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[personal profile] indecision
someone wrote (which i'm not linking to because i'm lazy) a story in which mohinder goes on the internet and finds out that there's fanfiction about him and sylar because of the 9th wonders comic books. and i have to say i find it extremely amusing because a) the possibility of fanfic about 9th wonder characters existing is extremely high, because. well hello, rule #31.#34 b) supernatural! heroes went there first, hello!

of course heroes never made an actual episode about the slash and the slash fen, for which i am highly grateful for. imagine the weirdness, of peter trying to find say, a lost 9th wonder volume which was destroyed but continues to exist on the internet due to industrious fanboys (also highly likely, as anyone who has ever torrented a comic book will attest to), and finds forums dedicated to petrellicest. can you just say awkward? or like the abovementioned story, mohinder finding mylar fic. or m3 fic! though if i were mohinder i'd be far more pleased about the m3 fic than the "i slept with my dad's killer" fic, but that's just me.

but um, heroes is one of those shows that will only break the forth wall in a particular way, and i don't know, they even abandoned all of that for season four, which is kind of sad because i enjoyed that aspect of it. although s4 also gave us um, ahaha right, asian comic relief trio. i don't even know, show.

but um, anyway [livejournal.com profile] anansie_s was talking about how nathan's consciousness actually drifted over at some point to peter's brain and they had a lot of hot sex inside of peter's brain for like, forever, and somehow i thought about it and i decided nathan should just stay in sylar's brain and taunt him or whatever, and then somehow peter got involved i don't even know but anyway i blame anansi for this:

we fell through the ice when we tried not to slip
sylar, nathan and um, also mentions of peter/nathan and sylar/peter (kind of?)
post-series, pg-13ish (at some point this rating will cease to not be funny, but right now it still totally is!), mostly un-betad, so all mistakes are mine.


He keeps Nathan away from Peter, all the years they spend trapped behind the wall. That's about the only thing he can do, is keep Nathan away from Peter. Builds a veritable fortress in his mind, away from anything remotely related to Peter. Shades of Nathan come through anyway, despite his best efforts, but only that.

"That's fine," Nathan says. "I've had twenty-nine years of my brother's life. What do you have? Oh right, nothing."

"Fuck you," Sylar replies, and storms off.

*

Of course, that doesn't prevent Nathan from running over every other part of Sylar's mind. He's like a particularly virulent rodent infestation, or delicate strands of angel hair, burrowing into even the most intimate of places so that Sylar is never alone. "Can't get rid of me if you tried, Sylar."

And then they get out of Sylar's head and back into the real world, and all the rules change.

*

Once, he wakes up and wonders if his newly found resolve to turn over a new leaf, and his tenuous but real feelings towards Peter are his and his only, or Nathan's deliberate and insidious influence.

It's a terrifying thought, that, and he screams at Nathan for a full hour before he runs out of steam. Nathan seems mildly irritated at best, until Sylar remembers who he is, who they are, and he leans over and whispers into Nathan's ear, "I'm going to fuck your brother, Nathan. I am going to make him scream my name, and not yours. No matter how long it takes. Watch me."

Nathan blanches slightly. The first time he's hit a nerve. Petty threats are so much fun. He'd forgotten how much so, and Peter, well. Peter doesn't have to know.

"Touch my brother-"

"And you will - oh that's right. You can't do a single thing."

A vein in Nathan's temple twitches.

This is victory, sort of.

*

It bothers him at first that the Nathan Petrelli in his head is always impeccably dressed and as physically flawless as just about any man can get. Mostly because he's certain he doesn't quite measure up in comparison, and when it comes to Peter, it is always in comparison. "Can't you pose somewhere else," he snaps once, when he's doing nothing but trying to fix a watch by himself.

"I'm not posing," Nathan says, sitting carefully on the edge of his desk, hands laced loosely together on his one raised knee. Posing. Take a picture, Nathan Petrelli is always cover ready.

"You've just forgotten what it's like to live a life that's not on display, even though," he looks around pointedly, "There's no one around to impress."

"I can intimidate you, Sylar. I feel that's enough," Nathan says cheerfully, and punches him lightly in the arm. Sylar slides his chair away, out of reach. Nathan smiles, his awful candidate smile, and suddenly he's not so attractive, just another sleazy politician in an expensive suit.

Sometimes, Sylar's not so sure what Peter ever saw in the guy.

But then again, the memories he has of Nathan with Peter are vastly different from the ones that he has of Nathan with, well, just about anybody else, really. Trust and love and dedication and pain and loss, and everything in between. "Is there a particular reason you are here, or is this your regularly scheduled attempt to convince me to give you control of this body? Because I may be good now, but the answer's still no."

"Retribution, Sylar. Redemption. It's not just about saving a single life," Nathan says, and Sylar flushes. "But no, that's not why I'm here today. I went through your appointment book."

"That's an invasion of my privacy." Nathan waves him away impatiently, but Sylar's not done yet. Most of the time they try to stay out of each other's way. It's about respect, dammit. "I really feel as if we need to have another conversation about this."

"I feel we should have a conversation as to why you have my daughter's birthday circled on your calender."

"Oh," Sylar says. "Well, I was thinking perhaps."

"No."

"What?"

"No. Whatever it is. Birthday card. Thank you note. Sincere letter of apology for assaulting her. No. You don't get to do any of that."

Sylar scowls. "Firstly I get to do whatever the hell I want. Secondly, I was merely planning on sending her a harmless gesture of my appreciation for her-"

"What? Surviving your attacks on her?" Nathan glares at him, and Sylar has to remind himself that he killed this man once, that he's not afraid of him. "I saw your memories of what you did, Sylar. You don't get to apologize and make it all go away. Make it all better." He sighs impatiently and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Snapshot. Picture perfect. "Leave her alone, please."

"Will you keep whining about it if I don't," Sylar snaps.

Nathan exhales quietly. "This is about me then."

"Oh please. It's hardly as if you're the poster boy for stellar behavior. You are in no position to judge."

Nathan of course, knows all this already. They might have had the exact same conversation a week ago, a month. A year. The benefits of being locked here together. Keep going around in circles and never reaching an end point. A million and one hamsters, all running the endless wheel. They're an old married couple at this point. He is married to Nathan Petrelli, till death do they part.

All things considered, he could have done worse.

Nathan's judgment isn't impeccable though, Sylar has far too much evidence of that. But he's not necessarily wrong this time.

"You will cause her pain, Sylar," Nathan says finally. "Plus, if I know Claire, she will be very unhappy the next time you meet, and Claire's not pleasant when she's unhappy. Takes after her father in that manner."

"Which one?"

"Both."

"Oh." Sylar drums his fingers on the table. "But I'm good now."

"So you keep saying." Nathan leans down, and whispers softly into his ears. "We'll keep the truth between the two of us, shall we."

Sylar doesn't send the card.

*

He has to come to terms at some point with the notion that Nathan Petrelli might just be inside his head forever, literally.

Of all the people in the world.

On the positive side, at least he will never be truly alone.

*

They're in a boxing ring. Screaming fans all around - Sylar recognizes faces: Isaac Mendez and Chandra Suresh and Brian Davis and Zane Taylor, even Claire is there, younger than she is now and in her tiny cheerleader's outfit.

Everyone on Nathan's side, obviously. Nathan's wearing a blue unitard with red trim. Sylar looks down at himself, of course he's in black.

I would like to launch a complaint, sir.

"That's because I'm the hero, and you're the villain, Sylar." Nathan punches his gloved fists together in anticipation and does a dance-shuffle with his feet, his body compact, sleekly muscled and perfect. In contrast Sylar feels gangly and awkward. He was never any good at sports. PE was always the worst period of the day, with all the boys taunting him and calling him faggot, even though he wasn't.

Which doesn't even matter, apparently, because that's more or less what Nathan Petrelli is, and he was never anything but extremely popular, respected even if he wasn't loved. Nathan walks closer and points a glove at him, "You're wasting time, com-"

"What's the point of this exercise again?"

"I'm bored. Gotta say, I was never really a boxer. Swimming was more my thing. But that way I don't get to do this."

It doesn't hurt quite as much as he thought it would. Must be the gloves.

But that had to have have been just the practice punch. Because then it gets real.

"What do you want," he says afterwards, on the floor and spitting out blood while Nathan stares down at him and raises his fists in victory.

The crowd's going wild.

"Stay away from my brother."

Sylar considers this, for a full two minutes. Then: "Is that really want you want?"

Nathan blinks, and they're in Peter's apartment. Or Peter's room in Sylar's head, which, coincidentally enough, is exactly like Peter's room outside Sylar's head. Except possibly better furnished. Nathan drops his hands to his hips and slowly looks around. Back in his suit, he's even more irritatingly put together, but Sylar's used to it at this point. "What is this. Why are we here?"

"I was just making certain that you wanted me to stay away from your brother. The one you will never see again if I do stay away from him." He picks a picture frame up and tosses it to Nathan. He catches it and frowns. "Your precious Peter, Nathan. If I see him, you see him as well. Did a part of you not enjoy being in close proximity with him at the carnival, even if it was through me."

Nathan has his fingers over the glass covering the picture, they tremble as he slides them across. "I would," he starts, then swallows hard. "I would rather be alone with you for the rest of eternity than allow you to hurt him."

"Funny," Sylar says. "I don't recall you being so generous in life."

Nathan throws the picture on the floor, and the glass shatters, broken pieces landing in front of Sylar's feet and reflecting the light.

*

Sylar's happy when Nathan disappears for three months, until he realizes that he kind of misses the guy. Peter's still not quite on the best of terms with him, or at least their relationship hasn't progressed the way that he wants it to, and, well, he doesn't actually have many friends. Or any at all.

"I wonder why, since you keep killing everyone that has ever loved you. Or their loved ones." Nathan's standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, watching jets as they take off, soaring above the curiously dark sky. "Is there a reason why you've decided to invade my memories?"

"No," Sylar admits. "I could use the company."

Nathan's grin is shark bright and humorless. "You should call Matt Parkman. See who else he can stuff inside your brain. I'm sure there are plenty of people just dying to be stuck with you forever."

Sylar ignores him to look around. "How long were you here."

"Long enough."

"Hey, if you can fly jet planes does that mean I can do it too?" He pictures himself joining the Navy, serving his country in some small manner. Of course they'd realize at some point how gifted he was, and with all the issues going on with Claire everyone is already suspicious, so perhaps not.

Nathan frowns.

"You forget I can't die."

"Oh. Then no. I don't understand why you don't have my ability anymore."

"I don't either. It does not matter to me. I have better ones."

Nathan squints and points in the direction of a man, body bent low, running in the direction of a door. "That's Sergeant Garcia. First guy I ever, well. I wouldn't call it love, exactly," he says, but his voice is distant and fond. "Too many secrets. It never would have worked out anyway."

"Sergeant eh? Were we slumming?" Sylar says, because he can't stand how happy this memory is making Nathan, of flying jet-planes and an illicit love affair with a man that Sylar already knows is handsome and kind. "Oh, I remember how the rest of this story goes."

"Don't," Nathan says warningly.

"No, yes. Let's see. You break up with him to marry a woman because "Don't ask don't tell" applies to your entire life, not just the Navy, and he ends up dead when a mine blows up in his face - where was it, Iraq? Bosnia? And you still send money to his family because that's how the Petrellis deal with their guilt, they throw money at it in the hopes it absolves them."

"Why must you ruin everything." Nathan sighs and closes his eyes, and the scene dissolves, reassembles itself in a classroom. High school algebra, fifth period, Sylar realizes, recognizing the small, brown-haired teacher writing numbers down on the board. Nathan shifts in his chair, startlingly out of place in his heavy coat and gloves. "Which one was she again?"

"Hrm?" Sylar scans the class until he spots her. Leslie Jonas, the love, and bane, of his existence for four years of his life, her beautiful blond head propped on her chin as she idly watches the teacher.

"Ah," Nathan says. "Not bad. I'd give her a seven point five."

"Why not higher," Sylar says, affronted.

"Have you seen the women I've dated." Nathan's statement requires no response, even though part of Sylar wants to argue the point, which he will no doubt lose. "Four years, and you never said a word to her."

Sylar scowls. "Have you seen me?" Always in the front of the class. Glasses and braces and those awful clothes his mother bought for him and insisted he wore. It was a wonder that he didn't get beat up every single day.

"Only most days, right," Nathan says wryly.

"One of these days, I'll come back here and show them my-"

"What? Success? Somehow I doubt that becoming a mass murderer ranks high on their list of most accomplished graduates."

"But I was a very good mass murderer," Sylar snits. "Everyone knows my name. Or they will, by the end of the night."

Nathan says, "That's the Sylar I know and love."

Sylar feels a sharp flash of guilt. "Not that I would, of course."

"Of course." Nathan pauses, then continues softly, with intent. "Stay out of the memories I don't want you in, Sylar. We can both dredge up pain if need be. This," he waves his gloves hand around, encompassing the room, and the kid flicking a rubber band at the back of Gabriel Gray's head. "This is only a mildly unpleasant one. We both know each other's worst secrets."

"I make no promises," Sylar says, then shrugs. Truth is, the only memories he desperately wants access to are the ones involving Peter, and Nathan keeps those locked up as tightly as he could. Peter's and his ex-wife's and those of his three children. Not successfully, not all the time, but he never lets Sylar delve as deep as he wants. "I won't hurt him, you have my word."

Nathan's laugh is hollow. "Did Elle have your word as well?"

Sylar flinches. "Elle was a mistake."

"Forgetting your girlfriend's birthday, that's a mistake, Sylar. Splitting her head open, that's-"

"Unforgivable? Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't-" Most days, he fools himself into thinking it's possible, that if he just apologizes often enough, that if people (Peter) doesn't just forgive him but accepts him as an equal, as a friend. As someone worthy of love. Most days, but his brain is littered with the blood and bones of his victims, and he can't erase them, as hard as he tries. "She loved me," he says. "And I murdered her. I have no excuse."

"Yeah, you don't," Nathan says, and his voice is thick with a regret that has nothing at all to do with Sylar.

"Try not to disappear for so long next time," Sylar says finally.

"Aye aye, Captain."

*

"I'm a Senator," Nathan moans one day. "And this is what I'm reduced to. Slouching around in the head of some mass murderer with an insecurity complex. It's like some kind of cruel cosmic joke. I don't know what I've done to deserve this."

"Ex-Senator," Sylar says kindly. "Parker is filling in your seat just fine. And do you want an alphabetical list of all your sins or do you want them in chronological order. Because I have all the time in the world, Nathan."

Nathan waves his hands around, barely listening to him in the throes of his own pity party. Normally Sylar can relate, but it's his own head, and there's only enough room here for his own misery and regret, thank you very much and please leave your name at the door. "So says the serial killer," Nathan grounds out finally, and sighs. "Do you want to play chess?"

"No."

"Come on, let's play chess."

"You always win," Sylar says. "That's not fun."

"It it for me," Nathan replies, and brightens considerably. "Be nice, and I might even let you come close this time."

"You know," Sylar says conversationally, staring at the board in mild despair. "It's mildly ironic that both our sets of parents came from such dissimilar backgrounds and yet somehow they managed to instill in us such incredible self loathing."

Nathan's hand stills over the Queen. "I love my parents."

"Your mother put you in here in the first place."

"I guess she thought it would stick," Nathan says, and moves the piece. "Checkmate."

*

He spends far too much time in his mother's apartment. Metaphorically speaking, the real one he doesn't dare re-visit. Too many painful memories, even though her blood stains the floor of this one as well. Nathan stands in the middle of the room, legs apart and hands in his coat pocket. The once and future President of the United States of America. Sylar would probably have voted for him. "Is that-"

"That is, in fact, the explosion that your brother would have caused, if you hadn't saved him. I guess that makes you the big hero of that particular near catastrophe. Better late than never, Nathan."

Nathan only turns to look around, expression carefully blank. "So this is where the world's most feared super-being grew up," he says, and his voice is curiously sympathetic.

"I don't need your pity," Sylar mutters, but of course, that's exactly what he does want.

"You should try locking it up, throwing away the key." He wanders to a showcase and picks up a snowglobe, smiles faintly at it. "Cute." Sylar doesn't have to see it to know it's the one his mother made of his face. She had been so overjoyed when she'd found the shop that would do it. Her baby boy, trapped forever in snow.

"Some of us have memories of wives and children who love them. Brothers. Some of us have this."

"God, you're as melodramatic as Peter is sometimes," Nathan says. He tosses the snowglobe to Sylar, but they're gone before he can catch it. A baseball field, Nathan in uniform and swinging the bat menacingly.

"Are you going to hit me with it? Because that doesn't work. I wish you and your brother weren't so prone to violence. I'm just glad I heal."

"My brother," Nathan says, with infinite patience. "Resorts to his fists to express his rage. We were nothing alike in that aspect. I'm starting to see the appeal though." He throws a baseball straight up into the air. It hovers, briefly, spit-shiny white with red stitching, before starting its descent. "Catch," Nathan says, and steps to the side, swings hard.

"You're really mean sometimes," Sylar says sourly, holding the ice-pack to his eye. "There's no need to be such a prick."

"Should have caught. Or ducked." They're back in his mother's apartment and Nathan's back in his suit, although he's ditched the coat. He raises an index finger to Sylar's face. "We could practice. I could show you."

"And why would you want to do that," Sylar asks suspiciously.

"It's better than being stuck here, forced to witness you wallow in your great and immense self-pity. I can't even get away like I usually do." Nathan shuts his mouth abruptly, as if he's revealed too much.

"Interesting," Sylar says. "Are we bonding now?"

Nathan makes a face. "Oh god, I hope not. Can we call it a mutual understanding and leave it at that."

"Does that have to include gratuitous acts of violence though?"

"It's the American way," Nathan says, grin wide as the sun.

*

In his own small way, perhaps Nathan Petrelli is trying to help him to become a better person. All Sylar dreams about though, is Peter, his pale skin and dark hair and the way he laughs, although all those are memories that aren't Sylar's, stolen like a thief in the night, or maybe just drifting his way by osmosis. They bleed into each other, more often than not, and they're both acutely aware of that.

Nothing helps the yearning, except the search for contact.

Funny, but once if you'd asked him he'd have sworn he was straight. "Liar," someone whispers in his ear, and surprisingly enough it's not Nathan. Faintly British, Mohinder. Sylar pushes the thought aside, violently.

*

The excuse he comes up with is that he wants to discuss what's going on with the specials, and his own role in the matter. Peter doesn't say much when Sylar calls him, only grunts noncommittally until eventually he interrupts Sylar's nervous spiel with a short, "Fine, I'm free on Friday. How about then?"

"Dinner?"

A pause, then a reluctant, "Yeah, okay."

Friday night is date night.

It's a start, at the very least.

*

"The tie doesn't go with the jacket," Nathan says sourly from the doorway.

"Really? Because I think it goes incredibly well. That's what Monique tells me anyway. She also says that Senator Petrelli had impeccable taste, and how flattered he would be that my choices are influenced by his. She was very sorry to hear you'd passed, by the way."

He ignores Nathan's grunt of discontentment and adjusts the tie. It's a lovely shade of red, which, according to Monique, is not in this year, but a man with distinct style can carry it off. Sylar looks forward to being the type of man who has a distinct style. Someone to be seen, and watched, rather than the other way around. The suit isn't necessarily something that Nathan would wear though, Sylar's not a copycat. Just, subtly influenced and updated upon. Younger. Improved. "What do you think," he says eventually, stepping back from the mirror to show himself off.

Nathan says, "I think I wore the suit better."

"You're just jealous that I'm taller." Sylar grins. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date to go to."

"He won't fall for it you know," Nathan calls to his retreating back. Sylar doesn't bother pausing to respond.

*

Peter is surprisingly surly, edgy on his feet. He slides into the booth opposite Sylar and slumps down as if he'd rather be anyplace but here. "I know you like Mediterranean," Sylar says. "That's why I chose this place." Because your brother hated it and so you always ended up eating wherever he wanted to, Japanese, mostly. Look how much better I am than him.

"Really not," Nathan tells him mildly.

"Go away." He smiles at Peter. "Tell me Peter, how do you like Japanese food?"

"What?" Peter looks up from peering disinterestedly at the menu. "No, I hate it. Look, whatever man. Can we order?"

"Of course," Sylar says, and calls the waiter over. "Shall I order for the both of us?"

Peter shrugs, "Sure okay."

Nathan leans over Sylar's shoulder and glances at the menu as Sylar's ordering. "The shellfish is a bad idea. Peter's allergic."

"Sorry," Sylar says, "Cancel that," and he nods his head in Peter's direction. "My friend here is allergic to shellfish. How about the chicken instead? Peter?"

But Peter's only glaring at him, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched tight.

"Peter, I-"

"Don't," Peter says. "This was a bad idea. I can't do this." He jerks himself up from the table and storms off, slamming the door of the restaurant behind him.

Sylar gapes for a while, then rises to follow him, catching up only when he's halfway down the street. He's not sure if he should grab Peter by the arm or not, but he does, almost against his own volition, and there it comes.

Somehow, it doesn't feel any different in real life than it did in his head. "Ow," Sylar says, clutching at his suddenly aching chin. Peter only continues to stand still, legs apart and fists clenched. But at least he's not running away. "I keep telling you I'm sorry, that it's not my fault."

"Yeah, yeah. You can't help yourself. Nathan's memories just come to you sometimes, and you speak without thinking. Yada yada yada. Why the fuck do I even bother with you."

"Because some part of you knows that I only have your best interests at heart," Sylar says hopefully.

"Oh, that's good. That's actually pretty good," Nathan tells him, but he's not looking at Sylar. Instead he's standing close to Peter, and the expression on his face is one that Sylar's only ever dreamed of seeing on his own, or on someone else's directed towards him. "Now tell him how often you think of seeing him naked, see how that goes down."

"I really do apologize," Sylar says, and this time when he puts his hand on Peter's arm Peter only glares balefully at it instead of punching him. "Shall we go back to the restaurant? If the waiter isn't so shocked by our rudeness he bars us from entering."

Peter sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair, then he nods his head sharply. "Nice suit, by the way," he says, tiny smile on his face.

"I think I win," Sylar tells Nathan triumphantly as they make their way in, but Nathan only looks distraught, and, oddly, the feeling of satisfaction fades away.

"It's called guilt, Sylar," Nathan says tiredly, because sometimes, it's as if they share the same brain. "Welcome to the suck, as some of my friends used to say."

Being good is, perhaps, not necessarily going to be all he'd thought it was going to be.

*

Nathan's sitting on a beach, hands on his knees and bare feet digging into the sand.

Sylar plops down next to him and says, "I remember this. The summer Peter turned sixteen. You were very badly behaved, Senator Petrelli."

"Sylar, I really wish you wouldn't jerk off to my memories. It's unbecoming of you." He hands Sylar a bottle of beer that most likely wasn't there a minute ago. "It's cold," he says, when Sylar stares dubiously at it.

It is. And really good. Probably the best beer Sylar's had in his entire life. "Are we feeling nostalgic today?"

"We always feel nostalgic. I'm dead. That's all I have, is nostalgia. And you."

"Don't sound so overjoyed. Peter-"

"Why are you so obsessed with my brother," Nathan interrupts, his eyes dark as he turns to Sylar. "It's always Peter. Can't you find someone else? Like, I don't know, that cute brunette that lives down the hall from you and is always dropping by to get "sugar". She'll go out with you. I know she will. I will help you, if that's what it takes."

Sylar scowls. "I don't need help getting a date, thanks. I do perfectly fine on my own."

"You were a virgin until you were twenty-five, Sylar," Nathan points out. "That's hardly fine."

"Now who's masturbating to whose sex life?"

Nathan's grin is wan, and he puts his fingers about an inch apart. "Brief, and rarely. The discovery channel is more exciting."

"Not all of us have the dubious distinction of fucking our own younger brother. At least everyone I slept with was legal." He pauses. "And not related to me by blood."

"Again with Peter. Why, really. Is it because you're drawn to what a good person he is? Or because you just want to exploit his kindness? If you think that's redemption, let me tell you, it's not."

"Why not? It worked for you," Sylar snaps, and Nathan scowls.

"My brother's not perfect, you know. More trouble than he's worth, most of the time. Stop obsessing over him as if his approval will automatically validate your existence."

"I'm not obsessed with Peter," Sylar says lamely, but they both know it's a lie. There's nothing quite like sharing a consciousness with someone when it comes to stripping away your inability to fudge the truth, even to yourself.

Nathan narrows his eyes, impatient and demanding, and Sylar has to look away. To where the waves are tirelessly creating an endless beat onto the sand. Infinite and unevolving. An eternity of this. Of moments, just like this. "Did you ever think, Nathan," he says eventually, "That it's not my obsession that's constantly drawing me to Peter, but yours."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Sylar tucks his hands inside his coat pockets and shrugs. "I remember things, you know that," he says, "Not my memories, but I can't tell the difference." Memories that made him ache, in the split second that he thought they were his, before he realized they weren't. Love and friendship and devotion and Peter's face, smiling brightly at him. He shudders. "I will do this with or without your help," he says, with finality. "And you won't stop me, because you'll be close to him as well. Think of it as consolation, if that helps."

Nathan doesn't respond.
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