onepassingnight | volume 4

Entry tags:

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 ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

And there it was, as blunt as anything Peter had heard in months. There's no denying it, no way he can argue something he knows to be so blatantly true. All he can do is let the words ring in his ears, sting worse than any blow. Peter doesn't even want Adam to take them back because at least he knows that someone is willing to be honest with him. There's a first time for everything it seems, and it's just a little ridiculous that it had to be in a dream.

If he could stare at the floor until it gave way and swallowed him whole, Peter would do it. He can find no safety, though, in the blurring patterns and he has to blink furiously before he looses himself to bitter tears that he refuses to let fall. But once Peter starts to unravel, there's no stopping it. There's no end to the things he blames himself for -- the loss of the women he loved, the near deaths of millions. The people he could never save, and the one he always swore he would. His parents used him until there was nothing left; his father's one last betrayal before Sylar ended his life and his mother's manipulations had turned him inside out. Everything was gone, and yet somehow, he was still expected to live.

He wants Adam's apologies about as much as he wants anyone else's, which is to say that he doesn't want a single one of them. Pity is for other people, he'd rather take the blame, because it's all that he deserves. All that he has left are the people that he can still save, the job he has to do. And while he occasionally reaches out to people in the waking world -- to Emma, to Claire -- it wasn't the same. It would never be.

"Then how am I supposed to live it?" Peter can't stare at the floor forever, but when he lifts his face, it's to look anywhere but at Adam. Why is it he only seems capable of crying in Adam's presence, he wants to know. He doesn't want to seem needy, even if he knows that he is, because it feels like it's been forever since he let anyone know just exactly how much he was left wanting. How can he expect anyone to replace the mess that he's become when he can't even do it himself.

Peter wants to take a step back and pull himself away even if there's already more than enough space between them. But he wants to do away with it and bury himself in the other man until it all goes away just as badly and he's frantic with his uncertainty, leaving him stuck to the spot. Peter wants to wipe his face, to get rid of the aggravating wetness starting to roll down his cheeks, his own emotions betraying his fortitude. "I don't want to loose anyone else. I don't--" He's choking on the words and it's now that Peter wants Adam's hand, the only hold he has left to something he believes to be tangible. "I don't want anyone else to die because of me."

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.

Peter finds himself dripping against Adam's shoulder before he even really knows what's happening, grabbing tight fistfuls of his shirt as if it could possible keep him held together. But that's not possible when he was already falling apart to begin with, pulling apart at seams that can no longer be tightened. He can't find the words for how thankful he is just then, for all the things he can dampen against the other man.

Grabbing onto Adam's words alike, as if they can be his savior as much as the man himself, Peter just wants something. Anything. Anything at all that takes away the ache, the dull emptiness that's taken up occupation inside of himself as much as out. He's not looking for a perfect solution, because he knows there isn't one. There's no way to fix things like this, not the way he used to believe there was. But he's willing to take whatever he can get, the quiet hopes of a desperate man scrambling for whatever scraps of affection he can garner from Adam.

Rubbing his face against Adam's shoulder to try to wipe away tears doesn't stop fresh ones from coming, and he simply noses down against his collar, using Adam to hide away from the rest of the world as more tears make a steady trek down between them. His own human shield, Peter pulls Adam that much tighter against himself. Now that he has him, he doesn't want to let go and he can scarcely breathe, won't do a single thing that might push him further away.

"I can't do it by myself." It's what he said to Nathan, admitted to him, and it still holds true. That fact alone would be enough to drop him to his knees if he wasn't holding onto Adam. It's obvious that he's not gotten any better at doing this by himself, any of it, and he's not even sure if it's possible for him to. Peter knew he depended on other people, he just hadn't known how much until they'd all gone away. "I can't."

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."

Peter understands exactly what's missing from those words, the things someone else might choose to include. And as heart wrenching as it is, at best he can appreciate Adam's honesty to leave out the things they both know can't be included. That doesn't make it any easier to stomach, it doesn't fix anything, and it doesn't bring back any of the people that he's lost. But it's something, which is unquestionably, better than nothing at all.

Hiccuping forced breaths against Adam's shirt, all the words keep getting stuck at the back of his throat. There's too much trying to get through at once, a down-pouring of emotions, and so he's ended up with nothing but the sounds of his own despair, muffled against fabric. There's nothing left but the parts of himself he can find against Adam, the fingers in his hair, the sound of the other man's voice practically buzzing against his ear. Desperately trying to keep it all close is the best he can do while the rest of him is falling apart.

"But I am," Even at the words, Peter's trying to squirm his way closer, as if he's not already as close as he can get. It's a panicked rush to keep hold, as if saying the words out loud will only encourage the universe to take away one of the few things he has left, a figment of this subconscious reality or not. Peter feels drenched in his losses, burying a silent sob against the taller man's neck as he twists Adam's shirt into his fingers.

"If I had anyone else left to lose-- I'm not gonna do it again, Adam. I can't watch anyone else I love die. Not in my hands. Not because of me." He's shaking exactly like his words by the time he's done talking, the effort of trying to keep himself from slipping entirely onto the floor taking nearly everything out of him.

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.

While it's not worth much, it's still worth something. And it's already more than Peter has. Peter could start the tally with the simple but almost ironic fact that Adam's made sleeping, dreaming to be specific, bearable once again. Which is something he'd be grateful for even without all the specific reasons why. And even though there's no warm body to wake up to, no face to turn towards at the siren call of his alarm clock, at least in his dreams there's Adam. A person he doesn't have to spend a week explaining his life story to before they might even properly begin to understand.

There's a certain amount of additional safety to be found in the one room Peter actually spends time in, in his apartment. But right now, all the rest of the comfort is coming from the person Peter's found himself eye to eye with. Adam's words keep settling exactly where it hurts, a blockade against his own barrage of guilt.

He'd had to loosen some of his grip on Adam's clothing to get to where they are right now, even if he didn't want to, closing his eyes for a moment to try to quell the tears he can't seem to stop from sheer will alone. "Okay," His response is just as hushed, nosing in against Adam's ear while he manages to drag at least one hand away from the other man's back, tangling his fingers into his hair instead. Even settled on the edge of his own bed, he's trying to get Adam closer by increments. Shifting exactly so he can tug Adam closer, Peter's curling in against him, shaking from the effort it's requiring to keep every hitched breath silent.

Peter keeps trying to scoot back, to make room, but it's hard when all he's searching for are the ways to sink himself in closer. He'd strip himself bare to get rid of the few things left between them if that didn't mean he'd have to let go completely. Peter feels almost too pitiful to do any of this properly, but he's already fallen this far, and he still doesn't know what other comforts he's allowed to beg for.

"I don't want to lose you. Not again," he admits against Adam's neck, words as broken but honest as he feels.

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.

Sinking into the distraction of Adam's gentle kisses, Peter fumbles at the other man's shirt buttons with shaking fingers, trying to find the focus to carry himself through what should be an almost easy, ritualistic process. Pressing in against Adam's lips is something he doesn't have to spare a second thought towards, just like opening himself up to Adam feels as right as it is automatic. Once he starts he can't stop, ghosting his lips against the other man's over and over, a breath in between each. He's desperate to find twice as much comfort as each touch offers, endlessly needy to Adam's slowly roaming fingers.

Out of buttons before he's inched himself back as far as he can go, he lets go of a shaking breath against Adam's lips, tugging the fabric over the other man's shoulders before he's right back to clinging, spanning an almost imperceptible distance that somehow Peter still knows is there. Grasping at Adam's side, fingers clamping into warm skin, Peter won't drop backward until the other man follows. Once he has the feel of skin beneath his fingertips, Peter's even less sure he could be convinced to let go.

"Adam..." His voice has fallen rough at the edges, cracked as he feels. At this point he's run out of tears, though he still feels drenched, weighed down by all the things he wants that he won't always let himself have. And yet Adam knows all of it better than even Peter does, the other man searching out his wants before Peter can even put words to them. But right now, the one thing that he wants to have is Adam, as close as he can get him, the only safety he can seem to find in empty streets he's worn down with endless fears.

Peter wants to say that he's glad that Adam couldn't wait, that he doesn't know how to span these empty streets alone anymore. Not when he looks for Adam nearly every time he slips back into sleep. But he's lost the ability to speak, throat too tight as Adam's gentle attention tears him open in entirely different ways. It almost brings a fresh wave of tears, blinking wet eyelashes against Adam's cheek before he manages to hold himself back with another desperate pressing of lips, his fingers drawing sharp lines down Adam's chest. "Me neither."

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.

Curling a hand around Adam's neck, Peter's other is still holding fast to his back, Adam's words dragging a harried breath from his throat. Peter's not sure how he's even breathing anymore when he feels like his throat closed shut hours ago, but he keeps managing it, chest aching with the effort. He'd been trying to lay waste to his own needs and he's certain the effort only made them grow double fold and now he's almost embarrassed that Adam has to deal with the repercussions. Peter's nudging himself carefully into each and every one of Adam's touches, searching for every ounce of comfort from things most would find next to nothing.

"I know," is the best Peter can come up with in response, and it's a breath as much as it is words. But it's an acknowledgement none the less, his fingers hooking at the waist of Adam's trousers in a firm attempt to try to drag Adam flush against himself.

Peter's still twitching from overly frayed emotions, sensitive to even Adam's grazing fingers. The way Peter's digging his heels into the bed betrays his attempts at relaxing, but he's trying, muscles tense as he presses his lips breathlessly to Adam's shoulder, his neck, trying to find his pulse not a moment later. Peter's well aware of his own racing heartbeat, but he wants to find the steady rhythm in Adam's, just one more thing to ground himself in.

"Adam..." He has to say his name, has to form the word against his skin, and it sounds more like a question than anything. Peter's pleading against Adam's ear and it's obvious why. But instead of coming up with even more words, his mouth once again finds Adam's, letting himself swallow any of his other desperate words as he tries to open himself completely if only so that Adam can help him hide it all.

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.

It's tempting to leave his eyes open just so Peter can keep even better track of Adam, though that's not to say that his fingers aren't enough. But he keeps slipping, lost between emotions and the way Adam's touches are more dissembling than anything twice as aggressive might be. His eyes are falling half lidded as he noses against Adam's cheek, lips finding the last remnants of tears. He might want Adam to be strong enough for the both of them right now, but that doesn't mean it doesn't own him completely to know that Adam also has his limits.

With a near desperate sound, Peter's trying to keep himself grounded by memorizing all that he can of the other man. Tracing ribs, Peter's palm spanning the distance between his shoulder blades, his fingers timing the seconds it takes to draw down Adam's lower back. All of it, and still Peter wants to say but, but what if something happens, but what if there's no more next time's. It's still hanging there, the word still taunting him at the back of his mind.

Bringing his knees up along both of Adam's sides, Peter buries his face in against the taller man's neck, mumbling things he's certain he's not strong enough to say loudly. "I don't want you to go," and words filled to the brim with need and loneliness and all the 'but's' he wishes he could ignore on his own. He's not going to cry anymore, he can't, he won't let himself; there's no more left, but Peter's breaking down all the same. Lifting himself into every touch, only giving further proof to how badly he needs every demonstration Adam is willing to offer, Peter's touch is just as possessive, claiming the other man for the safe-hold he so badly needs.

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."

The last thing Peter wants is promises that he knows neither of them are able to keep, to no fault of their own; he's already been on the receiving end of too much false hope and he's grown more than tired of it. But he'll take whatever he can get, grappling with himself to believe things Adam's working to make him hear.

But it isn't fair that Adam had expected him to stop crying only moments after he started himself and Peter abandons his favored task of touching every inch of skin available to him and cupping the other man's face in his hands, capturing tears against his palms. He's not sure he can do it for very long, maintain eye contact, his eyes nearly as wet as Adam's and instinct demands he try to hide his face. Adam's already been putting forth the effort, so he can try to do the same, even if it makes his chest ache, shaking from the brunt of immeasurable emotions.

"How can I get rid of you when the only thing that's real here is us." Pushing his lips up against Adam's, Peter doesn't care that this is a dream. He's done this before, lived in false realities, existed in places that should have never been. But that hardly takes away their meaning, and in a way, he's convinced they might mean even more. To try to wave them off as something less would be ridiculous, and he's only pulling Adam that much closer, trying to make up the falsehoods of their landscape with the reality of touch.

Pulling back but only far enough to speak, lips brushing ghostly kisses against Adam's, he lets his fingertips travel along the line of his jaw, spanning the distance nearly all the way down to his hip, trying to bring them flush together. Ignoring the sliding of tears down his face, entirely unaware of their his own or Adam's and beyond the point of caring, Peter once again fumbles for quiet words. "You're only here because of me-- I can't do this without you."

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."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject