Archive of Our Own

Peter's joyous run slows to a crawl, and finally a stop. Nathan is shutting the door of the cab, and his eyes fall on the boy standing in the walk. There is the briefest moment of confusion, but then his world begins to turn again as recognition flares. Nathan leans heavily on the cab and can only say one word.

"Peter." His voice sounds like a sigh, a sob, and a prayer all in one.

Peter leaps at him, for an instant wondering it he's even touching the ground anymore, or simply flying into his brother's arms. Nathan catches him and holds him tightly, pushing his face into his little brother's neck while Peter is perfectly content to curl against Nathan's chest, legs around his brother's waist, hands gripping the back of the uniform jacket he's wearing.

Slowly, Nathan shakes his head. He lifts his eyes, and Peter can see that his face is streaked with tears. This worries and startles Peter - he's never seen his brother cry before. Nathan sees his expression and smiles, a carefree, plastic smile, and says, "No, I'm not cold, Pete. I'm just... real glad to be home."

Nathan wears that smile for the rest of the evening. He gets quiet sometimes, when Dad asks him about Bosnia or Iran, but always answers. He continues smiling, but at dinner, Peter can see that Nathan isn't really eating. Just pushing the food around on his plate to make it look like he is. If Peter tried something like that, Mom would see it in a second, but she doesn't seem to notice what Nathan is doing. Peter can't tell if he's supposed to know, so he keeps quiet. He'd rather get in trouble for not telling than let Nathan get a scolding for something Peter said.

After dinner, Nathan announces that he's going to try and unpack and get to sleep early. Peter offers to help, but Nathan kneels down and gives him a hug, explaining to his brother that he wants a little time to himself right now. The rejection is gentle, but it still feels like a blow to Peter's chest. He nods and backs away, wondering who this man is that came into their house, pretending to be Nathan.

He doesn't see Nathan again the rest of the day. His brother emerges once from his room, and Peter hears him speaking with their father. Dad's voice deepens in anger, and Nathan's pitches higher in a plea. But the volume is too low for Peter to know the words, and he's still too hurt by the rejection to peek in and see what's going on. Nathan finally leaves the room, and Arthur enters the den where Peter is rereading the book on fighter jets that Nathan had sent him last year. Arthur glares at the book and snatches it from Peter's hands. "I won't have another flyboy in this house!" he storms, and waves a finger at Peter. "Navy-- no. Marines. That'll straighten you out, boy. Semper fi. Don't you forget it."

It's seven minutes to midnight. Nathan has been in his room for five hours now. He was finished unpacking in the first forty minutes. He's had a shower and a shave, carefully avoiding the still-sensitive scarring on his chin. He put on a pair of his old pajamas, remembering how he'd dream of getting into them again, especially after the first few months of clothing restriction. But the loose flannel top and boxers are no good. He's lost weight in some places, and gained muscle in others, and even with such unrestricted cloths as these, the old, familiar coverings feel wrong. Still, Nathan is nothing if not stubborn. He tries to sleep, but in an hour, he gives in, changing into a set of sleeping pants and an Air Force tee shirt. Another hour without so much as a weary blink, and Nathan is on the move again. All the curtains on the windows are open already, but he throws open the panes as well, letting in the crisp October air. He changes the bedsheets to a set of regulation sheets. He still can't sleep. It's far too quiet in the house, and the silence is ringing through his ears. In the dark, he can hear shouts and screams. He sees fire. The feeling of bullets whizzing past.

He replaces the sheets again, with the ones his bed had been dressed with when he'd come in. He doesn't change his clothes. Instead, Nathan pulls open the patio doors and steps out onto the balcony. The air is cold enough to raise gooseflesh across his arms and back but Nathan doesn't care. The chill is a relief.

Seven minutes to midnight, there is a soft knock at the door, before it get pushed open. A dark-haired figure, his thin frame seeming awkward and gangly, steps into the room, which has been lit up by a single lamp on the desk. Peter notices the improvised night-light, and rubs his arms as his skin is touched by the night air. He goes over to the open balcony doors and sees his brother. "Nate?"

Nathan turns, a strange look of sorrow on his face before it gets replaced with the plastic smile. But then the mask slips away as he realizes Peter is there.

"You okay, Pete? Is something wrong?"

Peter looks up at his brother, wonder in his eyes. "You were afraid of the dark, too?"

Nathan blinks for a moment, then takes a breath. "It wasn't the dark I was afraid of. I was afraid of the room. Any room. Something... closed in. I don't like feeling like I can't get away."

"Is that why you stayed with me?" Peter asks, a trace of worry in his eyes. The nights when Nathan had come to his room and help him fall asleep were, to Peter, testament of his brother's love for him. When Nathan immediately shakes his head, Peter feels the vise around his heart loosen.

"No," Nathan was explaining. "I was there because you needed me to be there. But after a while I realized that I needed it as much as you."

Peter smiles softly, and throws his arms around Nathan. "Let's get back to bed," he says, clinging tightly. "I'll stick around and make sure the windows stay open."

Nathan is ready to protest - he's twenty-three years old, and Peter will be ten in two months; they're both too old for this. But he can't. He won't push Peter away again. He can't refuse the hero-worship in his little brother's eyes.

"Okay," he says, finally, letting Peter drag him back inside. "But just for tonight."