(A/N: Just a point about Peter and Nathan's ages. I think they probably are farther apart than I've written. For my particular purposes though, I'm placing them about four or five years apart.)
The camping trip had begun as any other Petrelli family excursion, which was to say, tense and behind schedule. The help loaded the car, while Dad went to the back for an early smoke. Mom began filling a tote bag with every household medication known to man (oral and otherwise.)
Nathan sat on the front steps with Peter, successfully ignoring the familiar spectacle. Peter was fast asleep, his head sagging onto the ornate ailing-- eleven years of family trips had failed to make an early riser out of the kid. Nathan had his attention divided neatly between his copy of Reader's Digest and the clamor inside the house. He was waiting for the old busy summons, but it was behind schedule (standard delivery time being long before any essentials found their way into the car.) Nathan was not an optimist, and did not let himself consider the possibility that maybe this time… well; maybe Peter could look after himself for once. Not thinking about this, he turned to the "Letters to the Editor" which he often found more entertaining than the funny pages.
"Nathan!"
Nathan repeated several words he was not permitted to say in the appreciative silence of his mind before standing up. "Yes, Mom…"
"Nathan, dear, come inside! I need you for a moment."
"Peter's asleep out here, Mom."
Clattering footsteps (his mother could always clatter, even in sneakers) approached the open door, and her morning-pale face poked out. "Is he? Oh, little dear, he never can sleep the night before these big trips. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you Nathan? Make sure he doesn't wander off again?"
The question-mark did not make it a question.
With a sigh. "Yes, Mom."
"There's my good boy." And she was off again, probably to gorge the guestroom medicine cabinets.
It would be neither fair nor accurate to say that Nathan Petrelli resented his brother. Their relationship was, from the beginning, far more complex than such things. Perhaps it was the difference in the brothers' ages, or the wide disparity in their natures. Whatever the reason, (and there was an understandable lack of curiosity about this peculiarity on their parents' part) there was a decided absence of petty squabbles between the two brothers.
It would, however, be true to say that Nathan did not particularly enjoy being entrusted with the whereabouts of his younger brother. As a young boy, he had been simply another pair of (occasionally fruitless) eyes—a useful addition, not to mention an occupation for the already responsibility-craving Nathan. The ensuing years, however, had somehow solidified this understanding into an unyielding obligation. In the every-day course of things (aside from the odd disastrous supermarket visit) this did not chafe Nathan terribly. He had, after all, always enjoyed the sense of power that came with responsibility.
It was in these close, tense hours, those times when his family seemed to rattle around him like marbles in a pill bottle that the sharper edges of his job slipped from their mundane sheathes.
In other words, family trips stank like the morning after a loosing election.
Yet by evening, the Petrelli family had successfully located the campsite and pitched (if you could call it that) their two tents. In fact, the trip was so far going preternaturally smoothly. Dad hadn't lost his temper. Mom hadn't gotten carsick. They had even survived two rest stops and a lunch break without loosing sight of, misplacing or otherwise letting go of Peter.
Nathan was exhausted, and resignedly wondering when the second axe was going to fall. He didn't have very long to wait.
"Don't let Peter wander off again, Nathan."
Sitting up (he was lying on the damp earth in front of the tents,) Nathan sighed "I know, Dad."
Dad looked down at him, that hard sad thing swirling darker behind his light gray eyes. "Is that a tone, Nathan?"
Long breath. Long, deep, easy, politician-in-training-never-let-'em-see-you- sweat breath. "No, Dad."
"Good."
Nathan glanced toward the grill, where Peter was helping Mom get supper. A small smile played on his lips. He caught Nathan's gaze, and winked. Nathan suppressed the urge to stick his tongue out-- Peter was a crazy dreamer, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what Dad was telling his older brother.
It was just that Peter never thought he would need watching.
A/N: Wow, this must be a healthy story, it keeps growing-- I thought I was writing a one-shot! Sorry if it's moving a little slowly.