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

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.