Day 73, February 21, evening
Peter gave Sylar a thoroughly disbelieving, put-out look. He walked past Sylar, stomping the snow off his shoes and looking around the place. The small office connected to a large series of bays to their left. It looked like an auto repair shop, completely useless in a world without cars. Peter rolled his eyes. That has to be intentional. If we were meant to be out here, then wouldn't our subconscious put someplace we could stay near us? Though to be honest, he didn't recall there being any businesses of note near Mercy Hospital either. The neighborhood here was about the same as it was there – a lot of low-story brick buildings and a few warehouses, mostly empty, probably having created low enough property values to make the construction of the hospital worthwhile. There was a gas station on one corner though. His brow furrowed in concentration. Pretty sure that was on the other side from the emergency room.
Peter frowned. If the place was laid out like Mercy, then there wasn't going to be anywhere they could bed down for a block or two. He took off his gloves to dig out the hood from his coat. He walked back over to Sylar, who looked miserable and suffering. "If you've got a fever going along with that infection in your back, then you're going to be more susceptible to the cold." Peter stripped off his headband and said gently, "Come here. Sylar. Help me get this on you." He stretched the headband to put it on Sylar's head, trying to leave as much of the physical contact to Sylar to manage.
XXX
The idea of a fever when he was dying of cold sounded ridiculous. I thought he said I didn't have a fever earlier? (He did say it would be dangerous to go back out again…) Sylar broke from his hunching to straighten up and grunt at the approach. I know I said you could touch me any time, anyhow, but now really isn't a good time, Petrelli, was his initial thought. He didn't like the commanding tone, but it seemed like everything about Peter was setting him off as if their continued proximity to the hospital was still in effect. He raised his arms as quick as he could to intercept Peter's hands near his head and take over the fine motor-control required task. Sylar was too tired to entertain more paranoia about Peter touching his head; he wanted that contact over and done with as soon as possible. The headband probably looked horrible on him, messing up his hair, not to mention looking silly and having the item forced on him. He made only a bare-minimum effort at adjusting it.
XXX
Peter watched his companion with increasingly clinical eyes. Sylar was already losing coordination. Standing here out of the wind should have been helping, and it probably was, but Sylar's condition was still deteriorating. That jacket must have been even damper than I thought. "We need to go now, Sylar," Peter prompted as he cinched down the hood and fastened the flap over his throat. "We can check one more place," before it's too dangerous to let you stay out here. Peter put his gloves back on. "Let's go." He followed Sylar out, letting the other man pick the direction. Peter stayed close at his side now, having tripped on enough things concealed under the snow to be careful.
XXX
He was seriously debating staying here and toughing it out. Body heat would be enough for a night, wouldn't it? One more, he mocked in his head. One or a dozen or dying outside, it's better than the hospital. Sylar sighed and obeyed again, jerking and shouldering open the door and trying to see out to pick a better building, or a direction. Instantly his vision was attacked with flakes and wind. He decided on continuing to their left, huddled with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, but not too firmly in case he stumbled. Which he did, turning his ankle and making him flail out momentarily to his embarrassment though even that was waning fast. Peter held his elbow and helped him, just as he had in the past. He couldn't stand the cold and darted into a door no more than two blocks later. It was a mini-office/lobby leading into what appeared to be storage units. Sylar's heart sank and his throat went dry. He stamped his feet with little energy, facing from Peter to avoid the I-told-you-so's.
XXX
Peter glanced around. He didn't need more than that to see that this place wasn't going to work any more than the last one. "Two strikes," he muttered. A third and we're out. I'm not playing that game. The way to win was not to lose. He'd heard that plenty from Arthur and Nathan, enough to understand perfectly that when the rules weren't in your favor, you played by other rules. It wasn't fair, but sometimes it was right. Like now. Peter put a hand under Sylar's arm and jerked his head at the door they'd just come through. "We don't have much time before you go down. Let's go." He got his bearings best he could as they exited. Fortunately, Sylar seemed addled enough that he didn't put up a fuss as Peter struck off across the street, angling away from the biting wind and bringing Sylar along with him.
XXX
Before I what? Sylar was almost not relieved that Peter decided to move on so hastily and try again. He thought, maybe, perhaps, the empath might settle, especially if Sylar's health was as bad as Peter made out. This time, he was glad that Peter kept hold of his arm the whole way. He understood then what Peter meant about food because he felt like his heart was pounding too fast. He whined a little from his soaked clothes clinging and brushing against him horribly, the wind was cutting through him, whipping away any sounds of pain he might make, and he still couldn't see a damn thing except the gray form of Peter in front of and beside him. His feet felt like solid blocks that didn't respond to his commands. Perhaps Peter would have better luck choosing a building, or maybe he remembered somewhere specific.
XXX
They came to a brick wall. To the right, facing directly into the slashing north wind, Peter was pretty sure lay the emergency room entrance they'd used before. To the left, he could dimly see the main entrance. He'd never used that one, because the ER was closer. Their apartments were to the north, so the north side of the hospital was the one they'd always approached first. Given the punishment the weather was dishing out from that direction, it didn't surprise Peter that they'd drifted south in their search for a place to stay the night. His lips and nose were painfully cold; his fingers chilled even through the gloves. It was easy to turn Sylar to the left so the wind was at their backs and walk him to the hospital. Between the blowing snow, having to navigate drifts of it, and stumbling over unseen curbs, Peter hoped Sylar wouldn't notice he was being steered right back to where he didn't want to be. Maybe the lobby won't bother him and we can just stay there.
XXX
Sylar assumed the clear double doors led into a grocery or other name-brand store, perhaps a mall with display beds and access to food. Swiping the wet from his eyes, he glanced around, then took a second look in confusion. A lobby? Maybe it's a hotel? He dared to hope. But it was all wrong for a hotel. He couldn't smell but the colors and set-up screamed it was the hospital again – Peter had betrayed him. Sylar felt like he needed to take deep breaths but couldn't get them with his spastic reactions to being cold. Did he know we wouldn't make it back? More similar thoughts spiraled in and out of his mind though it seemed obvious what had happened and what was happening so he needed a plan. First, he knew he needed to ditch Peter (whether the man would help keep him alive from hypothermia or infection or not).
XXX
Peter stomped off his shoes and peeled back his hood. He pointed Sylar to a chair. "Sit down. Let me get your shoes off." He stripped off his gloves, throwing them on the seat next to Sylar and briskly rubbing his hands together. Peter went to one knee. Rather than going directly for feet, he reached out to take Sylar's hands, pulling them from the pockets and chafing them. He watched Sylar's face. The other man was wary. Clearly, he had figured out where they were. Peter grimaced, giving Sylar's hands a light squeeze. He wished his own hands were warmer so they'd help more, but at least they weren't as chilled as they'd been when they'd first arrived in the emergency room. While Peter didn't seem to have suffered as much from their recent outing (with the hood up, throat latch fastened, warm clothes, and shorter trip), Sylar seemed to have done decidedly worse. The only bright side was that Sylar didn't seem as disoriented as before. Peter moved on to stripping the man's shoes, followed by socks. "Let's get that dry pair of socks on you first thing." He put his actions to matching his words, getting the dry pair of socks from the backpack and unrolling them up Sylar's legs as the man continued to shiver uncontrollably. Shivering's a good sign, though, Peter tried to reassure himself.
XXX
His heart felt like ice now. The rest of him felt shocky. He frowned in betrayed confusion when his hands were gently grabbed. Sylar couldn't process anything; least of all having his hands cared for as hope died and horror filled him again. He felt like crying, just as a pitiful expression to his partner of every fucked up emotion he experiencing. It wasn't the part about inevitable death that upset him, rather it was the torture and imprisonment that came before the dying. Numbly, jerkily, he tried to assist with the new socks by lifting his leg but finer motion control was beyond him.
XXX
"Just stay here. I'm going to go get us some lattes or something from that Starbucks booth right there, okay?" Peter eyed Sylar as he backed away a few steps. The man's reaction to finding out he was back in the hospital had Peter wanting to simply sit and hug him, but the best thing to do seemed to be to get Sylar warm, dry, and capable of taking care of himself as soon as possible. Without taking him deeper in the building to find ways to warm him from the outside, Peter had decided to try warming him from the inside. Some nice, hot, sweet, steamed milk would be perfect.
XXX
It was too much. Sylar couldn't stomach the idea of eating or drinking anything now, even as his gut contracted with hunger. As much help as Peter was likely to provide, the medic didn't understand what was really going on. I can't stay with him. They were sitting ducks, vulnerable, easy targets clumped together. He couldn't trust Peter here because it was the hospital's fault – the Company's fault. He couldn't take that risk. Sylar couldn't quite forget what Peter had done at Mercy, either, and all this followed every step of what was probably a clever plan to trap him or worse. To assuage his guilt of abandoning Peter, he reasoned, If we split up, maybe they won't find him. He waited, watching Petrelli until his attention focused on the drinks.
XXX
Peter nodded and turned to the cross the expansive lobby and investigate the coffee stop. The chest-high stand-up counter was fronted by a now-empty pastry display case. Peter went behind the counter, looking over the equipment. Unsurprisingly, the various coffee machines were powered down and empty. After checking them, he knelt to go through the cabinets below, expecting to find supplies. Although he found coffee grounds and filters, he wanted something with more bulk to it than black coffee. Turning to check the other bank of cabinets, he found flavorings and sugar, so at least whatever he made would have calories. He still had his heart set on a latte or maybe hot chocolate – something a little less caffeinated than straight coffee. He pivoted on his heels on the floor, looking back and forth at the walls around him. The perishable supplies had to be kept somewhere else; he wasn't seeing a refrigerator. He sighed heavily and stood up, calling to Sylar, "Hey – no lattes. Are you okay with-" While speaking, Peter had moved to the side where the coffee machines weren't in his way. Now he saw Sylar wasn't where he'd left him. His voice cut off and he scanned the rest of the open-plan lobby. No Sylar.
XXX
Sylar had picked up his shoes and darted away down the nearest hall. He felt worse and even more afraid because he was alone. It was dark in most of the 'rooms' but the hallways were sparsely lit and all the hidden storage rooms were blinding – it was something out of a horror movie, reminding him of Primatech when he'd trapped the Petrellis and some of the Bennets there to make several important points and…also rightfully terrorize the bastards. It seemed too ironic that those same tables were being turned on him now. He made a quick jogging walk to get out of sight in case Peter chased after him.
XXX
"Dammit," Peter muttered, leaving the booth behind. In haste, he jogged to the front doors, paying no attention to the five or six other exits from the big room. There was only one direction Sylar could go that would panic Peter and that was outside. He didn't see the man out there, but the visibility was low enough and Peter had been crouched down long enough that this wasn't conclusive. Then again, he hadn't heard the sound of the automatic doors opening, as the first set opened now to allow him into the entry. He looked at the tracks in the snow outside. Most of the evidence of their approach was gone, but not all of it. Snow that had blown in with them had melted to water. Outside, there were no fresh tracks; inside there was no fresh snow. "Okay," he said to himself with relief, "you didn't go back out."
Peter turned and walked into the lobby. Sylar's stuff was gone as well as his person. If he'd snuck off in his bare feet, then that explained why Peter had heard nothing. He sighed, feeling…depressed. His patient had abandoned him, no doubt harboring resentment and fears that Peter had brought him back here for nefarious purposes. The paranoia was exhausting to deal with. Peter scrubbed at his scalp and pulled at his hair. He didn't want to chase Sylar down and inflict care on him. If he's well enough to run off and hide, then he doesn't actually need me. Feeling useless and frustrated, Peter gathered his discarded gloves and the headband Sylar had left, and walked slowly down the hall heading towards the cafeteria. He passed the gift shop on the way, stopping to stock up his backpack with granola bars and candy. He ate a Hersheys with almonds as he strolled desultorily to his destination. The chocolate perked him up enough to see him through having to deal with the cafeteria being as battened down as the coffee spot. He eventually found a microwave and some broccoli-cheese soup. It tasted great, but the silence of the place was starting to wear on him already. He didn't think the hospital would have creeped him out so much (it hadn't on his previous trips, after all) if he hadn't known Sylar was out there somewhere, hiding, maybe stalking him – definitely thinking Peter wasn't fit company.
Putting his dishes aside, Peter filled a cup with hot cocoa and began to make the rounds, sipping it as he went down one corridor after another looking for the other occupant. The enormous building held far too many nooks, crannies, and back passages for one person to search it conclusively, especially if looking for anyone who might be on the move to avoid being found. Peter knew that. But he couldn't not look. He definitely wouldn't be able to sleep knowing Sylar was out there, resentful and possibly possibly motivated enough to do something about it. It was going to be a long night, Peter suspected.
XXX
Knowing Peter might be on his trail, Sylar immediately tried to make his way to where he guessed the ER was. Somehow he did find it and left his coat in the oven because that was all he dared leave behind in case….in case Peter had the same idea or followed him or some Company agent or medical staff caught him. He valued his clothes, even cold as they were too much to take them off and if Peter returned when Sylar came back for them, well… Sylar stole several blankets and shuffled back into a hallway that seemed mostly comprised of storage rooms. He wanted a small room, easier to heat and keep warm. The first one he tried was strangely unlocked – it had a keypad and the mechanism appeared sound. He didn't question it too much because he didn't want to lock himself in by accident, but he did test it a few times to be sure it didn't automatically lock.
He knew the odds of being found here were low, unless someone came to his room specifically for something it held. He wrapped himself into a self-contained burrito of blankets, crouched behind metal shelving full of…masks and gloves and other protective equipment. He shuddered there in relative silence for what must have been hours. He was too uncomfortable and too afraid to sleep, always watching the small window in the door to see if anyone passed by in the hall. Eventually Sylar slowly, painfully felt the cold slipping away. His clothes were still wet, but no longer cold and clammy – now they were closer to room temperature and soggy. He felt his shoes were a lost cause because they were so difficult to dry but they were all he had for now. After that and the looming, impending discovery of being in one place for too long and being alone, he followed his urge to find food. Sylar took a blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders like a silly cape, as he wandered the halls, trying not to cringe at shadows or be overcome by memories past.
His thinking capacity had improved with being warm, though his body still protested movement and complete stillness. Peter's comfortable here. He knows his way around somehow. That meant Peter had probably dried his clothes, showered, ate, and found the most comfortable bed in the joint and was likely somewhere else other than the dining/kitchen area. Sylar went there and raided several muffins from the industrial fridges in the back. They were good, banana nut and blueberry. It was important to eat while he could. The muffins made him dangerously sleepy and for a while he worried they'd been drugged. He tried to rationalize that no intelligent Company would leave drugged food out in the common area where their own agents might eat it.
Sylar knew he was out of danger from the elements at least, even if everything else was out to get him. I wonder if I need the medicine Peter has. I remember the pills he got…I know where he got them from…But I don't know how much to take. It might say on the label. He hadn't checked serving size when he'd checked them before. It was unlikely Peter would be in the medicine room either…unless this was a perfectly executed set up. Sylar approached quietly, shoes squishy but no longer squeaking. Quickly, he stuck his head in and gave a hurried glance around and saw only the empty room. He snagged a bottle of the same stuff from before, checking the label and serving suggestion: two pills with food. Sylar downed them with water from a nearby sink. Carefully, though sluggish, he wandered into a lounge of sorts, perhaps for nurses like Peter. It had a couch and he made sure the doors were shut before he curled up in the corner of the couch, facing the entrance of course. Hiding in the open is okay. It's worked before. Peter's probably asleep somewhere by now. Maybe I can pretend I'm one of them.
XXX
Peter paced down the darkened hallway of the hospital, glancing in the various rooms that he passed. Sylar had to be around here somewhere. Like hell the man was sleeping, no matter that it felt like dawn should have come and gone hours ago. If it had, no sunlight had broken through the thick clouds that had continued shedding snow throughout the night. Peter had eventually circled back to the emergency room area. Having found nothing in the public spaces and patient rooms, he patrolled through the staff area. That was where he finally saw something that wasn't gurney or stool or chair, or any variety of hospital furniture. As a genuine human body part, the foot he'd glimpsed through the window in the door could only be attached to one being. Peter opened the door so he could see Sylar.
XXX
Initially Sylar didn't react when he saw the other man in the doorway. It was almost too surprising to possibly be real. He blinked, his eyes barely open but sharpening his vision. The dark figure was still there, silent and menacing as they watched one another. It was Peter, he was sure. The empath's hair made a silhouette; his frame and posture were familiar. Sylar didn't move. He swallowed and blinked once more, slower this time. Perhaps he was hallucinating. His fear spiked. He was so tired and drained that he contemplated surrender. Why was Peter here?
XXX
A glance at the label next to the door had Peter blinking. 'EMS Lounge' Of all the places for Sylar to 'hide', he picks the room I've probably spent more time in than any other in a hospital. Was he actually hiding, or was he waiting for me? His heart softened. Sylar looked absolutely miserable – pale, drawn, dark circles beginning to form under his eyes, and only partly covered by a single blanket. Peter sighed loudly, dropping his backpack next to the door, hanging his coat on a hook near the door for the purpose. He walked in slow and steady, his hands at his sides, empty and loose.
XXX
Sylar exhaled roughly when Peter discarded his gear. He wanted- no, needed to believe the display. He wanted the illusion of safety. Some of his muscles released their tension, but still he didn't move like it was a test to see what Peter would do if he thought Sylar was asleep That was how he wanted things to go: no restraints or drugs. He watched with…anticipation that Peter might yet offer something desperately needed.
XXX
Peter took a seat on the couch next to Sylar, right next to him, so they were touching. Peter's eyes were gritty and his concentration spotty enough that he'd started jumping at shadows more than an hour ago. His sense of time was jacked, so he wasn't entirely sure. But what he was sure of was that he'd found the only other person here. Sylar was surely coping with the same thing, plus multiple nights of broken or little sleep, a lacerated back, a low grade infection, and all the trauma, PTSD, and triggered phobias from where they were. Peter gently cupped his hands over Sylar's shoulders and pulled him around, positioning him so that Sylar's head would be on Peter's shoulder. "Come here," he whispered. "It's gonna be alright." He fussed briefly with the blanket so it spread over Sylar's form a bit more evenly.
XXX
Sylar held his breath, barely adjusting as Peter's weight shifted the couch cushions. He went with it, accepting the offer as he inhaled again feeling like he was finally breathing for the first time in hours or days. It allowed him to satisfy his paranoia, disproving it by reaching across Peter's torso to lay his arm over Peter's abdomen, feeling for any weapon or syringe and finding none. He slumped onto the man's shoulder and made a protesting/grateful noise at being covered so thoughtfully with the blanket. I shouldn't have left him, he thought muzzily, somehow certain that it would have been alright, if not better, had he stayed with the medic. The Italian's arm snuck low around his back, irritating the injuries there but those would settle in time and stillness – it was worth it. This contact would finally allow him to sleep though the position was nearly impossible to keep for someone so tall to lie on someone so lacking in torso height.
XXX
"This way," Peter said quietly, "we both know where the other is. No one can sneak up on anyone. 'Kay? We'll be safe – both of us."
XXX
Sylar scooted his hip once, adjusting his position. I'll know if you leave, he thought in reply. Safe is…It was too emotional a concept right now. He said nothing, having another desperate feeling that he needed Peter to understand that he understood Peter and he willed that communication through this embrace. He took it a step further in his exhausted state: that Peter might take his side and defend them in case of a threat. Sylar wanted to tell Peter to share the blanket but his last contented thought before the blissful nothingness swept him under was, I'll warm him up, too…
XXX
Peter sighed again and relaxed. He shut his eyes. The solution to their mutual anxiety worked as much for Peter as for Sylar. There were no shadows to fear, no footsteps to listen for, no bloodthirsty killer lurking. He knew exactly where the killer was – currently drooling on his shoulder, having dropped off to sleep with startling speed. Peter smiled, hummed softly in approval, and let his head rest against the wall behind him. Finally, he slept.
Day 74, February 22, Morning
Sylar felt the change in Peter's muscle tension. The subconscious thought of opening his eyes or moving away or letting Peter go was distressing. It seemed far too early for any of that. It felt and smelled too peaceful. He made a sound and clung on, with his right arm being mostly slung across Peter's body, that hand lying around Peter's left hip or in his lap perhaps. The other hand had a fistful of the man's shirt near his right side. Sylar had since moved his head from Peter's shoulder to the back of the couch to better suit his height and he faced Peter more than he had at the beginning. Sylar neither opened his eyes nor moved other than his initial squeezing.
XXX
A dream jarred Peter's awareness. Hesam was calling for him. There'd been a disaster; someone like Ted had blown up and taken part of the city with him. All emergency personnel were being mobilized. Peter, though, had fallen asleep on the couch in the EMS lounge, cuddling with Sylar for some reason. But Hesam was calling his name… "Huh?" Peter woke blearily, looking around the room. He felt like he was still asleep. Sylar was still with him. He was still in the break room. So that much fit, but it was quiet. No Hesam. No disaster. He looked around, blinking and trying to sort fact from fiction. Everything seemed so real. His mind kept echoing someone calling his name…maybe Matt though, not Hesam. "Huh," Peter said, placing the voice as Matt's even if it made no more sense. He shook it off as just another senseless dream. As he shifted, Sylar made an adorably needy, sleepy noise, clearly not wanting him to go. It was more important than whatever rescue fantasy Peter's subconscious was fomenting.
Peter turned, twitching his head back a few inches because Sylar's face was right there, just an inch or two from his own. He blinked again, trying to focus. He moved his right arm where it was behind Sylar's back. It was numb from where it had been wedged between Sylar's body and the couch. His other hand he brought up to Sylar's shoulder, recognizing that Sylar was in an even more uncomfortable position than Peter was. "Um…here," Peter murmured, scooting to the side and trying to turn Sylar so he'd lie on his back. "Lie down. Head in my lap. You'll sleep better." He found Sylar's fist clutching his shirt. Instinctively, Peter understood Sylar was trying to hold him, make sure he didn't get away, and keep himself safe. So he didn't try to push the hand away. Instead, he insinuated his own fingers and held Sylar's hand as he moved, giving the man something to hold onto that meant just as much.
XXX
Sylar stirred when he heard Peter's voice. He knew it was Peter and that he was, strangely, probably out of danger even with the medic around as he slept. The pain to his back woke him further and he cracked his eyes briefly to see what looked like a lounge with a suspicious hallway. Sylar rolled onto his back as gently as he could while half-awake. He just knew it was of life-or-death importance that he hold on to Peter.
XXX
Once in position, Peter let go of Sylar's hand just long enough to flip the blanket over the man again. Then he took up Sylar's hand once more, laying their joined hands on Sylar's chest. His left hand brushed briefly at Sylar's dark, messy hair before Peter sighed, shrugged his shoulders to work some of the stiffness out of them, and fell back asleep.
XXX
With his head on Peter's leg, he sleepily presumed, Sylar felt the rest of his body relaxing. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable he'd been. He'd been clutching Peter's hand before it disappeared for a moment, causing his eyes to snap open to follow its course to the blanket before returning to his hand. Hazily, he wondered what important thing was in his head that required tending, but he recognized Peter's settling body language and he stopped thinking about it. It felt really good. So good, it drew a lazy hum from him. No one was leaving, nothing was happening, and they could both sleep more.
XXX
Peter woke again, this time without the feeling of still being in a dream. This seemed real. Or as real as anything was likely to feel when he woke up with Sylar's head in his lap. Not for the first time, it struck Peter that Sylar was a singularly good-looking man. He was, at the moment, not at his best – pale, stubbly, drawn, and features slack with slumber. He was still firmly holding Peter's hand, though, which made Peter smile softly. With his other hand, Peter touched Sylar's hair, just skimming his fingertips along and through it. He knew, or expected, that it would wake Sylar eventually. That was okay – and part of the intention. Peter needed to urinate and he expected they both needed to eat. Waking Sylar was necessary. After a few minutes of gently playing with the man's hair, Peter gave his right hand a light squeeze, then moved it back and forth on Sylar's chest. "Hey," he said quietly. An awareness of the horrible things Sylar had done in his life flitted through Peter's mind, but it was like fog in the morning sun compared to the reality of the emotionally frail human being lying with him. Peter didn't want to dwell on those things, so he didn't. He just wanted to see Sylar wake and smile. He looked down and smiled himself at the sleepy man.
XXX
At first, Sylar couldn't see who was touching his hair. It didn't bother him, in fact, he liked it a lot. Was it Elle or Lydia? Perhaps his mother or…Angela? Was Angela his mother-? But no, she never really did that to Nathan…Sylar's head jerked and he inhaled quickly, squeezing back on the hand that gripped him. What? When his eyes fluttered open, he saw Peter's happy, handsome face. Such a baby face still, almost feminine, even after maturation. Normally, he might have found that face, looming over him like now, to be threatening. But the smile surprised him and his eyes continued to widen until he could figure it out, until he was gazing up at Peter wonderingly. He would be content to stay and puzzle it out provided nothing changed about the situation.
XXX
Peter moved his right hand back and forth a bit more strongly, rubbing it against Sylar's chest in a very light sternum rub. He lifted his brows. "You're going to have to let me go. I need to get up."
XXX
"No, I don't," Sylar mumbled. "No, you don't." He frowned, feeling irrationally growing upset, too soon for so early in the morning. He wanted to stay and feel human with this tiny sliver of a moment of normality.
XXX
Peter raised his brows in amusement at Sylar's refutation. "I have to go pee," he said, giving Sylar something that was tougher to argue against. Peter gestured with his head towards a door on the left side of the room. "There's a locker room in there," he said with certainty, "along with a bathroom and some showers. I won't be long." He scooted to the side with enough warning that Sylar's head wouldn't flop to the couch unless Sylar let it, then disentangled his hand and let himself out of the room.
XXX
Peter slid away and Sylar caught his head before craning his neck to look where Peter had indicated. Wait, where are we? A lounge? He rolled and turned partly onto his side, with many protests from his back and arms. He felt too hot under the blanket but too cold without it as he looked around the lounge, noting the fallen backpack in the doorway. He did not like the look of the hallway. This can't be the hospital. There's no way I stayed there, slept here, with Peter Petrelli touching me. "What happened?" he called after his companion before dragging himself upright, forgetting the blanket momentarily in his quest for answers. It was an accusation as he'd intended. "Did you drug me, Petrelli?" He'd opened the door to the men's locker room and stood in the doorway. Perhaps that explained why he'd slept so soundly with no thought of complaint about his couch-partner.
XXX
Peter moved to the urinal, intent on continuing with his business despite Sylar's ridiculous accusation. "No," he said baldly, unzipping his fly. "Why?"
XXX
"You're telling me I slept in a hospital, with you, of my own choice?" Sylar spared a glance at what Peter was obviously about to do. He could see nothing at this angle and there were more important things to think about. (Is he really going to do that now?)
XXX
Oh. That's why. It was...disappointing. He didn't seem that unhappy when it was happening. Peter shot Sylar a glance over his shoulder. "There's a blizzard going on outside, or at least there was last night." He turned back, focusing on making water. It wasn't easy with the guy who had killed him multiple times and members of his family as well, standing in the doorway nearby interrogating him, and Peter being a little uncertain if this might suddenly escalate. If it does, then it does. "We tried to leave. Didn't work." He managed to get his bladder to cooperate, finally.
XXX
Sylar just blinked, stunned. He remembered those events, but still had questions. "Why were you touching my hair?" Did he do something to me? A brief check of his hands – long, thin fingers and recognizable fingernails and hairy forearms and wrists proved his identity. An additional glance in one of the mirrors hanging above the sink showed his long, scruffy, pale face, with his own eyes and teeth. There were no scars, scabs, or marks anywhere visible on his head.
XXX
Peter waited until he was done before answering. What he wanted to say immediately was 'You told me I could touch you however I wanted' or point out how Sylar had specifically said touching his hair was okay some days ago. Both sounded defensive, which was never the right tactic to use with someone who was on the attack. He zipped his fly shut and moved to the sink to wash up. "You have very nice hair," he said appreciatively.
XXX
Another blink to process that and he shook his head. "Um…T-thank you, but we need to leave. Right now." His body language was serious and tensing up with the realities of their situation. He waited for Peter to snap-to, grab his gear, and follow.
XXX
Peter tore off a couple tan paper towels to dry his hands, turning to face Sylar as he did it. The 'right now' led him to lean against the sink behind him, refusing to be hurried. "We did it your way last night. You almost froze to death." An exaggeration, but so was Sylar's fear of being here. "Today we're doing it my way. That means we're going to get ready, make sure you're well, eat a good breakfast, and figure out how we can do this – safely." He threw the wad of used paper towels in the trash and straightened, taking a few steps forward and squaring off with Sylar. "My goal is to get both of us home. It's not far. I don't know how much snow we're dealing with out there or what the weather is, but I figure we can make it if we work together and plan it out. I'm shit for planning. You're going to have to help me. Let's do this together. Okay?" Peter's tone was a questioning challenge, both asking and demanding that Sylar work with him towards the common goal of exactly what Sylar wanted to achieve – getting back home.
XXX
Sylar rose up to his full height to stare down at Peter. Usually, the man's stubborn, righteous behavior was almost endearing, attractive in the way it stood out from the normal and the weak, even sexy in its commanding nature. Leave it to Peter Petrelli to challenge him in a damn hospital about what represented one of his greatest terrors. If the situation had been, well, elsewhere he might have been tempted…Sylar spared a glance up Peter's form, lingering at groin, chest, neck, and lips. The Italian, as a whole, had his attention and he was listening. It was an interesting argument: 'do it my way, get what you want.' He badly wanted to push the man's buttons and refuse and make him feel…what Sylar felt. (Maybe they left me…left us alone because he was with me…) I may need him. The compliment to his planning and Peter's admitted weakness had the intended effect of luring him in on impulse. He needs me. "Fine," he allowed because he was being asked, not commanded. "Let's get started then," he said as he turned on his heel to exit the men's room. He saw a water fountain between the bathrooms and noticed his mouth was dry. Ignoring it for now, he was pleased to see Peter had followed him out. He went to the couch and took up the blanket in preparation to leave the lounge and the hospital. "I'm read-…" he began and trailed off when Peter went for his backpack, pulling out a harmless toothbrush. "We could die horribly and you want to stick around so you can prevent gingivitis?" he asked with blistering sarcasm hidden beneath a disbelieving tone. Sylar was proud of the medical terminology, using it to prove his health.
XXX
"If I die horribly, I don't want the last thing I taste to be morning-mouth." More likely, it will be my own blood. The thought made him queasy, even though and mostly because he'd tasted it often enough. With a glance at Sylar, Peter moved to the sink in the lounge instead of the one in the locker room bathroom. This way, Sylar wasn't so pointedly following him around.