A/N: Hello, again. It's been a while since I've posted any stories. This is a one shot that involves character death of Peter Petrelli. POV is Sylar in a detached narrative. Their relationship is strictly best friends/brothers. Let's see, there's also Pemma and platonic uncaring Sylar and Claire. It's a sad piece. Don't know why I wrote it, but it made me get all feelsy so here, you can too!
Rhythm of the writing is different than my usual style because it matches Daisy by Brand New. Look it up and listen if you haven't heard of it, it's a great song. Comments and criticisms always welcome. Hope you enjoy it :)
Disclaimer: This is obviously fanfiction so no, no rights to anything with the show.
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The week before, he takes off. He feels suffocated. It wasn't supposed to be this way - none of it.
He wasn't supposed to be anything but a a watchmaker, he wasn't supposed to kill anyone, he wasn't supposed to have any part of him turn out Special. Then, he wasn't supposed to stop, he wasn't supposed to discover empathy, he wasn't supposed to feel burdened, he wasn't supposed to be defeated. He wasn't supposed to have no idea who he was, he wasn't supposed to be an intangible being in the mind of another, he wasn't supposed to be the possessor of a hypocrite's memories, he wasn't supposed to be impotent at the prospect of killing. He wasn't supposed to get out, to be a hero.
So he ran. A hero for forty-two years, and then he runs.
It was too late. He couldn't go far. He couldn't escape. It was in him now.
Because of Peter. The man on his deathbed.
He made it six states away before he cracked. He screams, he breaks everything in the motel room, and then he leaves a wad of cash for the manager. He drives back.
Emma is faithfully at Peter's side. She sees him ten minutes after he stills in his anger in the doorway. The old man in front of him is just that - old. He's skinny, thin, gray in all the ways Sylar would never torment for. Emma stood. She smiled at him. He saw the tears. She cradled a styrofoam cup and gestured to it as she walked out. He remained in the doorway for a long while. Too long. There was a ticking from the leather watch at the hospitalized man's bedside. He had given it to Peter. It was too big now.
Eyelids fluttered. "Gabriel."
He wondered how Peter could still smile. It was a martyr thing to do, to go out accepting such fate yet still fighting for strength like this.
Peter jerked his head.
He approached. His eyes stung. He clasped the other's arm in a fireman's grip. "Take it," he ordered in a hoarse voice.
"We've talked about this," Peter sighed.
"Take it!"
"No."
"Take! It!"
"Gabe! No." His eyes flashed with familiar steel. The first time in weeks.
He let go harshly, taking some steps away to face the window. He blinked, briefly horrified at the liquid he found there, sitting on the brink. He spun back around. "I'm just supposed to watch you die? After everything?" His voice was an accusation.
Peter raised his tired, heavy-lidded eyes. "No. But I'm dying anyway."
He had nothing to say to that. With a swallow, he sat against the window sill. Emma resumed her post several minutes later with a sad smile, kissing Peter's hand when she cradled it in hers once more. He flipped on a certain switch in his mind, tapping into a power he had no use for. And then he could see it. The lights emanating for Emma's iPod that the couple in front of him was watching peacefully.
He smiled sadly too.
Peter died in Hospice. Full circle. It was cliche to say, but it was true all the same - Peter was surrounded by people he loved.
He attended Peter's funeral. He didn't want to, but he did anyway. It was right. He held Emma's hand, politely tuned out Claire's whimpers, and kept his eyes averted from his best friend's children as they kept themselves intact by leaning on each other. Funerals left everyone in their own head. Funerals were a collective silence spent on reminiscence. Funerals left him dwelling too much.
He drank through forty-eight ounces of bourbon in his lonely apartment that afternoon. He never even achieved a buzz. He felt alone. Again. It disturbed him how much he hated it. The setting of a sun saw the smashing of a tumbler. The cooing of pigeons poorly drowned out the overturning of a sofa. The knock of knuckles on a door paused the destructive path inside the apartment.
He opened the door. A slap stung his cheek. Claire, fiery-eyed and wet-cheeked, stood in front of him. "Why didn't you make him?" She demanded.
He couldn't say anything to that without sounding weak. So he said nothing at all.
"You two were so close, right? Why didn't you convince him? Why didn't you make him listen?!"
She slapped him again. He set his jaw. "I couldn't," he bit out.
She moved to slap again. He caught her petite wrist. She snarled; he did so right back. She raised her other hand. He caught that one, too. Kicking out, she caught an ankle behind his vulnerable knees. They tumbled into his apartment. She twisted a hand free. With it, she clawed down the side of his face. Heat scorched the skin. He flipped them, both relishing the pain and wanting it to end, wanting this needless fight to end. She needed it. He didn't. A headbutt from her sent him over the other side, back against the floor, and left her disoriented. He didn't retaliate because it was enough. They both stopped.
It felt like agonizing slow motion. It was over in a few seconds. The door to the apartment lay cracked open, forgotten. He heaved himself up first. He snatched the large alchohol bottle where he'd left it before; it was his third. He resumed his spot against the wall. She rose slower. Her breath stuttered. Silent sobs, he realized without any indication given. She leaned up against the wall next to him. Their knees brushed without care. "Why?" She asked again into the silence.
He had a feeling it was rhetorical this whole time. He gave her an answer anyway. "Because he's strong enough to not make my mistake."
Her green eyes snapped to his profile. They looked black in the darkness. "So what does that make me?"
Another rhetorical. He took a long, unfulfilling swig. It burned deceivingly. He held it out to her. "Innocent."
Claire took it silently, the weight of immortality he felt reflecting right back at him through her resignation. He was wrong. Peter may be gone, but he would never be alone. Not if he chose differently. Not if he chose life, even with all the curses and troubles it brought.
As if the alternative was even an option.