Bonjour. Hola. Hello!
This pairing has grown on me in last month or so, so I'm trying my luck with it.
Tell me if I should never try it again.
FYI - this isn't a songfic, I just listened to the song, heard this lyric and thought "Hmmm..."
J'taime x

So you're the fire and I'm the water.
I am the balance and you are the colour.
I won't forget you when we're not together.
This is the ending, here's my surrender.

- Where Can I Stab Myself in the Ears,
Hawthorne Heights

Peter isn't too sure what the hell he is doing.

Well, he knows what he's doing doing. What he's doing is using this murderous bastard of a man as a punching bag.

He is relishing in every crunch his fist makes when it comes into contact with this man's face. He is savouring every pained noise he makes.

Peter was never one for bloodshed, no, that's this other man's fetish, but part of him is enjoying this.

The part that doesn't notice how brutally hard he is actually hitting Sylar. The part that forgets Sylar didn't choose to parade around as his brother. The part that avoids looking into Sylar's eyes, for fear of realising what he is doing. The part that screams for Sylar's blood.

It's a small part. And he rarely let's it surface. But it is there.

Peter knows, deep, deep down that hurting, maiming, killing Sylar won't give him his brother back. It won't get him anywhere. He doesn't really want revenge. He doesn't want to hurt Sylar.

Which is why his resolve almost crumbled when he and Sylar go slamming to the floor and Sylar cries out in pain, his bloodied face crippled from taking the brunt of the fall and Peter's weight, all at the same time.

Emphasis on the almost.

Peter immediately curls his hand into a fist and smashes it into Sylar's eye-socket, without conscious thought. Then his nose. Cheeks. Everywhere. Anywhere that can draw blood. Sylar is as good as crying when Peter is done; his face a mess of blood and salty tears. His eyes are screwed shut in anguish.

He coughs and the cough turns into a pained, sardonic laugh as he shakes his head, trying to clear it and Peter wants to punch him again but he doesn't.

He is too stunned. He was so busy clouting Sylar's face into a pulp he hadn't registered that he was laying flat beneath him. He didn't register that he was straddling Sylar on the floor. No he did not, not one little bit and now he's all dazed.

Sylar opens his eyes and look up at Peter.

And Peter hopes the Haitian's ability is still working so Sylar can't hear how his heart is tattooing a pattern onto his ribcage when he finds them in this most interesting of positions. He hopes Sylar doesn't hear how his breath catches momentarily in his throat when their gaze locks.

Peter realises as he looks down, panting hard, that the killer's eyes aren't that unnerving, chilling black he always thought they were, but a deep, rich shade of chocolate brown.

His heart skips a beat. His stomach flip-flops. He doesn't really know when he started feeling this way but it didn't start today and he doubts it'll end today either.

He's tried to fight it, subconsciously, it seems. In Elle, when he didn't remember Sylar. In Caitlin, when he didn't remember himself. And now he has this horrible feeling he doesn't want to fight it anymore.

About 99.999% of Peter's entire being is slowly convincing him to lean down and kiss Sylar. Just to see what it's like. To sate his qualms. So he can be sure what he feels is real.

But, in true Petrelli fashion, he ignores what his heart is telling him, and, still staring into the bottomless chasms of Sylar's eyes, he reaches above him and his fingers curl around the handle of a nail gun.

This is not you. Don't do it Don't do it Don't do it Don't do it, half of him whispers as he brings the nail gun down on Sylar's hand.

BANG. A scream from the man below him.

You need Nathan back. Do it Do it Do it Do it, the other half encourages when he does the same for Sylar's other hands.

BANG. Scream.

Peter isn't listening to what Sylar is saying, and whether it is pleading protests or snide remarks he doesn't know, he is too busy with his internal battle.

BANG. BANG. More screaming. Sylar is now completely nailed to the floor, scarlet blood pooling around his helpless, not-healing body and Peter doesn't recognise what he has done. He hates what he's doing, he hates himself for doing it, and he hates Sylar for making him want to do it. He can't stop.

The opposite of love is not hate, its indifference, whoever said that, Peter isn't quite sure and he isn't quite sure why he remembers it right now but he suddenly understands what it means.

He has the epiphany as he drives a nail, with another loud BANG, right between Sylar's legs. That scream is the worst, the most tortured, the most inhuman. And it nearly rips Peter in two.

To love you need to care - care enough to know you won't get what you want through violence and you can't bring back the dead.

To hate you need to care – care enough to keep a man to the floor by forcing long metal spikes through his flesh to get your brother back and kill the same man who took him away from you.

When Peter looks at Sylar, he cares enough to do all those things. He has never been indifferent when it comes to this particular serial killer. He cares so much, he hates so much, he loves so much that Sylar's next words, spluttered, hysterical, begging, gasping, very nearly move Peter to tears. And if Peter had cried them, he isn't sure whether they'd be angry or heartbroken.

"Alright, okay, okay! What—what do you....want?!"

I want Nathan. My brother. I want you to leave this body so we can never loose him.

"I want my brother back"

That's why Peter has no idea what he is doing.

Because about 99.999% of Peter's entire being, at the same time as he answered Sylar's question, had been pushing him to say something different:

You. I want you to leave him behind so I can never loose you.

"The opposite of love is not hate, its indifference" - Elie Wiesel - there you go, Peter :)

Review or I'll cry - and you don't waaannt thaaaaat!