The Only One I Trust

The sounds of the highway dimmed like someone had turned down the volume. Growling engines, muted radios and even tires on the asphalt faded into a nothingness that enveloped the lonely, stolen car parked by the ride of the road. Inside, blurred columns of light continued to swim across the windows, passing headlights glinted like jewels for only a second, mesmerising in their display, before the moment passed and they burned out into the distance. Everything was heightened from Sylar's perspective. Everything was reeling.

It took too long before he remembered he was supposed to respond.

"Please tell me this is Parkman screwing with your thoughts."

If he couldn't feel the warmth of Peter Petrelli's arms as his hands numbly slipped off them, or see every truth in that expression, Sylar would've been certain he was caught in another mind trip. He was still shaken after what had happened in Odessa, what with Parkman having proved himself a master at replicating reality to perfection just to punish him. But although the cop might be able to more than do justice to buildings, plant life and skylines... the one thing he'd never been able to recreate was Peter.

"I'm serious." The empath spoke quietly, his eyes burning with an earnest passion that couldn't be falsified. "Ever since my father –" He cut off to draw in a breath, as if the words themselves were as tainted as the memory. "...There's been this void. Inside me. This gap, and even though it hurts where my abilities used to be, they're not gone, Sylar! I can feel them. I just can't... get to them." Peter sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted at long last, and his gesturing hands fell still upon Sylar's shoulders. "I need this. Okay? I have for a long time. And I'm finally ready to do something about it."

Sylar couldn't blink away the absurdity of his friend's statement. Or stop the words from ricocheting around his already bruised insides. He couldn't even be sure he was hearing this correctly. However, he could most definitely make his thoughts on this insanity clear in his tone. "...But why now?"

( )

The sight of screaming flames, towers of bodies and his brother falling from his grasp echoed through Peter again at once. Failure, error, blame, love, loss... The painful lurch in his gut made him feel sick. It made him even more determined.

"Because I wanna be stronger." The simple, husky sentence weighed far more than it should have done. "Faster. More powerful, I... I wanna be better." He confessed into the intimate space, allowing his deep-rooted dream to tentatively rise towards the surface. It had been buried so long for fear of ridicule that it didn't remember light, but at last the tips of illumination were almost within reach... all Sylar had to say was "yes" and everything could be different.

Years of hopes and dreams and wishes and prayers were holding their breath inside Peter, gaining momentum from every time his failings had knocked him down. He'd been pretending everything was fine for far too long, endlessly mourning in secret the strength he had been stripped of against his will – even in the past months alone. How many times had he and Sylar tried to help someone and Peter had been forced to stand on the sidelines because he couldn't keep up with his partner in crime? How many times had his inadequacy screwed up their missions along the way...? Today alone, he'd led his only remaining friend into the heart of danger, got them both caught and assaulted and hadn't even been able to aid in their escape! He couldn't even think what must have happened to Micah yet, for their exit to have been so messy. The whole day was another ugly stain on his conscience, the last in a continuous stream of them that had no end in sight.

Unless... Peter could finally change that.

It was this last thought that broke a small, hopeful smile onto his lips, despite the ordeal back at Renautas and Sylar's current, dumbfounded expression.

"Don't you think it would make our job easier if I had access to more than one power at a time?" He coaxed hoarsely, fidgeting in his seat. "We could do so much more, be in ten places at once if we wanted – don't you see?" Injecting a gentle squeeze into Sylar's shoulders, he was desperate to share with his friend the same vision that was coiling wondrously through himself. "I just need you... to open the barrier inside me. To fix what's broken." The car walls could have been a hundred miles thick, dividing the pair from the rest of the uncaring world in a place where no one could find them. It was only Sylar, Peter, and the latter's pounding heart bearing witness to this crucial exchange. "Can you do that for me, bud?"

Sylar's face was impossible to read. He appeared to be almost in a trance-like state: tousled from his earier outburst but unaware of it, dark eyes blown wide and drinking in the sight of Peter as if he were as foreign as the first time they'd met. When the man opened his mouth and licked his lips, his voice was faint in their surroundings.

"By... looking inside your brain?"

Peter nodded sincerely and tilted his head, the better to delve into the other man's eyes for all he was worth. At long last, liberation was just out of sight, just around the next corner, and with this ally by his side the last corner after millions more was no obstacle at all.

"That is what you do, right? Work out people's brains, their abilities?" Peter's smile grew microscopically. He was unable not to inch even nearer to his companion until they were almost close enough to be embracing again.

Until Sylar's face contorted, and he shoved Peter backwards with two hands to the chest.

"DID! That's what I DID!"

( )

Sylar was vaguely aware of the smaller man's surprise, as if this reaction was the last thing on Earth he'd expected. However, now that the initial shock had lifted this was a small blip on the ex-killer's radar, the rest of it bleeding red and infecting his nervous system.

What the fuck was this?! Sylar couldn't believe what he was hearing! What Peter was saying! But the denial was nothing compared to the jagged, poisoned fireball beginning to blaze its way up his throat, gaining momentum. "That's what I've spent the better part of a DECADE trying to let go, Peter!"

"Wait -"

"What the hell are you thinking?!" Sylar bellowed with a swipe of both arms, glaring at the other man but seeing only his own past as it played out like a film reel plastered across his eyes. "Do you have ANY idea what you're asking me to do?!" He couldn't hold back the flood of visions that swarmed him for the dozenth time that night: hundreds upon hundreds of victims, the whispers from his nightmares, the taunts in his ear, the blood on his hands, terror, fury, regret and disgust rippling over his skin in goosebumps that ran a mile deep...

"Well, yeah! But I didn't mean -"

"What the hell did you think I was going to say?!" Sylar demanded, fighting to blot out fury from his sight in order for his subject to fade into focus again. How the fuck could Peter even attempt to look hurt right now? He was hurting?! Well he damn well wasn't the only one!

( )

There was suddenly no air in Peter's lungs. No more excitement in his eyes. His walls closed over with a frown as the tender flush of hope retreated back the way it had come, replaced instead by guilt-marred confusion.

He didn't understand. Shouldn't this have been a good thing? That Sylar wouldn't need to keep babysitting him through every mission because he'd be able to actually help instead of just slowing them down? It was insane that two people could go from sharing such understanding just seconds ago, such a connection inside this small car, to the total opposite so quickly. The contrast was giving Peter vertigo.

His chest was smarting from more than the shove, and he tried not to show how wounded he was by the amount of space the former villain's temper was consuming inside the car, like steam expanding until it pressed stiflingly against all sides. Was it foolish to hope that this was just imagination and he hadn't yet broken the unbearable silence on the drive home?

"I thought you'd be happy." His voice was pathetically small compared to Sylar's, his foolish thoughts cast aside as if they were nothing by the force of the guy's outrage. It stung like a kick to the gut.

( )

Fuck – that face! The way that Peter was badly attempting to hide his poor, hurt feelings as if he'd done nothing wrong felt like a personal jab. Like he was doing it just to get at Sylar. Well it worked, alright!

He couldn't even decide what hurt the most: being confronted by such an invitation while his scars were newly re-opened and aching, or the fact that Peter had even the slightest belief that he would do what had been asked of him. How pathetic Sylar was. How disgusting. How could he ever be "good" the right way when not even Peter Petrelli believed in him?!

He could barely muster up more than an affronted hiss. "You thought I'd happily rip open your head...?"

Growling down upon the man in question, Sylar could still feel the lingering warmth of that body against his own. It didn't feel wonderful anymore. Within a minute, his biggest relief, his safe place, had been tainted – Peter doubted his penitence and that felt like being shattered inside by one of Parkman's goddamned sledgehammers.

"You think I'm just waiting for any excuse to go back to my old ways? "All it takes is one temptation" - is that what you think when you look at me?!" His voice shook in a way that would have been embarassing had he not been so furious.

"What? No! Sylar, of course not!"

Despite himself, Sylar coughed out a bitter laugh, scorching his company with a withering look. "Oh, okay, so you only expect me to replase when it suits your own selfish need for power...?"

The horror etching into Peter's features was difficult to witness, but Sylar rode it out with a snarl. He was having none of it. There was no way the guy didn't know what he'd started, here! Most of the time it was easy to forget the poisonous womb from which Peter was born, but Petrelli blood was rife with lies and manipulation and, at times like this, was impossible to ignore. That bunch always attacked when prey was at its lowest, and Sylar should've known better! He should've been smarter! Despite everything they'd encountered together over the years, why hadn't Sylar learned his lesson by now...?

( )

If he looked around right then to see the pain in his ribcage was Tracy Strauss piercing his torso with another frozen spike, Peter wouldn't even have been surprised. Any reply evaporated while his senses banded together to convince him that yes, Sylar really had just said such a vicious thing about him. And about himself, too. Temptation? Relapse? What? The words caught Peter by as much surprise as Sylar's rage had. Shit. Shit, shit, it was all going wrong... so, so wrong...

He fought to get a handle on himself before things only got worse. Balling his fists and staring, unseeing, at the glowing highway stretching out for miles on either side, he steeled himself and listened to his own breathing. It was loud and ragged, growing harder to control as he tried to force away the pressure that was building behind his forehead.

Setting his jaw and running a hand through his hair, Peter gripped it tightly before letting it drop and splay carelessly over his face. "No." He returned his fiery gaze onto Sylar as he relived the guy's dismissal and accusation over again. His voice grew louder the more he spoke. "I didn't mean it like that and you know it! I meant this would be a good thing, that it could help us help more people!"

"Right, of course, because it's never about you, is it?"

At that, Peter rocked back in his seat. The hit was so hard he was practically seeing stars. "...What is that supposed to mean?"

( )

Suddenly, Sylar felt claustrophobic in the small car with Peter, far too compressed an arena for an unstoppable force and an immovable object about to come to blows. Scrabbling for leverage on the door handle, he released a venemous scoff before clambouring out onto the side of the road. "Whatever."

The night air kissed his face soothingly as he stomped a few steps away from the car, kicking up dust on the way. They'd pulled over on a remote stretch of road lined by thickets of trees on each side: a silent, watchful audience that gave only the illusion of privacy.

A car door slammed behind Sylar and furious, crunching footsteps followed.

( )

"Not "whatever"!" Peter stormed around the vehicle and right up to his taller adversary, his temper and wounds both increasing in depth. Of course emotions were already running high after the disastrous trip to Renautas, and even as Peter opened his mouth he knew they were both just upset and scared and it was coming out the wrong way because they had no other release than each other. Still, he couldn't stop himself. "Say it! What did you mean?"

He was so angry by the other man's sudden outburst that he wanted to shove him in the back the moment he got close enough. Sylar had done so to him first, after all! Instead he barely refrained by clenching his fists so tightly his nails stabbed his palms.

"You know perfectly well what I mean, Peter."

"Do I?!"

When Sylar deigned to turn around, he bore down with the haughty, superior manner that the empath had used to despise back in the day. But it felt different now, so different. Because this time it wasn't the taunting gloat of a serial killer who knew he'd won: this time it was the look of a friend who was about to bombshell an ugly truth.

"You're telling me this is 100% selfless? That it has nothing to do with the fact you haven't been right since we broke through that wall?"

A cargo truck belted its horn on the way past. Peter swore for a moment that it had somehow hit him and dragged his body along behind. But his boots were settled upon loose dirt and twigs, he hadn't moved a muscle, and Sylar was still pouring the mass of his question upon him like molten lava.

And as much as he tried, he simply couldn't answer.

( )

Sylar sighed and ground his teeth as Peter seemed to fade away before him. The guy refused to tear his sparkling eyes away from the watchmaker's, beaten by the final body-blow as shreds of his armour flaked off and floated away into the darkness even as the ex-killer watched. He was pretty sure his anger would have fizzled out then and there if Peter hadn't started the whole thing so carelessly then played the victim as soon as he was called out on it. And if the day hadn't been one of Sylar's worst in a long time.

He should have stopped right there. He knew that. This topic was one he had promised himself to break gently, on a quiet night in, on a good day, with pizza and ice cream and tact, but it was too late to backtrack now. And as Sylar's rage flushed through him anew, he wasn't even sure he wanted to.

His voice ricocheted like a shot in the dark, sending birds rustling out of the trees. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?! That I don't know you?! Running non-stop without taking a second to breathe just so you can feel worthwhile isn't fooling me, Peter! And it sure as hell isn't fooling you either!"

A scowling Peter merely flinched. He stood his ground like he was rooted to the spot, terrified but facing the raging bull head on no matter how much it would hurt. Still fuming, Sylar didn't bother to resist the crest of emotion that carried his feet forward until he was glowering just inches above his rapt audience.

"I get it!" He spat, blood pounding in his ears. "This is your grand plan to "change it all" - you don't want us to help each other: you want me to magically make you better! You don't want to feel that you left yourself back in that dream! You want to be able to fly and regenerate in case it'll somehow make your godforsaken family come crawling back as if they never kicked you out on your ass like you don't mean a thing to them!"

It seemed to take a long time for those words to escape him, linger in the air like particles of dust, and then settle upon the two trembling evos.

It was when Peter's lower lip twitched askew, just a little, that Sylar was gifted both the sudden desire and strength to force down the volume on his temper. He struggled to catch his breath and couldn't look away, as the vulnerable young man who Peter had been burying for weeks under hero-duty and false smiles became plainly visible through the cracks in his facade. Sylar recognised him, even though he hadn't set eyes on him properly until now. He could have wept for the guy had the current circumstances been different.

He spoke lowly this time, darkly. "It won't work." As his voice began to choke, he folded his arms tightly, protectively, across his chest, but it didn't keep the pain at bay. "You just have to live with who you are and the life you've had. Trust me, there is no easy fix like having me flick a switch in your brain, and even if there was how could you – " At last, Sylar's voice broke on him and he turned away again, the sting behind his eyes finally too much to conceal.

...Suddenly he's surrounded by that circle of shadows in the darkness: bound, gagged, exposed, stripped of everything but his sins. There's blood on his naked skin like war paint, like tattoos, and hundreds of mutilated people crowd around him and hiss as he cries and tries to hide while they keep kicking his leaking wounds. You're inhuman. You're never going to change. This is who you are...

"H-how could you ask me to take that chance? When I could lose... everything... everything I've worked for?"

( )

Peter's chest heaved as if he'd ran all the way here from Texas. His legs felt like they were made of lead. He wanted to yell or curl up on the dirt right here, he wanted to disappear or try to outrun the feelings that shackled him in place, but mostly he wanted to punch Sylar in the nose while comforting him at the same time. Because he got it now. Finally.

Unseen by present company, his eyes slid closed and his head bowed in shame. Shit. The lacerations on his emotions continued to ooze, but the gnawing pain was nothing compared to the empathy that suddenly eclipsed centre stage inside him. Peter's anger cooled down to a simmer, active but on the sidelines for now, and the marks Sylar's cutting words had left upon him would still need tender care in privacy, but later.

Feeling despicable, he peeked up through the protective veil of his hair at the shadow of a tall, slender man breaking the glow of streetlights beyond. It was as if someone had cut around Sylar and removed him from the picture entirely. His back was to Peter again, and when the empath shuffled forward the bloody slashes in his friend's jacket loomed through the darkness.

Peter's heart compressed for the dozenth time that night. After everything Sylar had just done for him... After saving his life for the countless time, after taking the hit for him – even after letting Peter drag him to Renautas in the first place! – the last thing Peter wanted was to add to the suffering the guy was already enduring.

"Sylar..." He murmured, barely audible over the lump in his throat and the whooshing of the highway beside them. Peter approached the recovering murderer with a tentative hand to his back, inching around to see as much of Sylar's face as he would allow. "You won't lose everything. You won't. Y'know why? 'Cause you're strong. You can do this, you've got the most self control outta anyone I know!"

He rubbed small, encouraging circles into Sylar's back the way he'd used to comfort distressed patients, the same way he wished someone would do for him right now. The fabric of his being was fraying at the edges and wearing thin in the middle, but Peter had never been one to ask for comfort. He was a giver, no matter how badly he longed for reassurance, himself.

Clearing his throat, he continued speaking quietly near Sylar's shoulder, the same one he had been pressed against just minutes before. "C'mon, buddy. You think I'd ask for this if I thought you weren't capable? Huh? You're the only person I'd ask, the..." He chewed his lip, relocating his voice. "...The only one I trust to do it."

"I'm the only one who could."

Sylar shifted slightly, either in a shrug or a shudder, but Peter shook his head and held on tighter. "That doesn't mean I don't trust you."

For a long while, everything was tense against the backdrop of the highway. Peter wavered out here on this extended branch, his defenses down, his heart on his sleeve, taking a chance and despising each passing second. His faith in this man was hardly a world-ending revelation, and it wasn't news to Sylar, but saying it aloud this way made Peter extremely aware of where he was and who he was talking to. It was another of those moments where reality fractured and Peter could look back along the tumultuous crevice of his and Sylar's journey, taking note of every misshapen boulder along the way. Union Wells; Kirby Plaza; The Stanton Hotel; Mercy Heights; Matt's basement; everything that had transpired behind the wall; and everything that had transpired since. It was a distinct "before" and "after" with a multi-coloured, multi-layered transition in the middle. No, it wasn't the most beautiful path they'd left in their wake – far from it – but it was the most genuine, the most true, and the most important one to Peter alongside those of his family.

Currently, he looked upon his friend, his only remaining ally, aware of every feeling and interaction over the years that had worked to bring them to this moment. When Sylar finally gave in and succumbed to Peter's gaze, and his face was pink and his eyes were heavy, it was obvious that he was aware of them too.

Then he pulled free, disentangling himself from Peter's touch for the second time in less than five minutes. "Well... we both know your track record when it comes to trust, don't we?"

Peter shook once from head to toe. He dropped his hands limply by his sides as he took the entire hit uncensored. Son of a bitch.

( )

Yes, Sylar saw what his words had done. He saw all compassion rightfully drain from Peter's face and defensiveness take its place, even through the hot blurriness that had crept across his vision. But he was too angry, too haunted and too far gone to say sorry. Because why should he? It would all just go wrong anyway, everything would crumble, everything would break, and that was if Peter didn't somehow drop dead first due to proximity alone with this self-destructive monster...

"Is this because of what Matt did today?" Peter accused, his voice no longer smooth like honey, but taut like over-wound bass strings. "What did he show you?"

"The truth!" Sylar burst open again with arms out wide, beyond caring that they were likely drawing attention from the ordinary little people in their ordinary little cars droning past in their ordinary little lives. "He showed me who I am! Sylar the killer, the animal, the boogeyman who will never be more than his filthy past no matter how hard he tries to outrun it!"

"Well maybe you won't if you never allow yourself to be more!"

( )

Peter said it in the heat of the moment. But he regretted it instantly. He regretted it even before Sylar's face twisted into the rarest of expressions: the one that even years worth of protecting himself and pretending to be untouchable couldn't hope to contain. It had been a long time since Peter had managed to procure that look. Much longer since he had used to do so deliberately.

Damn it. Sucking in a steadying breath, he lifted a hand in an attempt to bridge the growing divide between himself and his companion. "Look... I'm sorry. Okay? I shouldn't have..."

But then his voice refused to co-operate further, once a familiar, dreaded aura washed over the other man. Peter saw it creep around him like smoke, but was so appalled that he couldn't do more than stare and let it happen without him.

( )

Sylar wanted to embrace the other guy's earlier claims of faith, but every bruised thought was warning him against it. How could the little hero really care about him? How could he trust him when all Sylar did in life was destroy everything he was given? Peter would offer himself up on a silver platter, so naïve, so deluded, he'd willingly put his life in the bloodstained hands of the guy who'd ended a thousand others? It was preposterous! But not because he didn't trust Peter. Because he didn't trust himself.

He'd hurt this man again. Been hurt worse in response. He was so angry, offended, so betrayed he couldn't even handle it – he had to be alone, he needed space, but mostly he could not be confronted with more of his own bestowed desolation right now. He'd had more than enough of that for this lifetime.

( )

Sylar sighed softly, the unshed aggravation in his eyes catching car headlights. "...God knows I've done a lot of things for you, Peter." His voice was barely more than a whisper, underlined by an unshakable promise. "But this is not going to be one of them."

As he stared, Peter tried to unstick his voice but he wasn't fast enough. "Wait – don't –!"

It was a pointless last ditch-effort, for he knew it still wouldn't have stopped Sylar from kicking off from the ground and falling out of his reach into the darkness above. He couldn't prevent it from happening or tell himself it hadn't as he was left, gasping and alone, in the empty space that his friend had just vacated.

Horror. Disbelief. Rage. Terror. Devastation. They crashed down upon his solitary form one after the other, over and over again, each reaction more painful than the last until he couldn't even breathe. Abandoned by the side of the highway with a stolen car and fresh mental bruises, Peter tried with all his might to fend off the recollection of Nathan doing almost the exact same thing to him in Haiti, and to stop a repeat of the emotional aftermath. But like in most undertakings in his life, he failed.

Dumbfounded, he stared up into the inky well of night that had just consumed his last human connection. He couldn't process what had just happened. How could Sylar – how could he just –?! Sure, their fights usually ended in someone storming out – but that was when the city had been harmless and imaginary and theirs! Not very much alive and teeming with dangers much more real than empty buildings!

Suddenly feeling tiny in the vast, expansive world, Peter cast his eyes around himself with fear lassoing his throat and isolation gripping his spine. The treeline was much darker than it had been seconds ago. The cars ten times louder. New York City seemed a million miles further away. And Peter was alone.

His face shattered and he scrubbed a shaking hand over it and into his hair, stumbling back to the car before he lost all sense of sight and direction. He felt his way to the driver's side and dropped onto the seat, slamming the door so hard the glass pane shook. Then he just sat there, because he didn't know what else to do.

He had no intentions of driving just yet. Even if he'd been in a fit enough state. Because where could he go? Where did Sylar go? Was this temporary? What if it wasn't? What the hell was he supposed to do now? How could he begin to consider what this meant in the grand scheme of the rest of his fucked up life?!

It shouldn't have gone like that. It was never supposed to turn into a fight. And so quickly too? Goddammit! So Sylar was afraid of his past, that was understandable, but he had no right to vent it the way he had done! Sure, Peter realised now that he should have kept his proposition to himself until a better time, but he hadn't known what was about to happen! Obviously, if he had known he'd never have said anything in the first place! But it was supposed to help, supposed to bring them together, to be the next step forward in their shared journey after the mess of today... not the final one.

The car was dark inside, smelling faintly of Sylar, of them. Stomach convulsing, Peter moaned through gritted teeth and gripped the steering wheel with both hands until it hurt, as if he could hope to channel the burn of surrender that scorched his heart and spilled over his lashes despite his best efforts.

Working his jaw madly, he scowled at nothing but a distorted film of hot tears, forced his lungs to stutter into inhaling and exhaling and punched a fist repeatedly over his flailing heart, but none of it did any good. It didn't compensate for the fight, for the rejection, for the pain, for the fear, for the live finale of Matt's mind games... for losing the last person he cared about. The one who knew how much it would hurt, the one he'd so foolishly believed would be differentthan all the others –!

There was a quiet thump jolted and blinked rapidly, in order to see out the front window to where a man's long legs were illuminated by the headlights where they hadn't been a second before. They straightened up and headed for the passenger side door. And then it was pure, raw resentment that took the helm inside Peter.

He only had enough time to hurriedly swipe at his eyes, fight to control his breathing and squeeze the steering wheel tighter, refusing to so much as acknowledge his visitor with a look.

( )

Sylar stiffly opened the car door, his hair windswept and cheeks stinging from the brief flight. He didn't say anything when he climbed inside, because he didn't know what to say and they both knew why he'd given up the quick route home to come back, anyway. As humiliating as it was to return.

He was still far too enraged to dream of apologising, but not so much to lose track of his only, emotionally unstable, friend in the real world that could swallow him up forever. He knew it was the right course of action to come back, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it, and even before Peter badly covered a sniffle and fought to compose himself. Sylar would have believed without a doubt that the crocodile tears were a blatant tactic to manipulate him into feeling guilty, if Peter wasn't trying so hard to hide any sign of them. And if he didn't know the little shit as well as he did.

The two men sat in a toxic, ringing silence, both refusing to look at the other or be the first to initiate reconciliation. They didn't so much as twitch in one another's direction before Peter pulled the car back onto the highway and set off towards the distant silhouette of home.

( )( )( )

Inside Charles Devaux's apartment, everything was still. Deathly silent. A clock ticked faintly from somewhere amongst polished wood and expensive furniture, and the distant city ambience pushed against the windows from far below. There was no indication that two occupants were hiding within these walls, not even an unconscious twitch of a finger or a disjointed mumble in sleep – because both men were wide awake and unmoving.

Peter knew this. He knew Sylar was just as bad at obsessing over every detail of a fight as he was. There was no way either of them would get any sleep tonight, even if Matt Parkman hadn't stocked them up with enough nightmare fuel to last for years.

He huffed out a dejected breath. The pair hadn't exchanged one word since Sylar's brief departrure. They hadn't said a thing for the entire drive back, or the extremely awkward elevator ride up from the lobby, and hadn't dared to look at each other before storming away to their individual rooms like sullen teenagers. Peter despised it. And he resented that he was trapped living with Sylar after a fight, that he didn't have the freedom of his own place to stay at until he cooled down.

But he liked being in this room. If he had to anxiously idle away the night somewhere, he didn't mind at all that it was in this giant, soft, comfortable bed. He'd always liked this space, had a lot of good memories here with Charles in his last months. So when Sylar had so graciously offered this room to Peter that first night, he had accepted it without complaint. Not for the first time, he was grateful for that. Sure, it was a little weird at first, but it didn't freak Peter out the way it did his roommate that Charles had passed away right here. Death didn't sicken him that way, when it was natural and peaceful like Charles' was. The man had died the way he'd wanted to, and that was all you could ask for.

Peter had grown to cherish feeling so close to his old friend in this room. It made him feel safe, close to one of the many souls he'd lost. Usually, no matter how tough a day or rescue mission had gone, Peter had no trouble drifting off to sleep in here because he knew that Charles was watching over him.

But tonight, it wasn't helping.

Unsettled again, he gathered the duvet from around his waist and hoisted it up high, wrapping up warm in the protection of fabric that could save him from his fears... even though he had done this whole rigmarole four times by now and knew it wouldn't take. Peter curled onto his side, casting an over-tired gaze out the windows, through the adjacent skyscrapers and over Central Park. It felt like he'd been lying awake for hours, but in reality it probably hadn't been that long. The sky was now a lilac gradient touching the base of the horizon, dragging morning behind the sunrise and also, along with it, a new day. The world was still turning and life would continue on, no matter if Peter decided to wait out his dispute with Sylar, be the bigger person and break the ice, or just never make his mind up at all.

Of course sleep wasn't an option. Every time his exhausted mind finally strayed from the tall, dark and furious watchmaker, Peter was only revisited by Matt's visions all over again. Failing to save lives, not being good enough, losing everyone he came into contact with... obviously, this only brought him back around to Sylar in some shape or form. Either as the reason for the failure or as a victim of it too. And then there was Micah. Poor Micah, who had believed in him – in them – to save the day and be heroes... Peter's heart couldn't take the guilt, because he knew that whatever horrors might have happened to the kid for being kind enough to help the infamous "evo vigilantes"... it was his fault. He wasn't capable enough to prevent, fix or undo any of it, and thanks to Sylar he likely never would be! ...Sylar. So it was back to Sylar. Again.

Shit. Peter rolled onto his back with another sigh, disentangling an arm from the duvet to throw it over his eyes. Why couldn't he be one of those people who steamrolled their way through life without thinking about other people's feelings? Why did he always have to care so much? Why was he simultaneously feeling awful about his tactlessness in the car, and so offended and enraged at Sylar for what he'd said and how he'd acted that guilt and anger were balancing each other out perfectly? He didn't know what to do. He was aching all over, his cranium fit to burst due to too many doubts, and his ribcage close to imploding due to taking so many emotional punches in a day.

The punches hurt more because they were true. Because they'd hit the bullseye spot-on each time, leaving rippled bruises to form outwards from the heart of the impact.

Peter wished he'd never asked his friend to fix his ability. But only because of how the guy had reacted. In terms of the idea itself, Peter yearned for it with every throb of his heart, more now than ever because he'd allowed himself to taste the idea too soon and get carried away. He wished yesterday hadn't happened at all. That he'd never dragged an innocent kid into the shitshow of Renautas, never found Noah's plans for that goddamed restrainment device, or bumped into Matt and not only gotten himself royally fucked up, but Sylar too...

Now feeling strangled in the confines of the duvet, Peter wriggled with the thing until he pushed it all the way off, letting the air in the room soothe his clammy skin.

Sylar was seriously hurting right now. He had good reason to be. Peter didn't like the idea of the man succumbing to his wounds alone in the next room, especially while being responsible for them, and his heart only stuttered further when he recalled Sylar's hunched shoulders and choked voice from earlier. But was the other guy feeling the same way in return? Did he even spare a thought to how carelessly he'd wrenched Peter's hope away and broken it until all that remained was a crumpled, muddy mess amongst the trees? Not to mention how ruthless he'd been with his words. It wasn't just Peter's duty to wave the white flag! Two people had fought and two people were capable of apologising, and it damn well wasn't Peter's sole responsibility to go first every single time! Right...?

He hated feeling this way. Hated not having the luxury of endless time and an empty city to escape into until he cooled down, and hated knowing that Sylar was hiding so close to him right now, feeling just as conflicted as Peter and hating him right back.

Rubbing both hands over his face and into his hair, Peter recalled the way Sylar had torn open the walls of his chest as easily as ripping apart a shirt, exposing the private, naked truths for all the world to see... the truths that Peter had fought so hard to keep secret. It made his eyes well with unshed tears of humiliation all over again. It had been vicious, but not malicious, because Sylar was right about him. Peter knew that he was severely screwed up. Far more than he wanted to admit, far more than any rescuer should be. Yet he also knew he was never going to stop putting himself in harm's way when his input could make any slight difference to the world.

He probably should consider therapy. Sylar was probably thinking the same thing. But it could never happen. It wasn't that the idea was off-putting (in fact, the thought of being able to spill his guts to a random third party without getting shut down or laughed at was very appealing indeed), it was that there was no way he could seek medical help like a normal person.

What the hell could he possibly say that wouldn't get him shipped off in a straight jacket? Even if the world was now aware of super-powered humans? He was a wanted fugitive due to his superhuman abilities; he'd been involved in the concealment of evos for years; he'd died more times than he could count; his mother was an evil mastermind; his brother had been murdered and Peter was living with the guy who did it? Oh yeah, and he'd lived another life inside that killer's head, and now was so fucked up by it that he couldn't even walk down a busy street without nearly having a breakdown...? Yeah right.

So therapy was off the table. And Peter knew himself well enough to know that he could act everyone else's saviour, but he would never be his own. He couldn't do it by himself. The only constant left in Peter's life was the reformed, super-powered, pissed off serial killer in the next room who wasn't speaking to him, and that in itself was the least of his worries. Fucking hell.

Peter ran his hands drowsily through his hair, restless and watching the shadows of the city chase each other across the walls of the room at a snail's pace. He hadn't felt this lonely in a long time. The guilt, however, was a sensation he was only too familiar with. Peter recalled Charles Devaux's kindly smile and the way he'd always had a wise anecdote for every situation, and wished with all his heart to be able to speak to him now...

Literally every other crutch in his arsenal had broken, and he didn't want to acknowledge how sad it was that his only friend to turn to right now was a dead man. But he was desperate, after all. Or maybe just overtired.

"What do you think I should do?" He whispered to Charles. There was no reply. But the moment he spoke, Peter was aware that he didn't even need one anyway. As he sighed again and once more battled with the goddamned bedcovers, he knew deep down that all he'd needed was the illusion of having someone listen to him.

( )

God, Sylar was hungry. Make that starving – no, ravenous. He hadn't eaten for hours and hours, and was reaping the effects of that negligence now. He felt sick, due only to his empty stomach, he insisted. It had to be that. He felt hollow, gaping inside, and the ache inside his torso only grew with passing time, so what else could it be...? He chose not to follow that train of thought.

He was tired, too. Beyond tired by this point, actually. The departure of night was pressing on him like full darkness, as if he were lying on the seabed with the weight of the ocean above, but he was not so pathetic as to fashion himself a nightlight. So instead he merely continued to lie on his back and match his breathing to the ticking of the clock nearby.

It was ridiculous to think that the mutilated bodies from his past might crawl out of the shadows to grab him in his bed, but the childish fear would not let go of him and for that Sylar blamed Employee of the Month Matt Parkman.

It was now light enough in the room that all portals in the darkness had shut, but Sylar could still feel the presence of ghosts nearby, too close to let his guard down as they approached like figures stroking the bedroom door. They reached for him, cursed him, wept for all that he'd done to them... Sylar shivered. Then hated himself for doing so. Warding off memories of past victims was one thing, a task that he had come to excel at most days. Meanwhile, trying not to remember that the most recent one was only seconds away was another altogether.

Fuck Peter. Fuck him and his ideals. How could someone so sensitive be so pig-headed sometimes as to rival his deceased elder brother...? The ex killer wrestled with his sheets and punched his pillows, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Fucking heroes. They were always much more trouble than they should've been. Disgustingly sanctimonious, always prepared to paint themselves in the right until it suited them better to play the victim fighting their way back to an underdog's happy ending, for all but the villain of course... the villain who, surprise, surprise, happened to be Sylar.

After struggling with his bed to no avail, he was forced to sit up, squeezing his palms into his eyes as if that could entice his warring thoughts and stomach to settle down. Dammit, if only the hollowness inside would stop expanding like it was and let him feel wronged in peace! But that would be a grace he didn't deserve.

Sylar knew he had earned himself the label of bad guy tonight. After over-reacting and tearing his friend into pieces the way he had done. The guy's idea had been next-level idiotic (even for Peter Petrelli!) and it damn well was deserving to be called out after stabbing the sore spot inside Sylar! Just not the way it had been. Not at the expense of throwing the guy's vulnerabilities into his face in the heat of the moment when no punches were pulled and everything was more fragile. Sure, the empath's witless words had hit far too close to home and snapped something inside Sylar but, grudgingly, the watchmaker didn't for one moment think that Peter would have said what he had if he'd known how badly it would hurt.

But he had still said it. He had still argued back.

Okay, not as ferociously as Sylar had, but Peter was still as much to blame for the fight as Sylar! He was. Definitely. He wasn't just the victim of this murderer's latest rampage – he'd dealt his own low blows and Sylar wasn't stupid enough to miss that the caring, empathetic Mother Theresa was also yet to take responsibility for the damage he'd done!

Then Sylar froze from head to toe. ...Unless?

He listened to the yawning stretch of silence filling the apartment, but it didn't fool him twice. The little fucker.

After an age, a second creak of a floorboard was muffled from the hall and Sylar's insides burned like fire. Hands halfway down from his face, hair sticking up oddly at one side, his eyes were wide and observant as they locked onto the sliver of space at the bottom of the bedroom door. A shadow crept into sight and his heart shot away like a firework set free too early, torching him every time it slammed into a different wall of his chest.

Compared to just minutes ago, nightmare zombies were the furthest thing from his mind. All at once, the frightening room was merely an enclosure for furniture, ornaments and restless nights, an unimposing space that embraced the crest of morning. It was insignificant. Insignificant now that Sylar was to be proven even more of an asshole in his sulking, and he wasn't even sure if he could resent it.

But nothing happened. The shadow beneath the door hovered silently. Sylar's brow slid low and his hackles crept out of hiding. And the very real, very current issue of his roommate's greedy arrogance washed over him for the thousandth time that night

Sylar could feel the other's eyes upon him. As if there weren't a slab of wood in the way. He could practically hear Peter's heartbeat racing his own as the words struggled to form on his tongue. The two evos could sense each other, caught in the battle of wills, so close but with one last hurdle in the way that neither had the courage to break.

Sylar dared Peter to open the door. Even though he didn't even know if he wanted to see the guy yet. Maybe just to get the gracious hero showing him up for the countless time over and done with? Or maybe to have the satisfaction of slamming the thing in his face? He could do it from right here, with less than a thought. ...He could also wrench it open if he so chose, and throw the guy into confronting him before he was ready...

The seconds stretched on and the door didn't budge, from either side.

That slip of shadow shifted again, to the tune of timid scuffing sounds. And then a soft thud of a palm touching the door vibrated all the way to Sylar's core. It wasn't a knock. The noise made him waver as it reverberated through him, dislodging his scowl along with the rusted, ugly anchors of last night's grudge to make way for an unrestricted airflow.

Sylar dropped his eyes, picking at his bedcovers just for something to do. He knew surrender too well to mistake.

Peter's shadow disappeared and his footsteps retreated, leaving the conflicted ex-murderer to admit to himself that he'd been wrong before. Wrong about heroes... wrong about Peter... wrong about that void in his stomach that had just cracked considerably deeper. It had never been due to food depravation, after all.

( )( )( )

The morning was cool up here, even though summer was almost upon the city. The breeze carried a shiver within it and the metal step beneath Peter had long since spread a chill through his bones, but he ignored it. He'd barely drank half a mug of coffee before it had gone cold in his hands, his attention too distracted by the sight of the world thriving far below, above and all around him.

The new day was undeniable now, ushered in by one hell of a sunrise that had made staying up all night almost feel worth it. Peter closed his eyes and wondered if he might finally pass out right here, exhausted, huddled on a fire escape, serenaded by the couple downstairs shrieking about whose turn it was to wash the breakfast dishes. But just because the sun was awake didn't mean his night terrors had ceased.

He tugged up the collar of his jacket against the breeze and swiped his billowing hair out of his eyes, unwilling to lose sight of his self-proclaimed charge for even a moment. Especially now that his ever-present urge to contribute was working overtime. He was sitting fully dressed below the police scanner on the step above, although he didn't know why he'd even bothered to come out here. The scanner wasn't switched on. And it wasn't like he would just take off running if a serious call came through, anyway. Not when he couldn't face bursting into Sylar's room and dragging him off to fight again while things between them were as unresolved as they were. And not when Peter didn't think he could handle a mission alone in his current state.

But he kept the thing closeby, just in case. It helped, a little, to live the illusion for a while longer.

( )

Sylar hesitated at the top of the fire escape. Despite the relief at recovering his companion after searching every empty room in the apartment, he wondered if he really wanted to get into a conversation so soon after a fight. When the wounds on both sides were still fresh. He wondered if Peter would even want to look at him right now. He wondered if he should speak or knock or do something definitive to announce his presence, rather than continue to just stand here looking down on the guy like the sort of stalker-like creep he'd used to be.

Before he could decide, however, Peter spoke in a soft tone that was thick with resignation. "You were right, Sylar." He didn't turn around, but by the sound of it didn't seem too displeased to be disturbed.

The watchmaker wished his heart didn't leap at being vindicated at the expense of his only friend's misfortune. He remained poised on the top step, shoulders hunched, until Peter shuffled over to make room beside him. The stairs bit coldly into Sylar's socks on the way down, causing him to regret his lack of outerwear, but when he sat next to the other man he suddenly became much too pre-occupied to focus on cold toes.

The wind toyed with the pair's faces, and the streets in the distance began to fill with traffic like a steady stream of water drops while the neighbours screamed blue murder over dishsoap. The world was massive and thriving, packed to the brim with more life than Sylar could ever imagine in his wildest dreams... yet Peter Petrelli was the only thing holding his attention, the way it used to be.

Peter spoke pointedly to the skyline, voice flat and drained of the passion that had echoed in Sylar's mind since their last exchange. "I've been thinking about what you said, and you were right about all of it." He released a hollow chuckle and rubbed his forehead, probably in attempts to dull the same throbbing pain that was currently attacking Sylar's cranium. "What I asked for? It is about me..." He was frowning. It was audible in his voice. "It's just, ever since we broke outta that dream... nothing's been the same." He trickled off into no more than wistful exhales and tapping fingers against his knee.

Even sitting so close to a contrite Peter who's boots were almost touching Sylar's socks, the former killer was still angry with him. His body was buzzing where it was closest to the empath, a growing prickle that ran down his entire left side, but the rage was slowly dissipating into something else that Sylar couldn't put his finger on.

For fear of de-railing the other man's train of thought, he said nothing. He only sighed, reached for Peter's forgotten mug and pried it out of his hand, stealing a sip of old coffee. It was disgusting, and didn't subdue his appetite at all, but disgusting was better than having nothing to busy himself with.

Peter's knee pressed against Sylar's, just for a second. "How did you do it?" He asked quietly. "Adjust back to the real world so easily?"

Thinking, Sylar forced his mouthful of "coffee" down and took a second to make his voice start working. He'd had a speech prepared for weeks now, masterfully crafted and practised to perfection for the moment this well-overdue conversation found its way into the limelight. But now that it had, everything Sylar had planned to say to his friend felt ridiculously inadequate.

He regretted his last intake of the cold beverage, but took another sip even though the liquid was now ickily coating the base of the cavern of his stomach. "...I'm not sure."

( )

Peter shifted a little on the hard step, more grateful than he'd thought he'd be at the proximity of his roommate. They weren't touching, and still weren't looking at each other, but just knowing he wasn't alone drew some of the chill out of the air. The conversation, however?

To Peter, it seemed obvious that reality was merciless in making one man feel insignificant, especially after being the living, breathing centre of the world for so long. Yet Sylar didn't have an issue with walking to get food in the evenings, passing through a crowd of pedestrians or howling traffic to take a shortcut. Not the way Peter did. To him, the world had shifted on its axis, it was a totally different playground than the one he'd left behind: the colours were wrong and the edges were too sharp, and he couldn't remember if it had always been that way or if it was all in his mind. And if it was? What did that say about him...?

"Maybe it's because the world I knew was always an isolated one." Sylar's continued admission probably wasn't supposed to dig as deep as it did.

Peter bit his lip, nodding at his knees. He couldn't shake the bizarre image of Sylar slipping through a minefield with the effortless grace and intuition with which he did everything, knowing exactly which path to take to avoid the disasters he couldn't be bothered with... meanwhile Peter blundered his way into every possible wrong step along the way.

Sylar was most likely right in his assessment. All the man had had in life was a stick and handkerchief of belongings, carrying them over his shoulder wherever he went – including to a dream city and back. But Peter's baggage was too widespread for any shoulder to carry, too invested in the world and people around him. He held so tightly to his loved ones that when Matt had dropped a five year barricade between them and him, his arms had broken beneath it and they'd never healed properly. Neither had the rest of him.

Maybe Peter wasn't made to heal, ability or not? Maybe it was his fate to keep breaking into smaller pieces until he was nothing but a human mosiac pretending he was whole? There was no human superglue he could get his hands on, or a "welcome back!" manual to help him try to fit into the mould that he no longer could, not even a magic switch in his brain that would solve all his problems, as Sylar had so nicely pointed out. If only this would stop him longing after a way to elevate the pain somehow.

Even though the space between the two men was still tainted by their dispute, it was remarkable the way Sylar seemed to know just what Peter was thinking without the violating means of assault he had endured too much of recently. When the coffee mug was offered back to him, Peter accepted the gesture behind it even though the drink itself wasn't worh it.

( )

Sylar regretted handing over his only means of distraction the moment the smaller man ended the drought between them. Peter turned and devoured him with those honest, hazel eyes of his for the first time since the highway, and it felt like both years and seconds since the last time. He appeared beaten, more than from pulling an all-nighter, still the infuriating cause of Sylar's anger but annoyingly, gratefully familiar at the same time.

Sylar met those dark-circled eyes directly. He witnessed his companion's lips soften and eyebrows rise into a non-threatening arch that eliminated any possibility of rekindling the fight where they'd left off. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that.

"Back in the car, when I asked you to help me?" Peter sighed, at himself. "I didn't think how it would affect you, and I'm sorry. If I had, I would've... I never meant to -"

"I know." Sylar snapped too quickly.

( )

The rest of Peter's heartfelt declaration died in his throat, then. He span the mug anxiously in his fingers but didn't try to untangle himself from the knot of the watchmaker's consuming, unashamed stare.

He was pretty sure that the guy didn't want to hear his apology for a different, more guilt-inducing reason than before they'd fought. It felt no less awful to have his attempts at reconciliation back-kicked now than it had then, but at least Peter understood this time.

How bizarre to think that so much had happened since he'd last experienced this feeling. He remembered being curled up in the car while he and Sylar drove in silence, feeling like shit and having no idea that he was going to feel ten times worse after opening his stupid mouth. It was for this reason that he tried his best to learn from his mistakes for once, and kept quiet.

( )

It was a conscious choice not to elaborate or let Peter spew more apologies. Sylar didn't need more nausea added to the self-admission that he was the infernal bastard everyone still thought of him to be. Except for Peter, of course. Naïve Peter. Well-intentioned Peter. Self-righteous Peter who had finally seen behind the curtain but wanted him closeby anyway.

The empath looked so completely sincere right then that Sylar's resentment only grew through his guilt. He didn't like that his defenses encased him again, just at the reminder of the words exchanged by the highway and the knives twisted in each other's backs. Even though Peter was gliding across eggshells with the lightest of caresses, Sylar couldn't bring himself to let his bruised feelings go.

Suddenly the tension of the other man's gaze became too much, so he assumed the abandoned role of skyline-admirer. With his throat constricting not for the first time in recent hours, Sylar watched the first blush of morning fade across the park below their perch. It was a stunning view from the penthouse, but it was also merely a backdrop for the unwanted memory that was glued to his eyeballs against his will. The sight of his friend through the car windshield last night – that split-second glimpse that Sylar had caught from afar during his descent, when it was just too late for him to freak out and fly off again... it mottled his vision and Sylar couldn't shake it. It sickened him. It gutted him. It blew on the flames of his anger and kept them from settling.

Because he was selfish. And self-serving, and cowardly, and Peter was right about him, too, and it fucking hurt. Peter needed his help desperately. But Sylar wouldn't give it. Maybe he would never be more than his past as long as it haunted him. But when would it ever not?

The distant siren song of early bird traffic spiked, causing the former killer to tense and try not to hear it as tinny, casino music. Just days ago, before the trip to Vegas and his close call with a duplicating man, he would have insisted that he was doing well along his journey for absolution. Before Harris and Parkman and Bennet and Peter had conspired to sweep aside the cloud of ignorance and let Sylar see himself in harsh lighting. He wanted to be more than he was. To (borrowing the empath's words) be "better". But it was too scary and too dangerous to play with such a volatile fire as temptation, and Sylar knew in his heart that he just wasn't the hero he wished he could be. The brave, selfless saviour who would risk his own progress for the innocents who could be helped by a Peter Petrelli at his full potential.

He couldn't bring himself to do... that. He couldn't. Not to his last tether to humanity. Sure, Peter had said he believed in him to get through the operation without relapsing, but even if he did, was Sylar supposed to feel relieved about merely being confronted with his biggest regrets for real, in the neatly sliced flesh, after fighting to chase away the memories for years? Was it supposed to be a good thing to recreate such a horror, but this time with the clarity of mind to digest every gruesome detail of what he was actually doing...? Didn't it matter that he couldn't handle having another person close to him be sliced open and bleeding and dead by his own hand?! Even if his feelings towards Peter were less than favourable at present.

The thought alone made him feel ill, reliving every detail in pristine clarity as if it hadn't been close to a decade since his last kill: the satin heat of the hunger; the wet snick of piercing through skin to carve bone; the swelling bloom of blood before it flowed from the incision, red and thick and silky; the control; the screams; the grand unveiling; the prize now exposed and quivering like a naked baby animal unable to fend him off –

Sylar was surprised by a lone tear sneaking down his cheek. He startled and subtly scrubbed his face with lightening speed, should the ghosts of his past catch him snivelling. Gritting his teeth as emotion flared again, he pressed a thumb to his eye in hopes of blocking the offending tearduct. Then he sucked in a crisp breath of the morning breeze, and gathered his senses like a dealer and scattered playing cards.

( )

The contents of Peter's mug lost all intrigue the moment Sylar spoke.

"I want to be able to help you, Peter. I really do." Sylar murmured, his shoulders finally lowering from up by his ears and his fingers meshing repeatedly between his knees.

Peter was dragged from his thoughts and into the present with a thrilling lurch behind his navel, meeting the other guy's dark, burdened eyes once more. A hue of resistance still lingered at the corners, but it was the sentiment filtering through that told Peter the worst of his friend's wrath had already passed.

"But even if I could... fixing your ability won't make all your problems go away, and I think you know that." The words were soft, kindly, said with the best of intentions, however the last embers of irritation in them scraped against Peter's skin like steel wool. He cringed at the reprimanding, at getting in trouble like he was a kid again and had just climbed over the new living room suite in muddy shoes. "Not to mention it could be dangerous. Have you even considered the repercussions?"

Peter didn't want to say his reply aloud, even though they both knew the pathetic truth already. It hurt to lay himself bare again like this, but he took comfort in the fact that this man had seen him in a worse state than this many times before.

"It's all I have, Sylar." Forcing himself not to look away, Peter worked to keep his lungs from fluttering in a race against his pounding heart. "It's the only thing I can think of." He managed a measly attempt at a smile, but it fooled no one. "I just want something about me to feel right again." He then lost another battle, looking back over the city even though he couldn't see much more than his own frustration.

( )

A fresh gust of wind ran through Sylar's t-shirt, and he wrapped his arms around himself as best he could. Rosy sunbeams reached over the city to touch upon him, but they felt hollow and void of warmth.

How was Sylar supposed to argue with Peter's desire? He understood it, too well. But there was no release from past mistakes, not even time travel could erase the scars completely. There was no escape from this life, Sylar knew personally. He had hunted for it for years, searched in the bloody crevices of other people's brains, but there was no such thing as a way out. Not an easy one, anyway. Still, that hadn't stopped him from searching, so how could he ever ask that of someone else?

Goddamn it. Suspended within swirling currents of competing emotions, Sylar couldn't break the surface or touch the ground no matter how hard he tried, and he hated being without that control. Why couldn't he just be angry without shame butting in like the unwanted relative who never got the message...? Why did being a better person have to come with such complicated ties?

Raking his fingers through his hair, Sylar finally stopped trying to fight against those currents. He surrendered to the force of the tide and let it sweep him along whichever way it so chose.

The fateful deed being asked of him was far beyond the capability of the most powerful man on the planet. But Peter wanted it terribly. And Sylar might have been the only person alive who could ever grant him his wish. That's not to say he should, he wasn't obligated and sure as hell had the right to say no! Only... if it were the other way around, and Sylar was pleading for a shred of relief that Peter had to give? He knew from experience that the empath wouldn't hesitate to help him in any way possible.

His hand reached over by itself, indecisive in its direction, and surprised Sylar by foregoing the coffee mug in favour of lightly clasping the crook of Peter's knee. The touch was registered with a swish of dark hair and a rise in the tension of the smaller man's frame, but otherwise wasn't shaken away. It gave Sylar the courage to wet his dry lips.

"Peter..." The guy didn't move or lift his head, as if that would mean he wasn't as transparent as glass. Sylar swallowed again. "...Look at me."

( )

Peter couldn't, so he didn't. He was too afraid that the frail composure he had been clinging to since the car would shatter the moment he set eyes on the sympathetic expression he knew Sylar was wearing.

He couldn't predict the lecture that was headed his way, but no matter what choice words the guy bestowed upon him, they were just another consolation prize. A placeholder. A rejection swaddled in the pretense of being "what's best for you", and Peter was expected to accept this and be grateful and not complain that it wasn't even close to what he'd wanted. Such as it had been all his life. But he couldn't be upset by it, because Sylar wasn't in the wrong, here. And Peter didn't want to make the guy feel even worse than he already had.

The taller man tightened his hold around his knee, just enough to be persistant but not so much to be fearsome. "Look at me, Peter."

Reluctantly, Peter obliged, just praying that for once his every feeling wasn't plastered over his scalding face. He burned under Sylar's attention, bracing himself to accept another, albiet softer, rejection in so short a time.

Sylar, however, as he tended to do from time to time, surprised him completely. "...I want to try something." Peter blinked at that, confused, awaiting the rest of the rebuffal that never left the other man's lips. "Do you remember I once told you about that time...in Texas?" Peter continued to struggle at the sudden, random change in topic. Texas...?

( )

Sylar cursed himself when he saw Peter's frazzled mind recall the too many bad memories that had transpired in that place. "The waitress?" He amended, aware of his pulse creeping faster.

"...Charlie." Bingo. Peter's eyes slowly began to clear of uncertainty as he recalled that conversation from long ago, when it had been cold outside and the windows were steamed up from the only two hot drinks in the whole world, let alone the diner. "You saved her?"

Breathing deeply, Sylar made himself nod his confirmation, as tightly as hesitantly as it was. God, he just really hoped this wasn't a terrible idea, but it was all he had to safely give in order to ease the suffering of his only friend. It probably wouldn't even work, and it was a coward's alternative to the other method, and it was nothing close to suitable, professional help for Peter's issues. But if it might make the guy stop hurting...

He flinched when the fire of excitement burst beautifully to life again inside Peter. The man shifted on the step until his body was facing Sylar directly. "Wait! D'you mean-?"

"I don't know." He said seriously, putting his foot down before Peter got too carried away all over again. "But it's worth a shot."

The little man didn't say more although it was obvious he wanted to, and his face was shining and hopeful and eager compared to merely seconds before. Even though Sylar despised that he was being emotionally manipulated into straying this far from his original standpoint (deliberately or not), and despite the fact that he was still more angry at Peter than he had been in months, damn it if he didn't want to do anything right then to make him feel better. Goddamned Petrellis always knew exactly how to play the game.

Steeling himself, shaking the dust from his once familiar, professional manner, Sylar sat up straight and channeled his focus upon the man before him. He wasn't happy with this arrangement. But compared to the alternative he almost welcomed it with open arms.

( )

It was as if Peter's brain had shut down all of a sudden. He might have worried it was Sylar's doing, but the man hadn't started yet, and it had been the words (or even the spaces between the words) that had done it. And now Peter couldn't think. He could only feel.

He was aware of his heartbeat racing like that of a hummingbird; of every second rolling over him only to build the anticipation; of the sudden fear and thrill that he might finally get what he'd been yearning for; the unreachabe latch over his old self straining to burst free; the reality of this moment finally falling upon him at last; and the utmost gratitude towards Sylar for even contemplating doing this for him. He felt so much going on at once, meanwhile he couldn't do more than sit on that uncomfortable step and and question his sudden good fortune.

When he'd heard company arrive atop the fire escape, at best he'd been expecting a cold exchange, or to be told off again – in not so polite phrasing. He'd been so invested in guilt and self-doubt and trying to work out what to say to Sylar in the morning that he hadn't for a moment thought the man had tracked him down to accept his request.

Yet, here was Sylar now: disgruntled, yes, but inspecting Peter with the same, thorough concentration he used on his many precious time pieces. The empath could have hugged him again right then, right now, if he thought it wouldn't ruin the tentative progress they'd made since the fight.

Instead, Peter sneaked a hand onto the watchmaker's forearm. He would have masked the motion by taking an ability, but seeing as he already held regeneration – and that was as good a power as any to keep for this experiment – he didn't bother with an excuse.

Sylar conceded the gesture with a flick of his eyes, brief enough not to have drawn him out of his zone of concentration. Peter's insides squirmed like he was back in the stolen car swerving across the highway, and all at once he wanted to stretch or shake or warm up a little first. But all impulses fled him when Sylar's hand gently but firmly held the side of his head.

"You have to hold still." He murmured, so quiet that Peter probably wouldn't have heard him had he not been looking. "Otherwise..." He didn't finish the sentence.

"It's okay. I trust you."

Peter said it without thinking, but faltered as he locked eyes with Sylar and they both awkwardly recalled the end of the argument. He didn't rescind his words, and he didn't regret them either, but he did force away the stinging aftermath and fought to stay present for what was happening now. What Sylar was really about to do for him now.

"Go for it." He consented, holding his breath as Sylar hesitated, tore his gaze back to Peter's forehead and pulled his arm free from Peter's touch. He might have taken even so small a gesture the wrong way, had Sylar's free hand not lifted into his line of sight, poised as if he were holding an invisible, intricate tool aloft.

Then Peter watched as the watchmaker's fingers moved microscopically, carefully, every millimetre of every move thought out deliberately, and a sudden wave of goosebumps cascaded over his body. He couldn't feel a thing, but his imagination supplied the sensations of Sylar gently tracing over the map of his brain in order to find the right spot.

The hand by his face was burning hot, and his limbs were twitchy but he refused to move. He didn't want to ruin this, not when everything he had was put towards willing, hoping, that what he'd been wishing for for so long could maybe, properly, finally be happening...

Peter shivered again at the scrutiny with which he was being surveyed. He stared in wonder at Sylar's face as the man looked right through him, serene and composed and a true, undeniable master of his craft. Peter had always been awed to see the man at work, to witness the methodical grace that he nurtured his each and every project with – having missed out any natural creative talents himself. But as for Sylar... Gabriel Gray...? He was an artist. And Peter was his current muse.

It was a much more humbling experience than he had anticipated, vulnerable although he had shared himself down to his soul already and was willing to open his skull for this man too. But this was different. This was one-sided, a gift that Peter was taking while giving nothing in return. It was also the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. All at once he didn't know how to manage that.

"Is it in?" He joked, trying not to fidget in his nervousness.

It was probably not a good thing to distract the man at work, but Peter couldn't help but seek some kind of reassurance that they were still two friends in this together, not only a craftsman and his hobby.

Sylar's mouth tightened stubbornly as he refused to smirk or look Peter in the eye. "It won't be for long if you keep talking." He would have laughed if he wasn't in such a mood, Peter knew, but he let it slide with a tiny smile.

"Sorry." He puffed out a calming breath and tried to orient himself into behaving for the remainder of the experience.

( )

The distraction didn't undo too much of his progress, Sylar was grateful to note. In fact, he easily slipped back into the technical mindset of an artisan at work, happily pre-occupied by the mechanical side of the job with none of the bloody, gory, dangerous stuff to get in the way. It was a relief to find that he felt quite relaxed here, content with a fault that needed finding and a code that needed deciphering.

The city ruckus around him, the cold step below, and Peter's silky hair under his palm faded from existence as Sylar re-traced his way along the route he'd blindly uncovered so far. He worked warily, like fumbling his way through a tunnel in the dark while being afraid to bump into any walls or cause even the tiniest scratch of damage. He could tell that he was close to his destination, he could feel the tunnel beginning to slope up towards the exit, and so he slowed down his expedition for fear of stumbling into it too roughly or missing it entirely.

Peter's brain wasn't as unfamiliar as it should have been, as one Sylar had never laid eyes on. But as he stroked across the surface of the man's cerebrum, it almost welcomed him, aiding him along his journey. He couldn't help but wonder if this was (according to good, ol' Chandra Suresh's theory) because the soul theoretically existed in the brain. Which meant that Sylar had been here before.

It was getting more difficult to manouver, however. Which meant he was getting close. He encountered more resistence the further he pressed on, that slope became too steep and without sight Sylar couldn't find any hand grips to help him tackle the issue. He could picture the tunnel getting smaller, more compressed, like there was a disfigured knot up ahead and raw, inflamed scar tissue marring his path.

Sylar let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. With the tenderest of touches, he pressed as close as he could to the disaster zone.

Jesus. He'd never encountered anything like this before. So Peter had been right, anyway: there was a man-made blockade in the way of his abilities where there shouldn't be. Sylar's skin crawled just imagining how it must feel. Arthur Petrelli had really screwed his youngest son up, and suddenly Sylar felt wretched for the pain that Peter must have been carrying all this time without expressing it to anyone.

It was horrific to witness the remnants of the abuse. He couldn't imagine his own precious powers being held from him so brutally. But finding such a site was also a good thing, because the logical next step would be to find a way to untie the knot and set Peter's abilities free once again. Simple, right...? No. Of course not. Because nothing whatsoever to do with Peter Petrelli was ever going to be simple.

Sylar gnawed on his lower lip as he explored the vicinity of the knot without being able to touch it or see its size and construction. He couldn't just scrabble with the thing like a matted shoelace and hope for the best. It was precious. Extremely delicate. And could only be liberated by very precise care and a delicate touch: two luxuries that Sylar couldn't reach in his current restrictions. Still, he hadn't made it this far just to give up now...

( )

Peter was keeping himself calm by breathing as slowly as possible. It got easier the more Sylar worked, and the empath drew courage from the other man's strength and confidence. He was in the best hands imaginable, after all, and he couldn't dream of being here with anyone else.

But then the watchmaker's face began to ripple with emotion: frustration that leaked through the professional mask, and aggravation that dropped a lead weight into Peter's stomach. He lost control of his breathing exercise and instead watched as his friend valiantly fought a losing battle inside his head, trying not to let dismay drag him back down.

Peter knew that look, the furrow to Sylar's brow and the glint in his eyes that meant he was over-exerting himself to chase a prize he couldn't capture. Shit. It gave him a few seconds of warning to hastily tuck his disappointment into the well-worn, hidden alcove in the back chamber of his heart, before Sylar snapped back into reality with a curse.

"Son of a bitch!" He spat, releasing Peter's face from his hold in order to swoop to his feet and storm up and down a few steps, muttering to himself.

Peter took a moment. He felt no different than before. There wasn't even a lingering trace of someone's presence in his brain, not to mention the golden rush of his abilities swarming back to him. Slowly, he stood up after Sylar, his thoughts confirmed by the man's reaction that it didn't work. It hurt. But Peter was more than used to not getting what he wanted. At least he was in a better position than before, at least Sylar had tried – and he really had – and Peter was grateful for now to have at least gotten that much.

He sighed and composed his face, catching the pacing ex-murderer by the elbow. Sylar stopped abruptly, noticing Peter as if he was surprised to see him there. Peter tried to smile, to show his gratitide, but it got stuck on the way out the same way that Sylar's apology did.

( )

Maybe it would have been better never to have tried? At least that way Sylar wouldn't have built them both up on false hope and had to knock it all down again. His mind and ability were ringing with defeat, and both he and Peter knew what that meant. They were back to square one again.

Sylar dreaded what was to come next. Not right now, but later, when Peter got restless again and his wounds only grew deeper. And now that Sylar had witnessed the damage up close, he only felt worse about himself than he had after the fight – now he knew what was at stake, it made it more than just words and an unseen problem, and his turning his back on it was even more cruel than it had been, before. Even more inhumane.

But still he couldn't, he just couldn't bring himself to bend over backwards the way Peter had asked, and cripple himself in the process.

Of all emotions, it was fear that slipped around Sylar's ankles then, and he stared, openly, unguarded, at the latest person who's life he had ruined. Peter wanted to be fixed. He would keep wanting it. And no matter how long it took, Sylar feared he would eventually cave in and do his worst if it would make his friend happy. If it would keep him close, keep him loyal, give him no more incentive to hate Sylar and leave him. He would do almost anything. Almost. At any cost. Which was the most terrifying thought of all.

He only noticed Peter was holding onto his arm when the empath's fingers tightened. He spoke softly, lying bravely with a little crooked smile, and he actually wanted Sylar to believe it. "It's okay."

As if burned, Sylar's eyes closed and he winced.

...Suddenly he's standing on sand and the tide washes over his feet, but the water is red and sticky and flows from the hundreds of empty skulls of the hundreds of empty bodies trapping him here on this beach, where his first love lies consumed by flames, his regret tastes like salt in the air, his mother bleeds out onto him and there's a man's silhouette on the horizon. The man approaches the cursed site with quiet determination, walking himself to the gallows, but he doesn't listen to reason or desperation and Sylar can't stop him from getting closer no matter how loud he screams...

Speaking to his socks, Sylar unlatched Peter's hand with his own, holding it for a brief moment before letting it fall. "No, it's not."

( )

Peter didn't know what we was going to do or say. He just knew he didn't want this part of their story to end like this, when they both considered themselves failures and hadn't shaken off the lingering dust from the fight. Things still weren't right between them, weren't close to normal, and Peter couldn't stand to leave it this way after Sylar's selfless compromise.

But before he could make up his mind, a growing chorus of piercing whines penetrated the fog around the duo.

Blinking at his forgotten surroundings, Peter tore himself away from Sylar to discern the noise as the cry of many emergency sirens. His stomach plummeted. He leaned over the banister of the fire escape, eyes scanning the streets below for that signature red and blue flashing. Beside him, Sylar took up stance on the next step down, holding onto the railing shoulder to shoulder with Peter.

There had to be about a dozen sirens going off at once, if not more: police, ambulances and fire trucks travelling in a pack to the East, towards the golden sunrise. It had to be something big.

Sure, Sylar might be feeling used and Peter feeling broken, but the latter tried not to feel guilty for greeting such a welcome distraction. The first taste of adventure floated through the air and touched him, and the adrenaline was the best temporary bandage for his wounds that he could have asked for.

Peter looked to his right at the exact same time Sylar looked to his left, and as they shared the same thought in their gaze, they didn't have to voice the words each man had been building. Just because they were feeling sorry for themselves didn't mean they could pretend they hadn't seen this. It didn't mean that innocent lives weren't in danger. They couldn't just turn away from something so obviously in need of aid, even on the worst of days.

Peter told himself they'd return to this conversation later, when maybe something might have changed... or at the very least, it meant he didn't have to think more about it now. Not when he was no longer the soul most in need of help, or when such a crucial drive as purpose was drawing him into battle.

Even though fate seemed to have held a grudge against the pair recently, this sure as hell felt like a calling now. Peter yearned to play his part, and he could see Sylar equally preparing himself for the opportunity to do what they both did best.

They might not be able to fix themselves, or each other, or shake off the corruption that the enemy had planted within their hearts last night. But they most certainly could bury the pain, get on with the job, and try their hardest to put back into the world the same hope they had just lost.

A/N: Okay, so this update is quite a change from the usual pace, huh? But I thought it was time to dedicate a whole chapter to the guys and how the adventure so far has affected them ^.^ Even though it does break my heart to have them hurt so much, all these thoughts and feelings have been building for a long time throughout the story and they can only be contained for so long 3

As much as I do enjoy writing huge action sequences, I also really love being able to spend so much time on the emotional stuff too, and I hope you guys feel the same X) Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think ^.^