Peter wasn't entirely aware or not if he made a noise when Sylar finally jammed in the knife, though if he made one it wasn't even remotely pleasant. And though he knew it was coming, he couldn't help the squirming reaction it tore from his muscles as pain ripped though him, giving Sylar's shirt a viciously hard pull forward as his head nearly flew up.

He hardly even noticed the spilling of his own blood save for the extra warmth of the liquid sliding down his back, and the fact that it didn't flow quite the same way as the water from his shower. But it was the smell of it that got to him, the acrid scent of his own death, and the way the color of the tub turned instantly red at his feet.

But god if it didn't hurt like a son of a bitch, and Peter was finally done staying quiet, making a rather loud riotous sound as his head spun sickly, his vision pulling fuzzy at the edges. He could feel his knees starting to give out from underneath him and unconsciously, he dropped a hand from Sylar's shirt, reaching behind himself in some pitiful attempt to get rid of the knife because it was agonizing and it just didn't stop. And all he wanted to do was make it stop, but he was still shaking, still gurgling the occasional laugh and Peter was half convinced he was going to simply fall to pieces against Sylar's chest.