A Long Trip Home

[chimeramimicry]

The door is two yards away but I can't move from the top of the stairs.  It's been months, four or so, since I've been here, in this spot.  Gone were the days of trudging up the stairs with my satchel on the way home from work because my building's landlords refused to fix the elevators properly.  Gone too was the pleasure I had of returning to this apartment I paid for with my own money and not from my trust fund.  I donated all of that to charity the moment I turned twenty-five and finished paying off my loans to school.  It was two years ago.  It feels like forever.

I'm not the same man I had been.  I'm not a child anymore.  At least, I want to think that.

I'm still clutching the photograph of my brother and I in our tuxedos.  There's a smudge on it from my thumb and full of creases.  I've not let it go since I opened that box containing everything that I am.  Everything I was.  I left Ireland without looking back.  There was, there is only one thing on my mind.  Nathan.

Nathan.

Nathan.

I know he's here.  I've always felt a connection to him.  Mohinder Suresh called it part of my empathy, to feel things like that.  Funny to be so empathically linked to someone I spent my whole life pining for, who has always had a life to live without me.  He's never had time for me.  Never.

"Just walk, Peter," I whisper to myself as I move to a door I have not touched in a long time.  I swallow.  And knock.  I know he's in here without knowing it.  I almost lose the nerve to knock.  Please answer, Nathan.  Please.

Comments

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

It is my brother that functions only in absolutes and extremes, not me, though I know he thinks that I am selfish, that I am only trying to hurt him, that my mission here is to free myself of him. And it's not. I can read his emotions as if they were written on a piece of paper and handed to me. Not only that, but I am affected by them. They take me over. They always have, long before I could take anyone's power that I wanted to. Feeling how others feel has always been my curse.

"Listen to yourself speak, Nathan." I look up at him with eyes that match his own. "I never asked you to tell anyone to fuck themselves. Or to break your promise. Why won't you let me go?"

My jaw does not tremble, I'm surprised at how strong I'm being.

"You've had me under your thumb for my entire life. You've had me addicted to you physically since I was twelve years old. Don't you understand, Nathan, that I just can't do this anymore. If I stay here, I'll ruin us both again."

Oh, why did I have to look into his eyes?

I find myself kissing him again, kissing him because that is what my life revolves around. Is it really better to leave? Is it better to have nothing of him? Or to have his cast offs? Could I live with one touch, one kiss, when he was not busy with his wife...his other women? Other men?

"I don't--"

--want to be your afterthought.

"--want to lose you." Tears bring salt to our lips. I pull away from him and wipe my face and all he can do is stare at me. "So. You win, Nathan. You always win. That's what you were born to do." I stop touching him all together and move towards the window, tugging it open, back towards me. The streets look a mess with ice and rain, but I can fly in this all right. I think. "I'll be where I always am when you need me." A phone call away. Before he can say anything, I take off. I can't even get good and properly drunk for all of this.

But I can get good and properly fucked.

I've never been to a gay bar before, but it turns out that Philadelphia -- my destination once I leave my mother's house -- is filled with them. And it takes little more than a glance to have someone take you into the back room.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I watch Peter disappear into the chilly gray sky, and I immediately feel like crying and getting totally hammered, not necessarily in that particular order. I ask my mother for one of her Valiums instead. With the help of those little blue pills, I go without drinking for the next three days. An incredible feat, really.

These three days are extremely difficult for me. Heidi and I begin our reconciliation, which consists mostly of marathon fucking sessions and keeping up appearances in front of Monty and Simon. We still do nothing but argue behind closed doors. Heidi wants us to go to marriage counseling, and I agree numbly. We're not even married anymore. But I still wear my wedding ring, though she has not replaced hers. We go to one session and I walk out. Heidi doesn't seem to care, either. She's resigned herself to the fact that we're just trying to do this for the children. It's not working.

I'm cheating on her again. I'm actually surprised at myself for this one. I fly into the city, walk into a gay bar, get totally smashed, and take the prettiest young man I can find back to a hotel and fuck him until I pass out from the liquor and the exhaustion.

I dream of Peter, of making love with him, and the thing that scares me most about these dreams is that he appears much too young. I know for a fact now that I had been doing this with my brother before he was even out of high school. What I don't understand is, who erased these unspeakable acts from our memories?

Later, when I wake up by myself in that huge bed, covered in sex and dried sweat, hungover and alone, I cry for my brother.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

No one asks names except for me. I can't just bend over and let some nameless stranger fuck me. I'm not like that. I want romance and the appearance of normalcy. And even as I say that, I'm well aware that I do not want anything permanent. I drink and dance and swallow the pills that they give me even if they only work for a few minutes before they disappear from my system. And when they kiss me, take my hand, go to lead me away from the dance floor, I always have to say it.

"I'm Peter."

And inevitably, I get a quirky smile and a "Hey, Peter," back without much of anything else.

The night before my birthday, something chances though. I'm dressed in something tight, something that inevitably makes me feel sexy and will wind up around my ankles in under an hour. A guy with dark hair and darker eyes leans against the bar next to me as I survey the dance floor. I never pick anyone out. I let them come to me. "What are you drinking, beautiful?"

I turn my head towards him and smile until I realize who it is. My eyes immediately widen, my heart skips a beat.

Oh God. Oh God.

"S-Sylar--"

"Peter Petrelli. Fancy meeting you here."

He grabs my hand and tugs me out onto the dance floor of all things, hands on my hips, lips against my throat. I'm in shock, really. He's not trying to kill me -- and I'm surprised he isn't dead...Hiro ran him through with a sword a few months ago before I blew up. He's just...there. Holding me.

Christ, I must be insane, like Nathan said.

Sylar/Peter

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

Must be something in the air tonight, I think to myself, biting roughly into the pale flesh of Peter Petrelli's neck. He doesn't pull away, either. I half-expected him to open his mouth and give me some speech about how he wouldn't dance with a serial killer if it's the last thing he ever does. But he just leans into the kiss, and I hear him growl low in his throat.

What is this pretty thing doing in a less than upstanding place like this? His brother must have gotten tired of him in order to let Peter this far off his leash.

Looks like Christmas came a little early this year. I've been walking around powerless for months, trying to find some way to restore my lost abilities, and I've finally gotten my present. Peter Petrelli, the most powerful one of us all. The most special. All that's missing is the shiny paper and the bow.

It's not the outside of the package that means anything anyway. It's what's inside that counts. Plus, I'll take it upon myself to get him out of this ridiculous get-up he's wearing. He'd look much better naked, covered in nothing but his own blood, everything that makes him who he is becoming mine for the taking.


"What do you say we go into the back room, pretty boy? Or have you not forgiven me yet for killing you?"

Re: Sylar/Peter

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I don't actually think that I'm breathing when we pass the beaded curtains. This is my favorite bar and have my favorite back room. Everything is open, there's dark spaces and light spaces. I'd rather be in the light. I love being watched. Sylar's going towards the back where the smelly couches are.

If I'm going to do this, and for some reason, I don't seem to care that we spent several months trying to kill each other, I want it to be where it can be seen. It's not that I fear him, not entirely. My mind is not on revenge or danger.

I lean myself against a wall, right under one of the lights. A four or five time over lover -- whose name I still do not know -- calls me his Spotlight Baby. I guess I am. Just last night, five or six men took their turn with me right here.

But now I want Sylar. I pull him towards me by his shirt, knowing how wrong this is as I tug at the chest hair he's got smattered across his skin. "How about you shut up...just be some nameless guy for me..." I pull his mouth to mine.

It's no secret I'm absolutely addicted to sex. Not even to me.