Day 73, February 21, afternoon
Peter grimaced, not happy with a lot of what Sylar had to say or the way he was saying it. He shifted his attention to the ointment packet in his hand, tearing it open and standing up again to apply it. He gestured for Sylar to turn and moved to stand behind him. "Yeah, maybe," Peter grudgingly and vaguely agreed. "I'm going to put this stuff on the lacerations. It shouldn't hurt much." He spread a thin layer over each site. He was careful and gentle. Unlike the debriding, this didn't have to hurt, so Peter tried to make it painless.
He spoke quietly as he worked. "I didn't talk to Heidi or the kids much at the funeral." Does he care what went on with Nathan's family? If he sometimes still thinks he's Nathan, then wouldn't he? I think he would. "Just a 'hello' I think. I didn't know- I-," he hesitated before continuing, "I didn't want to lie to them, but I didn't want to explain, either. That's probably why their marriage fell apart – she didn't know what was really going on. Abilities have…distanced me from my own family, at least from the members that don't have them. The secrecy did a number on my work, too. All my friends from college and stuff…I haven't talked to them for years now. I don't know how anyone could keep a meaningful relationship with someone if they didn't share that about themselves." He finished tending Sylar's injuries, giving everything a final, critical review before setting aside the ointment. "I'm done. I'll help you with your shirt after I wash this stuff off." Peter moved off to the sink.
XXX
Turned away, chin on forearms on the back of the chair, Sylar twitched at the mention of his erstwhile family…and the funeral, biting his tongue because some comment that was not his own about discretion was going to come flying out any second. His tongue hurt but the application of ointment did not. Just as quickly as Peter mentioned it, he switched to speak of things more personal to Peter and less relevant to Sylar. Or was it? He felt two different but similar pangs of emotion about Nathan (and Heidi and the boys), then about Peter's…loss or somewhat necessary choice. He's telling me because I understand. I can't make friends and he can't keep the ones he had. He nodded, introspective. Peter's sharing was strangely warming after the less pleasant emotions stirred up.
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"I'm glad you left them out of it," Peter said as he crossed the room to where Sylar was with his shirt. "Heidi and the boys. They're better off not involved." He helped pull the garment over Sylar's head, thinking briefly that Sylar would be better off with a button-up. But if Sylar wasn't wearing the t-shirt, then Peter wouldn't have an excuse to help him. So the thought wandered off unattended.
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Sylar snorted, bitter. "That doesn't make me any less a monster. I'm not a humanitarian." Perhaps that was his way of more tactfully telling Peter that if (in any universe) Angela attempted to try anything ever again, it would make Peter's head spin how fast Heidi and kids could be threatened, even if only to make a point.
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Peter raised both brows and gave his head a tilt. Sylar's reasons for leaving people alive or not were murky. He moved from the table to the couch and asked, "Can you tell me about a time when you killed someone and you thought it was completely justified? No, wait," Peter considered for a moment, then continued. "Tell me about a time that you think I would think you were justified." He sat on the arm of the couch, leaning forward to give Sylar his full attention.
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He watched Peter as he walked in front of him to perch on the couch. Face blank, he deadpanned, "Why?" And he almost added, 'It won't change anything' because he knew, and keenly felt, exactly what Peter truly thought of him.
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"You asked why you would do something to Heidi and Nathan's sons." Peter shrugged and spread his hands. "I don't know why you've done a lot of what you've done. So tell me about a time when you were in the right – self-defense, protecting someone else, something like that. You've said it's happened."
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'Nathan's sons' had his back straightening as he stiffened. He felt a rush of anger and defensiveness but he wasn't sure what he would…should defend against. He wasn't a father to them and none of them were mine. And I don't want them. I don't even know them. It was a very odd feeling to have people who were not his people, siblings, children, an ex-wife, with real memories voyeuristically stolen from someone else, leaving him to feel attached and somehow, somewhat partially responsible with no desire for that burden. Sylar hunched over for several seconds to collect himself, gritting out, "Don't talk about them. Or Claire." Though Peter had already moved on to another question he could more readily address.
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Peter raised his brows at the admonition, but a second later he fixed his face. There were so many emotionally-laden reasons Sylar might not want them mentioned. Peter made a mental note and left it alone.
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Sylar then shrugged his shoulders back, assuming the body language of confidence as he walked over to seat himself in the middle of the couch, slumping back gently because his back was still tender and would be for some time. He didn't want to start the argument about self-defense and how that wasn't justifiable, so he began the story Peter was actually interested in. "I killed Dr. Livitz to save you at Pinehearst. I suppose killing D-…your father can be justified because you've justified it. I think I killed a few agents to get Luke and I out of a diner when they started shooting up the place with people still inside. I would have killed Bennet to protect everyone," Sylar rolled his eyes. "Even killing you a few times could be justified self-defense. Hmm," he hummed, not intending to bring self-defense into it, and looked away for a moment. "And now that I think about it, the list of people I've killed to protect someone else is much shorter than the list of how many times I've died to protect other people." He glanced back at Peter, feeling stupid for playing this game, or a game so obvious, like he was seeking Peter Petrelli's approval.
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This was more interesting. Peter pivoted to follow Sylar. When it was clear the man was going to talk, Peter slid from the arm of the couch into the seat, still listening intently. He frowned about Sylar trying to stretch his attacks on Peter to be self-defense. They patently weren't and it made him wonder if killing Dr. Livitz had really been necessary. Peter couldn't summon up much outrage for that one, given the man was about to aid Mohinder in what looked a lot like Peter's murder. Even if it was an unnecessary use of force, Peter wasn't going to argue it. Sylar's last sentence about dying for others was much more intriguing. It brought him back on target as the frown left Peter's face and he met Sylar's eyes. "Tell me about one of those times. How did you feel? Why did you do it? What happened?" The one-sentence, throw-away mentions weren't what Peter wanted. "I want to understand why you made the choices you did."
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The intensity of Peter's interest was a little off-putting. Sylar didn't like this level (or perhaps it was the subject) of attention on something Peter probably gave too much credit for. Dying to save someone had proved meaningless in the past, but to Peter it was the height of heroism because the empath lacked the brainpower to think of a better option or believed in martyrdom as he'd admitted before. "I don't know. Usually it's more efficient. I heal- or, I used to. It's not like many people would care if I didn't heal; they'd only be bent out of shape if I was supposed to be part of their big plan. I just…do it if I see that person is…someone truly special or they see me differently than everyone else, sometimes it's both."
He shrugged, glancing back at Peter. "Don't read into it. It doesn't change anything…." Here, Sylar tilted his head, amending himself, "Except that you're here now, instead of…whatever Mohinder or your dad was going to do to you." Sparing a more lingering glance as he felt through the answer more. (Sometimes, very rarely, they meant something to me, too), he thought in reference to Elle, and the Petrellis when they'd so briefly been his family, and what he could barely describe as his friends, Luke and Micah. "You were my brother then. And now you're not. Fuck, I saved your mother of all people. Look how that turned out."
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Peter raised his brows slightly, pursed his lips, and tilted his head. Quietly, he said, "I'm glad you saved her. And anyway, the point is, for most of this, not what's efficient but what you're willing to do. That you're willing to risk, or give yourself, to save someone else. That matters. I've died, some. Claire can say it's no big deal, but I- it always hurt. It was always death. Most of the time, I didn't know for sure if I'd wake up again, and sometimes I was sure I wouldn't." He considered Sylar's comment about their relation: He saved me because he was my brother. He's not now so all bets are off. Got it. Peter didn't blame Sylar – he accepted the change in terms easily enough because his own loyalties followed family lines up to a point. In a harder tone of voice, Peter said, "Mohinder and my father were going to experiment on me until I died. They said as much. They showed me others they were doing the same thing to. I never had any reason to doubt it. That's what you saved me from." He gazed at Sylar steadily for several seconds, trying to convey the sort of horrific death Sylar had prevented, callous to the extreme that his own father had cast him aside as trash worthy only in seeing how interestingly he might expire, and the gratitude Peter felt at having been spared that. In this, that Sylar was or wasn't his brother made no difference. Finally, Peter looked down, pensively rubbing his left thumb across his right forefinger.
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Sylar met the other man's look, holding it. I don't…think I would wish that on him. I don't think I would have wished that on anyone but things have changed. I've changed. I've become evil; adapted to be like them. It made him warm to have that deed singled out as important and meaningful, perhaps even more so than he'd originally intended. Sylar sat up, butt closer to the edge of the cushion and angled his torso towards Peter. He reached out to brush his fingers through Peter's hair at his temple.
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Peter watched Sylar reach for him and was surprised to get his hair combed through. It felt nice – familiar and not just in the sense of Sylar being more familiar than appropriate, but also in that Nathan had done that to him a lot, and his mom, some. There weren't many people who felt close enough to him to touch like this. For a moment, Peter wished that Sylar was one of those people, if only so he could enjoy this bit of touch. But Sylar wasn't. Peter pulled his head away to the side and gave Sylar a narrow-eyed, unappreciative look meant to convey that Sylar had crossed a social boundary here.
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Sylar sighed. The empath had allowed more (much more) in the past. Perhaps the context was wrong or whatever emotions the man was feeling didn't combine with contact from Sylar. It didn't matter as he was determined. His hand fell to the man's shoulder, rubbing lightly. "Shh. Peter, it's okay." He didn't know what he was doing exactly; he only knew why he was doing it and what he wanted from it. Partly standing, he smoothly transitioned to straddle Peter's thighs and seat himself over his companion, both hands on shoulders now.
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"Wait! What are you-" Peter leaned back, surprised and feeling a little betrayed, like Sylar had taken advantage of Peter's distraction, his introspection, like he'd somehow read Peter's thoughts about Nathan or feelings of yearning and acted on them. Peter's hands came up indecisively between them, unsure as to whether to shove Sylar off by the hips, chest, or do something about his arms. But then nothing else happened right away. Sylar had moved fairly slowly, so other than the initial squawk of protest, Peter said nothing. He swallowed and looked up at Sylar's face, studying it for the man's intentions. 'It's okay' – was he trying to soothe me?
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His brain made a wordless purr of satisfied success when Peter didn't immediately push him off. He grinned then smothered it quickly. His right hand slid around to cling to Peter's neck as his left hand gently grasped one of Peter's. He brought that hand around his side, under his shirt until he held Peter's palm resting against the very lowest part of Sylar's back, just above the waistband of his jeans. Sylar leaned in to murmur calmly, but intimate, "You know I've noticed you didn't touch me this time. What is it about this spot?" he clarified the area by circling Peter's hand to caress on his very low back. Even if he was quasi-forcing Peter to touch him there, it was still giving him gooseflesh as he'd realized he enjoyed the previous furtive contact and knowing the other man enjoyed that part of his body for some odd reason. He leaned back to see the answer.
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Peter swallowed again, tense. His attention was directed to the hand Sylar was slowly moving on himself. Peter glanced down as though he could see through Sylar's midsection to the point in question, then back to Sylar. His fingers flexed a little. For a moment, the caress was Peter's and not Sylar doing it for him. His skin tingled where they touched, the sensation dancing up Peter's arm and warming him. He shook off Sylar's interference entirely, but put his hand back where it was, resting it there. Almost possessively. Almost. The tingling felt like a constant soft buzz in his nerves, an energy waiting to be unleashed. Peter drew his hand away slowly, letting it fall to where Sylar's thigh met hip. "It's a nice spot," he said defensively, his left hand mirroring the right. The sensation was still there, but much less intense. He glanced back and forth between them, fingertips pressing in slightly. He looked back up at Sylar, trying not to look resentful that Sylar was calling attention to Peter's misbehavior.
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Sylar felt his breath exhale instinctively, relaxing when Peter held him on his own. It felt really good, a warm presence, intentionally splayed on a nearly intimate body part. He wanted more; he wanted it to continue for days. All too soon, Peter's hand withdrew and Sylar's breath escaped in an annoyed huff. "Hmm," he agreed. "Yes, it is. You can touch me any time you like. Especially there." He suppressed a shiver at the thought of a hand randomly slipping beneath his shirt to touch him there even though it was filthy to want it.
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Peter raised a brow. "I thought you didn't like being touched." He could feel the warmth from Sylar's body seeping through his jeans. That subtle energy between them was no longer confined to just his hands. It was everywhere they were in contact. He stretched back against the hand Sylar had on his neck just slightly, testing. He was not all that sure what they were doing here – where Sylar was going with it, how far Peter was going to let him go with it, and how far was right. It certainly looked wrong to have Sylar sitting on his lap like this, but damned if it didn't feel right.
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He couldn't believe Petrelli was allowing this! Apparently pleasant conversation and applied interest worked wonders. "You think lots of things," Sylar said, intending to be vague but he meant the part about Peter making assumptions. Aiming to distract Peter into continuation, he massaged the heel of his right hand, previously around the back of Peter's neck, up and down, ruffling the collar of Peter's shirt. He tilted his head to view where the man had been viciously bitten several days ago. It was vivid and dark, teeth marks clearly defined with bluish bruising radiating out from the site. If Peter had 'used' the mark for his pleasure, it wasn't evident, but on the other hand it was probably still so sensitive that only a slight touch would be enough. Sylar cupped his fingers around the mark. "You said I bit you too hard last time. I can be gentle." As he said it, Sylar leaned back to see Peter's expression, and his eyes, from six inches away. He glanced back and forth between the hazel orbs. The proximity was making him high.
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"Don't bite me right now!" Peter said sternly. He wasn't in the mood for pain. Plus, the whole thing of Sylar biting him was morally ambiguous even with the most liberal, nod-and-a-wink interpretation of 'helping each other out'. I never asked for that! The sensuality of it all was starting to overwhelm him.
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Sylar's left eyebrow twitched upward before he shrugged. "Alright." Are we negotiating? His eyes narrowed in amusement because he was still sitting almost in Peter's lap as they touched and stared at one another. He did spare a look for Peter's mouth, wondering if that was preferable to being bitten right now.
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Peter drew in a long, careful breath and let it out, using the moment to track how he felt and how he was responding. He caught Sylar's look to his lips and ignored it, looking down at his hands again and not coincidentally tilting his head enough that Sylar couldn't kiss him without pulling his head back up. He brought his hands back along Sylar's thighs, feeling how the tingling didn't interfere in the least with physical sensations. He could still perceive the fabric stretched taut under his fingertips. Warm. Living. Sylar's weight resting on him - not too heavy; not too light. The man was strong, lean, flexible, and oh-so-willing. I would love to fuck him. His mind just blurted that out, rapidly followed by thoughts that progressed from the merely sensual to the outright pornographic in seconds, layered in with all the things Sylar had said and done to indicate he was equally interested. Heat seemed to flash over Peter's body, despite his full knowledge of how impossible, inappropriate, and downright dishonorable was even the suggestion of sex between them. Peter cleared his throat, which for some reason involved clenching his ass enough to roll his hips, but at the same time he was giving Sylar's legs a push with his hands. "You gotta go," he said with a low, husky, nervous chuckle. "Come on. Off." He pushed again, firmer this time, sitting up to shift his weight as though standing up were on his mind.
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Sylar noticed Peter's neck beginning to heat up right around the time Peter was urging him off. He could smell the empath and it was a scent he would love to roll around in. His own heart was racing with general excitement. The pushing was sufficient to shift him, but he wriggled back in place which placed their chests mere inches apart to make it appear like Peter had intentionally moved closer to him. "Don't you mean 'get off'?" he purred and enunciated, "I thought you wanted to…get…off."
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Peter made a noise that was a cross between a growl and a wordless, needy sound as Sylar squirmed on him and then leaned closer. Reluctantly, Peter's resolve came back. He brought his head up and met Sylar eye-to-eye. Peter didn't blink, blush, or look away. He was completely still for that moment. Then his jaw flexed. Teeth clenched. This time it was definitively a growl: "Get off of me. Right. Now."
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Sylar heaved a dramatic sigh but complied, backing up and standing a tiny distance from Peter because all Peter would have to do was rash his back again or even slap it lightly to end even the potential of a struggle. He wasn't done touching on Peter yet, not when the man hadn't specified anything about it. Sylar laid a hand on Peter's shoulder then trailed it down his arm as the empath zipped past. "I never told you that you smell good. Even better when you're hot and bothered," he couldn't help (and didn't try to) his predatory rumble and what was probably a matching look. He could vividly imagine what it would be like to bury his nose against Peter's skin to inhale him so directly.
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Peter squeezed by the tight space, feeling and not responding to the hand that trailed over him as he went. It was sexy. Fucking hot. He got away as fast as he could. Sylar's comment brought to mind clearly the scent of the man – freshly showered, lying in bed, the old pillow Peter had slept on at Sylar's apartment, or the few times he'd noticed it when in less intense doses. (Interesting how his previous impressions of danger at the scent had been replaced by something different, but no less exciting.) He shot Sylar a narrow-eyed look for being more attractive than any serial killer had a right to be. Peter didn't deny how aroused he was. Now that he wasn't sitting, his nether regions were busy trying to decide if it was time to party. A cold shower seemed inappropriate. Sylar would no doubt make comments or at least assumptions about Peter's need for concealing shower noises and ease of clean-up. A long walk in the snow was the next best thing. He snatched up his coat. "I'm going back to the hospital to get some broad-spectrum antibiotics." He glanced at the window. "There might be enough daylight to get there and back if I get going right away."
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"Why? I thought you said we didn't have to go. Is it that bad?" Sylar hastily went to the table to pick up and don his coat. He didn't care for Peter forcing him to choose between letting Peter go into the hospital alone to pick up unapproved items or accompany Peter, together, in yet another hospital.
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"No, it's not that bad," Peter said with a sigh at how spurious his sudden need to leave was. "But I have to get out of here and we'll need the stuff eventually anyway." He grabbed his backpack as he walked out, choosing not to comment on Sylar's decision to accompany him. It wasn't what Peter wanted and although he couldn't control where Sylar did and didn't go, he could have objected. He didn't. He was still feeling...complimented by the attention even if he had no intention of taking Sylar up on any of his offers.
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It was transparent by Peter's bulge why the trip to anywhere was so important. Sylar felt so needy after days of being alone and his companion not keeping to their agreement. Right now he would have few qualms about bending over or dropping to his knees for Peter – of course, he had things he'd rather do to Peter but those were even less likely. You don't have to leave. I'm…really not doing anything wrong. Sylar adjusted his pants over the partial erection he hadn't realized he had, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, walking behind Peter despondently.
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The elevator ride down was quiet other than the rustling of Peter putting on his headband and gloves. He glanced over Sylar. "It's a long way there. Are you going to be warm enough like that?"
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Glancing over Peter's form didn't yield any information or results. He slouched against the railing of the car. Sylar was left feeling less triumphant than he should have for making some progress with Peter. He had this idea that Peter was taking him to the hospital on purpose and that he'd be abandoned and lonely in the end. Peter's question brought him out of his sinking thoughts and he looked up with an unconvinced, bitter expression mostly brought on by Peter being a poor nurse and not living up to his end of the bargain. "Like you care. I won't die from the weather."
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Peter furrowed his brow, then shrugged and looked away. He refused to be guilt-tripped for having turned down Sylar's latest attempt to get in his pants. "We can always go inside stores to warm up a little if we need to." He didn't have anything else to say, so they hit the road.
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With growing anger and disappointment, Sylar began a low-level glare. "You didn't answer my question. Why weren't you touching me earlier? Is it that 'I'm an injured, sick patient' thing that turns you off? Your dick wasn't turned off." Sylar caught the door after Peter went through, bringing them into the icy atmosphere of the streets.
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Peter grimaced as he kicked snow out of his way. "You're not that sick." He waved at Sylar's upper body. "The thing with your back is limited, not systemic. Not a big deal." He decided not to address whether he'd been turned off or on – that answer seemed obvious. "As for the touching - I told you yesterday I was done. I meant that. Done. No more. I'll mind my own business and you'll take care of yours. But we're not keeping each other company. I'm not beating you. You're not fucking me, or, hopefully, even fucking with me. We leave each other alone and that includes me…touching you…in that spot, or any other, unless it's necessary." He looked particularly surly about the last part. "Invitation notwithstanding."
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I know I'm not sick! I know it's not a big deal! That's why you- your body wants to fuck! But he listened and allowed Peter to finish before butting in as Peter was making such a poor case for himself and proving Sylar right. The rest of it was worse and exactly what he'd feared. Sylar exhaled hopelessness in a disbelieving, sad sigh. It hurt and left him confused. Sometimes it seemed like Peter could…see and understand him, even treat him as an equal. Other times, Peter made unfair decisions based on his own feelings and Sylar was left feeling screwed over without the sex. Unfortunately Petrelli felt that was his right, being the morally virtuous saint he thought he was. "I thought I was your business. You said you would take care of me and you didn't! We agreed! I can't reach my back to care for myself even if I wanted to. I don't get how you get to be the wounded party and punish me here because I haven't done anything wrong by your own admission. And it's my body. If we both want something to happen, just let it happen. It's not sex, it's just touching my back – it's not a sin!" He refused, with passionate stubbornness, to be shunted aside for whatever misguided, temperamental, one-sided Petrelli feelings were going on.
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Peter pivoted in the street so he faced Sylar. His nostrils flared as he started to get angry about ten words into Sylar's complaint. Then it dissipated – his anger – as he listened. Mentally, he quit trying to defend himself and tried to see where Sylar was coming from. His eyes narrowed with concentration as he took in the words and worked through them. He drew his lower lip in and chewed it for a second before asking, "You say I'm punishing you. Why? What's the punishment?"
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Sylar frowned at Peter's body language. The empath was listening and inquiring though, and that was a huge relief. "You minding your own business, leaving each other alone, not keeping each other company," he recited verbatim, his frown now one of more previous hurt than the expectancy of being hurt or of being angry.
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Peter reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his gloved fingers. His voice was tired when he spoke. "You killed my brother, Sylar. That's a sin in my book." He didn't address how he'd taken care of Sylar's back as soon as he'd realized there was a problem, because Sylar was right that in a perfect world, Peter shouldn't have bailed on him the night before. The world was far from perfect – Nathan wasn't in it, for example – and Peter didn't feel like defending himself against something he shouldn't have had to do in the first place.
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"That's great, Peter. Fine. But there's still nothing I can do about it. You-…Just never mind," Sylar began gently enough but had too much blame to lay on Petrelli. He shook his head, forceful and frustrated, turning on his heel and began down the sidewalk towards the hospital. It's always about him. I'm not forcing him, I'm behaving, and I'm honoring our agreements. If he wants to be treated like something other than a fucking Petrelli, then he should quit acting like a spoiled liar half the time. I suppose this is the perfect punishment: pretending like he's not punishing me, acting like he's entitled to treat me however he wants, ignoring me because he's holier, then sometimes trying to be my friend and be my 'hero' whenever he feels like it. To add insult to injury, it was too cold to be walking without proper outerwear.
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Peter turned and followed, ending up walking a half pace behind and off to the side of Sylar. "Go on," he said eventually, eyes on the other man.
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"I killed your beloved brother. I can't argue that. Just know that I know what you're doing and I don't have to like it."
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"What am I doing?" He remained intent, trying to pursue and settle this rather than dismiss Sylar's upset.
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Sylar smiled mirthlessly. "You think your family was so horrible. You think I don't know that trick? Go right ahead and ignore me when you want and buddy up to me when you feel like it and only honor the agreements you want to. I don't have to like it."
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"I think you killing my brother was pretty horrible." Peter tilted his head, refusing to fall into whatever emotionally manipulative trap he felt Sylar was attempting to lure him into. But he still wanted to get them on the same page, if that was possible. He thought it was. He hoped it was. "The thing is," Peter said carefully, "I don't get the impression you feel the same way. I get the impression that Nathan's death is inconvenient for you, and that my feelings about it are inconvenient for you. That's so..." Peter glanced around at the buildings they were passing, then up at the sky briefly, "invalidating, on one hand, and infuriating on the other. I've wanted to hurt you until you understood how it felt, but that's...pointless. Useless. You said you were my business. I'd think I'd be yours, too. How I feel about things should matter." He gave Sylar a direct look, really trying to get through to the man. "I need some indications that they do."
Peter had lived nearly all his life not putting himself, or his feelings, first. But the enormity of what Sylar had done to him, stolen from him, was finally enough to break that down and make Peter draw a line – he either got what he needed from Sylar, or else there was no relationship aside from the most impersonal that Peter could manage.
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Sylar hated all of it. He hated Peter's dogged emotional neediness. It was feminine and unworthy of respect – hell yes it was inconvenient! He hated the unfairness that allowed heroes to force him into a corner, which he had to lie his way out of. At least, he had to lie if he was to keep to his plan of seducing Peter, even if that involved saying he regretted Nathan's death. He hated that his feelings never entered the equation. Sylar had many tangents and things that wanted to burst out from his mouth. But he bit his tongue. The logic (or excuse) that he'd killed Nathan to finally make room for Peter wasn't going to fly any further than it already had. It was obvious Peter wanted the active and frequent humiliation of apologies and baseless flattery every five minutes. If he wanted into Peter's pants, he would have to capitulate. He's right. Not forcing him to fuck, or drugging him or tying him up, asking him what he wants, listening to his BS, and letting him beat me is just inconsiderate of me. "Fine. I'm sorry," he said simply. This was the first time he'd ever said it to Peter. Peter hadn't stopped walking to have this oh-so-significant talk and neither did Sylar.
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Peter hurried for a couple strides to put him even with Sylar so he could see his face better. He was dubious and suspicious. Sylar's admission had come too easily. It was too glib. "Do you know what you did was wrong?" Is he fucking with me? It was not a subject for which Peter had any patience with being led on.
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"I killed your brother," Sylar replied, getting annoyed now. Obviously. He's the only one who counts.
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Duh. Peter still didn't have the answer he was looking for – if Sylar understood why Peter was angry about the murder. This was fast becoming an exercise in frustration. "Why did you do it if you knew it was wrong?" Peter asked doggedly.
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He'd lost count of how many times he'd answered this exact question before. "I did it because I could," that came out with a bit more heat.
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He's not sorry at all! Why did he say he was? Is he intentionally fucking with me? Over this?! "Did you know it was wrong at the time you did it?" This time, Peter's question came out faster, the words clipped. His expression had hardened.
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That one…made more sense. Nathan's death- his murder – had been almost premeditated. The Brothers Petrelli had arrived, not unexpectedly, with the intention of sticking their noses rather violently into his business. Never mind that he'd sort of kidnapped Claire or impersonated Nathan on national television or planned to assassinate the president and take over the job. Sylar still suspected that the real reasons were things of the past and the fact that he was and always would be a villain with target on the back of his head. He remembered thinking something along those very lines, something like, 'Claire won't be happy with me now.' He'd given no thought to Peter, and more thought to fucking Angela and how fitting it was to rob her of a son when she wouldn't accept him as anything more than a murder weapon. "…Yes…" he said, all of his anger dissipated completely and he began to feel doubt.
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Peter snorted at Sylar's lengthy pause, incensed at the possibility the man was only now considering the moral implications of what he'd done. "But you did it anyway! Why do you do things that you know are wrong?" His nose was wrinkled and he threw his arms out to the sides in frustrated exasperation.
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"I…" Sylar was left to blink and his voice trailed off. This was precisely the discussion he didn't want to have. Ever. His reasons were selfish and always misunderstood. They never held up; that's why he never gave much explanation.
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Peter didn't wait for Sylar to come up with more of an answer than that. He snapped, "Do you feel good about doing things that are wrong, is that it?" All that 'bad boy', forbidden kink, like this is some kind of game to him, instead of, you know, people's lives?
XXX
Sylar pursed his lips, feeling more than a twinge of very unpleasant, highly avoided emotions. He knew the answer was primarily affirmative but that wouldn't help his case when he was sort of attempting to apologize about killing the man's brother. He didn't know how to explain, either, not to the man who'd had his ability once upon a time but never took an ability that way and only ever killed one person (ironically, the same senator in a different time-warp). Sylar did not want to talk about the fine details of his ability and how it affected him. He looked down and away, hoping the interrogation would be over soon. "I…" he shrugged, losing all control of the conversation and he knew it.
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Again, as soon as it was clear Sylar was at a loss for words, Peter jabbed at him again. "Why is that?"
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(He wants to hear it every five minutes). It's humiliation. (I knew he'd get there eventually). "I'm a monster." Sylar voiced it with some question in his tone, not because he doubted what he said, rather he doubted what Peter wanted to hear.
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"Puh!" Peter nearly spat in indignation. Like recognizing it excuses it? "Does killing people help you somehow? How does that work?"
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That, more than anything, made the most sense. Pointing out just how insignificant Nathan had been was to his plans in hindsight, that Nathan's death had backfired in horrible, unforeseen ways and if he'd just left the senator alive…At how meaningless Nathan's death had truly been…Sylar ducked his head again, feeling acute shame and hating everything and everyone, including himself as he hated feeling that way. "I'm sorry." His tone was frustrated and abrupt.
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Just about everything Sylar said was drawing some disgusted exhalation from Peter. This latest apologetic noise was no different. Now he ranted at Sylar, not waiting for input. "You sound like you're sorry I'm mad about it, not about what you did! Being a monster is a result, not a cause. And besides, it's not a fucking end-state. You just stop killing people just because you can! You're not stepping on fucking ants, Sylar! These are human beings. You kill them, they're dead. I've lost a brother because of you. You. Ended. Him. He's. Gone. Fine, you've convinced me, he's not in you! You know what that means, right?" Peter took a few steps faster, getting into Sylar's path and turning to face him head-on.
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Sylar quickly ceased walking, in no small part because Peter was up in his face as much as the shorter man could manage. That wasn't the worst part (and usually such an attempt might be amusing). His hands jerked from his pockets and into the freezing air. This was exactly the reason why Sylar never apologized, never opened himself up to this kind of shaming, because things couldn't improve after he did. Is he going to hit me? Peter had his unwilling attention as he stood stoically for this dressing down.
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"It means any hope I had of getting him back is gone, too. You can't fix what you did. You can't fix it with me. You can't fix it with him. You can't fix it with anyone else. I could go smash everything in your apartment, all those clocks, all those things, and you might be able to rebuild them. That's what you used to do, right? Repair clocks and stuff? You do that because a stopped watch," Peter held up his own wrist, still stubbornly wearing a watch that didn't function, "can become a working watch. But dead is dead. Nathan is gone - because of you, I blame you for it, and you have the balls to say I'm 'punishing you' because I don't want to spend time with someone who's hurt me so much, so often, and so badly." He glared at Sylar, baring his teeth for a moment. "Just fuck off back to the penthouse, Sylar! I don't want you so much as near me!" He snorted again, turning back to face the direction they'd been going, striding away angrily.
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Sylar began to cringe every so slightly and wince in extreme worry and discomfort, but he maintained eye contact because he refused to break under mere words, no matter how painful they were. 'Can't fix it' echoed hollowly in his head, upsetting him though he wasn't upset about the same thing Peter was. People weren't 'fixable'; his ability didn't apply to them. The threat (was it a threat? Certainly Peter had the idea now) to his apartment and all his belongings was horrible to contemplate, particularly when Peter had broken in before. Then the embarrassment of being stupidly needy of Peter…(Now he'll never fuck me). He knew then just how badly he'd screwed himself over in this lonely world by admitting his fault, what was apparently, a mistake. It was arguably worse than murdering Nathan. Finally looking away now that Peter was very through with him, Sylar could only stare at the ground, frowning, and mumble, "I want to come with you." He shuffled after Peter.
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Peter scowled back at him. "Go fuck yourself!" Just to be insulting, he added, "It's what you do best." Muttering, he continued, "Go fuck up your own life to the point no one else can stand you, even if you're the last fucking man on Earth!" Peter shook his head, kicked snow, and resolved to keep heading towards the hospital without pause or warm-up break. The wind was picking up, which he knew had to be uncomfortable and possibly even painful to the lighter-clothed Sylar. I don't give a fuck. If he falls over from hypothermia, then I'll do something. But anything else serves him right. Like he said, 'I won't die from the weather.'
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When Peter wasn't looking, he rolled his eyes at the last comment, so ironically harmless. Sylar thought, I thought I already had fucked up my own life to the point no one can stand me even when I am the last man on Earth. Keep up with the times, Petrelli. Been there, done that. He pursed his lips and returned his hands to his pockets now that he didn't need them out. The ground was still covered in snow, but fortunately there was not ice beneath it. Even Sylar's shoes could manage the angry pace Peter kept and it did help keep him warm, at least for a while.