Peter had sighed, looking at the deserted palaces that surrounded the balcony on which he was sitting.
When he overtook Matt and got into Sylar's head, he didn't think about the consequences.
He had believed that as he had entered, he could safely leave, having the power of Parkman, but when he discovered that the nightmare created by the former policeman now had an autonomous mind, he had remained disarmed.
At first he had not heard the differences, but slowly, as Sylar had also pointed out, he had noticed them.
Things, objects, places not belonging to the mind of the serial killer had begun to appear, one after the other, one day after the other, hidden, or in plain sight, in front of them, a symbol that the dream was able to perceive his presence and adapt, change as such.
So, despite the anomalous desert, it was almost like feeling at home.
Of course, an unreal house, in a post-apocalyptic future, but always a house.
If it hadn't been for Sylar, he would have almost appreciated that strange place, but the idea of having to share that world that could give them everything with that Devil made him moody, paranoid, angry.
He could not believe he was locked up in Nirvana with the murderer of his brother.
That could not have been true, but it was.
And Sylar was there, always there, in front of his face, every single moment of every single day, no matter how much he tried to avoid it.
He hated it.
Every now and then he felt hatred burn deep in his chest, when Sylar looked at him with that beating dog's gaze, but when in the evening he returned home after hammering that damned wall all day and always found a plate of hot food ready for him, then he felt that hot and pitiless grip on his heart melt, at least in part.
And then were the times when Sylar spoke about Nathan, when he spoke just LIKE Nathan, and he would just loose his reason.
"I said stop it!" he'd shout. "You're not HIM! You'll never be..."
Sylar would look back at him, inscrutable.
"I know." he'd answer with bitterness, before pushing him away.
And then Peter would be back beating with the hammer on the wall, until the inside of his palms cracked, because hadn't he done so, probably would've ended up smashing it right on Sylar's head.
He didn't know if they could die in the nightmare. After all, they had no powers there. Perhaps, if he had killed him, that large, unacceptable weight on his chest would have finally been lifted.
Or not.
Perhaps it would only get worse, he did not know. He did not want to know.
So, in total uncertainty, the only thing that kept his mind sane was trying to break through that damned wall. Not so much for the idea of being able to do it, after all, because he had understood by now that with only brute force it would never fall.
But the sound of the metal against the stones, the feeling of power and pain that ran through his fingers, kept his mind intact. It forced him not to think, not to reflect, which was a good thing.
A very good thing.
Sylar had looked at him under his lashes from across his plate.
Peter didn't know why, but that evening he decided to dine with him.
Usually, when he returned, sweated and devastated by his working day on the wall, he found only his plate ready on the table, and Sylar locked up in his room pretending to read, or trafficking with his watches, or anything else that damned sketch enjoying doing at night.
However, when he returned that evening, less tired and sweaty than usual having spent much of the day sitting to just stare at the wall, he found Sylar sitting at the kitchen table, a book open in his left hand, two large pairs of glasses that completely transformed his face.
He seemed almost like a normal person.
"I thought you had already finished". Peter greeted him, distractedly removing his jacket and sitting in front of him.
He had looked at the plate and had to cling to the table in order not to hurt him: Sylar had prepared spaghetti for him in Chinese spaghetti, Nathan's favourite dish.
"No, I was late." the murderer replied, closing the book slowly -AGAIN "The pillars of the earth", it was not possible- and placing it gently on the tablecloth next to him.
Peter had shaken his head, almost disgustingly moving the dish in front of him.
"You know what, I'm not hungry tonight." He had sneered, moving to get up.
Sylar had cast a glance at him, before murmuring: "It wasn't really his favourite dish, you know."
Peter had almost broken the glass from which he had just took a sip of wine.
"Excuse me?" he had asked in half a voice, struggling to keep a calm tone.
"He didn't like spaghetti, he just ate it because YOU liked it, to make you happy. He preferred sushi" explained Sylar, eyes fixed on the napkin under his hands.
Okay, this was too much.
Peter had heard the glass shatter under his fingers in a painful explosion of shards.
"YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT NATHAN!" he had screamed at him, planting his wounded fingers in his face, and splashing blood across the table and the kitchen floor.
Sylar had only remained quiet for a second, but that time he hadn't apologized, he hadn't stayed silent, nor taken his usual unhappy look.
He had jumped up and shouted back with the same, perhaps even stronger, force.
"THE HELL I DON'T! He was in my head, he was ME!" He had collected the book and thrown it near Peter's left cheek, missing it by a mere inch. "Shit, look at your hand!" he had cursed, passing a nervous hand through his hair.
Only then did Peter notice the pieces of glass that pierced his palm and the blood that was pouring down his forearm.
"Whatever, it's not real, anyway" he had shrugged, still jumping for the pain when he'd tried to move it.
"Yeah, right, how can you be sure? Come here..." the killer had responded angrily, grabbing a cloth from the sink and turning to him.
"No." Peter had denied, pulling himself back.
"Don't be an idiot, you're a nurse, you should know these kind of wounds aren't a joke. I just want to help you..." he had grasped his wrist without further explanations, looking critically at the situation. "Fuck, they're quite stuck in..."
"Yes I know, thank you very much-OUCH!" Peter shouted as Sylar tried to wipe the wound off with the napkin to see better. "Not like this, let it go! You got any pliers between your intruments?" He had touched his free hand to his forehead, giving up and sitting back.
"Yes, I'll go get them." Sylar had walked by his chair, leaving behind him a faint smell of honey and cinnamon.
He knew he liked chai tea, he'd seen him drank it in liters. He must have experienced a new taste that afternoon, while he (was not) keeping himself busy with the wall.
He had looked at the cuts distractedly, noting that, despite the appearance, the injury was less severe than expected.
"Here." Sylar had placed the pliers under his nose, coming back into the kitchen.
"Thank you." Peter had responded so lowly that Sylar hadn't almost heard him.
He should have probably sterilized the tool, but they were in a fucking dream after all, with none around but the two of them, so the chances of getting an infection were probably near zero.
They had remained silent for a while, with Peter removing the fragments one by one from the palm and Sylar sitting next to him watching him.
"You haven't worked much, today." Sylar finally said, his mouth hidden behind one of the hands on which he was leaning.
Peter had frozen a moment with the tool in mid-air.
"No, I...wasn't in the right mood." he responded evasively after a while, and started working again.
"Strange. Nothing can usually distract you from it." The killer had pointed out, his dark eyes fixed on him.
Peter had swallowed a huge amount of saliva, feeling suddenly under close inspection.
"I told you, I didn't feel like working much..."
"You know it's useless: you didn't touch it today, and you've had the same success as in recent days. It's no use to beat on it, yet you keep going... you're definitely not stupid Peter, so, why?- he had cornered him.
Peter had let out a long sigh, stopping again in his workings. What was he supposed to do?
"It's... the only thing keeping me sane." he had finally admitted, surprising himself with his sincerity.
Sylar had nodded, tearing his overly penetrating gaze away from him, pondering on what he had just said.
"I understand." he had finally murmured. "It mustn't be easy for you to be locked in here... with me."
"Yeah" the empath had snickered, snorting vaguely. He had set the pliers aside, starting to clean carefully around the cuts with the cloth. "Sometimes I wonder how can you sit here the whole day. I'd snap in a second."
Sylar had taken off his glasses, finally returning to his true self, wrinkling his eyes tiredly with his fingers.
"I don't know. Maybe because it's what I deserved, maybe it's because... I don't want to be saved." he had admitted in return, making Peter look in his direction.
The nurse had almost told him something, but had held back, instead clutching the rag like a bandage around his wrist.
These were the moments that made him want to go back and hit the wall with his hammer. Moments in which he saw the humanity of a murderer, which he could not accept at all.
"...Or maybe it's because I don't want to leave this place, after all." Sylar had concluded under his breath.
Peter could not help but stare at him.
"What?" had he asked, thinking that he had lost his mind completely.
"Crazy, right?" The killer had mocked himself, without taking his black irises off the nurse.
"Pretty much." Peter had agreed, tightening the string on his wrist and tasting a mouthful of his abandoned spaghetti. Shit, they were really good. -But it kinda suits you..." he had half-joked, flashing him his crooked smile.
Sylar had chuckled to himself, pulling the other dish towards him and starting to eat aswell.
They had chewed for a while without speaking, but without feeling any embarrassment as both remained silent.
It was the first time this had happened.
Once they had finished, they had cleaned up, still in silence, leaving the dishes in the basin, sure to find them clean the next day.
"Thank you." Peter had finally murmured. "For cooking me spaghetti... they were delicious." He had elaborated, feeling strangely in debt to the killer.
Sylar had made his usual nerdy sneer. "You're welcome." he had replied, making him feel quite silly and embarrassed.
"Ok, I think I'll go to sleep now." He had moved to retreat, but Sylar had almost brutally grabbed him by his wrist, blocking him against the furniture.
"Sylar?" he had exhaled, alarmed. "What.. what are you doing.?" But the killer had denied him any way out, putting himself in front of him in all his enormous stature. Peter trembled, fearing that the other would be seriously about to open his head in two.
"I don't know..." the former watchmaker had whispered, bending over on him and smelling his hair.
The faint scent of honey and cinnamon hit Peter back, strongly this time, obscuring his senses.
"Sylar...?" he had repeated, pulling himself back as far as possible to look him in the eye.
Sylar had taken him by the chin, looking back intensely, then had lowered himself on his face and kissed him with an open mouth.
Peter was completely stoned, motionless, while Sylar rubbed his lips against his own, before detaching himself with a slight smack.
The killer had batted his long lashes several times, as if waking up from a state of trance,
Peter had stared at him between shock and disbelief, touching his mouth with his bandaged hand, reddening.
He was still in that position when Sylar had left him, letting him go, turning over the door to whisper a low : "Goodnight, Peter."