Regret Is Not A Luxury/Angels Of Death
Not a day goes by that I don’t regret my decisions. The little things - if I’d missed that subway car, if I’d turned that corner, if I’d asked that man for directions … would it have all turned out differently if I’d given that person a ride in my cab?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
~*~
When you’ve left New York a smoking wasteland, we’ll put that on yer tombstone: Here lies Peter Petrelli - he TRIED.
The man blinks as tears cascade down his face - a face marred by an angry scar he refuses to heal, even now.
The chilly autumn breeze tickles his hair - short now, no bothersome bangs to tuck to the side - yet he still catches himself reaching up to push back what is no longer there.
… posters on the wall, hair in yer face.
“Hey,”
Peter glances up: Mohinder is standing a few paces away, muffled in a winter jacket - he feels the chill earlier than others, his old home was sweltering this time of year - his expression is concerned and understanding. “How are you doing?”
Peter shrugs, conveying his tornado of emotions to the only person on the planet who knows what he’s feeling because he’s feeling it too.
Mohinder sighs. “That bad, huh?”
Peter nods, and Mohinder steps a bit closer.
“If you need a place to stay … my apartment is too big and empty … I keep waiting for him to step out of the kitchen …” Mohinder gives a small, wet cough. “If you’d rather be alone, I understand, it’s just -”
“That’d be … great.” Peter locates the correct word with difficulty. “My apartment is too big as well … I swear he’s just around the corner and …” he bites his lip. “I’ll just get some stuff … do you mind swinging by on the way to your place?”
Mohinder shakes his head, the ghost of happiness crossing his face. “It’ll be wonderful having someone around … again …”
Peter crouches down and sets the bouquet of flowers down in front of the headstone marked Arthur Rosemond ‘Claude Raines’ 19- to November 15th 2010
~*~
It’s hard to believe that the first time we met, he tried to strangle me against a pole and that within a few days we were having sex. He left, returned, and for a while we were happy.
Happy …that’s not a word I use much these days …
~*~
Peter blinks out of his half-conscious state that could never be called sleep to the sound of crying. He abruptly sits up, almost falling off of the couch - and bites his lip. Mohinder is crying.
After a quick pause he stands and slowly approaches the bedroom.
The door is open, but he knocks anyway. No response, so he creeps in.
Mohinder is hugging a pillow to his chest and sobbing into it, trying vainly to muffle the sounds.
Peter tentatively sinks down next to him; Mohinder jumps and drops the pillow, furiously wiping his face.
“Um …” Mohinder’s face is painful to look at. “Er … I’m sorry, Peter! I invited you over and I start -”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Peter reaches over and hands him a box of tissues that was sitting on the bedside table. “Cry all you want. I’m terrified that if I can’t cry anymore I’ll become one of the living dead … like a zombie or something …” he attempts a laugh and gets a harsh, horrible parody of one.
After a few minutes and several tissues, Mohinder stops crying. “Thanks,” he whispers, voice still wet.
Peter’s about to say he’ll head back for the couch - though he can’t bear the idea of being alone in the dark again - when he catches Mohinder’s thoughts.
Stay … don’t leave me … god I’ve never been so lonely in my entire life …
A year ago, Peter would have looked shocked, or taken aback, but now he’s only mildly surprised. “Do you want me to stay? I don’t mind … I just hate being alone at night nowadays.”
A fleeting look of astonishment crosses Mohinder’s face, but it’s soon replaced by the expression of ancient sadness. “As long as you don’t mind … as long as we don’t …” his voice trails off and he glances to the side.
Peter nods in agreement. “No, of course not! I wouldn’t … I couldn’t … not after all that …” he awkwardly slides into bed next to Mohinder, the heat of another body so soothing he almost cries out.
Mohinder settles down under the covers. “Hold me …” he pleads softly, taking a hold of Peter’s wrists and drawing them towards him.
Peter hugs Mohinder close, the heat burning his body and scorching his soul.
~*~
Sylar stands in the middle of a room full of mutilated bodies. Blood is everywhere.
“Yer a bloody zombie, aren’t ya?”
Sylar pivots on the spot. A man with a scruffy beard and a dirty overcoat - English, judging by his accent - is leaning in the doorway. “Who are you?” he demands, bracing himself for the power he senses in the man.
The man laughs. “Claude Raines. And you I suppose, must be Sylar,” he eyes the carnage. “Rather impressive … all yours?”
“Of course,” Sylar sneers. “Who else?”
Claude shrugs. “Sometimes people have an accomplice. Friend, relative, lover …” he shrugs again. “Ya strike me as the loner type … oh no ya don’t …” he glares and Sylar’s telekinetic attack is somehow blocked.
Sylar stares at his hand. “What?” he mutters to himself, trying again.
Claude chuckles. “Trouble performing, eh? Might wanna get some pills for that …”
Sylar growls, crossing his arms. “Who are you, really?”
Claude shrugs. “All in good time, pup, all in good time,” he beckons with a finger, and Sylar shoots across the room. Claude wraps his arm around Sylar’s waist. “Come on, then,” he says, dragging the bewildered man out of the blood-soaked room. “Places ta go, people ta kill.”
~*~
When morning comes, Peter keeps his eyes closed. He wants to imagine that he’s snuggled up against someone else … that soon an angry English voice will berate him for being ‘a sodding bugger’ and kick him out of bed …
Is he masochistic? Only with the one person …
He sighs to himself, imagining a body scarred from an unspoken past, a fuzzily prickly beard …
But the person he’s snuggling smells of strange spices and a flowery shampoo, not the grunge and dirt and sweat of NYC. This person is so perfect, so wholesome, so …
Unbroken?
~*~
Squeezing his eyes shut, Mohinder deludes himself that someone else - his someone else - has his arms wrapped around his body in bed. Someone who will roughly kiss him awake and fuck him nearly senseless yet again after the steamy night.
He imagines a body that’s impossibly tall and strong with sexily mussed up hair and huge eyebrows.
But this body - even with Mohinder’s feeble strength the Indian fears he’ll break the man lying beside him. Shattered from childhood yet still retaining bits of innocence that shine through his eyes.
This someone is too soft, too gentle, too …
Human?
~*~
“You’re broken.”
It’s not a question.
“How do ya reckon, mate?” Claude asks idly, snatching a pretzel from a stall.
“I can just tell …” Sylar doesn’t know why he’s justifying himself to this … madman. “You’ve been hurt … you still haven’t healed.”
Claude skids to a halt. “Bullet wounds healed well enough, pup,” he snaps. “Internal stuff never does.”
“Who was it?” Sylar risks. “A lover?”
Claude hits him.
Sylar reels back, clutching his nose. Claude towers over him.
“Don’t ya dare … don’t ya … ya know nothin’ about me, clear?!” he hisses, storming off.
Sylar ices his hand, holds it over his face, and hurries after Claude.
~*~
Mohinder is startled by the smell of eggs cooking. He must still be dreaming …
“Morning,”
Mohinder opens his eyes. Peter has a breakfast tray and is setting a cup of coffee on the bedside table.
Someone made him breakfast in bed. Mohinder’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. He settles on looking mildly surprised and diving into the eggs. “Thanks,” he manages.
Peter smiles and sits on the end of the bed, eating his breakfast. “Thank you for last night … I mean, I know you wanted company but … I needed it too.”
Mohinder looks to the floor.
Peter takes a sip of his coffee. “So … I’ll swing by the Company and see if there’s anything I should be doing … want to come?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “Nah … anyways, my research is here …” he bites his lip.
Peter nods. “I get it …” he takes the dishes into the kitchen and heads out into the world.
~*~
“Congratulations, pup: first family massacre.”
They gaze around the carnage of the living room. Mother, father, grandmother, three children - all with sliced open heads.
Sylar eyes Claude. “There’s a bedroom down the hall, do you … are you …?” he raises his eyebrows.
Claude laughs. “Better an’ better!” he smirks. “Lead on, Mr. Sylar.”
Sylar shivers pleasantly. “How did you -?”
Claude shrugs. “Plastered through yer memory, that man. He knows that you kill, thinks it’s wrong to be with a murderer, but still he’s in love with you.” he shuts the door of the bedroom. “My lover is different - doesn’t suspect a thing. Ya probably know him - Peter Petrelli?”
Sylar snarls. “Killed him once.”
Claude laughs. “He’s just a pleasant distraction … now you, on the other hand …” he slides his hand down Sylar’s back. “Yer the kind of man I’ve always wanted.”
Sylar smiles, closing his eyes, contently letting Claude feel him up. Suddenly, he seizes the older man and shoves him down onto the bed.
Claude grins - he knew it was coming.
Sylar leans over Claude, practically purring. “Where do you want me?” he hisses softly.
Claude moans. “Everywhere … nowhere … anywhere …”
Sylar grins. “Let’s see what I can do …”
Employing telekinesis, he’s able to keep Claude under the illusion that his fingers are everywhere, his lips are all over the Englishman, skin on skin …
Then, just as suddenly, before Claude can rise, Sylar is gone, hovering just barely over Claude’s body, a millimeter from touching him. Sylar makes sure his breath tickles the other man’s face, that their mouths are practically kissing - but they’re just far enough apart.
“Oh god …” Claude almost whimpers as Sylar’s teeth drift a hair away from his ear. “This is so … where did you learn to do this Sylar?”
Sylar grins. “Now now my dear,” he abruptly descends, straddling Claude. “I’m just getting started …”
~*~
Peter makes dinner - a lovely affair of pasta and vegetables - and for a while he and Mohinder flip through channels. But there doesn’t seem to be anything they want to watch: action makes them sick, romance deepens their depressions, and comedy doesn’t seem all that funny, but they find themselves laughing at horror movies - which strikes them as deeply disturbing.
Mohinder switches the TV off and stands. “Um …” he says awkwardly.
“Erm …” Peter adds.
They trade a look. Pain, fear, loneliness, ache …
Mohinder speaks.
“Hold me … or I’ll tear apart.”
~*~
Claude laughs his harsh, wonderful laugh at Peter’s horrified expression. “Did ya honestly think I loved ya?” the Englishman makes a slashing motion with his arm - a cut bleeds diagonally across Peter’s face. “Only reason I stayed with ya is yer so damn pretty … ya can magic away anythin’ ya don’t like about yerself and heal all yer blemishes. Yer a fake, Peter, a fake.”
Peter has tears mingling with his blood.
“Oh, that’s right, cry like the little kid ya really are. That’ll win me back from Sylar …”
Peter gapes. “S-Sylar?!”
Claude smirks. “He and I have more in common than ya’d think, Pete … both mass murderers, both got multiple powers …” he telekinetically flung Peter into a wall. “Both have a slight tendency to hate ya.”
~*~
Sylar has fucked Mohinder before, many, many times … but this is different, worse. Mohinder suddenly wonders if Sylar we do this until Mohinder’s body gives out. Is that even possible? Well, anything is possible nowadays …
Hours later it seems, Sylar puts his clothes back on. “You’re finally out of my system, Mohinder. I didn’t think it was possible. I guess all the stuff we shared was just a warm up to what I’ve got now.”
Suddenly his hands are around Mohinder’s throat. The Indian is too exhausted to resist. Let it be done … please let it be done at last …
Sylar releases him. “You’re not even worth killing …” he shrugs and leaves the room, neglecting to slam the door.
Mohinder feels tears trickling down his cheeks.
~*~
Peter hasn’t healed himself, despite all the things Claude has done to him. He’s got several broken bones, a dislocated arm, and so many scars he’s in danger of dying of blood-loss.
But he refuses to heal himself. He won’t let Claude win, he won’t prove Claude right.
“Almost done here?”
It’s a voice Peter’s learned to hate over the past few years. Sylar.
Claude shrugs. “More or less. I was goin’ ta kill him, but then I realized there was no point. Already broken him.”
The two men share a laugh. Peter would vomit if he had the strength.
“Did ya kill the professor?” Claude asks.
Chills run down Peter’s spine. How did Mohinder get dragged into all of this? Suddenly, the bruises the geneticist sometimes sported made horrific sense.
“Nah, not worth it. Had some fun with him, but it’s not like it used to be. Now that I’ve found you …”
Peter can’t move, and watches as the man he loved - still loves - kisses the man who killed him.
“Come on, let’s celebrate,” Claude throws his arm around Sylar’s shoulders, and they disappear, laughing hysterically.
~*~
The first time they have sex - no, the first time they make love - Peter and Mohinder are crying by the end. It’s so different from what they knew before, and yet so right. This is what it should have been like all along; they were just too blind to see it.
Peter moves in officially the next day and sells the huge, empty apartment that’s too full of memories.
The next time he and Mohinder make love, there are no tears.
~*~
Mohinder stares at the headstone. Gabriel Gray ‘Sylar’ March 11th 19__ to November 15th 2010. He remembers the first time he saw the name ‘Sylar’ on a cassette tape on the floor of his father’s apartment; the time he saw the wall covered in ‘Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned’ and when he met ‘Zane Taylor’ and the horrible sensation when he realized he’d been having sex in motels with the man who killed his father. He remembered drugged chai, hours of agony, horror when Sylar revealed he wasn’t dead, debates with himself that always skidded to a halt when Sylar wrapped his arms around him …
But most of all, the day he’d heard that news report. That Gabriel Gray and Arthur Rosemond were dead. Dead.
At first he hadn’t believed it. Sylar dead just didn’t make sense. He and ‘Claude’ had been unstoppable …
Mohinder sighs and sets down a bouquet of red roses. “Goodbye … Sylar …”
Peter is waiting just before the gate. They trade a sad smile and Mohinder grasps Peter’s hand.
“Let’s go home.” Mohinder says, glancing back one last time.
And they leave the cemetery for good.