Burn With Me
Peter tripped backwards as a vice-like force clamped down on his ribcage. Chest heaving, mind reeling like a spinning top, more of those goosebumps rolled over him in waves although the other man wasn't touching him anymore. He wouldn't have been able to look away if his life had depended on it. Holy shit.
Sylar rocked back on his heels slightly, rubbing his hands along his thighs as if he was now regretting the manner of his greeting. Peter could still feel a fading echo of the hug shrouding his body but he didn't care about that – not when he could still smell hints of smoke and dusty air that definitely didn't belong here, yet hadn't seemed strange until now. He had never once known Sylar to be so bedraggled: his hair left uncared for and his coat worn and tattered as if he had been actually been living under that bridge in the park since they'd stumbled upon it.
How had he not noticed earlier that something was wrong? How had he missed the distinct eerieness to the night that revealed something was out of place here? Out of time?
"Wh-what... how did you...?"
Peter's knees were shaking and he didn't know what to do. Shocked immobile, he was unable to form a coherent sentence from the thousands of loose strands of thoughts getting tangled up inside. What was this? When would Sylar acquire this ability? How would he acquire the ability?! Had he killed someone? What if he had succumbed to the lure of his past again? What if he hadn't? And if not, why would he jepoardise such an outcome by doing this...?
For a moment Sylar seemed to forget why he was here. He looked around his surroundings in awe, wide eyes tracking everything from distant airplane lights overhead to shadows framed inside windows in opposing buildings. He looked entranced by everything, saddened too, and Peter shivered at the second-hand sensation he could only imagine.
Clouds should have been dancing across the moon, casting roving shadows and patches of moonlight upon this looming figure, but suddenly Peter noticed that everything had frozen around them. Raindrops glistened in the air like hovering icicles, the ambiance of the city had fallen silent, and even the breeze had given up on him. He hadn't even noticed time ground to a halt until now, but that was far from the most surreal thing going on here.
Slowly, Sylar straightened himself up tall. The empath watched the other man drag himself back to his senses once more, back to Peter, whose stomach flipped uncontrollably upon such intense inspection. He fought not to shrink back further as Sylar burned two holes into his face with that gaze. It was difficult not to be a little afraid.
Nightfall was not enough to mask the aura the visitor exuded the longer he stood there. Tired but resolute. Dependable. Weathered. There was something new about him, like a fresh slash of colour tore straight through his design, and Peter knew in his gut that this man was different from any other incarnation of Sylar he'd ever known. He certainly wasn't the waffle-making father, or the trusted ally Peter had just spent the evening with, yet he wasn't the fearsome killer he had fought to the death with before either. No. He felt like a hybrid of the many different faces of Gabriel Gray, like a mosaic that had toughened over time to prevent itself from breaking apart. Yet sadness trickled undeniably through the cracks in the design.
Peter had no clue how to process all this.
So, unable to control his expression or shut his mouth, he just gaped at the newcomer, too dumbfounded to make a sound. He waited anxiously for something to start making sense, for the other guy to speak first, or for his own instincts to kick in and rescue him from the ringing stalemate that only got worse by the second.
Clearing his throat, Sylar spoke so quietly that Peter could barely hear him. "I don't know how long I can stay."
His expression was so guarded that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It had been a long time since Peter had felt locked out from him in that way. Dark, shadowed eyes flitted over the empath from head to toe; searing a painstaking path into him while drinking in everything there was to find and more.
It felt so invasive that his skin prickled all over and he wanted to hide, to cover himself or protest, but none of his bodily functions responded. He wouldn't be surprised to know Sylar had picked up x-ray vision on his travels along with other... talents. Jesus.
Finally, the visitor's eyes returned to Peter's, softening slightly as he released his verdict. "You look good." The ghost of a smile danced on the precipice of his lips, before dying without ever taking shape. It only lasted a moment, but that was long enough.
There he was. Just then, Peter swore he'd caught a glimpse of his friend lurking below the surface of this scruffy stranger. It made him feel safe enough to recover his voice and begin to inch closer.
"You look... different." A nervous grin invited itself into being as he loosely waved a hand at his chin. "Where did this come from?"
A glint of surprise sparked through Sylar's sombre demeanor, as if humour had been the last thing in the world he'd expected to find. Then his lips lifted again beneath the tangle of his beard. "You like it? You should see yours."
Peter startled like he'd received an electric shock. The mention of himself was as unexpected as being doused with a bucket of ice water, both as thrilling and unpleasant. From experience, this topic never proceeded good news. He wasn't sure if it was his reaction that caused the intruder to instantly clam up again. Not that he should complain about the end of the pleasantries; he doubted Sylar had come all this way just to catch up and trade grooming tips. No.
The wind might have been halted in its course: but the chill, the night, or maybe something else entirely bit Peter enough that he rubbed his arms in a weak attempt to generate warmth. He rocked on the spot slightly, gnawing his lower lip.
He didn't want to know, but he knew he had to ask. "Wh-when are you from?"
Said time traveller twitched, as if fighting the desire to lie or look away. Instead he stood tall, defiant in the face of his words that threatened to shatter the Earth beneath Peter.
"Six years from now."
Six years...? It didn't take long for this to sink in and spread through Peter like ink in water, to spin itself into a growing web of worry inside. Countless fears, countless mistakes, countless possibilities could have transpired by then... In the back of his mind, he touched upon the festering anxieties he had been harbouring since the night Claire had jumped from that Ferris Wheel. Since Renautas had first crawled out of the woodwork. Of course it had only been a matter of time...
Suddenly unsteady on his feet, Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and drifted back to the wall encircling the rooftop. He leaned on it because it was the only thing to catch him up here besides Sylar, and he wasn't sure his legs would sustain him for the rest of this conversation.
He struggled to speak while his chest only constricted further. "That's not long..." Not long for the world to come tumbling down, anyway, for why else would Sylar be here? A future worth meddling in was never going to bring good news, a fact that had been hanging in the air since the very second he had arrived. Damn it.
Suddenly he couldn't bring himself to look at his visitor. Even when the guy appeared beside him, imitating his stance with both elbows on the wall and his eyeline cast out upon the horizon. He stood so close that his arm brushed Peter's sleeve, sending shivers rippling out from the point of contact.
"It is when you've lived it."
A thriving city frozen in time was stretched out into the horizon before the two men. It probably looked astounding, but Peter wouldn't know. He couldn't even take it in.
From his peripheral vision alone, he could sense the unfamiliarity of the other man's overgrown, dark hair spilling forth over his face; the wrongness to the way he was standing, as if he was attempting to relax but had long forgotten how. They were only slight details but they made all the difference in transforming Peter's friend into someone nearly unrecognisable to him. It felt like a dream, but he would never even have conceived such changes if he'd ever thought to imagine a new version of Sylar. So this was real. Wasn't it?
It was not the first time Peter had known of a bleak future that needed changing but still he felt so hopelessly out of his depth. He dreaded what was to come and he felt painfully small beside this all-knowing prophet from the future. But even though this wasn't the same man Peter had grown close to so infamously, he couldn't deny that he still cared about him. They'd lived through lifetimes together, after all.
Quietly, he cleared his throat. "Are you doing okay?"
Usually about now Sylar would have worked up a witty response, no matter the truth. Instead, this weathered veteran only dipped his head and chased a crack in the wall with his finger, remembering a life that Peter didn't know. He replied gently, as if unaware of even doing so.
"I'm... surviving."
Peter wished his heart wasn't racing a mile a minute and making it even more difficult to concentrate than it already was. Setting his jaw for the return impact that was likely to floor him, he cast his gaze down the side of the building in hopes of summoning courage. It didn't work. But if this man from the future's message was important enough for him to risk the time/space continuum by coming back here, then it had to be important enough for Peter to put his reservations aside for. Right?
"What about everyone else?"
Even on a good day, being landed with so much more responsibility would have been a lot to handle. But right now? When he'd barely had time to work on his new abilities or come to terms with his recent... affliction? He wasn't even sure he had it in him to see this through.
But he still had to know.
With tense, disjointed movements, Sylar released a wistful exhale and pulled back, only to then sit on the wall with his back to the drop without a hint of the anxiousness Peter had grown to expect from his friend if he was ever to suggest such a thing. Cautiously, he followed suit, perching beside the tense form of the time traveller. He linked his fingers between his knees while the other guy raked his nails along his thighs again, scratching patterns into the worn fabric of his jeans.
It was always surreal to feel the workings of fate re-stitching themselves in moments like these, when the world hung on every tiny motion. Peter was physically aware of an invisible barrier that was palpable between himself and Sylar: six years that divided the pair from this moment and the same two men who had sprawled out for hours together this evening without a semblance of personal boundaries. It hurt.
Swallowing harshly, Sylar looked up while swiping tangled strands of hair off his face – a familiar motion that didn't go unnoticed. Now unobstructed, there was no denying the fact that it really was Sylar beneath the untended appearance, but that wasn't what made Peter nearly lose his balance on the wall. It was the look on that face. One so sorry, so gut-wrenchingly sincere that it sent a fresh wave of goosebumps cascading down the smaller man's form as if the rain was still falling.
And suddenly he knew he would regret this moment. But he couldn't stop it from happening.
"I didn't come back here to save the world, Peter." The visitor's confession was pained. Apologetic. A coarse whisper that ran straight through Peter more powerfully than a blast of telekinesis. "I came back to save you."
If time hadn't already stopped, he would have assumed it was the ludicrousness of that statement that had put the world on pause.
"Me?" He repeated. It sounded just as insane the second time.
Staring perplexed and wide-eyed at the other man, he was unable to consciously make sense of it even while his lungs stuttered and his blood began to rush louder in his ears. He only managed an audible "But wh...?" before his voice failed him. His breath caught. Pressure roared inside his head, his thoughts spiraled and the moon shone innocently overhead, a cruel reminder of just moments ago when hiding up there had seemed like the worst case scenario should things get out of control...
Peter blanched, barely able to form the words. "The... the hunger. My abilities."
It wasn't even a question, because there was no room for doubt or anything else besides icy dread and numbing denial that knocked the world out from under him and left him to fall in slow motion. He wanted to deny it more than anything, but the older man's features only tightened in sympathy. In confirmation.
Struck numb, he wobbled dangerously on the edge of the rooftop. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. Shakily lifting his hands, Peter could feel the undying current of power crawling just beneath his skin, coiling through his veins like smoke. It might be out of sight for now, but it was never gone. Not for long. Never again.
"You tried so hard to control it."
He had rarely seen Sylar look prouder than he did now. But then the resolve the man had been maintaining so well eroded right before Peter, and he was no longer wise and composed. His brows pulled together; his expression fractured; and a flush of colour began to bloom around his eyes despite his attempts to stop it. His suffering was undeniable: a soul-deep understanding that nobody else on the planet could possess.
"I know how afraid you were, and how badly you wanted to fight it. But..." Sylar covered the crack in his voice with a fleeting dip of his head. "All that power is too much for anyone to hold for long without... losing themselves."
Peter was too horrified to steady his ragged breathing, to object, to cry. He wanted to deny this truth like the idealistic optimist he'd used to be! But he wasn't that guy anymore. He had never felt so repulsive in his life, so ashamed, so trapped within his own existence than he did right now because of course this was going to happen!
And the worst thing about it was that he'd known this, deep down, since the moment his abilities had first returned to him with a vengance. It had been foolish to try and convince himself it would go any other way.
He wanted to recoil when Sylar's hand curled around his then, because although the affection was soothing he resented it for bringing him closer to the edge of a breakdown.
He held on tight anyway.
Sylar spoke softly, his voice strained and his words tumbling over themselves as they were cast across the expanse of the rooftop. "I'm so sorry. I'd never have told you this if it wasn't so important, but it is – I had to come back." He faltered, closing his eyes as if in pain.
Peter's heart bruised his chest with every thumping beat, with every second he continued to let this person pick at the growing wound of the unknown, but he couldn't go back now. He couldn't evade the fog that clouded his senses or stop the ground from falling out from under him. He couldn't tear his gaze from the whole, terrible story unfolding for him as if it were written across the time traveller's face.
"W-what did I do?" He breathed, for it was all he could manage.
Sylar shook his head, refusing to open his eyes or put Peter out of his misery with a straightforward answer. "You don't understand. It wasn't your fault, you weren't you." Breathing heavily, a flush began to bloom across his face, his grip tightened until it hurt and his lips struggled to frame the words as if they were as sore to expel as a mouthful of burning coals. "It's been a few months, since. And I should have... done something before now. Been braver. But I wasn't, I was selfish. I was afraid of what I could lose so I just stood back and let it happen, and I just... I can't live with that any longer."
The following silence was deafening. When other man eventually pried his eyes open, it was to bore a look so desolate upon Peter that it all but stripped him bare. Oh... The first drop of sparkling moonlight spilled free from his lashes and ran down his face, closely followed by the second, but he ignored them as if they were nothing, only squeezing Peter's hand tighter in his own.
"And neither can you."
Peter wasn't even sure anymore if his heart was breaking more for himself or for Sylar.
It wasn't as if he'd only found out that his future self was a scarred terrorist – as if that wasn't bad enough. It wasn't even like when he had found out that he was the foretold exploding man who would decimate New York City. No. It was so much worse. Was this what Hiro had seen once upon a time? Why he had acted differently with Peter ever since the Sullivan Brother's Carnival...? Everything he'd feared, all his worst nightmares were mapped out before him as the ticking countdown brought the storm ahead ever closer, and he was expected to – what? Accept it with open arms?! But that wasn't even the worst of it.
It shook him to the core to witness this man so openly wounded, so close to the end of his tether. It wasn't only because he could feel Sylar's pain as if he were drawing it out through their touch, but because Sylar was supposed to be the strong one out of them. He rarely broke down in company without the aid of some ego-boosting bravado. His tears always hurt the most because they were so rare. It was always gut-wrenching every time he crumbled, when he was usually so proud. And currently he was whittled down to an unforseen, broken state, depleated like an exposed nerve that had been rubbed raw for too long.
Peter didn't want to know what he'd done that was so bad it had beaten the likes of Gabriel Gray into surrender. He didn't want to know how many deaths were on his hands, how many families broken, lives ruined, dreams shattered far before their time... He didn't need the details to know it was awful, awful enough for Sylar to make this journey through time to prevent it.
He would have cried in solidarity with his friend, if he wasn't far beyond that capability at present. He would have feared that the blazing inferno forming inside was another explosion in the works, a neuclar heat that would consume his limbs and scorch his skin until there was nothing left... if his abilities hadn't temporarily shut down in shock. And if he wasn't already so familiar with crushing despair.
Sylar's voice lowered, his grip softened and he rubbed his thumb gently over Peter's knuckles. "It's natural to be afraid, Peter, but you don't have to be, anymore. I can help you." He vowed, bravely soldiering on with his mission as if another tear wasn't trickling down the trail of its predecessors and carving another gauge in Peter's chest. Maybe he wasn't even aware of it at all? "You just need to let me."
The hotel rooftop wasn't particularly small and there was nowhere else Peter could go in the world – nowhere safe to hide a ticking time bomb – and his natural instinct was to stay and tend to this person who needed care and support but fuck, he just needed to put some distance between himself and everything else!
Shaking his head desperately, he tugged his hand free from Sylar's and staggered to his feet, floundering like a hopeless ice skater who couldn't let go of the barrier. He rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair while gulping down lungfuls of stale air that did nothing whatsoever to calm him.
Sylar drew him back to the present as if from somewhere very far away. "Do you know what I would've given for someone to give me this chance? How many times I wished I could go back to before I'd ever killed a man...?" His heavy brow drew low as if it could hide the pain swirling behind his eyes, and his hands squeezed the edge of the wall as if it wasn't obvious he was fighting the urge to reach out again. "It doesn't have to happen the same way twice. You can get better."
Peter still felt like he was falling. Wavering on the spot, he pressed a hand over his cramping heart and squinted at his visitor. It was only when he made to speak that he noticed just how impossibly tight his throat was and how dangerously close to passing out he was. That, or throwing up right here at his companion's feet.
"H-how? You just said so tonight – there's no cure!" His lips were trembling and his voice was rough but pathetic, caught between the contractions of his ribcage. Fuck, he could be having a heart attack for all he knew! If the power to regenerate hadn't been the only thing currently keeping him off the floor.
"I also said you don't have to go through this alone."
Instantly Peter was transported to the shadows of a leaking, cold bridge, where Sylar had been kneeling before him and promised he wouldn't let Peter drag him down with his madness. A promise that had meant nothing, he realised. That would be worn away by the sands of time until Peter eventually lost his mind and burned Sylar along with him until he became this weathered, beaten echo of who he once was...
"You're not alone." Sylar pressed, louder this time.
Shame-faced, the empath turned away to press the heels of his hand to his pounding forehead. He just couldn't handle the sight of that man anymore, to know he had broken him down and ruined him along with everyone else. So this was it, then? This was how far Sylar would go for him? It made accompanying him to the moon seem insignificant in comparison.
"I know how you're feeling." Peter's back scalded under that relentless gaze. He recognised it by touch alone. "I know it's scary, and I know you're upset, but this is about so much more than you and me. You can't withstand the Hunger without help – nobody can!" The man might have appeared angry, and Peter might have been frightened of the passion in his voice if he wasn't so familiar with him. "You thought you could do it on your own last time. You didn't want me to get too close, but I can take it – I want to be there."
Peter failed to stop trembling or swallow the rising lump in his throat, just as the time traveller failed to hide the fact that he was pleading.
"Let me in, Peter. Please."
Oh god. If he hadn't already felt as awful as he could about the similar conversation back on the fire escape, Peter sure did now. Even through the haze of affliction, he was aware of it. That here, right now: this was his second chance. The do-over, the opportunity to change it all and do it right this time. All he had to do was turn around, nod his head, make the next move.
Could it really be that easy...?
Releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, Peter dropped his hands and turned just enough to peek back at his companion. Cast half in the shadow of an immobile cloud, just the sight of this all-knowing survivor from the future reminded him all over again that there was so much he didn't know about this version of him: a bruised fragment of a once grand figure, tormented, bound by the very emotions he had used to condemn. Peter felt wretched beside him. Helpless. Inadequate. He truly wanted to take comfort in his advice, like a kid trusts a grown up when they say there's not really a monster hiding under the bed. But Peter wasn't a kid anymore. And they both knew his monster was real.
Blinking rapidly, he ground his teeth to fight back the sudden, overwhelming urge to scream. "He doesn't know you're here. Does he?"
Sylar's head twitched to the side slightly, as if he didn't understand. Peter knew him far too well to fall for that.
Slowly, the watchmaker withdrew into himself until the corners of his mustache held a weight to them once more and his eyes glazed over in guilt. His grip loosened on the wall and he licked lingering tears from his lips in the exact same way that always ripped Peter's insides to ribbons. "He would've... you would only have tried to stop me. I couldn't risk that."
Releasing all the air in his lungs, Peter closed his eyes for the duration of a heartbeat. It was all wrong. His relationship with Sylar wasn't supposed to be a weapon! It wasn't supposed to be a curse! Their bond, their friendship – it was supposed to be a good thing! Not a chain to tether each other to a fate such as this!
He meant to cross the distance to his friend and applaud him on his bravery, apologise, provide comfort, maybe kneel beside him, rub his back or hug him until his crying ceased, knowing he was the cause of such despair. But instead, the next thing Peter knew he was retreating further from Sylar with both hands clenched at his sides. He glowered at the broken man, just barely holding back the burn eroding his eyes, his throat and his heart.
"Why did you stay all these years?" He growled, far from gently. It wasn't what he wanted to say but he couldn't help it and he couldn't contain the overspill of feelings that had nowhere else to go but out in any form they could get. "Why did you stay with me if I turned out the way you say I did?! How could you have let it get so far?!"
Normally about now the Sylar Peter knew would start to rise to the fight, even under the pretense that he wasn't going to fall for it. But the Sylar before him seemed to have no fight left in him to give.
He only dropped his eyes, swiped at his cheeks with his knuckles and rose to his feet. Tucking his hands into his jeans pockets; he stood open, bruised and unguarded before the might of Peter's temper. The motion was well rehearsed, a routine borne of a life Peter could only wish hadn't existed.
Finally, it all became too much. He didn't want to shout at this man who seemed to know nothing else but shouting. He wanted to comfort him to compensate for the blatant lack of comfort in his life. He didn't want to be anything like the monster it sounded like he had become, because he wasn't! He wasn't like him! He couldn't be! He didn't want to cry. To be so weak. But you can't have everything in life.
"You were too powerful to be left alone, Peter. Nobody would've stood a chance –"
"But YOU would!" Peter finally splintered apart, throwing his hands out before him.
He was helpless to stop the flood that poured out from within like a crack in a dam. It was cruel to dump so much responsibility on someone else, to shirk the blame and try to spread the pain it wrought, but Peter couldn't stop himself. He wasn't sure anymore if it was his own raw emotion fueling him on or if he was tainted by the touch of an ability. He could barely even refrain from storming over and hauling furiously on the front of his opponent's coat, if only to get more of a reaction from him than that same fucking kindness, patience and understanding. Such respect was more damaging than a fist fight could ever have been.
"YOU have enough power to stop me!" Chest heaving, hands gesturing wildly, he gave flight to the sudden swell of emotion that spilled forth from his lips uncontained.
"Peter -"
"You could have spared all the people I killed!"
"Peter, stop -"
"How could you do this to me?! Let me turn into a monster?! You could have taken me down at any time! Why DIDN'T you?!" The strained roar rang out around the world, the only sound in existence. It seemed to echo off the emptiness of the rooftop, rebounding back into Peter ten times more horribly than how it had left him.
Sylar didn't even try to defend himself. It was another facet of many that worked to remind Peter that he really wasn't the same man he knew in this time. Even when he spoke, when he shook his head in defeat and his eyebrows furrowed in regret, it was a concession, not an excuse. And when he should have been shouting back or fighting his piece, the only weapon he called upon was a tender, sad smile that meant Peter knew nothing at all.
"Because I couldn't."
"Why not?!"
Sylar's lips parted long before the confession slipped its way out. "Because you're my friend, Peter." He held a touch of humility about him as he just stood there, hands in his pockets while patience leaked into his features. "I love you." Somehow he was impossibly calm, quiet and sincere while the world broke down around the only two souls who were awake to witness it.
He made it seem easy. Peter might have envied that, had he not been so distracted by the words this man was saying or the beautiful, painful, misplaced sentiment behind them.
The fight fled him instantly, his already aching heart shattering anew. Sylar refused to break eye contact for this most intimate of reactions, and in the next moment Peter's face was on fire and he was blinking blurrily at the ground, unable to feel his legs. He couldn't even hide his reaction behind the partition of his hair because he was naked beneath the gaze of the other man who knew him more than he even knew himself.
When was the last time he had heard those words? Months ago, at least, if not longer, probably when his mother had tacked it onto the end of a phone call; it had been years since someone had really meant it, even long before he'd been kicked out of his own family. He had never heard such a declaration from Sylar before, who would be furious if he knew what had just transpired. Of course Peter was already aware that he cared, but actually hearing it aloud felt so new, so humbling that he didn't even know how to accept it. But the pieces still didn't fit together properly. He just couldn't understand.
How could anyone love him after seeing what he would become?
He could easily have been frozen in time like the rest of the world. He couldn't move, or speak, or even find a way to express how much it meant to hear such endearment meant for him, or that he felt the same in return even though he didn't deserve it. He hoped this was evident without words, because he sure as hell couldn't vocally reciprocate it, he couldn't deny it, and he couldn't pull away or do anything at all when Sylar slowly approached him.
"It's going to be okay." The watchmaker promised. It was soft and tender but Peter didn't want to hear it, because it sounded too much like parting words and he wasn't ready to say goodbye. "You're the strongest person I've ever known. If anyone can change the future, it's you."
Despite everything he'd just found out and everything he knew to be true, Peter truly wanted to believe him. He nodded desperately, for words still failed him. He was just a passenger, a prisoner in his own body, a hopeless kid who shied away beneath the terror of his own shadow.
Between one panic-stricken heartbeat and the next, Sylar shed the remaining strands of composure and came in close. His hand enveloped Peter's wrist so lightly it tickled and caused every hair on his arms to stand on end. In comparison to the other man's hold, Peter realised just how much of a trembling wreck he'd become.
His stomach flipped, but he wasn't sure if it was a delayed reaction to what he'd just heard or due to Sylar's free hand unexpectedly tipping his face up. He couldn't help but flinch, to a slight hesitation on Sylar's part. The empath scanned the other man's hazy features incredulously, but he seemed both unconcerned and unashamed to then sift his fingers through Peter's hair and be caught doing it. The caress was unfamiliar, out of character, and felt like it belonged to someone other than him, but Peter was far too humbled to stop it.
Rooted to the spot, all he could see was a close, blurry shape towering over him. But even then he felt the purring concentration of a time-traveller who was making the most of his second chance at this night. Sylar pushed back a dark lock of hair from obscuring Peter's eyes with the air of having stopped himself from doing it until now.
"You once gave me the strength to be better. You were there for me when I thought there was no way out." It was barely a murmur, followed by the exhale of a great burden being lifted. "Let me do the same for you."
Peter's knees might have given way then and there had the other man not been holding him up. Instead he surrendered when two large, warm hands cupped his face exactly as they had in an over-written future that ceased to be long ago. His breath caught in his chest when his vision was obscured completely, and then two thumbs trailed along his cheekbones and a lingering, bristly press of lips touched his forehead.
Winded to the bone, Peter's hands clung tightly to the other man's coat without his input. He fought to summon the strength to vocally respond but he still didn't want to let him go. He wasn't ready to deal with this alone, to become the sole guardian of his putrid secret. But he had to say thank you for the chance and loyalty he had been given. He had to apologise for the pain he'd caused. He had to say or do anything at all to try and stem the bleeding between himself and his friend before he lost the chance!
But then a cold breeze washed over his face. The world lurched on its axis. Then the rush of time tore at Peter's sensitized form like knives. Cars beeped too loudly in the distance and a plane roared overhead, but he was far too ill and far too dizzy to take any of it in.
He hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes until he opened them upon the space that hadn't been empty a moment before.
Letting out a series of hitching gasps, Peter crumbled now that nobody was here to see him fall. Suddenly it was all too real. Shivering uncontrollably, he pressed a hand over his mouth and bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but it didn't stop his teeth from chattering and it didn't keep the dread at bay. He was so painfully alone, so wounded, so overwhelmed, so frightened and so touched by the devotion that he didn't deserve and he couldn't keep it all inside any longer.
Sylar was gone. Lost forever beneath the overwriting current of time. The only evidence that he had even existed at all was the bruise bleeding deeper into Peter's heart, the splitting pressure flooding his eyes and the kiss that was still drying on his skin.
He was definitely going to throw up this time.
( )( )( )
Sylar didn't know what woke him. It didn't really matter anyway. All he knew was that he jolted into consciousness with an uncomfortable knot in his gut before even realising he'd fallen asleep.
It was cold in here. Blinking at unfamiliar wallpaper, it took a second for his pulse to slow and his cognitive functions to be restored to him. Ah, yes. The hotel. Peter's lessons. The fight... With a sleepy groan, he bundled deeper into his duvet and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He was awake now, and the unsettling whirlpool inside that always accompanied a falling out was not going to let him drift off again anytime soon. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but he wouldn't guess more than an hour, if that.
Pretending he hadn't been putting it off until now, Sylar chanced a peek at the second bed in the room. Empty. Fuck. The sight concerned him even more than he thought it would.
He knew he should have gone after him. He shouldn't have let Peter out of his sight in the state he'd been in. The emotionally sensitive superhuman was impulsive on the best of days, but after the betrayal that had ruined the evening...? He could only imagine. And imagine he had. The former killer hated the thought that he would regret his decision to give Peter the space he'd wanted. It was going to haunt him, he was sure.
With a worried exhale, Sylar pushed himself into a sitting position, shivering in his nightwear as he cast his eyes around the dark and vacant room. It felt even more unpleasant to be in here when he was in here alone. Although that was the least of his problems. It was raining beyond the open window: untouched the way he'd left it, which explained the draft in any case. It wasn't an encouraging sign. Maybe even less so than Peter's undisturbed bed.
Sylar hovered in indecision. He lingered in his bed for perhaps a little too long, thinking, musing, and thinking some more.
He doubted Peter had gone far. He hadn't been that angry, right? He knew the risk of venturing out into civilization before he was ready, and Sylar felt confident enough to assume Peter hadn't tempted such an outcome. No. That wasn't what troubled him.
The biggest issue was that he knew exactly how Peter felt right at this moment. The hopelessness, the denial, the terror of having just been diagnosed with an incuarble, volatile condition and then suffering through the depths of it alone. Sylar knew what that could do to a person. What it had done. And letting the same fate that had befallen him befall his friend was even more terrifying than the thought of a Peter Petrelli on the loose with his abilities unchecked.
Sylar raked his hands through his hair, aware of time crawling past as if he were examining a clock face through a magnifying lens. The city droned on beyond the window as it continued to gape at him; empty, open, taunting the arrival of his roommate in the very next second! ...The next second... okay, maybe the next one?
The tension became so taut that Sylar couldn't stand it any longer. He wasn't going to sit up fretting like a worried housewife for fuck's sake! He wasn't his mother. He wasn't powerless. And since when had he become the type of guy who would shy from confronting his problems?!
Just as he had built himself up enough to haul the bedcovers back and climb to his feet, Sylar hesitated again. He hadn't even made it one step closer to the window before catching sight of a crack of light beneath the bathroom door.
Great. Now he felt like an idiot.
The feeling didn't last for long, though. Instead, the courage he had been forming turned to dust in his fingers when the noises of the city tuned out on their own. And then all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the faint sounds of what might have been coughing from the other side of the door.
Peter.
( )
Gasping in air, Peter staggered unseeingly to his feet, catching himself on the sink. His chest was aching and his throat was burning, but even though he was still as certain now as he had been on the rooftop that he was going to be sick, nothing but a sporadic trickle of tears came out no matter how long he kneeled before the toilet. Not pizza, not bile, not the swirling thoughts that were clogging him up inside. He was broken. His head was blocked like shaken bottle of soda that had no way to release the pressure.
He was shivering all over, felt cold and clammy except for the pinprick of fire that continued to simmer on his forehead. The reminder. The truth. The touch of his future that wouldn't leave him alone. The mark it left had to be visible: it would be a scar he would carry until time came and went, until he had long lost himself on the way...
Still trying to steady his breathing, Peter splashed cold water over his face in hopes of cleansing away the mix of snot, tears and the grime of the day. He couldn't feel the water as it seemed to fall in slow motion, gathering in his cupped hands only to trickle away like the pretense of control he had over his own peace of mind. He pressed his palms over his stinging eyes, but it didn't ease the pain throbbing behind them and it didn't stop his tears from forming.
The blackness only provided a perfect backdrop for his own face to swim into being in his mind's eye – but harsher, meaner, more gaunt, scarred, adorned with a monster of a beard that somehow was even wilder than Future Sylar's had been... and then Sylar was there too, and he was crying, and he was chained to Peter's side as he carnaged but he still wouldn't get angry, because he had given everything there was to give already.
Peter couldn't believe he had ever been so stupid as to bring this on himself. Every decision he'd hoped was for the best had only brought him closer to the edge all along. All he'd wanted was to no longer be a burden! To stop getting in everyone's way! Was that too much to ask?!
How was he supposed to know it would only do the opposite?
Sniffling, he once more gripped the edge of the sink, forcing himself to look up and stare into the slightly blurry, unforgiving depths of his reflection. The young man staring back at him looked pale, tearful, unsurprisingly ill. But aside from that it was the exact same face he'd seen every day in the mirror. It was also the same face that had visited him from the future once before, only without the scar that still gave him chills to remember. When would he become the man that Future Sylar had known? How long did he have before he was lost entirely...? The thought was absurd, beyond terrifying.
But... already Peter was sure he could see some distortion in himself that hadn't been there this morning. Maybe a subtle change to the swirl of his irises, or a slight harshness to the cut of his brow that made him look older, somehow...
The initial rush of nausea had finally passed, it seemed, but that didn't mean the sickness didn't sink down to Peter's bones, a pain that no amount of regeneration would be able to ease. He just couldn't wash the after-image of a bedraggled and submissive Sylar from his corneas, no matter how much water he splashed on them. He had been so broken... had risked so much to come back here. How could he believe so much in Peter to make it right when Peter couldn't even believe in himself?
Watching his reflection visibly tremble, he couldn't tear his gaze from the dirty old mirror. This creature he was to become, the power-mad killer: apparently he wouldn't only ruin the lives of everyone around him, but also the only person who cared enough to stick by him through everything. Peter didn't know how he could look at his friend again, knowing what he knew now. Sylar had said to let him in, to accept his help and split the burden, but how could Peter possibly share this agony with someone he never wanted to hurt again...?
He was so swept up in the crest of his fears that he never heard the door open or shuffling footsteps approach, until he caught a glimpse of a second pained reflection in the mirror.
Startling, Peter was suddenly flustered, embarrassed to be caught in such a state. It was far too late and too obvious to scrub at his eyes now, but that didn't stop him from going through the motions. "Hey. Sorry, d-did I wake you?" He coughed to clear his throat, tearing himself away from the sink only for his legs to nearly give way under him. "I was just... uh..."
He floundered for an excuse, any explanation that didn't tread too close to the tornado of the truth but came up with nothing. He was still desperately wracking his brain for something to say when a hand stroked softly along his shoulders, turning his stomach to lead mid-somersault.
"I know."
Skin crawling at such understanding and sympathy and kindness, Peter shivered beneath the touch. For a wild moment he wanted to either lash out or lean into the other man while that face swam into focus at the edges of his vision. Tousled and just woken. Young. Unguarded. It had only been a few hours, but Peter suddenly realised how terribly he'd missed this present-day version of his friend.
And how terrible he felt to be near him.
( )
Sylar had never been much good at playing nurse – that was Peter's forte – but he knew it was always best to remain calm in such situations. At least on the outside. Fucking hell...
The empath was shaking like a leaf, his face glistening beneath a film of perspiration. What the hell had happened to him? Where had he gone? What had he done since Sylar had last seen him?! A quick visual assessment of both the man in question and the surrounding area revealed not one speck of blood (either his own or a third party's) and at least for now that was enough for Sylar to bypass that train of thought and focus on the matter at hand.
Although, he'd probably have been better equipped to clean up a gruesome crime scene than to untangle the maelstrom that existed within Peter Petrelli.
Trying to excude some idea that he knew what he was doing, Sylar fussed over the unstable form of his companion; steadying his balance with one hand while touching his clammy face with the other. "You're freezing -"
"I'm fine." Peter shrugged himself free and forced a smile so fake it wouldn't even have fooled Claire in her most self-absorbed state. Sylar masked a gasp when Peter wobbled on the spot before fumbling for the sink again to keep himself from collapsing. He couldn't even stand on his own?
"Are you sick?" The former killer asked briskly, shoving back the concern that threatened to eclipse his concentration like a hood that kept falling over his eyes. He grabbed after Peter, closely examining him for any sign of a superhuman possession under the surface. Nothing. Just a pallid, haunted face, red-hued eyes and a frown that was trying to hide it all.
"Don't!" Peter grunted between laboured breaths, tugging free from Sylar's ministrations. At least, as far as he could go in this tiny closet of a bathroom when he was wedged between the sink, the bath and Sylar.
The watchmaker caught the smaller man again when his legs buckled, swallowing with difficulty. It was much harder not to rise to Peter's level of hysteria than he had first anticipated. "What happened? Did you try to use an ability?" He deliberately didn't ask which one.
Instead of answering, Peter only wriggled free from his restraints once more to balance shakily on his own two feet. "Stop. Stop it." He wiped a hand over his face and roughly cleared his throat, but he wouldn't have fooled anyone. His dark-rimmed eyes darted everywhere around the room except at Sylar, polished with a sparkling sheen of tears that hovered precariously on the brink of falling.
That knot in the watchmaker's gut only grew heavier. He tried his best to ignore it along with more guilt that snaked around his windpipe, but he couldn't help but worry. All this...? Was it because of the fight? It seemed far-fetched, but Peter was especially fragile at the moment. Sylar had never seen him behave like this – not even when they still hated each other because he would never have tried to help him back then.
But clearly Peter wasn't in his right mind at present, and Sylar couldn't not help him. "C'mon." He instructed, pulling the smaller man to his feet when he stumbled yet again, then wrestling with the impossible task of putting a Petrelli where he didn't want to go: in this case, seated on the edge of the bath tub.
( )
If he hadn't already felt claustrophic due to the events of the evening, Peter was damn near smothered beneath what felt like a dozen hands touching his waist, shoulders and arms at once. It was just too much considering he'd already passed the point of breaking days ago.
"Don't, I said I'm fine – I don't need – I don't wanna sit down, I..."
His protests only bounced off the other man, his attempts to escape were ignored, and the last thing he needed was to feel even more helpless. His patience was waning, his temper flaring, and he hated that he was aware of his abilities creeping out of hiding like a growing leak in the ceiling.
Sylar's hands itched on Peter's skin, fitting perfectly into the imprints left behind from the man on the rooftop. They scarred him even deeper, and they were tender and they were caring but they hurt because Peter didn't deserve to be treated with such care – he didn't want it! And now that he knew the truth he could see it only too clearly: how far this would go, where it would end up, how long Sylar would indulge him and his petty tantrums until it was too late for either of them...
"Don't TOUCH me!" He snarled, once again wrenching himself free to waver on the edge of the bath on his own. The guilt was already unbearable. The addition of Sylar's offended look was nothing in the long run.
"What's the matter with you? I'm just trying to help!"
"I don't want your help!"
"Well you're getting it anyway –"
"Don't! Just stop!" Finally, Peter erupted. "The whole point of all this was so I could finally take care of myself for once – don't you get it?! I don't want you running after me!"
Finally, Sylar fell still. The corners of his mouth turned down the exact same way they had just minutes ago, without the tangle of a beard to mask it. Peter only felt more hollowed, more ill at the undeniable reminder of what this man would become. Of what he would make him.
The watchmaker set his jaw and rose to his full height miles above Peter. For the briefest of moments he thought he'd won, and simultaneously mourned and welcomed Sylar's absence. But the guy didn't leave the room. Instead when he turned on his heel it was only to summon an empty glass from the cabinet before even reaching the sink.
Groaning, Peter splintered apart all over again. He tuned out the rushing of water while he coughed around the fireball that was still lodged in his throat.
"Here, drink this, you'll feel better -"
"I said STOP it!" Peter yelled, swiping his hand at the offering.
He was too far away to reach. But still there was a crack, then the echoing shatter of glass off the floor, then water leaked out over the tiles. But it wasn't the broken drink that halted Peter's rampage in its tracks, or the aftershocks of telekinesis that lingered in his fingertips.
It was the sight of his ally thrown back off his feet into the wall. ...Shit...
( )
All the breath was knocked out of Sylar. He wasn't sure where he was or why he was here, or what the spot of heat on the back of his head meant. But he knew he was upset about something. Or... someone?
The room span before his eyes while the sudden pain in his skull eased, the wound slowly healing over. He rode out the formatting of his orientation with a gasp while loose fragments of information floated around him, just outside of his reach. Until it all came crashing back at once and he found his focus grounded in the other person in the room.
Eyes blown wide, hair hanging in his face, Peter was frozen with his hand out before him as if he'd just thrown a punch. Was that why Sylar's chest was hurting? Why that pain wasn't healing? The ungrateful son of a bitch.
Of course Sylar sympathised with Peter's affliction. He understood. He got it. But that didn't mean he had to endure much more of this with a smile and a curtsy. There was only so long he could play a temper-less nursemaid before something had to give. After everything he'd put up with this was how it was going to be...? No. Enough.
( )
Peter struggled to unlock his throat or make a sound. The last strands of his anger were already swirling down the drain. That wasn't the issue now. Not when he couldn't undo what he'd just done to the only person in the world who would stand by him beyond the end.
He hadn't meant to hurt him. He never meant to hurt anybody, but it had happened so fast and outside of his control. He could barely even remember getting so angry now that the fog had cleared. Holy shit. Had it started already? What if he was already losing himself? Was this how he began to bully Sylar into the depleted echo he had been on the roof...? Peter's eyes stung furiously at the thought.
Mortified, he stared after his friend as the guy pushed himself off the wall, revealing a crack in a tile behind his head. With a groan Sylar caught his balance, and like a snapshot through time he was replaced by an imposing shadow atop a school stadium just seconds before Peter had hauled them both over the edge.
Slowly, the empath's arm fell to his side. Retaliation crackled in the air around the former killer's form, rebounding off the compact walls of the bathroom. He could easily fight back with a flick of one finger, yet Peter didn't brace himself. He didn't need to, even though he wished he would. Because instead of finding himself thrown through the other wall or battling a sudden constricted airway, Sylar did nothing. Nothing at all. Which hurt so much more than an attack would have done.
No razor sharp words or abilities came Peter's way, no forced expression expertly designed to inflict guilt. Sylar just rightened his tousled hair, raked one last talon-like glance over Peter's face, stepped over the broken glass at his feet and left the room without another word.
Tumbling a step after him, Peter's insides plummeted through the floor. He croaked out a tiny, pathetic "wait –" only for it to be swallowed by the sound of the door slamming shut on its hinges.
And then he was alone yet again, feeling ten times worse than he already thought was possible. Fuck.
Finally giving way, Peter slumped into the wall, letting gravity slip him lower until he sat curled with his knees at his chest and his head back against cool tiles. He scrubbed a hand against his aching forehead, closing his eyes against the aftermath of his countless grand mistake.
( )( )( )
Fuck Peter. Fuck him and his tantrums, his stubbornness and his moodswings that could out-do even Sylar's when he had been at his worst.
Bundled deep under his bedcovers, Sylar seethed in silence. The taunting window was shut tight and he wasn't cold anymore, but he longed after the time – just minutes ago – when he had only been missing the little brat rather than resenting being anywhere near him.
Sylar refused to press the throbbing bruise on the back of his head where he'd smashed into the tiles (no! Where he'd been pushed into tiles for only trying to help!). Of course it had healed over, but it still ached somehow.
Why had he even bothered? Why had he wasted so much time worrying all evening? He knew that the Hunger was partly to blame for Peter's attitude, and that fear could distort such things into ghastly shapes that consumed everything. But he hadn't asked to cut into Peter's head and start all this bullshit, and he wouldn't have later offered to help him control his abilities if it wasn't so important but it was! But fine. Peter didn't want to be babied anymore? Let him wander out into the streets and learn the hard way how tough it could be in the real world. He would only last longer than five minutes because he was a stubborn little jackass, but no matter how long it took he'd eventually come crawling back with a mushy declaration and those puppy dog eyes of his – no doubt about it! And Sylar almost couldn't wait to send him packing and show him how it felt!
Only suckers tried to be good guys. Sylar had thought so all along. He was sick of being Mr Nice Guy who was always walked over, following along behind Petrelli like a human pooper-scooper who had nothing better to do than pick up his mistakes. He had used to be all-powerful! He hadn't answered to anybody! He was taking on one of the most powerful corporations on the globe for fuck's sake! When had he lost his nerve? When had he gone soft?
Or actually, Sylar didn't press that thought. He remembered. He remembered the day, the moment, the exact second; the smell of the wind and the length of the shadows and the touch of three fingers on his arm that had followed the rarest achievement in the world: a smile. But not just any smile, the first time it had come from someone Sylar could call 'friend'...
Seriously, fuck Peter.
The mental tirade of bitter thoughts halted in its tracks at the sound of the bathroom door opening at long last. Not that Sylar had been waiting for it, though.
( )
Nothing was moving amongst the shadows. The sounds of the city seemed very far away on the far side of the window. Everything inside was silent, but Peter knew from the rigid mound of Sylar's blanket that the man wasn't asleep. He was barely even breathing.
Burning with remorse, Peter hovered in the middle of the room. His throat was closed as if Sylar were throttling him without even looking, his head felt far too heavy to keep upright and his eyes were blistering with shame that he only just succeeded in blinking back. He was unable to make a sound, let alone put into words the rambling, heartfelt apology he'd crafted in the bathroom.
...Because you're my friend, Peter... I love you...
But how could he? Not just in six years time, but even now?
He didn't miss the organized pile in the far corner of the room: tidied pizza boxes and crusts and plates and grapes that he had left cluttered over the fire escape; and he still remembered Sylar making him corn flakes nearly every morning of purgatory; he recalled the man cutting into his head even though he didn't want to, but because Peter had asked him; he re-lived the messy escape from Mercy Heights that same day; the fact that Sylar had flown them both into the sky to explode together rather than put him down; and every single minute of his patience since.
What had Peter ever done to deserve all that from the man he'd used to despise more than anyone? For the life of him he couldn't find an answer. And now he was supposed to repay such kindness by corrupting the guy with his downfall, one way or another...? It wasn't fair. But Sylar had come all the way back through time to give him that message, and if he could trust that much in Peter then Peter could damn well trust that much in return.
There was so much he needed to tell him. He just didn't even know where to begin.
( )
Sylar resented his own anticipation. His hearing was so finely tuned that he would swear he could catch the second heart in the room racing. He lay still with the precision of a hunter, allowing his ears to fill in the blank edges of the scene behind him.
He heard many intakes of breath, heard many sentences fall away before they could even begin. Resolute, he refused to give in and turn around or be manipulated like this, and so didn't move a muscle until he heard the tremor of a sigh. Then the thump of shoes being kicked off into a heap. Then the rustling of clothing as Peter gave up and headed over to his bed.
Quietly, Sylar hated to admit his disappointment. So that was it? After all he'd given? After all that had happened today? Killer tomatoes, the make-shift banquet, the argument, the bathroom, and not so much as a –
Only when the mattress dipped and creaked at his back did Sylar realise he had mis-judged things. Suddenly numb with pins and needles, he remained even more still if it were possible, until the movement behind him settled and the warmth of another person tickled his back. The silence stretched on painstakingly, until it was pierced by a sound so tiny Sylar wasn't sure if he had merely imagined it.
"Sorry."
Despite himself, Sylar tensed. It was as simple as two syllables to chase his earlier outrage into the horizon, because before he could even stage an elaborate waking up he felt himself roll onto his other side to be greeted by the back-lit landscape of Peter Petrelli's profile in the darkness.
Once more, fuck him. For always being Sylar's downfall.
( )
Peter breathed out a deep, shuddering breath and his whole body sank further into Sylar's mattress. He tried not to fidget atop the coarse fabric of the duvet and looked only at a patch of damp on the ceiling above, blinking slowly as he attempted to keep himself calm.
He might have been slightly embarrassed to lay here any other night, but right now he didn't care about boundaries or masculinity or feigning strength when he had none, not when he had hit rock bottom and needed this more than anything else. It was hardly the lowest Sylar had seen him already. And apparently it wasn't going to be the worst, either. Like a child seeking refuge from a nightmare, he just needed company and to be close to someone else who could shelter him until the morning rose. If only the new day was able to provide some relief...
Sylar's pillow smelled like him. It smelled like the time traveller from the rooftop. Clenching his fists for courage, Peter finally turned his head to look at the other man, his lifeline, his friend. In the dark the shadows caught his features exactly as they had outside, except he wasn't so broken. Instead he was concerned, indignant, smouldering with emotion that tinted his skin like a fire below the surface, a fire that the older version of him had been missing.
This was the first time Peter had really looked at Sylar tonight – this version of him, the one who wasn't marred by lies and secrets and a hidden devastation that divided them. The empath's heart swelled painfully in his chest, and nothing he could have done would have stopped him from breaking down in tears at last.
"I'm so sorry." He repeated, because it was all he could muster when so much else needed to be said. Sylar had no idea what was to come, and Peter couldn't bring himself to ruin that. "For... e-everything." Nodding earnestly, he couldn't suppress the first tear that spilled over and tickled a trail down past his ear to the pillow.
( )
From deep down inside, Sylar exhaled. Peter was watching him anxiously, and he looked like himself again and he was so sad and so sincere that only a monster could stay angry at him any longer. And no matter what everyone said: Sylar wasn't a monster anymore.
He hesitated, unsure if he should try to comfort him some more after the fiasco of the bathroom. But if this wasn't an olive branch on the empath's behalf then Sylar didn't know one, so he leaned up on his elbow in order to see him better. Looking down at that face didn't magically make Sylar feel braver, however. He wouldn't lie and tell himself he wasn't shaken by the state Peter had gotten himself into. Didn't he usually fight to find the best out of every situation? Wasn't he physically incapable of giving up...? Then why did it feel frighteningly like that was what he was doing now?
Heart pounding an off-beat rhythm through his ribcage, Sylar lay a hand on Peter's shoulder and crafted as much reassurance as he could muster from the scattered remnants he had on hand. "You're going to get through this." He promised softly, because those shining hazel eyes had stolen his voice along with his temper. "If I did, you can. You can do anything, Peter."
It was supposed to be encouraging, because of course he would get better, because he always conquered whatever he set his mind to: he was invincible, he always had been annoyingly resilient and obviously it would take a hell of a lot more than this to overcome Peter Petrelli! But the man in question only frowned, weakly shook his head, turned back to face the ceiling and closed his eyes tight.
There was a heart-stopping second where Sylar saw his companion's forehead crease and his chin quiver. Then he pressed both hands over his face, as if he could hide what was happening while his tremors shook the bed beneath Sylar.
Finally. It was the first time Peter had let himself cry in his presence since the Hunger had stirred. It was inevitable. It was probably healthy, to an extent. God, Sylar knew he had prayed for someone to soothe and hold him when he had gone through the exact same thing once upon a time. ...It was the least he could do, really.
Because it was allowed in the safety of the dark, Sylar shuffled back down and pulled the smaller man into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world, simply to provide him with the body heat and heartbeat that told him he wasn't alone. Peter didn't return the hug but it wasn't a dismissal; he let himself be held in place and the weight and warmth of a person pressed flush against Sylar's body made his heart flutter no matter how mushy it sounded. It felt like forever since the last time. Hell, maybe he needed this just as much as Peter did.
Once he got over the initial adjustment to the entanglement of their bodies, Sylar leaned into it, holding his companion in close. His fingers trailed over Peter's shuddering shoulders and back, bunching repeatedly in the fabric of his shirt while he fought to keep both himself and his friend from falling to pieces. The rest of the world blotted out around the pair the way it had used to be, once.
"Hey, we've played this game before." Sylar whispered into the silky depths of the little man's hair. His natural scent was familiar, beneath touches of the hotel's sickly shampoo and an unfamiliar smoky tang that Sylar couldn't quite place. "We'll figure something out, okay? It'll be alright."
Peter only sniffled into Sylar's chest in response, blooming heat through his t-shirt that seeped into his skin and the straining heart beneath the surface. It didn't feel like his words were doing much good, but luckily they weren't the only gifts he had to give.
Sylar had never fully understood the purpose of intimacy unless it preceded sex, even after being bogged down by Nathan's many touchy-feely memories. But with Peter it was different. With Peter it was comforting, and not just for him but for Sylar too, to have such innocent human contact as this. To be held like he was important.
Under any other circumstances this embrace might be considered inappropriate for the constraints of their relationship, but tonight Sylar didn't care. Tonight the former rivals held each other close the way they'd used to in secret, when the nights were colder than usual and hell was particularly lonely for the two lost souls trapped within it.
"It'll be alright, Peter." He crooned again, softer this time. The two men swayed slightly on the mattress as they hugged, springs creaking under them as time drew the future ever closer outside. "It'll be alright."
A/N: Okay guys, for the millionth time I'm really sorry for the wait! But I hope it was worth it X) I know this chapter is a pretty heavy one, and I'm hoping you made it all the way through and don't hate me too much for hurting our boys like this (but we did finally get them cuddling at the end, so hopefully that makes up for it a bit XP)
I'd love to know what you think about Peter's fate and Future Sylar, because this has been building sneakily in the background since before you'd even know, let me tell you! I know there are still some blank spaces here but you won't have to wait too long for answers and more drama and emotion X) I know I always say it but I can't wait to share the next chunk of story with you! I hope you enjoyed this and that you'll stay tuned.
P.S. I'm working on a new drawing for this chapter that I will post to my AO3 Gallery soon. It should be up within the next few days, please go check it out X)