onepassingnight | under the boardwalk // people walking above || closed log;

He's tired of this dream, the one where he ends up on the beach. Where things are made to seem easier. The realization that it's all a lie makes it that much more painful, and all he wants to do is walk home with the sand in his shoes. His place is amidst the skyscrapers, waiting on the ledge for all the things he ever wanted. A reminder of all the things he'll never be

When he hears his name, he shakes his head. Eyes closed, he didn't want to do this the first time. And he doesn't want to do it the second. But he's here, and all he has to wake up to, is his next shift.

So he's the one who turns, because he has nothing left to loose. "What?"

He doesn't look up; doesn't even move. The tide is lapping at his toes, but he can't feel it. This Peter isn't his, but neither is any. Not anymore. Adam's burrowing inside himself, hollowed out and taken away by the unforgiving sea.

"You're not supposed to be here." It's a comment, not an accusation, and no matter how painful it is--the relief that wells inside him from Peter's presence is palpable. He knows it's pathetic, but he's already fighting tears, the grip on is own leg white-knuckled.

To Peter it was always an accusation, even when it never sounded like one, and he feels like he's walking on eggshells to pick a response that'll win him the prize of understanding. What he's supposed to understand, he doesn't yet know, but it's better than being lost.

Brow furrowed, Peter wonders if he walks away now, would he end up in exactly the same place. Always running, but never getting anywhere. "Sorry. I didn't plan on it." For the time being, there's no self-deprecation in the words, only a harsh stoicism, an expression he learned from his long-worn battle with the wall.

"It's my fault, not yours," Adam says automatically, like he knew what Peter would say. Maybe he had.

It takes him a long time after that, watching the waves, to calm his own heartbeat. He could almost feel human again if it weren't for the constant reminders. His teeth cutting into his lip, made whole again, half-moon marks left by his nails gone as soon as they'd appeared. He's grieving, and he'd been too weak - couldn't make Peter go now he'd summoned him. He chokes against a threatening sob, forcing it back from whence it came. But it would be back, and now he just looks lost.

"I'm sorry." It's a whisper, the plea of a desperate man. Though when he works up the courage to look up, his heart knocks right back up his throat. He's more of a child than a man. A 400 year old child asking forgiveness from a person he doesn't know yet; may never know.

Peter has his own quiet suspicions, thoughts that he has no interest in expressing. After years of Sylar attempting to break through, he's had more practice than anyone needs at shutting people out. Granted, that's not what he's trying to do to Adam. But it's far too easy to swallow himself whole and disappear inside silence. Nothing has to be made real when you say it out loud; nothing has to be lost.

He's simply taken to trying to hold himself together so tightly that letting something slip is akin to a catastrophe.

All he wants to do is stare out at the horizon, because even the city has one of those and it reeks of home, some painfully unreachable goal. Eventually, some part of himself is convinced to ask the question he's not even sure he wants the answer to. "For what?"

Nostrils flaring, he looks back down at the water, touching his ankles now. He reaches out, fingers drawing patterns in the shallow waves. No one answer existed to that question, and not even a list would suffice. He could be sorry Peter dug him up, sorry that Peter believed in him, sorry that he actually allowed himself to believe back, even for a second, that he could be a good person.

"Everything." I'm sorry you met me, he doesn't quite manage to say.

"Yeah, well--"

Arms crossed across his chest, Peter still doesn't know how to feel. Not today. He doesn't want to be standing here, Adam at his feet, the other man looking as if he's desperate for Peter to accept his apology. Peter wants Nathan back, and Peter wants to save the world -- but life isn't easy, and nobody gets everything they want.

"Doesn't change anything, now." He doesn't sound angry, just tired. Bring back his apocalyptic nightmares, they're infinitely easier than this.

"No." Adam crumples, defeated. "Nothing ever changes."

Peter knows that tone; it's one he's used countless times before. The vast difference in Adam's emotions since the last time he'd seen the man was making Peter curious, and curiosity was getting the better of him no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

He rubs his eyes for a moment, before sighing. "What happened?"

It pulls a deep, shuddering, soul-shattering breath from his burning lungs - chest going impossibly tighter. His eyes flick to Peter, then the sand next to him. He really doesn't need the symbolism right now, and even if he doesn't deserve it he wants the closeness. Especially because he doesn't deserve it, even.

His lips try to form the words a few times, at a loss until he finally manages to give it up. When his mouth opens again, the words just fall out, "I let you down."

Peter can't decide if he should be hurt or not, though his emotions are rarely under his control. What is, however, is whether or not he lets it show. Maybe he becomes almost imperceptibly stiffer, and the last thing he wants to do is keep staring, keep his head held up. But he does it, because Peter wants to pretend this doesn't have anything to do with him.

"You didn't let me down." He's is the embodiment of stillness, his tone is borderline comforting. "And i'm not the person you should be apologizing to."

"I can't," he chokes out, having a very physical reaction to the words. He turns away, hand scrubbing over his face. "You're- " not him? It doesn't matter. This Peter is the only Peter he'll be seeing for a long time. He has to wonder .. where the other Peter is right now. Is he dreaming of another Adam, or someone else entirely?

He's really not sure which would be worse. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, every muscle tensing. If he tells Peter to leave could he spare them both? He entertains it for not even an entire beat, eyes blinking back open.

"You're all I have left."

For a moment, Peter considers the benefits of saying that somewhere out there, there's a Peter who just lost the only person he has left. So why should he have any sympathy, how is he supposed to bear this burden when he's betraying himself. He's already betrayed Nathan's memory, he's not sure he can take much more. He never got to have Adam in that way, but he knew -- he didn't have to actually loose Adam to understand how he himself would feel.

But he was still Peter. A man who had forgiven Sylar, the unforgivable. Peter's resolve had yet to be cracked, and it couldn't be, not when Adam was falling apart in all the wrong ways at his feet.

From the effort of keeping himself from reacting, he'd become rooted to the spot. Immobile. Forcing his feelings down somewhere he didn't have to find them until days past. Soft, but stern, Peter finds his words. "What do you want me to do?"

If Peter could take anything more from him, he'd be reduced to a pile of clothing in the sand. As it is, he's sure he'll need a little plastic shovel to pick himself back up again. Not that he can fathom scraping himself off this beach any time soon. He won't get a choice when the time comes anyway. He'll be ripped away and at least then, one thing won't be his fault.

He'd rehearsed it a thousand times, holding Peter for what he'd known would be the last. And long before Peter he'd rehearsed that moment and moments like it, and though people thought him cruel and heartless, nothing could take his humanity away. Nothing ever would.

"I want you to tell me I'm a bad person, Peter," he says suddenly, no longer bothering to hide his watery gaze as it slides up to meet Peter's. It's not a trick, or a ploy for attention; just there, and bold and honest and true. "Tell me I don't deserve to be upset for breaking your heart."

And suddenly, when it's in Peter's hands, he finds he can't hold Adam's eye contact for more than a few agonizingly long seconds. Back out to the horizon he's staring, jaw clenched as tight as he can manage to keep it.

Peter can't say it, he knows he can't. There's a million things he wants to say, and a million things he probably should, but he can't stop thinking about how he should've known better. Not he himself, but the Peter that this Adam had the opportunity to break. He knows he should be mad at Adam, should stand up for himself, but the only thing that can come up with is that it's all his fault. That he had it coming

He stays silent for as long as he can manage, but as hard as he's trying, his facade might very well be beginning to crack. "You really think that's going to fix it? I can't--" Grasping for words makes a sudden ache well to the surface and he wavers. "It's not that easy."

No. It couldn't be. He's curling back in on himself, leaning into the tide. Maybe it'll carry him away and he'll be spared Peter's understanding. It would be so much easier if he would hate Adam, if he would quit blaming himself for the things the immortal had done.

Adam can't even bring himself to be mortified; it was inevitable: hot tears welling in his eyes and threatening to fall, silent save for the harsh breaths that seem physically painful as they're pulled from his chest.

Peter says silent, more than happy to give Adam the space he needs by not giving in and sitting down next to him. Even if his natural inclination is to comfort, Peter's fairly sure that the last thing Adam wants from him right now is comfort. And in all truth, he doesn't think he's capable of giving it.

But his own hard edge is starting to fade, and he lets himself sink, closing his eyes for a moment as he tries to let a breeze knock away feelings that he can't rid himself of on his own.

Space is the last thing on his mind, the ocean roaring loud in his ears, making them ring. It won't be long before tide dictates he move back or be swept away by the undertoe, but he's rooted to this spot. The deepening water giving Adam a sense of purpose, even as a prop to what lies beyond this beach and his petty human drama. He's no god; he never was. Evidence that he was not an unfeeling man tracks slowly down his face, unnoticed as it rolls off and onto the beach to be swept away by wind and sand. It's eroding him slowly, like a pebble beneath the waves, taking him away piece by piece until there will be nothing.

"I gave up on the one thing I've been searching for all my life. And for what?" Another riotous sob racks through him, his frame stuttering as he digs his toes in, here to stay.

Peter's not necessarily at a loss for words, so much as he's simply at a loss. Without understanding what truly happened, how is he supposed to even have something to say.

And then there's the fact that Peter doesn't what to know what might happen if he opens his mouth. Peter's taught himself, exactly like some Peter out there is learning this very instant, how to get by without letting himself cope. Because coping means it happened, and coping means he has to feel, but as long as he forces himself to ignore it all he can find a way to survive. Because it's easier than facing every day in misery.

He attempts to take a step back and finds himself still stuck. He's lost his way on uneven ground and all he wants to do is find his way back to neutrality. "You're the only one who knows, Adam."

He bites his lip against another soft, grief-stricken sound. Peter doesn't; shouldn't have to listen, not to this. Not only because he isn't the right version, but because he feels with his whole self, and Peter shouldn't have to feel who Adam really is--shouldn't have to know.

"I told you I loved you." His voice is fractured and wobbly, but he has to tell someone. It only makes him feel worse, dragging this Peter into his mess all over, but he wanted punishment. This is his form of self-flagellation, as cruel in its originality as its selfishness. "But I left because I wasn't lying."

Hanging his head, he gives in, each tear wrought with a breathy cry. There's a sense of victory in this, in throwing himself to Peter's mercy. This man is the only person he's ever given freely his trust, and it was never misplaced. He isn't sure what to expect, and so he merely tries not to expect anything at all. His heart burns in his chest, calling to Peter, and it's only with red and battle-weary eyes that he can take in the man, soaking him up for the last time; knowing all that he is and all he will be.

He'll be without Adam when he becomes this shell, and he'll be responsible, at least in part, for steering him wrong, for snuffing out some of the light behind his naively hopeful eyes. He had wanted to crush that naivety, had wanted to see Peter suffer, but now that he had it--could hold it in his hands; in fact had it in a chokehold, he couldn't pull the trigger.

As silent as Peter is staying, his gaze on the ocean in front of him bordering on harsh, the vengeful side of him would like nothing more than to use the only thing he possesses to hurt Adam the only way he can. It's the small, viciously angry part that wants Adam to know how it felt the first time to be betrayed by the only person he had. And while it's something he never had the joy to experience, he's sure that he could at least attempt to describe how it might feel to go for a second round of torture.

He might've fallen for Adam in Primatech, but there was no time, no way to express that; he was never given the opportunity. And while he's almost jealous of what had gone on, nothing compared to watching this wave of misery and knowing he wants no part in it. It wasn't worth this. Adam had left another version of himself in the dust for a second time, when that same version of himself had obviously managed to find the one last scrap of trust he might have had. But every circular thought running through his mind drives home the fact he was still stupid enough to believe. Peter's trust was gone; Adam had been there to fracture it, and he was there to help see it broken.

Peter closes his eyes, putting up some sort of wall against Adam's words. He wasn't the one this Adam loved and he didn't want to hear it, didn't want to believe it was possible. Except he can feel himself slipping and he has to open his eyes so he's not sucked under his own thoughts. And yet, there was only so much of Adam's sorrow he could take. He's not done with this yet.

Looking down at Adam, Peter sighs. Keeping one arm curled around his ribs protectively as if holding his feelings back, he drops a hand to his side, offering it to the man dissolving at his feet. "Come on, i'm not going to let you drown."

Though he hesitates, it isn't a choice, and he firmly grips Peter's arm, letting the other man haul him up. He doesn't deserve this mercy, and it makes it all the sharper; makes him feel that much worse. He drops his hand, magnetized to his side by a force not his own. "You should." His other hand covers the spot Peter's recently vacated, gripping tightly as his watery gaze slips from Peter's hold. "And worse."

There can be no illusion, he knows exactly what it is he's done. He's taken hope from a man who was already wanting, and he wants nothing more than to take it back, to put Peter back together. But it's too late, the damage has been done and he's no longer what Peter needs.

The tide still hits him, just over his ankle, and slowly, he moves toward Peter and out of the water. How many times would Peter save him before he did the reasonable thing and killed him instead? He knows now he can't be anything, that he'll outlive many more great men--probably even Peter--and he will be much less.

As self-deprecating and guilt-ridden as Peter is, he doesn't actually enjoy seeing it in others. Especially not from Adam, a man who Peter can no longer offer much pity to -- a man who seems to ask for all that he gets. His own sympathy is starting to wear thin at the moment and he sighs, making it back to dry land.

"Maybe, but you can do it to yourself when i'm not around to stop you. Alright?" He offers Adam a side-long look, a slight hint of anger beginning to creep in under the wire. He rescued Sylar from his own pit of despair, he should be just as capable to rescue Adam, even if he's not out to save the world today.

His own feelings don't need to get in the way, no matter how badly they want to, and Peter's desperately trying to leave them back in the water where he doesn't need them anymore. But Peter is still, no matter how much he'll always hate it, always fueled by emotion and he waits because Adam always has a story to tell. And he's not going anywhere until the other man has it out of his system.

He nods, moving to sit on an abandoned towel. He doesn't like the expectation in Peter's eyes, but he's lost the right to dislike what Peter does or doesn't do. Peter's right about one thing: Adam always has a story. The one he's about to tell just may be a little more truthful than any of his others. Even so, he needs a minute to build up to it, or maybe three. He wipes his hands against his pants, palms suddenly sweaty despite the wind.

"It's better for him this way. I got a glimpse... If we stayed together--" Swallowing a shuddering breath, he's not sure he can go on. The tears are starting to come fresh and twice as hard, and no matter what he does they just keep spilling. He clutches his chest when they start to hurt and squeezes his eyes shut tight; they could be acid against his skin for how they light his skin.

He'll do whatever Peter wants him do. At least while he's here he can't ruin his life, not when it's already ruined. He can have peace, just for one night and in this dream he can be human again. Adam can finally have some rest, knowing Peter hates him again.

Oh, no. Peter doesn't hate him. As he already said, it's never just that easy. Frustrated, pissed off, endlessly angry; yes. He's all those things. And maybe at one point in his life he hated Adam. But now, now he's far more removed and he's left with the shallow grooves of old emotions that he just wants to stop aching. Because after awhile they've all started to stack up, and all that's left is the pain.

"So you--" His voice starts off sharp, and he sighs, reminding himself that there's no particular reason he needs to insert his own attitude at the moment. Adam's tearing himself enough all on his own, Peter doesn't need to help. So he swallows, starts over again, searching for the right tone to take. And while it might be bordering on aggressive, he's trying to inject it almost parental disappointment, something he used to do to Nathan.

"So you just left sooner rather than later, you mean." Peter's well aware that he's dragging Adam through things he doesn't want to be, but he can't stop, because he's always wanted to know why everyone sought him out to be the human pincushion. Why did he have to have all the emotions if all everyone wanted to do, was make him hurt. "Because, what-- It wasn't worth doing for any reason other than your own?"

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