Like Old Times
The hot water did nothing whatsoever to relieve the tension in Peter's muscles, but still he couldn't bring himself to leave the shower. Steam pressed against his freshly washed skin, the sickly smell of cheap soap permeated the entire bathroom, and most likely there would be a complaining knock at the door any second if he didn't get his butt in gear, but he didn't care about any of that.
Just a few more minutes. Let him hide in here, warding off the rest of the day for a little while longer. As soon as he stepped out of this room it was game on, resume, another round of 'Peter Struggling to Master His Abilities', and that was never pleasant for anyone involved. It would be so easy to give in to the overwhelming sense of failure. But Peter Petrelli had never been good at many things, and quitting was no different. He couldn't give in. The only thing worse than running to meet the disaster that was his life head-on would be to deny it altogether.
The last time he had lost control of his power and exploded above New York City, he had "dealt" with it by isolating himself for months in a prison and renouncing his abilities. But this time he wouldn't just run away from the problem. This time he was at least trying to do better, even though it had been a difficult few days already.
He stretched his neck from side to side and tipped his face into the spray of the shower head, reluctant to move although he'd been in here for far too long already and he knew it. Shit, he had forgotten how exhausting it was to train in his abilities when every single one of them could be as unstable as a ticking pipe bomb. Every knot in his muscles marked every triumph and failure in re-learning how to wield them again: the first time he'd been able to hover for over a minute without another ability creeping up on him; the latest time out of many he'd scorched the carpet and almost set off the smoke alarm again... the latest one stemmed from not even half an hour ago, when he'd lost control over electricity and zapped a very displeased Sylar on the nose.
It wasn't easy work, by any means. But Peter was grateful for the pain. It pushed him to do better, reminded him of everything he'd touched on so far in harmonizing his original empathy with the synthetic version that still existed within him. Such as learning how to balance his concentration between two powers at once, for one example. Like practicing to pull out the correct one without dislodging all the others around it, for another. And getting used to replicating only select ones through touch alone, instead of absorbing too many at once by accident.
The most important part of Peter's training, however, concerning the whisper that resided in the back of his mind, was the only part he had refused to confront. Giving it attention would be giving it power, and giving it power would be giving it everything. Peter still wasn't ready for that.
Day by day. Little by little. Otherwise eternity began to look pretty fucking scary, he had come to realise. Even if only for just now, he reveled in this respite. This escape. This moment where he didn't have to worry about anything other than how mad Sylar would be with him if he hid in here much longer.
But every second was precious. Every moment he wasn't working on mastering his power was a moment wasted. And while Renautas was still out there and innocent people were still getting rounded up, Peter couldn't afford to waste time any more than he could safely control it.
Reluctantly, he shut off the shower and shook his wet hair off his face. The shitty little bathroom looked even shittier through bleary eyes; the cracks in the walls more obvious against the stains, and the solitary light bulb even more decrepit-looking as it caught the late afternoon sunshine. But hey, it was still an upgrade from living under a bridge until the end of time, right?
Shivering in the absence of hot water, Peter stopped himself just before grabbing for his towel. He could easily reach across the width of the tiny room without even leaving the tub, but he didn't.
Instead, he released a deep, calming breath, set his jaw and held his outstretched fingers before him, concentrating. After a taut second of no response, the towel twitched, clumsily lifted off the rail and hovered through the air towards Peter. Before slipping from his hold and splashing into a puddle on the floor.
Great. Off to another productive start.
( )
Steam leaked out from under the bathroom door, the sound of Peter shuffling about in there barely audible over the ancient television set that was of course broadcasting The Indestructible Girl's latest talk-show appearance, despite only receiving a handful of channels.
Claire Bennet smiled that fake smile and promised those fake promises to a world that was desperate enough to lap up the idea of "peace and equality" between them and us, of a life where Renautas were "helping others" and where people didn't have to fear exploding men or a mysterious corporation that stole them away and locked them up for the rest of time.
Sylar had only been watching it because there was nothing else on after he'd had his turn in the shower. But when Claire's laugh grated on his nerves one too many times, he switched the TV off with a rather harsh lash of telekinesis. Of all the hypocrites to ever hypocrite in the history of hypocrites. Stomach rumbling, Sylar ruffled his drying hair and settled back on his pillows, deciding to count ceiling tiles or something while he waited for his roommate's glacial reappearance. Even the state of this hell-hole wasn't as off-putting as Little Miss Bennet and her lies.
At first this seedy hotel room had been a less than encouraging sight: two moth-eaten single beds, a solitary, grimy window and a shoe-box of a bathroom (all of which probably hadn't been renovated for at least two decades) wasn't exactly an easy transition from a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. But beggars can't be choosers. They were just lucky to have found a place that wouldn't question mysterious golden pebbles as payment, didn't ask for any form of identification upon check-in, and never came to investigate noises that sounded suspiciously like stray electric bolts or objects being thrown clean across the room...
Sylar subconsciously rubbed at his smarting nose. Even though he had long healed over and washed off any lingering soot, the tingling sensation of electricity continued to swarm over his skin. All he'd done was sneeze, for fuck's sake. How was he supposed to know Peter's ability would snap at the sound and zap him in the face? Well, lesson definitely learned. Sylar wouldn't make that mistake again for the next ten billion foreseeable sessions...
Of course it was much harder to mentor Peter than it had been to mentor himself, or even to help Maya with her ability once upon a time in Mexico, because even a woman who cried a fatal plague of black tears obviously wasn't as much work as Peter Petrelli. Getting burned was just part of the job, Sylar had realised too late. Figuring out how the other man's powers should coexist wasn't the tough part. Describing them wasn't that much harder. But actually getting Peter to listen, to understand, to translate that knowledge into various actions and juggle his abilities simultaneously...? Well. Sylar's patience was probably the most exercised skill to come out of the whole arrangement.
At long last, the bathroom door opened and the energized empath emerged. He had dressed in a simple button up shirt and jeans from the batch of clothes Sylar had "recovered" from the laundromat next door, having had to roll up the sleeves and ankles in order for them to fit better. Sylar was secretly happy that he hadn't been able to find any in his friend's correct size, if only for personal amusement.
( )
"Okay, so what now?" Drying his hair with a towel, Peter paced agitatedly on the spot, unable to contain the enthusiasm in his voice. "I was thinking we should look at telepathy next. Turning it off isn't so hard anymore, but using it...? I'm so tired of getting snatches of those guys fighting next door; you should hear them! Or no, maybe not, but be glad you can't, believe me..." His chuckle faded off and he lowered his towel when his eyes finally landed on Sylar's expression. "What?"
Only when his teacher propped himself up on his elbows and raised an eyebrow did Peter notice he was sprawled out on his bed with little intention of moving. Sylar just looked at him as if his next words were genius. "I was thinking... maybe we've trained enough for today."
It took Peter a second to process such absurdity.
Despite a few unfortunate injuries, Sylar had been nothing but encouraging and impressively patient these past few days. Maybe if Claude's teaching methods had held even a scrap of the understanding of Sylar's then Peter could have learned to control his powers properly the first time, all those years ago. At least now he had the opportunity to learn at his own speed instead of being whacked in the stomach with a stick every time he tried to catch his breath. He was grateful for that, even if it meant he was progressing at a pace his last teacher would have been horrified at.
But now Sylar had randomly decided to put the brakes on for no reason? What?
Peter fought not to get irritated as the ends of his eagerness began to trickle away. They'd only been working for six hours today, and that didn't feel like nearly enough! The more time they wasted before getting back down to business, the more difficult it would be to stay in the right mindset for practising!
( )
"...Is this payback for shocking you before?" Peter spoke uncertainly, twisting the towel nervously in his fingers. "I already said I'm sorry – it was an accident." Just the mention of the incident that had prompted Sylar to call for time out rolled phantom pains through him anew.
"Oh trust me, there will be payback." He promised, face stinging again. "But this is just -" Both men jumped a little when a rapt knock sounded at the door. Then Sylar answered his friend's questioning expression with a pleased one of his own. "- perfect timing."
( )
If Sylar didn't currently look so relaxed then Peter might have already been freaking out at such an intrusion. Were they expecting someone? Who in the world would even want to see them? The "do not disturb" sign should have been on the door – it had worked so far, anyway. Sylar's expression clearly meant Peter was supposed to answer the call, but he only rocked on the spot in indecisiveness. Was it safe for him to get it? He hadn't even set eyes on another person since getting here. What if it was an evo? What if it wasn't? What if it was someone coming to complain about the smell of singed Sylar that was maybe still lingering in the air...?
The former killer was watching him expectantly, his eyebrows lifted and a smile tickling the corners of his lips. It was this, coupled with a small blip of curiosity, that made Peter drop his towel on the end of his bed and carried him across the room before he could change his mind.
Then he was standing in the open doorway, face to face with an unfamiliar teenager who looked like she'd rather be anywhere other than here. Peter couldn't help but stare at her – a stranger, an outsider, the most ordinary looking of ordinary people who had no idea how close she was standing to the insanity that was his life.
This was the first time he had come close to a normal conversation with a normal person in too long. Suddenly Peter didn't even know where to begin. So many contradictions ticked through his mind like a dial spinning data in front of his eyes, and he couldn't be sure if it was a power creeping up on him or if he'd just gone severely stir crazy locked up in here.
After too long a silence, the girl offered a monotonous "Room service?"
Her voice shook awareness into Peter. Enough to feel self-conscious of wearing too-big clothes that obviously weren't his own while she looked him up and down, and to feel anxious when her eyes scanned past him into the room beyond. Suddenly he remembered the many burn marks littered around the walls and floor, the ungodly mess of the place, and the fact that two mysterious men who were clearly hiding away in here was bound to be suspicious. Fuck.
( )
Back on his bed, Sylar rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. A guilty Peter Petrelli was less subtle than a rainbow dinosaur trying to sneak through a crowd, and that was not what they needed right now. If you want something done...
( )
Trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt, Peter tried to block the girl's view of any evidence of his superhuman shenanagins. "Uh, I don't know if we -"
"Don't listen to him." Peter startled when Sylar appeared at his side. Then a warm arm was draped around his neck and he was pinned so closely to the other man that deep chuckles vibrated into his torso from Sylar's. "He's just eager to get back at it, aren't you, puppy?"
Oh man. So this was payback for earlier. When the girl slung an unamused look over the pair, Peter only cringed further. Only because he didn't know what else to do, he forced a stiff, embarrassed smile that fell far short of Sylar's performance. It wasn't returned by the girl or sympathised with more than a roll of her eyes.
( )
Ah, Sylar had forgotten how much fun it was to play with people. It had been far too long. He hadn't even realised how much he'd needed a spark of levity when everything else around him was so serious. Who said it always had to precede murder?
He toyed with Peter's wet hair, enjoying the reddening of the guy's cheeks and every bit of discomfort it imposed. He was actually being generous. This was nothing compared to being electrocuted when you were only trying to help. "Now don't forget to tip the nice lady." He crooned into his companion's temple, making a display of it. "Then you're mine for the rest of the night." Grinning shamelessly at their unimpressed visitor, he waited while Peter fumbled on the sideboard for one of the remaining gold pebbles Sylar had made.
As soon as Peter took the laden tray, the girl departed with a scoff and the door clicked shut, the little man ducked out from under Sylar's arm. "You done?" He jabbed a look over his shoulder before carrying the food away.
"Aw, don't be mad, honey." The former killer stretched smugly as he crossed the room. "Here's an idea: why don't we play with some more electrostimulation? I know how much you love that..."
With an impatient exhale, Peter set the tray down on Sylar's bed. "We don't have time for games, alright? We need to focus."
( )
"Oh, relax." Sylar tutted before plopping himself down on his stomach next to the tray. "Would you rather she knew what we've really been doing in here for days on end?" He raised an eyebrow before helping himself to an undercooked french fry.
Peter didn't reply. Sylar actually had a point, there. Instead he just stood next to the bed, struggling to make sense of the new arrival: the tray. It was practically buckling beneath a mountain of questionable looking food – different assortments of different meals that couldn't possibly taste good together even if Peter was hungry. But he wasn't: he was energized. He'd been fine living off leftover take-out recently, and he didn't need waffles or cold pizza or fries or grapes or whatever else constituted as "dinner" in this establishment in order to concentrate. Sylar, apparently, had other ideas.
"What is this?"
"A little of everything, I believe. I asked for ice cream, but they "don't do" honeycomb. Actually, they don't even do room service, but with a touch of charm on my part –"
"No, I mean what are you doing?"
Sylar's face screwed up at the taste of his last fry, but it didn't stop him from picking up another or speaking around it. "Think of it as your next lesson, if you want." Then deep, dark eyes found Peter's, roiling with a shielded intensity that gave both men pause. "It's time we worked on tackling the Hunger."
Peter just blinked at him. Was this a joke? He couldn't even tell if the guy was trying to be funny.
"You're telling me that eating combats the Hunger?" Slowly, he pointed at the tray of food, unable not to express the insanity of this idea on his face. "You could have ordered a pizza any time you wanted to kill someone?!"
He would have been certain that Sylar was winding him up, if a flicker of hurt didn't show on his face before the corner of his lips lifted to compensate. Instantly, Peter regretted his carelessness. "Not quite. But I found it helps."
( )
Sylar watched questions chase themselves across that tired man's tired face. He couldn't blame him – it did sound as fake as anything close to an apology would from a Bennet's lips, but he wasn't deterred.
Even just the sight of his only friend sitting there in over-sized clothes, with a healthy growth of facial stubble and internal bruises that regeneration couldn't ease, was enough to give Sylar the incentive to fight for his piece if need be. When he'd promised to help Peter manage his condition, he hadn't planned on turning the man into a constantly running machine that spent every waking second working itself crazy. He shouldn't have been surprised, really, having witnessed the tenacious man at work and hitting an unbreakable wall for years on end. But Peter needed to learn that not every problem can be solved by whacking it with a hammer until something eventually changes. And this time Sylar was the teacher. Which meant that, this time, he got to call the shots.
Peter started rambling. "B-but we can't just... What about everything out there? We're wasting time! Micah and, and Hiro – we need to rescue them!"
"You're no good to anyone until you can control your powers." Sylar dipped his head to keep their eye contact when his friend lowered his gaze. "You've been overworking yourself, Peter, you need to calm down a little."
"Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when I can't even trust myself to go outside?"
"Do you want to get better or not?"
A crack of guilt touched Sylar upon the worry that replaced Peter's previous, energetic resolve. Damn it. At least it got the guy to shut up with the excuses for a moment. Sylar sighed, ran his fingers through his damp hair and grabbed another fry. Cold. Soggy. Disgusting. But at least it was better than nothing. On second thought, he warmed the bowl with a low hum of electricity in the palm of his hand.
"The Hunger feeds off your anxieties. It grows stronger the more stressed out you get." He explained, ensuring to be gentle this time but not patronizing. It wasn't a secret that this topic had been one avoided until now, by both parties. But Sylar had the unfortunate hindsight to know better than to ignore it and hope it went away. "The best thing you could possibly do right now is relax, unwind, and act like a normal guy for a change."
Trying to be thoughtful, he held up the bowl of fries for his friend, even though the things themselves could hardly be considered a gift worth giving.
( )
Feeling as though the rug had been pulled out from under him, Peter couldn't help but wait for the inevitable punchline. On the off chance he was being serious, this would certainly explain Sylar's love affair with food, for one thing. But it definitely didn't sound like a legitimate solution. However, he could read this intelligent man well enough to know that, as insane as the idea was... it wasn't intended as a joke.
"You're serious?" He breathed. Could it actually have made a difference? Or was Peter just making a fool of himself here? "This isn't just an excuse because you don't wanna work tonight?"
"Oh, I don't want to work tonight." Sylar said it so bluntly that Peter barely even got a chance to be annoyed. "But it's not an excuse. As teacher, I'm in charge, right? So sit your butt down, Petrelli, eat some of this crap, watch a terrible movie and just relax for once in your life." He smiled a hopeful, inviting smile that suddenly made his ravings not seem so stupid. And in fact, a flutter of something akin to butterflies danced inside Peter's chest.
He hadn't forgotten how vulnerable Sylar had looked wired up in that hospital bed (the one Peter had put him in) or how quickly he had come to Peter's aid even if it meant he would explode as well. He had been so forgiving these past few days, had done so much with only minimal complaint, and although this plan still carried a whiff of manipulation about it, Peter knew that taking a few hours off duty was hardly the biggest sacrifice to ever transpire between the pair.
So when Sylar impatiently waggled the outstretched food offering, he just couldn't say no to him. The watchmaker raised both eyebrows in a no-nonsense manner, and his voice touched Peter's awareness a few shades softer than it had before, even though his lips weren't moving.
Peter. Please. Do this with me.
With no intention of arguing further, the empath sank numbly into the mattress beside his friend, catching the freshly steaming bowl of fries. Pleased with himself now, Sylar got fluidly to his feet before crossing the room and busying himself with the old TV set.
Honestly, Peter couldn't really understand why he was falling for this madness. But they had just died horrifically not even a week ago. Everything else in their lives had gone to shit. And even after all these lessons being bossed around and told what to do by his friend, Peter had rarely seen Sylar act this way when not working. Not for a long time. It felt new, a little suspicious, but most of all... it felt exciting. Which happened to be a remedy the pair desperately needed right now.
Sylar's thoughts filtered through to Peter inaudibly, a happy hum that wouldn't obey when Peter tried to shut it out for the sake of politeness. Unable to bite back a smile, he scooted up to make himself comfortable against the pillows. Should he feel guilty for feeling so much better about his state of mind in just these few seconds than he had in all his time training? Huh. Maybe Sylar really was onto something here.
The man in question straightened up, hiding both hands behind his back. He bit his lip, taming a playful grin that begged to break free, then pulled out two ancient VHS tapes that had to have been sitting there since before the pair had even started high school.
"So – what first?" He asked with a loft of a great eyebrow. "'Redneck Zombies' or 'Return of the Killer Tomatoes'?"
( )( )( )
The golden touch of sunset stroked the men's faces, the breeze a cool kiss that bade farwell to the dregs of the day. They looked out upon a rather unspectacular view of scruffy rooftops and water towers rather than Central Park, and the sounds of the unfamilar city provided only an imitation of a backdrop of home, but it didn't matter. It didn't ruin this. Actually, right now Sylar wasn't even sure that anything could.
"...Oh, he was furious."
He laughed lazily, resting his head back against cool glass.
"Cause obviously nobody believed he was shouting at me and not the kid at the checkout. The manager was called, the store security... And the whole time Parkman's trying to kill me with a look cause I just couldn't stop laughing." He paused in his story, pushing himself off the window for an impersonation, digging both hands into his hips and pursing his lips for Peter's mesmerized benefit. "'We'll talk about this later!' but because they couldn't see me they thought he was threatening them, and it started all over again!"
Sylar cracked up anew just at the memory. Chuckling deep in his chest, he struggled to hide the achievement from his face when even Saint Peter failed not to laugh at Parkman's expense. The guy hid his snigger in his latest cold slice of pizza, fidgeting guiltily on the hard platform. Another slice of pepparoni fell to join the many others littered around and on Peter. He really was the most hopeless eater Sylar had ever known.
"All that trouble for planting one dirty magazine in with the brie..." Sylar continued, nearly wheezing by this point. "And he couldn't even make them forget because of his stupid "sobriety"! Totally worth it." Letting out a satisfied sigh, he rested back against the building, hands laced arrogantly behind his head, and let the evening peacefully roll over him once more.
To his right, Peter was tucking in happily to more food, although he had to have eaten enough of it already. Sylar was actually impressed, if he was honest, considering the man's usual neglectful attitude towards meals. They were like greedy little kids eating too much just because they could, only to regret it later. But later wasn't here just yet. Stomach nearly full and complacent, Sylar told himself he was done with the leftover assortment of dinner scattered around himself and his companion. He just crossed his legs at the ankle, so long that they spanned the entire width of the fire escape and his feet rested against the far railing.
Peter's couldn't reach. Sylar quite liked that.
( )
"I wish I could say that I saw his turn to the dark side coming..."
Peter enjoyed the lulling tones of his friend's voice as he just talked about anything and everything and nothing. It soothed him into this warm sense of serenity, one he didn't even realise he'd needed as badly as he had.
It felt like he hadn't just hung out with Sylar in forever. Sure, the guy had always been there, they'd gone on missions together and crossed the country multiple times, but they'd always had a cloud of responsibility looming over them. There had always been other things to think about. Even now, there was more danger than ever hovering at the edges of Peter's peripheral vision, but for some bizarre reason it just couldn't touch him here on this rusty fire escape. And that was amazing.
Content, Peter finished his last mouthful of cheesy tomatoey goodness before hunting around the platform for the pizza box to deposit the crust in.
"I always knew he was a self-righteous bastard, but I just thought all you heroes were." Sylar continued.
"You did, huh?"
Peter's grand expedition was interupted by a lilt in Sylar's tone. The guy's mouth pouted in a delicate smirk and he tipped his head as he spoke. "Some more than others."
Peter pulled a face in return. "Well back atcha, buddy."
Sylar laughed at himself after Peter caved first, pushing the recovered pizza box away now that he was finally full. Seemingly without even noticing, the former murderer rescued the box and started making his way through the abandoned crusts. Peter didn't know if he was doing it because he hated wasting food, because he was making a point about Peter's messy eating habits, or if he was actually still hungry after polishing off half the thing already (not to mention every single one of the waffles). He didn't mind, either way.
Breathing deeply, Peter ran both hands through his hair, closing his eyes against the fading caress of the sunset. Sure, watching killer tomatoes wreck havoc for an hour and a half had been fun and all, but it couldn't compete with this part of the evening.
How could this possibly be the same universe as the one he'd been inhabiting these past months? How had he been so swept up for so long that he'd forgotten what it actually meant to slow down and enjoy the world he was fighting so hard to preserve?
This was perfect. Just this. But it was also temporary. Peter could hardly fathom the idea that he had nearly ended life as everyone knew it so recently, that he was still a danger to himself and to society, and that Noah and Renautas and M.F. Harris and even his own mother were hunting him down at this very moment... But they were. Somewhere out there, the world was still turning.
But that was tomorrow's problem. For now? Peter wouldn't want to be anywhere else but right here in this moment. Had he felt confident enough in his ability to stop time without ripping it apart in the process, he would have done so in a heartbeat.
( )
A small sigh at his side made Sylar turn to Peter. The empath was still smiling to himself long after the joke had faded, looking so at peace, somehow so comfortable sitting on a steel grate with his back to a hard window pane that he reminded Sylar of a cat about to settle down for a nap.
He could have let him. It might be kind to let him drift off in this state of bliss. Sylar actually couldn't even remember the last time he had witnessed such a phenomenon. But curiosity got the better of him.
"What?" His voice was slightly muffled by a pizza crust.
( )
Peter cracked open an eye to find he was being watched. Suddenly he cringed under such scrutiny. "No, nothing." He lied, fidgeting slightly on the spot. Right then the hooks at the corners of Sylar's mouth were more dangerous than a threat of violence would have been.
"What is it? You can't just make that face and then keep quiet, it's not fair, it's – it's illegal, Peter."
With a bashful shrug, Peter relented. Smiling modestly, he leaned forward a bit, distancing himself from the support of the window to look his friend in the eye. "It's just... this is nice."
( )
Sylar had never been too good with mushy stuff such as feelings. Especially when the past half year had been nothing but constant action and movement and planning and there had barely been any time to dwell on such things. But Peter's sentiment settled comfortably within his core without resistance.
"Feels almost like..." The younger man started, then receded, quashing the rest of his words before even giving them life.
Sylar smiled gently at him, lowering the half-eaten crust from his lips. "Like back in our city." Peter's whole form relaxed, and a touch of self-consciousness left him with the dying light of the day.
"Yeah. Guess so."
Sylar knew the man was holding back much more that he wanted to say. But no manner of words could ever capture what they'd endured together in purgatory, so he didn't press him and he couldn't supply any help from his end. He didn't need to, anyway, when they both knew the reason why.
A strange feeling stirred in the pit of the former killer's stomach then, like it always did at the reminder of where he'd once been and what he'd been through, and he had to turn his face away under the pretense of finishing his pizza crust. That time was always complicated to look back on. Sad, in a way it shouldn't be. Painful, in a way it should. It was a huge segment of his life that had no discernable validity or impact except in his and Peter's memories. So much had happened there. So much had been left behind.
"Feels like a long time ago." Sylar mused to the skyline, the smile fading from his lips in favour of a soft, full pout.
A thoughtful silence fell between the two while Sylar nibbled the end of his crust without tasting it, couldn't fathom the rest, and so carefully avoided Peter's gaze to stretch across him and dump the pizza box out of reach for future.
( )
Toying with the unrolled cuff of his too-long sleeve, Peter followed his friend's motion with his eyes. For a second he was transported to a different life by the reminder of Sylar, and forever and home. The only things that had existed, once upon a time. They'd used to sit just like this, often times sporting fading black eyes and bruises, when things had still been evolving between them and the rest of the world had been theirs.
Sometimes it was crazy to think that their years in that city had even happened at all. Sometimes it was crazy to think they'd ever left.
Speaking quietly, Peter ducked to search for consolation in his companion's expression. "Does it ever... feel more like a dream to you? The longer ago it gets?"
As if he'd been sparked by another rogue ability, Sylar straightened up far too quickly. He was much closer than either man had anticipated, and Peter found what he was looking for in the form of dark, shadowed eyes flitting rapidly between his own.
His heart skipped a beat and he cringed a little, suddenly very aware of Sylar looming over him, watching his face so openly, so closely. It was only now he realised how much they had relaxed together while sitting here, when personal space had ceased to exist and boundaries had slipped down without notice. Sylar visibly tried to read every last letter of Peter's thoughts through his gaze alone, eyebrows drawn low, mouth open in a perfect, questioning 'o'. He, however, wasn't the one in possession of such an ability.
Peter didn't mean to listen. But suddenly the other man's secret voice was invading his senses like smoke. ...He doesn't mean it... he's only testing you... the bastard...
There was a silence when it seemed he wasn't going to answer aloud. Then he slowly shook his head, those eyes still scanning Peter for answers when the undeniable truth spilled forth.
"...No. You?"
The building pressure upon the empath's chest lessened, and his voice almost caught on the way out.
"No."
( )
Peter's eyes warmed and a smile bloomed shyly on his lips, asymmetrical, grateful, kind. One that Sylar weakly returned. Thank god he wasn't the only who felt that way about Parkman's little trip. For a moment, there...
It felt like it should have been the end of the discussion, and Sylar would have pulled back from this uncomfortable, half-crouched position if the potential lure of something more wasn't keeping him from moving, but it was. Slowly the smile fell from Peter's mouth, leaving behind the promise of speech that Sylar could hear even though there was no sound to it yet. He cocked his head slightly in a question that wasn't answered, before plonking himself back down beside the smaller man before he could linger much longer.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Sylar made a task of wedging his hands beneath himself to cushion the hard grate. What the hell was that about? Why would Peter even ask such a thing and then go silent? Sylar desperately wanted something to fill the twisting void in his gut – another pizza crust seemed a good bet about now, but not if it meant he had to lean over Peter again. Dammit.
He was spinning so deep in his own thoughts that when the former paramedic spoke again, Sylar wasn't expecting it in the slightest. "Thank you. For staying with me through this: my abilities and... everything else."
( )
It was much easier to say it when Sylar wasn't so close that Peter could practically taste the sweentess of waffles on his breath. Funny, that scent always reminded him of a man in the future who had been good and kind and generous and so fiercely protective of his little son. It reminded him of Gabriel, a man who had endured the impossible to surpass any of his own expectations and those of the world around him to become good. He had always been a beacon of hope, and was now more than ever, for obvious reasons. Who would have thought back then... that maybe that man and the one before Peter now weren't so different?
His lips curved again when he recovered his friend's gaze, the gesture formed of respect coloured with sadness. The sun was finally disappearing beyond the city and the air felt colder to breathe somehow, like Peter's lungs could hold more of it. He let this calm him enough to dare look beyond the safe haven of this moment now that it was ending.
"I just wanted to... to let you know I really appreciate it. Everything you've done for me." Losing steam, he chuckled hollowly to his thoroughly wrung shirt cuff. "Anyone else would have just given up by now."
When he peeked at the other man again he was met by a look that encased the entire length of his body. Sylar was hunched, as if uncharacteristically trying to make himself small, and at first Peter thought he had upset him with his confession. But before he could begin to craft an explanation, Sylar replied quietly, seriously. He didn't return Peter's smile yet he didn't come across as unhappy, and there might have even been a touch of amused irony hidden somewhere in his expression.
"You didn't give up on me." His eyes crinkled just slightly. "Just returning the favour."
Oh... It seemed obvious now, but Peter had never thought of it that way before. Clearly this revelation was obvious enough for Sylar to survey him the way he was now. Such burning attention was almost too much to handle, and he dropped his eyes to the nearly empty tray of food sitting between the pair. "Yeah." He sighed, hating that was true. After being on the other side of the situation for so many years, never once had Peter imagined their roles would be reversed.
"Look, Peter, what you're going through right now... I know it can be -"
"Y'know what? You were right." Peter cut Sylar off. "Some time out actually did make me feel better. Thank you." He badly forced a smile before dropping his eyes from Sylar, busying himself by picking a grape from the tray even though he wasn't hungry anymore. As bizarre as it sounded, the other man might actually have been right about this unorthodox method of stilling the greedy whispers inside with rest and relaxation. Peter hadn't heard much from them for hours, now.
At least, until the topic had crept upon him again.
He would have been happy to let the conversation fall to rest, move on, and to sit here listening to more of Sylar's many stories until the sun rose and the world caught up to him once more. But then an echo of the other man's thoughts slipped through his mind like sand through his fingers, stilling his heart and leaving alarm bells chiming in its wake.
You shouldn't thank me just yet.
( )
Sylar hummed, unsure how to feel about the tender recognition of his actions. Such a thing still felt rare enough not to be taken for granted, yet he couldn't bask in the glory this time. Fixing his eyes on the horizon once more, he wasn't really seeing the black silhouettes of the skyline against the fading rash of sunset.
"I don't recall you preparing a feast for me when it was my turn." He chuckled weakly, leaning back against the window and stretching his legs out once more in an enviable performance of tranquility. "But considering your cooking, maybe that's not a bad thing."
Beside him, Peter let out a thin, hopeless breath. "...I'm such an idiot."
"Don't beat yourself up, this stuff doesn't taste much worse than yours."
Sylar rolled his head to the side to capture the other guy's reaction with a smile set and ready to go on his lips. But instead he saw Peter slow in his chewing and put down a half-eaten grape, his eyes wandering slightlessly over the fire escape, brow creased as he struggled to comprehend an unpleasant train of thought.
Oh shit.
Sylar's stomach plummeted. He didn't understand why or how, but he knew it was already too late to salavage this construct of peace that was falling apart right in front of him. It was always going to happen eventually, but that didn't make it feel any better. Limbs tingling, he dropped all remnants of levity as the truth was slowly revealed, dreading it, hating it, unable to speak until Peter finally lifted his eyes to Sylar's.
They were absent of two blazing rings of radioactive fire that he had feared, thank god. But that didn't mean they didn't burn with something far more terrible than death: betrayal.
( )
Like day turning to night, everything looked different now.
Peter struggled to swallow with a very dry throat, his companion's thought rebounding over and over through his many, many senses. The guilt-ridden expression stamped across Sylar's face didn't do anything at all to relieve his suspicions, which only slashed another tear in Peter's chest. It might have been better if he'd even tried to deny it.
Sylar sighed. "Peter..."
"All this... it makes no difference. Does it?" He spoke quietly.
The truth was still processing over Peter, but somehow actually saying the words aloud made it so much worse. How could he have really been so stupid? The easy way out, the painless avenue, the promise of salvation had of course been too good to be true... and he had fallen for such foolishness like the sucker he was. There was no escape. No solution to his condition. He was stuck this way, bound to this curse for all eternity, and he had no one to blame but himself and his own selfishness.
He shrugged away from Sylar's reaching hand, recoiling from more false promises like the mass of them now laying heavily in Peter's stomach. All the food, the whole evening... he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the obvious cracks in the facade until now.
"Wait -"
"Don't."
Feeling sick, Peter grit his teeth and closed his eyes. He could sense it already, every band aid that this reprieve had soothed over his wounds was being peeled off at an agonizing, drawn-out pace. Breathing heavily through his nose, he tried not to overwhelm himself with disappointment. Or the acid resurrection of violent, superhuman infliction that rushed through him anew from a dark corner in the background of his being.
What the hell had he been thinking? What the hell had Sylar been thinking...? Actually, Peter suddenly realised he already knew. He got it. He understood. But that didn't make it anything closer to okay.
( )
Shit. Frozen sadly in place, Sylar could do nothing as his good intentions crumbled down in pieces around him. His hand was still outstretched, unmet, towards the other man, and his heart was stampeding guiltily against his ribs. Oh, Peter...
The guy was visibly upset, getting quiet, getting agitated again as every tender stitch of the tapestry of the evening was undone. Although of course there was the fear of awakening a dangerous surge of his abilities, somehow it wasn't that which concerned Sylar the most. He didn't care right then about abilities and he didn't care about world-ending power. He cared about his friend, and the fact he had hurt him again.
When Peter shakily climbed to his feet, Sylar struggled to meet him. "I – I had a reason." He said, a pathetic attempt to defend himself. What little voice he had deserted him completely when Peter sighed bitterly and threw a look brimming with disappointment over Sylar, making him feel even more dispicable than he already did.
"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?" He spoke huskily, devoid of any of the emotion that made him who he was. "You think it was better to lie? To make me actually believe I could escape from this...?" He stuttered but didn't continue. Instead, he looked down at his body as if for the first time, rocking on the spot, and stumbled back across the platform as if in hopes of evading himself.
Lunging after him, Sylar grabbed the guy's wrist, tightly enough to stop him without coming across aggressive. It wasn't the thought of what this emotionally unstable superhuman could do if he got away that drove him. Not at all.
"Okay, I lied. And I'm sorry about that – I am." He insisted honestly, hoping his friend would see it as such even if it hurt them both to hear this. "But you want the truth? ...There's no cure. You're going to have to live with this for the rest of your life, just like I will. The only way to get rid of the Hunger is your father's tactic, which I don't think is an option here, do you?"
In response to the anguished frown that formed on Peter's face, Sylar's gut twisted uncomfortably. It was the first time the little man had looked truly distressed in the face of Sylar's deception. He didn't want to know what his companion's powers might do if they got close enough to such a feeling, but it was imperative to get this all out before Sylar lost his chance.
He leaked more compassion into his voice than should have been possible. "I was only trying to help you." He admitted. The words hurt to regurgitate, a lifetime of torment finally breaking the surface for air. "I know it's not perfect, and I'm sorry I can't actually fix everything. The world will never understand you or what you're dealing with – I knowthis better than anyone. You're going to stumble, Peter. But that's alright." Sylar stroked his fingertips lightly over the inside of Peter's wrist, drawing what he hoped were encouraging circles into him. "Don't you see...? All this?" With his free hand he gestured to the evidence of their peaceful evening littered around their feet. "It almost worked. It's enough. It's enough for me and it can be enough for you too."
( )
Sylar's voice filtered through a cloud of denial, of self-pity and blame and disappointment and hurt. It was the only thing that could penetrate the fog but still the words themselves didn't make sense to Peter. His skin was crawling, he wanted to scream, he wanted to shed himself like a costume and be free of it all, of everything. Every time the plague within him was mentioned it grew bigger. It was purring and expanding the longer it got attention and there was nothing Peter could do to stop it.
A particularly firm tug on his wrist drew him across the platform until he stood nearly toe to toe with the towering form of the other man, the one responsible for some of the hurt currently swirling through Peter's veins.
So it was true. He was condemned. A lost cause. Broken beyond repair when all he'd wanted was to get better.
On the inside he roared like a tiger who had been wronged, so many thoughts and feelings and voices and energies competing to get to the forefront, but it only made it to the surface as five gnarled little words. "How can this be enough...?"
Sylar's face was serious, almost pleading, but his heartfelt declarations couldn't find an anchor in Peter's palpitating heart. The man was too constricting and too close and all Peter needed was some space to breathe. Some space to be alone.
"The Hunger doesn't control you every minute of every day, Peter. Only if you allow it to. You were fine this evening when you thought it had no power over you – you can withstand it, and I'll help you. Don't give it the strength to destroy you like I did."
( )
Sylar had long wished someone had said all this to him. That someone had removed the smoke and mirrors and laid it all bare, but instead he had found this out himself the hard, torturous and bloody way. Peter didn't have to follow that same path, although the toxic fumes gathering behind his eyes foretold a rage that wasn't entirely his own. Jesus.
"It's just an ability like all your others, you're just afraid of it." Sylar softened his hold on the other guy in an attempt to show trust, to ease him back from the shadows inside. "But you don't have to be. Not if you have something to keep you strong."
He watched his advice fall flat, bounce off Peter's sheilds and flutter uselessly off the edge of the fire escape down to the street far below. And suddenly he was only too aware that he was holding on by a thread to the most dangerous, powerful superhuman of them all.
Peter's face screwed up in effort, and Sylar despairingly prepared himself for the attack he could see coming a mile away. But none did. Instead, Peter just disappeared from his grip as the man phased himself into freedom. No-!
The empath's voice got strangled on the way out. He scowled up at Sylar, but the hatred lacing his youthful features wasn't directed outwards. "But what if I'm not strong enough?"
Terror, the first pure dose of the stuff, consumed Sylar when his ally disappeared into a sheath of invisibility and he lost him. Pins and needles consumed his body while his eyes scoured the empty platform and his ears honed in on any noises to signify movement: a breath, a step, even a slither of too loose fabric...
"Wait! Where are you going? It's not safe for you to -"
"I know!" A disembodied voice snarled, fading into the distance high above the outside of the staircase.
And then Sylar was left alone, furious with himself and angry at Peter too. Yes, Sylar had lied to such a fragile specimen, even though he'd known it would backfire in the end. But wasn't it worth it? Just these few precious hours to pretend the world wasn't ending around them...?
He could have kicked something, but he felt too laden with guilt for that. He could follow Peter to the rooftop he was inevitably brooding on, but through experience he knew the guy needed space to cool down after a fight. Really, he couldn't deny him that.
And so, helpless, useless and uneasy, Sylar set about clearing up the state he and Peter had made of the platform. At least he could actually do something about this mess until the other one returned.
( )( )( )
It didn't take long for the anger to fade. That wasn't why he was still sitting here.
It had to have been at least an hour ago when the maelstrom of emotions had settled into a lumpen mass of guilt and shame that clung to Peter like tar. It burned against his skin, choked up his insides and cut off his oxygen supply, yet still he continued to live. He would live through anything after all. He was immortal now... right?
But what was the point in living forever if this was to be his destiny? The idea had held promise when Peter had planned to save millions of lives until the end of time, not nearly end a million more by accident and then hide away for the rest of forever.
He heaved another great sigh, tightening his arms around himself even though it didn't provide any warmth. He sat hunched beneath the compressing night sky, the breeze no longer pleasant but biting him through the thin cotton of his shirt. The stars yawned in all directions overhead, muted by forming rainclouds and city lights, except somehow he could see them clearer than ever if he chose. There were countless planets out there. Existing just as this one did. The one Peter could easily rip to shreds if he happened to wake up on the wrong side of the bed one morning. He had the power. He had the Hunger, the drive to consume and consume and never look back... and he had no remedy. No release. No escape. He was trapped within the cage he had brought on himself, and that was the way of it. How long would it take before the killing started...? He couldn't even think about that part.
Peter Petrelli blinked shining eyes at the heavens, reflecting two full, silver orbs back at the sky. He would probably survive up there. He could fly into space, regenerate without oxygen and live by himself on the moon, if he had to. Forget the desert. It wouldn't be nice, but at least it would be safe. No temptations, nobody to endanger, nothing to break and nothing to ruin – just a dead, barren expanse that could provide the world sanctuary from him if he couldn't get it from himself.
Huffing softly, Peter ducked his head to look down over the side of the building instead. It spoke to how far he'd fallen from sanity that he was seriously contemplating running away to the goddamned moon. Nathan would have loved that. Angela would roll her eyes and slap him. Claire would once have lectured him about being so ridiculous, but the way she felt about him now... he wouldn't put it past her to wave him off. He would miss life. Traffic. Lights. Sounds. But it wasn't like he hadn't survived without them before.
He adjusted his position on the cold stone wall, suddenly not taking in the scope of the unfamiliar city before him. Sylar. He would be furious if Peter were to present this plan to him. He'd joke at first, then get sarcastic, then mean, then desperate, then gentle. Peter couldn't even imagine leaving this planet without his only friend, but it would be awful of him to ask Sylar to come because he suspected the answer would be 'yes' and Peter couldn't do that to him. He had to stop being so fucking selfish.
Shivering in shame, he didn't bother to move his hair from fanning across his face in the wind. Now that there had been some distance, and now that he had time to just think things over, the whisper of the Hunger had receaded again and Peter's mind felt fully his own for the first time in a long time. It terrified him how new it felt, because he hadn't been aware of just how close it had been lurking.
His chest constricted painfully as he once again thought back to this evening, how he had acted. He'd been so horrible to Sylar who had done so much for him. Not even just today, not even just this past week, but for months, now. One day he would find the limit of how far Sylar was willing to go for him, and that was a place he didn't ever want to discover. Peter had to apologise. More pressing than the desire to get in from this lonely night was the desire to work things out with his only companion, but this doubled as the reason he had stayed away for so long.
It was harder to go back when he knew he had done wrong rather than it being the other way around. Forgiveness had always been easier for Peter to give than it was to earn, especially when he was unsure whether he even deserved such a grace.
But he had to try, right? He had to try to deserve it, then try to receive it. It was a better plan than emigrating to the moon, at any rate.
The first drops of rain began to tap around the solitary form of the empath. So, stretching his stiff joints, he looked back up at the distant orb of the moon once more while he climbed down from the edge of the rooftop. The thing was half concealed behind thick clouds for now, but it was always there. Just in case. A good back-up plan if things got too out of control. But for now, back on planet Earth, things couldn't continue this way. Something had to change.
All the resolution Peter had slowly accumulated was slapped from his hands like a deck of cards when he turned to head downstairs through the building – only to be met by the distant silhouette of an identifiable, unmistakable watchmaker. Only now did he really realise how dark it was up here.
"Peter?" The man breathed from afar, barely a wisp of a sound that spread warmly across Peter's face.
He didn't even bother asking how long the guy had been there. Awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his heart ached and he quietly cleared his throat. Better sooner rather than later, right? "Listen..." He began, grateful for the shadows masking Sylar's face and any expression that might derail his courage. "I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help before. I shouldn't have over-reacted like I did, you didn't deserve that and..."
But Peter's apology was interrupted by Sylar storming through the light pattering of rain towards him, so fast he might have been flying. He hauled Peter into a hug that would have thrown him off balance if the taller man hadn't been cradling his body against his own so tightly. Swaying a little, Peter needed a moment to let the sudden embrace sink in. Then he wrapped his arms around his friend in return, unable to hide his surprise from the movement.
It felt sinfully good to be held. Sylar was solid and reliable and as warm as a blanket in comparison to the night's chill. He squeezed Peter so tightly it was as if he hadn't seen him in years, and Peter hoped this meant he was forgiven for being such a jerk. With a particularly jarring stutter of his heart, he relented to the hug, making the most of it while it lasted.
But Sylar never let go. And Peter quickly started to get worried. "Hey," he said gently, voice muffled in the shoulder of the other man's coat. "Hey, what's going on?" He knew it as surely as he knew superpowers were real: this was about more than what had happened on the fire escape.
Almost reluctantly, Sylar unlatched himself and pulled back. Clouds moved overhead and the man looked down with valiant, heavy eyes that glinted in the moonlight, and it was only then that Peter noticed something was different about him. Up close, touches of silver traced the familiar lines of his face in the dark: the slope of his brow, the curve of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones that ran into a thick, dark, untamed beard that then disappeared behind strands of disheveled hair...
Losing feeling in his limbs, Peter could only gape at this man who hadn't physically aged a day, yet he felt older, wearier, more tired. He didn't need to say anything because Peter understood already. He knew what was happening but still he couldn't believe his eyes.
The visitor's hands ran down the outsides of Peter's arms, leaving trails of goosebumps behind, before falling still at his sides. And then he spoke. "I have a message for you."
A/N: Okay, so... what could be going on here? XP I hope it was clear enough there at the end, and please feel free to sound off with your ideas or interpretations, because things are about to get way more interesting... X)
I hope you guys enjoyed the boys just having some time to relax and hang out (at least for a while), because I think they deserved it and it's been a few chapters - and also because things won't be slowing down again for a while... But in a great way, I promise! If you've stayed with me and the guys this far I want to thank you X) There is still a chunk of story left, and I really hope you'll stick around for what's to come.
Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, feedback is always appreciated more times than I can say it. And for the people who have commented recently but as guests – I can't reply to a guest comment, but thank you, I really appreciate you taking the time to leave me a little bit of encouragement. I hope you will leave more in future X)
I recently drew the scene from last chapter where Peter and Sylar are under the bridge, so please check it out over on my AO3 Gallery (available from my AO3 profile: FieryEclipse)