A/N: This was a particularly long chapter when I wrote it, so I split it up for pacing. Please bear with me, this is a very busy update and don't forget to read the next chapter that's up too ^.^ Thanks for reading – enjoy!

Tongues of Fire

It's dark. Compressing. Something is rumbling all around although there is no sound, a hum that vibrates through the Earth so subtly it's easy to think it isn't real. And then, like breaking the surface of the ocean after drowning, Sylar jolts awake with his arm darting across the bed, making a fist in the loose tangle of sheets.

"Peter?" He mumbles, sitting up in bed and scrubbing at his eyes. The space beside him is cool, empty, void of everything including a person-shaped indent in the mattress.

Sylar's sigh disturbs the dusty air. It's hot in here, murky but for the faint, orange glow that pours through the cracks in boarded-up windows. It's impossible to tell what time it is, but it's not like that matters anyway.

Suppressing a shiver, the man clambers free from his bed and ventures out from a collapsed alcove masquerading as a room. Ignoring the churl in his gut, he winds his way through a vacant, bruised shell of a building, met by nothing and no one, only silence. He resists the lure to peer into shadows that are draped along broken corridors like curtains, because he knows exactly where he's going, where he's supposed to be.

The largest room at the end of the topmost corridor welcomes him.

Sylar is greeted by the line of a man's silhouette, stark and solid against a backdrop of crumbling brick, a jagged hole in the wall, and golden dust particles that float through the air in slow motion. Hovering in the doorway, Sylar steals a second, running a hand over his overgrown beard and bracing himself in privacy. Then his voice comes out more strangled than it should.

"Have you been here all night?"

The only response from the other man is a shift of his shoulders against the broken backrest of his chair.

Relenting with a sigh, Sylar presses forward, fighting through nerves and hesitation that try to pull him back like the tide. Quietly he approaches Peter Petrelli's side, tickling his knuckles against the back of the man's neck where his hair has fallen forward with the bowing of his head.

"I thought we agreed you were going to try to sleep more." Sylar continues, his voice eerily loud when there is no other competition.

"I did try." Peter speaks hoarsely. He doesn't acknowledge the caress more than the goosebumps that blossom beneath Sylar's touch. "But I can't... I keep seeing it ov-over again."

Sylar winces deeply. He understands. He knows there is nowhere in the world to go or hide or deny what they did. Why should the confines of their own dreams be any different?

There was a time, even not that long ago, when Peter had been impervious to this torment. But slowly he is coming back to himself. Sylar watches him day by day, sees him emerging from the daze and inhuman possession that had claimed him for so long, but it only breaks the sensitive man further to awake to the fallout of his actions. To look over the debris with the clarity of mind to regret what he has done.

What he asked Sylar to do. And what Sylar allowed him to.

But tonight... this is the closest to himself Sylar has seen Peter in a long time: when the guilt is impossible, more crushing than the deed itself because Peter is caring again, and remembering, and he knows that he betrayed everything he used to be and everyone he ever loved. And without his people to cherish, what's the point of being here...?

Finding his voice, the former killer moves on to stroke the back of his ally's head now; long, thick, untamed hair that is coarse to the touch instead of silky as it had been, once. "Peter -"

"Don't." The empath grunts, shrugging off Sylar's hand. "I already know what you're gonna say."

He kicks his chair away, storming across the chamber to cling instead to a ledge of broken brick, where a wall has fallen in on itself to provide only a brief barrier between the room and the gaping void beyond. Sylar's gut swoops at the insinuation he should have seen coming a mile off but didn't. He tries not to panic too soon. He tries.

The dusty air ripples around Peter Petrelli like the force of unseen power, and despite himself Sylar tenses to be hit by something other than fists. It will take a long time, if ever, to forget how intimidating Peter had been at the height of his madness. But today he is far from that, Sylar knows. Neither of them have used an ability for months, after all. Why would they need to?

"Then why won't you listen?" He asks.

"Because it won't make any difference."

"It'll make all the difference!" Sylar retorts, defending himself feebly with only a frown and a calloused edge to his voice that had used to be as sharp as a blade. "Peter, this is ridiculous. You're not just punishing yourself anymore – you're punishing everyone, can't you understand?" He wants to fight for his piece but those muscles were worn down long ago, and he can feel himself barely making an impact anymore. "It doesn't have to be this way – we can go back. We can fix it."

The shape of the other man only hardens more around the outsides. He looks so small from here, so thin, wasted away from the passionate, bright creature Sylar used to know. He misses said creature terribly. "No." Peter states, hollow and void of the empathy and foolish optimism that had won Sylar over in the first place. "We'd only make it worse."

Sylar balks. "It can't get any worse!"

"EXACTLY!" Peter's voice would shake the building with its force, if the thing wasn't shaking already. "Look at what I did! I did this!"

He's trembling, and his hands grip the remnants of wall on the far side, clenching as if searching for a strong enough hold to throw himself over the edge. Sylar knows the fall wouldn't kill him. It would only provide a temporary relief from this suffering of theirs. But still his heartbeat races in his throat and he creeps a few steps closer to where his only companion is falling to pieces and he can't do a thing to stop it. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how far he falls.

"No you didn't. That's not true."

He insists quietly, for the millionth time. Because of course the one trait Peter has clung to beyond the end of his sanity is crushing self-blame, that goddamned inferiority complex. He could mould the world in his hands and yet still wouldn't think he'd done enough; he could end it all and still fight for the emptiness left behind in the world around him.

"You weren't responsible for this, Peter. Nobody was. You know this."

Peter releases a hollowing breath that shudders on the way out. Even from the back the expression he's hiding rips Sylar to the core. "But I let it happen." He husks, thick with aching remorse.

Sylar wishes he didn't shiver, but it's impossible not to when standing before that superhuman, knowing exactly what he is capable of. Not just in his abilities – but in the unbreakable control he holds over Sylar without even trying. If Peter does jump from this building, Sylar knows he will be one step behind before he's even had time to make up his mind.

"I could have stopped it but I didn't, I wantedit to happen." Peter sniffles and swipes at his eyes with his sleeve, so quickly the motion might have been misinterpreted by anyone other than Sylar. "I wanted everyone to be gone. I thought that if... if there was nobody else around then... I could get better." His rusty voice falls apart in the air and rains to the ground like cinders.

"I know." Sylar swallows roughly. What little part of his heart that is still working breaks for the millionth time. "I know you did. I understand."

A hot gust of wind trails ashes through the collapsed wall, rolling sickeningly over the two men. "This is all my fault." Peter grunts, his grip tightening on scorched stone. "They were right about me all along..."

"No. No. You were only looking for a way out, Peter, you didn't know what you were doing." Sylar corrects softly, desperately, inching even closer to the other man as he tries to talk him down from the edge.

Finally the smaller man succumbs to the tremors that wrack his hunched shoulders. "Why did you let me do it?!" He snarls, a wretched, ruined sound that carries out over the expanse of the city. His accusation echos horribly through the bones of the building and back into Sylar. "How can you even stand to be near me?!" He wobbles dangerously close to the drop before him, causing Sylar to hurry the remaining distance until he stops just short of physical contact.

Licking dry lips, he speaks barely above a whisper even though it would make no difference if he had screamed at the top of his lungs. "Because we're in this thing together. Because it's always been you and me against the world, Peter, don't you remember?"

It's not that he doesn't want to touch – he does. He wants to feel the warmth of someone else's skin, to do something so human, to reach out and trace the scar that mars Peter's fine features, to pull the front lock of his hair forward over his face the way he'd used to wear it. Maybe far beneath his haggard appearance and the wounds that murder left behind, he is still the kind-hearted empath who had only gotten himself into this mess in the first place because he wanted to be able to help innocent people? It's for the broken man's benefit that Sylar resists, not his own.

At last Peter gives in, turning around to blaze that wounded glare at the former watchmaker for the first time. The whites of his eyes are vivid amongst shadows, his skin dirty, his lips pale. Gritting his teeth, he drags a hand through his tangled hair to push it back off his face, clear for the world to see if only it was watching.

Sometimes Sylar forgets that he didn't always used to look this way. That he used to be soft, healthy, inspiring once, that he used to be beautiful. Before time scarred his face and hollowed his cheeks and drained the life from his eyes.

"I'm so sorry." The younger man's face twists beneath the angry scar that tears the length of it, sorrow behind the restraints of anger and denial. "I did this to you." He whispers.

The watchmaker shudders but doesn't flinch. It would be so easy to blame Peter for everything, but he just can't. Sylar's dreams of becoming a hero went up in smoke long ago, but still it hurts. Because he is as much to blame for this predicament as Peter, if not more.

He had watched. He had waited. He had let it happen too. He had held Peter's hand and gone along with the plan just because Peter had wanted it, and Sylar had hoped it might return his friend to him even at the expense of everyone else. Because he would rather have had only Peter and nothing else than the other way around, because what else did he have in the world to live for...?

The empath had only done what he had because he'd lost his mind. But Sylar hadn't. Or at least, he'd thought he hadn't. Although now, for the life of him, he hasn't been able to claw his way back to the level of desperate insanity that had allowed him to say yes when Peter had come to him that night with the proposition, more bloody and broken and deranged than he had ever been before.

Sylar twitches his hand as if to reach for the guy, but he never manages to complete the gesture. "It's not too late." He promises, both himself and his charge. "We can still go back." He repeats.

But Peter shakes his head, looking sightlessly straight through Sylar with tear tracks scored through the dirt ingrained into his face. "No. I can't go through that again. I won't."

Sylar doesn't even care that he's begging, pleading with everything he has left in him. There's nobody else around to know anyway. "But it can be different, if you just let me -"

"NO!"

"Peter! Let me help you!"

Defiant and unflinching, Peter stands in the ringing aftermath of Sylar's declaration. On the outside he looks dangerous enough that Sylar is reminded of him at his worst, but on the inside he's just a scared, traumatized little kid lost inside the broken shell of a man, afraid to get involved again after what he did last time.

Breathing deeply, Peter looks up at Sylar through a disobediant strand of his hair, and for a moment Sylar actually dares to draw on something that might be hope – it's been too long to recognise it for sure. But then Peter's demeanor fractures through the middle, and the glimpse Sylar gets of his ghastly, bleeding remorse is worse than fury could be.

With one smooth, deliberate motion, the smaller man tears himself from the ledge and the deadly drop beyond. He draws in close enough to make a fist over the spot where the watchmaker's heart used to be, with apparent effort. He drops his eyes and his lips tremble behind the scruff of his beard, and he speaks so softly that it could easily be misinterpreted as a concession. But Sylar knows him too well to fall for that.

"Don't you think you've done enough already?"

When the hand slips away it steals all remaining strength in Sylar's body. He doesn't try to protest when Peter pulls back, pushes his way past and out the room, kicking up dust with each footstep. He only watches him leave.

The other man's form melts into the shadowy corridor beyond the door that hangs loose on one hinge, and Sylar doesn't even suppress the anguish that flushes through him because any emotion is better than none at all.

Crestfallen, he storms to the blasted in wall and confronts the view for the first time, letting colour and ash bleed into his sight in shafts of blazing light. He grips onto charred brick where Peter's handprints lie, refusing to turn away from the wasteland of New York City that's stretched bare before his stinging eyes, no matter how much it hurts.

This sight is one that haunts Sylar every second of the day, even in his dreams, but it never ceases to be as terrifying, as transfixing, as it was the moment two immortal men had let it transpire. Skeletal remains of buildings stretch high into burning clouds; the ground is still smoking, still smouldering even all this time later; the embers have been glowing ever since the sun sent down tongues of fire to scorch the earth dry, and yet they continue to flicker.

Sylar watched the world burn because Peter asked him to. Because he was too much of a coward to say no, or to risk the only thing in his life that gave him any meaning at all. He left billions of people to be wiped out, surrendered them because he was so selfish and disgusting and pathetic. Sylar had done nothing but watch ashes fall upon a broken world made from broken promises that burned into dust just like everything else in existence.

And now Peter has finally given up. Given in. Lost. And Sylar is supposed to agree with that too, like he's been doing with everything every day since. But he can't, this time. He just can't give up when he knows he holds the ability to try and make things right.

As he gazes out upon the broken skyline, disjointed and transfigured like a row of black and missing teeth, Sylar realises he can't wait any longer for Peter to come round. The plan he has been burying within the walls of his heart is growing too big to contain now. Catching his breath, he bids a silent, painful farewell to his friend who has long lost his way. And then he bids farewell to the world he let fall, because if things work out the way he hopes then this will be the last time he'll ever lay eyes upon it.

The thought of turning his back on Peter now, after everything they've shared with one another, hurts almost as much as the thought of staying here forever.

But it wouldn't really be goodbye, he tells himself. For the first time in a long time he has to stop being so selfish and let go the thing he loves most in order to save it, and everyone else. And if the only way to fix his regrets is to betray the man he ruined to do it alone? So be it.

( )( )( )

Peter bolted upright with a cry, his head reeling at the sudden lack of Sylar and fire and smoke and ashes swirling in the darkness around him.

Woah! What-? What the fuck...? Panting heavily, he blinked away the vivid etchings of the dream that were still invading his senses, fighting to free himself from the compressing weight of a duvet. He was sweating, still wearing his clothes from yesterday which were now damp and crushed, but he didn't give a shit about that. Swiping his sticky hair off his face, he stared wildly at his surroundings while they chased away the lingering imprint of what could only have been a prophecy.

Peter wasn't in that hollowed out building anymore. No, he was in a run-down hotel room; the city was alive outside where clouds that weren't burning hung heavy and dark; the touch of dawn leaked through the window onto the evidence of yesterday's 'feast'; and finally Peter remembered where he was, and that he had fallen asleep in Sylar's bed last night. He was safe, he realised. He was still sane.

"S'matter?" Peter's hammering heart jolted when Sylar dragged himself up onto an elbow beside him, rubbing at his eyes like a child who had been rudely awoken from a nap. "You have a nightmare?" He mumbled.

Peter gaped at the very same guy who had just been framed in that window of blazing fire, feeling his hands shake and throat constrict for him. Warmth from the other man's body was currently printed across Peter's back from they way they'd been sleeping, and his skin itched with guilt and sorrow and shame for what he'd just seen himself do to his friend. Meanwhile, Sylar could lie there beside him so calmly because he didn't know. After all, how could he...?

Fuck, he was so different from the broken survivor from the future. Instead of pleading and desperate, Sylar looked comfortable now, unconcerned by his mussed up hair or the telltale softness that meant he was still half asleep. Hopeful. Oblivious. Wrong.

"Oh god..." The empath breathed to no one, wiping both hands over his face when the dream crashed back to him again in a particularly vivid aftershock.

He could feel the warmth of bedcovers and the weight of Sylar nearby keeping him grounded in reality. But as soon as he closed his eyes he was back there beneath a dust-filled, fiery spotlight that was so hot it burned through his vision. It had been soreal... so real...

( )

Clinging to sleep, Sylar tried to drag his friend back down to the comfort of the pillow, but Peter only scrambled out of bed so clumsily that he almost fell over.

"Oh god!" He repeated, more incensed this time.

It was with reluctance that Sylar forced himself to wake up enough to understand what was happening. All he could take in at first was a flurry of movement and agitation blazing around the darkened room, until he managed to tune in to see Peter fumbling about for his second shoe.

Sylar cleared his throat, concerned now. Suddenly he remembered all too well the events of the previous day, and the accompanying sinking feeling that followed. "Where do you think you're going?" He asked, squinting at his subject in hopes this wasn't really happening. Surely the guy had experienced enough moodswings in twenty four hours?

"We – we have to warn people!" Peter insisted, failing to wedge his foot into his boot without loosening the laces first.

Slowly, Sylar sat up, frowning. How the hell could Peter wake even more wound up than how he'd cried himself to sleep? His meltdown was horrible to witness, but Sylar couldn't pretend he wasn't losing patience for this phase of sliding all over the emotional spectrum that Peter had taken to recently (more than usual, that was). Especially when Sylar would be generous in assuming he'd snatched three hours of sleep tonight at all, thanks to the youngest Petrelli.

"Warn them about what?" He asked carefully, trying to remain calm if only to avoid encouraging this madness.

Shaking his head vehemently, Peter only ripped his way into his boot and threw away the laces. "The future! I dreamed – I saw – I know – I have to..." Struggling for breath, he snapped up straight with questionable balance.

Then his mouth fell open as an invisible lightbulb cracked into being over his head.

"I have to find Noah."

"What?!" This time Sylar actually yelped, making Peter's rushed method of untangling himself from the bed covers look graceful. He had barely caught his footing when the guy was upon him, grabbing his wrist and dragging him over to the window in all his barefoot, pyjama-clad glory. "Peter, you're not making any sense! Slow down! Talk to me!"

( )

"I have to find Noah!" Peter repeated frantically, the runnings of his mouth just an afterthought to the tornado swirling around inside his head.

The memory of his own face disfigured and transformed by time haunted him – not to mention Sylar! And the things he'd been saying in the dream... then the sight of a burned graveyard that had used to be a proud, thriving city... There was so much to consider, so much to remember, to prevent...

"Is this about yesterday?" Sylar snapped at him. "I know you're upset about the Hunger, but if this is you trying to prove you're still the same guy as always who runs stupidly into unrealistic situations without thinking – it's working!"

"What? No!" The insult bounced off Peter as harmlessly as a paper crane. It meant nothing and made no impact in the face of his transformation: where the cobwebs of the past week were falling away and he could draw in a breath that was as liberating as reviving from death yet again, because Peter wasn't dead. Not yet. He wasn't totally ruined. And now that he had caught a glimpse of how much further he had to fall before hitting rock bottom, he could only appreciate how good he had it right now.

And that renewed burst of energy – that life? It was not going to be put to waste.

Sylar wriggled in his grasp in complaint, but not enough to pull free as they stumbled across the room together. "Listen, I know it's difficult, I went through the same thing, remember? But you don't have to do this just to prove something to yourself –"

"No, you don't get it!"

Defense flickered over the former murderer's skin then. "Why? Cause I'm nothing but a killer who can't possibly understand feeling alone and isolated and how it feels to want to be better...?"

"Of course not!" Peter tripped to a stop by the window, staring up at Sylar and just wishing he could find a way to lay it all out clearly for him to see the same view that burned behind his own eyelids. The taller man just watched him, frowning deeper in return. "Look: it's not like that –"

"Then tell me what's going on."

Peter sucked in a deep breath as he wrenched the window open. "If we get to Noah, he'll have resources – a plan – anything that might help! I have to warn him so he can..."

But then his voice caught in his throat. His joints froze, locking him in place. Crisp wind and the smell of rain blew in past him but Peter barely noticed the cold. Sylar hovered indignantly at his side, but the question searing in his gaze was nothing compared to the inferno Peter had just woken from. Nor the dawning realisition of the final piece of the puzzle, the puzzle that had been struggling to form in the corner of his mind for months, now.

"Unless... unless he already knows!" With a gasp, he span on the spot back to Sylar, his hands gesturing helplessly at nothing and everything. "He knows, Sylar! And my mother... her dreams! She saw it too! They think we did it but we didn't! That's why they've been trying to catch us! They think they can prevent it if they bring us in!"

It all fit! The blank edges of the picture were filling themselves in on their own while Peter could only watch, receive and struggle to comprehend it all. It was all connected! It had been about this all along! If only they'd known this sooner...

( )

By now, Sylar would openly admit that he was frightened. Not only of the way Peter was acting, but of the things he was rambling about too fast to interpret. Still none of it made sense to Sylar, but he could catch enough to know none of it sounded good, either.

The little man was breathless, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, impassioned, possessed; but not by a power – by purpose. Clarity. Suddenly it was as if he'd been dosed in a perspective that made him abandon the fears that had plagued him since he'd exploded in the sky, but this was not an improvement. Whatever had got to him had got to him good, and Sylar wasn't sure he wanted to know what would shake Peter Petrelli enough that he would just drop everything they'd lived and died for since the carnival to go running to the man who had hunted them all this time.

He was trying hard to be understanding, but it was difficult when there was nothing coherent to understand. "Peter! What are you talking about?!"

Instead of the impatient expression the watchmaker had been expecting, the empath's features were softer now, his forehead creased in earnest. If it wasn't for such a worrying reason Sylar would have rejoiced at seeing this impassioned side of his friend shine through again – it felt like it had been far too long.

Peter drew in a deep breath, fighting hard to word it simply while struggling to stand in one spot. "I saw the future. Alright? I was there – and everything was gone, everyone was dead! I don't know how it happens but it happens! But he said we can still stop it, he said I can change the future and I can't waste this chance!"

What the hell...? When Peter made to climb out the window Sylar ducked in front of him, countering his movements with his own so as not to give him the chance to escape.

"Hey! Stop!" Sylar jammed his arms against either side of the open window, withstanding the breeze that ran through his t-shirt and speckled the back of it with raindrops. It was nothing compared to the chills running through his veins. "Fill me in here: who said that? Who told you all this?"

Hesitantly, Peter fell to a stop in his attempts to work his way around Sylar. And it was the sudden shame that unfurled from his tense little form that had the watchmaker reconsidering his stance on this whole thing for the first time.

Oh... Suddenly it made sense. Of course it did. Peter wasn't just confused, or struggling to explain his latest prophetic dream.

He was hiding something.

When it sank in Sylar actually scoffed at his own stupidity. So Peter had been keeping a real secret from him? It should have been pathetically obvious considering his recent behaviour, yet still this revelation ached like a blade had just pierced through Sylar's sternum.

How long had the secret been fermenting? He didn't want to think back on last night, on the intimate words and the proximity he'd shared with Peter with the realisation it had been spoiled with lies.

He had forgotten how it felt to feel so exposed. To be so surprised by someone he trusted. But Sylar blamed himself for such a glaring oversight. He had been fooled by tears and cuddles and that goddamned face into a false sense of trust, because Peter knew just how to play him. And play him he had, alright.

( )

hadn't meant to pry open the topic of their future selves, not when there was a new problem that demanded his full attention and just happened to keep him on an even plane with his companion, were they to tackle this one first. Couldn't they just focus on preventing the end of the world without dragging all the other stuff into the limelight?

He still didn't want to tell Sylar about what had transpired last night on the rooftop. He didn't want to ruin what they had by unvieling how ugly he was going to become and how far Sylar was going to go along with it. He wanted to keep things this way for just a little while longer. Please, could he just keep it?

But his escape was still blocked by the larger stance of his friend, and Peter was trapped beneath the gaze of a man who could read the inner workings of his soul if he chose.

He knew before he even tried that he was not lying his way out of this one. He didn't think he had the strength to anyway, when the thought of one more indiscretion could be the point on which everything balanced. Peter's dream was still echoing at the edges of his awareness, so close that he could turn his head to the side and be staring through that portal of time all over again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the thought, and for the first time since waking Peter actively forced himself to slow down enough to let the swell of the current catch up to him.

"Sylar... please, just..."

He sighed, wetting his lips while looking pointlessly over Sylar's shoulder as if the easy way to do this would appear to him in mid air. It was impossible to phrase it correctly when there was far too much to say.

"We don't have to do this now."

When he finally gathered the courage to look up at the other man's face, he knew he had blown any chance of avoiding this confrontation. Sylar's whole demeanor had changed from confused to downright incredulous, a realisation of Peter's dishonesty that was so sharp it stabbed outwards as well as in. And Peter knew he didn't have it in him to hurt this person any more than he already had.

( )

Sylar had always despised feeling vulnerable, feeling played, lied to, more than any other sensation on Earth. And it never got easier to handle, no matter how many times he endured it.

He burned just being near the guilt-ridden empath. "Yes we do have to do this now. Tell me what's going on." The force he had intended to put into the demand never made it past his constricted throat.

The city began to stir at his back, the wind tugged at the evos' hair and the rain sprinkled in upon them, where both men clung stubbornly to their own incentive. It was a painful display of wrongdoing, of guilt and shame, to witness Peter squirm on the spot; gnawing his lip and closing his eyes and tucking his hair behind his ear again and again as if it was going to spare him from his predicament. It wouldn't. Because for every breath of a second that passed in this manner, Sylar only realised more how much he didn't want to hear what was coming. And just how imperative it was that he did.

If he were a lesser man, he would have succumbed to the blush of fury that made him want to tear his eyes from Peter. But he rode out the discomfort this time.

He could make this manipulating little fucker tell him the truth. He had used to be a master at... interrogating, after all. But he didn't want to do it like that. He didn't want to force his way into that place, he wanted to earn it and deserve to be let in, and until now he'd thought he already had.

"Peter." Somehow the command got tangled up in his feelings, falling past his lips as barely anything more than a plea.

( )

It wasn't fair to do this to him. It wasn't fair to ruin him with the truth of the future, either, but Peter knew deep down that he'd only been keeping it secret this long for his own reasons. He should have told Sylar about last night as soon as it had happened. But now it was so much worse, and how could he gently break the news to someone that they were involved in allowing billions of lives to end...?

Peter didn't want to condemn his friend, after everything he'd done to distance himself from the murderer he'd used to be, or corrupt him the way he had in the dream. But even without six years between them plus the end of the world to consider, the weight of Sylar's troubles pressed into his expression in pieces, until he looked down upon Peter in a way that was pretty damned close to that of his future counterpart's.

Peter had just done that. He had put that look there. He was doing it already? Jesus.

In his mind's eye he was transported back to that crumbling room at the corner of the crumbling building, to where his friend had made the decision to erase six years of his existence for the sake of everyone else. He relived the gut-wrenching ache of fighting against the veil of sleep to try and reach Sylar, to comfort him and just do anything to let him know he was appreciated. He had woken himself up with the effort it took to try and help that snapshot of the man from the future, and still hadn't managed.

But here, now... the solution to Sylar's pain was as easy a task as Peter parting his lips and letting the truth float free.

( )

At long last, Peter bit his tongue and raised his linked fingers to his lips, visibly struggling to capture the magnitude of his thoughts into words.

He stood so close to Sylar that the men could almost feel each other breathing, but Sylar didn't pull back and he didn't give in, either. Not to the wind that was tugging his thin t-shirt and stirring goosebumps across his skin, and not to the sufferingly apologetic guy in front of him who exuded a desperate need of rescue.

"Alright." Peter breathed, a consession that seemed to cleanse the shadows from his face along with it. "I'll tell you everything."

( )( )( )

Claire let her phone ring out again. Anyone else would get the hint she didn't want to talk after weeks of the silent treatment, but Noah Bennet had always been one stubborn son of a gun.

Sometimes she wondered if she had inherited that same trait from the Petrelli side of her blood or from Noah. It didn't really matter, because wherever it came from gave Claire the strength to ignore her father's desperate attempts for the tenth time (and that was just this week) to rebuild the bridge made of burnt kindling that balanced ragged and smoking between them.

The call went to voicemail while Claire focused on touching up her hair and make-up in the mirror. She had excused her stylists after the last interview had finished recording, because there was only so long she could put up with being fussed over from all sides like a Barbie doll in one day, and the world would hardly end if her make-up wasn't professionally done for signing autographs on her way to the car. Plus, these brief moments to wind down after an appearance were about the only times she had to herself when her schedule was so packed, and none were as sacred as the final one of the day. It was long after midnight by now, thank god it was over. For another few hours, anyway.

Claire's publicist Danielle paced around the dressing room behind her, finishing up the end of her millionth call today. Jeez, that woman might not be an evo but she was still a freaking superhero to do as much as she did and make it look easy.

Danielle hung up with a brief sigh and crossed the room to pat a hand on Claire's shoulder. "Another day, another hundred disasters averted, am I right?" She smiled her pleasing smile, showing her age only through the brief crinkling of her eyes. Claire returned the gesture but it might not have held as much effort as it should. "You did good today, babe. Now go rest, unwind, sleep. Gotta keep you pretty. The car's set to pick you up at seven thirty tomorrow morning, don't be late, you've gotta be at the studio by nine so try not to let breakfast with your mother and Lyle run over till then. Oh, and wear the Chanel with the hood on your way out, 'kay? It's still raining out there."

"Got it." Claire nodded, managing to keep her smile pinned in place until Danielle bade her farewell and flurried out of the room with her ear stuck to her phone yet again. Only when the door closed on her did Claire drop her head onto her arms and let out her breath for what felt like the first time all day.

Her facial muscles were stiff from maintaining a fake smile since the morning, and her head was aching from repressing her worries to pretend on the outside that everything was okay in the world. How many times in the past week had she dodged the question of the explosion over New York City on TV? There were only so many variations of 'it was an unforeseeable accident' she could create, after all. While really, Claire had known in her heart before seeing any video footage who it was and what had happened. Not the intricate details, of course, but what else was there to know besides Sylar had stolen and corrupted her uncle and now they were wrecking havoc out there together, deliberately or not? Because no matter what had happened and no matter who it had happened with, Claire would never believe Peter had gone nuclear on purpose unless he told her that himself.

But still, he had hurt people. He had almost killed millions more. And Claire was stuck in here, locked in this cycle of hotel – car – dressing room – stage – hotel – car – dressing room – stage and that was supposed to be her grand input to the world? Some life.

When the door clicked open behind her once more, she jumped to her feet as if she hadn't just been sulking here since Danielle had left. "I know, I know, the one with the hood!" She said loudly, but when she turned around lofting what she hoped was the correct coat, she didn't recognise the young man standing in the doorway. He certainly wasn't Danielle.

Great. Claire's first thought was that a fan had somehow managed to sneak in past her security detail. But then the boy smiled, and it was then that recognition clicked into place. Holy shit.

"Am I interrupting anything, Miracle-Grow?"

Claire could hardly believe her perfect eyesight. "...Zach?!" She only gaped at her visitor while he laughed shyly at her.

"Hey, Claire."

What in the world...? She could barely even recognise her old friend – he looked so grown up! So handsome in a way Claire had never thought to notice before; he had grown into his limbs and was no longer the skinny nerd she'd used to know with headphones permanently glued around his neck. He looked good. Like he'd had a happy few years since Claire had ran out on their friendship without even so much as a heads up...

"Wh-what're you doing here? How did you get in?" She stammered.

Zach shrugged modestly, running a hand through hair that was longer than it had been when she'd known him: choppy and tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed but somehow managed to make it look stylish or artsy or something. He probably was an artist. Living in a tiny apartment somewhere in the city with exposed floorboards and a hipster roommate. It was just so fitting that Claire couldn't believe she hadn't recognised him at first.

"I'm doing an internship here through college. Camera Operator. I just worked your show, actually. I'm not sure I'm supposed to be back here, but..." He shrugged again, still a shy, humble guy beneath the years, Claire noticed. Although, there was definitely more confidence in him than the last time she'd seen him.

So a camera guy? It was gratifying to know he hadn't given up on the skill that had first brought them together. Claire could still remember the first time she'd approached him in the computer lab to ask for his help after school... Had it really been so long ago? Shit.

The next thing she new, she had crossed the room and was hugging Zach tight, as if holding onto him could bring her closer to the life she'd used to lead. He chuckled again, hugging her back so lightly it was as if he was afraid to press too hard and break her, of all people.

"I can't believe you're here." Claire confessed, pulling back with the first genuine smile she'd worn in weeks. She'd almost forgotten how it felt not to have to force one into life.

"I can't believe you, either. You look... grown up." Zach said, looking her over from up close.

Claire struck a pose for him, slightly aware of her home-made make-up job compared to that of her staff. She hardly looked her best at this time of night after a long day's work. That didn't matter with Zach, though. "Thanks, you don't look too bad, yourself."

"I never said 'good'." Zach pointed out quietly. Stunted for a moment by his bluntness, Claire didn't know how to respond to that. Did he just...?

"I'll have you know my personal friend Marc Jacobs made this pantsuit just for me. It's one of a kind."

Zach smiled down at her, and he could easily have been a nerdy schoolkid again excited to show her one of his comic books that he knew she hated. "Yeah, well, I liked your cargo shorts and sweaters better."

Claire laughed despite the insulting tones to his assessment. Suddenly she missed the years of her cheerleading uniform, flip-flops and messy ponytails terribly, when it didn't matter if she walked to the end of her driveway with no make-up on and her hair ungroomed. She missed Zach even more. Since they'd last met he'd graduated high school, gone to college, moved to New York City just like a normal teenager... Meanwhile Claire had repeatedly ran for her life and changed her identity to avoid being experimented on by the government. She couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had she stayed in Odessa and grown up alongside him. Maybe she could've become a cool sort of artist too?

"How've you been?" She asked, trying to mask the sense of sadness in her voice. "You live here now?"

"Yeah. It was weird moving from Odessa to this, took a while to get settled but it's awesome. My parents took it really well, too, you would've been surprised. I'm actually flying home to see them tomorrow, so –"

"And? Have you got anyone special in your life?" Claire teased in a sing-song voice, aware of his lacklustre approach to dating back in high school. She truly hoped his confidence had grown in the time since, and by the awkward shuffling of his feet and the way he suddenly dropped their eye contact Claire guessed that he had.

"...Yeah. He's nice." Zach looked pleased with himself, but he didn't say more on the subject and that was just like him, so Claire didn't push for more information although she yearned to terribly. "What about you?"

"Me?" Claire practically squeaked just at the ludicrous idea. "No. No. Definitely not, I, uh..." Then she caught herself rambling, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I mean, I hardly even have time for friendships with all this going on, never mind dating."

It was when Zach closed down ever-so-slightly that Claire was hit by the full force of guilt for the first time since he'd arrived. It sounded awful, but she had been so distracted since fleeing Odessa that she had rarely ever thought back to what it must have done to him to have his only friend disappear into thin air.

"Listen, Zach... I'm sorry I never -"

"It's cool. I get it. You've been busy." He dismissed her apology. Claire appreciated that, especially when she could see the memory of hurt in his features as he spoke.

She couldn't help but grimace. "Busy is an understatement." It was far too much to fill him in on in one conversation. Which was a shame, now that she thought about it. Nobody else she knew would appreciate the details of her adventures into the crazy world of the sci-fi realm more than Zach. Except perhaps Hiro Nakamura.

"Yeah, it sucked when you never responded to my emails – I didn't know what had happened to you, with everything going on with your dad and whatnot. I did some digging at first but it was tough not to freak out." The sadness on Zach's face morphed into something much more pleasant. "But then I heard that a girl in New York had jumped from a Ferris Wheel and survived..." Once more he shrugged, because the turning point of the world was no big deal to the guy who had seen Claire regenerate more times than almost anyone, apparently. "I knew it was you. But America's Sweetheart? That took more convincing."

"Hey!" Claire swatted at his arm. But he didn't join in on the joke.

Too late, the happiness that had infected the teenage girl along with Zach's arrival began to ebb away. Slowly she placed the weight to his tone and expression that had been there all along but had seemed irrelevant until now. He hadn't come here to reminisce about old times, and he wasn't here to congratulate her on her worldwide success, either. And after being surrounded by nothing but praise and compliments and yes men for so long, encountering the opposite hurt like a bitch.

But not just because it was unfavorable. Because it tread far too close to the sore spot inside Claire that only grew more tender by the day.

Frowning, she stood her ground before the taller form of the boy. "I thought you of all people would be happy for me supporting evo wellfare."

"That is so not what I'm saying." Zach crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders. "I think it's great that you're out there giving a voice to people like you who would otherwise feel alone: I remember what you went through in high school. And it's cool that you finally embraced your inner freak." A flicker of fondness broke through his expression for old times' sake. It was just enough to make Claire second guess calling for security to get him out of here before he said something truly hurtful. "But c'mon, Claire. You're still not reaching your full potential. You're not being honest with yourself."

"And you're the expert on that?" Claire snapped at him. Suddenly she was done catching up, so turned her back on him to storm across the dressing room and scoop her belongings into her bags, not even caring what she was grabbing.

She didn't need to listen to this. Not when Zach had no idea – no idea – what she was going through behind the scenes. Who the hell was this guy to show up after all these years just to lecture her?! As if she didn't already feel useless enough without his help.

"You can't honestly tell me you're happy doing this?"

Behind her, Zach refused to let up. Claire even considered bursting her own eardrums just to avoid the harsh truths he was battering down upon her like fists. There was no point. They'd heal within seconds, anyway.

"You're doing commercials and you promote designer clothes and you pretend everything is fine between evos and non-specials, but there are real bad things happening out there!" He insisted, somehow able to shout without once raising his voice. "You can't just ignore that and hope it goes away! The explosion last week – that was the guy who saved you at homecoming, right? Peter Petrelli?"

"Wh...?" Claire blinked at him. Peter's name hadn't been officially released following the incident at Mercy Heights (a detail that definitely had Angela Petrelli's fingerprint on it). Zach had said he'd done some digging, but was it really so easy for a teenage tech nerd to piece those dots together...? Angela would not like that. "How d'you-?"

"Clearly you're involved in all this but you're just turning your back while people need you to defend them? That isn't you, Claire!" Indignant, Claire just stared across the room wielding bags full of products and outfits that might not even belong to her, for all she knew. Somehow Zach's words speared right to the core of the Indestructible Girl, leaving a scar that no weapon ever could. "You should be using your fame to spread the messages you believe in. Wasn't that why you jumped in the first place? What happened to that girl?"

All at once Claire's cheeks burned and she wished Zach wasn't looking at her. She wished she couldn't feel the memory of Nathan's funeral so close, or the heat and steam of a crumbling oil rig breaking down everything – everyone – close to her.

"...She tried to heal the world." Claire shrugged in defeat, sighing through her teeth. "Then she lost everything. Now she's just trying to pick up the pieces without anyone else getting hurt."

"But people are getting hurt." Zach pressed quietly, watching her with that look that had always been wise beyond his years. "You're the Indestructible Girl. You could do so much more to help them than repeat the same trash day in and day out on TV."

With a scoff, Claire shrugged her bags off her shoulders, letting them thump heavily to the floor. "You're saying I should be out there fighting bad guys in alleys?" She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms firmly.

Despite the topic of conversation, Zach chuckled to himself and Claire wanted to throw something at him. She would have, too, if she didn't secretly value his honesty when nobody else in her life told her how it was nowadays. The truth was a rare commodity, recently.

"I'm saying you should fight for what's right, not what's easy. What's the point of being superhuman if you can't even be a superhero?"

The rest of the studio building bustled on beyond the dressing room door and Claire's phone rang unanswered again in her hand, but she wasn't aware of any of it. ...Damn him. He sounded so sure of himself, in a way Claire hadn't been for weeks. He sounded hopeful, confident. He sounded like Peter.

He was right, of course. He knew it and Claire knew it, had long before that feeling had turned inwards and become painful weeks ago. Still, like her fathers, Claire Bennet was a stubborn son of a gun too, so she wouldn't admit this aloud. But she could, however, give in when the time called for it.

It didn't feel like Claire had come off worse in the conversation, like she'd just had her ass handed to her by this soft-spoken teenage boy, but she had. And, surprisingly, she didn't even mind.

"You came all the way back here to make me feel like an idiot?" She asked, face breaking into another of those genuine smiles although it seemed a strange time for one to consume her.

Gracious as always, Zach shook his head and ruffled his hair again. "Not only." He sneaked a tiny, sad grin her way and peeked at her from behind the longest eyelashes Claire had ever seen in her life. "We never got to say goodbye."

Normally it might not have struck such a cord inside the ex-cheerleader, but now? When her father had betrayed her for the millionth time, her mother was spending all her time with perfect Doug, Gretchen had vanished into thin air, Peter had been lost to the clutches of Claire's enemy and even Lyle took forever to reply to her texts? Zach's sentiment meant the world when the rest of it felt empty.

Even though he had just talked down to her, called her out and insulted her appearance, Claire didn't even hesitate before crossing to the boy again and wrapping him up in a hug once more. This time he returned it properly, and Claire nestled her head against his shoulder the way she'd always wished she had before leaving him behind long ago.

"I've missed you." She confessed, her voice muffled in Zach's t-shirt.

God, this might actually have been the first genuine interaction she'd shared with someone in as long as she could remember. Maybe honesty just sounded so strange because it had been so long since she'd encountered it? And maybe his speech had made such an impact because what Claire had needed all along was someone else to justify the things she'd been afraid to be feeling?

"Ditto." Zach replied quietly. It was rare for him to be so sweet with her without ruining it by some lame joke, although Claire didn't mind at all. But, clearly, he just couldn't help himself. "You realise you ruined me for life, right?" He tutted. "I mean, you were the coolest, grossest person I've ever known. How can I top a best friend who can regrow her own bones?"

Claire wrinkled her nose, thinking back to a certain geneticist and his tendency to cocoon people to walls with his ability-goo. "Believe me, there's worse out there."

Zach burst into disgusted chuckles then, and despite herself, and her status, and every hard truth Zach had just hammered home, Claire couldn't resist joining in for this stolen moment of relief.

A/N: I know there was a lot to process in this chapter, but there's still more to come in the next one – so please don't forget to go check it out too X) But first, I have a few notes I want to share with you guys about the events of this chapter:

Firstly: Zach. I'm really pleased to be able to feature him in the story, I thought he was adorable in the show and I always liked to think he was happy and content after Claire f*cked off like she did and just left him in the dust. And so now here we are! I hope you guys enjoyed his appearance X)

And then: Peter's dream/the future. It's a relief to finally be able to share this here in detail since it's been building all the way from the end of chapter 5! Since Angela first had her dream – this is what she has been seeing. But as for if she interpreted it right...? X) (I'll also mention here that I don't know why future Peter got his scar this time, but it's such an iconic visual clue that I couldn't not have it in there. We just don't have to know how he got it, like in the show)

Also: (SPOILERS FOR HEROES REBORN) For anyone who hasn't already pieced it together, the future vision that Peter had is of a world after the HELIOS wasn't stopped. That's solar flares that destroyed the planet, and is a big part of Heroes Reborn (which is also where the "6 years from now" comes from, plus in Reborn Angela says she had a dream about the HELIOS, which is the same dream as in this story)

Thanks for sticking with me all the way here! But trust me, there's lots more drama to come... X)