A/N

Don't get me wrong, plotbunnies are great. Just not at one o'clock in the effing morning on a school night. This has gone from a oneshot, to a story, back to a oneshot. So it'll be a poem when you see it next.

Length: 8,778 words. That's 23 pages. Muahahaha.

WARNING: Profanity, PeterxSylar, SLASH, SEASON 1 SPOILERS. That's all… I think…

Disclaimer: As my friend put it, Piggy's going down. Not entirely appropriate for here, but… neh. I'm tired, you're distracting me from my story, so LET'S ROLL THIS DAMN THING.

Falling Apart

Peter Petrelli looked up.

Ah.

Why was he here? Another of those bloody stupid flashbacks. He still hadn't worked out what the hell had happened when he'd collapsed in that alleyway and woke up to find himself talking to Charles Deveux. Who, the last time he checked, was rather dead.

But… as with everything in his life, just when he'd thought everything had gone back to normal, he'd started having… dreams. Specific dreams. Dreams that… relived things he knew he hadn't seen. Things to do with his supposed arch-nemesis. More specifically, his life. Had he managed to brush past someone in the street with an 'ooh-I-know-everytime-I-fall-asleep-I'll-dream-about-Sylar's-past' ability? If he did, he was going to bloody kill them. Not being able to sleep because the consequence of doing so was watching Sylar ripping someone's brain out was now simply annoying. Let's just say Peter found out exactly whathe does do with the brains, and you do not want to know.

Tonight… tonight he could tell wasn't about another stolen ability to make him 'special'. Tonight was… personal. Everything was always darker, greyer…colder when he was in a 'personal' moment. He glanced at the sky; sure enough, there were clouds, there was a general rainy atmosphere, and he felt downright depressed. Somehow this… whatever it was gave him the wonderful ability to feel like Sylar too. Oh, joy.

Is that…? It was! Hiro and Ando. What the hell are they doing there? After Sylar, probably, his brain ever so smartly added and he glared in its general direction. Sure enough, a Sylar he almost didn't recognise walked right through him (damn, he'd forgotten how weird that felt) and past the two Japanese men on the side of the street. They trekked through suburbs and random houses until finally he decided to enter a small doorway he'd almost missed. You need to be more attentive, Peter. He frowned for a moment, but the small voice was true, wherever the bloody hell it had come from.

He'd managed to rant to his brain for long enough to completely lose track of the other man. He scurried to a window, crouching behind the two others and watching. He eventually got rather annoyed at his lack of clear hearing, turned invisible and (silently thanking DL) phased through the wall. At least now he could actually hear.

Ah… maybe he would have his fair share of blood tonight, he realised as the scissors were extracted from the basket. He bloody wished he knew why he of all people was there. He did feel a little… invasive. He shouldn't really be seeing this. This was Sylar trying to make it up with his mother. It wasn't like he was the only person there, but still… he just felt uncomfortable. He'd never seen him looking so… vulnerable. Scared. Who knew that even in this twisted game of heroes and villains – being someone special – the bad guy would have a secret identity?

He watched the scene with a sort of bored tolerance, but… he froze. He froze as soon as he saw Sylar's – no, this looked more like Gabriel's – face when the scissors sank in. He'd never, ever forget that. He was utterly numb as the picture was painted on the floor with the mother's blood. He felt like screaming.

He could see now. He could see. All she'd ever wanted him to be was special. More than he was.

He knew his pain. How could he not with a brother like Nathan? Wasn't there some stupid rule that said that the second son had to be most loved? Evidently his mother hadn't heard it.

And from the looks of the argument he'd just watched Sylar's mother hadn't even loved her first son.

Peter stood over Nathan's bed, his fingers running oddly across the covers. White. Too white. His mother was next to him, and Claire, but they couldn't see him. The invisibility ensured that. Lindermann was hanging back, but had his hand firmly planted on Peter's shoulder, ensuring that neither of them were visible. The little blips from the machine next to him were driving him insane.

But not as much as the fact Nathan couldn't even move.

He knew he'd been brought here for a reason. This was his future… Nathan's future if they didn't let the bomb go off.

He looked at Lindermann silently, imploring him, and with a slight nod he let out a rushed sigh of relief and teleported them back to the present. "Can you see, now? All I want to do is heal the world. To stop things like that happening to more people than just Nathan." Peter didn't look up, his hands balled angrily beside him.

"So… either I let this thing go off, and loads of people die, or I don't, and Nathan does?"

"Life's a bitch, Petrelli." He looked up at whoever this stupid blonde was – but frowned. Jessica Sanders laughed as he screamed and fell onto the floor. Lindermann bent over him as he writhed. "What's he doing?" she asked with interest.

"Absorbing your ability. His brain is probably being split into two. I've always wanted to see this," he muttered, his eyes gleaming. "The birth of an alternate personality. Fascinating."

Peter screamed.

Peter sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head for a moment. He supposed this had all really started when he'd met Jessica Sanders. He'd got Lindermann to thank for the pleasure of that particular meeting. That particular ability.

Hey. I'm not all that bad.

Peter sighed. Shut up, Nathan.

Nathan pouted. Don't be so grumpy, just 'cause it's so early in the morning.

You of all people know I'm not a morning person, he grumbled.

This needs a little explanation.

Niki Sanders had a most wonderful ability – super strength, who wouldn't want that? – but it came with an unfortunate repercussion.

In his case, his 'brother' reincarnated as the little voice in his head.

Lindermann hadn't managed to corrupt him. But this had meant that… that… Nathan had… had… well, he wasn't dead, exactly, but… he might as well be. And this thing in his head wasn't really Nathan, in the same way that Jessica Sanders wasn't really Jessica. And just when he thought he'd gotten away with it, exactly three days, thirteen hours and fifty-four minutes after the bomb had gone off across New York a little voice had started whispering in the back of his head.

A little voice that gradually got louder. And louder. And louder.

Mohinder found it fascinating. He loved to run all sorts of tests and screwed up experiments on him – but then again, that's what Mohinder generally did. And with Niki/Jessica completely refusing to be any help or give any advice at all he felt completely, utterly lost. Which just meant that the voice started whispering just a little louder, and he started listening just a little more, until everything seemed… real, and he began to believe that… it might just be Nathan. Even if it wasn't… it was better than that thing lying in that hospital bed that dared to call itself Nathan Petrelli.

But… 'Nathan' had come because he needed someone there to replace the Nathan that he'd lost. It was never going to be as good as his brother, but he so desperately needed someone, when his mother detested him and Claire couldn't stand the sight of him.

So… in the end… he started to believe. And it became more real. And, bit by bit… it became less of an 'it' and more of a 'he'. More and more like his brother. Eventually… he agreed with it being called Nathan just to shut it up.

Denial is the first step to acceptance, Pete.

Don't call me Pete.

Nathan sniggered. Sorry, I forgot that only your special friend can call you that.

Peter snarled slightly. He's not my 'special friend'. He has a name. And he's not here anyway. He went away in the end, too. They all did.

Hey, don't start that again. That's what I'm here for. Peter ignored him, looking around at wherever this goddamn dingy place is.

Where the hell have you brought me, anyway? He snapped. Nathan was silent for a moment. A face flashed in their mind, and he flinched. Sylar? When did you track him down? Nathan didn't reply. Peter rubbed his eyes. OK, I don't want to know. So we're here. Firstly, why the hell are we here? And secondly, what the hell do you expect me to do? And I'm not planning on going near any shiny surfaces.

Damn. Peter glared at his nonchalant tone. He felt Nathan roll his eyes. We're here 'cause I'm sick of waking up every night with you sobbing 'cause you saw him rip someone's brains out. And what I expect you to do is go see him.

Fair enough, Peter sighed. So what do I do now?

Just keep walking. Peter looked around; in the corridor, there was only one way that wasn't the one he'd just come from, and so he continued down. The walls were grey and he stared at the plastic floor, Nathan looking back at him from the shiny, fake surface as his boots squeaked.

Where the hell are we? Nathan didn't reply, and this frightened Peter more than if he had. Nathan felt him begin to panic and sighed. Peter understood, pausing for a moment to stop his hands glowing ever-so-faintly and continue down the corridor. His ears picked up the steady bleep more than would normally be possible, and he frowned at Nathan for increasing his hearing.

Sorry. It happens when I'm nervous.

YOU'RE nervous? Nathan didn't reply, so he kept on walking. If there was something, he'd be out 'protecting' him (i.e., beating the crap out of whoever it was) by now. He thought (for some weird reason) the temperature in the corridor had plummeted, but it really was just a horrible icy feeling as he stared at the immobile body on the bed.

Sylar – Gabriel Gray – was dying.

He was a nurse. He knew when people were beyond repair. It still didn't help, especially when it was someone he… he…

He what?

Shut up, Nathan. Why did you bring me here?

So you can see him.

Peter snorted. What good is that going to do?

I thought the dreams might stop. Peter noticed with interest Nathan hadn't called them nightmares.

So what do I do now? Nathan's following silence was unnerving.

Lindermann, he finally replied.

Peter frowned. What about Lindermann?

Nathan sighed, exasperated. His ability.

Peter's eyes went wide. Of course. Does it work?

Yes.

Peter frowned. How do you know? On second thoughts, what you do with your time I'd really rather not know. So… I just…heal him?

Yeah. Harder than it looks. Trust me.

Peter had never been able to deny him that. He walked over to the immobile figure, running a hand across his chest, assessing the damage. Oh, God… there's so much… I don't know where to start. Peter began to realize he was panicking. Nathan, help me!

Peter, calm down. Find something shiny. I'll do this.

Coward, he thought, silently berating himself. He ignored Nathan's quiet protest and strode across to the tray of surgical tools, looking himself squarely in the eye, his mind relaxing happily as Nathan took over.

Ok. Let's do this. Nathan flexed his fingers slightly before strolling over, running his fingers along Sylar's chest in a similar fashion to how Peter had. Jesus, Pete, you weren't half wrong. His organs are all but fucked, and he's lost so much blood. Peter helpfully provided some knowledge from all his classes, and Nathan nodded. Ok. What do you reckon?

Blood loss. Nathan nodded in agreement, and closed his eyes, hating the fact he had to think about the man that nearly ruined his life – come to think of it, the whole of this city's – but relishing in the way the burning healing spread across his fingers and danced into the man beneath him. He ignored the way his heartrate accelerated, despite Peter's frantic protests, concentrating on knitting muscle together, skin, bones, undoing the damage that had taken them weeks, months of work to inflict. Peter was close to tears, wondering what they were doing and why the hell they were doing it.

You wanted to save the world, Peter. You didn't save it for him. Peter choked slightly. Don't be so naïve to presume the whole good guy/bad guy thing. He was a person too.

I kinda… forgot about that.

Nathan nodded. We all did. They stood in silence for a while, staring at the mass-murderer they'd just brought back to life. God, what have we done? He's going to hurt a lot of people.

But he was hurting us too. Can I come back out for when he wakes up?

Nathan frowned. Afraid something will happen?

Afraid you'll hurt him again. Afraid he'll hurt you.

Nathan sighed slightly. I'm supposed to be the one protecting you

It's okay. I want to be there for him. You'll always be there if I need you.

Fine. He glanced at another nameless instrument and settled back with a little reluctance.

Thanks, he thought quietly. Nathan was sulking, and he ignored him. He turned back to Sylar, slumped across the bed. He ran his fingers across Sylar's newly-healed wound, now a mere sliver of silver against his navel. He sighed, a rush of hot air into the freezing cold room. He was surprised to note it clouded in front of his breath.

It's him! He's freezing the room! Peter, get out now!

"Hello, Peter," Sylar murmured from the bed, and his fist slammed into Peter's chest. Peter choked, his back slamming into the wall, and struggled against the telekinetic holds. He ignored Nathan's frantic yelling in the back of his skull, waiting for what Sylar would do next. The other ran a hand down his scar curiously. "What a neat job. I suppose I should thank you." He walked up to him, his face right next to his. Why did he do it? Why did he save me? Peter jumped at the thought. He tried not to let on that he had heard, but Sylar frowned and turned away. "I'd forgotten you can hear me," he snarled slightly, pacing across the room.

Peter!

Oh God, what do I do? He's so angry! Peter kept an eye on Sylar, who was experimentally sifting through each of his powers in turn, making sure he was alright before he left the room.

Let me back out.

Promise you won't hurt him! There was no reply. Nathan!

Ok… but… well, I'll try.

I'll never forgive you if you do. Peter sighed, scanning the room for something shiny, but all the instruments were too far away. He wondered whether he'd be able to move something telekinetically without alerting Sylar, but he doubted it. And if he did anything to alert Sylar right now, he could be dead. Very dead. He didn't really want to be left like that, seeing as there was no certainty whatever had been used to kill him would be extracted, in order for him to regenerate. He worked with what he had – using his left hand he dug his nails into his palm, hard enough to draw blood. In the shiny glint that was on his palm he just saw himself, and Nathan shot into his mind.

Immediately Nathan became invisible, sending a rush of telekinetic energy to Sylar who, caught by surprise, let go of him. Nathan slid down the wall, landing softly on the balls of his feet. "I might not be able to see you, but I can hear you," Sylar called, his eyes trained on Nathan. And you can hear this, can't you? "Where are you, Pete?" Nathan suppressed the urge to snarl. Shall I show you some of the fun I had with your brother, hmm?

What's he talking about, Nathan?

Shh.

I suppose I've captured your interest now, haven't I? Nathan wondered how he could make it to the doorway without making a sound… he could fly… focusing, he hovered ever so slightly off the floor. An image flashed into his mind, making him lose his concentration and fall to the floor as inside him Peter broke.

Nathan. Dead. On the floor. Sylar. Over him. Broken.

No… that would be better.

Better than seeing his brother getting fucked by his arch-nemesis.

Peter, help me! It's not real! It never happened! There was no reply. Peter? Trust me! Peter, that would never happen! Not without you –

Shut the fuck up. I don't give a damn. Just get me out of here alive. I don't care what you do to him anymore.

Peter –

Do it. Nathan hovered off the floor again, gently gliding towards the exit. He saw Sylar craning his neck, trying to pinpoint his heartbeat, but he made sure that he was as quiet as he possibly could be.

Until he bumped into the light. "Got you," Sylar whispered, and the surge of telekinetic energy slammed him into the wall of the corridor. At least we're getting somewhere. Nathan felt his ribs meshing together again, wincing at the pain. He called for Peter, but he'd retreated inside, where he couldn't reach him. He coughed a little blood, eyes locking with Sylar. He snarled in response. "Wait… you're not Peter. Peter's too kind and gentle for all this." Sylar ran a hand down the side of his face. "But you have to be, because he's the only one who can regenerate." He frowned for a moment, his brain working it over, before it dawned on him. "Oh… the lovely Miss Sanders. I see. Well, I'd like to speak to the real Peter, whoever the fuck you are. So bring him out."

"It's not as easy as that," Nathan spat, and Sylar looked at him patiently. He rolled his eyes, calling to Peter again. Peter? Peter? If you don't come out he's going to kill us. Please. Peter. I know it hurt you.

I left this up to you. You're supposed to protect me.

Nathan sighed. Yeah, I know. But he knows, Peter, he knows that it's not you. Sylar exerted a little more pressure on his arm, and he winced as the capillaries broke and knitted together. He focused on the floor of the corridor he'd made it out to, and saw Peter staring back at him. I'm sorry.

Peter blinked, looking at Sylar for a moment. "That's better," Sylar murmured, his eyes looking into Peter's. "Much better."

"What do you want?" Peter spat, and the other simply stared at him.

"What do you think?" He slowly raised his hand, and Peter, a thought hitting him, phased backwards through the wall. Sylar snarled as his quarry literally slipped through his fingers. Evidently he was in some sort of underground complex, as he was now in a room identical to the one Sylar had been in. It stank of death – not in the rotting-corpse way, but in the heavy, silent way of hospitals.

Good thinking. He ignored him, glancing around the room. Sylar would figure it out, and he'd blow this whole place apart to look for him. Run, Peter. Get us the hell out of here. Hiro flashed to mind. No – don't teleport. Your mind's so screwed up God knows where we'll end up. Either let me do it or just phase. He wasn't planning on letting Nathan back into his body without a serious chat, so he ran headlong through the next few walls, blasting them aside if he couldn't phase through. Go right… now. We're nearly out. A lift met his eyes, and he could hear Sylar approaching, a good few corridors behind. Too slow.

No other way. Peter glanced from side to side, then forced the doors of the lift open, stood inside and slammed the lift upwards with his telekinesis. He burst out of the lift, shot out of the building and jumped into the sky, leaving Sylar far behind.

He knew he'd see him again.

Nathan.

He sighed. I know.

I don't want to hear 'I'm sorry'. I want to know why. How. When.

It didn't… it's not. I'm not really Nathan, you know that.

Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes. You're the closest I'm going to get.

Do you want to go visit him again?

No. He didn't want to see him like that again. And besides, his mother would be there. After seeing Sylar being rejected, he knew his own rejection would burn ten times more. I need to concentrate on the fact in about ten minutes everyone is going to want to know what the hell I just did letting Sylar loose again.

Do you want me to handle them?

Peter snorted. Well, it technically was your fault. But… no. I need to start taking responsibility for once. He found his hand over his eyes again, brushing his hair from his face.

Ok. They sat in silence for a while, and Peter waited for the inevitable. Peter? He left his silence open, but the other obviously seemed to think it was necessary to continue. Even if… even if what Sylar showed us was true, Nathan would have his reasons. He wouldn't want to hurt you like this.

Peter was saved from further comment by the phone ringing. He stalked over, picked it up and glared at the wall, running his hand through his hair. "What?" he snapped. There was only a limited range of people who had this number.

"Matt Parkman's dead." Claire's voice broke.

Peter felt his heart skip. "What?"

"Sylar." He gasped. So it had begun. He didn't like not being able to hear you. Us.

Shut up. He didn't want to think that this was all his fault. He couldn't. "What are you going to do?"

"Find him, and rip him to pieces. Niki knows. She thinks he's coming after DL." The phasing trick too?

He must have got pretty pissed with our menagerie. "OK. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. It's a little late for that." Peter swallowed quietly. She knows? How? "Just stay away from him. And from me. And Dad."

"Claire – " She'd hung up on them. He stared at the receiver. They'll kill him again. You don't want that.

No. But I don't want to fight. Not again. Not with Claire.

I can –

No. You got me into this mess in the first place. God knows what'll happen if I let you back in control.

So you're just going to sit here? Nathan's tone was incredulous. While the person you –

Don't you dare say it. Don't you dare.

You're going to have to admit it at some point, Peter. You have to. Peter ignored him, pacing to the window. The sun was low, hanging across the city. The city that almost died. Because of Sylar.

Because of the man I just saved. Does he deserve to survive?

We've already had this conversation. Everyone does. Nathan told you that. He brushed at his hair irritably. He really should cut it.

The sun hung across the city as he sat and waited for him to die.

Peter woke up drearily, suppressed to a tiny corner of his mind, pinned telekinetically by his own other half. Nathan? What are you doing?

You wouldn't save him. I had to.

They were flying, up above the city, soaring past the landmarks he knew so well. The myriad of little lights were making him feel dizzy. Where are we? Nathan didn't reply. They're fighting him, aren't they? He scanned the horizon; sure enough, there was the occasional flash from the outskirts. They'll all die if they do it without us.

Or are you just worried that if they fight he'll die?

Either way, you should give me control back. I'm going to go fight.

Nathan snorted slightly. I don't believe you. You're not strong enough. They glided over, coming to land down beside a clearing in a park. Conservation area. How ironic. He made himself invisible, walking forward. Niki was in front of him, her arms raised, but he could see she was struggling under telekinesis as her limbs bucked and writhed. Claire was standing a little further back, her eyes on the two of them, knowing she could do nothing. He entered the clearing, walking towards Sylar.

Don't hurt him!

Shh. He can hear us now.

Sure enough, he released his grip on Niki, looking around in confusion. "Is that Peter? Isn't it nice to be on even ground now?" Nathan struggled not to think, not to ask for Peter. They were supposed to be together, consult each other. It was hard not to – "You need to exercise some self control, Nathan." He heard Claire's gasp from across the clearing. "Peter's too weak for this. Peter would let them all die."

Peter's the reason you're still alive.

Sylar frowned. What do you mean? It was you who brought me back.

Nathan smirked slightly. Because Peter wanted it. He didn't know it, but he did.

Sylar's brow furrowed in confusion. But why would he want to –

Because I missed you.

His interruption confused both of them for a moment. Nathan poured into him all the sympathy he could, preparing for the onslaught. He'd forgotten to suppress Peter and found his body being taken over, falling to his knees as he fought against it. You're not strong enough –

I am. I'm ready. Thank you, Nathan. Thank you. Peter stood up, facing Sylar. You know all you wanted to know. Now leave them alone.

Regeneration's a handy skill. Who's to say I shouldn't have it?

"Because I don't want you to," Peter said, his eyes locking with Sylar's. He saw Niki recovering herself, beginning to stride forward. Claire was simply staring at him. Come with me.

No.

He walked forward, his hands beginning to glow. He heard Claire explode with hope – 'He's on our side after all!' – but he placed his hand on Sylar's shoulder and with a heave of effort teleported them to Isaac's apartment. "You've got better at that since you last used it," Sylar murmured. "But, essentially, I still win. I can kill everyone from here." His hands began to glow, and Peter felt the waves wash over him. Peter bit his lip, closed his eyes, considered freezing time but in the end strode across and just kissed him.

Then, he still wasn't sure whether he really had frozen time. It certainly felt like it, but Sylar's heartbeat was still fluttering madly underneath his hand, which rested gently on his chest, and the person underneath him was still warm – stiff, unresponsive, but warm. And alive. And with him. And he wasn't dead yet.

Spoke too soon, he thought, as two very angry, very radioactive hands shoved him away. A bolt of telekinesis wrapped around him, pinning him in place.

I'm going to pin you here while I kill you, he snarled, marching forwards, his hands glowing eerily against his face.

Okay.

Sylar frowned slightly. What, no retort? No witty comeback? You're just going to let me… kill you?

Yeah.

His frown remained. But I'll take your abilities, so you can't regenerate. And then they'll all die.

Yeah. But it was worth it. Just for that kiss. And to tell you. To finally tell you.

Sylar swallowed. Finally?

Too fucking long. Too fucking long. Peter kept his eyes carefully blank as he stared at the man in front of him. He so wished Nathan could just take over now, just blow them both to bits, because he'd finally got everything he'd ever wanted and he just wanted it to stop hurting.

Why are you still alive?

Peter sighed, flicking his hair over his face, his eyes scanning across the city. I wish I knew.

No… that's not what I mean. Why haven't I killed you yet? He could hear the confusion in his voice, and carefully looked at him again. You're here… fuck, you just asked me to, so why the hell haven't I?

The same reason Peter hasn't killed you.

Peter snarled under his breath. Back off, Nathan. If I want him to know I'll tell him.

"Tell me what?" Sylar asked, his eyes furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" Peter kept his thoughts painfully blank, his eyes dulled. Sylar snarled under his breath. "Tell me what?" He reached out a hand and gripped Peter's throat, and although the other man bucked and writhed he still didn't speak a word. Sylar dangled him across the city.

That he –

SHUT UP! NATHAN, SHUT THE HELL UP RIGHT NOW!

What are you talking about?

GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HEAD!

I can't help it if you think so loudly. And besides, that's a very hypocritical comment.

Peter, I know you want to tell him.

You don't know ANYTHING about me! Who the hell are you anyway? You're just some fucked up thing Lindermann put in my head! You're not Nathan! You're not me! GO AWAY! Sylar winced at the onslaught of mental voice he was receiving, and his control wavered slightly. Peter took full advantage of this, wriggled out of his grasp and shot skywards, breaking the sound barrier across New York with a loud boom. And all Sylar could do was watch.

How long are you going to hide from him?

Peter ignored the voice, concentrating on quietly maneuvering through the crowds. He winced as 'Nathan' increased the sound to an unbearable point, just so he would stop and listen for once. Until he comes and finds me, he snapped, more pissed at himself for answering than the other voice in his head. His phone rang again – he immediately recognized the number; Claire's mobile – and he stared at it, wondering whether he should answer or not.

They could be in trouble.

Claire's more than capable of looking after herself, Peter muttered sullenly, becoming invisible and phasing through the cars just because he couldn't be arsed to wait for the lights to change. He had to keep moving, or his thoughts would spin out of control.

But Nathan isn't.

He winced at the thought, his face turning away. He didn't want to even consider the fact that Sylar would use Nathan to get to him, but he knew it was a horribly likely possibility. Still, he knew that his mother had him locked up in some top-secret place, and he couldn't even try to warn her. He passed his hand across his eyes, and the mobile in his hand jumped to life again. Should I answer it? There was no reply. He sighed, flipped open the top and put it to his ear. "Yes?"

"Peter." Claire. His stomach plummeted with dread and jumped with relief – he'd expected someone else to answer. But her tone wasn't exactly pleasant. He heard something in the background – it sounded like 'he answered?' but he couldn't be sure – and a rush of static announced a new speaker.

"Hello, Petrelli," Sylar whispered across the phone. Peter snarled under his breath, feeling so utterly helpless. His nails dug into his palm. "You've been ignoring me."

"I wonder why," he snarled. He heard the killer's chuckle in a rush of painful static.

"You're not being very nice, considering I have your whole family at gunpoint. Telekinesis is useful, especially for suspending bullets." Peter shivered, remembering the Kirby Plaza. Matt Parkman. "I was overjoyed when your feisty little niece fired three shots. One for each, hmm? One flick, and they're all dead."

"Where are you?" he whispered. He didn't trust his voice to be any louder.

"With your delightful brother. The real one, not whoever you have trapped in that sorry excuse for a brain. He's not exactly good company at the moment, though."

Peter winced at the thought. Nathan… Nathan couldn't even move… and Sylar… towering over him… his throat went dry. "I'm on my way," he murmured, and Sylar chuckled softly.

"Peter – don't – we'll be fine – " Claire was silenced by a bullet.

"Regeneration's handy, hmm?" He heard her spluttering gasping choke as she recovered, and it felt like nails on his back.

He took in a deep breath. "Like I said. I'm on my way."

He hung up, looked into the sky and completely ignoring the other in his head bent his legs and shot into the atmosphere.

He touched down gently, breath whispering in faint clouds. It was much colder here, and his bones were still aching from the flight. He cast around, eyes picking out guards, fences, guns. He ignored all three – he was invisible, after all – and phased through the fence and the wall into the first corridor. He must have it set up so no one knows anything's wrong, or those guards would be freaking out. Or he could have just paid them off.

Shut up, you idiot. He can probably hear us from here. Whether it was the harshness of his tone or some admittance that his words made sense he didn't know, but the voice disappeared on cue. He crept down another corridor, hands ghosting along the wall, ducking and hiding whenever a member of staff came in sight, just to be safe. He knew Nathan's room from past experience and crept along, passing numbered doors that made his heart beat a little faster before pausing outside of the one which he'd dreaded.

405

Nathan Petrelli

He didn't know who'd first notice him when he phased through the door, but he had a pretty good idea. Sylar smirked slightly; Claire and his mother were either side of Nathan's bed, their heads bowed. Claire was trembling slightly but his mother's face was impassive. Say a word and they die. He saw the glittering silver of the bullets nearly pressing into their bodies; Claire he knew would be alright, but his mother… and Nathan… he could heal, but he couldn't bring the dead back to life. And if Sylar released those bullets they'd die instantly. He swallowed slightly, shifting from one foot to another.

"He won't come," Claire whispered. "He doesn't care enough about us." Peter winced at the words, not entirely sure whether they were meant to perturb Sylar or were simply a statement of fact.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Sylar murmured, and brought his hand around to pin Peter telekinetically to a wall. Claire screamed, his mother jumped and Sylar laughed in one sickening moment as Peter, hurtling back into the visible spectrum, thrashed against the holds. "So, I believe there was something you wanted to tell me?"

Peter snarled. "Go to hell."

Sylar tutted slightly and flicked his finger; the bullet knocked Claire from her chair and icy anger swept through him. Bastard, he thought as Claire struggled back onto her feet, coughing up more than a little blood. I'm not telling you anything while you're threatening them.

What's to stop you teleporting away as soon as we leave?

What's to stop you killing them once I've told you?

The final remnants of my morals.Peter snorted in disbelief, and the killer frowned in anger. Don't laugh at me!Peter couldn't help it; he giggled, the sound extraordinarily loud in the small, white room. He could feel Sylar beginning to panic. Stop making fun of me! STOP IT! I ORDER YOU TO STOP!

"You order me when you're threatening everyone I care for with a gun?" he snarled, and he saw Claire jump at the reintroduction of his physical voice. "Alright… I'll tell you. Godammit, it was only a matter of time before you knew." He sighed theatrically. "I'm… a woman." His mother snorted, Claire looked at him in shock and Sylar practically exploded.

That is so fucking messed up. Stop making fun of me right now. Don't make me kill her again.

"Fine, fine," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "But you have to come closer. I don't want them to hear."

Sylar rolled his eyes. What, so you can stab me or something? I'm not stupid.

"Sylar, if I wanted to kill you I could have done it the second I walked in the room. But from our little conversation on the rooftop it appears that neither of us wants to kill either of us right now, so I doubt that's the motive I had in mind." Peter's hair dangled dangerously low across his eye, and Sylar's heartbeat fluttered. Peter heard it, and smiled. Sylar looked away. "Look, I'll talk to you. But not with them near, not when you can hurt them. Let me go." He struggled against the telekinesis for emphasis. "I promise I won't attack. Let me go."

I must be out of my fucking mind, Sylar sighed as he let Peter slide down the wall.

"Okay…" Peter began to walk towards him slowly. "I'm gonna put my hand on your shoulder, and we're gonna teleport somewhere safe, okay? Nothing else. Firstly, drop the bullets." Sylar looked at him, before sighing. The bullets dropped to the floor with a quiet plink that was echoed by three sighs of relief. Peter placed his hand on Sylar's shoulder, frowning when both their heartrates accelerated insanely at the contact. Peter licked his lips, forcing himself to concentrate. "Okay… relax." Sylar heard the whole of time and space shattering in his mind before they rematerialized in an unfamiliar apartment. Mine, Peter sent mentally, walking across the room to slump down on a couch with his head in his hands.

Sylar hovered, his throat drying uncomfortably. He didn't really know what to do. Peter –

Shh. I'm trying. Don't rush me. Shit… this is all so fucked up. Peter sighed.

Sylar snorted. You're telling me. You have an alter ego who may or may not be your comatose brother's reincarnation and we should be beating the crap out of each other right now. Believe me, I know.Peter smiled shakily, before sighing and letting his head fall forwards. When Sylar continued, his voice seemed gentler, softer. My mom… my mom used to just say tell someone, 'cause otherwise it eats you up from the inside.

There was a pause. I wish my mom had said stuff like that to me. He winced. Damn, I shouldn't have said that. Or that. You can hear all of this, can't you?

Welcome to our world, Sylar thought with a small grin. Peter shot him a look, and he shifted from one foot to another. Look… if you're just going to sit there I'm going to go back.

No. Don't go. I will… I will… shit.

"Would it help to say it out loud?" Sylar murmured, his eyes fluttering around the room.

"Probably not," he muttered with a smile. "But what the hell." Peter closed his eyes, and took in a shuddering breath. "I… I missed you."

Sylar flinched. "Yeah, I caught that part. But I thought you were just fucking with me."

Peter frowned. "Why?"

Sylar simply rolled his eyes. "People don't tend to miss me. They tend to move as fast as they can in the other direction."

Peter smiled slightly, remembering when he had. "Well, locker doors flying at you aren't exactly an incentive to stay put," he cajoled, but felt his stomach wrench horribly when the other turned his face away.

"I still don't know why you did it. Save me." His voice was unbearably quiet.

Peter followed his example, his own gaze falling to the floor. "That makes two of us. You'll have to ask what's-his-name about that." But you won't let me.

Get the hell out of my mind. Peter gasped as a wave of mental anger came from his other half.

Fuck off. The intensity of his anger made Peter shiver. He sent another angry wave, walking forwards slightly, and Peter's hand flew to his head. The other was resisting.

Stop it! It hurts!

Get the hell out of there.

No. He's mine as much as yours. More.

Please, stop!

He doesn't want you there. He didn't choose to have you there.

He knew what he was in for when he met Sanders.

"STOP IT! YOU'RE HURTING ME!" Sylar stopped immediately. Peter was shaking, his face contorted, tears streaming down his face as his mind exploded. The other withdrew inside sullenly, sending a final angry wave at Sylar, who was left with the trembling man hunched over painfully on the sofa.

He stood, confused, not knowing what to do. "Peter?"

The other man shuddered at his name, raising his gaze and twitching his mouth slightly. "I'm fine." Sylar's fingers curled and uncurled beside him.

"If you're sure," he muttered sullenly, and began to stride towards the exit. Unfortunately, this meant walking past Peter, and when he did Peter's fingers scrabbled on the cuff of his jacket.

"Don't."

Sylar snarled, a wave of energy sending him spinning away. "Stop fucking with me, Petrelli," he growled, stalking towards the door, but found the other's telekinesis pinning him in place. "Let me go!"

"Please don't go."

Sylar laughed, low, menacing. "Make me," he snarled, but he knew it was no use. The other flinched at the words; if he wanted a challenge, this wasn't the way to get one. He was too broken for this. He hovered, both of them knowing he could easily throw off the invisible hold and just leave him there. Both of them knowing he wouldn't.

"I can't." No one can stop you from doing what you want.

Peter –

I love you. It was painful to think, never mind say. His brain had managed to falter on the words, and he wondered what a mess he would have made of it if he'd tried to employ his choked mouth. Please don't go. Please.

Fuck off. The other man was angry, but Peter didn't flinch. He'd expected anger. It was, after all, the correct response. It was certainly the response his mother, or Claire, or… or Nathan would have given him. No one gives a fuck about me. I told you to stop fucking with me.

I love you. I missed you. Don't go.

Stop it.

IloveyouImissedyoupleasedon'tgopleaseplease –

STOP IT!

Peter closed his eyes and groaned at the mental barrage, feeling Sylar shrug off his hold and march towards the door. He locked it desperately. Please –

You're just lying! I don't want you to just lie!

I'm not lying! You can read my mind! I can't lie to you! Sylar turned round, his eyes burning, and Peter looked, his body sprawled across the floor – come on, check, read my mind, I can show you that it's true – Sylar flinched, his head twisting away. "Gabriel…" It was barely more than a whisper and he hadn't meant to say it, but Sylar froze, hands glowing. He clapped his hand across his mouth. Shit.

You do not have the right to call me that.

Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean – Sylar ignored him, wrenching open the door and stepping onto the landing. With his back to Peter he hid the single, hot, angry tear that made its way down his face. Peter tried to concentrate on what he was thinking, but everything was so goddamn confused it simply hurt his head. Please don't go!

You lost the right to talk to me when you said my name.

Sylar. Sylar. SylarSylarSylar. I never said it. I never did. Just please, please, please don't go. And he saw then that he wasn't the only messed up one here, and he paused, turning to face Peter. His mind was broken, he could see from here. In the same way Peter could tell that he was… ill somehow, he could tell Peter was broken. And when he got a flash of his inner thoughts there seemed to be two main names – his own, and Nathan's. He almost flinched at this. He knew the pain Peter did, losing someone like that. Virtually at your own hands. He moved forwards, pulled Peter to his feet and stared at him, hard.Very hard. And Peter softly laughed, his hair falling onto his face from behind his ear. And one of them – though neither would ever admit who – moved forwards and they just touched, just so softly touched, but it burnt, worse than any radiation they'd ever felt.

Something hot, choking, warm spread from his stomach upwards, and it wasn't blood, or anger, or hate, or anything else he was so used to. It felt… soft. Nice. It made him feel like he should have rainbows coming out of his fingers. Peter didn't know, but this… warmth had coursed through him the second their mouths had met. And… and he kinda liked it. And wanted it to happen again. And… no one could stop him from having what he wanted.

However… bullets tended to.

Peter didn't know why – he hadn't heard the shot – but he felt Sylar's forearms tense under his hands and after a horrible, quiet gasp fell forwards onto him. He hadn't heard Claire come in, or fire – the silencer had helped with that – but she was staring at him with complete and utter hatred as the gun wavered in her gasp. He ignored her, lifting Sylar's head and looking at him. "Gabriel? Gabriel? Can you hear me? Oh, shit. Shit. No, don't go. Stay with me. Stay with me." He checked the pulse – still there, horribly faint but still there. He tried reading his mind; nothing. Gabriel? He felt himself start to cry, half wondering what Claire was doing at this point, but not looking away from him long enough to see.

Teleport. Get the hell out of here. She's pointing the gun at you.

He looked up. Tears fell silently down her face. "Peter – why? You could have – you could have so easily just killed him! Why – and you were – you were – with him – "

Peter. Teleport.

Will he be okay?

I can't promise anything, but if he stays here we're all going to die.

Claire judged his silence correctly. "Don't you dare teleport, Peter! Don't you dare!" He looked at her one last time, held Sylar close and concentrated. Isaac. It wasn't subtle, but it was the closest, and he was so scared he'd hurt Sylar more if he tried to get away.

He shook his head painfully on arrival, laying Sylar out on his front on the floor, ignoring the picture underneath. He whispered his name, ran his fingers through his hair as he ripped the shirt off. It was soaked in blood. Am I too late? The other didn't respond. He gently eased the bullet out using his telekinesis (praying he had enough control) and pressed immediately on the wound. He thought of Lindermann, knitting flesh, bones, blood together. But… he also thought of Sylar. Hoped. Gabriel. He wished he wasn't such a coward, and he'd told him so much before then.

Concentrate, Peter.

He let out a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. How are we doing?

Try now.

He pulled away, smoothing over the skin; again, the tiniest of white dots was left behind. "Gabriel?" he murmured, and nearly cried when the other whimpered, ever so softly. He closed his eyes for a moment, trembling, before opening them again and exhaling, very slowly. Thank you.

S'no problem. Peter laughed gently and wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling forwards into his back. He couldn't stop the tears of relief. He just couldn't.You're trembling.

I'm happy. He rubbed a circle idly on the shoulder above the wound, and the other grumbled, burying his face into the floor below. Can we move now?

Where are we? I recognize the sounds, but I can't…

Isaac's apartment. I didn't want to take you too far in case – he broke off his train of thought, and Sylar flinched at the wave of angry hurt that washed through the room. Ok. But we need to get somewhere they can't find us. Claire will be coming after us.

She's already here. I can hear her coming along the landing.

"Shit," he gasped, looking around in panic. "How far away is she?"

"She is right behind you," Claire murmured as the gun pressed into the back of his skull. Peter closed his eyes in pain. "You try and teleport now I'll shoot you anyway, and then your boyfriend," she snarled. Peter winced again, and felt Sylar tense beneath him.

Can I kill her?

NO! No, you can't! Just keep calm and don't say anything. I'll sort this out. "Claire, you have to calm down. Please, don't shoot anyone." He winced yet again as the butt of the gun pushed into his skull. He reached slowly over and clamped onto his wrist. I'm going to make us invisible, okay? Then we'll teleport. I don't have the best experience with invisibility and guns, and you might get hurt. So be prepared to duck. "Claire. I'm sorry."

"You nearly killed Dad! Your own brother! You chose this bastard over him!" She aimed with her foot at him and the anger swelled inside of him.

"That thing is not my brother," he snarled, and turned them invisible, dodging bullets and crouching beside her before teleporting again.

"Shit," he gasped, bringing his hand away from the side of his head. He saw Sylar turn away as the bullet fell out of his head and hit the floor with a dull thunk. "You okay?" The other nodded, and they both looked around. "Mohinder's," Peter realized. "Sorry. I just panicked… I tried to think of somewhere safe, but I guess I was thinking about you too much at the same time. We need to get moving."

"Can I suggest a location?" Peter nodded and Sylar thought hard about a place. Peter watched it grow in his mind, feeling the experiences flow between them. He wasn't sure – there was a little bit too much hurt for him to be entirely comfortable – but he reached over and laid his hand on the other's shoulder again and concentrated. The watch shop was familiar to Sylar, he could tell. The minute he was in it he looked safe, at home. More at home than he had seen him before. He relaxed; they were too far away from New York to be under any immediate threat. He didn't really trust his mother, though, and Sylar could tell this; he was incredibly jumpy, his eyes constantly shifting about as his nails dug into his palms. This was the first place I could think of that was safe. Do we need to leave?

We will eventually, Peter told him silently. Before we can… talk to them. Claire. Without you there. So you can't get hurt, he added, but didn't share it. We should be safe for a while. I don't think Mom knows much about you, and it'll take them ages to get here anyway.

Sylar frowned. How come?

Peter grinned maliciously. It's three days ago. He gestured at the TV that they'd turned on to fill the dead noise; Sylar vaguely recognized the report. I didn't mean to, but I guess it plays to our advantage. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. I need to get more control.

"I think you control it fine," Sylar muttered, embarrassed. Peter grinned at him. Don't look so smug with yourself, he grumbled, and Peter's smile softened a little.

Kissing… was something Sylar didn't really have experience with. He knew his mother didn't count, and besides, two kisses with Peter wasn't exactly enough to tell him what the other needed, or wanted. This brought him in a severe disadvantage; not only did he not know what the other wanted, he didn't know how to find that out either. But still… he decided to leave it up to the professional. Peter's hands were toned and precise as they slipped around him, and his mouth seemed to know exactly what they should be doing. Sylar hid his intense embarrassment at his utter uselessness in this situation by tugging teasingly on Peter's hair. Everything stopped. He fought down a gentle keen of annoyance, looking up at Peter who had rocked back on his hackles to stare at him. "What should I call you?" Sylar frowned at the question, staring at Peter in confusion. "It's just the last time I tried to call you Gabriel you nearly ran away from me." He reached forwards and ran his hand across his cheek. From mere self-discipline Sylar resisted the urge to turn into the gesture, to shudder, to try and get closer.

"Gabriel's fine," he murmured, and smiled when Peter leant forward and kissed him again.

A/N

Okay… I officially hate myself now.

Firstly, that was the crappest, fluffiest ending I have ever written.

Secondly, I promised myself a lemon. And I didn't write one. But… I figured this thing was long enough without one. If you lot are nice then you get a second chappie with a lemon.

My two main influences were:

Tainted Love (a Pylar vid) on YouTube, which I watched about three times in a row whenever I was writing this.

capn-mactastic, a wonderful livejournal Pylar writer. If you don't know them check it out, seriously. I liked her whole 'multi-personality pentagon' thing, and figured out that Nathan could become Peter's 'Jessica'. Oh, and though I never actually said it Nathan had radiation poisoning. I think you guys probably guessed he wasn't exactly playing the field.

Thank you so much for reading. REVIEW. Please?

love Alichay