The days blurred together for the next few weeks and it was weeks that passed. Peter knew, because he had a calendar now. He also had a clock, which gifting had prompted the only use of mind control Peter was aware of: "You are not to damage the clock." Okay, fine. Not that he'd intended to. Sylar cared a lot about clocks – duly noted. He had a lot of other things too – more clothes, better hygiene supplies (including a toothbrush), a small library of books, a cot, a handful of tennis balls … He was still desperately lonely. Sylar only visited for an hour or so a day and it simply wasn't enough.

He went through a period of grieving for the world he'd lost and everyone in it, becoming depressed and withdrawn. He didn't want to play Yahtzee or Scrabble or chess or dominoes or any of the different card games they'd tried. He didn't want to talk, because everything there was to talk about reminded him that he was locked in a cell. He asked to be let out. It was politely declined. He begged to be let out. Sylar really did seem to love him and his plea bothered the hell out of the man, Peter could see. Sylar wouldn't answer.

Sylar had sex with him several times more after Peter stopped being welcoming to it. He grew less and less responsive until the final time, his captor became angry at him. He shook him and slapped him, demanding Peter acknowledge him; Peter swung at him and connected – "How's that for acknowledgement, you bastard?" Sylar let himself be hit over and over until he was curled on the floor and Peter wrenched his leg kicking him. Peter hobbled away to an empty corner of the room and threw himself down, breathing hard, staring at his enemy and thinking about how he'd had a chance there, for a moment no doubt, when he might have grabbed up his toothbrush or a pencil or some other thing he had now here in the room, and rammed it into Sylar's kill spot. He hadn't. And he didn't get up to do it now.

A few moments later it didn't matter, because Sylar was healed and got to his feet. He wiped the blood off his face and looked at Peter sadly. Peter gave him the finger. Sylar actually smiled, but he turned and walked out. If Peter had known what would happen next, he wouldn't have flipped him off. Because Sylar didn't come back the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. An entire week passed without Peter having any human contact whatsoever.

He tried talking to the attendant on the third day, babbling like an idiot at the slot, the moment it opened and continuing long past when the footsteps had faded down the hallway. Whoever it was didn't respond so the next day he kept the damn tray and wouldn't give it back. He went without food and water for two and a half days, and although he'd figured out his rations were drugged, there was no sign of his powers returning. He finally broke down and put it back. He could have held out longer, but if the drugs were the same as those he was familiar with, it would take more than a week to clear his system now that he'd built up a concentration – and that was only if he was able to flush them out.

No contact, whatsoever. He'd already been starved for it. Now he didn't even get to see Sylar. He took up his pencil and the sketch pad he'd been given. He wrote little notes to Sylar and put them on the trays to go out. He apologized. He begged. He made promises, each day more outlandish than the next. He stared at the clock, listening to it tick. Had it not been for that command, he'd have long since destroyed it. Not that he destroyed anything else in his room. That way was dangerous, more than what had happened already. It occurred to him that he had enough in the room to hurt himself, too.

On the eleventh day, Sylar came back, arriving shortly before breakfast as he usually had before. He stopped just inside the door, having brought a tray of fresh fruit, bread and soft cheese for them to share. Peter had been drawing, filling a page with renderings of his own foot, working on shadows and wrinkles and realism. He put the pad aside and stared at the man for a long moment. Peter's mind was full of static. Sylar finally walked over to the platform and set the tray down.

Like that action was decisive, Peter jumped up and strode over to the man. Sylar braced himself, clearly expecting an attack because that was what Peter's body language communicated. He didn't swing though. He started rifling through Sylar's pockets instead. He found the lube in the first one he checked. Sylar was a creature of habit. While he was at it Peter reached down and unbuttoned the man's slacks, pulled down the zipper a bit and yanked them down. Then he yanked him around to face the platform. Sylar was startled, clearly, but he bent slightly and put his hands on the mat.

Peter pulled himself out and worked himself slowly, breathing hard and trying to think through the rush of blood through his head (and other places). He couldn't. He couldn't think of anything. He paused to lube his hands and dropped the now-slippery bottle. He didn't care. He went back to stroking and probed at Sylar with inexpert fingers. Sylar bent more and reached back silently with one hand to spread himself. In all their fucking, Peter had never topped him – or anyone, for that matter. He didn't know why the desire seized him now, but it had.

When he was fully hard, he nudged at the other man's hole and was gratified that Sylar pushed back against him. He took hold of his hips with slippery hands and dug in his fingers as he pushed further within. Sylar keened slightly and then moaned as Peter started moving faster. It felt delicious. It felt like what he wanted. He vented his anger and frustration and loneliness, channeled it into the energy of his motions, thrusting frantically.

It was real – it was real – it was real. And Sylar was there, under his hands, around his dick, bent before him, being with him. Peter's brain started working again. He slowed suddenly, overcome, trying to let himself catch up, because it was too fast and too much all at once.

He leaned forward and pushed up Sylar's shirt to mouth the other man's back, suddenly regretting the position. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to touch his face. He wanted to feel his arms around him. He had none of that, so he started moving inside him again, plowing his ass with hard, regular strokes. Eventually he reached around to find Sylar's shaft and started pumping him. It took barely anything before the man lost it, making a small, higher pitched moan, almost like a sigh, as he went. Peter followed him moments later, the knowledge that his partner had climaxed driving him over the edge himself.

He didn't wait, pulling out immediately. He spun Sylar around again, making him stumble from having his pants around his knees, and threw himself in his arms. Peter hugged him tightly, his hands roaming under his shirt, up and down the man's back hungrily. A few seconds later, that too wasn't enough and he turned his head up to capture Sylar's lips, kissing him deeply. It was answered with passion. They kissed until Peter sagged away, eyes sliding shut in finally satiated bliss as he clung to his lover.

"Don't leave me," Peter mumbled, wrapping his hands into Sylar's shirt like he would resist his departure by holding on with all his might. "Don't leave me alone in here. Not again. Please. I'd rather you tortured me. I'd rather anything. Not alone. Please. Not alone."

Sylar sighed and reached up a hesitant hand to touch his hair. It slowly grew bolder, petting him. "No one likes to be alone, for the only person they care about to turn away from them."

Peter shuddered. He pressed his face to Sylar's chest, pulling the man against him like he just couldn't get close enough. "I won't."

"Peter, you'd leave me in a heartbeat if you had the chance." Sylar spoke softly, without blame.

"No. I won't."

The taller man was silent, digesting the truth of that, parsing the possible meanings. He enfolded Peter in his arms and kissed the top of his head. They stood together for long minutes, with Sylar eventually swaying slightly, rocking them together. Finally Peter came back up for another passionate kiss, then a round of smaller ones, touching and caressing Sylar's face. "I won't leave," Peter said. "Leave the fucking door hanging open and as long as you come back to me every day, I'll stay."

"I really have twisted you up then." Sylar tried to shrug him off and for a moment Peter didn't let him. Sylar put his hands on Peter and gently pried him off. "Let's eat, okay? I'm not leaving." Peter nodded and let him go reluctantly. They ate quietly until Sylar said, "You can't possibly want to be with me. This is just some sort of psychological thing. You're as damaged as I am. I didn't mean to-"

"I don't care," Peter said hotly, cutting him off. "What the hell did I have out there, anyway? My relationships were shallow and out of convenience. I was giving my life for …" He shook his head. "I was killing people. It was easy to cast me as a terrorist because I'd become one. I made so many mistakes. I kept fighting when the right answer was trying to negotiate – appeasement, reconciliation – just stop fighting!" he spat out, beginning to gesture strongly. "It wasn't accomplishing anything! There were other ways. I didn't find them because I didn't look."

He stared right at Sylar, saying, "What might have happened if someone had loved you?"

Sylar looked thrown by the question. "Peter … I'm not lovable."

"The hell you're not."

"I've … the things I've done to you …"

"The last five years have been a disaster," Peter threw out, cutting through the bullshit with Sylar in a way he never would have with those in the Resistance. "What if things had been different?"

"They weren't."

Peter huffed. "Yeah. Fine. You're right. They weren't. Then all we have is the future. Let's change that."

Sylar watched him closely as they ate. After so long has passed that Peter had to struggle to recall what he was answering, Sylar said, "Okay. I'll make arrangements. It might take a week or two. I've been having some problems."

When he left, the door swung open behind him.

XXX

It was three days later that it happened. Sylar had come back every day as promised. Peter had stayed, as promised. One moment it was just the two of them, Peter walking over to get the chess board while Sylar leaned on the platform and told him 'knock, knock' jokes; the next the room was crowded and Peter was being shoved against the wall. His heel hit something fragile, which shattered on impact. He looked down. It was the glass casing of the clock. His stomach felt like it dropped through the floor.

He looked back up. Sylar was on the ground, a dagger driven into one ear. Peter blinked. His kill spot wasn't quite where Peter had thought it was, not that this mattered much as Peter had never gone for it. He blinked around at everyone else. He was being held effortlessly by Niki, his sometimes girlfriend. She was regarding him curiously, because the Peter she was holding was as different from the one she knew as Jessica had been from herself.

He let his old persona settle over him, a permanent scowl etching itself in his features like it had never left. It fit him like a glove, and like a glove, it dulled his feelings. He hadn't realized just how much Sylar had stripped him down to the essentials, down to the person he'd been before any of this. He shook off Niki's hand and she let him, because now he was the same man she'd known before – or at least he looked that way.

Hiro gave him a small, genuine smile and a respectful nod. "We did not expect to find you here, Peter. This was the one place Sylar went regularly where he took no guards. Molly had been helping us track him. I am pleased to see you are still alive."

"Glad to see you too, old friend. Sorry I've been kind of out of the loop." He looked around the room, recognizing about half the faces. That was one of the things about the Resistance that had worn Peter down the most – the constant turnover. It was appalling – the loss of life in their struggle. There had to be a better way. He looked down at Sylar, eyes narrowing.

Hiro turned to the others and said, "As we agreed, I will destroy him." He reached down to touch Sylar's body.

"NO!" Peter jumped forward, barely having the presence of mind to have his voice be angry instead of frightened. He grabbed his friend's arm. "Where are you taking him?" he asked brusquely.

Hiro straightened and eyed the hand on his arm. That had been a misstep. Peter let him go. Hiro spoke stiffly, "I am taking him to an incinerator, where he will be burned until he is ash. Then we will scatter it. He will not come back."

Peter glanced around the room again. Everyone was in agreement and he only knew half the people here. Even of those, his word meant little if they thought he'd been trapped here, subject to whatever mental conditioning Sylar had been dishing out. And at least for the moment, he didn't give a shit if that was exactly what had been happening. He had to think fast. "Where's Claire?"

Hiro blinked once, which meant he was surprised by the question and its implications. "She is … We believed that she was dead. Of course, we also believed you were dead. Does she still live?"

"Yes, she does. And he knows where they're keeping her." He gestured at Sylar.

One of the people he didn't know said, "Maybe she's in another one of these cells."

"You can look," Peter said, "But I got out of him," he gestured at Sylar's body, "that she was in a coffin somewhere with a spike in her head." It was close to the truth – actually Sylar had said a morgue, but Peter knew that 'coffin' would get more of a reaction from the Japanese man.

Hiro's lips thinned. "She could be anywhere!"

"Let me talk to him. I'll find out." He looked down at Sylar, beginning to wonder what he'd do if they agreed and what he'd do if Sylar cooperated. Was there any possibility of that? If their roles were reversed, was there any chance of the relationship surviving? Did they even have a relationship, or had Peter gone crazy in here? Had it all been just a ploy? Because there was no way Sylar was going to survive this as president. If he wanted to live, if he wanted a life with Peter or anyone else, he was going to have to give up everything – everything except perhaps Peter.

People looked around at one another uncertainly. Everyone knew Peter had been in charge before Hiro. They also knew he had a past with Claire. So his request to stay Sylar's execution wasn't totally off-base, even if the circumstances were very questionable. The room was clearly a prison cell, even with the amenities.

Hiro was studying Peter intently though regardless. "You do not have your abilities?"

"No. They drugged the water. I'll get them back in a week or two though. We can just keep him like that until then."

Hiro looked down at Sylar for a moment, then at Peter. He was sensing that something wasn't right about the situation. Peter saw his doubt and tried to think of what he could say to persuade him, because the whole future hung on what Hiro decided to do. A thought came to Peter and he smiled arrogantly. "Like you told me all those years ago, Hiro: 'Save the cheerleader, save the world.'"

Hiro smiled slightly and Peter knew he had him. The Japanese man nodded slowly and everyone relaxed as the tension was dispelled. Hiro said, "We will go back to headquarters then. We have much to discuss, friend."