Your Young Men Shall See Visions

Characters: Nathan/Peter
Words: 19,000
Disclaimer: All characters belong to NBC, not me.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Peter goes to college.
Notes: Special thanks to bethynyc for beta services.

One.

"There, that's the last one," said Nathan. He set his box of books down on top of another one, and sat on top of it, legs splayed, leaning toward Peter, forearms resting on his thighs. He had a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip, and his white t-shirt was darkened in places. "You know, it's common courtesy to offer your mover a beer or pizza, or something."

"I don't even have the fridge plugged in yet," said Peter. And I'm under age, he added to himself, but Nathan wouldn't think that a necessary consideration.

"I'll be right back," said Nathan. "You start unpacking."

"Sure," said Peter. Fridge first, he decided. Nathan liked to give him these little pieces of advice, and sometimes Peter wanted to resent them, but Nathan was right; Peter should have refreshments for guests. Even in a tiny dorm room at NYU, even if he was underage. He imagined the advice Mom would add: "Nothing too rich, don't try too hard." The Petrellis clung to their middle class pretensions long after they no longer fit. Maybe Nathan would help him stock his fridge with some beer, maybe a bottle of vodka for his freezer—girls, he knew from high school parties, usually liked screwdrivers. He could provide the OJ himself.

Nathan came back while Peter was hanging up clothes in the closet. Peter didn't intend to be this neat once the semester started, but Nathan would have words about a messy dorm room in the first week. Nathan, who could wear a pair of jeans and a thin white t-shirt and still look sharper than most men did in a suit.

Nathan set down the pizza and a six-pack on top of a moving box Peter hadn't unpacked. Peter handed Nathan his college key chain—it had a bottle opener on it, so maybe this underage thing wasn't going to be a problem; it never had been in high school. The beer was Brooklyn Lager, cold and flavorful—no Bud for Nathan—and it did taste good in the heat of the afternoon.

"I thought I was supposed to stay out of trouble," said Peter, taking another swig. He held the bottle between his forefinger and middle finger, consciously echoing the casual way Nathan held it. It looked good, like he knew what he was doing, and if Peter was always playing catch up to Nathan, at least Nathan set a high enough bar to make it worth the effort.

Nathan wrinkled his eyebrows at the beer, wearing an indefinable expression that mixed worry, irony, and a touch of humor. "It's only trouble if you get caught, Pete," he said. "You know what to do, if you do get caught, right?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Do what you do? Call dad?" Which wasn't fair—Nathan didn't get into trouble—or if he did, he handled it himself, and always had.

Nathan stood up and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, instead of giving him friendly punch for being a bratty younger brother. "Listen to me, Peter," he said. "Don't call Dad, call me." Nathan didn't have to say it, but Peter could read it anyway, written across the worry lines that weren't a put-on, the ones etched too early onto Nathan's face. You don't want to pay the price of Dad's help, they said.

Peter returned the look as significantly as he could, but didn't really know this language yet—the one that Nathan spoke in glances full of meaning, in unearned camaraderie. The most time he'd spent with Nathan before this was the summer of Nathan's accident. Christmas and Thanksgiving or the odd family vacation didn't count as time spent together; those times were always full of relatives' visits and Nathan always had friends home for the holidays to visit.

Peter found Nathan's undivided attention was a little overwhelming now, his presence too large and focused for a dingy dorm room on a muggy August day. You okay, Peter tried to ask with his eyes, but Nathan didn't want to talk about it, so Peter shrugged, and said, "Sure thing," as lightly as he knew how.

"Look, Pete, I have to get going," said Nathan, handing Peter the rest of the six-pack. He looked at his watch, as an afterthought, and Peter imagined Nathan's to do list: gym, deposition, bond with brother, drinks with boss. At least Nathan had fit him in.

Nathan flipped open his cell phone to call for a car back to the office. "You wanna shower here or something?" asked Peter.

"Dorm bathroom?" asked Nathan, and Peter felt a crinkle of annoyance. Nathan never tried to hide it when he thought something was beneath him. "No, there's a locker room at the office, and I have an extra suit there."

"Thanks for helping me move," said Peter as he walked Nathan down the stairs to the front door of the building. "Come by after classes start and I'll take you to dinner." Nathan looked at him questioningly. "I get a couple dining hall bonuses a semester," Peter explained.

"I'll come by," said Nathan, leaving the dining hall question open.

Peter walked back up the concrete stairs to his room, which seemed smaller and dimmer without Nathan in it, and Peter felt flattered, again, that Nathan had taken time out from work to move him in. Their father wouldn't have done that. Nathan moved into college and law school on his own, except for some hired movers, and had never even mentioned what it had felt like, alone in a new place, without a friendly face to see him off.

Well, their father was busy, and moving boxes wasn't Mom's style. Peter couldn't picture her without one of her collarless suits, or her pearls, and she only wore slacks when she was in the garden. Peter looked out the window and saw portly dads tugging up the waist bands of their Dockers while moms in shorts and fanny packs turned to the front stage-managed the moving of boxes and TV sets. That wasn't the Petrelli way.

The first few weeks of classes were a blur, as Peter got used to the strange lack of structure. He had classes almost continuously on Tuesday, but none on Wednesday, and on Friday had one at 9:30 but then none until 1:00pm. His laconic RA had said that soon he would figure out how to schedule classes so he could sleep in the morning.

Everyone in Peter's dorm liked him, and he tended to take it for granted that he would be well-liked. He had been in high school: reasonably friendly with all the boys, confidante of all the girls, and the same thing happened at college. And Nathan helped: he stocked Peter's bar and provided him with a fake ID and the instructions, "If you get caught using this, I'll bail you out, but you didn't get it from me."

Peter had no idea what he wanted to study, so his classes were an odd assortment from every department: Linear Algebra, because that came next after his high school Calculus, The Biological World, a science-for-dummies kind of class, the required freshman writing class, Psych 101, and a class in the History of Democratic Countries from Antiquity to the Present. When Peter had filled in his course requests over the summer, Nathan had vetoed some of his more outlandish choices.

"Feminism in the Civil Rights Movement?" Nathan had said. "What else, basket weaving?" Peter steeled himself for something even ruder next—occasionally Nathan channeled their father's more backward acquaintances, and working in the D.A.'s office hadn't made him any more tolerant of the city's less privileged, but all Nathan asked was, "What does Mom think?"

"She says I should take the classes that make me happy."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "You can take electives after you get your required classes out of the way. Majoring in Women's Studies is a surprisingly bad way to meet women."

"Why?" said Peter. "Didn't it work for you?"

Nathan took a phony swing at him, and Peter ducked out of the way, and that was the end of the discussion. Anyway, Dem History would be good for him, if he wanted to be a lawyer like every other Petrelli. It wasn't really an ambition he had, just an inevitability. Peter had been the problem child, in his way, but it was pretty mild. His teachers called him day-dreamer, who got good grades when he "applied himself" and bad ones when he didn't.

He'd made the usual trips to the adolescent psychologist when he had some depression in his early teens, but that didn't set him apart from his peers at all, and all it taught him that he was the textbook younger brother, the pleaser, the scapegoat, favored by his mother, ignored by his father, but nothing extraordinary. He just lived up or down to everyone's expectations of him.

Peter went home the weekend after the second week of classes for dinner with his mother. He took the subway to Grand Central and took the train up to Westchester, then a cab to the house, and even though he had made the trip before, it felt different coming home from college. Visiting home, instead of just going back there.

"You look taller," said his mother when Peter walked through the door with a duffle full of laundry over his shoulder.

"Freshman fifteen, huh, Pete?" said Nathan from where he stood in the door behind her.

"Nathan!" said Peter, going to hug him. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Mom invited me under duress," said Nathan, returning the hug.

Mrs. Petrelli took Peter's other arm, the one that wasn't around Nathan, and led him into the living room. "Well, I didn't want to share you," she said, patting Peter's hand.

"Is Dad coming?" Peter asked.

"Working late." His mom smiled a little sourly.

Dinner was fettuccine Bolognese, since Mrs. Petrelli liked to pretend to be an authentic Italian matron, but Peter knew that the furthest his mother ever got in the kitchen was heating up garlic bread under the broiler. The dinner was probably from Pasquerello's, what passed for home cooking in this house.

After the plates were cleared away, his mother asked him, "Peter, how is college life?"

"And I signed up for the Blue Light Escort Service." Nathan snorted derisively, and Peter could imagine what the word "escort" caused him to think, but he continued, "It's a group of students that walk people home within a certain radius of the main campus areas, if they're out after dark and feel threatened."

"It's a valuable service," said Peter with a stern look at Nathan. "We walk always walk in pairs, a male and a female escort—stop it, Nathan. It's once a week."

Nathan shrugged and smiled. "I think it sounds very noble," said Mrs. Petrelli. "Any girlfriends?"

Peter rolled his eyes, of course, and Nathan said, "Yeah, Peter, any girlfriends?" a little too pointedly.

Peter frowned a "what?" at him, but didn't say anything and instead mentioned a T.A. he had a crush on, and a few of the girls in his dorm. "No one special yet, Mom," he said.

"A T.A., Peter? Already with the older women," said Mrs. Petrelli into her glass of wine. "Just like your brother."

"What?" asked Peter. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot you don't know, Peter," said Nathan. He narrowed his eyes at his mother. "Water under the bridge."

Nathan gave him a ride back into Manhattan—his mother wanted Peter to stay the night, but Peter wanted to the opportunity to talk with Nathan. "What was that about?" Peter asked after they pulled onto the parkway. It was a warm autumn night, and Nathan put the top down on his convertible. Peter stroked the leather seats. Nothing but the best for Nathan, Peter thought. Sometimes he seemed like something out of a movie, remote but charismatic, not someone that Peter should be related to.

"One of Mom's friends. It really is ancient history."

"Whoa," said Peter. He filed away the information for future reference. It was a delicious little bit of gossip. Peter often felt as all the best Petrelli stories, the most tantalizing gossip, had passed before he was old enough to appreciate it, and he lived now in the tattered remains of some golden age long passed. "I didn't mean that, although feel free to tell me more. I meant you and Mom. What's with you two?"

"It's just they way they are, you know." Nathan was a fast but careful driver, and he changed lanes quickly, his hands moving gracefully on the wheel. He didn't look at Peter, but kept his eyes on the minimal traffic. "She likes to keep you to herself."

"You get Dad," said Peter. "I think you got the better deal there." He didn't mean it, really, but it seemed like that was what Nathan needed to hear.

"I doubt that," said Nathan, reading Peter too well. "You have any big plans tonight?"

"Nah, I just wanted the chance to talk with you on the way back. I haven't seen you since the beginning of school and I missed you."

"Huh," said Nathan, the way he always did when Peter said something a little too emotional. "It's good to see you, too," he said, after a long pause. "I was going to go out, but if you want to come over, and watch a movie or something . . ."

Peter looked at Nathan's profile, trying to decide if the offer was serious. He'd grown up hoping, and longing for a few minutes with Nathan, while his mother explained that his brother was busy and destined to be important, and wasn't she company enough? Nathan came home every so often, like a visiting prince, and the family rolled out the red carpet. Peter had been six when Nathan went to college, and then Nathan had summer internships, semesters abroad, years in the navy, law school and now working late nights in the D.A.'s office.

"Why are you doing this?" Peter asked. "You never had time for me before." Peter sounded petulant, even to himself.

"Do I need a reason?" asked Nathan, his tone light. And yes, you do, thought Peter. Nathan needed a reason for everything.

"Most people wouldn't," said Peter.

"I want us to get to know each other."

"And?" Peter prompted.

Nathan sighed. "There are things going on with Dad. One of these days Linderman is going to be indicted for something bigger than tax evasion. The FBI is putting pressure on local law enforcement to make arrests, and you know what that could lead to."

Peter pictured it, Petrelli against Petrelli, their faces in the tabloids. He remembered reporters camped out in front of their house when he was in middle school, during a high-profile trial. This would be much worse. "What can I do?"

"For now, just listen and walk lightly. But I think we both might need an ally in the future."

"You make it sound like a soap opera."

"In soap operas people come back from the dead," Nathan said ominously, but then he laughed out loud. "Maybe I'm being too dramatic. You coming over or not?"

"Sure," said Peter. "You've told me about your great new TV . . ."

Nathan had a decent sized one-bedroom apartment in a high rise in Hell's Kitchen. Nathan took off his tie, rolled it up neatly into a cylinder, then unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves before sitting down next to Peter on the brown leather.

"Don't get too casual," said Peter. "You never know when there might be a tie emergency."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "I have some pajama pants if you want them." Peter smiled at him, blandly. "I'll get casual, too."

They changed and Nathan ordered some pizza. Peter was always hungry these days, so he didn't mind. Peter wanted to watch The Matrix, Nathan wanted to watch A Few Good Men. So Nathan suggested taped episodes of The Sopranos.

"You like that show?" asked Peter, "or are you just trying to make a point?" Peter had always liked The Godfather better; all the events took place a safe twenty years in the past.

"It paints a picture," said Nathan grimly. Then he shrugged, "Wanna watch something else?"

"Yeah, The Matrix. That's not our family."

Nathan smiled quickly. "No, it's more like that girl you dated in high school, what was her name, Marnie?"

"Marissa, yeah, with the Roche Bobois furniture, and her mom wanted to be Mom's best friend because they were both Italian."

"Mom likes to pretend our family doesn't have any of those guys." Nathan took a swig of his beer and looked studiously at the TV instead of at Peter.

"Yeah, so do I," said Peter. He knew Dad's connections weren't the most savory, but what did that matter now? Nathan was cleaning the taint from their family name, one case at a time in the D.A.'s office. Someday Dad would be forgotten.

Nathan leaned back against the cushions. "So, The Matrix, huh?"

"I can't believe you haven't seen it. I got it for you when you got your DVD player, remember?"

"It's not really my kind of movie," said Nathan, but he got up to find it anyway. "Fantasy is more your thing."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, and A Few Good Men is realistic. ‘You can't handle the truth.'"

They extended the pullout couch and turned down the lights. Peter fell asleep halfway through the movie—college made him more tired than he realized, and sitting next to Nathan was comforting, more than the constant chatter of the dorm. When he woke up the lights and TV were off and Nathan wasn't next to him anymore. He could hear someone moving around and saw the light coming from under Nathan's door, so it was probably Nathan getting up that had woken him. Peter sat up and took off his sweatshirt, and then fell back asleep.

At first Peter wasn't sure he was dreaming, but he'd had dreams like this before, and recognized the too-vivid sensations, like life, but more intense. Every touch in these dreams burned, the lights were too bright, and the darks too dark.

He's in Nathan's bathroom, with something pressing his face into the tile wall. The wall is cold, and the arm pushing on his back is muscular and hot and belongs to someone about the same size as Peter. He knows it's Nathan, but doesn't want to think about that, how violent and out of control this feels. Peter pulls his head back from the wall and something drips down his forehead: blood or sweat, he doesn't know. He feels a thrill of fear, a half-pleasurable, almost sexual fear.

He sees himself through Nathan's eyes, feels Nathan's fear and anger. "I thought you were…" says Nathan hoarsely. "You shouldn't…"Nathan can't finish a sentence and Peter can feel the confusion in his mind, the things that Nathan can't admit even to himself.

And there are details here Peter doesn't want to acknowledge, but can't ignore: he's hard and his cock is pressing into the wall—no reason for it, except he can feel that Nathan is hard too, that there is something between them other than anger. The body confuses anger and sex, sometimes, Peter tells himself, but that's doesn't explain it. Nathan lets go of Peter's wrist and Peter turns to face him. In the darkness of the bathroom, all Peter can see is the line of Nathan's jaw, silhouetted against the mirror, but he doesn't have to see Nathan's face to know what comes next.

Peter woke up again, and before he had a chance to think, he jumped off the pullout bed, put back on his jeans, his sweatshirt, his sneakers, and stumbled out the door of Nathan's apartment. He pulled it shut but without the key, he had to leave it unlocked. Well, this was a doorman building and Nathan could take care of himself. Nathan might yell at him later for being irresponsible, but he couldn't stay there, not with that incubus vision in his head. And he knew he wouldn't be able to forget this dream; it would work its way into his mind and memories like a splinter until Peter forgot whether it had been real or not.

The street outside Nathan's apartment was dark and silent, at least for New York. As Peter walked down 9th avenue, he thought about hailing one of the cabs that passed by. Maybe talking to a real person like a taxi driver would help him exorcise that vision, but he also wanted to put distance between himself and Nathan's apartment, step by step.

Peter had been thirteen the last time he had a dream like that, a dream that burned with skin-scorching hyper-reality. Nathan had been with the navy in Bosnia and Peter hadn't seen him in six months, but he dreamt Nathan as if they were standing next to each other . . .

In his dream he saw Nathan and a girl. He saw a flash of a crowded bar, languages not his own swirling up to the ceiling with the smoke, and Nathan's dark hand resting on the waist of a slim, curly-haired girl with Eastern European cheekbones, and a harsh look in her eyes that Nathan's pneumatic American girlfriends never had. Then flashes of a dark and dangerous walk, gunfire in the background, and the thrill of fear mixing with the anticipation of sex.

Nathan and the girl kissed more on the stairs of a half-gutted apartment building. Somehow Peter saw the bullet scars on the walls, even through the haze of Nathan's craving—the instinct that drove him to find a way to feel alive here in the midst of death. Peter saw double: the blood on Nathan's hands and then this girl's skin under those hands, memories of combat and mass graves somehow blending with the dream-present, and Peter could feel the shreds of the dream slipping away from him. Part of him had wanted to hang onto the dream, because he could feel Nathan's excitement, and the girl's, but the other part him had recoiled from the terrible intimacy of it. He had been watching them, and he had been them, and it was more arousing than any of the Playboys Peter had found under Nathan's bed.

Peter had sat up in bed, gasping and sticky. It had still been dark out, and he got up and went into the bathroom to get a glass of water, then back to bed. He rolled over to his other side, but as soon as he had fallen asleep, the dream returned, and now the girl was on top of Nathan, and Nathan was inside of her, and this revelation had jolted Peter awake again.

After that Peter turned on his bedside lamp and got his stack of Superman comics down from the shelf in his closet. He read through three different flavors of kryptonite before his alarm went off.

The dream had stayed with him, though, worked its way into Peter's fantasies, until it wore out in his memory, like a tape played too many times, and Peter could no longer remember what it had felt like when he was inside Nathan's mind and experiences . . .

But now he remembered again.

By the time Peter walked south of 14th street, people were starting to wake up. Some of the bagel shops had opened their shutters, and Peter went into a Murray's on 12th and 6th to get a coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel, fresh out of the oven. He should probably sleep, but he had reading to do today, and the thought of going back to sleep with that still rattling around in his brain unsettled him.

Peter spent the day in Washington Square Park alternately doing reading for classes, watching the girls try to sunbathe in the unseasonably warm weather, and watching some students play hacky-sack. Peter wanted to join them; he was pretty good—being bored in high school had its compensations—but the interrupted sleep of the night before made him lethargic, so instead he just watched and tried to make his mind blank.

Nathan called Peter once on his cell phone, but Peter couldn't think of picking up. He didn't even look at the phone in case Nathan's caller id flashed on the screen and it dragged up whatever that was from last night into Peter's mind again.

It wouldn't be shut away forever, though, and in the early hours of the next morning, when the noises of the dorm had quieted to the occasional footstep or a cab going by on the street, Peter thought about it again: the darkness, the danger, and the arousal of the dream moment.

He couldn't tell whose sensations he'd been feeling, his own or Nathan's or some feedback loop between the two of them. He picked at the memory of the dream, as he might a scab, as the weeks went by, until he didn't know if he was remembering the dream, or remembering thinking about the dream. He woke every night from splintered images of that dream, scenarios of what might happen after that moment of anger and tension in the bathroom.

Whenever Peter walked to class, he started back from the men in suits walking to work. He caught a focused expression, a forceful look out of the corner of his eye, and his body reacted. After a jumpy week of this, Peter decided maybe he was into guys. That would explain away all of this, and it made sense from a purely academic standpoint: a younger brother, with a close, possibly overbearing, relationship with his mother. Right out of the Psych 101 textbook. He managed to train his dreams away from Nathan, and onto a faceless man in a suit, and to move the action from Nathan's bathroom to an abandoned alley, which seemed like progress.

He started hanging out with a clique that contained boys as interested in "experimenting" as the girls—all bi-curious, if not outright bisexual, all members of the Gay-Straight Alliance. Sometimes it seemed like their poses were more about being self-consciously edgy than about getting laid, but it was a start.

A week later Peter had slept with one of the girls in the experimental clique half by accident (the girl wasn't sure if she was a lesbian and wanted Peter to help her figure it out). Her girlfriend then chewed Peter out in front of half of NYU in Dojo Restaurant the next night, and he had decided that if he was into guys, it wasn't 20-year-old NYU students with too much hair and narrow, sunken chests. Bi-curious girls on the other hand, might be worth pursuing, provided they were single.

***

The next time Nathan called, Peter answered the phone without thinking.

"Hey there, Pete." False casual or real, Peter couldn't tell. Nathan was good at that—creating intimacy where there had been none before, playing the good older brother until it became reality. No one else called him "Pete." Peter couldn't even say if he would have liked it from anyone else.

"Hey, Nathan, what's up?" Peter could hear the clink of something in the background.

"Just at the gym. You should check it out some time—there's a good one in my club."

Peter nodded, forgetting for a moment Nathan couldn't see him. "Oh, yeah?" he said after a moment.

"Yeah. Anyway, I wanted to see if you were free tonight. There's someone I want you to meet."

Peter laughed. "Only studying, hanging out. You know, the usual."

"The usual," Nathan echoed. "I have a reservation at Dylan Prime at 8pm, under my name. It's in Tribeca, you know how to get there?"

"Yeah, that's not too far."

They were both silent for a moment, and Peter could hear a grunt of effort in the background, Nathan's or someone else's, he couldn't be sure. "Is that it?" he said after a moment.

"Is everything okay with you, Pete?" asked Nathan. "You left and I had to call Mom to find out if you were still alive."

"Ah, yeah, look, I'm sorry about that. I was just having trouble sleeping. Sorry I didn't lock up."

"That's okay. I should get you a key anyway. Nothing happened, did it?"

"Happened? Uh, no." Peter felt a weird rushing in his ears, but powered through it. "So, tonight? Eight?"

"Yes. No jeans," said Nathan, and he hung up.

Peter looked at the phone in his hand for a moment, as if it might have some answers. Something happened? What could Nathan have meant by that? And now he wanted to introduce Peter to someone? Had to be a girlfriend, right? Peter wondered why Nathan would keep that hidden. Maybe it was a boyfriend. Wouldn't that derail Nathan's political ambitions, Peter thought. The idea was almost pleasing, but Peter felt a surge of jealousy for this unknown, likely non-existent, man.

Anyway, it was probably a woman. Peter remembered a few of Nathan's girlfriends from high school—they always cooed over Nathan's adorable younger brother. One of them—Clarissa, Clarice?—had more time for Peter than Nathan did. Maybe she'd been a baby sitter. But Nathan hadn't mentioned anything about this one.

And no jeans, huh, thought Peter. At least that was a problem he could get a handle on right now. Most Tribeca restaurants didn't care that much, Peter remembered from outings with his mother. No sweatshirts, maybe, but everyone wore jeans like a uniform. Nathan must be bringing someone he wanted to impress.

Peter didn't have any khakis, but he did have some vaguely boot-cut trousers picked up from Canal Jeans when he was shopping with one of his new girlfriends. Well, friend who was a girl. Peter collected those, as well as the more involved variety of girlfriend, more easily than he liked sometimes. Girls looked at him and saw someone they could talk to. Peter sometimes wished that he could attract guy friends as easily—they looked like less work, but they usually liked Peter for the gaggle of girls around him more than for Peter himself.

Dylan Prime was on the corner of Greenwich St. (not Greenwich Ave, Peter had been careful to note) and Laight St., in a neighborhood all but deserted after dark, except for a few well dressed couples who got out of cabs and into the three star restaurants that dotted the streets. He arrived a few minutes early, and when he told his name to the hostess, she showed him to a lovely brunette sitting at the bar.

"You must be Peter," she said, with a warm smile that lit up her face. "I'm Heidi." Peter must have looked blank for a moment because she continued. "Nathan didn't tell you about me?" She rolled her eyes. "That's typical."

"Yeah," said Peter, after a longish pause. "I'm Peter Petrelli. Are you . . .?"

"We're dating. He's told me a lot about you, though." She grimaced slightly, and took a sip of her drink—something pink in an oversized martini glass.

"Really?" asked Peter. Somehow, he couldn't imagine Nathan talking about him, couldn't imagine that he existed for Nathan when he wasn't around.

"Of course," said Heidi, laughing and touching him on the arm.

"Like what?"

"You know, the usual stuff." She leaned in closer and smiled a bit more. She really did have a lovely smile: warm and sweet and unassuming. "Ummm, he told me about a fishing trip you went on." Peter nodded, and she continued. "He told me you're going to NYU. Do you know what you're going to study?"

Peter realized he was coming off a little strange, too interested in what his brother said. "I don't know yet," he said. "Probably history, pre-law, something." The bartender came over and asked for Peter's drink order. Peter pointed at Heidi's drink and asked her, "Is that good?" He deepened his voice and stood up straight in case the bartender felt like questioning his age, but the man didn't bat an eyelash. Heidi shrugged, still smiling. "You know what, I should probably just have a beer," said Peter.

Heidi smiled into her drink. "Yeah, probably," she said, once the bartender had left. Peter thought she might be laughing at him, but she was so good-natured, he couldn't help but feel happy that he'd amused her.

"How long have you and Nathan been dating?" Peter asked.

Heidi licked her lips and looked out the window. "About a year," she said.

"Huh," said Peter. "He sure can keep a secret." Heidi's face fell, and Peter reached over to touch her hand. "Look, him and me haven't been all that close until recently."

"I haven't met his—your—parents either."

"Well, no problem there." Peter looked at her intently. "It's them he's probably worried about, not you."

She smiled again, but a little wanly this time, not quite believing him. "Ummm, what do you do?" asked Peter, to keep the conversation going. He saw Heidi look away from him toward the door, and her expression grew nervous and hopeful again.

Nathan walked in the door and toward them. He kissed Heidi on the lips and gave Peter a close hug, then looked back and forth between them, one hand on each of their shoulders. "I see you two have already met."

"You were late, honey," said Heidi, with just a hint of an edge in her voice.

"Sorry, meeting," said Nathan, with a perfunctory glance at his watch. He jerked his chin up at the bartender and had handed him a credit card in the time it took Peter to take a swig of his beer. It was so smoothly done, Peter caught himself wondering if he could pull that off, or if you also had to walk in like Nathan, confident and sure of your place at the top of the food chain.

They were seated soon after, and had the traditional head of iceberg lettuce with blue cheese for an appetizer. Heidi had a healthy appetite for filet mignon, and after a cursory glance at the menu, Nathan said, "Hey, Pete, you want to share the porterhouse for two?"

It was kind of an obscene amount of steak when it arrived, and the waiter put it between them. "If either of you has a heart attack, don't blame me," said Heidi, as she watched Peter and Nathan work methodically in from the outside to the bone.

"What about you, honey?"

"Filet is lean," she said fondly, like this was an argument she and Nathan had had before.

Heidi, it turned out, was a special education teacher in Westchester, but she had an apartment in Manhattan so she could enjoy New York. Peter read "family money" into that, but Heidi was very accessible, and it wasn't as if Peter was in a position to judge.

After the steak and wine, the waiter tried to bring the dessert menu, but Nathan waved it away and asked for the check instead.

"I'm going to find my way home now," said Heidi after Nathan paid the check. Nathan frowned at her. "You boys probably want to talk about me," she explained.

"Well, let me at least get you a cab," said Nathan. He stood up, smoothing the front of his suit as he did. He took her arm, and walked her out to the door, then came back in a few minutes later.

"Well," said Nathan, putting his napkin on the table in front of him.

"Well," said Peter. "Why the big secret? She's great."

Nathan smiled, half to himself. "She is, isn't she? But I couldn't exactly introduce you to her last year without introducing her to Mom and Dad." He shrugged. "And anyway, I wanted to be sure."

"Sure?" said Peter. The wine had made his head a little fuzzy.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," said Nathan.

Peter put his hand on Nathan's shoulder. "That's great news, Nathan."

Nathan sighed. "Yeah. I thought it would be better if Mom and Dad met her after it was a done deal."

"Why? What's wrong with her?"

Nathan laughed a little incredulously at that. "Nice tact, Pete. Nothing's wrong with her. She comes from a prominent Democratic family. Lots of fundraising connections. Not so much that it would look like I'm riding my wife's coat tails but enough—."

"Wait," said Peter, turning to look at Nathan intently. "You do love her, don't you?"

"Of course," said Nathan, waving his hand dismissively, "but with her family, if I brought her home. Mom would say something. Dad would say something. You know I want to run for office someday, I just didn't need Heidi thinking that's why I'm with her. Especially not in the beginning."

"Okay," said Peter slowly. "That's not why you're with her, is it?"

"She wants to be a politician's wife. I want to be a politician. Love is great, Peter, really. But commonality of goals is what makes a marriage work." Nathan smiled, winningly. "We'll have both."

"It just sounds so calculated," said Peter. He wanted to think better of Nathan, but Nathan's political ambitions had been a part of him as long as Peter had known him, and every step he took was along the path to achieving those goals.

"Everyone does things for selfish reasons," said Nathan.

"Not everyone," Peter muttered. "I'm happy for you, Nathan," he said. He gave Nathan's shoulder a squeeze. "As long as you love each other, and you're honest with each other." He looked into Nathan's eyes, trying to see what was there, if Nathan would look away and try to dissemble, but he didn't. He returned Peter's intent gaze and nodded.

"Thank you Peter," he said in a low voice. "That means a lot to me."

"Just . . . she deserves someone who loves her," said Peter.

Nathan gave him a slight, indulgent smile. "Don't ever change, Pete. There's too many cynical people in the world already."

They stood up, got their coats, and walked to the door of the restaurant where a couple of cabs waited. The evening had the bite of coming winter in it. Peter opened the door to the first cab and leaned on it. "When are you doing it?"

"This weekend," said Nathan. "So expect a family dinner some time after that."

Peter grinned, a little mischievously. "You're awfully sure of yourself." Then he smiled more broadly. "I hope it goes well."

Nathan shrugged. "Yeah, me too." He ruffled Peter's hair, and then gave him a hug. Peter kissed Nathan on the cheek, before he realized he was doing it. He probably would have without thinking about it a few weeks earlier—it was a fairly standard Petrelli greeting between the men and the women of the family—but now it seemed strange and fraught. Nathan returned the kiss with one of his own on Peter's cheek before Peter could get too worked up about it, and then Peter got into the cab, and it drove away.

Two.

Peter had all but forgotten Nathan's offer to bail him out of trouble until one night in early November, when he walked across campus with his co-escort, Jaime, and the girl who had called them, a perky freshman named Madison. She hooked her arm around Peter's, much to Jaime's disgust. Peter didn't mind. She was cute and blonde, and every time she turned she pressed her breasts against his arm.

She recognized Peter from one of her classes, or claimed to, and Jaime fell further and further behind them, as they walked across Washington Square Park.

"When does your shift end, Peter?" she asked, turning again and lifting her long wavy hair out of her face.

"Not until 6am," said Peter, wishing it ended earlier.

Peter didn't see the dark-haired guy walking toward them until he grabbed Madison's arm. "What the fuck?" said the guy, and he pulled on her hard enough to spin her away from Peter.

They'd covered this in his Blue Light training. Peter grabbed the guy's other arm and pinned it behind his back, but he didn't even seem to notice Peter. "You're such a slut—we just broke up yesterday. Hey, dude, get off me." He tried to shake free of Peter, but Peter twisted his arm behind him more.

"Let go of her. Jaime, call campus security." Campus security came in a few minutes and took the guy away. Madison told Peter tearfully that the guy was her ex-boyfriend. She gushed over Peter saving her, and kissed him on the cheek, and all was well.

Until the next day when Peter walked into his History section, and it seemed as if everyone had just stopped whispering about him. When he got back to his dorm room, there was a message waiting from the guy's lawyer. The guy was Greg Cooperman, and the lawyer said the name to Peter as if it should mean something. He wanted to discuss a settlement for a torn rotator cuff.

Peter called Nathan at work. "What the hell? He was attacking her," said Peter after an abbreviated version of events.

"I can meet you in about an hour," said Nathan. "Come downtown." He gave Peter the address for a coffee shop near the courthouse.

"Well, at least you're not in jail," said Nathan, when he saw Peter. He gave Peter a careful kiss on the cheek, and then they slid into seats across from each other. "Now tell me what happened."

Peter told him the story and Nathan looked more and more exasperated. "I knew that escort thing was going to be trouble. You just can't leave well enough alone."

"Hey, I'm trying to help. Greg Cooperman, who the hell is that, anyway?"

Nathan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You couldn't have punched someone else, could you?"

"I didn't punch him, I just held his arm back. What, who is he?"

"That family's connected to the Roosevelts by marriage, and even if they weren't—they own all of downtown Manhattan that the Catholic Church doesn't."

"Roosevelt? Like the President?"

"Yes, Peter, like the President." Nathan voice sounded snide, and Peter rolled his eyes. "His lawyer is going to be good. I'll ask Dad if he knows anyone, and there's a guy I went to law school with who would be perfect for this."

"What about you?"

Nathan put his hand on Peter's forearm. "I'm an A.D.A., Peter, not a person injury lawyer. This isn't my kind of case."

"Okay, well, sure," said Peter, ducking his head. He had expected sympathy, understanding, and maybe some extra attention from Nathan, like the time he'd been suspended from his private Catholic high school for going with a friend to the Planned Parenthood downtown. One of the protestors recognized him from a picture of his family that had been in the paper, and called the school. Peter spent a week suspended from school for refusing to say who he'd been with, and Nathan came home from law school to help him pass the time.

"If there's a hearing, I'll go," said Nathan. "But it'll probably just be a settlement."

"That's bullshit. Madison should press charges. He grabbed her arm."

"It's how it works." Nathan patted Peter's arm again, and looked at his hand where it lay there on Peter's paler wrist. Then he raised his eyes to Peter's. "Okay?"

Peter brushed his hair out his eyes with the hand that Nathan wasn't holding captive. "Yeah, I'm sure. Hey, isn't tonight the night?"

Nathan smiled to himself, a private smile, and Peter felt a pang of exclusion at how far ahead of him Nathan always seemed to be. "Yes," he said. "Tonight."

Nathan had good reason to be sure of himself with Heidi, and at the end of the week Peter found himself taking the train north to his parent's house for a family dinner with Heidi, after a late Friday afternoon class. He took a cab from the station, and when he arrived at the house, Nathan, Heidi and his parents were already in the living room, drinking champagne.

"Peter," said Mrs. Petrelli happily when she saw him. "Where's your laundry?"

Peter brushed his hair out of his face. It was growing out from his preppy high school haircut, and he liked the look of it. "I didn't think I should, tonight."

Dinner went well enough. Heidi had a few acquaintances in common with Peter's mom. Peter's dad asked after Heidi's father, whom he had met at various fundraising luncheons in Western Connecticut. Heidi and Nathan smiled at one another, and kissed a few times, when Mrs. Petrelli offered a toast.

After dinner, their father dragged Nathan off for some consultation about a case he was working on, and Peter went with his mother and Heidi into Mrs. Petrelli's sitting room. Eventually, though, the talk turned to weddings and flowers and invitation lists, and Peter grew antsy. He could feel some kind of tension coming from Dad's side of the house, something that reached out to deaden even this little haven.

Peter excused himself while Heidi saying something about flowers; she and his mother seemed oblivious to the storm hanging over the other side of the house. When he neared his father's study, he heard raised voices. The door was open, and he could see Nathan and his father leaning toward each other across the desk. Nathan had his sleeves rolled up, and his head bowed in frustration. Peter stayed out of his father's line of sight.

"What I don't understand is why they're putting such a junior ADA on this one," said Mr. Petrelli scornfully.

"Maybe they think I'm good at what I do," said Nathan, his voice even more clipped and raspy than usual.

"Maybe they just want to make a splash, drag the Petrelli name through the mud."

"They don't have to work very hard at that, Dad."

Peter edged around the frame of the door a little more until Nathan saw him. Nathan raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his face. "Come in, Peter. You should hear this," he said, his voice hard.

Peter brushed his bangs out of his face and tucked them behind one ear. Nathan looked at him warmly for a moment, and Peter could see he wanted to say something like, "you should cut those," but he turned back to his father instead.

"Hear what?" asked Peter. He walked over to stand next to Nathan.

"Dad doesn't want me to prosecute the Antinelli extortion case. But that family isn't connected to ours at all, is it?" asked Nathan pointedly.

"You can't tell the D.A.'s office what to prosecute," said Peter, recoiling.

"I can remind my son what is best for our family. We don't want our name linked to that piece of trash."

"Any more than it already is, right?" asked Nathan.

Mr. Petrelli opened his mouth to say something, glanced at Peter and seemed to think better of it. "I need to get back to school and study," said Peter, meeting his father's eyes. Nathan looked back and forth between them, then took Peter's elbow and tugged him toward the door.

"Come on," he said. "I'll take you to the train station."

"Shouldn't you tell, Heidi you're leaving?" Peter asked as they walked out toward the car. He watched Nathan's long fingers as he disabled the alarm so they could open the door to from the kitchen to the garage. That was new. Usually they left it off until they went to sleep. Their father must be getting even more paranoid.

"She'll be wedding planning for hours yet. They wouldn't thank me for the interruption," said Nathan.

He and Peter got into Nathan's car, but Nathan didn't turn on the engine. Instead Nathan put his hand on the back of Peter's seat and turned to face him. "Look," he said, "I'm sorry I put you in the middle of that."

Peter was tempted to ask, "Are you?" because it had seemed fairly calculated, but he only waited for Nathan to say more. "I guess I just want you to know. What he's really like. The name above all."

Peter snorted. "I knew that."

"He could be right. It might drag our name into the papers. If Antinelli gets off, then I helped him."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Dad could make trouble about this just to teach me a lesson. Or this could be the break I need. A new Petrelli for the media, this one doing some good. It's a big gamble. I don't know."

"So you're going to do what he wants? Nathan, you can't do that."

"I might have to," said Nathan. "It could look unethical either way. It's probably best to keep my head down on this one."

"And do what he wants? Then he'll just do it to you again!"

Nathan started the engine and pulled out onto the quiet street. Peter looked out at the huge houses, with porch lights casting circles of light in front of them on the dark lawns and then back, at Nathan who frowned and bit his lower lip.

"How bad is it?" asked Peter.

"Hard to say. Dad's in deep, and you're right, this will happen again. Some day he's going to get burned by this. I just hope I'm not the one holding the torch."

"If he's helping criminals, then he's a criminal," said Peter.

"He's our father. We owe him loyalty."

To Peter's ears that sounded like a test. "Maybe you do," he said, uncertainly, leaving the rest unspoken, that he didn't. Mr. Petrelli had chosen one son, and his wife the other. This was the consequence. "Some day the family name is going to be ours, not his."

"Mmmm," said Nathan noncommittally. "Maybe Antinelli will take the deal."

Nathan dropped Peter off at the train station, and Peter started out the window during the long, dark ride back. He looked at his reflections: his pointed chin, his jaw softer than Nathan's—a legacy from their mother's side of the family. That night Peter dreamed.

It's dark again, and now they're facing each other, still in Nathan's bathroom. A trick of the light makes it seem like the mirror is brighter than the rest of the room, and all Peter can see is the silhouette of Nathan, in front of the mirror.

"What were you doing there?" says Nathan, in a low harsh whisper. They're close enough that Peter can feel warm breath on his face. The tile floor is cold.

"It doesn't matter," says Peter. They are so close; Peter can feel the vibrating tension coming off Nathan's body. Anger and possessiveness barely held in control.

"It matters to me. The family--." Anger chokes off Nathan's words.

Fuck the family, thinks Peter, and then a hysterical bubble of laughter threatens to escape him. Exactly, he thinks, that's the problem.

"Actions have consequences," says Nathan, and this time his voice is as dry as dust. Nathan closes any remaining distance between them, and although it's still sexual, Peter feels a need even deeper than that from himself or from both of them. A need to push themselves together, two broken halves to make a whole. One who dares too much, and one who dares too little, but together they will be right.

Actions have consequences, Peter's dream self thinks. Nathan should have let him go home, back to his apartment. Together they are dangerous. Together there are no boundaries.

Peter awoke and tried to sit up, but the sheets of his bed felt like hands strangling him, holding him down. He tore them off and got up, shivering and sweating and then went to his liquor cabinet, well-stocked by Nathan, and methodically drank warm vodka until the room was spinning and he drifted into a thin, dreamless, stupor of sleep.

He woke up, still drunk, five hours later, and stumbled into the dorm bathroom to puke up the liquid in his stomach until there was nothing left. He washed his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was starting to get the Petrelli facial hair, finally. Short stubble covered his chin and upper lip, and his eyes looked hollow and shadowed. Nathan was going to know something was wrong when they met up.

Nathan had invited Peter over to help put up shelves, with the added lure of beer to take back to his room. Peter didn't know anything about sawing or hammering or whatever might be involved, but clearly, this was just an excuse for some brotherly bonding. Peter went to the dining hall and drank coffee and ate hash browns until he felt somewhat more close to human, then took a shower. He took the subway up to Nathan's apartment, swaying sickly against the ceiling bars, dreading every stop. The acceleration and deceleration made his stomach even queasier.

"You look like shit," said Nathan when he answered the door. He was wearing loose stained jeans, and a t-shirt, and at Peter's confused look said, "Shelves, painting, remember?"

Peter just blinked at him. Traces of the previous night's dream seemed to cling to Nathan, and every time Peter looked at him, he remembered another piece of that dark vision. He squinted at Nathan and shaded his eyes from the bright light coming in through the open windows. "Do you have to have those open?" he asked.

"What did you do last night? Here, sit down." He pulled out a seat at the breakfast bar.

"Party . . .," said Peter, sitting down gently, so as not to jar his head. Not quite a lie, his room had hosted the smallest, least fun party on campus last night.

"If you're going to puke, you know where the bathroom is."

"No, nothing like that." Peter shook his head and wished he hadn't. "I don't think I can be here."

"Yeah," said Nathan, putting his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter struggled not to lean into it or pull away—his body wanted to do one or the other, and neither one seemed appropriate.

"Look, I know you're not feeling well, but I didn't want to bring it up at dinner . . . the Cooperman thing."

"What about it?"

"You have to apologize to Greg Cooperman, and Dad's going to pay the settlement, and it's going to be all over. It's scheduled for next Tuesday."

"Apologize? I was doing my job." Peter lifted his head up and pointed at Nathan. "He should be apologizing."

"Peter, we want this to go away. You understand that, don't you?"

Peter's head was throbbing and it didn't seem worth the effort to fight this, not now, not with Nathan sounding so reasonable. "Okay, if it goes away."

"And you have to quit the escort service, or whatever."

"Blue Light Escorts," said Peter, glaring at Nathan. Then he sighed. "They didn't want me back after that. I was doing what they trained me to do." He slumped against Nathan. Nathan put his hand on Peter's forehead and the coolness felt wonderful.

"You want to lie down here?" Nathan asked. "Or I can call a cab."

Peter pulled away. "You don't have to take care of me all the time," he said angrily, then wondered where the anger came from. "I can take care of a hangover myself. Sorry about the shelves."

"Go home, Pete. This can wait."

Peter couldn't face the subway again, and caught a cab back to 4th St. Now Nathan would think he was even more irresponsible, but that was better than him knowing the truth.

Peter couldn't avoid thinking about the dream as he lay in bed that afternoon, willing his head to stop throbbing. Why was he there, in Nathan's bathroom, head bleeding, mind full of knowledge he didn't want? Was it prophetic, or a fantasy? Peter couldn't decide which was worse. One true dream all those years ago didn't mean they all were.

Peter spent the rest of the afternoon on the common room couch, watching re-runs of The Simpsons and getting up every few hours to go to the bathroom and get a new bottle of Gatorade. By sunset he was feeling almost human again.

Madison had left a note on his door, some club she wanted to go to in the Meat Packing district tonight. Peter's headache had faded with the sunlight, and the notion of pounding music, loud enough to drive out any thought, was appealing.

Peter set his alarm clock for 11:30pm and napped until it was time to shower and get ready. He met up with Madison and her gaggle of Long Island girlfriends. Madison was vivacious and sweet, and had adopted Peter as her protector, a role that Peter accepted because it was easier than fighting it.

The girls wore too little for the chill of the night, and their laughter sparkled in the cold air, brittle and glittery. They piled into taxis for the short trip west, and got out in front of the club at midnight. The whole group had begged or borrowed fake IDs, and Peter's fake, from Nathan, was flawless.

Inside, the club was dark, with occasional flashing lights. Madison and some of the other girls tugged Peter deeper into a warren of rooms. Each one had a different kind of music pouring from it. "Oooh, eighties!" said Madison as they passed by one of the rooms. "I love oldies!" So in they went.

Peter danced with all of the girls. He knew the trick of making them all happy by spreading his attention evenly, and he could do it without thinking; some sense alerted him if any of the girls were feeling left out. But something on the edge of the dance floor kept pulling his attention away. A crisp flash of white shirt, a sardonic smile, but whenever he looked, whomever it belonged to was gone.

Peter walked over to the bar. The smoke in the air was burning his throat, and he started to feel a slump in his energy from the night before. He couldn't hold his shoulders up anymore, and he let them slouch forward. He felt a warm, tantalizingly familiar hand on his shoulder and he turned to look at its owner. The man was tall and dark, but not Nathan.

"You come here often?" the man said mockingly, voice pitched somehow under the music, so Peter could feel it more than hear it.

Peter shook his head, obscurely embarrassed by the suggestions in the man's voice. The man put his hand on the small of Peter's back, and its heat was transmitted through Peter's dance-sweated shirt. "I'm Derek," he said, and to Peter, drunk and exhausted, the name was a promise of something dark and wonderful, the kind of promise Peter had stopped believing in. Peter spared a glance for the girls on the dance floor. "They can take care of themselves," said Derek.

Derek pushed Peter ahead of him, down a corridor, through a door into a tiny supply closet. Before the door even shut behind him, Derek's lips were on Peter's, his hands running up under Peter's shirt. He kissed invasively, but Peter liked the way it allowed him to be passive. What happened here tonight would not be Peter's fault.

Peter was hard and shaking when they disengaged. Derek reached down between them and rubbed the palm of his hand along Peter's dick through his pants. "Good," he said against Peter's lips. Then he pushed Peter's head down.

"Wait," said Peter. "I'm not . . ."

"You were looking for me," said Derek, in a tone that allowed no argument. He undid his pants and let them pool around his ankles. Peter took hold of Derek's cock; it didn't feel all that different from his own. He wondered what he was doing there, until Derek's hand, strong and heavy, kneaded his shoulder, and took Peter out of himself again. He sucked Derek down, rocking back on his heels where he squatted on the floor. He dug his hands into Derek's thighs and they told him what the rhythm should be.

Derek kissed him sloppily afterwards, seeming to like the dirtiness of it. "You're pretty," he said with an un-Nathan-like grin, more young, more boyish than any smile Nathan had ever worn. "Your turn."

Peter leaned against the wall as Derek licked and sucked him expertly. He cupped Peter's balls in his hand, and when he stroked the skin behind them, Peter exploded without meaning to. Derek got to his feet and Peter did his pants back up hastily, before whatever might come next. His lips felt bruised, and he decided he'd learned enough for one night—no more kisses, no handshakes, he had to get out of there.

He stumbled out of the club into the pale, yellow-pink light of the street lamps and retched from the smell of rotting meat that covered this area of Manhattan. He thought about telling Madison where he was going, but he couldn't go back in there, to see Derek's leer, and his familiar, stylish gestures. He was nothing like Nathan, not really, except in those few details, but that was enough.

Peter walked home through the knife-edged, cold wind that blew through the West Village. He wove among people stumbling out of bars. He could feel their drunken neediness like nails scratching along his nerves, and he wished he could just shoot up into the sky out of here, away from New York, away from everything.

He fell asleep heavily on his bed, without bothering to take off his shoes, but the sleep was dreamless, free of Derek, and free of Nathan.

The semester wound to a close in the dark of December. Peter had papers to write and exams to take, and Nathan's focus seemed to have shifted from being a big brother to wedding planning. Peter was half relieved and half annoyed, but this was more like the Nathan he remembered from growing up. He remembered being six, eight, even ten, and running to meet Nathan when he came home, to hug whatever he could reach like an excited puppy, but he wasn't going to do that anymore.

Peter walked downstairs the morning after he got back from college to find Nathan in the kitchen, wearing pajama pants and pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. "Hey, Pete," he said. He sat down at the breakfast bar and opened up the Sunday Times.

Peter wondered what Nathan would say if he just blurted out, "I sucked a guy's cock." He imagined that Nathan would raise his eyebrows slightly and say something maddening and mild, like, "Oh? And how was that?" so Peter swallowed down the words, and poured himself some cereal as well.

"What are you doing here?" asked Peter through a mouthful of Cheerios.

"Engagement party, remember."

"Oh, yeah." Peter remembered his mother talking about it now—the menu, the linens, the flowers (poinsettias everywhere for the holidays), an invitation list almost as large as the wedding would eventually be.

"Did you bring your suit home?" asked Nathan.

"Of course."

Hired help did most of the work, and Mrs. Petrelli shooed Nathan and Peter upstairs when the caterers started coming in with steam tables and carts of dishes. Peter watched the waiters arrive from his window, watched their sloppy walks and open faces neaten and harden as they trouped into the house. Peter put on his suit and tie, and Nathan knocked on the door to Peter's room a few minutes before they had to be downstairs.

"You need help with your tie?" Nathan asked.

"No." He hadn't needed help with his tie for years now. Nathan stood in front of him and fussed with it anyway, finally untying it and re-tying it for him. "You're nervous," said Peter.

Nathan didn't answer. "There, that's better." Peter looked at himself in the mirror, but he couldn't tell the difference. "You keeping out of trouble? No more law suits?"

"Yeah," said Peter. "Exams don't leave much time for trouble. Shall we?"

Nathan nodded absently and rubbed the scar on his chin. "This is kind of a weird . . ." Nathan trailed off. "Remember when this happened? You ever have another dream like that?" He looked at Peter, oddly intense.

"Why do you ask?" said Peter.

Nathan smiled his big, false, politician's smile. "Oh, nothing, I just have a big case coming up, and a prophetic dream could be helpful."

"No dreams," said Peter. "Why? Have you had, um, a dream?"

Nathan pushed an errant strand of Peter's hair back up off his forehead. "You're the dreamer, Pete." He licked his lips, and then pulled up his cuff and checked his watch. "Show time."

It was strange that Nathan should bring up the accident and the dream before it, which had been so much on Peter's mind recently. Peter had dreamed Nathan's accident exactly as it happened. Or rather their accident; it more properly belonged to both of them . . .

Peter had dreamed his fall, and Nathan coming for him. He had woken up from the dream hours before anyone else in the house woke up, and stationed himself outside Nathan's door, waiting for the sounds of movement from inside so he could tell Nathan.

Peter's arm had still twitched from the dream-break, and he wondered if Nathan had felt it too in his sleep, although he hoped not. Nathan's dream-injury had been far worse. Nathan had been home for a weekend the summer after his first year in law school, before going on to a prestigious internship. He had been planning to take Peter horseback riding at a polo club on Long Island. Peter had been looking forward to it for weeks, some precious time with just the two of them.

Peter had sat in the hall outside Nathan's bedroom door for a while before he had lost his patience and quietly opened the door to Nathan's room. Nathan had been sleeping, and Peter had shaken his shoulder to wake him up.

"What the—?" said Nathan, but then he saw Peter and sat up in bed. "What's wrong?"

"We can't go riding today. You're going to get hurt. I dreamed it."

Nathan rubbed his chin and blinked sleepily. "You woke me up for a dream?"

"See," said Peter, you dreamed it too. "Your chin hurts, right?"

Nathan shook his head. "It was just a dream, Peter?"

"Didn't you dream it to?"

Nathan frowned at him. "No," he said. He had a tone, just like their father, one that meant no more discussion, and he used it then.

"Well I did. You're going to get hurt."

"Don't be scared, Pete. It'll be fun. Now go back to sleep."

At breakfast Nathan hadn't mention anything about the dream, and when Peter tried to bring it up on the long drive out to Long Island, Nathan said, "Peter, dreams are just dreams. Garbage the mind gets rid of."

"Promise?" said Peter. He had been young enough then to believe in the inviolability of a promise.

"I promise. "

The polo field was wet and slippery on that early June day. Peter realized that his brother had taken him here so he could spend time with some of the owners, shaking hands, making connections over the supposed bond of an interest in horses. Peter had seen his father make enough of these conversations to know what they looked like.

One of the grooms put Peter on a pony. "One of the most gentle," the groom said later, afraid for his job and his green card. The groom led Peter around the fenced-in yard, and showed Peter how to use his legs to control the horse, and how to pull on the reins to control the speed. The pony walked slowly and Peter was bored, so as soon as the groom turned his back, Peter let the pony walk out of the compound and onto the field.

He hadn't meant to go faster than a trot, but he could feel that the pony wanted to run, and that it would be exciting to ride across the open grass. Peter took off his helmet so he could feel the wind in his hair. They were Lancelot and his steed, racing along the tournament ground, even though Peter was really too old to imagine things like that. Peter had forgotten his dream until he saw Nathan mounted on another polo pony riding toward them. The pony was too small for him, and skittered sideways when Nathan tried to make it go faster.

Then, suddenly, the moment was just like his dream, and Peter couldn't tell the difference between reality and the memory of those visions. Peter's pony felt his fear, and reared up, and Peter fell off onto the grass. He caught the fall with his right arm, and felt it snap.

Nathan pulled up next to Peter and jumped down from his pony. He knelt by Peter's side and lifted him up slowly, trying not to jar his arm. Neither of them saw when Peter's pony reared up again and caught Nathan's chin with one of its hooves.

Peter never remembered the ride to the hospital when he thought about it later, but he remembered looking at his shirt and his hands covered with Nathan's blood. It was an unlucky kick, from a sharp edge on the horse's shoe that shouldn't have been there.

A doctor at the hospital reset Peter's arm (a sharp burst of pain that made him feel faint, but faded quickly as if it had never been). He put it in a cast, and a nurse showed Peter how to use a sling.

Nathan had a few hours of surgery to put his jaw back together. Their parents paid the best plastic surgeon in the state to take a helicopter to Westchester to make sure the scar would be small. "His beautiful face," Peter remembered his mother murmuring before she squeezed Peter's good hand and left him.

When Nathan came out of surgery he had a bandage covering the lower part of his face, and the surgeon told him that Nathan's jaw was wired shut and would be until the bones healed. Peter knew Nathan was awake before anyone else did—something about the air in the room changed and suddenly Nathan was back with them. Peter jumped up and started babbling before anyone could say anything, "Oh my God, Nathan, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," until his father laid an unexpected hand on Peter's shoulder.

"You're going to be fine, Nathan," he said slowly and loudly, as if Nathan was deaf or foreign instead of his own son. "The plastic surgeon says you'll have a slight scar on your chin, but that's all. Your jaw is wired shut, so if you want to say anything, you'll have to write it."

Peter handed Nathan a yellow legal pad and a sharpie they had bought from the hospital gift shop. Nathan's handwriting was a little messy, but he handed the pad to Peter when he was done. "I don't think the Petrellis are meant for polo," it said. Peter took Nathan's hand and squeezed it.

Peter stayed home from summer camp and helped Nathan recover. After Nathan came off the morphine IV, he came home from the hospital and Peter waited on him. He made the smoothies that were all Nathan could eat, and played endless games of Super Mario Brothers. Peter's cast came off the same day Nathan got the wires taken out of his jaw. They compared bruises on the way home. Peter's arm showed pale green traces of fading bruises, but Nathan's chin had a red, angry scar on it, like bug smashed on his face.

"I'm sorry," said Peter again.

Nathan smiled, but then winced as the movement pulled at the tender skin. "Does it really look that bad?"

"Nah," said Peter. "Chicks dig scars."

His mother turned around in her seat. "Nathan, what have you been letting him watch?"

"I really am sorry," said Peter. "Thank you for coming to rescue me."

"You're my brother; it's my job," said Nathan. When he went back to law school in the fall, the scar had faded to pale pink lines, and it faded further as the years passed, but never disappeared . . .

It was his scar—as much Peter's as Nathan's, Peter thought whenever he looked at Nathan. Even Peter had a touch of that unfortunate tendency toward possessiveness that seemed to run in the Petrelli genes. It wasn't enough for them, just to love someone; there was also a burden of proof. Peter had seen it in Nathan's eyes in his recent dreams, and that part, at least, was a distorted echo of reality.

The engagement party had progressed to toasts when Nathan found Peter again. "Hey," said Nathan, putting his arm around Peter's neck. He smelled warm and a little boozy. "Dad's gonna want you to give a toast. You up for it?"

The room erupted into applause for something Peter hadn't heard, and then Nathan clinked his fork on his glass and everyone else followed suit. "I think my little brother would like to say a few words."

"Hey, I'm getting bigger and you're staying the same size," said Peter, with a fake lunge toward Nathan, and the guests laughed appreciatively.

"I know I should say something about how much Nathan and Heidi love each other," he said. A dangerous expression crossed Nathan's face, but Peter just smiled. "But I'm saving that for the wedding toast. Instead I'm going to try to convince Heidi that she's making the right choice. Because, Nathan, she could still get away." A ripple of laughter threaded through the room, and Peter continued.

"Petrellis stick together, and they look out for each other." Now Nathan was smiling again. Peter told some other half-truths and lies, and quickly related how Nathan had saved him from the horse. Nathan smiled modestly.

"He's the best older brother a guy could want, and because of that, I know he'll be a good husband, too."

Everyone applauded and toasted again. Nathan gave him a hug, and whispered, "You scared me for a minute, but nice job."

"Just want to keep you on your toes," said Peter.

"Oh, you do," said Nathan.

Three.

On February 4th, 1999 at 12:54am, New York City police shot and killed an unarmed man named Amadou Ahmed Diallo in front of the doorway of his Bronx apartment. Peter called Nathan every day after, trying to get details: would they convene a grand jury or sweep this under the rug? Peter had joined the Students for Social Action after having to quit the Blue Light Escorts, and he went with them to protests all over the city. On February 7th, Peter went to a rally in the Bronx near where Diallo had been killed, and later joined the daily protests in front of the Supreme Court Building on Center Street.

In early March, police started arresting protesters and bringing them to big holding pens at Chelsea Piers, and Peter, who had been yelling slogans and holding a sign at the front of a crowd, was one of them. He called Nathan from the police van, before they processed him and took away his cell phone, and within an hour of the call, he saw Nathan standing on the other side of the chain link fence that penned him in, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a blue tie. Peter felt even grubbier in his sweatshirt and jeans, which were now stained from the fuel oil on the asphalt ground of the pen they were in.

"Well, Peter," said Nathan. "I hope I don't have to tell you how bad this looks."

"The police killed an unarmed man!" said Peter, purposely misunderstanding him. "And the city wants to make it go away. I think that looks pretty bad."

"I meant for me," said Nathan.

"Of course you did. You don't even care that—."

Nathan held up his hand and Peter fell silent. "I'm in the D.A.'s office, trying to work within the law, and you're protesting illegally. How is that supposed to look?"

"We were arrested illegally!"

"And yet here you are." Nathan sighed. "I'll have you out of here in a few minutes. Just don't talk to anyone about this."

"What about the rest of the protestors? Are you getting them out too?"

Nathan smiled, a little unpleasantly. "Are any of them Petrellis?"

"I can't believe you!" yelled Peter. "I'm not leaving without them." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I really should leave you here. You might learn something, but we don't need that kind of publicity." He beckoned Peter over to the fence, and said quietly, "I'm going to be one of the main prosecutors. There will be indictments. It will be that much harder to prosecute if my name is linked with a protestor."

"Really?" said Peter, searching Nathan's face for the truth.

Nathan smiled again, his liar's smile, all teeth. "I wouldn't lie to you about this," he said. "I'll come back for you in a few minutes."

"Wait, Nathan! I'm not going anywhere."

Ten minutes later, two uniformed officers came into the pen. Each took one of Peter's arms and forcibly escorted him out of the building and into the parking lot to a black Towncar. One of the cops opened the back door and the other pushed Peter in. Nathan sat on the other side of the seat, tugging on his leather gloves, and pursing his lips.

"Thanks for giving me a choice," said Peter sarcastically.

"It's for your own good," said Nathan. "I'm just glad you called."

"Well, fuck you too, Nathan," said Peter, wishing he could come up with something better. "Next time I won't."

"Yes, you will." Not a command, but a certainty.

***

They went to Vegas for Nathan's bachelor party in late March, on the second weekend of Peter's Spring Break, an early bachelor party for a May wedding, but Nathan explained that things would be too crazy closer to the wedding to get away. Peter knew Heidi was already a nervous wreck, although she tried not to show it. Peter had gone with her to order invitations, since Nathan couldn't find the time. "How does a guy like Nathan have such a sweet brother?" she asked, when he met her at the paper shop instead of Nathan.

"Just lucky, I guess," said Peter.

"I'll say." She sighed, and then smiled at Peter, a sadder version of her usual bright smile. "This is what I've always wanted," she said carefully, "and I knew what it would be like. Sometimes a little of someone like Nathan is better than all of anyone else."

"That's . . . very true," said Peter.

Nathan's work friends, college friends and navy friends flew to Vegas together for the party, mingling easily on the plane, talking about sports and Vegas strip clubs they'd visited. At least half of Nathan's friends had names Peter knew from society pages.

They all flew first class, on Mr. Petrelli's dime. Peter wondered how Nathan felt about that, but Nathan probably had some way of justifying it—marriage was a family business, done with family money. Nathan arranged the seating on the plane so Peter sat next to him, probably so Peter wouldn't feel left out; he was ten years younger than everyone else in the party.

They stayed at the Bellagio, in a set of rooms overlooking the fountain, Peter in a room adjoining Nathan's. Peter overheard Ben Morello say to Nathan, "You want to room next to your kid brother? Come on, what if you get lucky?"

"I'm not bringing a hooker back to the room, Ben. You do what you want."

The night they arrived they ate at Charlie Palmer Steak, and then went to Olympic Garden for lap dances. Peter couldn't keep up with the drinking or the conversation. Everyone had wild stories about doing blow in Aspen, or getting a Thai hooker, and Peter just smiled weakly whenever someone directed a comment his way, and sipped vodka tonics.

Nathan, or someone, had arranged a private room at Olympic Garden, and the girls wandered around between the men drinking at the bar. Women just as beautiful and buoyant as the strippers passed plates of canapés. Finally, at some unspoken signal, Nathan's friends pressed him down into one of the red velvety chairs, and the blondest and most buxom of the strippers started undulating over him.

Peter hadn't seen anything like this before. At first he marveled at her shoes—clear plastic and rising seven inches from the gleaming metal tip to her round tan heel, then he started watching her movements. She straddled Nathan, and started rubbing her breasts against the front of his shirt. Peter watched Nathan's face. He wore a slightly embarrassed smile, exactly the degree of embarrassment a man like him should have in this situation. He caught Peter looking at him, his smile faded and Peter tore his eyes away before Nathan could read anything there.

Nathan's lap dancer broke the ice, and soon most of the men were taking turns on the chairs. Peter stayed near the bar, and continued drinking. Then George called out, "Hey, the kid should have a turn." They all started chanting "Peter, Peter" and tugged Peter by his elbows into one of the chairs. Peter caught Nathan's eye, but Nathan just quirked his lips inscrutably, and then his attention was drawn away by the most beautiful and natural-looking of the strippers. A slim blonde with real breasts, who walked across the floor toward Nathan and slid her hand from his shoulder down to his wrist, then pulled him over into another chair.

Nathan's friends amused themselves by paying for Peter's lap-dance, and requesting one of the most over-inflated of the girls. Peter asked her name and she said "Tiffany," in a breathless, kittenish voice. She started writhing on top of Peter, and instead of being aroused, he felt slightly claustrophobic. He glanced over at Nathan. The slim blonde was on top of him now, her hand reaching down below the arm of the chair, so Peter couldn't see what she was doing. They were allowed to . . . were they?

Then Tiffany started rubbing her thigh between Peter's legs, against his rapidly hardening dick. Peter looked at her in surprise and she leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Just enjoy it, honey." Peter glanced over at Nathan. His head was tipped back, and wore the first unguarded expression Peter had seen on his face during this trip. Nathan reached up, as if to caress the girl, then stopped himself and put his hand down again.

Tiffany was working at Peter harder now, almost too much, and Peter really didn't think he wanted to come in his pants in front of all these strangers. He was trying to find the right way to tell Tiffany that, to end this without embarrassment, when he glanced at Nathan and saw Nathan's eyelids close slowly, and a smile Peter had never seen outside his dreams curve Nathan's lips. Then it was too late to tell his Tiffany to stop, and she smiled, satisfied, as she felt his hips jerk against her leg. Peter bit his lip and looked at the other men in the room, but they had grown bored of embarrassing Peter long before things had gotten out of hand.

The whole thing was pretty gross, thought Peter, as he cleaned himself up in the bathroom. When he went back into their private room, Nathan had returned to the bar, and was talking with Randy Cooperman, older brother of the Greg Cooperman who had sued Peter. Peter didn't want to be any part of that conversation, so he went back to the bathroom for a while, and waited until their time there was over.

After their private room closed, some of the guys went out dancing, but Nathan and Peter and a few of the others went back to the hotel to sleep, before a long day of gambling and probably more strippers the next night.

Peter followed Nathan into his room after they said goodnight to the other guests. "Look, I appreciate you bringing me here, getting in everywhere, but I know I'm just your kid brother," he said. He paced slowly along the floor of Nathan's room, fitting his feet into the s-shaped designs on the carpet. Peter was more used to alcohol now, after the training of a semester of college, but the room still spun around him a bit, and he sat down on the foot of the bed until it stopped. "I'm not important, like all these guys. I don't know about any of this stuff." He looked down at the bottle of water he had cradled between his hands

"Are you having fun?" asked Nathan as un-tucked his shirt.

"Yeah, sure. I just don't know if I can take a whole weekend of this," said Peter, with an apologetic smile.

"This is part of what it means to be a Petrelli, Peter," said Nathan seriously.

"What, paying girls to grind themselves on you?"

"It's part of the game. My friends here, they'll be very useful to me someday. To both of us, if you want it." Nathan sat next to him and put his arm around Peter. "I'm more glad you're here than any of the rest of them." Peter looked at the huge mirror at the foot of the bed. In the dimness of the room their reflections looked almost the same, the only difference was Nathan's squarer jaw, and Peter's softer hair, but other than that, they had the same build, the same way of sitting, slouched forward, wearing the same white button-down shirt, two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up.

"Thanks, Nathan," said Peter. He put his hand on Nathan's chest. It was the only solid thing in this spinning room. Nathan leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, a more tender gesture than Peter had ever seen him make. Nathan was usually all sharp edges and stylish flourishes, but this minute he was something different. Something just for Peter.

Peter wished, for the hundredth time that he could read Nathan better. With most people, he could tell what they wanted from him right away, exactly how to live up (or down) to their expectations, exactly how to make them love him. Nathan and his father were the only two that had never worked with. His father, because Peter's very existence seemed to be a disappointment, and Nathan, because Peter could never tell what Nathan wanted from him.

And now Nathan's face was so close to his, and his hands on Peter's shoulders felt more like a lover's than a brother's and all Peter could think was, this isn't how it's supposed to happen. It's supposed to be dark and angry, and his head should be bleeding. That's how this will take place.

Peter felt a tightness in his chest, like something was about to snap there. He didn't know what would happen if they stayed like this too long. He pushed Nathan away and stood up. "I'm going to bed now," he said. "Too much vodka. Wake me up when it's time for more debauchery."

Nathan licked his lips and smiled gently. "Okay, Pete."

The temperature had reached seventy by the time Peter woke up, his head aching and his mouth dry. Nathan had slid a note under the door saying that everyone was down by the pool. Peter joined them and they lay out there and ordered food to their beach chairs until the sun started to go behind the buildings in the afternoon.

Then they got dressed and walked to the Venetian, where Peter watched Nathan play poker for a while. Nathan rolled up his sleeves and rested his forearms on the leather table bumper. He played a methodical game of poker, betting conservatively, and giving the other players sharp looks that seemed to make them nervous.

"You intimidated them," said Peter, half-accusing, half-admiring when Nathan walked away from the table, up $500.

"That's what works for me," said Nathan.

They ate at Aureole that night, the tasting menu with wine pairings, and then went to the opening of Light, a club that the Coopermans had an interest in. Nathan had arranged a banquette in the VIP section, with table service of vodka and various mixers.

"David Spade just puked right on me," said Ben, when he got back from the bathroom.

"You're such a fame whore, you're probably going to keep it," said George. Ben punched him in the shoulder.

Peter excused himself and went to dance on the light-up floor. The room was filled with terribly beautiful women, tall, with darkly tanned legs and stick-straight hair, but Peter had never found beauty intimidating. He loved to dance because it was something he did well: feeling the desires of the people around him and moving to match them. He didn't know how it worked, precisely, but he usually found with a girl or two who wanted to dance with him, and tonight was no different. He shared his attention between the two girls he had collected, trying to make them both feel comfortable, happy, admired. The taller one smiled when Peter turned his attention to her, and swept his hair out of his eyes for him.

But when Nathan came out to join them, they both turned their focus to him. Women liked Peter well enough, but they gravitated to Nathan like moths to a flame, immolating themselves without a thought. "Can I borrow you for a sec?" asked Nathan in his ear. Nathan gave the girls an electioneering smile and they grinned helplessly back.

"There are some people you need to meet," said Nathan, as he pulled Peter back to their banquette. A few men Peter didn't recognize now sat around the low table and poured themselves glasses of scotch. "Peter, this is Mr. Henderson and Mr. Simpson. They're friends with Mr. Linderman, you know, Dad's client." Peter tried not to let the shock show on his face as he extended his hand. Nathan had fumed about their father's close association with Linderman before, how it hurt the family's reputation, made them, in essence, no better than the Gottis.

"Nice to meet you," said Peter. "I'm Peter Petrelli, Nathan's brother."

Henderson smiled quickly and slightly, without moving his eyes, and Simpson didn't even do that much. "He's going to NYU," said Nathan.

"What are you studying," asked Henderson, not the slightest bit interested.

"History and Pre-law," said Peter. He hadn't made up his mind, not remotely, but he knew this was what Nathan needed right now, a united front.

"Gonna be a lawyer like your brother," said Simpson. He jerked his chin slightly at Nathan. "You think the world needs another one of those?" The words had a hint of threat in them.

"Yes," said Peter. He smiled in a way that felt alien to his face, a smile that belonged more on Nathan's face, twisted and false. "I have to get back to Christy and Linda," said Peter. He had no idea if those were their names, but it was a good excuse.

Nathan caught up with him a few minutes later, and pulled him over to the bar. "What was that about?" asked Peter, annoyed.

"I wanted you to recognize them," said Nathan, "if you see them hanging around."

Peter put his hand on Nathan's shoulder, and felt his tension, although his face looked perfectly impassive. He kneaded the muscle there a bit, trying to get Nathan to relax. "Will I? See them around, I mean?"

Nathan licked his lips. "I don't know, but I didn't expect them to be here, either. Something is going on with Dad. This is some kind of warning. You tell me if you see them."

Peter looked into his eyes. "I will, Nathan, I promise."

Randy Cooperman walked over to them then, and slung a thick, slug-like arm over Nathan's shoulder. Nathan tried to shrug him off as he would a fly, but Randy wouldn't budge. "Get a room, you two," he said with an ugly guffaw. "What, am I interrupting some big serious moment?"

Nathan's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Peter took his hand from Nathan's shoulder. "Of course not," he said, the rasp of sarcasm darkening his voice. He walked back with Randy to the banquette, and left Peter standing, dazed at the bar.

Someone else saw it, Peter thought, someone as obtuse as Randy. Of course, the guys had spouted an unending litany of gay jokes this whole weekend, but this, Peter felt, was something different, that Randy had seen them with some alcohol induced clarity. Peter excused himself and went back to his room at the Bellagio. He watched whatever movies were on HBO until the first light of dawn came in around the shades. He sat out by the pool in the chilly morning air until it was time for their flight.

"Randy is not going to be around much longer," said Nathan, when Peter asked how the rest of the evening went.

Peter widened his eyes, disbelieving. "What? You mean Linderman . . .?" he asked in a scared whisper.

"No, nothing like that. D.A.'s going to prosecute him and his father for insider trading. Thought you might like to know."

"Is he guilty?"

Nathan looked like he was trying to hide a smile. "Of course."

"Well," said Peter, "that's good, then."

***

Peter felt lost after the Vegas trip. His friends in the Students for Social Action looked upon him with suspicion for getting out of jail so easily, and his classes couldn't hold his attention. He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't what he was meant to be doing, following lock step in Nathan's footsteps, but how else could he stay close to Nathan? He woke from wonderful, terrible dreams too often, of what might have happened in Nathan's hotel room, if they'd stayed too close together. These dreams were just that, dreams, nothing more intense, or more prescient, but they bothered him all the same.

He wondered if he could find Derek again, or someone like him, and this time he went alone to that club in the Meat Packing district, past the brand new galleries and the sidewalks stained red with a century of cow's blood. It wasn't Derek this time, but another man, sharply dressed, with a skinny, angular face who caught Peter staring at him.

This time Peter went back to the man's apartment, and let him teach Peter everything he had wondered about. He liked it, too much, the feeling of giving up control to someone stronger, and more forceful than him, someone who covered Peter's body with his, someone who laid bare secret places, and Peter went back to his dorm much later that night, exhausted and sore, but able to sleep without dreaming of Nathan's hands on him.

He found other places to meet the men he wanted, so he never had to go home with the same man twice, and now he found he could see Nathan, at the gym, at family dinners, without worrying that some look, some catch of breath might betray him. He let Nathan kiss his forehead and returned his hugs unselfconsciously. And when he had the dreams, he knew what to do—another dark room, and someone's hard, anonymous hands on him, inside of him, making him forget for a while.

It worked until April, and it would have worked longer, except that Peter's favorite club in the Village was raided by the cops. (Nathan had explained how it worked—a cynical arrangement where if the club didn't pay up, they were raided and shut down. Vice cops always got the best kick-backs and they kicked some of that upstairs to the same legislators who refused to issue cabaret licenses.)

Peter got an object lesson in that system, discovered by the cops giving head to the bartender on the loading dock. A cop called him a fucking fag, and accidentally-on-purpose ran Peter's head into roof of the squad car when he pushed Peter in.

"Well, this is the second time I've had to pick you up from jail," said Nathan when he arrived. Peter's name had given him access to a phone quicker than anyone else arrested in the bust, and Nathan showed up a half hour later. "What's the chance it will be the last?" His voice was clipped and frosty. "I don't see who you could have been helping out, or protesting, this time. But I'm sure you have some excuse."

"What did they tell you?" Peter asked. Nathan's expression was cold, deadly cold. They must have told him something.

"I think you should tell me." Nathan crossed his arms over his chest.

Peter lifted his chin up and met Nathan's eyes. "I was in a club, under-aged, getting fucked, Nathan. Is that what they told you?" Peter looked down at the stained bench that wrapped around the side of the cell. "I'm sure I'll just get a fine. Indecent exposure is a misdemeanor, isn't it?" He tried to sound as chilly as Nathan, but instead he knew he sounded desperate, desolate.

"Keep you voice down," said Nathan in a hard whisper.

Peter looked around. "What, you don't want them to know what your brother was doing? Dad always thought I'd be the family fuck-up. I'm just living up to it." He shouldn't have called Nathan here, he knew, but some rebellious part of him wanted to rub Nathan's nose in it, make Nathan take some of the blame.

Nathan's gaze flicked over Peter's face. Peter wanted to make him react, show something other than this perfect control, or at least make him work for that control, but all Nathan said was, "What happened to your forehead?" Peter reached up and felt his face, and his fingers came back wet and red.

"Cop, I think," he said. "They weren't too gentle."

Now Nathan was fuming. "Stay here," he said, forgetting that Peter was behind bars and couldn't go anywhere. "No one does that to my brother." Emphasis on "my," thought Peter. Nathan took good care of his belongings.

Nathan stalked back down the corridor to Peter's cell a few minutes later. "You're out. No charges. Come with me."

"I can go back to my dorm?" asked Peter.

"You're not letting people see you like that. We're going to my place to get you cleaned up."

Peter fingered his lips and felt the bruises left by his latest partner's kisses, and saw Nathan's eyes follow his fingers.

"You look like a—." Nathan bit off the rest of what he wanted to say. "A squad car is giving us a lift to my apartment."

They didn't talk as they sat in the back of the car. The seats were hard buckets, with cutouts for manacled hands, but this time, at least, Peter wasn't restrained. Nathan was dressed up, and Peter wondered what he'd taken Nathan away from tonight.

"You don't want people seeing me like this?" asked Peter as they rode the mirrored elevator up to Nathan's apartment. "You mean you don't want to see me like this."

"Of course I don't want to see you like this. Do you think I like picking you up from jail? Do you think I like the idea that you're bending over for half of Manhattan." He pushed Peter into his bathroom roughly. "Get yourself cleaned up."

"It wasn't half—."

"I don't care how many it was."

Peter turned on the water and looked at himself in the mirror. The cut had dripped blood over his forehead, but it had already stopped bleeding and Peter dabbed at it with wet paper towels until only a thin line remained.

"Are you going to need stitches?" asked Nathan, still cold as ice, standing in the door.

"No," said Peter, sullen.

"Are you dizzy? Did you hit your head?" asked Nathan. "You need to take a shower and I don't want you passing out."

"Don't tell me what to do," Peter burst out.

"Someone needs to." Nathan pushed Peter up against the wall. "Isn't that what you were looking for?"

The bathroom was light, where it was dark in Peter's dream, but he felt the same things: Nathan's hot, lust-mixed anger, and his own. He pushed Nathan back against the sink. "Stop acting like you own me."

Nathan looked down and swallowed hard at that—Peter had hit a nerve. "Get in the shower," said Nathan. Peter lunged toward the door, and fell heavily against the light switch as Nathan grabbed his arm again. In the dark Peter could feel Nathan more than see him, feel the thrumming tension, the anger barely held in check. He hoped Nathan would hit him, or something—whatever this has been building toward. They couldn't just walk away from this.

"What?" asked Peter, and his voice sounded harsh in his ears. "What are you going to do?"

And then it was just like his dream—he could feel his own fear and desire, and somehow Nathan's, too. Their bodies were pressed close together, Peter's back against the wall next to the door, and he could feel that Nathan was hard against his leg, but then Nathan loosened his grip on Peter's arm, although he didn't let go entirely.

"Nothing, Peter," said Nathan, his voice ragged. "What happens to you is up to you." Nathan sounded gentle and tender now, and Peter didn't know what was supposed to happen. His dream hadn't taken him here. They stood like that for a moment, too far gone already to go back. Nathan brushed aside the hair on Peter's forehead with a fingertip and kissed him there, like he had in Vegas. Peter could feel Nathan holding his breath, waiting and Peter tipped his head up so his lips brushed Nathan's, before he dropped to his bruised knees.

Nathan didn't stop him—he let it be entirely up to Peter, just as he had said. Peter undid Nathan's belt and tugged down his pants quickly, before he could change his mind, and then sloppily sucked Nathan's whole cock into his mouth. He could have gone slowly, showed Nathan his perfect technique—he wanted Nathan to know that he's been practicing, getting good at this, to make Nathan think about all the other men, who weren't him, who Peter had had his lips around. But he wanted it to be fast too, to get this first part over with so they can get on to whatever would happen next. No matter what that was, this wouldn't be hanging over them anymore.

He knew the sounds Nathan made from his dreams, and Nathan's hand buried in the hair on the back of his neck felt just like it did on his shoulder, or his elbow. Nathan came quickly, and made Peter swallow it. The bathroom was still dark, and they didn't say anything as Peter stood up.

Then, finally Nathan started making decisions, as if the darkness freed them from being anything other than two bodies together. Nathan pushed Peter over the sink, and Peter felt, at last, what Nathan really wanted, heard in the noises Nathan made as he entered Peter, the "mine" he wanted to say. Nathan was hard all over again, as if Peter had never sucked him off, and his hands grabbed Peter's hips hard as he drove himself in, and Peter came until he felt empty.

They showered, still in the dark, just soapy bodies together, clean just until they made it to Nathan's bed, and Nathan wrapped Peter in his body again.

Peter fell asleep, exhausted, after, next to Nathan's warmth. He expected Nathan to leave the bed to him and sleep in the living room, to start the process of denial as soon as the sex was over, but when he woke in the morning, Nathan was still there, still sleeping, hair messy and face slack.

Nathan probably wanted him to leave, but Peter wrapped himself in one of Nathan's robes and went out to the living room, where he turned on the TV at a very low volume, and watched cooking shows until his stomach started to growl. He could tell that Nathan was awake now, even though no noises came from Nathan's room, and his stomach flip-flopped with nervousness instead of hunger.

"You should leave," said Nathan, startling Peter. He'd been expecting this, but he hadn't heard Nathan's door open. Peter turned to look at him. Nathan's face was carefully expressionless. "There's no excuse for what happened, but it won't happen again."

"But, I dreamt it would happen, Nathan," said Peter. Then, mumbling, "I think you dreamt it to."

"I didn't," said Nathan, voice cold.

"Nathan, maybe this is just who we are."

Nathan looked at him accusingly, eyes narrow. "How can you say that?"

"We both dreamed it would happen."

"I didn't dream it," said Nathan, again, and Peter didn't know whether to believe him or not. Maybe Nathan hadn't shared his dreams, but this thing between them had happened all the same.

"Okay, I'm leaving," said Peter. He took off the robe and started putting on the dirty, bloody clothes from the night before, which were still piled in the bathroom. Nathan averted his eyes. "I'll see you at the wedding," said Peter.

Nathan pursed his lips. "See you then," he said, face barely moving, but his eyes looked wounded, and Peter felt a pang of guilt. This wouldn't have happened if he hadn't pushed Nathan to the precipice, but he couldn't be sorry. He felt strangely light and free as he took the subway back downtown, as if some weight had been lifted. Nathan would find a way to deal with this, like he did everything else.

The wedding was a month later, a huge affair at Windows on the World. Six hundred people in ball gowns and tuxes, a twenty piece, band, and the best food money could buy. Peter was the best man, and he and Nathan put their arms around each other for pictures, but every time Peter tried to say something to him, Nathan was off shaking hands with someone else.

After dinner, Peter gave a toast that he had prepared months before, and it wasn't until right before Nathan left for the honeymoon suite with Heidi that Peter had a moment alone with him.

"It was a beautiful wedding," said Peter. He looked Nathan up and down; he looked impossibly elegant in his tux with the bow-tie undone, but. . . "You look tired," Peter said, and Nathan did; the care lines around his eyes had deepened since Peter saw him last.

"I am," he said, a rare show of vulnerability.

They hugged, and Peter buried his face in Nathan's neck. "I missed you," he said, hoping Nathan wouldn't hear him.

Nathan caressed the back of Peter's neck. "I did too," he said in Peter's ear, barely audible—Peter could feel the shape of Nathan's lips making the words more than hear them. "When I get back . . ." he said—a promise, Peter hoped

Nathan and Heidi went to Hawaii for two weeks, and then came home. Peter helped them move into a penthouse on 1st Ave, returning the favor, although all he really had to do was hold the door open for movers.

"What are you going to do with your place?" asked Peter. The Petrellis owned the building, but apartments didn't go vacant very long.

"I thought it could be yours, if you want it," said Nathan. "I left the furniture, just in case."

"After the semester ends," agreed Peter.

Exams came again, and Peter felt again that craving, to go out and find a nice, clean-cut man to fuck him until he could forget what Nathan's hands had felt like on his skin, but he resisted. Instead he went on a few dates with Madison, and had very enjoyable sex with her on her single bed.

He wrote a paper about the Black Panthers for his Feminism and Civil Rights class (which he sneaked onto his schedule for the second semester) about the use of rape as a tool for women's oppression. He got an A in that class, and Bs in the others. Nathan would be proud, if he didn't worry about the subject of the paper. His father would even be proud if he took a moment to care.

In June, after Peter's last final, Nathan helped Peter move into his old place, and brought a pizza and some beer.

"I thought I was supposed to provide that," said Peter. It was strange, being alone with him again. Nathan had never shown any awkwardness, or even memory, of what had taken place between them.

"I think Heidi's pregnant," said Nathan, a propos of nothing, after they had moved of Peter's stuff. They sat on the couch, drinking pony-necked beers, and cooling down from the labor of moving. The late-afternoon sunshine flowed in the curtain-less windows and made Nathan's skin glow golden.

"That's great," said Peter. "When is she due?"

"It's only been a month, so don't say anything yet." He turned to face Peter. "You think that's a good thing? More Petrellis?"

Peter gave him a half-smile. "You have to ask?" He looked at the fading light, coming in through Nathan's big plate glass window, and wondered if he'd ever be able to think of this apartment as his own. "I'm going to take a shower," he said.

He stripped and left the door open, in a family of closed doors, hoping Nathan would follow, take the invitation. He didn't, though, so Peter sighed and turned off the water. He shook out his hair, stepped out, and wrapped a towel around his waist. "Your turn," he said. Nathan left the door open too, but now Peter didn't know what to think. Instead he stood just outside the door and said, "So . . . do I have to get arrested again, or what?"

"Please don't," said Nathan, voice cutting through the spray of water. He didn't pretend not to understand what Peter was asking.

He got out of the shower and Peter stood there, brazen, looking. "Peter . . ." said Nathan. It sounded like a warning. He reached out and took the robe from the hook next to the shower, then stepped over the lip of the tub, every movement self-conscious and graceful. "Are you going to let me by?" he asked, standing close to Peter, too close. If he didn't want Peter there, he could have pushed him aside, brushed him off as he brushed off a thousand other people who wanted something from him. He reached up and cupped Peter's face in his hand. Peter leaned his face against the caress, kissed the palm of Nathan's hand.

It would be easy, too easy, for Nathan to walk away, to mention Heidi, his career, something, but he didn't, and they stayed locked in the moment, going neither forward nor back, until Peter lowered his eyes, and turned to walk away, to let it go. Nathan caught him around the waist before he could, and, as if having Peter's back to him freed him, now he kissed Peter's neck, and murmured things under his breath that Peter couldn't decipher, and didn't need to.

They ended up in Nathan's, now Peter's, bed again, face to face this time, no words shared between them, but no darkness covering them either. And Nathan made no denials when he spooned naked around Peter after, as the breeze from the open window cooled them.

They didn't lay there long, just enough time for Peter's heart to slow to normal again, then Nathan got up, and got dressed, and Peter threw on some old jeans and started unpacking more boxes.

"So, you're tutoring in Harlem this summer?" asked Nathan, sardonic again, his default position.

"Red Hook, it's in Brooklyn. You may have heard of it."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "I've heard of Red Hook. Isn't that where the teacher was shot last year?"

"Well, now they need a new one," said Peter with a bravado he didn't feel.

"If you change your mind, I have a lot of friends who would hire you for the summer, something that would look good on your law school applications."

"This will too. And they need the volunteers."

"You can't save the world, Peter."

"Well, maybe I can save a little piece of it."

Nathan tried again. "This isn't . . ." he said helplessly, without words for once.

Peter gave him a half-smile and ducked his head. "Come visit me once I've unpacked," he said.

"I'll bring Heidi," said Nathan.

He would, Peter knew, but he would come back alone again, too.

The End.


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