Day 73, February 21, morning
Peter lifted his head to peer blearily around the strange room, only vaguely aware of being awake. When that fact impinged on his consciousness, he jerked the rest of the way to wakefulness in a disoriented panic, not sure where he was or of the situation – not even in a general sense. He struggled to get out of bed, tangled in blankets and lying sideways across the mattress. He fell out rather than doing it properly, but he was at least out. Instinctively, he grabbed at where he usually left his shoes, unlaced, opened, and ready at the bedside. Soothingly, they were right where they were supposed to be. That bit of normalcy stopped him. One shoe in hand, wearing nothing but boxers, he panted and finally got the higher orders of his brain to working.
He was in the apartment across the hall from his usual place. This was the one with the blacked out windows and no light bulbs, the 'higher security' place he'd only slept in once or twice before. It also had a lot more furniture with an elaborate headboard and posts on the queen-sized bed. The different setting had thrown him. Peter picked up his shoes and padded over to his regular apartment, where his clean clothes, food, and toiletries were. Plus, the other place had working lights. They were needed. He rubbed at his aching, stiff shoulder as he looked out the window, seeing that the dark night sky was only just yielding to the coming dawn. Snow was everywhere and still drifting down. He grunted and went about getting cleaned up and dressed. He'd gone to sleep fairly early the night before and was surprised he'd managed to sleep at all, with the degree of emotional turmoil he would have expected to be going on in his head.
But he was satisfied with what he'd done. Somewhere after dropping the belt and renouncing the twisted 'deal' between them, Peter had forgiven himself for letting his desire for revenge mislead him. He wouldn't have felt that way had the beating not been Sylar's idea, consented to at every step, and even there at the end, Sylar was asking him to continue. Begging, maybe. No – Peter had fucked up, but he'd made it better. He'd quit. He was done. He was, perhaps, even done with Sylar. Hence the ability to drop easily off to sleep.
After stopping into the Pegasus to retrieve his coat, gloves, and headband, Peter headed off to the diner, hoping he was early enough to evade Sylar's notice. It seemed to work. He didn't see any sign of the other man on his way to the Y either, having spontaneously decided to change things up and go for a swim instead of hitting the exercise room. He jerked off, this time to the idea that it was Sylar being a peeping tom. By the time he was dried, dressed, and walking back, the snow had mounted enough to be annoying, but his good mood persisted. He paused at the intersection, noting the partly filled tracks – a single set, unmistakably Sylar's because Peter hadn't walked on this side of the street – going to his apartment. He looked at them for a minute, then shook the snow off his head and followed. Looking through the glass doors into the lobby of his apartment building, there Peter saw Sylar, waiting for him in the chair provided for just that purpose. Peter huffed slightly, but that was in fact where he'd told Sylar to wait for him. He went inside, stomping snow off his shoes and shaking it out of his hair yet again as he removed the headband.
He pushed open the second set of doors into the warmer lobby, digging into a back pocket for his comb. Gloves and headband now tucked into his pockets, Peter got his hair back in order with casual, relaxed strokes. "How's your back?" he asked in lieu of greeting.
XXX
Sylar's head came up immediately at the sound of the doors. He'd begun to wonder if haunting the man's lobby would put Peter off, though he hadn't truly been waiting that long. Peter appeared…normal, perhaps cheerful. Sylar squirmed in the chair as he had to wait seconds more for Peter to approach and see what he would say and the result, while far from unpleasant, was not what he expected. Sylar opened his mouth, then sighed. He's acknowledging what happened, but I bet he wants to pretend it didn't happen. No mention of…if he's 'done' with me. I don't have anything else to offer him. "It would have been better if you'd stuck around to see to it." He managed to say it without as much bitterness as he felt – to him it sounded more like a statement of fact. After all, he'd needed the pick-me-up of sleeping together and being tended to just to make it through the worse, secondary beating.
XXX
Peter snorted softly, finishing with his damp, chilly hair and tucking the comb into his back pocket. "Yeah, probably. Would have been even better if I hadn't done it to start with." But that ship had sailed. Sylar would recover. Peter knew he hadn't given him anything more serious than surface injuries. He gave a roll of his eyes and headed for the stairs.
XXX
"No, wait! Peter!" Sylar was on his feet and starting after his erstwhile companion. "Wait, wait, wait…I'm- I-…Could you just tell me what I did wrong yesterday? Was it the crack about torturing the agent?" That was it, apparently. He needed an answer even more than begging for the man's presence – anything to make sense of what (or even who) he was to Peter, who dictated his status. The lack of which was…frightening. He felt abandoned, a bit betrayed, but mostly lost. It was pathetic that he even had to ask, because, of course, he should already know and his ignorance was offensive. He halted a good five feet away, outside Peter's shorter reach in case the empath felt threatened by his hasty stalking, though his hands palms were out and up – hardly expressions of violence. Surely Peter would jump on the opportunity to school and mock him.
XXX
Peter stopped a few feet from the door to the stairwell, turning to face Sylar a little faster and more warily than he would have spun to face anyone else who ran up on him. Seeing that Sylar had stopped, Peter stared at him coldly. "I was already leaving when you brought that up." He stared at Sylar levelly a little more in case he was unclear on how much Peter didn't appreciate the topic. "This isn't one you can fix, Sylar. I'd like to think I would have realized that wasn't right no matter what you did." He started to turn away, one hand reaching back for the door, then paused, eyes sweeping up and down Sylar to evaluate his body language. "You misread me. Badly. You have this idea in your head of who I am and it's not right. I can be better than that." I'm sure as hell not going to let you pull me down. He turned back to the door, pulling it open. He called over his shoulder, dryly, "If you get me, you get me, you know?"
XXX
'It wasn't right'? I 'can't fix it'? Sylar felt stuck, like a stripped gear that was moving too fast for him to analyze to figure out where the problem was. He stood there, frowning, knowing he still didn't understand what Peter thought was so obvious. My idea of you is that you're either my little brother or my enemy and since I can't be your brother or you mine, that means we're enemies and all I know about you is that you...didn't help me. That's fact; it's truth…that you want to bury. You want me to forget. Because only my sins matter here. He grasped the part about…being understood: if he understood Peter, then Peter could quite possibly be 'gotten.' His face shifted to sad and resigned. That's asking a lot of me. He found, since his manifestation to would-be glory, that he did not slip into the role of doormat as easily as he once had. "Yeah, I get you. You could be better, but it's not likely. I don't bring out the best in people," he snipped the last part because it was still, somehow, his fault.
XXX
Peter stomped off up the stairs, muttering to himself, "You might bring out better in people if you'd stop torturing them." He spent the next hour or so rearranging furniture and raiding the other apartments for usable clothes. Eventually, he came back downstairs with the intent of eating out for lunch and perhaps retrieving his sketchbook from the other building. Spending time with Sylar was something he assumed would happen (Sylar being the only other person available), but it wasn't something he was looking forward to.
XXX
Sylar wasn't surprised when Peter continued on the stairs. He wanted to yell after the man because it felt unfair, it felt like he was being punished for being Petrelli's whipping boy and remembering the truth. He grit his teeth, growled aloud, and rolled his eyes as he turned back to his lobby chair all the while ignoring as best he could the sting of his shirt sliding across his skin. Perhaps Peter was just going upstairs to grab something…
XXX
Peter tromped down the stairs in no particular hurry, thinking about irrelevant things. How do they make soup? Do you just throw everything together in a pan and cook it? What makes the liquid? Does it come out of the stuff in the pan, or do you have to add it? Is it water or milk or something special like vegetable stock? How do you get stock, anyway? Is that just stuff in water and boiled for a while? If so, then why would you use stock to make soup? Couldn't you just boil vegetables and call that soup? Soup juice, maybe? Could I make soup maybe, like from scratch? He pushed open the door to the lobby, seeing Sylar putting stuff aside and sitting up attentively. The attention was nice, but it was still Sylar, with all the baggage that brought. Peter grunted unhappily. He rolled his eyes in a put out fashion and headed to the front doors, where he paused to put on his gloves and headband. It had stopped snowing, at least.
XXX
In the midst of reading after he figured out that Peter was not immediately returning, he heard footsteps. He paused and put his book away, getting to his feet and preparing his defense of why he was still pathetically waiting in Peter's lobby. Is it even his fucking lobby to own? (He thinks it is. Therefor it is). Peter's non-verbal response left a lot to be desired but it could have been much worse, too. It was gruff initial acknowledgement of his existence. Sylar started very small and hopefully inoffensive, "Where are you headed?"
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a sideways glance, but the tone of the question was mild enough that it would be rude not to answer. "Lunch. Maybe the grocery store or the diner. Depends on how quick my feet get cold." Which probably wouldn't be any time soon. His shoes were thick-soled, mostly waterproof, and had held up to the worst of a New York winter. The brand and style had come highly recommended by the other EMTs. They had not been wrong. Peter finished pulling on his gloves and headed outside.
XXX
Sylar nodded, relieved to get a mostly-civil reply (and a reply at all). "Did you eat breakfast out, too?" Keep it simple. He didn't explore his determination to remain in Peter's company today.
XXX
Having answered once, it was easier to do again. "Yeah. I don't like cooking in my apartment much. It's just me." He walked along quietly in the bitterly cold, dry air. The thick, powdery snow sprayed around at every step. Sylar had obviously invited himself along. Peter liked the company. "Cooking at the diner seems different somehow. And anyway, it's probably good for me to get out some."
XXX
Sylar expected that much, recalling Peter saying something similar about cooking. It meant that the medic had snuck out early and that, what with his current attitude, Petrelli probably wanted solitude. Sylar had what he wanted to a degree: Peter engaging with him again. That was a good sign. With the polite ice breakers out of the way, he dove into more pressing matters. "If I'm not supposed to think of you the way…the way he did and I'm not supposed to think of you when you were probably at your worst with me, then…how do you think I should view you?" He phrased it intentionally in the hypothetical.
XXX
Peter turned his head to give Sylar a thoughtful look, then brooded over the question as they walked. "You have all of Nathan's memories of me. Matt made you think of them as your own. So even if you catch yourself and realize that's not yours, it's still coloring the way you see me, is that right?" He regarded Sylar.
XXX
Sylar made something of a grimace and shrugged. Perhaps it wasn't best to admit that neither he nor Nathan thought of Peter as the glowing hero Peter thought he was. It didn't really matter whose memory it was, not all the time, anyway.
XXX
"It would suck if you were never able to see me any differently than he did." Peter frowned sourly. "I loved him. We shared…a lot, a connection, sometimes I felt there was a spiritual component to it." He swallowed and sighed, realizing Sylar, just like Nathan, would dismiss anything he said if he continued in that vein. "But he always saw me as his little brother, like a kid who needed to be looked out for, couldn't be trusted to make his own decisions." He snorted softly. "I remember one time I was at his campaign office asking him about something important to me and he interrupted to have me pick out what color tie he should wear. So I did. And of course he wore the other one." Peter looked over with tight lips. "He did that all the time, Sylar."
Tension flavored his voice. "The funny thing is, about him and Dad both, is they talked so much about how they respected people who stood on their own and didn't need anything from anyone. But the truth was that when they dealt with someone like that, they did everything they could to cut that person down and destroy them. It wasn't just me. It was like someone else seeing things differently was somehow dangerous to their worldview. I'm sure that had a lot to do with Nathan joining up with Homeland Security, trying to get control of people with abilities. Nathan and my dad both were insecure. For all their talk about the importance of strength, it was hard for either of them to find any inside."
Rant over, Peter shook his head in frustration about the whole subject and walked on for a while. "You've got all the power in the world, Sylar. You don't need to treat me like they did."
XXX
Sylar bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. He was desperate to keep his mouth shut and not give in to the other Petrelli brother whose memories wanted to voice themselves about that exact, stupid, unimportant incident. I'm not going to defend Nathan fucking Petrelli. Everything Peter said was true and Sylar would have heartily agreed except for the mention of his powers and the manipulation underneath it all. I don't have my powers, idiot. He knows that, so why…? Ah. Well, two can play that game, Petrelli.
"Nice speech," he began, pointing out that it was, in fact, a speech. "That's interesting that you would tell me not to treat you like Nathan did." He intentionally used the eldest brother's name now. "Does that mean Nathan treated you worse than I do – that I treat you better? Nathan was your brother and he loved you in his own selfish way and you say you don't want any part of that now. But you still want Nathan back though you said you know that's not possible. And if you don't want me to be your brother in any way, I think you're contradicting your obsession with being 'liked.'" Sylar smirked sideways at his walking partner; very satisfied with the amount of logic he'd thrown into Peter's emotional mix. I'll make him choose me, every time.
XXX
Peter walked for a while, turning over Sylar's words. His attempt to appeal to Sylar's better nature (or at least Sylar's desire to be seen as better) obviously hadn't worked. The tone of Sylar's voice was a challenge. When Peter spoke, it was slow, with a quiet threat to it. "'Liking you' is a requirement for sex – yes. But where you're off-base is that having sex with you is not a requirement for me. I can dislike you all I want, Sylar. I have every reason to hate you." He gave the serial killer a long, sidelong look before moving along to a related topic. "Your judgments of my feelings about my brother are meaningless. Coming from the man who killed him, they're offensive." He gave Sylar another warning look. "I don't want you to be my brother in any way. You're nothing like him."
XXX
Much of that burrowed under his skin as quickly as Peter said it. His head came up and tilted to the side dangerously, though he kept quiet for the first few precious seconds to maintain his temper, not looking at Petrelli yet. He burned with the judging looks sent his way. Peter was telling him things, in bits and pieces as he was drawn out. He has to like me, too. "You misunderstand me," he said finally, proud of his calm voice that almost completely disguised the edges he felt. He wanted to protest nearly every sentence of Peter's but he had a feeling it was a lost cause before he began. "Coming from the man who was forced to be your brother, believe it or not, I do have some interest in what you think about it, whether either of us like it or not." Sylar broke his stare to blink, then face forward again, surprised at his own words and that they were fairly honest. Did I just say I care about his feelings? I value his opinion? Well…'Go me' for managing to score romance points.
XXX
Peter side-eyed Sylar for several paces, watching the subtle changes of the man's expression. He didn't argue. What Sylar had said was accurate enough – Peter's feelings on the matter had been made Sylar's business, like it or not. I thought I'd been crystal clear on all that. Maybe not? Or maybe it's just one of those things that a person has to hear over and over before they can really deal with it internally. It's not like I don't have my own hang-ups about how Nathan died and why he killed him.
XXX
With that unpleasantness out of the way (and disinterested in comparing himself to Nathan), he continued. "I never said you were required to fuck me. That much is obvious and that is not my intention," Sylar reached out to gently but firmly hook a pair of fingers into Peter's elbow, encouraging him to stop walking and face him. He's not giving me much chance to win him over. (Or is he?) He chose his next words carefully now that he had Peter's complete attention. "I know what you want." He extended a hand to touch briefly at the man's hip – intimate and more familiar than they were. "And you'll get it." Whew, he breathed a sigh of relief to get that out and waited for Peter to react. It was better than addressing Peter 'liking' him, being willing or simply bored.
XXX
Peter looked down at the touch, immediately wary. He hadn't seen any warning signs, but the subject matter (Nathan's death, Sylar's sex drive) could set things off without Peter's intention. He stopped, his eyes quickly shifting to Sylar's face, but he looked down again at the second contact, this one to his hip. He was slower to look up, eyes a little wider when he did. He studied Sylar intently. He felt a flutter inside at the offer even as he knew it wasn't serious. Oh, Sylar probably meant it seriously, but Peter didn't think he knew what Peter wanted or was likely to give it to him, even if Peter's desires were kept in the realm of the possible. Peter didn't narrow his eyes or let himself be put off. There was no reason to be suspicious or defensive about something so open-ended, no matter how generous it sounded. He chuckled softly. "You know what I want right now? Lunch." He jerked his head in the direction they'd been walking. "Let's go get some."
XXX
Peter…appeared to accept that, not scoffing immediately or rushing to explain everything why it could never happen or even to make demands or lay blame. Peter didn't react much and didn't say anything about it, really. What is that? Does he like that? That's not a no! It was nearly shocking to realize that. It was so tiny, and possibly misunderstood, but it was a glimpse, a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. It thrilled him to the core, even as forbidden and impossible as it was. Even if he didn't necessarily want to put out for Peter, it still felt like winning for now. Sylar's head tilted up as he began to nod in agreement, "Yeah? Okay," he replied with a matching chuckle and grin. He'd begun to be hungry after Peter left him in the lobby to wait.
XXX
A few strides later, Peter asked, "What do you want to know?"
XXX
"What?" Sylar's more-pleasant-than-usual mental processes screeched to a halt as he scrambled to dredge up what Peter was referring to. Somewhere earlier he'd left something open ended and promptly forgot about it because it was less important than what was going on now, than what he was feeling right now. It was an embarrassing lapse.
XXX
Was I wrong? I thought he wanted to know what I thought? Or maybe it's like Nathan said, 'No one cares what you think, Pete. They only care what you're going to do.' And in this case, Sylar only caring if the 'doing' included doing him. Peter tried to pull himself out of the mire of negative thoughts. "It sounded like you wanted to know what I…thought about Nathan's death."
XXX
Oh, right. Nathan cockblocking me from beyond the grave. Wonderful. Because Peter is still 'married' to his fucking brother and that's always more important. Even Mr. Live-For-The-Moment refuses to live his life here, now, with me. Fucking lunch is more important than me! The frustration – the reality – of his situation came back all too quickly. Sylar frowned, watching the ground pass under his feet now after shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, I…" he started. I have questions…but that's not what he's asking. This is a trick question- Is it a question? He knew he had to ask something now or else Peter would say he wasn't really interested. "Yes." He gambled that Peter would talk about his feelings with no direction from a question.
XXX
Peter looked over Sylar's body language. This isn't something he wants to talk about. Either that, or he doesn't want to hear my answer. Sarcastically, he thought, No, it's only the most important thing that's happened recently to either of us, both of us actually, because without him killing Nathan, he wouldn't have been forced to BE Nathan. Of course we shouldn't talk about it! Peter looked away, to better conceal the brief roll of his eyes. But he did ask. He said he had an interest in it, and he does. It is important. "That's a big subject…and sensitive. For both of us. Is there something specific you're looking for?"
XXX
I want to know…about Nathan's funeral. What happened with…the arrangements? (I bet they didn't throw him on a campfire). As a former regenerator with his history, the idea of cremation or dissection was…uncomfortable. What lies did you have to tell about…his death? I want to know what he – what Pete – would have done if…I'd given up and been Nathan….or if he'd had my- hi- the body to deal with if he'd managed to kill me…What did Ma say? What did she do? What about Claire? Nathan's sons? None of that is asking about his thoughts. "Anything," he tried.
XXX
Anything. That put the door wide open – anything and everything. It also put the entire responsibility of choosing the right topic on Peter's shoulders. It had to be interesting. It had to be what Sylar wanted to know. It had to be something that shouldn't start a fight, or rather, Peter didn't want to start a fight at the moment and so he knew he had to tread carefully. They walked for half a block while Peter stewed over what to say and whether he should say anything at all – the possibility of simply refusing the conversation unless Sylar let him know what he was fishing for had run through Peter's mind. That seemed cowardly and petty, so Peter ultimately refused it. The idea of catering to Sylar with his words was also repellant. "Maybe you know what I want, but I don't know what you want. I can't even tell if you want to talk about this." Peter glanced over at Sylar, trying to gage him. "It's a rough subject – I know. Especially for us to talk to each other about."
Sylar wasn't shutting Peter down. If he had the audience, Peter found he did have a few things he wanted to say. He stomped along for few more steps, kicking the snow out of his way. "It sucks!" he said vehemently, speaking with earnest passion. "You killed my brother. You stole part of my family from me and I can't put that back together. I know how I feel about it. What I think?" Peter shook his head. "There's no way you can make this right. It isn't like that storefront, where a person could at least patch it over somehow, do their best and be like 'Hey, at least it keeps the snow out'. This is a person I loved – gone. Like if losing Caitlin wasn't my fault, could I forgive someone else for that? I-" He shook his head again, teeth clenched. "It doesn't go away – the heartache." Peter thumped his chest for emphasis. "You're still the same person who killed him. The same person who would kill someone else's brother if you had reason to, and a lot less reason than most people would take. You'd kill me if I wasn't useful to you and that's the same bullshit I've had to deal with from most of my family forever!"
XXX
He sighed, but he was listening – trying to. It was difficult when he'd heard it before and Peter acknowledged that there was no 'fix.' What's more, Peter's story resonated familiar, similar inside him, too, from his own past as Gabriel and Sylar and anyone else he'd been besides Nathan. He frowned, contemplative, still shuffling along beside Peter, aware of the violence against the innocent snow was aimed at and meant for him. He couldn't talk about any of his feelings because they were far too numerous and complex to put into words, he knew talking about what he could was a dead-end with Peter, and what Peter wanted was to talk about Peter's pain. He was committed to it and backed into something of a corner. He wanted to protest so many things, about how he'd been good to Peter when he'd been a Petrelli, wanting to scream, 'You got your wish! You stole my mind from me and I can never put that back together! I have to carry your family with me for the rest of my life, isn't that torture enough?' Why is he so intent on talking about this with me? Civil dialogue was the last thing any wronged person wanted from him, but Peter, he was insistent. Slowly he began, just speaking what came to mind for his own understanding, "This is about you…confronting…his killer. That's what's different. Most people don't get the opportunity." Peter was shaky on the part where he might need Sylar's help and since there was nothing he could do to right any of his wrongs, then…perhaps Peter's purpose was something else that kept him engaging. "Maybe…maybe that was your true reason for coming here."
XXX
Peter eyed Sylar for the first part. It dove-tailed perfectly with Sylar letting himself be beaten. Peter didn't have anything to say to it, feeling he'd already expressed and shown how he felt about that. But as for Sylar's last statement, Peter snorted bitterly. "My true reason for coming here? I expected to be killed, Sylar, and that would be the end of it. I wouldn't have to worry about Nathan or how to get him back, I wouldn't have to worry about me, or Ma, or Claire, or Monty and Simon, or ANYONE!" His final word, raised, echoed off the buildings a little. Peter lashed out at the snow again, wishing there was something more substantial to hit, destroy, or tear apart. They were nearly to the diner. He wasn't about to go inside in this mood, so he stopped, turning to face Sylar, his expression furious. "Go find Sylar. Get him to save the carnival. What happened to me in the process didn't fucking matter!" He leaned forward, glaring as though daring Sylar to give him a reason to make this physical. Peter pulled himself back, stepping away. "I wasn't thinking about it that way, though. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking on purpose. I knew what was going to happen. (I thought I knew.) I knew the risks. Matt told me I wouldn't get out if I came in here. I might be fucking dead already out there and I wouldn't know it!" Peter looked away, pulling in and forcing out a shaky breath. His emotions were running hot. Much more quietly, almost a whisper, he added, "I don't know how to make things right, Sylar. I don't know how to help. I don't know what to do."
XXX
Sylar was familiar enough with Peter the little brother's bravado and moods – not to mention the man was saying nothing remotely offensive enough to start a fight – that he weathered the storm and stayed focused. He mostly succeeded except for the stray thought along the line of wishing Peter would fuck him for the sake of Peter's comfort.
"You have me here. That might be better than nothing." Sylar shrugged to dismiss his own opinion of his self-worth as it wasn't for him to decide. "You're going to be here for a long time, just…try to get used to that. You have the benefit of time." He sighed again. "Time never helped me, really. I think too much and it hasn't helped. But maybe, I don't know, maybe it will make things clearer for you. You have to be…patient here. There's no rush and no one to worry about." (I have to be patient with you).
XXX
Peter took several deep breaths, regaining his composure through Sylar's calm demeanor more than through anything the man said. He gave a small nod in agreement.
XXX
Hmm, whatever kind of crisis that was, averted. I'm getting better at this. That warmed him, made him feel like he had some purpose. Peter hadn't asked for any of it, but he continued, "I don't think you're dead. How could I be dead? You didn't kill me; Matt didn't kill me and you don't think he did either. You're not just…having the same dream as I am. This is real, Peter. That's not necessarily a bad thing."
XXX
Peter tilted his head. "Okay. It's real. Sort of." He looked at the diner. My hunger is definitely real…ish. Then back to Sylar. "You're not dead. At least, I don't think you are. Matt wouldn't be going to the trouble of bricking you up if he was okay with…" Peter shrugged, not wanting to be explicit about dismemberment or whatever method would kill Sylar forever, "worse." He started towards the diner. "It's okay. However it turns out. They say life is just about perception anyway."
He went inside and set about making a lunch of fried eggs, a mound of unevenly sautéed vegetables (which were also on the oily side, but Peter didn't mind), and a couple biscuits. He left Sylar to fend for himself. Peter wasn't finding the other man's presence as bothersome as it had been earlier. Peter prepared his lunch in a companionable silence.
XXX
Sylar gave the vegetables a look but it was better than some of the crap Peter habitually ate. He didn't mind being left on his own for food, in fact, he would have offered to make Peter something but the other man jumped right in. Sylar made himself a roast beef sandwich after considering a hamburger. As he did, he kept sneaking glances at Peter, just checking, watching, enjoying that he had someone to watch. When both meals were ready at about the same time, they sat in a booth across one another. Once started, several bites later, Sylar felt his curiosity burning. "Peter, you've said a lot of things: you came here to get me to save people; then you don't need anything from me; then you felt your purpose is to 'be right' with me…Is that just a mood thing I'm supposed to follow or…which one is it?" He frowned briefly down at his plate before looking up at his companion.
XXX
Peter speared a few bits of onion, mushroom, and bell pepper on his fork, considering whether Sylar was accusing him of being inconsistent or asking a genuine question. It seemed sincere. "They're all true, depending. I came here to get you so you could save people. If you refuse, then I don't need anything from you. And if I'm going to be stuck here with you, then we have to get right somehow." He ate his forkful of food, then poked at half an egg with the empty fork. "I don't suppose I need anything from you whether you refuse or not. It's not me who's in danger, or at least in any danger I didn't willingly put myself in. The people who went to the carnival just to have a good time, or because they were summoned to it – they shouldn't have to die because of that." He took a bite of egg. "It wasn't even what Emma wanted. Her fingers were bleeding. There was someone behind her, but I couldn't see who." He made an abbreviated gesture at Sylar with his fork. "That's where you came in." He went on eating, musing over the dream and trying to remember all the details from it.
XXX
Sylar clenched his jaw briefly at the unhelpful, ever-shifting non-answer. Convenient that it covers all your moods so you can keep using all of them, he thought. "That's not true, either," he injected calmly, willing to fight Petrelli with Petrelli to point out Peter's needs and his own usefulness. "You've said you need me to…'be right' with you and cooperate with you here whether I help your imaginary friends or not." Sylar glanced down at his plate for a moment, adjusting his sandwich in his hands as he said, "And there's the part about me caring for you, medically. I don't think you meant to ever void that agreement."
XXX
Peter's brows furrowed. "Well…yeah," he said slowly, not understanding what Sylar was getting at. "I think we both need to be safe with one another, no matter what else. I didn't mean to void any agreements other than the one about…engaging. No changes about medical care. I'm not leaving without you. That sort of thing." He was wary now, wondering what else Sylar had thought Peter was negating, when Peter had thought it was only the one thing.
XXX
Sylar smirked for a second, "Tell it to me again. About your dream, 'my part.'" He waited until he was finished speaking to load up with another bite. It was good meat, but lacking in much flavor beyond its natural taste.
XXX
Peter sighed, letting go of some of his wariness as he thought back. "My...mother met Emma for the first time. She – Ma – told me that Emma was going to kill thousands of people. I asked her how but she wouldn't tell me." Peter pressed his lips together in a tight line, looking away, then back at Sylar. Restlessly, he switched his grip on his fork to that of a weapon, then back to a utensil. "Secrets. It's always with the secrets," he said bitterly. "So I took her ability – Ma's. She didn't want me to, but she couldn't stop me." He rolled his lips, biting the inside of them. What he'd done was not...nice. Or how a good son should relate to a loving parent. He hated that things between he and his mother had come to that.
"When I slept, I had the dream. I had it a couple of times – a little more information each time. Everyone had been drawn to the carnival. There were big crowds. They were...panicky. Inside one of the tents, there was Emma, playing the cello. It had this...unearthly quality to it. That's what had..." He paused and looked Sylar right in the eyes. There's no way I can explain this without telling him. His lips closed and his expression stilled. He took two deep breaths, then said, "I don't think I've told you this, but her ability lets her draw people to her like a siren's song, even from across the city where there's no possible way you could physically hear her." He regarded Sylar with deadly seriousness. The only part of his body that moved, aside from breathing, was a twist of the finger and thumb that rotated his fork back into a position so he could stab with it, should Sylar say or do the smallest thing that showed Peter he was a threat to Emma.
XXX
Swallowing his previous bite, he was almost more focused on getting a bit of food out from between his teeth when he saw the change in Peter's demeanor. Something…hidden and important was going on and he honed in immediately. Peter was so deliciously obvious after all. He waited and Peter…obligingly confessed with no prompting or torture. He'd been staring into Peter's eyes when the man looked at him so intently and…Oh that explains so much. It was such a large realization that he couldn't quickly fill in all the blanks; he just continued staring at Peter. Then he saw the movement off to the side, of Peter very loudly making himself clear and threatening. Sylar shifted his face to, 'oh, really? You don't say!' "Ah. I see."
That's not fair, not entirely. I can't rescue her or hurt her. He doesn't even know if I want that and he doesn't care; he's making assumptions. No one ever helps me when I'm trying to quit. The purely predatory part of him noted that he would never have to hunt again if he took Emma's ability (which, also, he didn't have to kill her to obtain, but Peter didn't know that) and he wondered if he could ever truly be sated without hunting. It felt like an overload, the idea of being sated as often as he pleased, and possibly being safe(r) while doing it…(I don't know if I want that…as if he would have a choice in this hypothetical and quite possibly imaginary situation of Peter's.) Prior to being…abandoned or sentenced to this wasteland, he'd been reaching out for help, hoping to…change his life from the inevitable downward spiral of a nightmare that it was. If he had that ability, he had no chance of ever being human or getting away from the constant threats and death. (Even with Peter here, it's not like I've made any kind of progress. I don't have the urges here. I almost wish he hadn't told me that).
XXX
Peter put the fork down and leaned back in his seat, relieved that he didn't have to throw down in defense of his friend at this particular moment. He exhaled slowly, then swallowed and continued where he'd left off before. "That's what had brought so many people to the carnival – her ability. I don't know why she was doing it. She wasn't happy. I think she was crying. She looked like she was in pain. Her fingers were bleeding. Someone was behind her – and I don't mean necessarily physically behind her. Just there was a threatening, sort of looming presence in the tent that was making her do it. There were twisted reflections all around her. Fear was in the air. Oppression. Dread. It was like a weight on my chest in the bed where I was dreaming. It was suffocating." Peter licked his upper lip briefly, then took a drink of his water. "Then there was you. You were different. The light that followed you, surrounded you, was brighter and clearer. It wasn't lurid and flashing like the rest of the carnival. It was steady. You were going to stop things. I knew it as soon as I saw you in the dream. You told Emma, 'Don't worry. I'm here to save you.'" Peter toyed with the remaining bit of his biscuit. "That's everything."