onepassingnight | volume 4

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volume 4

There's something eerie about walking through an empty New York, a place that's supposed to be the opposite of a cowboy ghost town. At least there aren't any tumbleweeds. But it always leaves Peter feeling hallowed out in all the wrong ways, lost with nothing left to find. He doesn't even bother looking into the windows of empty buildings; he's done this too many times to know that there's nothing there to see, that there won't be anyone else looking back.

The sound of his footsteps echo far too loudly and Peter sighs, trying to ignore the part of him that keeps getting its hopes up at the turn of every corner. There's not going to be anyone there waiting. Not at this street or the next, and yet Peter peers around each street, down every alley, still searching for the remnants of people that might have passed by. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll hear something outside of the thoughts inside his own head.

He's already done all his shouting, he always tries it, seeing if the sound of his voice might bring any wanderers out from hiding. But he always stops just before going hoarse, there's no point. Turning at another street corner, Peter will never enjoy feeling as if he's the last person left on earth.

[ ooc; feel free to hit up this post however you'd like to -- be it prose or actionspam/brackets. i'll respond accordingly ]

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Adam is walking for some time before he even realizes it, glancing at his watch as though--inanely--he might have somewhere to be. His steps aren't hurried, nor are they leisurely; only taking enough care to put one foot in front of the other and nothing more sophisticated. Though these streets are bare, they tell a story, and where there is a tale to be told Adam would be there.

Though he's yet to find himself uncomfortable, pacing dark streets alone, he feels distinctly as though he does not belong. What's more disturbing is how truly undisturbed he is as he goes about his rounds, as if he were meant to do so. Then again, he's no stranger to foreign memories. Even his own often felt removed and far away as though someone had shared them with him a long time ago and he had merely picked up the residual.

And that's precisely what this space is: residual. Even for a dreamworld, its framework is weak. A dream within a dream perhaps, or just some odd bit of whimsy conjured by a man who spent no less than 80% of his waking life in the clouds.

He knows before he does that this is Peter's dream; he's seen enough of them by now. And perhaps that's why it's with a certain confidence that he owns the space, callous to its rightful owner.

Peter would gladly hand the space over, if he had the chance to. He'd like to rid himself of it, the odd empty air of a silent city. He'd rather take the hustle and bustle any day of the week even though he feels just as alone in a city filled to the brim with others. But with other people, at least there was a constant buzz of something instead of an all encompassing quiet.

Letting his feet carry him through this thing that's far more of a memory than a dream, Peter has no destination in mind, though he's well aware he's heading toward the parts of this place he knows best. Searching for familiarity in a place where everything is, Peter can only hope this is over quick so he can return to the land of the waking.

Or maybe he doesn't want to. It takes a few moments, but it's the sound of footsteps he hears first, giving pause to his own movement. He slows almost to a complete halt before he starts up again, brow furrowed in curiosity more than alarm. It's his wonder that gets the best of him, his walking carrying more focus, determination set into every footstep.

Face lifted, it's under the glare of a streetlamp that he first sees Adam. Some weight he wasn't even aware was there is suddenly lifted, if only because of the fact that there's someone else here. He doesn't have to go it alone, and he's silent in his own appreciation of Adam's solid presence.

Though he's expecting Peter, it's a different thing to see the other man. It always is. His gaze softens as he slows his step, trying not to appear as affected as he obviously is. So many times, he had felt alone in the world with Peter Petrelli and now that he truly is, it feels wrong somehow. This memory isn't his to share. He can feel guilt cloying up his throat, but it isn't his own wrongdoings he's answering for, though the Lord knows he has enough of them to go around.

Even Adam can't invent speech where there is none, and so he stops, not ten yards from Peter. A sudden wind blows past him, as if cautioning him to go no further and so he doesn't, hanging there, his face carefully cleared of anything that might give him away. Not that he knows his own motives even himself.

Peter's relief is something he can feel, almost as if it were his, and when he sees it over the man's darkened features he knows he can create a place for himself here. Peter will etch it out for him and even give it freely, because even now he doesn't want the threatening nothingness. It isn't as if Adam can blame him, loneliness and the destruction of it had been the impetus for a fair portion of his long life.

He offers something that isn't a smile, but speaks to his own relief. If they each can find a friend in nowhere then perhaps hope isn't an illusion. Or perhaps still, it's merely a kind one. To look around, the latter would seem unlikely, but Adam had learned to see his own silver lining, when it suited him.

Even though he's not jumping for joy, or anything even like it, Peter's well aware how obvious it is that he's happy to see Adam. Anybody who knew Peter for a day would know that being completely alone would be his undoing and it so often is. It's when he finds other people that he stitches himself back together and becomes something, needing the livelihood of others to define himself.

Peter doesn't need to take any long definitive moments to feel out the situation between them. If he tried, he's not even sure what he'd find, if anything at all. He's already walking over without a second thought, ignoring Adam's hesitation, though noting it for whatever it's worth. This dream has only recently begun and he's spent enough of it alone, far too much if Peter had any kind of a say in it.

It doesn't take too long, merely a few seconds before he's standing in front of Adam, hands buried inside his pockets. Maybe he'd be beaming if that word even existed in his vocabulary anymore, but he's undoubtedly pleased that it's Adam that has destroyed the emptiness of this place. That would hold true no matter the scenario. But those aren't the words he chooses to break the silence with.

Because now that there's someone to talk to, he hardly knows what to say. It should be easy to pull something out of the calm, chill air. To fill in all the empty spaces. But maybe it's that Peter's far too busy staring at Adam, still in the business of trying to memorize every line of Adam's features, looking as gently as he wants to touch, so that when he wakes up, they'll still be there. Eventually he finds his way to speech, and he lets a smile force its way through. "Hi."

It almost makes him laugh, but he can't begin to entertain the sound, echoing loudly before it's even crossed his lips. Words seemed so inconsequential here and yet, he clings to Peter's one. If Peter can form something like a sentence, then doubtlessly so can he. He reaches out, fingers brushing Peter's elbow softly, eyes crinkling in something of an answering smile.

"Hello, Peter." A warm greeting before the contact is gone, hands retreating to his own pockets. It's as if they're old friends long estranged and this is the meeting place they've both chosen, though it's not really a choice at all. He opens his mouth to say something more, but it's stolen by another warning gust, and he snaps it shut again, settled in patient complacency as he waits for what Peter might say next.

Scrunching his nose at the aggressive wind, he almost glowers into the weather, as if he could make his subconscious behave itself. But if his dreams were any indication, he had little control over what it did to him. Or his guests, for that matter. He knew it could be worse though, so he might as well keep his complaints to himself.

"Sorry about the..." his words trail off as he glances around slightly, trying to look for the words to describe the landscape of an empty city. He shrugs, coming up empty-handed, not knowing how to explain himself or even why he feels the need to apologize in the first place. "It's just weird. Being here alone."

He doesn't say that you get used to it, because he never did. If he had, maybe he wouldn't have tried so hard to escape, but there's no getting used to vast emptiness. It only gets worse. But his attention is once again on Adam, not that he really wants to look anywhere else. He can still feel the ghost of Adam's touch and he shifts, rolling his shoulder, trying to fend off the feel before it distracts him completely.

The movement draws the line of his sight down Peter's arm before it drifts back to his face; he's certainly not pretending there's anything better to look at either. Suddenly, with that stilted apology, Adam knows what this is and he's changing his mind to fiercely uncomfortable. He doesn't want to have a place here, not anymore, not now that he's puzzled out what it means.

Sylar. This is Sylar's dream. Or at least, it had been. Now it's but a shadow cast against the walls of Peter's subconscious, and now he's managed to pull Adam in. It makes the intrusion that much more unsettling. If he stands in this spot much longer, he's sure it will cast him out. He's a trespasser, unwanted in every way, and yet that's not the story on Peter's face.

Misplaced anger and something akin to jealousy are determined to hold fast to his ribcage, pulling him under as his heart beats above the rest. He gives a shallow, pained breath that he can see. It isn't cold but there it is, fear and insecurity ripping him up in ways he'd never let it. "I'm here now," he says unwaveringly, though he almost expects his voice to shake. Though the words themselves sound comforting, Adam knows his face belies his own inner struggle.

He's usually so good at making himself believe what he already expects from others, but here he feels split open and raw. Peter's apology still echoes in his head, and he can't terminate it; there will always be a part of him that enjoys the suffering Peter puts himself through. And no matter how relieved he may have been to see him, any joy is surely stolen by its setting. Part of him still wants Peter to be sorry; believes it's his fault for putting Adam in this space. Rational thought is slowly winning over, but the air still feels thick and unbreathable when he tries.

This Peter might not have the ability to read emotions, but he's good enough at deciphering when something's wrong. It's his job to immerse himself in chaos and emergencies; Peter understands fear and worry better than he understands happiness, and this moment is no different. At the very least, he knows when someone's uncomfortable, unsettled. While Adam's difficult to read on a good day, Peter would like to pretend that he's getting marginally better at it, the air Adam's giving off him suddenly the only tell tale sign.

"You are." Peter says the words nearly under his breath, though the relief is still evident just below the surface. But Peter's far more invested in finding out why everything about Adam seems to give off the idea that he needs to make a break for it. As much as he'd like to, Peter wants to hold tight to those words, to Adam's presence, the sentiment that now Adam is here to break apart all that this place means. It can't be a form of confinement if Adam's here. It makes it different, it changes everything.

But now Peter has other concerns and he shoves aside his own thoughts, brow furrowed in blatant worry. "What's wrong?" His tone isn't wavering, the question is stubborn as it is firm. If it had something to do with the lack of city-goers, Adam would have been acting like this from the first moment Peter set eyes on him. But it only happened after Peter had started talking, which leads him to the easy conclusion that it had something to do with him

Which only makes him feel as if he has infinitely more to apologize for apart from his subconscious' idea of a bad joke gone awry. He's always done something wrong, why should this time be any different. But until Adam confesses, lines are running through Peter's mind that keep telling himself not to sink under the weight of uncertainty. It's so easy to curl in on himself and find blame where there isn't any, but he already wants to fix this if he can. He can't do it if he's overcome by guilt, though, and he's trying to hold onto worry for Adam instead of his own self-loathing.

When he blinks, he rests his eyes shut for a beat longer than he needs to, gathering the loose ends as he feels himself drifting, and drawing them back together. Two words quickly became the most complicated question ever posed, and he's losing himself in all the many ways he could screw up this answer. He forces himself to relax under Peter's gaze, taking half a step closer to him if for no other purpose than to demonstrate his intent to stay.

"I don't belong here," makes its way through before he properly settles on what to say. It's true, and vague enough to let him still hide, and so it's acceptable to him for now, allowing the empty words to hang. They're Peter's to do with what he will now, and Adam finds himself calming visibly as his eyes trace paths down Peter's jaw, over his lips. It's easy to distract himself with the man before him, and it's easier still to forget his own upset with Peter this near.

The streets still nag at him and he can't help but feel that they want him gone. Whether their purpose is to torture Peter or protect him isn't to know, but Adam can only suspect it's some mixture, designed as a prison to the man's very own guilt and self-destruction. Any hardness left in the planes of his face is melting, and he only wants Peter to understand that it isn't him he fears but his own stifling inadequacy. He can only be sure the city will see him for what he is before Peter has the chance.

Another chance to be alone with Peter; another chance to tell him all the things he's never said. He doesn't deserve this borrowed time, and he's beginning to think it's taking more of a toll on either of them than it could possibly be worth. But Adam's greed is immeasurable, and his ability to take even when there's nothing left to. It's his own particular skill, a honed craft that's outlasted more ages than he himself could ever hope to.

Peter pauses a long moment before he's even able to process that answer; it hadn't been what he'd expected. Not that he's even sure what he had been expecting, but he'd like to believe that's not the point. Once the gears in his mind finally start to churn and work through the words Adam tossed at his feet, he doesn't think an hour or two's worth of thought will manage to give them any more sense.

"Compared to who? Me?" His gaze flicks around himself, on the buildings that still feel like they're leaning in, trying to protect their lack of patrons. Peter doesn't know who does belong here, really. He can hardly stand it when he's dragged back to the place, he spent his time here already. This city wasn't supposed to be his guilt personified either, but its what it became, there wasn't any running from it after years of it being forced upon him. He loathes it and the ache it brings is one that's familiar to him, but it will never be his home.

Peter's gaze finally ends on the same place it began: Adam. It's not as if there's anywhere else he wants to look, and he wants to make that as clear as he possibly can. Opening his mouth to speak, all the fire's gone out of him, the firm determination to get to the bottom of what Adam looked so upset about is slowly drained from his features.

"I'm sorry," is all that he's got, his voice frayed at the edges. "Believe me, if I actually got to dream about beaches, i'd bring you there instead. This isn't-" Ducking his face to stare down at their shoes, Peter stifles a sigh. There's a million ways he could choose to end that sentence and he wants to give voice to all of them. To explain this without tearing himself wide open. But there isn't enough time, so he simply stays quiet, letting the near submissive apology for things he can't control roll off him in waves. If he could have it his way, things would be different. But when was the last time things actually went his way.

Somehow the apology doesn't sound as sweet the second time around, and Adam immediately wants to dismiss it for the rubbish it is. Dropping his gaze to catch Peter's eyes, his expression is nothing but soft; forgiving. Not that there is anything to forgive, but protesting Peter's guilt would hardly absolve it. Adam knows better than to try. He feels awkwardly rigid, standing in the middle of the road, but it's as if the soles of his shoes have been laden with cement. It hardly matters besides, when he knows each nook of this vast cityscape will be every bit as empty as the stretch he's occupying.

"I know," he says only, lips turning up in vague reassurance. It's still not fair, but what ever has been? Where Peter's last dream had almost been happy, this one is dismal; spartan. But as long as they have enough misery to share, Adam can live with it. He doesn't have a choice.

Peter's first question had gone unanswered, ignored in his haste to quash the deprecation where it started. They could go on lamenting and berating themselves all night but it would be a waste of a perfectly good opportunity. They were together and alone, and maybe that can be enough. It's never been anything less for as long as he's known Peter, and he's made due with less for a much higher cost besides.

With a shrug, some more of that severity is stripped away, and he's left looking much younger than he usually might. "Beaches are overrated. This at least is interesting." He lifts an eyebrow, hoping the lightness of his tone will sink into the other man, and make this a little more bearable for the both of them. He's growing tired of struggling for each breath. This can be easy, if they let it.

When Peter gives in and lifts his gaze, it's skeptical at best. He doesn't know whether or not to believe Adam's words, or his tone; the other man's too quick to drop his earlier fears for it to be natural. Peter's left wondering how he's supposed to react if he doesn't even know what he's done wrong. Where he's supposed to go next when he didn't even know where to start.

If he was a different man, he'd tell Adam that if he found it so interesting, he could be the one to stay here for years on end with nothing but his thoughts and his biggest mistake to keep him company. This place isn't interesting, it's a nightmare waiting to happen. But all of that would belie the fact that this time, Adam is here. Not only does that make it different, but if he lets himself admit it, he's someone that Peter had actually wanted to see. In this place, he waits on edge for Sylar to appear, a nightmare in his own right, bringing with him all the guilt that Peter could possess wrapped into one person, one memory; all his faults personified. He can't look at Sylar without seeing his brother, but he can look at Adam and find comfort.

That doesn't mean he doesn't feel bad that he's brought Adam to this place. If he could have him somewhere else, he'd do it in a heartbeat. But the depths of his mind are never kind and at least this place isn't five years into a crumbling New York, a place he never wants anyone to see. He looks guilty enough as it is, any harshness that might have existed in his tone is gone with a single sigh, all his apologies spread across his features as he looks up at Adam.

"Interesting's not the word i'd use." He finds himself taking another step closer, practically nosing into Adam's chest, looking for protection he's not even sure he's allowed to try to find right now when Adam so obviously blames him for this places existence. "I'd take almost anywhere over this place, but i'm just- I'm glad to see you, Adam," Peter admits, trying to sound casual but ending up cracking along the seams. For some reason, in this city where hiding would be so easy, he finds himself feeling over exposed and wide open, his subconscious laid bare for Adam to walk through. He needs himself to find more words, to do something to fill up the silence when he so badly wants to pull Adam closer. "I was going to my apartment to try to wait this out."

He almost lets himself smile, hand coming back out of his pocket to squeeze Peter's shoulder. Each simple, companionable touch only leaves him wanting, but he shoves those thoughts away. He needs something else from Peter now, and though he could find it in the other man and take it, as he had done before; it isn't what he wants now. Not only does he want Peter to give freely of himself, he wants to find himself on equal ground. It's never the way it works for Adam, he used and was used to varying degrees and to varying use to himself, but to connect with Peter; with another person simply to make the connection--it was something he'd gone centuries without.

Under this barren sky, he wonders if Peter could find comfort in Adam, the person, and not the idea. He wonders if there is even a person left to connect with. He's so hollowed himself out, replaced with false promises and dark motives; is that even a person? Is he anything more than his own agenda? All of it must show on his face, but not even Peter would know what it meant, and so for once he doesn't bother to cover it. Why shouldn't he feel, as any man felt. He's not a god here, he can't affect anything. He's the same as Peter, and that's what he wants; just the same.

Tipping his face down to catch Peter's words, they seem meaningless at first until they filter through. When he had pledged of next time, this had hardly been his expectation. But even a man who sat on a mountain of broken promises would keep this one, if only to wait this out, as Peter had so eloquently put. He finds himself nodding, some of Peter's hair brushing his face. "I'll come with you," and it's all he needs say. Peter can see the gladness echoed back if he's looking for it, and Adam isn't up to his usual snark.

Peter's apartment at least will be his, even if it still will be overshadowed by Sylar, a presence even Adam can feel now. He's with them, omnipresent, and yet not here at all. Though Peter claims it's nothing, the minimal and shiftless collection of rooms keeps the man together, holds his sadness when he leaves. Even if Adam had never seen it for himself, he would know exactly what Peter's apartment is; the strange safe haven it projects here, through the dark.

He draws away, a step back though his hand stays, merely a pressing of fingers with the added distance. Not only does temptation weigh on his bones like lead, dragging him down until he's sure only Peter's touch could make him light enough to walk again-- but he needs the space to take in a proper breath, something he hasn't done since this dream began. Adam nods forward, letting his hand drop at last, indicating for Peter to lead the way. Though ordinarily he would step ahead, or even take the lead himself as seemed natural; he reminds himself again of his own motives. To share in everything with Peter alike, and to not take until he was offered. It's as unnatural as breathing underwater, and yet the tightness in his chest bears evidence to his certain drowning.

Allowing himself only a moment's worth of hesitation, still staring up at Adam as if he could force things to make sense simply by looking at the other man, Peter finally finds the motivation to slip around the other and begin to walk. It's astonishingly odd to simply expect Adam to begin to follow, and maybe if Peter was more honest with himself he would realize that it's odd to expect anything at all. From anyone, let alone Adam. But he's trying not to over think it; Peter no longer enjoys letting the pieces fall where they will, but even in his own dreams he has next to no control.

Lifting his face once more onto the sight of empty streets, Peter notes that Adam's presence alone makes things feel far less darkened over, the shadows not nearly as deep. Every time he finds himself stuck here, he spends his time searching. Looking for all the guilt he's tucked away into the corners of his mind, keeping it hidden until he's willing to spare the time to spread it all out, to inspect it until it's all he becomes. But with someone else, with Adam, it's easier to keep all of it covered. Or maybe it's all that much harder.

Just like the touch at his elbow, he can still feel the lingering touch at his shoulder and he has to do something to shake it off. For some reason it terrifies him that he can't let go. That he can't shake free from an invisible grasp, because the more he thinks about it, the more he knows there's no hiding here. Not with Adam. There's no one to hide behind, nothing else to lay bare but himself. He's grown so used to his own lies, telling strangers someone else's life story, that sometimes Peter thinks he's forgotten his own.

Glancing up at empty buildings, Peter starts on an avid hunt for other words, other things to fill in the cavernous silence that seems to have swept over everything. Peter simply wants to fill it all back in, make everything right, to make Adam feel like he belongs somehow in this place that no one should fit into. Which is exactly why he's heading straight for his apartment, the one place in this ghost town that Peter feels as if he even has a place.

"If i'd known that this was going to be the next time, I would've told you to wait for awhile," he says, and Peter can only hope that Adam can hear the truth in his voice. There's nothing left for Peter to be but honest with the other man. He's leveling himself out, no matter the consequence, for Adam to tear apart or do with that he will. "I know you don't belong here, and I can't... fix it, but-" Pulling a hand out of his pocket, he holds something over to Adam, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Peter lets the glasses that had shown up from their previous time together dangle from his fingers, "You didn't show up because of the place, you showed up because of me."

That strange wind shuffles past, but Adam's pushed it from his mind, reaching out to take the glasses, his fingers brushing the inside of Peter's wrist. He doesn't like how much it affects him, how much the singular gesture turns him inside out. Turning over the frames, he examines them closely as if they'll tell him what it all means. He knows how true Peter's words are, feeling them resonate in his own chest, but it doesn't banish the uneasiness creeping under his skin. Still, he warms slightly, tucking the glasses into his own pocket, an added zest in his step, still echoing after Peter's.

"Yes, I did," he agrees, as if taking credit for some conscious effort on his part to follow Peter. He almost leaves it at that, but he never quite can. Turning to the other man, he adds softly, no gimmick in his tone, "If I'd known, I still would've come." He can't make Peter believe him, but he can believe the words himself, lips quirking up in fleeting half-smile.

The waking world held its own set of challenges, but here at least he could do one thing right, even if it did more damage by its end. He would've come because for him now, Peter Petrelli is enough. It makes his heart stutter in his chest to realize, chest going tighter with a new purpose. He doesn't belong here, and neither does Peter; not really. But he belongs with Peter, and that's exactly where he is. Why ruin the moment; why let it get to him in exactly the way its meant to? He won't, if he can help it, if he can help Peter.

"I'm glad to see you too, Peter," he shatters the silence again, turning to the man at his side, eyes gone a bit squinty from the fog. "I've never been much good at waiting anyway."

Slipping his hand back inside his pocket, he keeps his own smile to himself, though it's just on the edge of his features. Chancing a glance towards Adam as he turns at a corner, it's true that Peter doesn't entirely believe that the other would choose to come given the opportunity. Not because it's Adam, but because nobody should have to choose something like this. This place shouldn't even exist as an option, and Peter wished he could keep it tucked carefully away; out of sight, out of mind.

But that doesn't change the fact that he can still find far too much truth in Adam's words and just like his own honesty, he can't ignore it. "You could've done it. Waited, I mean," Peter's tone is equally light, though easily resolute. Peter wants to say that it's not as if he hasn't gone without Peter before, why should this be any different. But it's exactly that. Everything is different, Peter can't even try to pretend.

Trying to make this easy is an impossibility, but at least Peter can force himself to see it for what it is through the dark, the mist settling in his throat. An opportunity; it's a chance, one he's not willing to give up no matter the circumstance. "Now you're here, might as well make the most of it," Peter finally offers up a hesitant smile towards Adam. He can't belittle their surroundings, there's no way to. But he can provide his apologies in other ways, in the simple fact that he can find hope in the other man's presence.

The ease that rolls off Peter when he spots his building in the distance is tangible and Peter only picks up his pace. He's tired of walking and he wants to return to the safety of the place he still manages to call home. "Good thing you didn't see the place when I didn't have a couch." Peter shakes his head, making obvious fun of himself and his former, but recent lifestyle. He's aware the self-deprecation lies just beneath, but there's nothing to be done about it and Peter can only admit to his faults before letting them disappear into the night.

In a strange way, he's almost glad he gets to see this. Interesting perhaps isn't the word Peter would use, but he had spent years alone here with his brother's killer. Matt Parkman certainly hadn't fallen far from that tree, but that's not the only reason Adam finds the whole thing drawing him in. It's Peter, unsurprisingly, that makes this space interesting. That he still allows it to torture him, to plague him even while he sleeps. Peter can say it isn't his choice, and perhaps for him it isn't, but Adam would never dream of something like this. He doesn't have the capacity for the sort of self-loathing reflection it requires. He isn't sure if interest quite covers what he's feeling, reverent respect perhaps.

Seeing the familiar apartment complex shouldn't inspire anything like the churning his insides are doing just now, and yet here he is, feeling small as he looks up at the comparatively short skyscraper. It's almost funny, and he stifles a dry laugh, his nerves frayed in the space of a minute. "Good thing," he repeats, almost forgetting to speak as he forces himself to follow Peter into the building. It's such a silly thing, but most human insecurities are, and he had never made himself revisit one.

He's calming as the familiarity of it overpowers his own guilt, and he steps into the elevator, pressing the button before he remembers he was supposed to be waiting for Peter's direction. It's a small oversight, but it's still telling, and he reminds himself again to hang back and wait for Peter. Which brings him back to the conversation, really. He's not one to get lost inside his own head nearly as much as Peter, and yet here he is grappling for words while Peter's seem effortless compared to their usual hesitation. Or maybe it's only his nerves that make it seem that way.

"I'm sure I'll manage, couch or no." It doesn't exactly help, and he's racking his brain for something more, up to his usual verbal athletics, and still coming up empty. He couldn't have waited and he wants to say so, but even to himself it sounds desperate. Small talk is off-limits here, and the glasses are wearing a hole in his pocket. He's lost, and utterly without direction. And so he merely looks to Peter, his attention appreciative and patient as the man unlocks his door.

"Yeah, I know you will." Leaning his shoulder against the door, Peter shoves it open, sighing with relief before he can stop himself. Though his apartment is barely furnished and on the sad side of small, it's still his, and in this memory that he can't free himself from, it's the one place he allows himself to have a break from his own near constant punishment. There's no newspaper clippings on the walls, no constant reminders of the thing's he's done right to make amends for all he's done wrong. It's only his home, walls and a roof and a place to hide himself away from his own desire to make himself pay.

Tossing his keys onto the first available flat surface, Peter's already toeing off his shoes. For a moment he considers pointing out the fact that Adam should still know his way around, exactly like he knew what floor he still lived on. But he knows that's a sure fire way to make the other man buckle, and that's the last thing he wants to do. It's not as if he minds, just like he didn't mind having his own coffee order memorized. Peter just can't decide if it makes it easier, or if he's simply ignoring the ache it brings that he had to miss out on the time it took for Adam to find out these things the first time around.

Turning on a light, Peter feels as if he's finally allowed to relax. Though all things are relative, and Peter's idea of relaxed is most peoples idea of high strung. Even in his own dream's, Peter is out of his element, in a constant state of painful self-awareness that lends him to being far too fragile. "Make yourself at home," turning back to Adam, Peter's even smiling faintly, though part of the attempt is trying to encourage Adam to do the same.

He can't help it-- Now that he has the opportunity to watch Adam's every move, he's soaking it up. Peter's not sure he's allowed the right to for some reason, but since there's no street signs to stare at, all that's left is watching for Adam's every reaction, every move he may or may not make. He feels bad enough that he brought the other man to this nightmare of his, and now he's simply trying to understand him. But this place is theirs now, and Peter's captivated by nothing else than the words Adam's choosing, the places he might be looking. Peter wants to say that he missed the other man, but maybe if Adam's looking hard enough, he can find the unspoken words all on his own.

Adam hears the words all the same, hanging up his jacket and sliding off his shoes in ritual, his own smile tired though the effort is there. He was all too aware of Peter's eyes on him, and more so of the rigidly trained attention behind that gaze. It's a lot of pressure for him just then, as if he's expected to do a trick or tell a story or entertain Peter another way. Which really wasn't so far from the truth.

"Hospitable as ever," he murmurs, taking in a shuddering breath as his eyes track across the small room, he's assaulted with all his memories of it. With or without furniture, he had stayed here for nearly two months, and had false memories of another ten or so. It makes his heart ache, but it isn't all bad. In fact, next to all of them were good, and maybe that's what makes it sting all the more.

The biggest problem with Peter's empty apartment, for Adam at least, is working out where to settle, if he can't sit. He can see Peter's bed peeking out from his bedroom door, ajar, and it's not helping his state of mind. With a sigh, he's moving to lean against the counter facing out into a room that would be a living room, if it appeared to be lived in at all.

Slowly, he lets himself take Peter in, making his way slowly back to the man's face. He crosses his arms across his chest, wondering what he could be giving away, sure the truth is writ in every plane and hollow of his own face. The question is, how much of it can Peter read. "Just the way I remember it," he's saying though the words hold no meaning, as empty as Peter's apartment.

The thing is that Peter expects absolutely nothing. While there had been a promise of a next time, every single time he sees Adam, Peter seems to have as much of an idea of what's going to happen as he first time he came across the other man, which is to say he has no idea whatsoever. And that's why his gaze is so searching. He's simply trying to understand what to expect next so he doesn't feel so completely unprepared.

Flicking his attention out to the rest of his apartment, Peter shrugs, attempting to be cavalier as humanely possible to the sad state of his affairs that is his apartment. But he's failing and he knows it, sinking under the weight of all the things his apartment's showing so openly. "Yeah, i'm sure. It looks... a little different when i'm awake. I keep trying to- I don't know." He tips his head sideways, directing his curiosity towards his own home. Brow slowly beginning to furrow as he tries to see this the way someone else might, after a few more seconds he can't take it. His apartment betrays far too much of the way he lives his life and standing inside of it makes himself in a far more broken light.

Pushing away from where he's standing, Peter silently pads into the kitchen, desperate for any kind of a distraction. Ducking his head down as he pulls open the fridge, Peter's grabbing for beers he already knows will be there. Wordlessly, he slides one across the counter towards Adam, trying to use it as some sort of peace offering. It's glaringly apparent that both of them are uncomfortable, for reasons that are each their own, and Peter would give anything to do away with it. At least this is a start.

Cracking open his beer, Peter sighs, glancing up briefly. "I keep telling myself I should try to get a tv again. Not sure what the point would be, though." Peter takes a long drink, hiding inside it, well aware that even the simple fact that has no tv says something about the person he's become. All of the ways he chose to rid himself of a normal life as a means of punishment are now up for Adam's inspection, and Peter's brought him here to show it off. But it says something that it's Adam that he's choosing to be honest with. He's laying himself at the feet of someone he knows could judge him so harshly, and he's hoping to still have the other man at the end of this.

Who is Adam to judge, really? Not that it had ever stopped him. But as he shifts to face Peter, accepting the gesture with a nod of gratitude, he doesn't feel capable of it. Judging had always been one more layer of a deception, one more tool in Adam's kit. Unless someone offended directly to him, he tended not to have much of an opinion on how other people lived their lives. But with Peter, with Peter he did care. Not because he judged, but because he directly and genuinely cared for his well being and this lifestyle wasn't kind to any person. Even one of Peter's constitution.

"It still might be nice to have," he suggests as blandly as possible, cracking his own beer and taking a shallow sip. He hated American beer, but there were a lot of things he was willing to tolerate to dissipate just a bit of this unease. Though Peter might not think he had any expectations, the expectation was clear in Peter's eyes. Even now, he expects only good things from Adam, and it's expectation almost too much to bear. And yet he bears it gladly, or close enough. "Just in case."

He takes another, longer pull to keep his beer from overflowing, and another to chase the foam before setting it down, lacing his fingers idly in front of him on the counter as he leaned further into it. Now would be the opportune moment for that entertaining story or a charming anecdote, but Adam barely has enough of himself left to conjure up even the silliest or inconsequential of tales. Not when all the stories he has to tell are ones of Peter and himself. It certainly wasn't the time to reminisce about his wives, or Hiro, or his failings at the Paper Company. Those were all tired and repeated by now, handed down from his right to his left like a personal game of telephone.

"I know you weren't expecting company, but I believe even people who spend little time at home own chairs." It's the opposite of judgmental, merely feeling for what exactly Peter thinks furniture amounts to in atonement. Then again, Adam would never understand atonement. What was done was done and there was no making up for it, one life didn't replace another and it didn't bring them back. But atonement is a lot like revenge, and that Adam understands. Peter's merely taking his revenge on himself, and try as he might to fight it, it hurts Adam to watch.

The sound Peter makes in response is something close to a clearing of his throat. He had been trying for a laugh and that was the best he had to offer, a humorless sound to ride along with his casual shame. "And tables, right?" Staring somewhere over Adam's shoulder, Peter goes quiet as he lifts his beer, letting his mind wander while he tries to gather up as many words he can, a number which still manages to amount to zero no matter where his thoughts drift. Peter takes another long drink before sliding it back down onto the counter, pressing his lips together and wondering what exactly he's supposed to do to make all of this right.

"Every time I try... I just end up telling myself I don't need any of it." Peter's still staring down at the counter, but it's an admittance all the same. All of this: the city, the emptiness, his apartment -- all of it speaks to things next to no one else knows about, and Peter no longer sees the point in trying to keep his words from following down the same path. He can try to cover it up, but there's nothing else to talk about. All of this is a part of him and even with Adam here, there's no hiding behind the possibility of it meaning anything else.

As much as he doesn't think himself capable, Peter slowly lifts his gaze until it once again finds Adam's. It would be so easy, so unbearably easy to brush aside all of this and beg Adam for the physical. Peter doesn't run on sheer emotion alone, but he won't let himself ask for it yet. There's something else in the way and Peter doesn't know what it is, and he wants to, he needs to figure it out before it eats him alive and sends him back to consciousness with nothing to offer.

"I don't know how--" Peter tries so hard to force himself to carry through with the rest of that sentence. And maybe he doesn't need to say it, maybe Adam can find the words well enough on his own. Scrambling to fill in the blanks, Peter contemplates taking the easy route and saying that less furniture means there's less to clean and shouldn't everyone be so lucky to have next to no earthly possessions. Peter has an entire city full of guilt, he doesn't have room for anything else. But he finally finds the words, pulling them out from somewhere worn raw. "I don't know how to go back to the way it used to be."

He doesn't breathe for a long time, so long in fact he fears he might die and come back to life before he can piece together a decent response. While he'd spent these nights comparing this Peter to his own--or as he's come to think of them, his Peter and the other--this is a sharp contrast even he can't ignore. Peter has always been consumed by his own guilt, unbearably so where his brother was concerned. It was how Adam got to him in the first place; it was what forged their connection. So how unsurprising is it that they've come full circle, as people so often do. But Adam can't bring Nathan back to life, so how does he make this right?

Adam's hand crawls silently up next to Peter's, but it doesn't make first contact, curling as it settles on the countertop. He opens his mouth to offer some platitude, some homogenized something that he's always coming out with, but what comes out instead isn't a platitude at all though arguably as equally clichéd. "The way things were will never be again." And with those words, he seems to crumple, just a bit, as though he truly hadn't anticipated saying them. Mostly because he hadn't. It isn't necessary to detail that it isn't only about Nathan, or Sylar or even Peter and Adam. It's this word; this awful world, and it's changed everything.

And though usually he'd be all too glad to hear Peter beg and to own his flesh the way he knew he'd never own the rest, tonight isn't the night for it. Adam too is trying to work out what it is for, and he can only guess if he'll be strong enough before his own urges overtake him, or better still the morning usurps them both. With that he takes a tinny breath, eye contact falling to their hands. This isn't how Adam plays the game, and he can only pray someone teaches him the new rules before Peter has all his chips. If he doesn't already.

"It isn't quite like losing a brother, but I think you know I can sympathize." Empathize, even, and he did. "But this..." His gaze flicks up, and he can't hide the concern anymore. "You're killing yourself, Peter. This is a prison." His entire existence is a prison, and Adam can certainly sympathize with that as well.

Peter's first reaction is to protest, to claim that he's doing no such thing. Or at the very least, that he's not out to kill himself. He has to clamp his jaw closed to keep from saying exactly that, breathing hard through his nose, too many emotions flaring to the surface. But why start denying now when he's come this far with his own honesty for the time being.

For a long time he just stares at Adam's hand, not even close to knowing what he's supposed to do about any of this. He keeps trying to grab hold of words when all he wants is to grab hold of Adam and refuse to stamp out explanations he doesn't think he can give. Peter knows he started this, but now he's struggling to finish it as he so often is where Nathan is concerned. To take the comfort he knows he'd find in grasping Adam's hand seems too easy, but he still doesn't think he's allowed. And he can't find an explanation as to why.

"I know." Peter won't say exactly what part of any of that he's admitting to, or if he's simply agreeing with all of it. His chest still feels close to bursting, his lungs collapsing with all the air he can't breathe. Holding onto the edge of the counter until his knuckles go white, Peter's outwardly forced veneer is quickly falling to pieces. "I know nothing's going to be the same again. I know. It shouldn't be, but if I start trying to turn this place into-- If I get chairs and a table and and a television..." Peter's already fumbling, grasping for words he never tries to force himself to find because they're just too hard, ".. I just can't do it."

Out of everything, Peter hadn't expected the concern, not from Adam. And he's falling prey to it, cracking because the person he'd spent years alone with had spared no concern for Peter's feelings. Sylar had only wanted Peter's forgiveness and while he had eventually given it, it had come with a price. Peter had given up his opportunity to grieve and he'd lost all he'd had left of Nathan, and gained a world of guilt with it. He couldn't save Nathan, he couldn't even keep his memory alive.

Though he's almost sad Peter didn't take the bait, not taking care enough to hide the evidence over his face as he follows Peter's hands to the edge of the counter with his eyes, he knows it's only one more punishment the man is determined to self-inflict. All of his good intentions, backfired, worse still than any evil scheme he'd ever cooked up. He's a bitter murderer who had used Peter for his own gain, perhaps even more surely than Sylar himself. But here in this room he feels none of it, and it's even more obvious that Peter's self-flagellation and propensity to forgive ran deeper than any grudge he might still hold against Adam Monroe. Not that it was truly in question, taking into account their last encounter and the reading glasses stashed with care in his jacket hanging just by the door.

"I didn't mean to--" he starts, but doesn't finish, deflating before trusting himself to explain. Who would believe that an immortal man with a god complex once Hell bent on genocide, and with the man across so much linoleum counter space as his means; who would believe his truly earnest and good intentions. He doesn't even believe them at the best of times. It's ridiculous even to think of, but so is an empty New York and Adam drinking American beer. So here they are, three for three. He makes a face, but doesn't stop drinking until he's successfully drowned his embarrassment.

When he puts it back down, so much urgency is gone with the unpleasant taste it leaves in his mouth. It would be a relief if it felt like anything more than exhaustion. And it's Peter's as much as it is his own. His hand retracts, withdrawing its offer of comfort and warmth, reluctant a gesture as it is. There's still so much more to say, and he does lean forward, intending to say it all though he's yet to write this particular script. Perhaps he can trust himself just enough to give this one up to improvisation, just this once.

"You don't have to do it." His eyes crease with the strange proclamation, reminding himself of why he always carefully chose his words rather than letting them form themselves like unwieldy creatures formed from clay. However, his choice is gone and he can only continue, as scary a prospect though that may be. "But if you get chairs and a table and a television, it still won't change this, Peter. This place. You can apologize for it but it isn't some dark memory you've stored away. This is how you live your life every day, as if no one else is in it."

Because everyone who mattered was gone, and Adam hated bringing attention to it more than he hated words without a blueprint. He bites the inside of his lip fiercely, knowing that's blood he tastes but he doesn't even feel it, looking past Peter rather than at him. "I'm sorry." And he doesn't know what it means, but there it is. It's all he has to offer and it's less than weak; it's nothing. He could buy Peter dream furniture and watch dream TV with him but it would all be gone by morning. Like Nathan, and like himself.

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