Blur, a heroes fanfic

Prompt: Dreams (good or bad)

Requirements:

- must be a oneshot;

- must contain a minumum of 500 words;

First fic, new fandom-be gentle with me.

Don't own won't own!

They always started out like this.

He and his brother, Nathan, would be flying high above the New York City skyline. He could look straight down and see the people clustered around Times Square, around Central Park, milling about like ants beneath his feet as they flew. The city was cold and yet somehow beckoning with warmth; it was pulsing with vitality and somehow sluggish and still. Peter supposed it was because of all the buildings. Peter would always be the first—did Nathan ever initiate anything in his life?—to jump up and playful whack his brother on the shoulder, or the foot, or whatever part of his anatomy was closer, and then fly just out of reach. And Nathan, even bound up in a suit or a heavy flying jacket against the chilly air, would smile and indulge his little brother, chasing him around in loops and bends and eventually capturing him. And then Peter would fold himself into his brother's grip and then they would kiss and then they would be back in Peter's apartment and then Nathan would be in him and then Peter would come to with a start and find himself in his darkened bedroom, drenched in sweat and covered in guilt. He knew he shouldn't be thinking about his brother like this but God, Nathan was everything to him and he was so scared that one day he'd wake up and Nathan would be gone; he would have flown off and left everything, left Peter behind and that would be the end of it.

The phone picks up with a click, and then there's Nathan's soft, husky voice—"Peter?"

There is rain on the window and Nathan can just tell that there is something wrong; maybe it's the way that Peter's breathing or maybe it's because it's three in the morning and though he's not sleeping, Nathan knows that it's not just a social call.

"What's wrong, Pete?" Nathan asks quietly,

"N-nothing," Peter replies a little too quickly, "I just needed to hear your voice, Nate."

There's silence for a long time on the line, and for a moment they just listen to the other man breathing into the mouthpiece. Nathan suspects that there's something Peter's not telling him—doesn't take a genius, does it?—but there really is something deep here. He heard that urgency in Peter's voice before his brother stopped talking but then it was gone as Peter coughed.

"D'you." Nathan stops for a long moment, hearing the little hitch in Peter's throat. "D'you want me to come over?"

"Yeah," Peter gasps after a long moment, "that'd be great."

And then sometimes they'd go like this

They'd be sitting on the ledge of a building—any building, it didn't matter which one it was—feet dangling over the edge, slurping ices in the summer or clutching mugs of cocoa in the winter. Peter would always finish his first and then sit with his legs jiggling, ready to go do something, whether it was fly or talk or whatever, just ready to enjoy the rarity of time that he had with his brother. Nathan was involved with his kids and then he wasn't, but he still wouldn't come see Peter that often. His schedule was busy, and Peter either had to drop by his office or fly into his brother's apartment in the city randomly, just to see if he was around. They'd talk, catch up; Nathan would tease Peter about his working habits or his general lack of hygiene or something equally mundane and then the dream would dissolve like dreams did and they would be in Peter's bedroom, and Nathan would be undressing Peter, and then Peter would wake up, begging for release and covered with sweat. He couldn't figure out why the one thing that he wanted most in life he could never ever have because that was wrong, so wrong but jacking off into the cold showers that invariably followed such dreams didn't help quell the feeling in his stomach.

There was a gentle tap at the door and Peter swiftly answered it, letting Nathan into his apartment without a word. Nathan noticed as he peeled off his heavy wool coat that his brother's neck was clenching and unclenching in that way that meant that his brother definitely had something to say but would not bring it up under any circumstances. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder but the other man instantly shied away from the touch, too quickly for it to be normal.

"Pete, what's wrong?" Nathan asked.

Peter ignored him as he stalked into the other room, sitting down hastily on one of the chairs in his tiny living room. Already, his emotions were raging out of control. He wondered when it had gotten this bad—that one gentle, brotherly touch from Nathan was enough to make him cream his pants like some teenager—his thoughts broke off as he heard Nathan's footsteps on the wooden floor, and then Nathan's face was hanging above him. Concerned, Nathan reached out and Peter grabbed his wrist so fast that he violently shoved his older brother away instinctively. Nathan stumbled, nearly falling into the couch.

"What the hell, Pete—"

"Don't even start with me, Nathan," Peter snarled, placing both hands on Nathan's chest and shoving, hard. Nathan's backside hit the couch and he nearly sprawled over it. "I'm—"

He broke off as Nathan's fist cracked into his jaw, sending Peter reeling. "You son of a—"

Nathan's lips crashed onto his and Peter lost all feeling in his legs.

As a kid, Peter once thought if that human emotion could be assigned to a color, he would most often see the red of rage. His parents fought a lot and his heart burst because he couldn't help them fix it. He couldn't fix it. He could only stand on the stairwell, waiting for them to finally be done with whatever their latest conflict was about, and he never understood why. Nathan would hold Peter in his arms and tell him everything was going to be alright but eventually, Nathan left and then it wasn't. When Peter first started puberty, he felt his body reacting when his much older and more developed brother would hold him and knew then that he had feelings that he wasn't supposed to. And when his parents were fighting and little Peter was sobbing in his brother's arms; that was the only time he felt safe. Right now, though, with Nathan dangling off the edge of the building and Sylar's face flipping onto Nathan's—or was it Nathan's face flipping onto Sylar's?—he'd never felt more alone in his life. And then when he was gone…he only had his own hand and the grimy shower.

Nathan had never told Peter that the days following the night his brother had disappeared had been the hardest of his life. He'd pushed everyone and everything away, spending his time in an alcohol-fueled stupor curled up on Peter's bed, clutching the bottle or the pillow or the toilet, whatever he had his arms around at the time. His beard grew straggly and his mother tried to guilt him into leaving the apartment, but he shooed her off each time more violently than the last. He turned off his cell –or maybe he had dropped it out the window, he couldn't really remember—because all he could think about was the feeling when Peter was getting close to exploding and he had to let him go or else he would get radiation burns. And then, there was no trace of the body, so Nathan couldn't even go to a gravesite and mourn properly; he was limited to the pictures in the apartment. He kept leaving sloppy kisses on the frames because sometimes he forgot that the Peter-in-the-picture wasn't the real Peter, and sometimes he could almost feel Peter's fingers around his dick, pulling hard the way he wanted, no, the way he needed his brother to.

He re-lived that awful moment every day while Peter was gone. The feeling of Peter's hands slipping through his fingers, his terrified screams, "-don't leave me, Nate, please don't leave me-" and then he was just gone and there was only the resulting blast from the explosion that blew Nathan far out over the Hudson and he collapsed atop Liberty's torch from exhaustion. Scenarios of what he could have done differently constantly ran through his head. Maybe if he had gone a little higher Peter could have expelled the radiation and lived. Maybe if he'd been quicker, he could have grabbed his brother's hand. Maybe if he'd not let go, he'd be with Peter right now, wherever he was. In the afterlife, with God, he guessed. The feeling of Peter's hand brushing against his…it was electric. Even now, curled on the floor clutching the broken picture of himself and his brother, he could feel how Peter's fingertips slipping through his for the last time. And then there was nothing but the long slow fall and the cold hard splash.

"Nathan?"

He looked up and there was Peter staring down at him, hands clutching his brother's hair and fingers threaded through the dark locks. He rested his chin on his brother's chest, nuzzling the spot where neck stopped and pectoral muscle began, and Peter let out a little mewl of pleasure. He scratched tenderly at Nathan's back.

"What's up, Pete?" he asked carefully.

"What does this mean for us?"

Nathan was silent for a long moment, content to wrap his arms around his brother's shoulders and draw him closer, protecting him.

"Means I love you, Pete."