onepassingnight | 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.

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He finds his own breath lost, trying to find it again as his fingers push through Peter's hair. Everything is crumbling, but as long as he can feel the heat rising from Peter's skin, he'll keep nudging his lips against his cheek, his arm securing him fast and tight against Adam's own heartbeat.

If he breaks the silence, he'll only ruin this moment, and that's the last thing he needs to do. For once he can do the right thing, and let Peter take what he needs. It's not exactly a chore for him either, and yet the words are still threatening to bubble up to the surface.

Holding even more tightly to Peter, both his arms wind around the smaller man, knowing they're down to the wire. He also knows they're both counting down and trying desperately not to; wringing everything they can out of these last minutes asleep.

Saying that Peter hates it would be an understatement; that he has to count at all, that he's wasting time counting, thinking about it in the first place. But it is what it is, and there's no changing it. All they can do is make the most of what they've been given and suffer the consequences of what they can't have.

Nosing in against Adam's warm throat, it's nearly impossible to keep from whimpering, Peter already feels as if he's loosing his grip on Adam and if he stops paying attention for a moment, he'll slip away. He hopes that at least the betraying sound was muffled against the other man's skin, feeling hopelessly pitiful for wanting to spend even more time here.

Eyes closed against the onslaught of emotions that Peter keeps trying to ignore, Peter's fingertips form slow trails along Adam's skin back to the line of his jaw, wanting to feel Adam react at least one last time. There's so many things he wants to say, that he'll miss Adam, that he loves him, that he needs him to be here when he comes back. But all of it seems too sharp to push into existence, and Peter can't stand the thought of crying against Adam again, so he stays quiet, wrapping himself up in the sound of the other's breathing.

Feeling the sound more than hearing it, it still doesn't do anything for Adam holding himself together. He's positive his hands are shaking as they trace Peter's spine, his breathing forced against the man's cheek.

"This might seem like a silly thing to ask, now." The beginning is the roughest part, and really, once it's started rolling he couldn't hazard to stop it anyhow. He's clutching Peter just a little too tightly as he makes himself speak up again, voice only cracking a bit. "You truly forgive me for everything I've done? Every wrong committed against you."

His eyebrows knit together, throat constricting with the effort it takes not to flee the room. But he still needs to go on, the wavering words speaking to all that he feels for Peter; all the fear in his chest trying to break free.

"I'll understand if you can't, or if you don't want to answer." They're barely words it comes out so soft, and he's pushing in his face back towards Peter's ear, the thought of Peter seeing the emotion spelled out over his face too much for him to stomach.

Peter goes unnaturally still at the question, partially because it simply wasn't a question he expected. And for a moment the fear of not being able to answer Adam immediately catches up with him and renders him absolutely useless, struggling to even be able to think properly against Adam's throat.

A few months ago, more like what amounts to years in Peter's mind, the answer to that question would have been instantaneous. He didn't believe he'd ever be capable of forgiving someone that had betrayed him so wholly. That had helped lead him down a path that only he felt guilty for; the death of millions of people.

And yet, at the same time, he would have never believed himself capable of forgiving Sylar. There was a time and a place for holding onto his anger, and it was long gone. It had been lost right along with everything else, and now, he couldn't convince himself of the worth of his own dwindling bitterness. All that was left was directed inwards, vying for the award of how many things he could find to blame himself for. But even that was hard to find when clinging to Adam as if the world was about to end.

Nosing against the heartbeat racing in Adam's neck, Peter knows he won't be able to breathe until he can answer. Pulling himself back together using his hold on Adam to do so, when he finally finds his voice, it holds no waver. As muffled as it is against Adam's skin, against the firm blockade of his own emotions, Peter finds it in himself to make the words heard over the bood pounding in his head. "I forgive you."

The words send a tremor through him, eyes squeezed shut against all that they bring. There's only one thing he can do, bringing his own shaky lips up to meet Peter's, fingers curling against his jawline. His heart is pounding fast as they kiss, feeling as though another layer has been stripped away; a weight lifted off his chest even as Peter's weight bears down on him.

This place, that he hated, that he blamed Peter for conjuring--it had brought him equilibrium.

Peter was thankful in more ways than one for Adam's lips pressed against his own. He wasn't sure he could find any more words after that admission, and he didn't want to try.

Brushing his fingers across Adam's cheek while he sinks into the kiss, all he can do is use this to impress upon the own truth to his words, to try to make them as real as he possibly could in a place where nothing was. And it only made it worse that he could feel himself starting to slip. Fingers digging into Adam's waist, the sharpest they've been yet, Peter pulls back far enough to repeat himself, "I forgive you." And then he's stealing one last forceful kiss, knowing if he doesn't do it know he'll regret it when he wakes.

"Thank you," it's barely a word, breathy and rushed, and yet still forceful even as it disappears into Peter's kiss. Knowing full well the next time he opens his eyes he'll be seeing his own bedroom, he holds all the tighter, fingers securing in Peter's hair as if he can keep them there by sheer will alone. Turning his lips over to Peter's, he desperately opens them to the other man, knowing he can't stop what happens next. "I'll see you again."

"Okay." Peter thinks briefly that if the morning is going to drag him away, it's going to have to do it under sheer threat of force. Which is exactly what it's doing, even as it leaves Peter scrambling to put all of himself into a kiss that he can still feel against his lips by the time his alarm injects itself into his conscious, forcing him back to his empty room in a New York full to brim with people.

volume 4

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