A/N: I hope that this chapter brings back some of my old readers, because there is some PAIRE in this chap, and we are revisiting Daphlar. We are going back to basics, people!

This chapter references Snapshots. I would advice you to read Part 6 of Snapshots to understand the box and letters but it's readable without it.

This chap is thoroughly emo and such, very Peter-centric but either way ENJOY!


Chapter Nine

"Memories Revisited"

There are always words unspoken, hung in the balance of right or wrong, between the decision of reconciliation or falling out with family. There are always things we are too scared to say, confessions we never learned to make but it's important to remember yesterday and how we strive today.

The morning was clarity, simply put, calm and collected with sights and sounds engineered to make the mind slow down on its tracks, which was just what Peter wanted. The young man, awoken from his sleep, of tangled limbs and ruffled sheets, looked around, lights blinding him from the window opening up to the balcony and took a deep breath. Elle was still sleeping beside him, in a mess of blonde hair and naked beauty and he gave her a kiss on the top of her head, one of the few adoring appearances Peter put on for her sake and put on his t-shirt at the side of the couch.

The amnesiac went to a shelf in the living room that occupied most of Sylar's books, books he loved but not enough to be part of his collection in his private room. He fingered the spines, the titles shining with a gold font and took out Moby Dick, just for the fun of it. But when he took it out, he found a box hiding behind the copy.

It was a big one, but brown as normal, faded from years of use. Peter, ever the curious traveler, took out the rest of the books that covered the box from his eyes and soon his hands fingered over it, and traced the name on the front, a faded color of a normal blue-colored marker, Peter. His eyes widened and took out the box fully and carried it with him to the kitchen, where it would sit on the kitchen counter, marble and all.

Peter took a deep breath and opened it. Pictures, letters and everything in it were remnants of his old life. The letter sitting at the top of it was addressed to him, from Molly. His mind was quickly filled of the image of the girl, the brown haired teenager that Claire said he was very close with, some sort of a friendship on earth. She seemed like a sweet girl, and something swelled inside him when he thought of her, like he was remembering just how much she meant to him.

He opened the letter; saw the curvy penmanship of a girl, with the words, Dear Peter at the top of the page. The paper was decorated with squiggles and doodles, just a few tidbits of it, and Peter smiled to himself seeing that. He read the letter silently, his back leaning into his seat, reading the lines of plus you were a bit on the whiny side. God, you complained for not being a good hero, about actually being a hero, for that matter. Didn't it help that you were already doing great with the whole saving-the-world shindig? Wasn't it a boost-up knowing you saved the world dozens of times?

This girl was truthful, that was for sure, and it certainly put a smile on his face knowing he wasn't perfect, that his former self wasn't a statue of brilliance put up by the encouragement of his fellow friends. There were dents and he was glad for it, but he wasn't exactly marble, either. He put the letter back in the box and took out another one, with a picture that Peter recognized, of the two little boys in front of the house, the scribbling behind it proclaimed it was the Linderman family, Peter and Gabriel two of them. The other letter he was holding onto was Sylar's.

A door opened in the house and Peter craned his neck to see Claire, yawning and attired in a rugged t-shirt and sweatpants. Peter quickly hid the box in the same place Claire kept her booze, in the bottom cupboard, figuring that the two of them hid the box for good reason: for Peter's prying eyes not to find it.

Claire entered the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, looking tired. Peter tried to understand the situation was for her at that moment in time. College drop-out, mother by the time she was nineteen and having the former love of her life reappear before her eyes. It was indeed a complicated scenario, it hit her more than it ever crashed into Sylar; the watchmaker was dealing with his estranged brother, the man he never really knew, but she was dealing with someone she loved and who loved her back, knowing her soul through and through.

Then he remembered just how awkward Claire was when they met; he finally understood why. She had no idea how to adjust to the prospect of a mirage of her beloved Peter coming into her life. He made things difficult for her for being what she didn't want him to be.

"Morning," she smiled at him, tucking strands of her brunette hair behind her ear. Peter had seen pictures of Claire four years ago; she had been a blonde, honey curls waving down her shoulders, the very idea of the all-American girl. She was beautiful in those pictures, but, nonetheless, it seemed she was always beautiful.

"Hey," he greeted her back.

Claire propped up her elbows on the counter, one side of her face leaning on her cheek and said, "Some night last night was."

"Best believe it," Peter agreed, nodding and taking out a carton of milk and pouring it out for both of them. "I still can't wrap my mind around it. Savior of the day is a kid? Imagine how he's gonna feel, though he's probably oblivious to it right now."

Sylar and Elle had come home, with solemn faces and both of them were itching away from each other, like they'd done something embarrassing along the way. But they told tem what they found out nonetheless. The two Knights had shared information with each other regarding the Messiah. No names were pronounced from their lips, but the age group was obtained, the biggest shock to their group: that the savior was merely a child.

"His world's gonna crash down," Claire said, her green eyes glassy, no direction pointed in her irises.

"What's on your mind, Claire? You seem a little out there," Peter looked at her.

"The kids," Claire said. "Just wondering what they feel right now. I've mostly been worried about me and Sylar, adjusting, going through everything, but now all I can think about is them. Mommy's always absent-minded and now Daddy's off doing missions, and these four new people they have to get used to. But they're troopers, they just think of this as another great adventure and it doesn't hurt that they like you guys, either."

"Yeah, they seem like great kids. You've got one hell of a family, Claire. You're, uh, lucky," Peter smiled sadly.

Claire was happy to hear that, something in her heart glowed a bright gold hearing those words uttered from his lips. Something told her that he missed out on a family, from she gathered, the only person he ever considered family, truly family was Lincoln, and he died. Even Alice didn't seem that close to Peter. Lincoln was someone Peter really trusted, trust for the new Peter was scarce, when the former one could love easier than it took to breathe.

"Hey, you're part of this family, if you want to be or not," Claire smiled at him.

"Thanks," Peter nodded appreciatively at her, smiling weakly. "And, uh, Claire?"

"Yeah?" Claire looked up.

"I'm sorry I'm not the man you wanted me to be," Peter said sadly.

His tone was unlike any other she heard from him; sure, she had heard it before, when Petrelli was still his surname, but not with him. It was mixed with melancholy; it was the same tone he took with her when he first told her he loved her.

"I didn't expect Peter to come back and welcome me back with willing arms, I don't expect you to do that, either. I loved Peter, but I let go. You can't apologize for what you are," the young mother said. She saw Peter's hand on the counter and placed her on top of it in a form of comfort; he seemed more vulnerable than he showed to be.

"That's extremely 'motivational speaker', you know that?" Peter chuckled.

"At least it's not Yes Man," Claire smiled. She tugged on his hand and said, "Come on, we'll make some breakfast just for us."

She let go and went to the upper cupboards, taking out ingredients. "Do you cook?"

"Oh yeah, I'm a regular Nigella Lawson," Peter said. He glanced down on his hand, wondering if that touch made imminent affect to her body, sending shocks and shivers down his spine, as it did with him.


Sylar sat in the living room, on the pullout couch Peter and Elle fell asleep on. The couple was now in the kitchen, for a breakfast that Sylar insisted he wasn't hungry for. The watchmaker crossed his arms, in thought mode. He promised himself Elle was not going to be a setback for him, but last night was a setback.

He didn't want to feel like this, Elle was the one who left, who lied and his life was finally getting on the tracks. He had everything every man dreamed of, an attractive girlfriend, two beautiful kids he called his own though the blood that ran through their veins begged to differ, a mundane job, not one of those 9-to-5 offices, which Sylar despised by the way; his distaste for mingling with people he didn't know and didn't want to know still kept on after all these years. He wasn't the kind of guy to smile at the random hot dog guy by the road when he went to get a Smokin' Ted for the kids.

His life was on the right track, it isn't the road he planned at the beginning but at least he was moving and he knew he was doing the right thing. Keeping a promise was in no way a bad thing, especially when said promise was one made to his estranged brother on his deathbed.

"Hey," a soft voice interrupted his chain of thought. Sylar looked up to see Daphne, with a smile on her face.

"Daph," he said his tone soft and smooth.

"No breakfast?" Daphne asked, indicating to her plate full of eateries, bread topped off with butter, jelly from a cup, a healthy appetite for a woman expecting.

"No thanks," Sylar waved his hand. She sat down next to him, her elbow brushing his in the process.

She looked at him and asked, "You okay?"

"Nothing to get worked out about," Sylar shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, come on, Sy, I know you. Something's wrong and I know it," Daphne cocked her head to the side, looking him expectantly.

"You don't know me, you haven't seen me for four years. I'm not the same man," the watchmaker looked at her intently.

"I know you more than you think to care, Sy," Daphne said, her eyes boring into his. "You're allergic to nuts, you like fast-paced stories, in books or movies or TV shows, that's why you've watched Da Vinci Code and Transformers four times each, you prefer rock over rap anytime of the day and you don't think black or white are actual colors, you like blue instead. You've never fully loved someone before, or had someone full love you, you blame you parents for everything that you are and, still, after each of your murders, you look at the blood at your hands and wonder if you did the right thing."

Sylar looked away from her gaze and she proceeded to say, "There might be a few technical glitches but you're still Sylar. Come on, tell me what's up." Sylar looked at Daphne, surely enough, she was smiling, knowing full well that she was the only one he let into his life, even Claire didn't know all those things; his relationship with Claire was built on redemption, not on his past life, as his did with Daphne.

"It's, uh, Elle," Sylar said awkwardly, ruffling his hair up. "Something happened last night at the club. We were dancing and suddenly I feel like I'm 26 all over again, ready to make a suicide attempt and get rescued."

"She shouldn't be an obstacle ," the speedster said, munching on her bread.

"I know she shouldn't but, I dunno, maybe six years ago wasn't so long ago after all," the watchmaker said, sighing. His eye contact with her remained unwanted. "Four seemed a lot to me, though."

With that, he looked at her, and Daphne's face spoke of shame and disgrace and apologies left unsaid, letters left unsent, calls she never made. Her eyes were downcast, her head held low like a woman being asked to answer the most embarrassing question in her life in front of a million spectators. "I'm sorry," her voice is almost inaudible to his ears.

"Why didn't you call? You could've sent a letter, made a call, made a goddamned smoke signal. That was all it took," Sylar's voice was becoming angered now.

"You're mad, I get it," Daphne said.

"I'm more than mad, I'm disappointed. I missed out on four years of your life when things were going good for us. And, from the looks of it, those four years were pretty damn important for you," Sylar said, nudging at her state. "Maybe I wanted to be invited to your wedding, maybe I wanted to be the guy you told when you found out you were having a baby, maybe I wanted to be part of your life."

"You still can be," Daphne takes his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers together.

"What are you thinking about?" Sylar looks at her.

"Matt and I asked Peter to be godfather to Daniella, but he didn't want to be. What about you? How would you like to be the godfather to my daughter?" Daphne asked, smiling.

He tugged on her hand and answered with a big smile, "I'd love to, Deer."

"I missed that," the blonde woman chuckled.

"I did, too," Sylar said, his palm steady on hers.

When he and Elle came home last night, they only told the rest about the Messiah, never about the other thing they heard. The Knights were coming for one of them. His voice wants to tell her, tell them and awake them with the fear that he was feeling right then, that this group, living in his home, was going to be torn apart very soon. But his heart just wanted to stay in that moment, holding hands with Daphne, knowing there was another child he was going to love unconditionally. Eventually, his voice won over and the moment was gone.


It had been five days. In almost 120 hours, his entire life course had changed, and the week wasn't even over yet. Gone was his stability, his control of the elements Fate were giving and coming were the imminent loss of control, his mind going wayward in the mess of the truth, of reality. Because he was tough, his skin was six inches deep, invincible to any touch or feel or contact, he made himself believe he was impervious to the world of change, but, truthfully, Crestblade kept his restraints tight enough that he didn't need to.

But, now, Peter Michaelson was spiraling in the aftermath. Sylar had confessed what he had not told him last night, that one of them were being affiliated with the Knights, as much as they didn't know it, they were. One of them was a traitor and, soon, their safe haven, untouchable, would be destroyed and all they'd be was on the ground. Peter was on the bed of the guest room, his legs crossed, all alone in his space; Elle was outside doing whatever she did, he didn't have the capacity to give a damn, not when his eyes are unraveling the words his brother had wrote to him.

He could just imagine Sylar trekking through their old abandoned house, cobwebs and lies and deceit all rolled into one homely atmosphere, years of cover-ups to do just that; to cover up. Peter breathed in a heavy breath and continued looking through the box. He read rapidly fast, the lines and lines of scribbly writing he knew belonged to Claire, the pictures, everything. He couldn't believe how much junk he left behind and how priceless they were to these people who loved him, his former self.

He almost-almost-wished that he could change, but, even if he wanted to, he knew he couldn't. even looking through all of this, nothing in his mind snapped, it was quiet, like he was watching a documentary of someone famous, blinking lights, glittering eyes, magnifying smile, the love, the fame surrounding said icon, but it just wasn't him. He wasn't like this person, brought up by faith and hope, he was the rubble beneath it. Peter just flipped through them, word after word going through him, reverberating every sense of his being, not meaning anything at all (since when has anything?).

Nathan. Mayday. New York City. Hannah.

Truthfully, when he read those letters, it didn't seem to fit. He didn't know what it was, but it just seemed unrealistic, something was wrong. Something he was missing, he just knew it. The pieces didn't fit together right. There was something he hadn't read, something he hadn't seen, or, maybe, something Sylar and Claire weren't telling him. It had something to do with the kids, they didn't fit.

He was onto the last letter, by the neat writing on the front; he realized it was Sylar's. He looked at the date and saw that it was one of the early letters, a year since he died. Peter's eyes were intent with his brother's words, as if the watchmaker was telling them himself, the words on the pages were narrated with a gruff voice he knew belonged to Sylar in his head. It was certainly a heartfelt letter; words swam around in a package of melancholy of Sylar's dictionary.

The whole letter made Peter sort of demean himself, this was the statue yet again; being shown basked in holy light. He couldn't stand it anymore. This whole thing, this charade, these people didn't want him; they never will. This box was taunting him. This letter was tearing him down. These people were not his to belong to and he wasn't theirs to belong to.


Sylar was noticing something odd about his brother, his evasiveness, more than usual, to others, his stone-cold face, no smile, no nothing. Something happened; Sylar was sure about that, he just didn't know what it was. Twenty minutes prior, he and Elle had announced that the Knights had big plans for them, especially one of them, a traitor to their own cause, oblivious to the fact. But he was sure that Peter wasn't worrying about that, he was sure of it, he knew his brother, even if they only knew each other for about four days.

"Pete, you okay?" Matt shook his best friend, as if snapping him out from a day-dream daze.

"Hmm? Yeah, just fine, Matty," Peter smiled. "'m okay."

"Ok, then, uh, you want something to eat? Claire cooked us some lunch, if you're interested," Matt asked.

"Maybe later. My mind's spinning right now. But, thanks, man," Peter shrugged.

Okay, something was officially wrong; Peter just made it through a conversation without even bringing up something he despised or longed to mock, the last time Sylar was speaking a civil conversation with his brother, the amnesiac had brought up Voldemort and the fact that he had a group of black-cloth wearing 'bitches' behind him. No, Peter was obviously not fine.

Everybody left the living room for the kitchen, and, soon, it was just him, Claire and Peter. Claire had her head on Sylar's shoulder, her hair pouring out in an elegant fashion, while the watchmaker had on his glasses, his eyes skimming the list of books from the library he needed to handled; he'd been taking a sick week ever since Peter came along. Peter was sitting across from them, on the one-man couch, his legs crossed and his eyes gazing out the window.

"What are you thinking about?" Sylar asked his brother.

"Which church did you go into?" Peter asked.

"Huh?" Sylar asked.

"When I died, which church did you go to? One of those big churches where Jesus just hovers over you when you ask for forgiveness or, like, the ones where it's only little but you don't care about the size because you know God's always there?" Peter's eyes spoke of fire.

Sylar finally realized how Peter could've possibly known that: the box. "Oh, fuck," he cursed.

"Yea, oh, fuck, Sy," Peter nodded.

"I'm sorry you found it," Claire said sympathetically. She could only imagine how he was feeling right then, to have all the evidence just thrown at him right then. Oh, shit…the kids…did he know?

"I've been apologizing to you guys ever since I came here, 'sorry, not your Peter', 'sorry, this is who I am', 'sorry I can't be who you want me to be', and then I realize I shouldn't be, because I'm not even close to what you imagine me to be. And I'm goddamned proud of that fact," Peter snarled. "Why did I even bother staying? Why did you even bother caring? I'm a lost cause, I know that."

"Peter…" Claire's voice was fading.

"You're my brother," Sylar said, in a voice that only amounted the fact as the most obvious truth. "That's why I care."

"I'm not your brother. Your brother is Peter Petrelli, nurse, fiancé, good guy, no shooting at people just because they get in his way, the guy who forgave you straight on when he was dying," the amnesiac stood up, hovering over Sylar, who was still sitting down on the couch. "I'm just the guy ruining your life right now."

"I don't resent you!" Sylar raised his voice. Claire disappeared to the scene, coming into the kitchen to make sure her kids were safe from the argument between the two brothers.

"Oh, come on, Sy. You do, you regret letting me stay here. I know some part of you wishes I was back at Crestblade so that you'd still be happy and safe and oblivious. I brought this into your house; I brought this near your kids. There is no way you're happy with my being here," Peter said.

Sylar stood, so that he could see his brother at eye-level. The watchmaker observed the younger man, the hand curled up in a fist, his eyebrows creased, his eyes starting a flint of fire, matching the rest of his face.

"I don't resent you," Sylar repeated, his words softer now, but it triggered a soft bone in Peter's body. "If you say another ungrateful word, I'm throwing you out. I don't wanna hear about any shit from you, okay? We've been happy with you being here, we've accepted you, so don't you dare say, don't you fucking say that I don't want you here." Sylar turned away from his brother, brown eyes tearing away from his brother's identical ones, dead calm, silence hanging over them, a ghost simultaneously destroying in its path.

"I read your letter," Peter said.

"I know you did," Sylar said, his back to him.

"There's a line you wrote. 'as brothers, I don't think we'll ever be on the same page', and I finally realized what that meant," Peter said, and Sylar could feel his presence nearing him like a catalyst.

"What?"

"I am what I am because of what you are now," the amnesiac said; the simple truth. A few words changed everything. "It's like we're opposites. Think about it. I kill, you used to kill. I'm a jackass; you used to be a jackass. When I'm happy, you're torn up. When I'm hurt, you're happy as hell. There has to be contrast or else the world will explode."

"I don't want you to change," Sylar was still looking away from him.

"Right, because I'll ruin your fairytale if I do," Peter's breath was almost hitting Sylar on the back. Sylar slowly turned to look at his brother, so calm, so silent that it freaked him out.

"Does this all fit to you?" he asked.

"What?" Peter asked back.

"This family, this everything, does this fit to you? Do you want it to fit or are you oblivious to what's actually happening. That all this time, I'm just a sore replacement for you?" Sylar asked. Peter was silent. What…what was he talking about?

"I brought you up in a head, because I thought that was the right thing to do, you were dead and you were my brother, so I just carved this dream of you in my mind. But I was wrong all along," he continued. "You're a fuckup, Pete. You were in your last life and you proved well enough that you still are. So that's the big truth about the world. People disappoint you. So go, go out that door right now because I don't wanna take anymore of your shit anymore. Don't play drama queen with me. You're spinning tangled words, and I can't understand you anymore. Are you okay or not? Are you the exception or the rule? Are you happy or screwed? Stop talking to me in another language, make sense, speak in full sentences, because it doesn't fit."

Sylar's words burned a hole in his heart, bruising his mind, tearing his heart, making his score one to zip. He had never seen Sylar so angry, so bruised, so…numb. "Two plus two doesn't equal five, Peter. You're the missing equation," he said.

"What the fuck are you saying?" Peter asked.

"The kids," Sylar said. "They're not mine, they're yours." Silence.

"Claire got pregnant with them when she was eighteen, when she was still with you. Their last name is Petrelli, not Gray. It wasn't a mistake when Michael called you Daddy two days ago, it wasn't a lie, there wasn't a mix-up. He called you Daddy because you're his."

"No," Peter mumbled. "No, no, no, no, no. no!" Peter fell to the floor, cradling his head.

"No," he kept saying. "You're lying. You must be lying. No," Peter mumbled. "No That can't be right!"

"Why does it matter anyway? You've made it clear you're not Peter. It shouldn't matter anyway," the watchmaker said tauntingly. Peter looked up to his brother and used his telekinesis to pin him to the wall. But Sylar was much more skilled at the game and threw him off to the floor, colliding with the glass table, shattering it to pieces.

"Get out," Sylar said.

"Wha-?" Peter asked.

"You were right, I don't want you here," he said. "Get out."


"Why the hell did you do that?" Matt yelled at him. They were outside of the apartment; Peter had been thrown out anyway.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, looking at him.

"You know what I mean. I know you hate the world and everything, but I thought you cared about us. Sylar and Claire could've given us protection, help, anything and you just blew our chance of solving this Knights thing," Matt yelled.

"I do care about you guys!" Peter yelled. Thank God they were all alone.

"I find that hard to believe!" Matt shot back.

"I just didn't want to know, okay? You happy? That's the reason I just had a bitch fight with my brother, because I just didn't want to know!" Peter said.

"About what?" Matt asked.

"About everything! I didn't wanna know that I saved the cheerleader and then saved the world. I don't wanna know that I had this perfect life planned in front of me because right now I am a royal mess of shit I can't even bother to clean up. I don't wanna know, I most certainly didn't want it thrust in front of my face like I'm an idiot."

Matt looked at him in a way only Matt could; a mix of sympathy and anger all at once, he had a knack for burrowing into Peter, trying to find what he wanted and finally got it out. Maybe that was what family did to each other, they try to find out the truth about each other so that they'd pose better for the Christmas special. But Peter was the last person to know what family was; he already blew off his real one.

"And guess what?" Peter said. "Hannah and Michael, they're my kids. All the more reason Sylar threw me out."

"Pete," Matt said.

"I just don't know how I'm supposed to act, what I'm supposed to do. Tell me what I'm supposed to do, what I'm supposed to feel 'cause I'm so damn confused," Peter held his head in his hands.

"You don't have to feel responsible for them," Matt said.

"But they're my kids," Peter said.

"Doesn't mean you should be actively involved in their lives, they've survived this long without you. I think they're pretty good. And Sylar and Claire can keep on with this charade of you not being their dad to protect them, and you," Matt was truly the most level-headed person Peter knew.

"So what do we do now?" Peter asked.

"We take it one step at a time. And step one is going back inside," Matt smiled.


"I don't want you to change," Sylar said, his voice was soft, like a song lulling in his ears.

"I know that now," Peter nodded, making up his bed on the couch. "I'm sorry I was such an ass to you earlier."

"Look, Joss Whedon once said that it's important to be yourself, unless you suck. And I think you've got way too much pride to think you suck," Sylar smiled.

Peter looked at his brother and shot the older man a big grin, "That's the nicest thingly-veiled insult I've ever been given."

Now he was asleep, on the couch. Peter was having a dream. He was in a high school, red and white everywhere, streamers, banners, the lockers, everything was red and white. A festive school. The name of the school was proudly proclaimed on one of the banners in red paint: Union Wells High School. That seemed familiar. He'd been here before.

There was a trophy case, glass and a picture of a girl being presented with a plaque from a sheriff. 'Jackie', her name was. Peter didn't know anyone named Jackie, why was he here?

"Where am I?" he muttered to himself.

"This is where Claire and I met," an eerie voice wafted his surroundings.

Peter turned around, and saw his doppelganger, or, to be exact, Peter Petrelli. The man had a scar on his face, slashing a side of his face, finally ending on his cheek, but his eyes were jovial, his hair straight, not at all ruffled as his was. Peter Michaelson sort of felt demeaned by his presence, the man that had lived for 28 years before bidding goodbye to his world, and was visiting his present self in his dream. Sure, that wasn't a sentence he would've imagine he would think, but it was true.

"Today is Homecoming of 2006. In about fifteen minutes, I'll walk through those doors and I'll meet Claire for the first time. This is how it goes," Original Peter said.

"Huh," Peter pondered. "Well, why am I here? Why am I dreaming this? Why am I dreaming you?"

"You ask too many questions," his former self said.

"It's what makes me adorable," Peter shrugged.

"Why, Peter, why are you acting this way?" Peter Petrelli asked, pocketing his hands. He took in a deep breath and looked at his present self, sensing just how different they were.

"Meaning what exactly?" Peter twiddled his fingers.

"When someone tells you you're a parent, you act, you react. You don't say 'no' over and over again like a melodramatic high school girl. You take responsibility for not doing the right thing," the dead man proclaimed. His voice was steady; a tone a father usually took with a misbehaving child.

"You're not anyone who can tell me what to do. In fact, technically, you're not even anyone, you're dead and I took your place," Peter crossed his arms. "I got a life. And Sylar said it was fine. Claire said it was fine."

"You obviously have no idea what I've been through," the dead man shook his head, playing a smirk on his face. "I went to afterlife, okay? The white light is right and all, then I came back. Since you don't remember anything from your former life, I've been around my memories. Starting from my birth, my childhood, and everything following; it's insanity, and I can't take it anymore."

"Then go back to afterlife," Peter shrugged as if it was the most obvious solution to the most complicated problem.

"It doesn't work like that. I don't know why. It's like my body is you and I'm my soul. That's why I can't go anywhere, that's why I'm stuck, because we're not connected," Peter Petrelli sighed. "The way I see it, you only have two options."

"Whoa, hold up, me? I don't wanna be a part of this. Your problem, you figure it out," Peter waved his hands.

"Two options, Michaelson," Peter snarled.

"What? Live or let die? I like my life, sure, I was a whiny bitch, but I'm making it worth. I'm not for bargain, man," the amnesiac said.

"This isn't a game, okay?" Peter said seriously.

"I know it isn't. But the reason I'm not playing is that it's not my game to play. I'm not gonna willingly put on the jersey just because you ask me to," Michaelson said.

"Look," his former self looked away from him, unresolved issues still hanging in the air, neither of them wanting to put it on the table; they'd had rough lives, they knew, but, right now, they were stuck in dreamland and the one who was living would probably not remember it. There was no use, there was no resolve or resentment, it was just truth. Peter looked where he was, and saw Peter and Claire.

Peter in a trench coat, with a happy smile and bangs hanging over his face and Claire with curly blonde hair with a red bag in her hands. A memory, frozen in time and these two opposing sides were left to admire. "It gets better," Peter said, as Claire was walking away from him. "Life after high school gets a lot better."

At this, Peter Petrelli looked at his present self and said grievingly, with melancholy strung between his words, "I lied."


Review, dang it all!

-Aly