Keeping Promises

"Run! Now! Get outta here!"

Peter shouted over and over, until his voice was hoarse. He ran so fast he couldn't feel his legs anymore. He didn't dare slow down unless it was to help someone, because every second could be the last one and he could already feel the ghost of the river pressing down upon his back, ready to claim him and everyone else at any moment.

He gathered every mud-covered civilian he encountered along the way, pushing them in any direction of escape because it was all he could do. Peter tried to regain enough use of his lungs to keep running, and he tried to shake feeling back into his body to keep going, but he only had seconds to dwell on it each time before moving onto his next charge.

Currently, he waited until he was sure his latest gaggle of survivors were climbing up a ladder of debris to safety, and then he was off again. More, more, more, there would always be more victims, because there were too many of them and not enough of him but he couldn't let that stop him, couldn't let it be to blame for not saving them all –

Peter staggered to a stop, scanning the distant street level with talons kneading his heart. It took a moment to identify the movement in his peripheral vision as fresh chunks of earth tumbling down the crevice wall up ahead. A precariously balanced car was hanging over the lip of the crevice; then with a squeal of metal on concrete it tipped over the edge, and then plummeted the full height of the fissure in the Earth's surface.

Peter hadn't even processed the screaming family inside before he threw his hand out before him, not even sure if he was strong enough. He put as much force into his current ability as possible, gasping when he felt the comforting weight of the car land in his invisible safety net. Gently, he slowed it with telekinesis, then lifted it back up the way it had fallen. Shaking with the pressure, he handled the vehicle with a precision he was surprised he could even muster in this state. But somehow, by some miracle, thanks to someone out there, he did.

Numbness encased his limbs and turned up the volume on his heartbeat, but Peter refused to lose his grip on his precious cargo. He only let go when all four tires were settled as firmly as could be on the road high above, and he couldn't reach any further. Peter buzzed on the spot, simply watching the blurry shape of the car through shadows and sunbeams, afraid to even breathe. Then, like raindrops tapping one by one, relief peppered across his skin as each door opened and every family member revealed themselves to be shaken and bruised, but alive. He exhaled as the smoke began to clear and the impact of his actions rang out in the absence of applause.

Suddenly Peter felt both exposed and invisible – just an outsider to the hugging and kissing family who he had just saved, and none of them looked down here. They didn't acknowledge him. They likely didn't even know what he'd just done. But it didn't matter at all.

Reinvigorated, he shot off again down the crevice, leaping over rubble and dodging the aftermath of destruction. He lifted people onto higher vanatge points with telekinesis, trying to be as careful as he could while rushing; he was hailed by a group of kids, and helped free their friend from under a chunk of fallen road...

Peter had no clue how long he'd been frantically searching for survivors, or how far along he'd made it. Then suddenly he realised he was alone down here in the dark.

"Hello?!" He called, his rough voice pulled taut. "Hello?!" There was no reply, not even a faint whimpering that would alert him to someone else's location. Half of him dared to hope, while the other half knew the crevice was much too long for him to have reached everyone caught up within it.

Taking an overdue moment to catch his breath, Peter bent over double and rested his hands on his knees. He was drained in every way possible: emotionally, physically, even his ability felt weakened – like he was using the power to heal others all over again. Every time he used it it sapped strength from his bones, but he was well aware that, this time, the problem was psychological.

Damn it. He couldn't stay here. People were still counting on him. Sylar was counting on him too! He'd sacrificed himself to give Peter this chance, and just because he felt like a fraud who was spinning far too many plates at once, didn't mean Peter didn't have a duty to uphold. So he sucked in deep lungfulls of air, peered into the awaiting darkness and straightened up, forcing himself to continue on.

But then... he felt it happening.

The first indication of change was the prickle on the back of his neck. Then the rushing grumble behind him leaked into his awareness. He heard it coming. Then he couldn't escape it. He knew, before his joints locked and the trembling ground sprouted roots to stop him from fleeing; before his head turned to face the truth of its own accord, that it was too late.

Peter Petrelli probably would have cried out, if only he could have done anything at all.

Water. High, fast, deadly. It swirled. It destroyed. It swallowed everything with a ravenous greed that could never be satisfied. It was enraged, unstoppable, and it was crashing right towards him.

...Sylar...

He didn't feel much. It was a sort of insane, mindless clarity that only accompanied the type of shock you had no idea how to handle. Like blowing up in the sky, for example. But, this time, Peter didn't have regenerating blood to wake him up after the pieces came back together.

It must have been instinct that flared his ability in the last breath of a second. And then darkness was upon him.

Suddenly he was mute, deaf and blind, he couldn't move and couldn't feel and couldn't breathe but he was alive anyway; he was hit and hauled along in one direction by a force so much stronger than gravity; he was drowning, he was terrified, he was upside down, he was strapped to the front of a vehicle that broke through air fast enough to rip him apart from the inside out, but somehow it didn't. Dirt and grit and saltwater burned at his eyes but he couldn't cry, it invaded his throat and lungs but he couldn't cough it out, there was immense pressure crushing him from all around, yet when he tried to grab onto anything at all, there was nothing.

He was adrift, helpless, lost in the depths of the sea with no anchor or compass to guide him.

It was too dark to see through the water, but even if it wasn't Peter was sure his mind was spinning so much he would never be able to see straight again. It was either adrenaline or fading consciousness that turned down his pain, so that suffocating felt weightless instead of agonising, and so that every time he crashed into something large and solid and sharp... it didn't hurt. It just disoriented him further as the object halted him in his tracks while the water forced him to keep going in the other direction.

Then something faint glinted at him through the neverending blackness. Something called out to him. And it was the only thing he could focus on.

The colour and warmth were so wondrously familiar that Peter couldn't believe it had been years since he'd last been near it... it felt like home... he yearned for it to touch him, to hold him close and make it okay...

Nathan...

Peter's brother was closeby. Closer than he had been in a very long time. Was this what it felt like to die, for good? Peter had never done so before. He had come close many times, but the last, final end to it all was something he had never experienced...

He could almost see the handsome smile and broad hand of Nathan Petrelli reaching for him, ready to carry him through the veil and reunite them once again. He tried to lift his arm and reach stretching fingers back, but he didn't have control of his body. He should probably have wept, were he able, but the urge wasn't there because this was beautiful and natural and inevitable, and of course he was always going to be with his brother again.

Except Nathan didn't want him yet. Because the Senator would never, ever want Peter to give up. He was a fighter, he'd fought to the bitter end and the same was expected of his little brother. And suddenly Peter was aware of Nathan's encouragement wrapping around him like affectionate hands patting his sides, lifting him up, and instilling him with the will to keep going.

...You've got to carry on for the both of us, Pete...

Peter squirmed in the void. He zoned back in just enough to feel power ripple forth instinctively from his skin, propelling him to the surface as if he were flying. And then suddenly noise replaced the water in his ears, icy air clasped his face, and there was glorious light beyond his eyelids.

Desperately, he gasped for air but there was no more room in his body that water hadn't already stolen. He kicked and flailed with no direction, clawed his way back to the surface when the river dragged him under again, and when his chest smashed into something slippery but solid, he clung on for dear life with everything he had left.

The collision forced water from Peter's windpipe and he retched, unaware of anything more than the air creeping steadily into his senses and the tingle of telekinesis that was still purring around his form. Shaking, exhausted, he shook wet hair out his eyes and held on tighter than ever to his lifeline – what he now realised was a broken pipe jutting out of the side of the crevice.

Nathan...! He was gone. Or perhaps he'd never been there at all? Shivering bodily, Peter searched through bleary eyes, but the touch of his brother was fading now and there was nothing to see except water all around him, glinting in the innocent morning sun.

...Fuck... oh god, fuck! Peter gaped at the tide coursing past him down the length of the crevice in the street, like a river had been carved between skyscrapers. He was trembling uncontrollably, due more to fear and adrenaline than the cold that he could barely feel at all.

Surely this wasn't real? It was a nightmare, or a delayed mind trip from Matt that was just kicking in now...? Peter was so stunned that it felt like he was sitting back watching it all unfold around him, despite the force of the water pushing and tugging at him and still leaking from his senses.

He couldn't hear anything at all. Not even the mighty roar of the sea, or the thundering crunch of two flooded cars colliding just metres away. Everything continued to flow downstream without him, and Peter's strangled cry never made it to his lips when he was hit again – not by more rubble, no – but by the rancid truth that dozens more people had just been lost. The ones he hadn't managed to save in time.

He wanted to scream, to shout and yell about the unfairness of it all. Only, he could barely even draw breath without an invisible knife slashing his lungs. Peter ached all over, but it was a head to toe sensation that didn't compute properly. He only acknowledged the worst of it in his shoulder and ribs after he caught sight of ribbons of red trailing in the black water around him.

Floating in the rise and swell of the tide, Peter clutched the pipe despite the pain of doing so, silently convulsing against it. Technically he didn't start crying, because no tears escaped him. Instead, his body went through the other motions because it simply didn't know what else to do. What the fuck happened now? How many people were hurt? Could he just turn his back on this? Where even was he? What would he do about his own injuries? ...And where had Sylar ended up?

It was all Peter's fault. He never should have agreed to leave his friend like he did. He should've been stronger. He should've been smarter. He should've been a hundred different things at once instead of this useless mound of fear and ambitions that only doomed everything he touched!

Peter Petrelli could easily let go of this pipe right now and save the world from himself. But he didn't want to. No, he wanted to help, he wanted to avenge all the wrongs in the world, he wanted to be brave and good and capable for fuck's sake! He wanted to honour his beloved brother, and he wanted to wait for his lost friend to revive and come find him, because he'd promised them both that he would!

But his physical strength was failing, and telekenesis couldn't keep him afloat forever.

Through the silence, a distant cry reached Peter. He lifted his face but couldn't tell the difference between the debris ripping along the surface of the water and a person. But then he heard the cry again, reverberating like it had come from inside an empty glass bottle, and sound was dropped in full upon Peter, along with his sense of direction. Wait! A person?

Like a burning torch being lit, a flame erupted inside his broken ribcage, numbing the edges of the pain and casting light into the furthest shadows within. The flame warmed his bones and roused him, and this time when he strained his sight the dirt in his eyes didn't keep him from locating the figure of a huddled, skinny, teenage boy on the opposite side of the water.

"H-hey!" Peter tried to shout, but again his ribs twisted in his lungs and the sound died halfway from his lips.

The kid shouted something again, but while the words didn't make it far enough to be heard, it was more than enough sign of life. It was a sign, certainly. An answer to Peter's questions and a purpose when he needed one most: what happened now...? Suddenly the answer was all he could see. It was the most obvious thing in the world.

Without thinking, Peter let go his trusty pipe and ventured forth into the frothing realm of the water, once again. His ribs protested and his organs swooped, but he kept his eyes on the prize and a firm hand on his ability, leaning on it like a rope that would pull him from one side of the chasm to the other.

He was still wracked with tremors that only intensified when determination broke into the mix of too many emotions to handle at once. But they didn't stop the bruised empath from doing what he always did and jumping into the most reckless course of action, because surely he would die if he didn't save this person who had, in turn, saved him.

Sylar gasped awake.

He choked, gagged, and rolled onto his front to throw up an obscene amount of dirty water. He heaved until he was sure he would turn himself inside out, then collapsed on his back in the mud, sucking in long, rattling breaths.

What the fuck...? Oh. Yes.

He relived it over again: the end. It sent goosebumps along the lengths of his dirt-encrusted arms. As his lungs worked to repair themselves, he groaned his way into a sitting position. His hair and clothes were still wet, drenched through, because apparently he had drifted to a stop half lying on a bank of soaked mud. Blinking around in horror, Sylar tried to orient himself.

...It was grotesquely beautiful: water, long since settled, seemed to stretch out for miles before him; tranquil and peaceful and innocent looking. The killer tide danced gently now as it lapped around Sylar's ankles, reflecting back a cloudless night sky and sparkling silver moonlight.

What...? He rubbed both hands over his face, feeling grit and salt on his skin. He'd been out a whole day? How busy were the search and rescue teams if they hadn't found him in all this time? Sylar wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Taking in his surroundings again, he really noticed for the first time that he was totally, utterly, alone. "Hello?" He called to no answer from the vacant city, warding off chills from a time long past. "Hello?!" His voice raked out of his throat, spiralling away across the water and the glossy surfaces of evacuated buildings that towered over him.

It was horrible to be sitting here in the peaceful aftermath of such a crime. Sylar could only imagine what happened after he blacked out... the water alone was enough evidence by itself. The empty homes all around. The complete absense of people... Sylar's stomach twisted into a knot, and he just hoped that Peter had managed to get everyone to safety in time. Then the knot dropped to the floor –

Peter! Sylar scrambled to his feet at once, splashing and clambering his way onto the leftovers of the street. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

How could he have been so selfish before?! He could have prevented all this if he'd just gotten over himself and helped Peter when he'd asked! All these people today didn't have to die. And now their deaths were piled atop the mountain of others that Sylar dragged along behind him in chains. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters... friends?

No. Please no. It couldn't be.

Normally he would have flown, but the simple thought didn't occur to this man while he ran on foot to locate the slightest hint of red and blue lights. He raced along splintered apshalt faster than he'd ran on his way to locate the terrakinetic that morning. Because this was so much worse. So much more important to him than that.

He got used to the lights long ago. He didn't even notice them now. The red and blue specks swimming on his corneas didn't phase him anymore, and so he just stared into the swirling, glowing discs without pain or hesitation.

Until the vehicle Peter was watching started up and trundled away to collect another patient, another survivor, or someone who hadn't been so lucky. And he was left, once again, to sit by himself in the open doors of another ambulance, clutching a foil blanket around his shoulders just for the sake of having something to do.

He didn't want the thing, and it wasn't helping him physically. But he had refused to leave the area and had been dumped with it after finally accepting that he was doing more harm than good out there. Really, he was lucky the cops and EMTs hadn't sent him on his way entirely after trying to help with every new stretcher that came and went in this small hub of activity.

...Lucky... he sure as hell didn't feel that way.

Faintly, a good few hours back, Peter had been on high alert of any of his old co-workers appearing on the job – but they hadn't been working this particular site, or if they had he hadn't noticed them. He hadn't noticed much, really, after the twelveth wave of stretchers had come and gone in succession.

As the day had crawled past, Peter's nightmares had continued to haunt him. Matt's mental torments bloomed repeatedly before his eyes. But they were nothing compared to all this happening in real time... he couldn't bear it.

Once again he had failed spectacularly. He hadn't been able to do anything to stop this disaster or save everyone from harm. He was useless. Just a walking disaster... It had been reckless and selfish and unbearable, but Peter had been well aware of his state of mind before leaving Charles' penthouse and had gambled with lives anyway, just to try and make himself feel better...? That knowledge tortured him inside more than his injuries did. And so he just sat here, suffering.

A scream at his left made Peter jump, then wince at the disjointed movement of his ribs. He looked over vacantly through red, swollen eyes, and his chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the bandage wrapped tightly around it. He watched as one of the waiting crowd of civilians ran over to a new stretcher, sobbing avidly and hugging the woman who weakly leaned up to greet her in return.

It could easily have been his hundredth tear today that trickled down Peter's face right then. Not all reunions had been so happy.

He sniffed and stared out blankly once more upon the make-shift emergency area. There were far too many injured people. Far too many distraught family members, although barely a fraction of the victims had been claimed. They were lost, still. And the souls taken by the water were not just going to walk back up to their loved ones and ease the pain of being left all alone in the entire world. All but one, that was.

The empath hadn't felt so isolated since finding himself in an empty city inside another man's head. He had lost everything and everyone all over again. Peter was shivering still, shaking, but the foil blanket wasn't working because it wasn't due to the cold. His walls were collapsing in on themselves, knocking him down brick by brick until he felt as small and as frail as a tiny paper crane left to flutter in the wind.

Out of habit, he checked his watch before hugging the foil blanket tighter around himself. The thing was waterlogged and hadn't been working for hours. His phone was ruined too. Which meant that Sylar's would be also, even if he were in the right state to answer a call.

Which he had to be. Somewhere, anywhere, even if it took a while, he would be okay. He would be okay. He'd promised. And even if Peter had to sit here for days he would wait for him, just like he'd promised.

Bodies. There were so many of them.

They were strewn out upon stretchers every which way Sylar turned; living or dead he couldn't even tell. Each one was being fussed over, each one was drying and smeared with mud, just like Sylar was, only none of them had been gifted with the abilty to walk away from their wounds unharmed. Guilt threatened to bubble up, but he didn't pay it any attention for now. Not when terror and shame were tearing each other to shreds in his aching chest cavity.

Numbly, Sylar weaved his way through the maze of stretchers and emergency vehicles, shrugging off prying questions about the state of him, and gearing himself up for the worst every time he summoned the courage to look at the next victim's face.

It was suddenly so real, now that he was in the midst of it. These people were so fragile, mortal... without the power to regenerate, every word and every touch and every investment two people had shared could really be over within a blink of an eye...

It physically hurt Sylar to keep going, and for a wild moment he honestly considered turning back. Maybe it would be better, be less destroying, if he never found out? Surely that (even cowardice, even being alone again) wouldn't be as bad as seeing it for real?

His limbs burned as if fire were gnawing on them, yet his gut was ice cold in contrast. Every step he shuffled deeper into the depths of the aftermath forced his windpipe to squeeze tighter, until fear of what he might find had Sylar ambling around sightlessly with tears obscuring his eyes.

But then he saw him. Somehow. Even though he had been going in the other direction and had no good reason to glance over that way. And in the next instant Sylar was running again.

The pair noticed each other at the exact same time. Peter didn't believe it at first. Even when red and blue light flowed over the hunched, scared stance of that figure and the breathless distress on his face was every bit Sylar. Then the man was hurrying forward, slipping past dozens of victims and their families with no attention, and the truth Peter had been afraid to hope for all day finally floated into his hands. It was finally his turn to be found.

He moaned in pain as he climbed down from the ambulance, hastily shedding the embrace of the foil blanket now that he had the real thing coming. He only made it a few, stumbling steps before Sylar cleared the distance between them and the men fell into each other.

Peter clung onto this man tighter than he had even the pipe when his life depended on it. He grabbed a handful of wet jacket with the arm not pinned to his body in a sling, far beyond caring that his face was buried in clothes that smelled of soggy remnants of the riverwater that still clung to himself. He trembled all over while Sylar's arms around his back instilled more comfort in him than endless hours of that blanket ever had.

Sylar didn't even care that there were people around. He spared no thought at all to the beady eyes of onlookers, or to what they might think of him behaving like this in public. He just hugged Peter Petrelli close to him, catching the tremors from the smaller body and imitating them unintentionally. He hid his face in Peter's overgrown, tousled hair, even though it was still obvious to the entire world that his tears had finally bested him.

Sylar snivelled like an idiot, but embarrassment didn't claim him. Instead it was only relief; pure, sweet, ambrosia that flooded through him stronger than the river had. Thank god... if he hadn't... if one of those stretchers had been... thank god...

Sure, this enhanced human might have the strength to hold off the might of the sea, but Sylar knew he wasn't strong enough to see the last person he cared about dead thanks to him. Because it would have been Sylar's fault if Peter had died today, after refusing to unlock his power of immortality. It couldn't bear thinking about.

It felt like years had passed in a single heartbeat before he found his voice with difficulty, mumbling next to Peter's ear. "A-are you alright?"

The smaller man didn't answer. He only groaned when Sylar squeezed him tighter. Shaken by the small sound, the watchmaker reluctantly pulled free to examine Peter. Sylar held him by his good arm, slowly taking in the mess of his only friend. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, an open gash tearing along his jawline, mud everywhere, blood and tears everywhere else... it was horrible seeing him like that.

"Take regeneration. Please." Sylar pleaded.

But Peter just shook his head, eyes resolute behind tears that reflected the flashing lights nearby. "No."

"Peter –"

"No!" He repeated, passion colouring his voice. "Why should I get the easy way out when none of these people can? Huh?!"

Rocking back a step, Peter looked out again over the site of destruction around him. All the agony he had been bottling until now exploded out of him so forcefully he couldn't even word it right. "I wasn't good enough! I couldn't – couldn't do anything to stop it, I... I did this!"

Succumbing to another round of searing tears, Peter tried to hide behind the back of his hand, but Sylar shook him sturdily by the shoulder and claimed his gaze once again. How – even when he had just ressurected from death, was filthy, tear-stained and crying – could this man still be so reassuring? Flickering colours traced over the contours and teartracks on that face, sparkling like stars in the wells of trustworthy, deep-set eyes. Peter didn't know how he had held up without him all day.

Sylar licked salty tears from his lips, then his vocal chords strangled his words on the way out. "You did your best to help as many people as you could, Peter. That's all anyone can ask."

"My best isn't good enough."

Peter didn't bother wiping away the tracks rolling down his face, because the flow of water was constant and it had no sign of stopping. His heart was shattering into pieces within his broken chest, and no words could ever express what he was going through inside. Everything was out of place, everything was wrong and nobody heard him scream for help because nobody believed him.

"You..." He tried to focus on Sylar while he was just a smudged, familiar shape in Peter's vision. He fought to breathe evenly, but it was impossible with a rib stabbing into his organs. "You did som-something... extraordinary today. But I..." He couldn't even say it.

Sylar's chest stuttered with every beat of his heart. His hand still rested on Peter's shoulder but he felt so disconnected from the man, from his anguish and the shame he was suffering through alone. The former villain could only watch as the other man hid behind his hair and dripped tears at the ground, scrubbing a palm to his forehead as if that would elevate the pressure inside his skull.

Which of course it wouldn't. Because there was only one thing that could.

Sylar rubbed Peter's shoulder in a pathetic attempt to soothe him, when he knew perfectly well what he could really do to help. He could stop being so selfish, for one thing. Peter said he'd done something extraordinary in holding off the river today... but Sylar disagreed. While, yes, he had to admit it did sound impressive in theory, and it had left a hint of achievement behind: it was counterproductive and dishonest of him to count that stunt a victory in terms of his self improvement.

If today had hammered home one thing for Sylar, it was that the world was certainly huge and broken and unstable, and it needed all the help it could get. And where was he? Actively standing in the way of that. Hiro Nakamura had once said Sylar would grow into a great man, if he led with his heart. But that hadn't happened, had it? But maybe that was because he hadn't led with his heart?

...Maybe he really had to start doing that? He knew exactly where to begin. And if taking the plunge happened to work out in a way that he'd never have to worry about losing his friend again, so be it. He sniffed through blocked sinuses and swiped at his eyes with his knuckles, feeling nerves flutter all over his body. It was frightening, but what did that say about him when this was a true, heroic act? More so to Sylar than stopping the sea in its tracks? Of course it was going to be scary, so much so that he chose not to dwell on it too long. That didn't mean it wasn't right.

The ambulance lights continued to swoop and flicker around the men, and Sylar breathed in cold, summer air and the smell of the sea. It was dark beyond the lights, and people bustled around the pair at all sides. Despite that, it was quite a personal space, and he could feel he would have no trouble with it.

Under the pretense of inspecting the cut on his jaw, Sylar shuffled half a step closer and reached for Peter's chin, tipping it up so he could see him. His fingers brushed softly through untended stubble, and he pretended to be looking at the wound even though he had a feeling Peter knew what he was really working up the courage to do. The guy didn't stop him or protest, and Sylar focused on the smallest touch of skin to skin contact to ground him.

They were easily intimate enough to make it work. So Sylar let his frame relax and fell into the sensation that was unspooling from his core. There was no need to concentrate wholly like he had done on the fire escape earlier, or even with the river. Because this was natural, biological, emotional, and logic and intellect had nothing at all to do with it. Tentatively, he leaked the power through the pads of his fingers and into Peter Petrelli, slipping into the man's soul with care.

And holy shit, was it different than last time he'd been here. Stunned, Sylar tiptoed along the golden pathway of his creation, stretching into every corner of Peter with the help of Lydia's ability.

He recognised the place, but it had been renovated all over in the half a year since Sylar's last visit. He swam along the channel that connected his soul to another's, recognising the bravery, honesty and resilence that he had so admired last time... but he couldn't trust himself to identify everything else. The mountain of guilt Peter had harboured before was almost unrecognisable now, as infected and swollen as it had become lately. Responsibility weighed down every surface, and that damn hero complex now dripped from the walls and onto everything inside them, scrawled in snide, sneering comments about never being good enough no matter how hard he tried...

Like looking through one eye at a time, Sylar was aware of Peter's face twitching and wincing whenever he ventured too close to a tender spot of self-hatred, at the same time as he was entirely engrossed inside the man's soul. It certainly wasn't the same touching, wholesome experience from last time – not at all. Instead, Sylar had seen enough already and he'd barely gotten started.

Shame-faced, he backtracked, hurrying to the way out before the walls collapsed in on him and the secondhand pain of Peter's curse split him apart in a way that regeneration would never be able to remedy –

He didn't watch when Sylar came back to the present. He didn't want to see the other man's reaction to seeing just how ugly he was beneath the surface. But it was so much easier to just let him look rather than try to explain it all.

The hand on Peter's jaw dropped away very quickly, and he bit his lips to keep them steady. He got it. He couldn't even blame Sylar, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. More heat trickled from his tearducts and Peter stared away into the darkness beyond more flashes of red and blue. But then his heart fluttered when a soft breath touched his cheek.

"Okay, Peter."

It took a while to sink in. Then Peter made himself be brave and meet the gaze that was sizzling into his face. To his surprise, and more confusion, it wasn't dripping with disgust, or fake understanding, or even sympathy. ...No. Unless Peter was more screwed up than he thought, Sylar was looking down on him now with the timid brush of... concession?

"...I'll fix your ability."

It might have been worth it just to watch the moment Peter realised what this meant. The man's whole person lit up and he gasped, bundling his body into Sylar in another hug that almost knocked him off his feet.

Sylar wrapped his arms protectively around his only companion for the second time in five minutes. The pair rocked on the spot, pressed together so tightly their souls could have connected this way. Even in the midst of all the emergency workers, victims and watching civilians, Sylar melted into such an unashamed embrace, letting every detail imprint upon his memory. He had just signed away his soul for this, after all.

"Thank you!"

The whisper against his neck made his skin tingle. He recalled the tangled, matted mess inside both this little hero's body and mind, and for the life of him Sylar couldn't un-see just how intense his crushing lack of self-worth was.

He couldn't understand it. It staggered him completely. It petrified him more. And there was no doubt over what he had to do next because right now he knew he would do anything, anything at all, to make Peter Petrelli stop feeling that way.

"Thank you, Sylar... thank you..."

A/N: I have to admit, these were very difficult chapters to write (at first it was just one, but as usual it got away from me and became far too long for me not to split it).

I truly hope this didn't upset anyone who's experienced the recent natural disasters, but if I did that was never my intention. I've had the tidal wave planned since before I started writing the story (it's even in my trailer), but with the recent disasters that have happened in the world I almost wrote out this entire section. The very last thing I would ever want is to be insensitive or upset anyone with the subject matters in this story X(

But I decided to keep it in, for much more than Peter and Sylar's storyline. I wanted to share an idea with you all that helps me when things are very scary in today's world: I like to close my eyes and think of heroes who could save us, who could be out there protecting us with powers that can battle even the biggest natural disasters. It comforts me to think of Peter and Sylar and how they could help as many people as possible, and if this happens to have helped you too then I'm more than happy to share this thought 3

In terms of these chapters and the journey of our favourite heroes, please let me know what you think. Thank you, as always, for reading! I can't wait to share the next part of the story with you guys (even though I've already been waiting a year and a half to get here XP), so hopefully the fate of our boys won't be left unresolved for too long ^.^