http://askedtobe.livejournal.com/ ([identity profile] askedtobe.livejournal.com) wrote in [community profile] onepassingnight2011-06-09 11:51 pm

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 ]

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 01:27 am (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 05:22 am (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 06:28 am (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 08:15 am (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 09:18 am (UTC)(link)
Doing him one better, and taking it one step further before, again, he can forge a plan, Adam is around the column and to Peter's side of the counter. He only hesitates a second, to catch his breath, before drawing the slighter man into his arms. He can scarcely tolerate his own tears, but Peter's are something he can't begin to accept. It's one more thing to add to a long, unending list. As unending as Adam's life. But making a grieving man cry seemed a new low somehow, even for him. "Shhh," he pleads, hands gathering the fabric of Peter's shirt.

He's useless, and hopeless, and exactly the person Peter doesn't need right now. And yet it's him the universe chooses to give him, one final cruelty to an already broken man. It makes Adam angry, the way he'd never thought he'd feel angry again. Peter's heartbeat echoes in his ears, and it's a very near thing he doesn't cry himself, the wet sound of Peter's anguish nearly his undoing.

"I don't know," he says, more words unbidden, but he can't hold them back now. They're as free-forming as they are free-flowing and it seems more dangerous to try to keep them in now, than not. "I don't know how it is you're expected to live when everything you love is lost. But it's an expectation all the same." And he wishes he could help Peter bear it, more than anything. He had foolishly thought he could, for perhaps a moment of waking air, but everyone wakes up from their dreams. Even Adam. And he had outlived more than his fair share of loves.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 10:20 am (UTC)(link)
Sometimes, Adam isn't sure if he has a human heart. Though it beats and keeps him alive, and alive again, what function does he lose with its gained perpetual motion? Can he truly love, as any man does. If the pain in his chest is any indication, he might feel more intensely than a mortal man, even if past actions would cast him unfeeling. For all of Peter's clinging, Adam holds fast, one hand carding gently through his hair. Usually he might complain about his ruined shirt, but this is a dream, and it isn't one of Adam's favorites anyhow. Well, that and it happens to be his fault Peter is crying, and therefor destroying the unfavorite garment.

"Peter..." It's a soothing word more than it is the man's name, but he still feels dangerously close to following Peter over the edge. It would be selfish to do so, and he's trying to keep a tight lock on his own feelings but tears are still welling in his own eyes. "If I could--" But he can't finish or the evidence of his humanity will surely fall.

Not only can't he follow Peter into the waking world, and severed his own relationship with his equivalent in his own timeline, but even if he could who's to say he wouldn't repeat the same cowardice. It's easy now, asleep, where his promises have no consequences, to pledge the world to the man in his arms. But he can't say with any certainty that any of it is true, and the last thing Peter needs is more lies.

"You don't need to be alone, Peter." He takes a shuddering breath, unmistakeably tearful. "You shouldn't be alone."

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-11 05:55 pm (UTC)(link)
There are so many things he needs to say, so many obligations in the form of short words with more substance than 'shhh' and 'Peter' which seem to be all he's capable of. He won't let Peter go, nor will he let Peter go. He can't be Nathan, but he can guard Peter's dreams, and it's exactly what he intends to do.

Every time he opens his mouth, he still fails to speak, leaning in until his nose bumps against Peter's. Their tears mingle at Peter's cheek and it's with a certain resolution he brings the man up against himself, silently lifting his feet off the tile. He gathers Peter in, securing the man's place over his heart.

It's with quick feet he carts them to the bedroom, needing to get Peter warm, and safe. As safe as they can be, together in this dream. Setting the smaller man on the edge, he realizes it might be something of a challenge to get him to let go, and he's almost scared to try. Crouching down on shaking legs until he's eye-to-eye with Peter, words suddenly seem necessary and yet, too far away to reach.

"You can't lose me," he whispers, pressing his lips in against Peter's cheek. He knows it's not the same, that for as much as he can guard Peter's dreams he can't actually protect him; can't even dry his tears properly. Ducking his head, he rubs his own wet eyes against Peter's shoulder, only drawing him closer.

For as long as Peter dreams, he knows he'll be able to find him again, offering weak words and a warm body in condolence. He's just not sure if it's worth anything, without a waking representative.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-12 01:13 am (UTC)(link)
His fingers are already hooking into the hem of Peter's shirt, pulling it up even as he leans in close, doing his best to sop up tears with feather kisses. "I'm not going anywhere." Not until the day breaks, and even then the dawn will have to tear him away, as had become their custom. Maybe if he can occupy Peter's hands he can get him to stop shaking; to stop crying. His own gentle grip encircles Peter's wrist, directing him to his shirt buttons, his free hand climbing over the man's spine. Closing his eyes, he pushes in, lips brushing Peter's with intent. It's an apology, and a promise; a vow of nightly protection and to give Peter what he needs.

Whichever way he turns this, it's still his fault. He should've known better than to push, than to try to deny Peter this last comfort. Even when he doesn't mean to, he preys on the other man's fragility, but maybe he can still pick up the pieces if he hurries. He takes up the offered space, his new found perch only drawing him closer in.

When he speaks it's against Peter's mouth, his thumb coming up to brush his tears away in an almost rhythmic measure. "I couldn't have waited." At first he almost doesn't remember the context his own memory has dredged up, answering an unasked question from a few conversations ago, it seems by now. But he still needs Peter to know, to know that as long as they stay here he won't be abandoned.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-12 04:41 am (UTC)(link)
Letting his shirt fall to the floor with a swish, he's still working at getting Peter's over his head without having to pull away. It's an impossible task, but he can't tear himself away, not as long as Peter's soft lips yield to his. He feels the same sense of rightness, bare skin prickling against the fabric as he does his best to slide closer.

Peter's roving fingers send a shudder up his side, tightening his hold around his waist. He's not sure what more they could have to say, but it doesn't stop him from slipping muffled words in against Peter's mouth, some which sound like vague apologies, or renditions of the other's name. Not that the words matter, anymore.

When he finally has to draw back for a breath, Peter's shirt joins his on the floor, hands moving over exposed flesh with freshly awoken hunger. It isn't about sex as much as it is about getting close; about covering Peter with every inch he has to offer.

Catching his breath against Peter's ear, his hip bumps the other man's, pushing him further back from the edge. "Don't cry," he manages, gently, lips dragging across Peter's jaw. "I'm here." Each short sentence means less and less, but he still feels like he's failed Peter somehow, and he's not sure how to make up for it.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-12 08:14 pm (UTC)(link)
The sound of his own name leaves him fragile, answering Peter's question with the seal of their mouths. He presses Peter gently back, the mattress sighing under them, slipping a gasp in against Peter's lips. Every mapping touch is reassuring and almost tormentingly soft, his heart betraying him with its quick beat.

A few tears track his own face, unnoticed as he puts more of himself behind the kiss, until all of him moves back into Peter's advances, chest tight and hot with anticipation. Soothing hands run over Peter's side, trying to calm with brutal gentility. It would be immeasurably more successful if his own hands weren't shaking.

He's supposed to be Peter's rock, be solid for him while everything else fades, and the pressure it builds is nearly too much, though he's already working at the zip of Peter's jeans. The more they touch, the more Adam can forget where they are; can make Peter forget. "I'm right here," he's reminding Peter between raggedly drawn breaths, digging his fingers in to demonstrate his corporeality.

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-13 03:01 am (UTC)(link)
Eyelashes fluttering against the feel of Peter's lips on his cheek, he can only pull him closer, willing his own tears to stop. It isn't as easy a task as it should be, with Peter's crumpling imminent; with those pleading words dropping from crooked lips. Adam latches onto Peter's throat, needing to feel his pulse as surely as his own.

"I won't go," he's insisting, believing the words and yet unable to promise them. He would be lost without Peter; without these dreams, and so he attempts to find himself in the other man, mouth colliding with his again.

Though a promise would reassure them both, it would bring a reality to the dreaming world it wasn't meant to uphold. He knows, as Peter does, that one day their dream paths may no longer cross, and nothing Adam says now will change it. A few more salty remnants hit Peter's collarbone and he wants to deny them, like he wants to deny the truth.

His lips shiver against Peter's and he pulls back just an inch, not sure why he's chosen now to start crying, but now he isn't sure how to stop. Pulling close to Peter's ear, he speaks, trying to explain with quaking voice. "I will find you, Peter." The conditionals linger, but he goes on. "You won't be rid of me so easily."

[identity profile] traptinacoffin.livejournal.com 2011-06-13 04:40 am (UTC)(link)
He can't help the shiver Peter's fingers draw through him, but the words are his undoing. Though he knows it to be futile, he still pushes his face in against Peter's to hide the tears, frame racking with silent sobs, he's desperately clinging to every bit of the other man he can reach. Adam can't remember the last time he cried in front of another person in the waking world, but here it's Peter who always gets the brunt of his tears. He knows just how unfair it is, but it doesn't stop them; the catharsis begun.

It doesn't stop him though from kissing back, even as his lungs burn from the effort. Only a very few times in his long life could Adam ever say he had truly been loved, but even that was nothing compared to now; to Peter. Peter is so much different from anyone he's ever met, which seems silly for a four hundred year old man to say. But he isn't disputing its silliness, only marking its truth with each brush of his mouth and touch of his fingers.

"I am only here because of you," he's repeating, voice hushed and strained from holding himself back, hand burying itself in Peter's hair as he speaks again into his ear. "And you won't have to."