A Hard Lesson

A/N: Spoilers: Season 1, Season 2. Written with disregard to the events of “Dying of the Light” and beyond. The present takes place some time after my fic “Indestructible”. You may want to read that first if you haven't already. This Future!Peter is from an alternate future I created, hence the disregard for the end of season 3. Enjoy, leave comments, I love them.

Peter Petrelli walked past a never-ending line of cubicles, his angular features hardened under the fluorescent lights. At first he ignored all the stares of the office staff, which was comprised mostly of female twenty-something college students slaving away at unpaid internships. He then remembered how they all had lusted after him just as much as they did his brother, and figured he ought to be nice, so he gave a few of the cute ones a knowing smile and continued to his destination.

He knocked on the frosted glass door of Nathan Petrelli’s office, and his brother’s low, slightly gruff tone answered, “Come in.”

“Hello, Nathan. It’s been a long time.” Peter said, closing the door behind him, slowly advancing into the room, a sudden apprehension threatening to overtake him.

Nathan turned his head around halfway, just enough so that Peter could see his profile. “Peter? What are you doing here? I thought you had to work today. What the hell are you talking about, a long time? I just left your apartment two hours ago. I was late because you kept me up all night,” he grumbled, turning back to his paperwork.

Peter smirked and raised an eyebrow. He removed his black overcoat and hung it on the rack by the door. “Yes, I know, I’m sorry. But I missed you. So I thought maybe we could, you know, have lunch together before I go to work,” Peter said.

Nathan said, “Sure, Pete. I have to finish going over this goddamned speech for tomorrow. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I should be done in a few minutes.” He gestured towards the Italian leather sofa that sat on the far wall.

Peter ignored Nathan’s request, and he crossed the room until he stood directly behind his brother. He studied the back of him intently. He noticed that Nathan had let his dark brown hair get a bit too long, and even though he’d combed gel in it to hold it in place, it curled slightly at the ends, falling just below his collar. Peter opened his hand, intending to rest it on his brother’s shoulder, hesitating.

Nathan sensed that his brother was behind him, and he turned around fully this time, his eyes locking with Peter’s. Peter had to stop himself from letting out a gasp; he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

Peter hadn’t thought that seeing Nathan would feel quite like this. Peter had almost forgotten those expressive hazel eyes, framed by long eyelashes, his straight nose, his square jaw line, chin slightly scarred from his accident during his Navy days overseas. Peter hadn’t seen his brother in almost ten years, not since the day he had murdered him.

Peter Petrelli hadn’t really wanted to kill his brother. He had at first told himself that it was an accident, that he hadn’t meant to do it. But he had meant to. Peter had been at his wit’s end, unable to take his brother’s sexual abuse anymore.

When it had first started long ago, Peter hadn’t minded it; perversely enough, he’d actually enjoyed it. As time went on though, a bit of rough play had turned into more severe beatings, sometimes so bad that his healing ability actually lagged behind. Peter had begun dreading his brother’s anger, and hating an act that he had used to love sharing with him.

One night, President Nathan Petrelli had slipped away from his Secret Service detail and met him at one of those disgustingly lavish hotels they often frequented when Peter would come to see him in Washington, D.C., in order to keep their illegal, homosexual affair secret. Nathan had been particularly pissed off at some jerk in his Cabinet, and the pain he inflicted on Peter because of it had been too much to take, the worst it had ever been. Peter had lost control of himself, snapping out of his blinding anger just a little too late, and the President of the United States, his older brother Nathan, had died in his arms.

The sight of Nathan’s blood all over the bed, the carpets, the walls, all over the both of them, Nathan’s lifeless, accusing eyes, the whole gruesome picture of it all, had caused Peter to laugh hysterically at first. He’d finally done it. Peter had finally freed himself of Nathan’s hurtful, dismissive, sometimes callous attitude, his complacence, his cruel exploitation of Peter’s body and healing ability, his multitudes of apologies, the vicious cycle that occurred over and over again.

Then abruptly, everything had flipped on him, black became white and vice versa, as if Peter viewed the negative of that picture. All the things he loved about Nathan were gone forever as well. His low, richly toned voice, his loving glances, that beautiful smile, those wonderful hands. After all, his brother hadn’t always hurt him, not every time. Peter had gathered his brother’s body close and held him, told him he was sorry, and cried until all his brother’s warmth was gone.

Since then, Peter Petrelli had tried to convince himself that it was for the best, but now he was sure he had been wrong.

The President’s assassination had remained a mystery, because Peter had taken great precautions, extremely careful not to leave any evidence behind. However, what was left of the Petrelli family had known who was responsible, though they could not prove it.

The First Lady, Heidi Petrelli, full of fiery hatred at her brother-in-law, no longer pretending she hadn’t known about their affair, had slapped Peter, spit in his face, and tried to claw his eyes out at Nathan’s funeral.

Their mother, Angela Petrelli, had been absolutely devastated, and had refused to speak to Peter since the day of her elder son’s funeral. She had proceeded to suffer hallucinations, mood swings, every day becoming increasingly mentally fragile, ultimately committing suicide on the first anniversary of Nathan’s death.

Claire Bennet had taken her biological father’s death hard for someone who had only known him for a short time, especially because she knew the man who had been her hero had been her father’s killer. She had devoted a large part of her waking life to hunting down Peter Petrelli so that she could kill him. She’d recently recruited Nathan’s teenage sons Monty and Simon to her side as well, and they had come close plenty of times, and sooner or later, Peter was sure they would catch him off-guard. This regret that lay heavy on his soul had made it increasingly difficult to watch his own back.

Besides all that, Peter had to stop himself from becoming this cold-hearted, almost emotionless person Nathan’s periodic sexual abuse had turned him into. Nathan would have never died if this hadn’t happened.

There were reasons larger than himself and his shattered family at stake as well. The world had become a dangerous place for all people like themselves, people with abilities, without Nathan in it. His future needed Nathan Petrelli if there was any hope for their survival.

All of this was the reason he had returned to this time. He needed to change his present, this Nathan’s future. He had contemplated many courses of action, weighed his options, and had come to the conclusion that this was the exact moment where things needed to be altered. Peter could only be confident enough in his own foresight that the action he was about to take wouldn’t shake the dust off the wings of too many butterflies.

The method he would use to drive the point home to his brother simultaneously thrilled him and revolted him, because even though Nathan had hurt him, and had deserved his fate, Peter had never stopped loving him. In fact, Peter thought that might be the only emotion, besides anger and pain, that he was capable of feeling anymore.

Peter leaned down and pressed a kiss to his brother’s neck, and the familiar scent of his cologne nearly made him lose his nerve. How was Nathan always able to do this to him? To shift the balance of power so easily just by being himself?

Peter wrapped his arms around his brother’s broad shoulders, hugged him tightly, and thought about just letting this Nathan have his way with him. Peter could make love with his brother one last time, and then go back to his own time as quickly as he had come, condemned to deal with the repercussions of this temptation. Maybe then he could just give himself up to Claire, let her take his life. Very cowardly, but it would be a relief. He could stop running, stop hurting, and be at peace. He would find Nathan in the next life, of that he was sure.

You romantic idiot, he chastised himself. How can you be so in love with him, and miss him so much when all he did was hurt you? How can you think so selfishly?

No.

Not this time.

Peter had to fix this. It was the only way to save his family, the only way to save the world. He would allow himself to enjoy this for only so long, and then the real reason he was here would have to come out. Peter was almost sorry for having to do this.

While he immersed himself in the scent and taste of his long-lost brother’s skin, painful memories flashed through his mind: Nathan slapping him, hitting him, biting him, choking him to near-unconsciousness, brutalizing him with both his hands and his cock.

Peter was almost sorry.

Enough of this self-pity. Back to the task at hand.