Up Against the Wall

It seems to you that you’ve been here forever, as you lie on your cold, lumpy bed and stare up at the ceiling. Days, weeks, months, even years... what does it matter when every passing second only serves as a reminder that this life sentence is eternal and you’re never, ever getting out of it?

If only Peter would believe that. You heave a sigh at the thought of the younger man, a grimace forming on your features. He’s been fixated on that damn wall ever since it appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. But it doesn’t matter how viciously he hammers at it, it remains intact. Not a single crack appears in the sturdy brickwork. It’s futile.

Try telling him that. And by everything that’s holy, you have tried. Even now, you can hear the dull thuds of Peter’s axe battering the solid brick, echoing in the deep recesses of your mind. You think about trying again now, but you know exactly what’ll happen.

As soon as you get near, he’ll put up those walls around himself, ignoring you as if your very existence gives him more pain than he can physically bear. You’ll plead with him to come away, to eat something, to occupy his frenzied mind with something other than that poisonous notion of escape. And he’ll look at you with those eyes of his, the eyes that break you apart every time you look at him. You’ll see the grief and pain and misery and fear he won’t let himself feel, you’ll see the fierce, fiery loathing for you burning like hot coals and above everything else, you’ll see that longing to swing his axe not into the wall but into the smooth marble of your face.

You sigh, the guilt churning your stomach. And so he should. After everything you’ve done... maybe you deserve this. Maybe this is your punishment for every innocent life you’ve snuffed out. But still, this isn’t fair on Peter. He shouldn’t have to suffer your punishment too.

You don’t know exactly when you leave the safe confines of your bed – times is all but meaningless here – but sometime later, you’re downstairs, shoving tasteless toast down your throat, eating more out of force of habit than any actual need. You’re not entirely sure how this alternate world is supposed to work; you don’t get hungry, you don’t get thirsty, you don’t even get sleepy... the loneliness is the only thing that grows with an unbearable intensity that you can’t ever satiate. Not even with Peter’s company.

At that thought, the loneliness surges up like a tidal wave and you almost want to collapse under it, simply because you’re so damn tired.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the door swings open, silently scolding yourself as Peter walks in because of courseit’s him – who else could it be? He doesn’t even give you a second glance as he trudges over to the fridge, hauls it open and pulls out a can of beer. Leaning against the counter, he cracks it open and takes a long swig. His eyes meet yours when he slams it down onto the table, but you don’t jump this time.

“Hey Pete,” you say softly, only realising your mistake once the words are out of your mouth.

His face is suddenly very close to yours, his eyes burning with hatred and revulsion, narrowed to slits. “I told you not to call me that,” he snarls, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “You’re not him, Sylar! You’re not him!”

You lower your gaze, ashamed. “I know. I’m sorry.” And you are. More than he could ever know.

He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp, tossing the can carelessly to one side. “Sorry doesn’t mean a thing. Can you bring my brother back? Can you?”

“No,” you say, your voice still soft, “I can’t.”

He nods with grim satisfaction, like you’ve proved something to him. “I’m going back to the wall. See ya.”

“Wait, Peter-” You fall short as he turns back to face you, your wits deserting you along with everything else. “You should take a jacket,” you mumble. “It’s pretty cold out.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even look at you. There’s just that dead look on his face, worse than anything else he could ever throw at you. Worse even than hatred. Worse even than fear. Complete emptiness... now that scares the shit out of you.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly.

You give a start, your eyes wide. “What?”

“Come with me,” he repeats, his voice flat. “I could use a hand.”

You don’t even hesitate before grabbing a coat and heading after him out of the house. You want to crack a joke about what he could use that hand for, try and lighten the mood, but you don’t want to spoil this.

He doesn’t say a word to you until you reach the wall, leering down from ten or twelve feet above you. And even then it’s only a muttered, “Here,” when he hands you the spare axe. He wastes no time in smashing his own into the wall. You, on the other hand, you remain where you are, clutching the weapon like a lifeline.

“You gonna use that or what?” he grunts, not even pausing to take a breath before resuming his assault on the wall.

“It’s not going to work, Peter,” you tell him, desperate to make him see. “How long have you been at this? You’ll never destroy that wall.”

He turns on you, wielding the axe, that fearsome look in his eyes. For a moment, you think he might actually do it this time, might actually hit you with it square between your eyes.

“I have to,” he whispers, and returns to the wall with, if it were possible, even more force than before.

You wince. You know instinctively that his fervour stems from a fierce desire to hurt you as much as you’ve hurt him, and the resentful knowledge that he can’t.

And that’s why, despite every nerve in your body screaming at you not to, you step in front of him. The axe stops millimetres from your face, the look on his face one of absolute fury.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” he rages. “Get out of my way!”

“No,” you say simply. “It’s not the wall you want to hit. It’s me. It’s always been me. So do it. Hit me.” His arm droops, and his axe drops an inch. “Hit me, Peter,” you repeat, taking a step towards him. “It’s what you’ve been dreaming about, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” he hisses.

“Hit me, Peter,” you enunciate, your eyes narrowed. “Just hit me. You know you-”

His fist slams into your face with such force you stumble backwards, blood spurting out of your nose. The expression on his face is part-horror, part-guilt, but it slowly changes to confusion as he watches you, watches the blood dribble back up your nose.

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

You grind your nose around, checking it’s back in working order. “The only power Matt left me was healing. So I can live forever.” Your voice isn’t bitter, or even angry. Just sort of... resigned. Matter-of-fact.

He sinks to the ground, shaking his head. “That’s not even fair,” he whispers with a little hysterical chuckle.

“Life’s not fair, Pete; you should know that better than anyone.”

He doesn’t even flinch when you call him Pete. He gives a wry smile, but other than that he doesn’t appear to notice. You sit down next to him, leaning against the wall, waiting for him to tell you to fuck off. But he doesn’t.

“He used to say you make your own luck in the world,” he says slowly. He doesn’t need to say who. “He didn’t believe in fate or karma or anything like that. Life is what you make it, he’d say. And I’m gonna make mine incredible.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “I guess he was right, in a way.”

You don’t know quite what to say to that. You’re usually so good with words, with a quip for every occasion, but your eloquence goes to pot whenever you’re around Peter. It’s the guilt, you think. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

“He was a great man, your brother,” you say, looking up at him.

“He was a twat,” Peter says flatly. “Look, Sylar, you’re... I can’t have this conversation with you.”

“Why not?” you ask, your voice soft despite the hurt.

He gesticulates vaguely, searching for an answer that won’t come. “I can’t have this conversation with anyone!” he bursts out eventually, frustration seeping into the cracks in his voice.

“You can’t talk about Nathan because then you’d have to accept that he’s not coming back and you can’t deal with that yet,” you say quietly, understanding. “You can’t face life without your brother at your side.”

“Don’t even try working that empathy shit on me, man,” Peter warns, glaring at him.

“I wasn’t,” you reply simply, and it’s true. “You’re like an open book. You don’t have to be an empath to know you’re one screwed up bastard.”

He gives a little chuckle, then. “I guess. You can talk, though. Your power thing? Yeah, seriously fucked up.”

“True,” you acknowledge. “We’re both as screwed up as each other.”

“Maybe,” he says suddenly, as if he might not finish if he doesn’t get the words out quick enough, “maybe we can be screw-ups together.”

And he looks up and smiles for the first time in forever and it’s like his face has lit up from the inside and you smile back and then you’re leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him. He’s tense at first, unwilling to let you in, but then he loosens up and you can feel him shuddering in your grip, desperate to keep it together, but you just hold him tighter because you won’t let him fall apart. Not this time.

He doesn’t cry, but he comes awfully close. He breathes heavily, gulping air into his lungs to stop himself breaking into hysterics, and you just pat his shoulder, silent, because you know words would spoil this, somehow.

You can only have been hugging for a minute, maybe two. To you, though, it feels like years. Centuries, even. But time is seriously fucked here so who knows, maybe it was. All you know is when Peter shoves you away from him, raking a hand back through his floppy dark hair, there’s an awful sense of loss deep in the pit of your stomach and you just want him in your arms again.

But that would be selfish and you’re done being selfish. So you just get to your feet, smack him on the back and grin at him.

“I’ll leave you with your wall,” you say, your lips still stretched over your teeth. “Good luck breaking it down.”

“I think I already have,” he whispers, looking up at it. “Good night, Sylar.”

“Good night,” you say softly, but then you turn away because you can’t stand to look at him with the knowledge that he’ll be here all night hacking at that goddamn wall and by the time tomorrow rolls around, it’ll be like none of this happened.

So you trudge back to the apartment you’ve claimed as your own, your self-imposed prison to keep you safe from the rest of the world.