitting down. "He liked it."

Peter turned to him, with a sad smile. "My dad went to Princeton, too. He always wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. He had a Princeton chair he was going to give to . . ." Peter trailed off for no reason Nathan could tell and looked over at him. "It always sounded like a fun place," Peter added.

"Good," said Nathan. He picked up a pebble that was sitting on the bridge and turned it over a few times in his hands before throwing it down the ravine, and listening to it skip along the rocks before splashing into some water. "It's not like there's much choice."

Peter had shifted on the bridge so he sat facing Nathan, still looking at him, and so Nathan turned toward him again. Peter wore this sad little smile on his face, and he was close enough to Nathan that Nathan felt like he should pull away and put some distance between them. Peter reached up as if he were about to touch Nathan's face, but then put his hand on Nathan's shoulder instead.

He could have been with Sarah now, sitting like this somewhere: here in the woods or, more likely, in the corner of her parent's basement. He would have tipped her chin up so her lips met his, but they wouldn't have looked at each other like this. He wouldn't have felt each finger on his shoulder like a brand. They probably wouldn't have made eye contact at all. Nathan wasn't into that lovey-dovey stuff, especially not with a girl like Sarah, but now when Peter lifted his eyes to Nathan's, Nathan couldn't look away.

Peter leaned forward and brushed his lips against Nathan's, soft but not hesitant. "What was that?" asked Nathan. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet forest. "I'm not gay, okay?" he added in a whisper. He sounded foolish and young, and not convincing even to himself. Peter's hand was light on his shoulder; Nathan could leave any time, but instead he found himself wishing that Peter would slide his hand up to Nathan's face, and kiss him for real.

"I know," said Peter. "It doesn't matter." He did move his hand from Nathan's shoulder to wrap around his neck pulled Nathan in to kiss him more deeply.

Suddenly, Nathan wanted to taste all of Peter's mouth, let Peter taste all of him. He was hard and it didn't even matter that it was for a guy because Peter wasn't just some guy, he was someone Nathan's body seemed to know, and want, and welcome, and all Nathan could do was go along for the ride.

Peter's hands were busy under Nathan's polo shirt, running over Nathan's back, and Nathan pulled Peter's head down so he could kiss Nathan's neck. Peter bit his neck hard enough to sting, but it didn't feel like pain, just an extra fillip of sensation that went straight from his throat to his cock. Peter pushed him so he lay back on the bridge, and there were stones and twigs under Nathan's back, but he felt those much less than Peter's chest pressing against his, Peter's lips and teeth leaving a trail over his skin.

Peter straddled Nathan's legs, and pushed up his shirt, then kissed and bit down his chest. His hair smelled like the same gel Nathan used, and his shirt like Nathan's old room, back in the Gramercy Park house, like old wood and cedar chests. Peter undid Nathan's fly and pulled his jeans down over his hips so Nathan's ass pressed against the grainy wood of the bridge. He curled his hand around Nathan's cock. His hand was cold, but warmed as he rubbed Nathan.

"Please," Nathan heard himself saying, and he watched a smile slip over Peter's lips before he sucked the head of Nathan's cock into his mouth. Nathan almost came then and there; Peter's hot mouth around him, sucking and licking, and giving a far more expert blowjob than any high school girls of Nathan's acquaintance wouldn't let him last for long. Peter teased Nathan with his tongue and ran his fingers over Nathan's stomach and his thighs. The touching felt unbearably intimate, more of a transgression than Peter's mouth on him.

"Yes," said Nathan, knotting his hand through Peter's hair. "Please." Peter started sucking harder, in the perfect rhythm, so Nathan didn't have to move his hips at all, just go along for the ride. He dug his fingers into Peter's shoulder as he came hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"You liked that?" asked Peter, unnecessarily, thought Nathan.

"Yes. Very much." Nathan sat up and ran his hand through his hair, removing a few stray twigs and leaves. He tugged his pants back up and buttoned his fly. "What now?" he asked. Peter put his forehead to Nathan's and Nathan kissed him again, feeling reckless and free. Peter tasted like his come, and it should have been gross, but it wasn't, it was just another mark of how they belonged here together.

"Well," said Peter, with a shrug. "We can . . ." He trailed off and gave Nathan a smile full of tantalizing suggestions.

"Not here," said Nathan quickly. "My parents have a pool house. No one will see."

"Whatever you say," said Peter. "Lead on."

It was still a too-long mile back to Nathan's house, and they stopped every so often to press each other up against the fence that bordered the path, and kiss some more, and when Peter curved his hands around Nathan's ass to haul him in closer, a chill went down Nathan's spine.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Tell me."

"I told you. I used to live around here," said Peter. He looked more amused than anything. "You know me, Nathan," he said, and Nathan felt the weight of those words, a truth in them that he couldn't deny. "You want this." Peter added something as he bent his head back to Nathan's neck. It sounded like "You'll always want this."

The key to the pool house was hidden in the looped garden hose hanging on the side of the shed. Inside were a day bed and a shower stall. Nothing too fancy, but it looked like heaven to Nathan.

"What happens now?" asked Nathan. "I haven't, ever . . ."

"I know," said Peter solemnly, but Nathan felt Peter was laughing at him a little. He didn't mind, though, not when it came with that slight dimpling in of the side of Peter's mouth, that tilt of his head. "I'll show you."

Nathan stripped off his shirt, folded it up and put it on a chair. Peter watched him, amused, until Nathan scowled and said, "What?" He didn't care if his clothes were neat, but he was stalling now, nervous again.

"Nothing. You remind me of someone. Come over here."

They kneeled facing each other on the day bed. Nathan kissed Peter again, and then pulled Peter's shirt up over his head. He ran his hands greedily over Peter's back, his ass, through his hair, which was soft at the nape of his neck. His chest was even smoother than Nathan's, hairless everywhere except the trail of dark hair that stood out against his pale skin, leading from his navel to disappear into the top of his soft khakis. Nathan ran his hands under the waistband of Peter's trousers, wanting more, wanting to push himself to the edge and beyond, but he chickened out and stopped short of undoing Peter's fly.

"I'll do it," said Peter. He undid his fly and let Nathan push his jeans down. Nathan brushed his thumbs over Peter's hipbones, filled his palms with Peter's ass, and pulled Peter toward him again. He would wonder later, how it had been so easy for him to give himself up to this, but at the time he didn't stop to think about pulling Peter down on top of him on the bed. Peter wriggled out of his jeans the rest of the way then undid Nathan's and pulled them off, taking Nathan's underwear with it.

Peter straddled him again, but Nathan play-wrestled with him until he got the upper hand and rolled over on top of him. Peter reached between Nathan's legs and cupped his hand around Nathan's ass, trailed his fingers over his hip and curled his hand around Nathan's cock.

"Oh, to be seventeen again," said Peter, a little sarcastically, when Nathan became hard again as soon as Peter touched him.

"Eighteen," Nathan corrected automatically. Nathan looked down at Peter; his dark eyes were wide and pleading now, too raw and open for Nathan to look at for long,

"I want you to fuck me," said Peter, his eyes never leaving Nathan's face. "It's been . . . ." He sighed deeply. "It's been a while."

"Okay," said Nathan. His voice had gone a little high, and he cleared his throat to get it to return to normal. "Just tell me . . . show me what to do."

Peter nodded, and Nathan kissed his way down Peter's chest, sucking on his nipples and biting down the line of his ribs. He ran his hand down Peter's stomach, stroked his cock a few times, and then at Peter's instruction, pushed his well-lubed finger up into Peter. "Yes," said Peter, "that's right."

Nathan watched Peter's face, the expressions that flickered across it as he replaced one finger with two: a frown of concentration, and then a self-satisfied sigh, like a contented cat. Peter's cock was heavy and half hard against Nathan's arm, but that didn't seem strange anymore, and Nathan himself was painfully hard at the thought of this, of watching Peter's face when he came.

"Please," said Peter. He reached up to cradle Nathan's face in his hand. He drew his legs up and Nathan put his cock against Peter's entrance. Peter reached around to put more lube on and guide him in. Nathan pushed in slowly until Peter bit his lip and made an expression of what looked like pain. He was about to pull away, but Peter grabbed Nathan's hip and held them there. Peter's breath came shallow and quick, but it slowed as he held Nathan there against him, not moving.

"Now—you can . . ." said Peter, and Nathan started to move forward slowly again, feeling Peter open for him as he watched Peter's face. Peter didn't look like it was fun or even pleasurable for him, and it was just on the painful side of pleasure for Nathan.

"What, what's wrong?" asked Nathan. He wanted to erase that expression of pain if he could. He reached out to touch Peter's cheek, rubbed his thumb against the frown lines creasing Peter's forehead. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," said Peter. He sat up enough so he could kiss Nathan's mouth. "Fuck me," he murmured against Nathan's lips. That was enough to get Nathan going again. Nathan moved himself back and forth, kissing Peter messily, brokenly, and then sped up as Peter lay back and wrapped his hand around his cock. This felt like nothing Nathan had ever experienced before: Peter looking at him, making Nathan look back—this was everything sex was supposed to be, not just a too-quick drunken fumble in a basement somewhere.

Peter moved his hips back and forth, rocking with Nathan's motions, and Nathan watched his face, his lovely features contorted in pleasure now, pleasure Nathan was giving him. "I'm gonna come," said Peter. "Yes, now, now, harder," and Nathan sped his movements until Peter spilled over his own hand and tightened around him. Peter's head thrown back, his one hand around his cock and the other grasping for Nathan was more than Nathan could stand and he thrust one last time, before he was coming too, and making sounds that embarrassed him when he thought of them later.

"Was that . . . ?" asked Nathan when he rolled off and lay on his back looking at the ceiling. "I mean, that was great."

"That was great," echoed Peter. Nathan got up to get some tissues and glasses of water, and when he got back , Peter had stood up, and started to put his clothes on.

"I have to go." said Peter.

"Don't," said Nathan. "You can take a shower here."

"No," said Peter. "Your parents will have heard about the cops by now. They'll be worried."

"Not likely," said Nathan. He walked over to Peter, and put his hands on Peter's shoulders. "What is this?" he asked.

Peter looked away. "I can't," he said. He pulled Nathan in for a kiss that tasted of sweat, of come, of both of them, a kiss that was a goodbye.

"Will I see you again?" asked Nathan when Peter pulled away from him. He wanted the answer to be yes, mostly, no matter what it meant for him, for his neat and perfect life, but part of him hoped this would be the only time. If Peter stayed, Nathan couldn't imagine keeping this secret very long.

Peter tugged his t-shirt back over his head, and Nathan could admire now, without shame, how beautiful he was, graceful and perfect. Peter pulled the shirt down over his stomach and pushed his hair back up off his face.

"You keep secrets well, Nathan," he said, looking away. "Keep this one."

"Tell me," said Nathan.

Peter raised his eyes to Nathan's. "In a way," he said. "You'll see me." He opened the door to the pool house and walked out without looking back.



New York, NY. November 2006.

"Some random guy in the woods, Nathan. I didn't think that was your style," says Peter, after Nathan watches him pull the memories out of Nathan's mind, and turn them over in his own. He tries to smile at Nathan but it doesn't quite work.

"Well," says Nathan acidly, "it wasn't some random guy."

"I don't remember doing that. Or I haven't yet. Why would I . . .?"

"You said . . . ." Nathan swallows and tries again. "You said I would see you again but you—."

"I wouldn't see you."

Nathan closes his eyes. He remembers it so clearly now, remembers being young and foolish with that Peter, and again, later in Texas, looking for something missing. He remembers coming back from Bosnia and seeing Peter as a young man for the first time, and having a memories he couldn't escape. A memory of a face that shouldn't be the same one his younger brother wears, a memory of mannerisms, of fingers on his skin that had to belong to someone else.

"I thought I'd remembered his name wrong, something. He looked like you, so I remembered him as Peter." Nathan laughs harshly.

"Nathan, I didn't do that."

"You will," said Nathan. "If you hadn't, if we'd been . . ." Would we have been different?

"Would you have wanted us to be different?" asked Peter. "Would you?"

It seems that Peter can't dig the answer to that out of Nathan's mind until Nathan shapes it himself. "No." says Nathan, almost inaudibly. Then louder: "No, not different."

"Why do you think I did it? If I can travel through time, then I can fix this—" Meaning the end of New York, Nathan thinks, not them. "Then I wouldn't have to—."

"I don't know," says Nathan, but he does: it was Peter's goodbye. "Maybe you'll find out when you get there. Maybe there is no other way."


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