Forever is a Lonely Word

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes! For shame!

Chapter One

It was the July before her sophomore year when she first met Eric. She was studying abroad in London, a healthy ocean away from all of the nonstop madness that had plagued her for the last four years. It was three weeks of sheer bliss—visiting art galleries, going to concerts, lunching on the Thames. For the first time in her life she wasn't compromising. It wasn't just a sliver of the normality she'd craved, it was all of it and more.

And so was he.

They'd taken a day trip to France when they first stumbled into each other. She didn't understand a lick of French, which became all too apparent when she tried to buy a ticket on the commuter rails. A few days' worth of conversational French flitted out of her brain the moment the man behind the ticket counter started to garble in what might have been gibberish. Flustered and self-conscious, she turned around with a helpless expression, and there he was.

"I got it, Claire," he said with a winning smile, and then spoke flawless gibberish to the impatient ticket-counter man.

"How—"

He handed her the ticket and her change. "Eiffel tower, right?" he said. "Me, too."

She lowered her guard, realizing that she'd panicked on instinct when he'd known her name. After a moment she recognized him as one of her classmates, and she blushed, embarrassed that she'd leapt to conclusions when he was only trying to be helpful.

"I'm sorry, I don't know your name," she said, following him to the rail tracks.

"Eric," he said, extending a hand to shake hers. "We were in English Lit with each other last semester."

It had been a large enough class that she probably had never had the chance to sit next to him, or else she would have remembered him faster. "What a doozy that class was," she said, trying to be conversational.

"I'm not gonna lie, that woman could teach English Lit to a wall and get better results," he agreed.

Claire laughed with an ease she'd forgotten she was capable of. She rolled her eyes and admitted, "I'm starting to wish I'd taken some French last semester instead."

Eric shuffled in place, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders braced in an endearing sort of way. "Well, how about you stick with me for the day? I mean, between the two of us we should manage to navigate our way through this city."

She considered traipsing around Paris with an absolute stranger, and figured it was more practical than walking alone. "I'll be dead weight," she warned him after a moment had passed.

He looked at his feet and said, "I mean—you don't have to if you don't want to, I get it—"

"I'd love to," she assured him, just as the train pulled up.

A goofy grin lit up his face. "Alrighty, then. Paris, here we come."

Their first kiss was in the freezing cold rain, waiting for the bus to take them to the airport. She'd been telling him about her classes next semester, just prattling away to fill the empty air with words, when he'd leaned in and kissed her.

At first her eyes widened in shock at the unexpected gesture, but then all at once she was pressing herself against him, taking in everything at once—the rain running down their faces, his warm hands on the back of her neck, the sounds of the street all blurring into nothingness, until it was just the two of them. So simple. So normal. A boy and a girl, sharing a kiss on the sidewalk, her heart soaring through her throat with joy.

After what must have been a lifetime, they broke away, panting.

"Wow," she said breathlessly.

"Sorry," he stammered, "I just—these past few weeks—"

She grinned at him, taking a step with a newfound confidence, feeling bolder than she ever had. "Don't be sorry," she said, tiptoeing to kiss him again.

"So," said Gretchen that September, lying on her bed from across their tiny room, flipping through a magazine. "You in love with him?"

Claire could sense the undertones of the question. It had been a year since she and her roommate had acknowledged that they would remain best friends and nothing more, and it had been a surprisingly easy adjustment until now. Neither of them showed any particular interest in anyone else, seeing as they were always with each other, and perfectly content that way. But Eric, as crazy as Claire was about him, threw a wrench into the routine.

"In love?" she said, scoffing a little bit. "I don't know, I've only known him a few months."

"Aw, come on, you've gotta know by now," Gretchen prodded. "You've made it facebook official and everything."

Of course Claire knew how she felt about Eric, but she wasn't about to tell her lovesick roommate that she was falling for a guy she'd only just met over the summer. While Claire was perfectly happy to relish this cliché romance, she knew it would only irk Gretchen to hear about it.

"He's a great guy," she said simply, pretending that her calculus work was distracting her from the conversation.

"That's it?"

Claire smiled into her notebook. "For now."

They first said "I love you" to each other on the roof of the off-campus apartment building he lived in, staring up at the stars on a chilly November night. They laid there in the quiet for awhile, and Claire found herself suddenly torn by a decision she'd been putting off for too long.

"Something's the matter," Eric said gently. He sat up, leaning against the brick. "If we're moving too fast—"

"No," said Claire, shaking her head. "It's not that."

After another long beat of silence he prompted her: "Then what is it?"

She sighed, drawing her knees toward her chest. This was it. If she said it now, if she let her past out in the open, she could no longer make-believe that everything was normal. It would rip right through this perfect fantasy, rip a hole that might be too large to fix.

But if she didn't say it now, it wouldn't be fair to Eric. It was now or never. And she loved him so much that she couldn't bear to betray his trust by lying to him any further.

"I'm not normal," she said, staring at her knees, feeling his gaze intent on her.

Eric laughed under his breath a little and said, "Of course you're not. You're Claire Bennet. You're—well, you're smart and funny and . . . beautiful."

She smiled up at him, almost painfully. He sensed the tension and added, "Plus, you arrange your socks by color and thickness. That can't be normal," earning himself a small giggle from her before she sobered and straightened her back to face him.

"You're so sweet," she said, with a tinge of regret. She didn't want to lose him. "And I want you to know that . . . if this changes things . . . I understand."

"What could possibly make me change the way I feel about you?" he said earnestly.

"This," she said, trembling uncharacteristically as she pulled out her room key. Never had she been this nervous outing herself; never had she had this much to lose. "Don't freak out. Just watch," she instructed.

She pulled up her sleeve, pressed the sharp edge of the key into the skin of her forearm, and dug forcefully, watching as her skin burst scarlet with blood.

Beside her Eric gasped her name, grabbing the key from her. "What—Claire, why would you—Oh, my God."

Her skin was already shifting back into place, the blood already flowing back in her able veins. She pulled her sleeve forward and looked up at him timidly. His face was white as a ghost, his mouth wide open, his hand still poised with the bloody key.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I—" She choked on the words, and lost sight of his expression, her eyes welling with unwilling tears. "I'll just go." She righted herself on the cement, ready to make a break for it, when she felt his hand grab her coat.

"Claire," he said, and his voice was so firm in comparison to hers that she was compelled to look back at him.

"Hey," Eric said soothingly, and she was on the ground beside him again, leaning onto his shoulder as he rubbed her back. "It's okay. Geez, Claire . . ." He laughed in a strained manner. "You scared me."

"Because I'm a freak."

"No, because I thought you were hurt—God, Claire, I never want to see you hurt," he emphasized, blowing a breath of relief.

"Good, you won't ever have to," she managed bitterly through her tears.

"Thank God you're okay," he said, and she felt guilty for putting him through this, for disrupting the normal life he'd taken for granted. She buried her face into his jacket, thinking that she didn't even deserve that much, when he whispered, "And you're not a freak, Claire."

"I am. Look at me. I've—I've fallen off of buildings, I've walked through fire, I've—" She saw him shuddering and cut herself off, feeling like a fish out of water, staring at him as if he could possibly have the answers she needed.

"Claire," Eric said seriously. "This . . . " He grappled for a word and gave up. "It doesn't change you. You're still—you're still you. You're still the girl I'm in love with."

She let him pull her closer, and for the first time in her whole life she finally felt invincible.

"Well, I like him."

Claire raised an eyebrow at her father from the sink, where she was washing the last of the dishes from their Christmas Eve dinner. "Try to dial down the enthusiasm, there, Dad."

"He's a nice kid, but Claire . . . does he . . . ?"

"He knows," she said, stiffening.

She diverted her attention to the dishes, and after a long while her father said, "Well, I suppose that you're old enough to make those decisions now."

"You know I wouldn't have done it lightly."

"I know," her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at him and saw that he wasn't finished quite yet. "It's just . . . does he know what he might get mixed up in?"

For a moment she was too indignant to think of a sensible reply. "I'd never put him in danger—"

"Not on purpose, Claire, I know that. Believe me, I've gone to the greatest lengths possible to protect our family, but sometimes—" The corners of his mouth drooped almost imperceptibly and his eyes flitted downward. "Sometimes there are things you can't protect him from."

Claire shook her head. "Nothing has happened in the past year, Dad—"

"Sylar is still out there," he interrupted, insistent.

She rounded on him, forgetting the dishes completely. "Sylar is dead."

"You don't know that," he pressed. He followed her into the living room as she paced away from him. "And even if Sylar really is gone, you know that's not all you have to worry about. You're different, Claire—"

"But I have a normal life now. Nobody's after us, the world's not in danger"

"And I'm so happy for you. But you can never be too careful, Claire. If you really care about this boy, you won't let your guard down. Even for a second."

She was angry enough by now that she wanted to storm out of the apartment. Here he was, yet another ripple disturbing the fabric of her normalcy after she'd spent so long piecing it together. It wasn't fair. How dare he accuse her of not being careful enough? Hadn't she lived through it all herself, hadn't she been more determined than anyone to end Sam's twisted plot so she could get on with her life?

He was treating her like a child. But she wasn't going to act like one.

So with a deep breath she said through her teeth, "Not even for a second. I promise."

"We don't have to do this, if you're not ready."

"Eric. I want to. I love you."

"I know, I know that, and you know I love you, but I don't want you to think that you're obligated to . . . you know. "

"Don't you want to do it?"

"Of course! Claire, don't—don't get me wrong, of course I want to . . ."

She rolled over on his bed, leaning her face closer to his. She grabbed his hands and said, "I've wanted this for a long time."

He pulled her close, taking in the smell of her. "Oh, Claire. You have no idea."

That brisk January night she practically swept out of the doors of the Metro, absolutely beaming from the aliveness of it all. She wanted to shout to the near empty terminal, she wanted to spin around with her purse flailing on the city street, she wanted everybody to know just how magical her night had been, how everything that had happened to her until now seemed inconsequential in comparison.

When she heard her phone ring she couldn't help but breathlessly exclaim, "Gretchen, you won't believe my night!"

"Claire—"

"Gretch, it was amazing. He was amazing. It was—it was romantic, and perfect, and better than I could have ever imagined it—"

"Listen, Claire—"

"It was like we were two completely different people. Like—I can't even describe it, we just connected, you know? Have you ever just had that feeling, like you're the only two people in the world in that moment, that nothing can ever be as special as—"

"Claire," Gretchen yelled into the phone, startling Claire into silence. She recognized the hysteria in her roommate's voice and felt her heart lurch. "What are you talking about?"

"Eric," said Claire quietly, slowing her strides. "I'm talking about Eric, of course."

Gretchen was absolutely silent on the other end, and Claire suddenly felt like an ass. Of course Gretchen didn't want to hear about how she lost her virginity to Eric. How could she have been so thoughtless?

"I'm sorry," she said, but Gretchen still didn't respond right away.

"Claire, where . . . where are you?"

"I just got off the Metro, I'm headed toward campus right now. Gretchen, what's wrong?"

"It's . . . you . . . you couldn't have just been with Eric."

Claire laughed nervously. "What do you mean?"

"Eric's dead."