THE ONE WHERE SYLAR TAKES PETER FOR ICE CREAM

Peter.

ALONE on some journey, Peter stared wide-eyed down into the abyss. He had been peering down many an abyss lately; everything he said or did seem to trail down into nothingness. Often times, he thought that the darkness was looking right back at him. The darkness seemed to look him right in the eye and whisper silence. There was a void there, in his heart. He had lost the will to fight. He had lost the will to care. Every ounce of empathy that he once held dear in his heart was trashed. He couldn't find solace in anything—not in his mother (who had betrayed him), not in his work, and not in his home.

When he had lost his brother, he had lost everything.

He continued to look down into the abyss—that chasm that seemed to stare him back in the face. This is where he had let his brother go. This is where the man he loved the most had transformed into the man he hated, and for the last time. He had spent his nights like this. Just looking down, hoping that he would wake up from this nightmare. But he never did.

He flew. Peter flew from rooftop to rooftop, hoping that he would see his brother eventually, somewhere. In something. When he had let go of Nathan, he had taken from him one thing to hold on to: Nathan's flight. And with this gift, Peter could continually remember his brother. So he flew, mainly between the rooftop where he had first attempted to fly, only to be saved by his brother, and the place where Nathan had died.

But no matter what rooftop he was on, Peter could only see death. No memories of Nathan surfaced—only the image of his brother, letting go, dying, and transforming into—

Sylar.

The streets were a dark place at three a.m. Sylar roamed around, like a cat in the night, searching for his next move. He had a few options in mind, the first of which was revenge. But in a way, that almost seemed too easy and typical. For a moment, he pondered on returning to the carnival where his body had been. He could easily find some answers there. Additionally, that place was a goldmine of abilities in case he ever became bored. But as tempting as that sounded, Sylar had better ideas in mind.

Since the night before, ideas had surfaced in his head seemed to be persistent in the way they kept creeping into his consciousness. If there was one thing that he had learned from being Nathan, it was that Peter and Nathan had shared…a connection. They were brothers but—there was something more there then just a familial love. In a way, Sylar found that disgusting.

But in another way, it turned Sylar on.

So what was Sylar to do? Everything in him had told him to take the cold route: be calculating, cool, and unforgiving. But Sylar had this feeling in him that wouldn't go away. The obvious thing to do would be to just go do what he needed to do: take Peter for a spin and then go on with his ways. But Sylar had a different plan.

On the balcony.

Peter sat cross-legged upon the balcony. Tired. Sick. Dying? No. Peter was not dying…but something inside of him? Peter was not sure. He was staring into nothing, back rigid, not touching any surface. But he did not move. He did not speak. Emptiness pervaded his being.

He barley even noticed when Sylar arrived.

Sylar looked down at Peter: the miserable, pathetic being he was. Everything about him was so weak (something Sylar never understood). The man was tough, and passionate, but he was never as smart as Sylar. This is what set them apart: Sylar knew. Sylar knew everything. It was something on which he prided himself .

Sylar said nothing. He was slightly surprised at Peter's lack of movement or interest, despite the fact that the man who had murdered his brother had just entered his space. Peter instead kept looking ahead, and he looked cold. Placid. Sylar looked down at the younger man, and almost felt pity. But he did not.

What a sad, sad sight.

Sylar considered for a second what to do next—should he try to bring the younger man out of his catatonia? Instead, he took the more calculated approach. Sylar sat down, not too close, but not so far away either, from Peter. He sat cross-legged, almost mirroring Peter's pose. They both sat at length, silent and still, never talking, never moving, the only sound between them was a shallow stream of breath.

Sylar thought about what it must have been like for the boy—to love someone so deeply like he did his brother. Even if it was in a rather unconventional sense, it still was a love Sylar had never felt before. When a part of him had been Nathan, Sylar had felt that love (even if it had been in a weird out-of-body-but-different experience) that Nathan possessed for Peter. And in a way, it was sickening to think that Sylar never knew that love—but in the end, what did it matter? In the end, there was nothing he could do or say to change anything. His life had been a series of events that had lead to his collective situation, and nothing could change that.

Or, could it?

He wondered if…if he didn't have to be like this at all. If, maybe, there was hope for his deranged self?

…

…

Nope.

But. There was something he could do to make things better. He had been pretty much an ass to Peter anyway. Not that Sylar really cared…or did he? What ever the case, Sylar decided he was going to do something about this whole affair. So Sylar stood, and proceeded to leave the balcony.

But as he started to walk away, he swore he heard the slightest whimper from Peter's direction. He looked back at the younger man, but only found that the Empath was in the same position in which Sylar had left him. Nothing had moved, not even his eyes. Sylar let out a sigh and went to his next destination:

Ice Cream.

Sylar walked into the closest ice cream parlor that he could find. He had walked only for a few minutes before he found one; they're literally all over New York. There was always something special and delicious about ice cream that Sylar always appreciated. Anytime he was unsure of how to solve a problem, he seemed apt to gravitate toward the ice cream section of the supermarket. Maybe it was one of his weaker sides, but he did not care. Ice cream was delicious.

Sylar picked only the best: Rocky Road. It was something that was equally delectable as it was comforting. He thought the nuts added a great sense of irony as well.

The girl across the counter gave him a quizzical look when he had requested two cones of ice cream, but she did not say anything, which was probably for the best. Sylar had no intention of explaining that, no, he was not such a fat ass that he was going to double-fist ice cream cones, and yes, he was going to seduce his sworn enemy with delicious sweets.

So Sylar left the ice cream shop, treats in hand, and he walked back toward the balcony. The balcony where someone was waiting for him.

Peter & Sylar on the Balcony with Ice Cream.

It was not an easy decision to walk onto the balcony. Sylar was almost terrified of several things: that Peter might not be there when he got back, that Peter would have changed and be ready to fight, or that Peter would actually be there and be the exact same. Because the problem Sylar was running into was the fact that he had no way of actually guaranteeing that Peter would eat the ice cream. He had to be careful on how he proceeded.

Sylar walked onto the balcony with some trepidation, but he found Peter to be in the same position he was before: still, silent, and somber. Hopefully not for long.

The taller man sat down next to Peter, closer than he had before. Sylar, holding ice cream cones in his hands, looked deep into Peter's eyes-which were like empty wells-trying to find something there. But he found that he could not.

"Peter," Sylar breathed at length. No response. "Peter. I brought you ice cream. You. You've got to eat."

The air was thick with stillness, and nothing seemed to be bringing Peter out of his trance. Time for a new tactic.

"You won't forgive me now, and that's fine," Sylar offered, "and I know everything between us is. Well. Weird. I mean—you hate my guts right now." Which was a true statement. He had no intention of lying at this point. "But, here's the thing. I want you to eat this. It's yummy. Ice cream."

He held out the ice cream in front of Peter's face, who seemed to recoil slightly. Well. At least Sylar finally got some movement out of Peter.

"Yeah, ice cream," Sylar mused. "For realsies, babe."

Peter's brow quirked at that statement. But it was brief, and soon after, Peter returned to his previous state.

Dammit.

Well, Sylar had tried the nice way. Now to other methods.

Sylar lifted his hand, and like clockwork, Peter's body was now at his control (now that was a kinky thought). Sylar lifted his arm to hand the ice cream to Peter, who was now all of a sudden very concerned for his state of being. Peter's arm moved as well, and with a quick exchange, the ice cream was now in Peter's hand. Sylar then decided it was time to eat, but also time to have some slight fun. He lifted his own ice cream, and Peter's moved in tandem. Sylar made circles around his mouth with the creamy treat, and Peter echoed the motion. The result was a ring of cream around Peter's mouth…a sight that made Sylar slightly shiver. The twain repeated this motion a few times, until Sylar moved started to slowly move in swirls through the ice cream. This result was delicious. The taste of the ice cream coupled with the sight of Peter's tongue working so fervently against the sweet, creamy food was enough to make Sylar realize there was a heat in his pants that did not previously exist. Sylar slowly swooped his tongue down into the center, and then planted his entire mouth into the rim of the cone.

Now Peter's eyes had gone from something of horror to something more of shock.

"W-what are you d-doing?"

Sylar closed his fingers together, and Peter's mouth was trapped shut.

"Shh," Sylar commanded, "you know what I'm doing. Now. Just eat."

And they began eating together slowly, but surely, taking every single lick slowly, and passionately, until at last there was nothing but the bottom of their cones left, at which Sylar tossed aside the rest of the cones for the pigeons to eat, and he sprang forth like an animal. He was inches away from Peter's face, licking his lips slowly, and staring into those sad, earnest eyes. Peter just looked back, at which point he realized that he had total control of his body. In mid-staring-contest-slash-eating-spree, Sylar had let go of the control on Peter, and Peter had just continued as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And Peter had liked it.

"I know you must hate me so much Peter," Sylar said, "and I know that you don't want to see me right now, but I—I just…"

Sylar trailed off, as Peter's sprang forth and gave Sylar a sloppy, wet, and ice cream filled kiss. And Sylar did not have to say anything else. He just let his tongue war with the Empath's, as they each fought to get the remaining trails of ice cream off each other's lips and faces.

And Sylar thought that it was good.

Fin.