Finding the Invisible Man
He doesn't ever, ever plan to come back.
He tried – he really did – the stupid brat had managed to win, after all that bollocks, and they were safe, and it was whole, and all the regrets that he'd hated for the last God-knows-how-long combined and he finally made it back to the apartment.
To find that the only reason he'd kept going for the last half a year was busy getting fucked.
On his pigeon loft.
He looked sadder than before, somehow, sprawled on the bed with his eyes glazed as the other man (he didn't recognise, he didn't give a damn) fucked him senseless (Peter on the bottom, of course, he was far too girly for anything else with a haircut like that). But… his back was arched, and Peter's glazed eyes were staring at him, right at him, but he couldn't know he was there because nobody sees him, nobody sees him, not ever – and Peter probably didn't even remember him, and it wasn't bloody fair that after all this sacrifice he'd come back, and – and –
The brat had moved on. Maybe it was time for him to as well.
But… it had taken him so damn long for him to finally rally up, to come here, to face him, to tell him – what? He himself didn't really know – to tell him something, to just let him know – it was just so goddamn selfish of the brat to start gallivanting about with some other man.
But even now, as Peter came with a cry – no name, he noticed with a small smile – he could tell that they hadn't been 'fucking'. They had been making love, and then, then he knew his heart must have been breaking, because the pain in his chest was so exquisite, so burning that he felt himself lose control for one tiny second – and he could have sworn Peter saw him – before he fled, and he hid, and he couldn't stand it any longer with his head in his hands and tears on his face, because, because –
Because he knew that he'd never be someone who could make love to Peter.
And Peter couldn't really explain it to the eyes that bore into him with complete and utter pain as he turned, his bag slung over one shoulder, and walked into the New York streets again. He found himself phasing out of view without intending to – damn, he needed to start thinking. Actually, the problem was that he needed to stop thinking. About him. About all that crap.
What had he just done? What had he just done? He'd walked away from the supposed love of his life – the man who loved him so goddamn much – to find an invisible man. An impossible task. But he'd been plagued with these dreams, and he'd never left his thoughts, and he knew that he had to find him again.
He sat down in Central Park – though he wasn't sure how the hell he'd managed to get there – and simply sat, and thought. He had no idea how to even start looking for Claude. There was always Bennett, and that strange little girl Molly, but he somehow felt that using Molly to find him was sort of… cheating. This… this wasn't so much about finding Claude as about showing him… what he felt? Yeah… that was what it was about. What he 'felt'.
But still… He sighed. The hopelessness washed over him again, and he put his head in his hands.
He didn't know why he was still here, but he was.
And he was looking at the man – yes, he was a man now – sitting on that bench with his head in his hands. He knew why he was there – he hadn't left his side for the last three days, after all – and he knew why he looked so broken. He resisted the urge to sit next to him on the bench and hung back, a good fifty metres away, leaning against a heavy-smelling tree as his heart crunched at the sight of him.
But even if he had been in the visible spectrum his face would have been utterly stoic. Claude didn't do open, didn't do relationships.
(Looking back, he half-wished Peter could have just used that mind-reading thing now, and find him just standing here, and then it would have been okay.)
Peter considered his options.
They didn't look very good.
Mohinder – Mohinder. What would Mohinder say? No… Mohinder had ties to Lindermann. He didn't want them finding Claude, with or without mysterious head-honcho(s) in tow. Bennett? No… Claire would be there. He didn't have the strength to face her. And as for Nathan… he shuddered.
It hit him how utterly alone he really was.
He sat for a while, just staring into nothing – though for some reason a peach-blossom tree a few metres away constantly caught his eye – before standing up with a sigh and walking to nowhere.
And Claude followed.
It occurred to Claude after the third time they passed the same noodle bar that Peter had no idea what he was doing, or where he was going. He'd put his heart before his head, and was now homeless, lifeless, trudging around New York with a gloomy face that had even the most cheerful of street vendors scurrying. He knew that the only reason Peter wasn't invisible was he couldn't bear to think about him. Claude found himself smiling slightly. He'd never judged a character wrong, and Peter's scatterbrained passion had led him into trouble in the end.
Peter stopped at the lights, and he stood next to him, staring. The other's eyes flickered slightly, feeling someone there, but… the light turned green, and he began to walk. Claude walked over with him, but there was a queue, and he decided if he was going to show himself it should be now, right now, and then it'd –
And then the whole world exploded.
Claude ducked and rolled, and although his flailing hands had tried to bring Peter with him the boy's muscles had frozen from terror and his fingers were torn away. He slammed heavily, painfully into the concrete wall of the sidewalk, and found his concentration shimmering. Peter's eyes were transfixed on the figure echoing towards them, and everything was deathly quiet, and everything had stopped – a block flew past his head for no reason, and Claude felt his blood freeze as he remembered which one of Peter's 'friends' had telekinesis. He heart Peter choke on an apology, but it didn't stop the cinderblock that swarmed towards him – but his choked gasp alerted him, and Peter spun, his mind concentrating on the block and pushing it back towards his enemy. But the choked gasp he'd emitted was both their downfalls, as Sylar sent it spinning into the wall above him and the pain was just too much – he phased back in – Peter noticed him – approached him – Claude called, yelled, pointed, but Peter didn't see, only had eyes for him –
And the piece of metal cleanly sank through his chest. Peter coughed slightly, the blood tracing down the side of his mouth, before he sighed and slumped. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Peter die, but it hit him with sickening reality yet again. He knew he had to do something – something – as the man approached Peter, and the finger was coming out, he knew it was, and he knew he had to do something –
He heaved himself up with a wince onto the broken leg and staggered forwards. The other seemed slightly perplexed at the random man blocking his path, but with a massive heave of effort he faded out yet again, and the eyes shone with excitement. "I've always been looking forward to that one," he said, and the words echoed around the space, painfully loud. The hand came forwards, the glass shards rose, and sprang.
And with a laugh Claude fell to the floor.
Peter woke up.
That's a nice surprise, was his first thought. His second was the fact that Sylar was presumably within the immediate vicinity – sure enough, he was holding out his hand with a great deal of interest.
When it shimmered out of view he felt utterly sick.
"You killed him!" he screamed, and Sylar looked up, his eyes shining with surprise. He'd been so busy with his new toy he'd forgotten about the other. "You just killed him, you bastard!" He felt the hot, angry tears on his face, and Sylar gave a laugh, striding towards him. And then, with a curious look to the sky, he shot upwards and flew.
The two blows hit him and he screamed, falling to his knees and running his hands through that hated hair, and the tears couldn't stop streaming, because it was over now, and now there truly was no one left.
Everything faded to black.
This definitely wasn't where he'd fallen asleep.
It was much too comfortable for that – where he had been, the tarmac had been rough, and the glass shards deep inside him, and the pain numbing his mind. Here, it was soft, and he felt safe. But it hit him with that deep clarity of loss yet again – the things he'd just seen – and he felt himself choke. "You're awake." His whole body tensed. "About bloody time too." He seriously did not believe it this time. He couldn't. It wasn't fucking possible. But there he was, and there was a cheeky smile, and his eyes danced, and he was alive, he was fucking alive, and he'd never felt so goddamn happy. Ignoring the pain, he jumped out of bed and hugged him, and he was crying, sobbing, and the other man laughed. "Careful, careful, you'll damage the stitches and the doctor'll have to have another word with me."
Peter let out a little coughed choke. "B-but… he used – he used it – "
Claude chortled. "Honestly, were you naïve enough to believe that I was the only one of me kind? DNA isn't that trusting on me, thank you very much."
Another thought hit him. "So – Nathan – "
Claude smiled softly, but his eyes weren't seeing Peter. "You're brother's fine. Well, he was the last time he was in here, bloody yellin' his head off. Honestly, I can see where you get it from."
Peter let out a laugh. "God – I was so worried – "
"I could tell." The collapsing down and screaming had something to do with that.
"What did you do? How did he miss you?" he whispered.
Claude rolled his eyes. "Don't patronize me. I've dealt with his type before – so crude, but the flyin' glass was interesting, I give him that. It's called ducking. I thought our training sessions would have taught you that much."
Peter smiled. He now truly knew why he'd had to hunt this vulgar, insulting man down.
He simply couldn't survive without him.
Claude's eyes bored into him. "Nice work, by the way." Peter looked confused. "At the Kirby plaza."
Peter gaped. "You were there?"
Claude let out a quiet laugh. "I've been around for a lot longer than you'd expect." Peter couldn't stop staring. He wanted to ask why he hadn't just shown him where he was, but, but – "Shouldn't you be getting home? I expect your boyfriend will be worrying."
Peter winced. He could hear the discomfort in his voice, the pain in his eyes. "Ex," he muttered, turning on his heel to the window. "Ex." He thought of the man he'd left behind and decided he hated the way the word rolled on his tongue. "But you already know that, don't you?" he said, turning to the other who was slumped against the wall on the other side of the room. His eyes were glittering.
"Yeah… yes, I do."
And then they were together, and it was so soft and so hard at the same time, and Claude's hands tore through his hair as his own tore through his shirt, and their faces were wet, and Peter knew it wasn't just him who was crying. And his whole body was on fire, simply burning, wholly alive and electric with the passion, and – "Oh, God – " he groaned and rocked into the other, and they were together, and it was so hot, angry, wonderful, perfect –
Every little damn touch was numbing and electrifying. Everything made him burn. And Claude's nails were on his sides, and Claude's tongue was in his mouth, and Claude's tears were on his face, and – he gasped – Claude was inside him, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he couldn't do anything –
And on an unspecified date, in an unspecified place, with the invisible man, Peter Petrelli made love.
A/N
Thanks for reading :)