Chapter Three
Nathan couldn't figure it out. Even before they'd…gotten closer…Pete usually couldn't go two days without calling and talking to his big brother. Now, it had been about three weeks with little more than one or two emails saying little more than hello.
Even after the worst of fights, three weeks would've been impossible. The only time they'd gone longer than that was because of Nathan…his fault.
How the hell had he just gotten back into his brother's good graces, and even his bed, only to lose him again? And what had been going on with him—he thought having Pete would fix everything. Now, it seemed that having Peter gave him that much more to lose.
Those feelings of being trapped in his own body had intensified to the point of being completely absurd, and frightening. He'd spent two hours yesterday looking into his own eyes.
He was astonished at how foreign they looked…had they always been such a light shade of brown? And that shape? Things that were perfectly normal in his house or in his office looked so out of place. Was this, as his mother had said, simply what it meant to hit forty and experience a midlife crisis?
No longer interested in his mother's advice to find a woman of questionable virtue and a red sports car, he decided instead to make Peter talk to him. How could he live with himself if he let him slip away?
Of course, just when Nathan needed him the most, that was when Peter would be off doing his deeds of mercy and kindness. Apparently since he and his medical bag were gone, he was out rescuing the helpless mortals of the world with no abilities.
As he sat in Peter's scantily furnished living room, he realized how tired he'd been lately. Maybe it really was just middle age setting in, he thought scornfully. Without meaning to, he drifted off to sleep.
Peter slipped in after dark and shrugged his messenger bag with its medical supplies off into the floor with a light thud. He looked like death warmed over…he hadn't been eating or sleeping correctly for far too long.
He missed Nathan every waking moment, but wasn't really sure what to do about it. He thought he'd drink something a little stronger than water tonight before he tried to go to bed. That's when he saw Nathan lying on his couch.
Peter felt a strong rush of affection and worry simultaneously—it wasn't common for his brother to come in and wait…you waited on him. "Nate?"
Peter's brow came to a crease in the middle when he realized the form was far too dark and muscular to be Nathan. The form stretched a bit and sat up. "Peter? What? Where the hell am I?" A pause. "What have you done to me?" A very vulnerable and angry Sylar looked into his eyes questioningly.
Peter without even thinking picked up Sylar and threw him to the floor. "Tell me what you've done to my brother!" His own violence shocked him, and what was even more shocking was the expression on Sylar's face.
He looked as though he were about to cry, whether from heartbreak or fear would've been anyone's guess.
"What the hell are you talking about? I'm hungry, I'm sick, and I have no idea how I got here. I'm gonna be sick!" Sylar sat up, and then doubled over in pain. "Help me…please Pete…help me."
Peter was a nurse, an EMT. He couldn't ignore years of training that said to help instead of do harm.
Also, though he'd never admit it to himself, he couldn't say no to Sylar's heart wrenching plea. It sounded so real.
Peter ran to get his supplies, but Sylar jerked him back. "No…stay with me." He ground out. "Stay right here. Help me." And with this, Sylar leaned into Peter's arms, his head on Peter's chest and his arms wrapped around his waist.
Peter knew that trying to get information out of Sylar right now would be of no use. If he could get sick and be hungry even though he had Claire's power, what else might be wrong with him? If Sylar died, who would lead him to Nathan? He had to find Nathan.
That was of course the only reason why Peter folded his arms around Sylar, and began softly stroking his forehead. "Ssshhh. It's okay. I'm right here. Hang on bud, you're just fine. Breathe. Brreeeeathe." Peter spoke soothingly, and soon felt Sylar's body relax into his hold. "Just breathe." He repeated until Sylar had all but fallen asleep.
Peter was startled when Sylar began to speak. "Thank you Pete. Don't let me go." Sylar looked up at him, but something was not right. It was Sylar, but Nathan's voice. Not knowing what to do, Peter kept holding him, afraid to move and fearing the worst, not even able to imagine what that could be.
Sylar knew that he shouldn't want Peter to help him. But he needed him so badly. His arms felt like they belonged around him.
So why shouldn't he indulge the feeling, especially if Petrelli was willing to oblige? It didn't make sense that he would, but with the way he was feeling he found he couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
He felt like his stomach was turning itself into spinning knots. Nothing came up though, and finally the pain went away.
How nice it felt just to do exactly as Pete told him to. Relax, fall back into his arms just as though there were a place carved out only for him. He couldn't stop the begging he heard come out of his mouth. "Thank you Pete. Don't let me go."
If Sylar could have laughed at that moment, he would've been tempted to. The expression on Petrelli's face was one of utter bewilderment, shaping his handsome face into surprising contortions. But something also wrenched in Sylar's heart…he hadn't meant to scare Peter.
And he had…the only time anyone had ever held him so tight was his mother, and that was when he had nearly died from pneumonia. His eyes had rolled back into his head and his skin had turned death white. His mother wasn't crying and neither was Petrelli now—but the worry in their arms was almost tight enough to suffocate.
If this was love or concern, or even just pity, he'd take it. He just had no idea why he wanted it.
Peter had kept watch over Sylar as he slept. He was beginning to look better. His color was returning and his breathing was slowly going back to its regular rhythm. Sylar began to move, and then his eyes opened.
"Do you want something to eat? Do you feel up to it?" Peter asked.
Sylar didn't speak but just nodded his head. A pause. "Why am I here?" Sylar asked.
Peter cocked his head to one side and his eyes narrowed a bit. "You tell me? Why are you here?" Finding he had no answer, he shrugged.
"I don't know…I feel as if I've been away somewhere for a long time…I-I don't know what's happened to me. I can't remember anything since…" Sylar tried to continue and found he couldn't. What was the last thing he could remember?
He knew that he was supposed to hate Petrelli and he couldn't. He had killed his mother. He wasn't supposed to run to Peter for help or anyone else. He was a monster. But yet, here he was. He looked up at Peter.
"I'm scared." He'd said it without even knowing it was going to come out. But again there was the truth. He didn't hate Peter, he hated being a monster, and he wanted to stay.
Peter straightened a bit and his face steeled itself as if he were expecting a fight. "I'll go make you dinner. Just stay right here." And with that, he walked off to the kitchen. And Sylar did as he was told, not because he couldn't get up and move, but because he found he wanted to.