The Universe's Mixer

It had happened in the night. Peter hadn't been sleeping, as usual, but he had been in bed, curled up with Leeloo, who was warm and peaceful in his arms. In die Festung, Peter had had magic to help him sleep, and on the savage world, he had been supplying energy to the TARDIS. Here in the City, he had neither as a way to drain his energy, and do sleep was all but unnecessary. The occasions when he did sleep were special nights with his beloved.

He hasn't been actively paying attention when it happened, but the sudden loss was in no way subtle. There weren't many things that could cut off a link so sharply, and there had been no steady building of walls for the younger Evey to have deliberately hidden behind. It was a sudden loss of sensation that Peter had only felt a handful of times before.

He went still, eyes wide, not wanting to wake the supreme being from her rest. Evey had been asleep, and then she was simply gone. He could sense the elder Evey still, faintly awake and reeling a bit from sudden new memories.

His touch was light enough that she probably didn't realize he had looked. She had other things occupying her attention. Peter withdrew from her mind, letting his thoughts turn inward.

Gone. Evey was gone. The young, vibrant woman that loved Aidan Waite without reservation, the Evey Hammond unburdened by the savagery of the dinosaur island, was gone. His best friend. And he, Peter Petrelli, had been completely powerless to prevent it.

Peter covered his face with one hand and wept silently.

Several hours later, when the sun had risen, Peter gave Evey a gentle nudge. He was going to take her out to breakfast. He gave her half an hour to get ready, showering and dressing, and then he was knocking at the door to John's apartment.

Trepidation chased Erik from the door of his manor to the door of his Opera House. The night was planned in pristine order, which was only expected from Hannibal Lecter. And yet, the unease Erik felt while walking up the steps of his Opera House was great enough to cause him to pause at the door.

This night should not happen. He knew it. And yet, he could not also deny that if Hannibal suffered half of what Erik did at the loss of his wife, then his friend deserved to play the entirety of the composition that Erik had written. it was filled to bursting with pain and loss and anger and grief - and it was too much for any one heart to feel without bursting into flames. Erik knew this, because his own heart was already in flames, and had not stopped burning. Then, the difference for him was that his blood had already been afire when he sat down to compose.

Perhaps that was not a difference, after all. Perhaps the boy burned just as hot as Erik himself.

Either way, there was no one else who could be trusted to execute the composition on piano as well as Hannibal Lecter. If it must be played by someone else, it could only be that stubborn, bull-headed surgeon. Straightening his already-pristine overcoat, Erik checked the cuffs of his jacket and then proceeded into the Opera House directly.
Erik bypassed his normal seat in Box 5 and went backstage instead. He was not the audience that Hannibal had selected. As Erik stepped to the side of the stage, just so that he had a view of the piano gleaming in the spotlight, he saw that he was not alone. Across the stage, at the opposite side, was the man who carried the same name as his friend and much of the same memories. Erik nodded cordially, holding him in respect for the way he'd played - if not also for his connection to the doctor Erik marked as his friend.

The lights were set to dim soon - but as of yet, the bustle of the audience still rose from the edge of the stage. It would begin soon. Erik was in turns excited and full of dread. This time, his dread held a dual part - one, for the reaction of the audience to his work; and the other, for the suffering of the audience because of his work.