Day 72, February 20, Morning
When they arrived in the lobby, Peter gestured to the elevator and headed towards it. "I took the kit upstairs yesterday," he explained, punching the button to open the doors. He walked inside, hitting the penthouse button as Sylar joined him. "It's still there."
Once upstairs, Peter retrieved the bag and paused to get a couple bottles of water from the fridge. Stuffing them into the bag along with the supplies that were already in it, He turned to Sylar. "You want me to do it up here, or in the rec room? You'd have a bed to get some rest on here, but…I'll be going on downstairs." Peter smiled a little at himself. "I wouldn't mind the company," he said very quietly, with a leading tone to his voice.
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Sylar gamely followed along, blinking at Peter in the suite. He hadn't given any thought to separating. Briefly he worried that the mention of it was some hint, but it sounded like Peter wanted anything but distance. "No, no. The rec room is fine."
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Peter smiled a little, again, looking away and shifting uncomfortably. It was almost a wince – it didn't feel right to say he wanted Sylar around, at least not without some disclaimer about being driven together by the inherent loneliness of the world. Which, while that was a factor, Peter knew it wasn't all of it. He liked this...thing they were doing, if it meant Sylar was supposed to agree Peter was in charge. "Well…let's go on down then. Unless there was a book or something you wanted here?"
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"Hmm," he said about his book. He had several here and even more at his own apartment, recent and stockpiled favorites. I may just sleep while he does his thing. Until he's ready to...get the belt, I guess. In a few strides, he had his book in hand, Peter with his medical bag. Sylar gave that a wary glance, once again wondering if it had been tampered with. I wish he'd leave that…somewhere else. Maybe with me.
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I feel like we're almost on a date, Peter thought as the elevator took them past the various floors. I asked him to come hang out with me, not do anything else, he argued back at himself. I'm not doing anything wrong. This is…I mean, this is better than normal. We're getting along. Sort of. Right? He listened to me earlier, didn't freak out about the ability thing, the touch. He didn't blow me off, either, or tell me to never do it again. The doors opened and he headed to the rec room, still musing on things. He waved Sylar towards the couch. "You'll have to take your shirt off again." He set his bag towards one end of the couch and scanned the walls for a thermostat. He headed over to it and turned it up four or five degrees, satisfied when he heard the heater kick on.
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Just the shirt, huh? Sylar made his way to the couch as directed, casting a sly, knowing look over his shoulder. A flush of heat went through him when he thought of something taboo. He likes my back, specifically my lower back. And he agreed so easily to do this – beating me, taking care of me – repeatedly and as often as he pleases. Sylar chuckled darkly to himself, noting the unnecessary kindness of Peter resetting the temperature of the room because of his soon-to-be partial nudity. Still facing the couch, he unbuttoned coat and over shirt, then he waited until he could feel Peter's presence, his attention. Playing it up a little, he groaned a seductive sound as he began inching his undershirt up slowly, up over his head. I've got him eating out of the palm of my hand and the best part is, he doesn't even know it. Peter had capitulated with merely the truth/excuse that Sylar wanted to get him off. "Do I need to bend over?" he asked in a quiet but very deep voice.
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At Sylar's first noise, Peter took a quickened step as though to help, but then the timbre of the sound made clear that wasn't discomfort he was hearing. It was- oh! He hesitated then deliberately took a step back for a better view, shamelessly ogling as Sylar took way longer than necessary to pull that shirt off. Oh, that's nice. Even despite the welts and marks, it was a nice back being bared very specifically for him and his enjoyment of the view. In the better lighting than the diner had, or maybe it was the position and more time to look in a leisurely fashion, Peter noticed the bruise on Sylar's lower back, where the kidney punch had landed. He stepped forward and touched it lightly then slid his hand to Sylar's flank, cupping his side. "No," Peter said with a quiet smile at the innuendo of the offer. "Just sit. Maybe sideways here, facing away." He made a downward stroke that ended at Sylar's jeans then turned to pick up the medical bag and dig through it.
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Sylar inhaled and remembered to exhale. The touch was so intimate, so familiar of Peter. It was fitting that the pressure stung what must be a bruise on his back. It made the pain totally worth it and it thrilled him to see his plan coming together. (How much longer until he fucks me?) Peter touching him like that was and was not as strange as it should have been. Sylar then adjusted his shoulders with something of a shrug, sitting as directed. He kept the bag in his peripheral to make sure all that came from it was the spray can.
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Spray can in hand, Peter examined it to make sure it would spray in the direction expected. It was always embarrassing to screw that up. Then he turned to Sylar, gathering up the man's hair to lift it from the nape of his neck. "Don't look," Peter said quietly. "You don't want this stuff in your eyes." He sprayed it on thoroughly, getting the backs of Sylar's upper arms as well, because there were a few welts there, too. He pushed the medical bag out of the way and sat on the edge of the couch next to Sylar, moving his head one way and then the other to see if there were spots he'd missed. He sprayed the two he found then dropped the can in the direction of the bag. He looked at the other man for a moment, thoughts churning around in his head about the intentional display with taking off his shirt, the confession that he couldn't or didn't sleep well without Peter, and this whole request thing of Sylar's, that Peter should own him, engage, and take charge in doing whatever he wanted with the man.
Peter touched Sylar's flank again, the opposite side from the bruise this time, and just with fingertips rather than his whole hand. The skin was fantastically soft. It was smooth and unblemished. He turned his hand to use the backs of his fingers, more on Sylar's lower back now than his side. He reached the indentation of the spine, turning his hand again to feel idly at the ridges of vertebrae until they disappeared below his waistband. He wants to bend over for me? It's not something I want right now. Peter scooted in and leaned sideways against the back of the couch, still taking the liberty of touching another's body. I probably shouldn't be doing this, either. Um, no 'probably' about it, really. He sighed, but what he was doing seemed so minor in the grand scheme of things. So he kept making little touches, from the bottom of the welts to the top of Sylar's jeans. "That...tingling I mentioned? It happens at times like this. Sometimes stronger, but I can feel it." It was definitely subdued at the moment. He wondered what that was due to. The degree of reservation maybe?
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Peter finished and then, without so much as a comment or a warning, continued to touch him – gently. Sylar closed his eyes to savor it even as part of his brain shied from the fact that this was a Petrelli touching him like this. The caress was something his mind struggled to categorize, emotionally, to know how to react (if he had to, and so far, he didn't). It felt like something so pleasant should go into a mental box for pleasant things but he couldn't utilize that box. It had never been allowed; it was wrong. He kept trying to put it in that empty 'pleasant' box, knowing it didn't, couldn't belong there; so he kept searching and kept returning back to it all the same. Sylar didn't move an inch except to breathe calmly.
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Peter watched the profile of Sylar's body and face. He figured he could be seen, but the other man wasn't looking directly at him, so Peter didn't feel pressured by the observation. He tilted his head lazily against the couch cushion, looking at how Sylar's side curved around to his belly. There were a few black hairs there, streaming away, pointing towards the middle of his stomach. After eyeing them for a few moments, he reached around to touch them, expanding the area he was stroking. Really, that Sylar was allowing this much was remarkable. He twitched the hairs upwards and down then smoothed them out in their proper orientation. Okay, that's enough. Anything more and I'm going to get an erection. He sat up properly, having underestimated how his body had been reacting this whole time. More of one, that is. Peter cleared his throat to signal the break, and stooped to put the aerosol can properly back in the bag. He had to shift his dick in order to bend over without hurting himself. I don't think I'm as embarrassed as I should be about all this. It was nice to touch him.
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His well-tuned senses began to tingle at that. It was the shift in…intent that he picked up immediately. It was far more sexual and because it was Peter, a male, and their situation was so fucked up, the touch on his stomach was perverted. It didn't disgust him or even turn him off, simply more awareness and perhaps wariness intruded on the sensations. He allowed it, of course. It wouldn't be long before Peter wanted to pet and ogle other parts of him. Sylar pivoted to be side-to-side as he watched the spray can drop into the bag. Peter stood and then all he could see was the other man's bulge in his jeans. Oh. Oh? Oh! Fucking empaths, he smirked. It made him hungry. It was an incredible ego-stroke to inspire such a reaction, especially having done so little to get it. "Are you sure you don't want me to bend over?" he rumbled, amused and completely suggestive.
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Peter glanced down, seeing that he was obvious – his clothing was not being cooperative in hiding what was going on with him. Rather than denying it, he just rolled his eyes and answered the question. "Completely."
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But Peter wasn't hustling away, trying to hide or cover himself. Fucking shameless, too. So he continued to stare, trying to make out the dimensions of Peter's piece. It did not look like a monster, much to his relief. Nathan was…well. Sylar straightened to cover his squirm of discomfort about those thoughts. Thinking about Taub's dick doesn't give me that…feeling. I've been him for weeks. Then Donner… Shapeshifting aside, he lacked experience with average or otherwise male anatomy. Peter's dick, still clothed in jeans, looked…long enough, thick enough. I think the jeans are deceptive. He could be smaller or larger than what I'm seeing – what's that saying about growing? What the hell is a man supposed to find desirable in another man's dick? He was being given plenty of time to stare and he took advantage of it, considering angle and shadows and the density of the fabric of Petrelli's denim.
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Peter moved away awkwardly, using his foot to shove the medical bag around the corner of the couch. His thoughts were a mess of appreciative sense-memory of how nice it had been to touch; a growing awareness of how inappropriate that was to do to a patient, how unwise it was to encourage Sylar's lusts, and flat wrong it was to do to someone who had killed your brother; and his rapidly-becoming-urgent desire to do something else besides dwell on what he'd just done. The piano, right? No, the sheet music. That's what I was going to look at. Looking… He glanced over at Sylar, who was staring at Peter's groin like he wanted to suck him right then and there. The mental image made him harder. Peter turned away and said in alarm, "Stop looking at me! God. It's not going to go away if you keep staring at it!" Especially like that!
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"Quit being so modest, Petrelli," Sylar leered. It was his way of pointing out Peter's failure to hide his erection. "Are you implying I can make you come just by looking at you? Either way, I'm not sure you really want it to go away." If he could have, he would have leaned back against the couch cushion and laid his long arms along the back in dominant amusement.
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Peter snorted and looked back at Sylar only long enough to fix him with a scowling dirty look before moving off to the piano bench. He crouched, even if the scrunching fabric was very unkind to his privates. He was facing away. Sylar probably didn't see Peter's grimace. Out of stubbornness and determination to make his erection go away through pain alone if necessary, Peter stayed squatting there as he sorted through papers.
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Sylar didn't need a look or answer. He was fairly certain the man did protest too much, as the saying went. He already admitted he liked to show himself off; so being ogled is part of that. He rose and wandered over to lean against the piano. He made a casual, unhurried caress from chest to groin, lingering there. "Is this like 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'?"
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Peter growled, dipped his head, and turned his face away from Sylar. It didn't keep him from seeing the gesture. "No. This is like 'You leave me the fuck alone or I'll kick your ass'." He looked back to stare blankly at the clump of sheet music in his hand, still painfully aware of the half-naked man lounging against the piano in his peripheral vision. I don't want to have to back that threat up. "I shouldn't have touched you like that. I get it. Not just your reaction, but mine. It was stupid. I'm stupid." His voice trembled slightly under pressure. Great. I sound like an idiot, too. An over-emotional, over-sensitive, never-thinking, idiot. "Just leave me alone." He tried to make out the words on the paper. It was some kind of hymn, which wasn't what he was looking for. His face was burning with embarrassment and no, the mentioned arousal was not going away. Nor would it, he suspected. Not so long as it was the subject of discussion. No matter how embarrassing it was, it was sexual, and it was still attention. That hit something more visceral for him than his thinking brain could easily override, although his disgust at himself was starting to drain off some of the stiffness.
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Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes. He wasn't pleased at Peter balking, apologizing, backing out from his previously committed course. Additionally, he didn't understand the other man's apparent fear of continuing – it was just a simple, allowed, if rather intimate, touching. How was my reaction…bad? (Was I supposed to react some other way?) It was food for thought at a later time. "Why?" he sassed, pushing even though he could clearly see and hear Petrelli's current strain. "You already said you'd kick my ass, so what are you going to do, beat me twice? You didn't even bring a belt." It was a little chilly and the lack of pain and the previous warmth of Peter's hand had him feeling buzzed.
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Why should he leave me alone? Peter didn't have a good answer to that. At least not one he wanted to give. If he didn't want to walk away and he didn't want to fight then he had to find a middle way. That wasn't his strong suit, but he opted for intimidation. I'm supposed to be in charge here. He rose slowly, letting the sheet of paper fall from his hand as he turned his eyes from face forward to direct them towards Sylar. The expression on Peter's face showed he was near the limit of his limited patience on the matter. He locked eyes for a long few seconds, before giving Sylar an unhurried once-over, handsome face, hairy chest, bare belly, slim hips, lean legs, feet, and back up to pause with curiosity at how Sylar's hand continued to linger over his groin. Hiding himself. Protecting. He never moved when I was touching him earlier. Not a single sign he liked it. Peter's boner died a swift and sudden death. And now he's being aggressive. It makes sense. His eyes quickly flicked back up. With clenched teeth, he said, "Because you're faking. You don't want me. You don't like me. I backed off. Now leave me alone."
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"What?" Sylar blurted, so surprised that it just slipped out before he could otherwise think or react. (How the hell does he kno- Is he guessing?) In either case it confirmed that somehow, somewhere he'd had an incorrect reaction to Peter petting him. A lightning-fast review of earlier still supplied not the slightest theory of what his mistake might have been. That done, he internally groaned in frustration. Not this again. What does that have to do with anything? All the same, Sylar overwhelmingly felt the need to defend himself against the (mostly true) accusation – and ironically prove to Peter the apparent depth of his desire and interest by jumping on the man. He entertained a flash image of shoving Peter onto the piano bench and getting atop him once more, perhaps a hand on his throat or a hand up his shirt…But he still had to respond verbally first. "I am not!" Thankfully, an easy, legitimate retort sprung to mind and he delivered it with sarcastic, biting indictment, "I forgot, you decide everything."
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Peter raised his brows, unconvinced by Sylar's denial. "Yeah, I do," he said in answer to Sylar's last shot at him. He showed his teeth as he spoke. You're the one who gave me that power.
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"You touched me, fucker. It's not fair," he growled in a low, frustrated tone, slapping the top of the piano with the intent of startling Peter as recompense. Since neither of them wanted to fight (or fuck) and he had nothing better to say, Sylar shoved off the piano and stalked to return to the couch, flopping himself face down with a huff, facing Peter and the instrument. He touched me! Why does he make me feel like I'm the one who fucked up?
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Sylar got the jump he'd expected. It wasn't extreme, but it came with Peter's unceasing glare, head swiveling to follow as Sylar went to the couch. Peter frowned at him then turned his back on Sylar so he was facing the piano again. "Don't call me that," Peter said mildly, only barely loud enough to carry. "It's crass. I don't like it." He bent down and scooped all the papers out of the compartment in the bench, then glanced over to make sure Sylar was still lying down and not being a threat. It seemed safe enough, so Peter sat on the floor, body at a right angle to Sylar so he could keep an eye on the guy as he sorted through the sheet music. He divided them into stacks then put all the uninteresting pieces back in the bench. He looked through the couple dozen he'd held out.
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Sylar's head snapped up to glare at that massive load of hypocrisy, but Peter didn't see it with his back turned. You wanted to fuck me just now! You've fucked how many people before? That kind of makes you a fucker, Petrelli. Just own up to it! He thinks everything is crass (until he does or says it). Who the hell does he think he is trying to make a killer be PC? It is all about what he 'likes' isn't it? He scoffed a very frustrated noise and flipped him off because Peter couldn't see. "Yes, dear," he sneered with the intention of being even more upsetting than if he'd said 'fucker' again.
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Peter glanced over at the answer, but didn't dignify it with a response. It amused him despite or maybe because of the marital tone. His thoughts were on his companion rather than the music in his hands. 'It's not fair' –It's one of two things – either I touched him and I wasn't supposed to, so it was unfair that I go around touching what I shouldn't, or I touched him and he didn't get to touch me back. The first doesn't make any sense, not with everything else, like him letting me hit him and stuff. The second makes perfect sense and even matches up with him asking if this was a trade – 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.' He doesn't like me, but he still wants...me. To touch me, to act on me, to get revenge on people through me, which probably includes revenge on me through...sex.
Peter set aside the papers and rubbed at his face. So that's it – he thought that was going somewhere, that he was going to get some of those things he wants, and I shut it down. But he doesn't really want to have sex with me, he just wants to fuck me over. Peter frowned and picked up the music again, doing a quick sort and putting the less-desired half back in the bench drawer. What was left was good enough for his purposes today. He shut the drawer and got up, retrieving the guitar from its corner. He went back to the bench, putting down the key guard and using the rack above it to hold the sheet music he was going to play on the guitar. He pulled out the bench and straddled it, cradling the guitar and making some adjustments to which piece of paper was where. Then, slowly, finding his way through the melodies, he began to play 'Fire and Rain'. It was complicated enough to occupy him for the rest of the morning.
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Initially, Sylar still stewed about it all. Being turned down, told to behave, told to submit to things that made no sense all with the promise that he'd be beaten later on top of his already well-bruised flesh. (It makes him happy. I'm…doing what I'm supposed to. This is supposed to satisfy me), he told himself. This should have been the height of his existence – the only higher plane he could ascend to was if Peter fucked him. It was depressingly familiar. Fortunately, the silence between them helped. Peter produced normal, expected noises, even if they were slight: shuffling papers, hefting the guitar, sitting on the bench, shifting body weight and the noises that came with each. He'd since stopped watching Peter, probably out of his own shame and self-disgust (and the lingering resentment), but he heard the sounds and they relaxed him because they came from someone else in a very lonely world. Shortly after, the musical attempts began. Sylar couldn't help but try to guess the song. For a while, he couldn't – perhaps it was a song he didn't know and he wondered how that would work if they were truly 'trapped inside his mind'; would it be like accessing certain parts of the brain, namely memory storage? If he'd heard this song, ever in his life but hadn't been able to consciously remember it, would he be able to now? Sometimes he thought he had it…
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Much later, Peter leaned the guitar against the piano. His fingers hurt and his hands felt cramped. It had been a long, long time since he'd played for hours at a stretch. "Sylar?" he called out softly. When the other man didn't respond immediately, Peter repeated louder, "Sylar?" He waited for a sign of wakefulness.
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Sylar stirred, making a noncompliant noise at first. Then he jolted with his hands coming towards his face only to realize that he was lying facedown on the couch. This wasn't Peter's bedroom in New York (for one thing, it didn't smell like Peter) and he didn't have a hangover but that didn't mean as much as it should. He opened his eyes to see the familiar rec room and Peter still sitting on the bench and He's (still) not my brother. "Yeah?" he croaked, not entirely ready to be dragged away from his blissful rest.
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Peter noticed the automatic defensiveness. I wonder how long it will take before either of us can really relax around each other? Or at all? Hey, he was able to fall asleep with me here to start with, so that's something. "I'm going up for lunch. You coming?"
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"Yeah," he repeated about lunch after clearing his throat. Sylar glanced behind him and located his shirt, slipping it on quickly. He was a bit surprised he hadn't gotten cold as he slept but it was a warmer afternoon. He stood to button the shirt, leaving his book, he followed after Peter.
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Lunch was simple – soup and fruit. Peter sipped out of the bowl in what he knew was a completely uncivilized fashion, but his hands were still hurting. Holding a spoon seemed like an unnecessary burden. He watched Sylar for any judgment or criticism, but aside from Sylar giving him a lingering glance with a slightly raised eyebrow, nothing was said. When they returned downstairs, he rubbed and stretched his hands thoroughly before slowly picking his way through California Dreamin' and Sitting on the Dock of the Bay. He did poorly on them, but he hadn't expected it to be easy.
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The second time around, Sylar read from one of his mystery novels. It was still good and he was able to pick up where he'd left off. It was lovely to read with background musical sounds (he couldn't quite call it 'music' as it was still disjointed and hesitant); nearly as soothing as the nap had been. He glanced at Peter a few times as the man played. Sylar was ridiculously grateful for the opportunity to be with someone and even more so to be allowed to…sleep (which he knew he probably genuinely needed) or read in someone's presence without any other, less pleasant demands. For all Petrelli's faults, Sylar was able to have this. While it didn't satisfy him completely, what with his ever-present drive to compete with himself, it would likely be…enough, at least in terms of bare minimum sanity.
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Finally, Peter set the guitar aside. The tunes had become unrecognizable as his hands were unable to manage. Also, the afternoon was wearing on. It would be dark soon and he didn't want to be out wandering the unlit streets if he could help it. "I'm going to go get a belt," he told Sylar as he went over to collect and put on his winter wear. "You stay here. I don't want you with me while I pick one out."
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Sylar partly closed his book with a finger in the pages to mark his place (not that he really needed to), shifting to be more alert and attentive. That – the belt – wasn't quite what he'd been expecting right now but it wasn't his place to protest. And he wasn't being allowed to come along, which begged the question, "Why?" Sylar frowned.
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"Because it's...it would make feel weird." Jacket on now, Peter fussed with the headband in his hands, gloves tucked under one arm. "Self-conscious or something. Just stay here. I won't be long." He weighed his thoughts back and forth about the likelihood Sylar would come with him anyway, or follow him, and what Peter would do if that happened. He decided he wouldn't do anything, except maybe be grumpy and tell Sylar he wasn't following the rules, just to see how Sylar would handle that sort of complaint.
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It would make him feel weird. He's going to hit me with a belt, again, and his feelings…? Sylar made a scoffing exhalation. I don't believe this. (He probably wants privacy so he can pick out something really nasty – a belt with studs or spikes – without me complaining. Or maybe so he can pick up…something other than a belt). Either of those things were logical. Sylar pursed his lips and slumped back into the couch. And of course, he'll make me wait and dream up horrible things while he's gone. "Wouldn't want to damage your sense of propriety," he said dryly with a look to match.
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Peter gave Sylar a tilt of his head and sardonic rise of his brows before settling the headband in place. He nodded and set off.
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The moment Peter was gone, Sylar regretted not inviting himself along, whether his presence was desired or not. It was better than being left alone with his thoughts, better than irrational worrying that Peter wouldn't return. The numbing spray had since worn off to a degree and now he understood why Peter had waited until this moment to fetch a belt, though he didn't understand why the man hadn't come prepared with one if that was his plan. Truthfully, his back hurt enough that he wasn't thrilled to be hit again but that was the deal.
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Gloomy, frosty twilight lit Peter's steps on the way back. He'd found what he wanted easily enough and right where he'd expected it. Then he unaccountably stalled (or perhaps it was perfectly understandable – his gut was twisted up about what the belt was for and he was about to do). It was only the impending night that had made him finally hurry back. He tossed off his jacket, gloves, and headband with sharp, abrupt motions. His lips were pursed as he glared at Sylar as he did it. "Let's get this done," he said, tone as clipped as his manner.
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Peter's mood was palpable when he hustled back in with what appeared to be a normal leather belt. Sylar's spirit sank a little at the negative feelings but he stood quickly and went to the pool table to assume the position. He kept a wary eye turned over his shoulder partly because of Peter's behavior and partly because there was no need to rush. It's not like he tells me his plans.
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Peter made sure the medical bag was where he'd remembered it and still stocked. The trash can was over near the speed bag – the last place he'd used it. He glanced around the room otherwise, wondering again if he really had to do this, if he really wanted to do this. His desire to hurt Sylar, to beat him down, to make him hurt and pay and crawl for what he'd done – that was still there. But Peter knew himself. He knew people. He knew pain. He knew misery. The white-hot rage inside of him, the wound of Nathan's death which was more sensitive than any gout-sufferer's affliction – those parts of him knew nothing of compassion or humanity. But he knew when the lash came down, it wasn't going to be one or the other, but both together. It was going to be him hurting another human being who was no present threat to him. It was the whisper of sadism stirring in the back of his head.
His hands, still aching from the ill-considered guitar practice of the day, clenched and unclenched on the strap of the belt. It was perfectly plain, dark brown leather with a simple, silver buckle. Peter was standing some twenty feet or so from where Sylar waited for him. This is something he wants, Peter repeated to himself. It's something he asked for. He wants me to make him feel sorry. He said no one else had. (Like I'm going to? I can't do that!) This is his idea. I'm not doing this without his consent. He felt scared. It was a little like he'd felt while staring through the gun sights at his father, the last time he'd seen the man alive. He didn't want to pull this trigger (metaphorically speaking) any more than he'd wanted with that one.
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Peter was…delaying for reasons unknown. Is he trying to freak me out? So he waited some more until it was clear that Peter was not jumping in like he'd said. "Let's get this done," Sylar said in a quiet, almost questioning tone, repeating the man's words back to him.
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Peter bared his teeth at nothing in particular – the whole situation, really. Gotta get this over with! He stalked over to where he needed to be to do this, giving Sylar a shove with his left hand to put him where Peter wanted him. He rolled his right shoulder, trying to loosen it. It still hurt from the day before. Fortunately, he didn't think he'd be hitting as hard tonight. He gave Sylar's back a quick, professional look. It looked fine for what he intended to do. He noted a few welts he'd have to avoid unless he wanted to risk leaving scars, which he didn't. He put his left hand on Sylar's shoulder blade, resting it there and feeling the warmth of the man's skin. With a tense tone, he asked, "How many people have you killed, Sylar?"
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Again with the touching! Sylar dipped his head forward, which would appear submissive but in reality was more frustrated. Then came the question. He didn't mean to, but he tensed. Is that what this is about? "I don't know," his reply coming out similar to a disbelieving chuckle.
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"I want to know how many!" He slapped Sylar's back, palm coming down hard, and watched closely for how Sylar took that first blow. "Give me an estimate!"
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Fuck! Sylar grunted and grimaced because he faced away and Peter couldn't see, instinctively, belatedly cringing towards the area of impact. It was literally just a flesh wound, barely a wound at that, but it stung and the offended, sensitive site felt larger than it should have. His voice was rougher this time, closer to a growl, "Fifty? Eighty? A hundred?"
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"That many," Peter said quietly. Brief thoughts ran through his mind of the billions (or hundreds of thousands, depending) he himself had obliterated in possible futures. Were they still dead if the present had been changed? He didn't know. "Do you regret any of them?"
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Well, I lost count, he grumbled but wisely didn't say it. Peter didn't hit him again for the answer (or the number, or not giving a specific number) but that didn't necessarily mean anything. It probably meant he wasn't finished with his interrogation. "A few," he whispered gruffly. When did I sign up to talk about shit?
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"But not all of them?"
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"No," Sylar shot back with some heat. He didn't bother to explain why, because many of his kills had resulted in an ability he cherished more than the previous owner.
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Peter stroked the nearer side of Sylar's upper back, not lingering, just getting a feel. "You should," he told the man, before removing his hand and bringing down the belt with a solid swing.
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'You should' – fuck you! The only warning he had was Peter no longer touching him. Sylar exhaled hard with a sound and bit his lip, "Ah...!" He shifted his weight but didn't squirm beyond that. It was just as bad, if not worse, than he'd anticipated.
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"Describe one of them!" Peter demanded. "Tell me who you've blotted out of the world. Someone I don't know."
XXX
How do I know who you don't know about? Don't all you stupid heroes talk to each other? Sylar growled. "James Walker," he blurted out, remembering one of his earliest kills because he could remember the name as part of his hunting process. He felt tingles of guilt because of the man's daughter – not being able to kill her and put her out of her misery and ensure his own rise to power with her ability, but also because he'd left her orphaned and very much a threat to him. "He had the ability of freezing; he tried to freeze his head so I couldn't cut into him. Why the fuck do you want to hear about this? It's not for my benefit, I can tell you that much."
XXX
Peter's nose wrinkled in disgust. The description was scanty, but imagining James Walker's plight was enough to give him the fire he needed to lay into Sylar. He swung the belt again and again, trying not to lose sight of his ultimate intention of inflicting the maximum of pain with a minimum of damage. It turned his stomach though, and fast – the sounds Sylar made with each blow were the worst, but the dull slapping sound of the belt itself was a close second.
Peter hit Sylar until he couldn't. That should have been a long time, but it was almost farcically brief. Some muscle in his shoulder was spasming, but far worse than that was twisted up he was about this. He was infuriated, so angry he was shaking, and yet nauseated and sweating at the same time. His fingers were cold and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He dropped the belt, wanting nothing more to do with it. With his right hand, he grabbed a fistful of Sylar's hair and wrenched the man's head back. "Why? Why are we doing this? What the fuck do you get out of it?" There was absolutely no way Sylar was getting off on this – all the signals were wrong. Nothing was making sense.
XXX
Peter brought the heat. It was considerably more painful than yesterday and Peter, a medic, had to know – he'd planned it that way. Sylar's mind was stunned, his body squirming, biting back strained, choked cries at first. The belt smacked and stung what felt like open flesh and deep bruises to both skin and muscle. The previous damage spread the impact and didn't abate.
Then the hits came non-stop and hard. He arched his back as instinctive protection that failed, shaking, struggling just to stay in place and take it like a man. He gripped the edge of the pool table as his knees buckled at the acidic spread of pain, though his arms barely held him up, gasping and heaving roughly for breath that sounded like crying through the relentless blows. At the last, he was howling wordlessly, slumped and unsteady against the table.
As Peter spoke, finally, there was a reason to Petrelli's strange behavior. The empath was reluctant. He wasn't into it, as stupid as that was. Instead of frustration (or perhaps because it had built to an unendurable, ridiculous level), Sylar laughed up at the ceiling, his head forced and held backwards. "You need to feel like you're winning, Petrelli. You need to feel like the fucking hero. Maybe then you'll loosen up to get over your delusions and forced morals," with all the tension in the room, he took the opportunity to shove his ass back into Peter's groin to make a point.
XXX
Peter released his grip, stumbling backwards with the unexpected shove. "Forced?" My morality is not forced! He could be outraged about that single word in what Sylar had said, but the rest of the accusations were too accurate to deny. Am I hitting him because I need to … win? That whisper of sadism stirred in the back of his head again, the delight in inflicting pain on a target who thoroughly deserved anything Peter might do to him. He did want to win. And sometimes, he knew himself well enough, it was almost impossible to put aside a grudge or a challenge or an affront and let someone else claim victory. Is that what this is all about – me stroking my stupid fucking ego at his expense? He looked like someone who had just had the tables turned on him. Peter stared at Sylar as his mind raced back through the last couple of days, lingering over how eager he'd been, almost literally jumping on Sylar and making a fool of himself when the offer was made, when he'd found out he might be able to beat Sylar down just like he'd fantasized. He looked at Sylar's face now – laughing at him.
This was for nothing. Nothing at all. All this flogging and pain was pointless, petty, and evil. Because I needed to feel like the hero. But I'm not a hero by beating him up, or by torturing him. (He's letting me do this so I'm dominant, topping him, pushing him around. It's sex. He's letting me hurt him so I'll fuck him. Because he thinks that's what turns me on. Because I've acted like that. Because I am acting like that.) Peter took another step back, still staring, but now revolted by himself and with self-loathing on his features. He had nothing to explain why he'd stooped so low.
XXX
Sylar felt like a fucking wreck, though he was impressed at the amount of pain compared to the actual lack of damage inflicted. His eyes had possibly reacted with actual tears (hopefully not visible) on his face. For whatever stupid reason, Petrelli didn't seem to get off on that anymore. Now Peter looked like a frightened rabbit. "No, come on. Not this again, Petrelli," Sylar nearly whined. He didn't think he could take more today (or even tomorrow, but that wasn't his decision to make), still he pressed on. "Don't chicken out on me again. I'll even tell you about the agent I tortured if that helps you 'keep it up.'"
XXX
That was a repulsive suggestion, like they were partners in this, driving each other on. Peter wanted to retort about how he'd been doing this for Sylar, because he'd thought Sylar wanted it, but the words caught in his throat. They were lies. He knew they were lies – unacceptable, craven excuses to avoid the truth. "No. This is wrong. I wanted to hurt you." That was the truth and it was a truth Peter found abominable, repellant, and disgusting. "You killed Nathan and I wanted to even the score. This is cruel. This is mean. This is sadistic." Tears sprang up in his eyes. He knew who the fuck-up was here and it wasn't Sylar. He felt worthless, stupid, and defective. Peter shook his head. "This is not who I'm going to be. This is not who I am!"
XXX
Sylar gave a facetious, fatalistic raise of his eyebrows but it took effort. Peter was rambling, arguably more emotionally shaken than Sylar was, physically. It was ridiculous and he didn't want to expend energy to figure it – Peter – out right now; the man seemingly flipped on a dime. Sylar sighed. It's 'mean'? Since when does he care about fucking sadistic? (That has to be new, right? He didn't give two shits at Mercy). He'd better not pretend I forced him to do this…
XXX
"I can't change what I've done, but I can change what I'm going to do." Peter pointed at Sylar. "The agreement is over! I'm not playing your game anymore! I don't own you. I don't want anything to do with you. No more!" He shook his head again, nostrils flaring as he backed up, then turned, heading out of the room, not stopping for his coat or anything else. None of it mattered – not even the guitar at that moment. The cold outside could go fuck itself for all Peter cared. It's not real anyway! he thought of the weather, but what he'd just done to Sylar – that was real, and that he couldn't escape, but he could at least never do it again.
XXX
Sylar was really fed up with Peter's weirdness. The heroic speechmaking was so old. He felt more than a twinge of panic when Peter began to disavow everything – no agreement, no games, and Peter wanted nothing from him. It was exactly where Sylar did not want to be. That can't happen. Obviouslysome manner of placation was needed, and fast. Petrelli was not following the script. "Wait, Peter…" he began slowly, assuming that Peter would gather his outerwear before braving the cold, but he was wrong. "Peter!" he shouted and jogged to follow. "Peter!" he tried again, trailing Petrelli at least to the doors where his own shirtlessness and injuries made him pause. His next shout was lost in the rising wind and snow. "Fuck!" he exclaimed alone.
He wondered if he'd done something wrong (again?), some reaction or word out of place that made Peter freak out but he found nothing on his part and Peter, well, didn't exactly explain himself. In the wake of Peter's presence, he felt small and the pain of his injuries mounted, sapping more of his attention. (He was supposed to take care of me). He pondered if Petrelli's conveniently timed exit had anything to do with him ditching Peter yesterday before any medical care could take place. If that's some kind of 'fuck you,' he's really needs to be more specific. (How am I supposed to…? he thought of caring for his back, alone, once more considering if that, too, was intentional). Sylar huffed, worried, pained, and lonely. Not knowing what else to do, he picked himself up, book and shirt, and made his way to the suite.