Title: Catharsis High
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: one-sided Sylar/Peter, implied Peter/Emma
Warnings: Read the pairings. If you can't handle slashy thoughts from a character, don't bother with this.
Spoilers: through S4
Word count: 5902
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
Acknowledgment: Thanks to the tireless and stupendous kuwdora for beta'ing!
Summary: In Sylar's on-going quest for redemption, he runs up against his greatest foe: the high school reunion. Sponsor Peter is dragged along to prevent mayhem.
Sylar pressed his sweating palms to his knees, easing deep breathes in and out as he watched the city lights inch by the window of the cab. The pressed black cotton was starting to feel damp and clammy, doing little to allay his anxiety, the fixed knot of self-doubt that pinched sharply between each drawn breath. The sweater vest and glasses had been a bad idea, he thought, shifting focus from the city beyond the glass to his own reflection. They bought back bad memories, made him feel small and awkward. It was the only way anyone from his old life would recognize him – a fact that cut both ways.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked breathily, twitching his head to the side.
Peter's facial expression did not change, head settled back on the headrest, eyes covered with sunglasses that Sylar found entirely inappropriate for this time of night, even if they did flatter Peter's cheekbones and the sleek arc of his hair ridiculously well. Sylar waited a frustrating moment, wondering if Peter had fallen asleep on him. He did that sometimes. Just to piss him off.
"Yes," Peter replied eventually.
They'd been over it what seemed like hundred times, but Sylar wanted to hear it again.
"Why?"
Peter made a disgruntled sound, shifting in his seat. He uncrossed his arms long enough to shove his sunglasses down his nose, glowering at Sylar. His eyes were red and glassy, and a line of frustration was pinched between them. Sylar could just make out a hint of purple above the rim of his shades. Was Peter hungover? Sylar wondered. But no, that didn't make any sense. Peter would have invited him along if he'd gone drinking the night before. They were totally friends now.
"Because going to high school reunions is what people do. Because you need to figure out what normal means, and your past is the place to start." He paused, and Sylar could see his narrowed eyes in the flashes of yellow light the street lamps provided. He added, "Because if you want to be good, you have to suffer."
Well. That didn't seem fair.
"Thank you, Peter," Sylar groused. "Very Catholic of you."
Peter pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and touched two fingers to his temple in a salute, making himself comfortable once more to ignore Sylar. All of this had been Peter's idea and it was pissing Sylar off to see him disengage from what he had encouraged Sylar to do. All Sylar had done in this mess was get the invitation and ask Peter for advice. And call Peter half a dozen or so times afterward to confirm Peter was coming and ask what to wear and if Peter wanted a corsage or not.
Peter had hung up a lot, for some reason.
"If you don't want to be here, just say the word. I'll call up Parkman. I hear he has some experience with recovery. Hey, do you think he'll give me a six months sober chip?"
Peter didn't respond, and Sylar clenched his jaw, forcing the words out, "Unless you have a problem with that. Sobriety."
"I am not drunk," Peter murmured. "Hungover is not drunk."
"Well, I'm sorry that the only way you can deal with my presence is to drink," Sylar said, sarcasm covering just how anxious he was that it was true.
Peter heaved out an annoyed sigh, turning to face him. Even from behind the sunglasses, Sylar could feel the force of his glare. He tried to ignore the flush of satisfaction he felt at getting to Peter.
"Not everything in my life is about you. In fact, I'd say, most things in my life are not about you. Particularly not the parties I go to."
"Party?" Sylar asked, suddenly feeling small. In the months since regaining his body, since Peter broke him out of the mental prison Matt had locked him into, he'd made no headway in his life. He'd just drifted, clinging to Peter and the life preserver he'd almost unwillingly thrown Sylar. The reminder that Peter had more than that was quite unwelcome.
"Yes, party. Claire threw Emma and me an engagement party last night," Peter irritably.
Engaged? Sylar thought, feeling his heart sink. Stupidly, his eyes went to Peter's hand. Not that he should be wearing a ring. He wasn't a woman.
"It turns out Claire can get drunk. With effort," Peter continued, tone becoming self-effacing and wry. "Keeping pace with her is not recommended."
"Why didn't you invite me?" Sylar asked. He did not whine. Or pout. He asked.
Peter's eyebrows climbed above the rim of his shades.
"For one, Sylar, Claire still has a restraining order against you. For two – " Peter cut himself off, apparently deciding against enumerating the other reasons, for which Sylar was vaguely grateful.
His mind whirled at the news of Peter's engagement. He'd always been somewhat aware of the fact that he had no chance with Peter. The first obstacle was Emma – the woman Peter had endured five years in a mental prison to save – but beyond that there was their extensive, anger fueled history. Too much stood between them, not limited to Sylar's murder of Nathan and Peter's enduring, violent response to same. But they'd made progress, hadn't they? Peter hardly ever greeted Sylar with a punch to the face anymore.
The hope that maybe Peter would let him come to the wedding flared in Sylar's mind, making his heart beat faster, only to die just as suddenly. Of course, he told himself bitterly, if he was going to fantasize, why not dream bigger? Why not imagine Peter making him Best Man? Or tossing over Emma and running away with him? That would be just as likely.
Sylar stared at Peter for a long moment, wishing for any answers but the ones he'd been given, anything to stem the trepidation he felt and the suffocating silence filling the taxi. None of their exchange had done anything to calm his nerves about the reunion. He'd instead been distracted by other unpleasantness.
Traffic was sluggish, offering no respite from the aching, accusatory echoes in his head that began to creep up on Sylar. He remembered high school all too well. Four years of loneliness, bullying, and grindingly futile effort with the only comfort on offer being the hollow reassurance that he was not unique. Everyone hated high school. Even then, Sylar had found it a dehumanizing maxim, rather than a unifying one. He didn't feel empathy for the other students, he didn't feel closer to them, just knowing they suffered like he did. He wanted someone to do something about his pain. He wanted someone, somewhere, to validate him as an individual.
Finally, with Grover Cleveland High in sight, Sylar sat up anxiously. The taxi ground to a halt at yet another red light, but Sylar dug into his pocket for the fare, paying, and then rousing an unhappy Peter to walk the remaining distance.
"Hurry up," Sylar snapped. For all that he dreaded this, he itched to put his unhappy ruminationsout of his head and do something. "We're already late."
Peter stopped, leaning back against where Sylar's hands propelled him forward. It was extremely tempting to knock him over, rather than support him, but Sylar resisted. That was exactly the kind of reaction that made him a good person now, he congratulated himself.
"And?"
"And what?" Sylar really did not enjoy Peter's dense phases. They always made him seem much more killable than he actually was. Not that Sylar thought that way anymore.
"And I thought you didn't even want to go," Peter said, sounding mildly amused beneath the now obvious hoarseness of his voice.
Sylar flexed the tips of his fingers into Peter's finely cut sports jacket – the one that Sylar liked best on Peter because it made him look like he had shoulders – contemplating. It was hard to tell if Peter was needling him because that's what buddies do, or if he was trying to teach some kind of lesson. It was also hard to tell if dropping Peter to the ground and hitting him would be more satisfying than trying to figure it out.
"Besides," Peter said, interrupting Sylar's thoughts. "You used to be much better at making an entrance."
Needling. Asshole. Sylar glared down at the back of Peter's head. Rather than respond, he gave a petulant push, not enough to make Peter stumble, but he let himself hope for it anyway. However, despite his hangover, the Petrelli grace came through and Peter effortlessly turned the unexpected forward momentum into a rolling gait toward the school.
"Coming?" he tossed back over his shoulder. Sylar allowed himself a moment to sulk before nodding, trudging up to Peter's side.
"Peter," Sylar began, shortening his steps to match Peter's. The entrance to the school loomed large up ahead, quadruple doors gaping like the maw of a hungry animal. "What if they recognize me?"
"Isn't that the whole point?" Peter drawled. For all that he was along for moral support, he was being exceptionally unhelpful, Sylar noted with a disgruntled huff.
"You know what I mean."
There was, actually, very little reason for his former classmates to recognize Sylar as anyone other than Gabriel Gray – if they even remembered that much. Despite ongoing appeals, the government's hastily passed amnesty deal for Specials was still in effect. It had been an olive branch to patch over the wounds Danko's men had left, with the unintentional side effect of letting Sylar off for his crimes as well. Eventually, he would go to trial, but Sylar had confidence that gridlock would give him at least a few more years outside prison, and in the meantime, both he and the government had a strict policy of not publicizing their screw ups.
In comparison to Peter, this opened Sylar's life up to be much more free and under the radar. No one even knew he existed. They certainly didn't think he was special. And he liked it that way. Sort of.
The thought of Peter's celebrity stilled Sylar's slow but steady steps toward the school. Right. Sylar wouldn't be recognized, but it seemed almost inevitable that Peter would be. As the heroic, self-martyring, Special brother of a tragically dead Senator, as well as scion of an infamous, borderline criminal family, Peter was nearly as famous as Claire herself.
Steeling himself against Peter's curious look, Sylar gestured to Peter's glasses.
"Keep those on inside," he said.
Peter raised his eyebrows, smirk tugging at his lips. But he didn't refuse. That probably had more to do with the inevitable mirror ball and strobe inside the dance, Sylar realized, but it satisfied him nonetheless. The entrance hall to the school was just as Sylar remembered it, but for the bubble script "Grover Cleveland High Class of 1995 15th Reunion!" banner hanging from the ceiling. The walls were still lined with trophy cases, full of statues naming only students he had hated and envied. Down the corridor, there were still the administrative offices which had given Sylar chills every time he passed by them, aware of guilty, angry thoughts that surged within him and terrified that somehow he would be punished for them.
Past that, precisely two degrees off from the sloppy placement of shining black and gold arrow decals meant to direct the alumni, was the clamor and flash of the check in desk and accompanying photographer.
Years on the run from the law and the fear of being recognized for who he is or was kept him from moving forward. But that was the whole point of this exercise: moving forward, bettering himself. Or something like that, if he allowed himself to believe Peter.
A perky, busty woman in her thirties manned the desk, tight smile wearied by the number of people she'd greeted by this point in the night. There were few nametags left on the table and she had arrayed them like cards at a casino, fanned out before her in a very short row.
"Hi, there! I'm Joanne Johnson-Goldswaithe. Remember me?" she asked, white teeth gleaming in the dimmed hallway. She pointed to her nametag as she spoke, where it was written: "Hi, there! I'm JoanneJohnson-Goldswaithe. Remember me?"
Underneath the words – picked out in Papyrus – there were three pictures. The first was Joanne's high school picture of a girl with braces and a bad perm. The third was of her tonight, hair sleek and eyes sparkling merrily. The middle picture was a computer generated melange of the two.
Why would you do that? Sylar thought. He'd had more than enough shape shifting to suit him.
"Hi," he said forced out, belatedly realizing she was staring at him. "I'm... Gabriel. Gabriel Gray."
Joanne nodded, clicking her tongue as she skimmed her hand over the remaining tags. Her hand settled on one to the far end, and Sylar tilted his head, trying to see the yearbook picture he had largely blocked from his memory, but she snatched it away too quickly.
"Over there, please!" she said, waving a hand to the photographer and cheap cloud background to her left. The photographer, another alumnus from the looks of it, was scrolling through Facebook and lazily rolled to his feet as Sylar shifted over.
"Smile," the man said, with a slight drawl of irony. Sylar scowled immediately. The photographer shrugged, only poking his head out from the tripod to adjust Sylar's glasses and minimize the glare from the flash.
Picture snapped, Sylar went to hover over the man's shoulder, but his attention was diverted from the malformed creature appearing on the screen – and to be worn on his breast all evening, he reminded himself – by Joanne quizzing Peter.
"Hi, there!" Somehow her tone had acquired a layer of flirtation. "I'm Joanne Johnson-Goldswaithe. Don't I know you from somewhere?"
"Peter," he said, sliding his shades every so slightly down his nose, just to give the hint of a wink. "I think you must be mistaken. I'm not a graduate."
"Oh," Joanne said. She sounded deeply disappointed. "So you're with him?"
Sylar turned at the question, subtlety losing all priority.
Peter brought a hand up, waggling it back and forth as he lifted a shoulder in a half shrug.
"Eh. I guess."
Blinking in surprise, Sylar tried to tamp down on the embarrassing feeling of excitement expanding in his chest. Peter had just acknowledged being in his company. In public.
Peter's tepid response restored Joanne's smile, however, and she looped his name onto a temporary name tag with a broad tipped sharpie before peeling it up and leaning up onto the table, flashing her impressive cleavage as she pressed the sticker to Peter's chest. At the same time, the photographer had finished fiddling with his printer – he had to adjust the paper tray twice to avoid printing over the first photograph, which would have been tragic, Sylar was sure – and he peremptorily thrust the completed, horrifically ugly badge at Sylar. Luckily, he flashed no one in the process.
Walking over, Peter stopped abruptly, appearing to stare, but his sunglasses did not betray where his gaze was fixed.
"That," he started, pointing at Sylar's badge, as if Sylar hadn't figured out what was so engrossing about his chest. "Is the worst photograph I've ever seen."
Sylar clenched his jaw; he very deliberately folded all of his fingers in to a fist, putting away the temptation of telekinesis. Peter leaned in closer, examining the middle photo. Sylar hadn't gotten a very good look at it, and he felt dread pool in his stomach as Peter rocked back on his feet, smirking.
"It looks like your eyebrows are eating your glasses."
"Funny. I thought the nose wasthe worst," Sylar lied. "Must have kept that from Nathan."
The little Sylar could see of Peter's expression darkened. His fist clenched and Sylar wondered briefly what power he had at the moment. Peter had grown curiously, but somehow still predictably, codependent on Claire's ex-boyfriend, West, but there was just as good a chance he had Emma's ability and no way to turn it violent at the moment. There was also Peter's affection for physical violence to consider, though. After five highly subjective years imprisoned with Peter, Sylar had learned at least some of the signs. The furrowed brow and pursed mouth, the sharpened line of his shoulders – they all preceded a bout of temper from Peter.
All of those signs were present, and only barely restrained as Peter glared up at Sylar.
"Are you done?" Peter asked coldly. Without waiting for Sylar's response, he pushed ahead, walking toward the gymnasium. Badly scrawled spirit banners lined the way, some commemorating the achievements of alumni and some in anticipation of current school events. Red lockers covered one wall, with a trophy case opposite. Sylar was reminded forcefully of Union Wells and Homecoming.
Maybe this time with fewer dead cheerleaders, though. Maybe.
Snatching the badge from his chest, Sylar looked at the offending picture. Goddamnit. Peter was right. And his ears kind of looked pointy too. He tossed a glare back at the photographer, wondering how much pain the man could stand and what it would take to fix the badge. A few well place stabs of invisible pressure – or, oh, the tripod! He hadn't used household objects in quite a while. That and a round in the photobooth would probably do a lot to correct his attitude toward his job.
Then again, he was willingly working a high school reunion. He must enjoyed pain.
Shaking himself, Sylar deflated instantly. That was exactly the kind of thinking Peter frowned upon. He made his way to the gymnasium, joining the dark outline of Peter's form to hover on the threshold of double doors. Beyond, there was a crowd of poorly dressed thirty-somethings grinding to a song Sylar recognized as Mariah Carey. He immediately hated himself for doing so.
"Talk," Peter said, barely acknowledging Sylar's presence by his side. What little openness he had displayed earlier had evaporated entirely. "Who is who?"
Sylar struggled with his regret for the stupid comment he had made earlier, an apology forming on his lips. He stood examining Peter's profile for a long moment before giving up. There was no use in trying to apologize right now. The best he could do to earn Peter's favor – as much as he ever had, anyway – was to do as asked.
He looked into the crowd, staring at faces and trying to sift through memories. These days, they were mostly his own. The longer he retained his own form, the more his brain discarded Nathan's memories like a body rejecting an unsuitable transplant. There were fragments. The memory of memory remained a stronger impression than any singular thought Matt Parkman had forced into his head. That was disconcerting in its own way, since he knew blank spaces were building up and was never quite sure if they actually did belong to him after all.
"Anita Allen," he finally said, nodding toward a pretty black woman. "Student Council President. I didn't vote for her." He noticed another man, balding and fat. Sylar smiled as he pronounced with satisfaction, "Carl Meyers. Football star and all that implies."
"Where's your crush?"
"I didn't have a –" Sylar started. Peter raised an eyebrow. He was being dense again and it wasn't funny.
"Her," Sylar said, jabbing a finger randomly at the crowd, eyes still on Peter.
"Great," Peter said. He went behind Sylar, fingers digging into his shoulders painfully as he propelled him toward the girl. "Go. Resolve issues. I'll be at the bar."
"Peter! You're still hungover!"
"And a drink will take care of that," Peter said slowly, as if for the stupid. "Old family remedy."
"That explains a lot," Sylar snapped, but Peter was already walking away, fingers wiggling out a dismissive goodbye. Right, fuck you, too. Sylar tried to pull his gaze from Peter, toward anyone the crowd he hadn't entirely despised in school, but found it kept drifting back to him. Despite himself and the annoyance he felt, he couldn't stop himself from admiring the line of Peter's back as he leaned on the bar, coaxing out an easy smile from the bartender preparing what looked like a double for him.
Sylar frowned, the bar reminding him of his earlier discussion with Peter and the engagement. Maybe he could ask Emma for an invitation. He had saved her, after all.
The woman Sylar had pointed at turned out to be petite, slim, and blonde. Great, now Peter thought he had a type. Sylar approached her warily, moving from shadow to shadow as if stalking prey. Distantly, he became aware that he did know her. Lisa Sirota, who had sat in front of him in French, always taking measured notes that she highlighted with a ruler guiding her penstrokes. She looked just as lovely and precise now as she'd been then.
Swaying as Boyz II Men crooned a song Sylar absolutely did not remember word for word, Lisa turned and lifted her gaze, eyes meeting his abruptly. She smiled, brow creasing as she tried to place his face.
Sylar struggled to remember if a mugshot of him had aired lately. After a moment, the puzzlement cleared from her expression and she broke away from the dance floor, walking toward him.
Heart thumping, Sylar smoothed down his hair. He wished he had something to do with his hands. Telekinesis wasn't an option. Mixing it with blondes tended to end badly.
"Hi," Lisa said, smiling. She extended a hand to shake his. "Gabriel, right? It's Lisa. We had French together."
Wait. She actually remembered him? Positively? Sylar's mouth went dry, concentration fizzling out as he tried to process that.
Her friendliness smoothed over the awkward silence, before he could respond.
"So, what have you been up to?"
Murder. Borderline genocide. Being spiritually disembodied and accidentally coercing a cop into suicide while the soul of one of his murder victims walked around in Sylar's body.
"I'm... between jobs at the moment."
"Oh," she said, nodding. "It's a tough economy out there for everyone, isn't it? I had a rough patch a couple of years ago, too. Don't worry, though, I'm sure you'll find something. What's your degree in? I'm a sales rep in the medical supply industry. Maybe we've got a slot for you at my company." She grinned, adding, "How do you feel about scalpels?"
Nine out of ten for splitting flesh, but a little cliche, in Sylar's opinion.
"That's probably... a bad idea. I worked for a company once," Sylar said. "It didn't work out."
"Still," Lisa urged. "I could put in a good word."
God. She was like a female Peter – unbearably, flawlessly kind to everyone she met. It aroused the kind of irrational anger Sylar had felt for so long around Peter. He would never be that good a person. Peter just stood around, flaunting his nobility and self-sacrificing nature, driving him crazy.
Lisa tilted her head in concern, putting a hand on his arm as she looked up at him with hazel eyes so like Peter's. Sylar felt an unaccustomed jolt of feeling. He was so used to seeing terror and anger in people's eyes. As quickly as it had come, Sylar's rage died out.
"I never went to college," he admitted, voice dropping. "I inherited my father's watch repair store. I had to close it down a while ago due to … personal reasons."
"Oh, right!" Lisa exclaimed suddenly, snapping her fingers in the area. "I finally placed you! It was bugging me. You and clocks."
Sylar felt an ominous weight sink slowly into his stomach. He searched between the blank spaces and the memory fragments he knew were not his, to remember the high school connection to clocks.
"I was in student government, and I remember that you filed a really passionate complaint with us about the clocks being so unsynchronized, and then we recruited you to fix it. Sort of as revenge, I guess,"
she said, leaning forward like she was confiding her secret side of an amusing story.
"I remember."
He didn't.
"And then– " Lisa said, posture stiffening and eyes widening as she remembered the rest of the story. Her lips pressed into a line and she cast him a wary look, her next words carefully chosen while she edged away. "Some of the clocks were suspiciously... sticky."
Oh fuck. Sylar did remember, details flooding his awareness suddenly. The comforting sound of perfectly harmonized ticking. The hot length of his dick in his hands. The months of being called a clockfucker in school.
Thinking back on it, Sylar decided, it really was no surprise he'd become a serial killer.
"It was just lubricant! Clock lubricant!"
"I'll bet it was," Lisa said. Sylar watched helplessly as she turned and fled.
Swallowing past his sense of wasted opportunity, vast feelings of teenage awkwardness and immaturity churning hollowing within, Sylar stormed over to the bar. He could really go for a murder right now. A drink would have to do.
"Whiskey. Lots of it," he grunted out to the bartender. Of all of the things he'd acquired from Nathan Petrelli, his taste for alcohol was probably the most useful. Even that was fading over time, though, and Sylar winced at strong burn of the first sip he took.
"So," Peter started from beside him. He sounded like he had to force out the words with effort. "That did not go well."
"I noticed," Sylar ground out. He took another gulp of his drink and tried not to choke. God, what was wrong with Nathan that he drank this?
"What did you do wrong?"
"Nothing except go to this school." And fuck a clock, Sylar thought, angry at his own teenage stupidity as much as the staying power of high school rumors. Of all the mistakes to haunt him, that was probably the strangest.
"Did you feel like killing anyone while you were talking to her?" Peter's tone had taken on a rote and bored flatness that made Sylar want to scream.
"Only when she reminded me of you," Sylar returned with a glare. It was the first time he'd really looked at Peter, and his casual, indifferent appearance grated on Sylar. He was perched on a stool, sunglasses slightly askew. His hair fell into his face charmingly as he sipped his vodka tonic with a measured pace that told Sylar it was still the same drink he'd seen ordered earlier.
"And yet you didn't kill her brother. I suppose we can call that a win, can't we?" Peter held Sylar's glare with one of his own. His fingers squeaked in the condensation on his glass, betraying the tension and anger he felt.
The temptation was there, as it always was, to ask Peter just what he wanted from Sylar. What did he have to do? What could he do to possibly earn real world forgiveness, so they could move past Nathan? Sylar had learned that the answer to that never changed. There was nothing he could do, save bring Nathan back to life. He'd earned a permanent enemy in Hiro Nakamura when he'd asked him to do just that, the conflict between preserving the time line and saving a man he regarded as a fellow hero making Hiro's hatred personal, instead of the theoretical dislike he'd formed all those years ago.
"So, what's next?" Sylar asked, trying to control both his frustration and his guilt.
"I don't know, Sylar. Who do you think you need to talk to?"
"No one!" Sylar snapped. He waved a hand out toward Lisa where she talked with a tall man in his sixties that Sylar recognized as his old anatomy teacher. "None of these people mean anything to me! None of them made me who I am! Nobody made me!"
"Huh," Peter said. He spun slowly on his stool, putting his back to the bar. His expression was contemplative, thought chasing away the cold set of his jaw from before. "That's new."
"What? What's new?" Sylar felt bewildered and irritated at the turn the conversation had taken. Peter was probably just setting him up for another punchline.
"You admitted responsibility," Peter said. He leaned forward, punctuating his words with a poke to Sylar's chest. "It's not your dad. It's not your mom. It's not high school, or your powers, or my family. It's all you."
"I have always–"
"Shut up." Peter seemed annoyed that Sylar wasn't grasping the enormity of what he'd just said. "You have not. You always put the responsibility on everyone else That's why we ended up behind that damned wall. You wanted Matt to fix you by blocking your powers."
Sylar clenched his jaw, forcing himself to contain his reaction. Peter was right. He was always right.
"So just sit there for a moment, and think about what you said. They didn't make you."
"No," Sylar said, mind churning. He was starting to see the edges of profound meaning that Peter was pointing to him, becoming clearer and more frightening in his mind as he followed through to the obvious conclusion. "I said 'nobody.'"
And 'nobody' included Peter.
Peter reached out, clapping Sylar on the arm, mouth twisted into something that Sylar supposed was a smile of approval but looked more relieved.
"Then you don't need me."
Sylar felt a surge of fear, mouth going dry. He reached for his drink before he reminded himself of what a bad idea that was.
"So, what? That's what all of this was about? One final test before you break up with me?" Sylar's voice had gotten loud, cracking on the last word. A few heads turned to look at them, their murmuring seething under the horrible music.
"Sylar," Peter began in a pained voice. "I have no idea what you thought was going on with us. But I can't be breaking up with you, because there's nothing to break up." Peter paused, thinking. "Unless your idea of a date is a meeting with my nailgun."
"We spent five years together! And now you're marrying someone else!"
Peter took off his shades so that Sylar could more clearly see his expression of disbelief. He bit his lip, choosing his words with the same air of 'trying to prevent a massacre here' that he often had and completely betraying his previous words about Sylar's recovery by doing so. That was strangely comforting, the idea that Peter would never really let go.
"Did you actually think I would marry you?" Peter finally asked.
"No," Sylar said, word clipped, wishing he could what he'd said back. He tried to think of a way to bolster his credibility and convince Peter and came up empty. It was far easier to let silence hang over them, Peter sipping his hangover cure and Sylar fiddling with the godawful whiskey as he avoided the gazes of anyone else who seemed to recognize him.
Eventually, Peter spoke, "Despite what you're thinking, tonight wasn't a test. I had no idea you'd figure anything out. And it isn't..." Peter trailed off, wincing as he forced the words out, "It probably isn't goodbye. I really just don't trust you that much."
"Really?" Sylar asked in relief.
"Yep," Peter said, taking another drink. "And don't even try to hug me and blame it on Nathan. It didn't work behind the wall, and it doesn't work now."
Sylar nodded, dropping his arms to pretend that wasn't exactly what he'd been planning. Still, Peter's declaration of distrust filled him with a strange sense of elation. The permanence of it was very calming, an assurance that Sylar always had someone to be by his side. He may not need Peter in the strictest sense – but he had him. Sort of, anyway.
Buoyed by his newfound sense of security, Sylar seized his drink, turning his back to the bar to mimic Peter's position. He waved a hand out toward the floor.
"Did you ever go to yours?"
Peter slanted him a look made unreadable by his shades.
"I was sort of on the run from the government when my ten year reunion happened. No idea if they are planning a fifteen year one. I really... don't think I have anything in common with those people, anyway."
Sylar was mildly confused. He racked his brain, trying to recall any of Nathan's memories about Peter's schooling. There was nothing there, and it was hard to tell if that was a product of the imprint fading, or the fact that Nathan had been twelve years older and wasn't present to begin with. The idea left Sylar suddenly breathless, knowing something about Peter that Nathan hadn't.
"You weren't popular?"
"No, that would be Nathan," Peter said. He lowered his shades to meet Sylar's eyes. He softened his tone some, explaining, "I was not popular. I was the only kid at a school of two hundred who didn't go to an Ivy. I was the one who lost the track meet and I was the one whose girlfriend cheated on me. Twice."
Ignoring the impulse to complain that at least Peter'd had a girlfriend, Sylar instead said, "I'm sorry you had to deal with that."
"Right," Peter said, looking like he was possibly rolling his eyes under his shades. The slight curve of his lips gave away that maybe, maybe he appreciated the sentiment despite his words. "So, are we done?"
Sylar was not sure if Peter meant done drinking or done at the reunion, but he liked the second option better.
"Extremely."
"Finally," Peter said. He downed the rest of his drink, wobbling a tad as he stood. He grinned when he maintained his balance, and led the way out.
Sylar and Peter were silent as they made their way out, Sylar mulling the question that had nagged him all night. He needed to build up the nerve to ask. As they passed by Joanne again, Peter flashed her a wholly unnecessarily smile. A muscle in Sylar's jaw twitched the sight. If anyone had the right to complain, it was Emma, and wasn't that Sylar's whole problem?
Outside, Peter walked ahead to hail a cab. Gathering up his resolve, Sylar called after him, "Peter!"
Peter wheeled about on his heel. He looked really, really eighties, wearing his sunglasses outside at night. But with better hair, Sylar admitted. He gave Sylar a look, waiting for him to go on.
Sylar swallowed nervously.
"Can I come to the wedding?"
At first, Peter's mouth formed the word "no", but he stopped. Sylar took the opportunity to plow on, making his case, "The only reason I'm here, instead of behind that Poe parody that Parkman built in his basement, is her. And the only reason that you can marry her, instead of digging her out of the pit Samuel left in Central Park, is me. So, I'd say I'm pretty integral to your love story."
Peter glared at him.
"Don't remind me."
"Peter..."
With a sigh, Peter slid off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he couldn't believe he was saying this.
"I'll... think about it."
Sylar grinned with elation. That made the entire night worthwhile.