(no subject)

[slyprentice]

Defining Devotion
By Prentice

Rating: 17+
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Warnings: This deals with some fairly heavy issues, namely: alcoholism, terrorism, non-con and bad French accents language skills. If any of these bother you, I’d say you’d better abandon ship now.
Timeline: This is set after the events of season one with things picked and chosen from the first three episodes of season two. Yes, Peter still has amnesia.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything but the storyline and a few random characters, all of which are used and abused to the fullest extent.
Summary: From the moment that Peter Petrelli was born, he had a way of redefining Nathan’s life; for the good and for the bad.

Author's Notes: (1) I'm sorry for the delay in posting. I started off last week with a rib knocking cough and ended the weekend recovering from a nasty stomach bug. (2) I'm going to try to post the next chapter quickly; however, I can't make any promises. I leave early next week for San Fransico for a week. I won't be taking my laptop so...not much writing can be done. (3) Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback! Keep it coming, I say!
Previous Parts: 
Prologue 
Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Chapter 3

‘There is nothing so unholy pathetic as a man pretending that everything is all right when he is standing at the gates of Hell.”

Nathan sticks his head under the faucet once he’s on his feet, albeit wobbly. He does it before he can think better of it and manages to keep his gasp from becoming a gag only by sheer force of will. The treacherous knowledge that his retching will only lead to painful dry heaving is enough to make his lips thin to a white slash across his face. He doesn’t think he could handle that, at least not right now.

Or ever, he prays impenitently, pressing trembling fingers to the side’s of his face. The cold water on his neck and through his hair is a serrated knife to his nerve ends; cutting away at him until he’s leaning against the sink pedestal more than standing, shivering with cold. His mind seems to stutter and start in painful reckless spurts, strengthening the ache between his eyes and in his heart.

His elbows, pointy and sharp after too many missed meals, are tucked tightly against his stomach, forearms taking the brunt of his weight as he leans, halfheartedly splashing water against his face. The chilly liquid is like little biting kisses, stinging against his cheek, his forehead, the bridge of his nose. It makes him want to cry.

Fucking God, Pete, he thinks, cupping his hands beneath the spout and bringing a pool to his gooey lips, sucking in a shallow mouthful before wiping away the dried drool with hasty swipes. He slides his tongue over his teeth as he swallows, the grimy feel of too much plague rough and sour against his taste buds. He scraps it against their edges and the slim film of sleep comes off in a vinegary line of gunk, making him grimace and spit before bringing another pool of water to his dry lips to swish and swirl until the acrid taste recedes. I’m pathetic.

You’re not pathetic, Nathan. Peter’s voice is in his head, a sudden warm reassurance and tangible in a way that makes it like a blade cutting jagged in his heart. The tender ghost of his little brother’s hand is soft against his cheek, phantom fingertips velvety on his roughened skin, as though his baby brother’s here with him, pulling him close, and this is not just a memory, a hallucination of want, but real. You’ll never be pathetic.

Not with you, Pete. You kept me up, kept me high, kept me human. For as long as I had you. The truth of it pounds in his chest, an unsteady rhythm to a regular beat. For as long as I had you. Tears blur in his vision, aching and hot, running down his face in watery rivulets that drip from his chin and mix with the faucet water disappearing down the drain. But I don’t, anymore.

Closing his eyes, he whirls more water in his mouth, using shaking fingers to scrub at his teeth, the bloody taste of heartache in his tightened throat, before pushing himself up on tremulous arms. His muscles cord beneath his skin, smaller and less defined than what they used to be but still there, still strong. The medicine cabinet’s mirror is strangely clean, unblemished by all the things it’s seen since he’s moved in, and shinning at him with unforgiving light above the sink.

Lifting a quaking hand, Nathan touches his reflection, hollow brown eyes staring back at him. They’re dimmer, somehow, than he last remembers, like the light behind them has been crushed or extinguished; dulled to nothing by grief and drink. His face is pale beneath his beard, which in turn is scraggly and specked with day old dried vomit. His cheeks, blush red, are sunken in, giving him a strangely skeletal appearance.

Even his clothes, a thin military green cotton t-shirt flecked with stale booze and a crusty pair of his brother’s boxers – Superman logos, Pete? It’s funny, Nathan – make him look like someone else, someone who isn’t a Petrelli.

Who am I supposed to be – the clanging hum of his cell phone twittered from the other room, the din of music a prickly sound in the back of his skull – without you?

***

Matt Parkman leans heavily against the kitchen counter, cell phone tucked between ear and shoulder, looking tiredly down at the dirty dishes in the sink. A green tinted glass, thick bottomed, and a plain white plate with a few stray breadcrumbs left from his sandwich. It hadn’t been anything special; just cheese with a slice of bologna that tasted like sawdust going down.

C’mon, c’mon, pick-up already. The mantra has been in his head for too long now, a silent buzz drowning out the swirl of thoughts pressing in on him. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else but their sound and urgency. Pick-up. Pick-up. Damn it, pick-up!

“Hello. You’ve reached–“ 

With a disgruntled snarl, Matt snaps his phone closed, cutting off the message before it can finish. The urge to throw the damn thing across the room is nearly overpowering but he forces back the impulse, pocketing it instead. The weight is hardly noticeable in his slacks, just a gentle tug of weight as he shifts.

“Goddamnit,” he scowls, bracing his palms against the hard edge of the countertop. Why the hell did the man choose now, of all times, to ignore his call?

Face it, Parkman, he commiserates, glancing over his shoulder to the empty apartment beyond. He could see the wooden coat peg that held his own discarded jacket and – Molly’s – by the door.  You’re going to have to do this one alone.

The red of his would-be daughter’s coat glowed like a jewel in the dark interior of the other room, its shinning surface like cherry blood, vibrant with accusation.

All alone.

End Chapter 3