Day 74, February 22, Morning
Peter dropped the blanket to the counter next to him and shrugged back into his coat. Referring to the fabric Sylar had tossed at him, Peter asked, "What's that for?" He zipped his coat shut, pulled the hood on, tied it down, and sealed the throat latch over the tie. He pulled close the other items he would be using – the pack and gloves. He looked over at the headband that Sylar was ignoring for now. If Sylar wouldn't use it, then Peter didn't want to leave it behind.
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"A backpack, gloves, and a headband? Where do you think you're going?" He asked in what might have sounded like a hunter asking pointless questions of his prey. "Put it on," Sylar commanded with a glance at the blanket. Someone has to take care of your dumb ass.
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Peter frowned at Sylar and put on his backpack instead. He knew perfectly well what Sylar was telling him to do, but he pretended to misunderstand. He shrugged his shoulders into the pack and squared off with Sylar, looking at him with half mischief and half challenge, his face making it clear he was being obstinate on purpose, just to see what Sylar would do.
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An intimidating stare was leveled at Petrelli. What the hell is he doing? Sylar paused in the act of situating his own blanket. "Put it on," he rather pointlessly repeated himself.
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They were about to head out into the snow, possibly into the continuing blizzard. Given all the negative thoughts he'd harbored on the walk over, Peter needed to know, on a gut level, if Sylar was with him, philosophically speaking. Would he stick with him if things became difficult, or would he dump him or turn on him if dealing with Peter wasn't easy street? With the hood up, Peter couldn't toss his hair like he wanted to, so he made do with pushing a few wayward locks off of his forehead and under the hood. "Come over here and make me," he said with a light snort, his tone both dismissive and playful.
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Sylar's eyes narrowed. The thought of why Peter would test him here, now, in his condition, when he couldn't easily escape…it made no sense. Then there was that tone, the body language that had shifted just now. If Peter wanted to fight, Sylar would oblige and be in the right because the Italian was being…being…His face shifted into determination and he took up the blanket meant for the other man and advanced on him, dropping it over his head and around down his back, maintaining a hold on it to keep it in place.
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"Hey!" Peter complained, pushing Sylar lightly with one hand and grabbing a part of the blanket with another. Peter had three different directions he could have dodged to, but he stayed right where he was, for the same reason he hadn't shoved Sylar hard enough to upset the man's balance, and he wasn't jerking on the blanket enough to substantially interfere with what Sylar was doing.
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Sylar quickly compensated by standing much closer to him, holding him there by way of his grip on the blanket around Peter. I'm losing my mind in this place. (What am I doing?) I need him to get me out of here. He switched gears and opened the man's jacket to shove the ends of the blanket into it, feeling a thrill of…something going on. Definitely something. He's letting me help, allowing me to touch him when he usually likes to touch me.
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Peter let the manhandling go on for a while before finally smiling and pushing Sylar away more firmly. "Okay, I got it," he muttered. "I got it." Peter finishing tucking everything in securely, reaching past Sylar to pick up the headband. He slipped it over the top of the blanket that was draped over his head. He was sure it left him looking like an Arab wearing a ghutrah, but it was better to be unusual-looking than frostbitten. He pulled on his gloves and looked to Sylar with an amused expression. He had the answer he wanted. "Happy now?"
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He got the message after a pitifully weak and obviously fake struggle and Peter's voice became unmistakably firm. Sylar exhaled and stepped back. If we weren't in a fucking hospital, I would ravish him right now. Because Peter was playing with him, teasing him, testing him, drawing him in to play games and so rarely did anyone play a decent game with him. "Yes," Sylar rumbled after breaking from his trance. Maybe it was something in the meds, the food…
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Peter moved to the doors. He could see now why the outside had looked so unremarkable earlier when he'd glanced this way. Facing north as it did, the ER entrance had accumulated an intimidating swath of snow that reached all the way up the glass. It was solid snow except for the top few inches, too high to be useful in gaging what was out there. Either that, or the blizzard had dumped so much white stuff that it would be over their heads everywhere. That didn't make sense for New York, but then again, they weren't in New York. "Looks like we're going to have to dig. Let's hope that's just a drift. If it's not...well, we won't get very far from here."
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He felt ragged and unprepared to face the toils of Nature again. Sylar doubted his own strength, but not his motivation to leave. "We should get something to dig with." I don't have gloves.
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Peter nodded, raising his gloves to show he was equipped fine for the moment. As for Sylar, he suggested, "There should be some plastic clipboards over at the reception desk, for admitting. Go grab one of those. I'll see what we're dealing with." He stepped forward and triggered the second set of doors, which started to open, then froze up. Peter shoved them apart and tested the snow. At waist level, it was solid to moderate pressure. At chest level, though, it indented a few inches. When he reached upward, he was able to slap the snow out of the way. It was only a few inches thick there. It still looked gloomy beyond it – no bright, post-storm sun had yet made an appearance. Peter frowned.
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Sylar spared his companion with a knowing look. It was my idea. But he followed his own wisdom and considered that it was fortunate to have plastic clipboards instead of the fake wooden ones – they wouldn't last long if they had to do any prolonged, serious, wet digging. Although the plastic still might break under the same conditions. At the reception desk, he found one transparent purple clipboard and a search yielded another blue one from a drawer. He returned to Peter with both items.
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He glanced back at Sylar. "Hang on. I think we can climb out of here." Peter shoved a shoulder into and against the massed snow, buckling it back and away. It didn't collapse as neatly as he'd hoped, but it was clear they weren't dealing with an unnatural, apocalyptic snowfall. You never can tell around here. He shoved at it some more. Snow had cascaded inside and started to melt in the warmer air. "Okay, maybe dig a little and then we'll climb." He backed up to let Sylar shovel some of the snow out of the way with the clipboard.
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I'm the one with a shredded back and fever here. I'm not your slave. Sylar arched an eyebrow at all the commanding going on. To make his displeasure more clear, he solidly thwacked Peter with his designated – purple – clipboard. With that, he began to chip downwards into the snow wall, using gravity and fewer back muscles to aid him. Fortunately, it was melty closest to them and he hoped he didn't encounter any ice. If he did hit ice, he'd resort to throwing the shorter Petrelli over the wall because a clipboard (nor a shovel) would cut it. Sylar made one foothold, reluctant to do more work than necessary because it didn't have to look pretty to be serviceable. After that, he took a half-step back, panting from even that small exertion.
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Peter took the whack and moved further out of the way, registering Sylar's disapproval. Sylar dug as Peter considered what he'd done to provoke it. He's digging and I'm standing here. That must be it. But there's not room for both of us in there. "I can get out, then I'll pull you up. Okay?" Peter stepped past, climbed up the rough steps Sylar's clipboard digging had left, and then braced his legs on the top of the door frame to push himself out the rest of the way. He rolled to his back and wallowed, compacting the snow and leaving a smooth stretch before he pulled himself all the way out. A quick glance around confirmed that the snow sloped down fast to a more rational depth. Peter turned back and positioned himself to reach in. "It looks fine out here. It's just all drifted up against the building. We can make it. Give me your-" His voice cut off mid-sentence as the parallels of the situation caught up to him.
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"But I'm taller…" Sylar protested. And weaker. And my back hurts. The painkillers had kicked in, but spikes of pain still shot through him when his clothing shifted against his skin. For a moment he worried that Peter might leave him, but he dismissed that is ridiculous for several reasons – the first being that he was capable of getting out on his own without Petrelli's help. He thought nothing of it when the empath extended his hands, so he reached out to grip them…
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Peter was reaching down to pull Sylar up, at a hospital. The mental image of Nathan hanging off the edge of the building hit him hard – and Sylar walking away afterward with that stupid salute. Peter's expression changed, dulling out and hardening at the same time. He jerked his hands back as Sylar reached for them. "No!" His voice was firm and angry.
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Peter made a sharp, angry exclamation that was a warning – a negative reaction to something. Instantly, Sylar retracted his own hands as if he'd been burned and stood there, not taking the steps back that he wanted to in order to show that he wasn't afraid. But he stared wide-eyed as the realization came over him and he could see it on Peter's face, all the feelings, all the history. He remembered taking Peter's hand when it was offered – as a brother, a comfort, and a friend. Peter had helped him to his feet after the fight when he'd said, 'I'm tired, Pete.' And Peter hadn't wanted to listen or let go. Sylar bit his lip, then shoved his fist between his teeth to keep it together, making some effort to appear that he was…doing something other than muzzling himself from spewing the whole dialogue that Peter was already re-living. A panicked glance behind him showed still no ambush or threat but he could hardly believe that because of how badly the original trip to Mercy had gone – how easy it was supposed to be to ambush Angela and terrorize Peter and how the medic had turned his own trap against him.
He could still taste the blood in his mouth and smell the lumber, plaster, and dust of the basement before the clearer air of the rooftop. It was bitter to have this thrown in his face over so insignificant a thing, just when he needed Peter arguably the most. /'You were standing up there on that ledge…Like an idiot.'/ No! Fuck you! I don't need this! This is his fault! Sylar turned away, wanting to repeatedly slam his fist into the ice, or maybe into Peter for bringing it up again, or into the door perhaps until the emotions gave out and he would resign himself to dying, alone, likely trapped in this place. I'll leave. There are other exits. There's no points waiting for-
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Breathing harder, Peter looked down at the snow, jaw clenching. "Wait, please," he said much more calmly, almost as a question. He was very glad now that he'd teased Sylar into taking care of him earlier with the makeshift blanket/scarf. If Sylar was patient enough for that, then maybe he would be patient enough for Peter to get past this. "It's a different situation. This is different." Peter swallowed, muttering to himself even though he knew Sylar could hear him.
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Sylar wasn't one step into walking away; in fact, he'd barely turned away when he heard the plea. He stopped, if only to listen to the beginning of whatever wrath Peter wanted to hurl. The stupid spark of hope fluttered a little stronger when Peter spoke, roughly but obviously putting in the effort. (Is it? Is it different? Now do you understand how bad it is?) And Peter did understand it now, this time on the most personal level. He didn't pause for more than a few seconds before pivoting so his left shoulder faced Peter, a more conversational body language than before. It's not different. I'm still me, I deserve to die and be dropped off a damn building so high that I can't regenerate. (I don't need your pity), he thought grimly.
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"What a fucking time to have a-" Peter shook his head, not willing to label this as a panic attack. "We've got to do this together." He fumbled with the gloves, pulling them off while a part of his brain played over how he'd struggled to hold Nathan's weight, to pull him up, how he'd yelled at Nathan to pull himself up because Peter didn't have the strength to do it. And it had never been Nathan at all, only Sylar, who was, right now, waiting for him to pull himself together and help him. Peter set the gloves to the side and rubbed his hands together, looking back to Sylar in case the man had an answer, or advice. The idea of extending his hand and feeling Sylar's weight, pulling him up, was fucking Peter up – tightening his chest and making it hard to breathe. But he knew that was what he needed to do.
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In a defeated tone, Sylar said, "Yeah. Okay." He turned back fully now, approaching the snow wall rapidly and slammed his clipboard down into it with fervor, making a second foothold for himself. We should use a fucking different door! But he wanted this hindrance. He gasped audibly now, upset and helpless, between rapid strokes of shoveling, hacking at the barrier to relieve some of the situation. He hoped Peter wouldn't do or say anything, not that he could hear it over the sound of his activity. He didn't want to talk about it or hear himself think. He didn't need as much energy as he was exerting, though he kept on until he quickly cleared a foothold larger than the first. Sylar panted and gasped now, feeling little better, more drained and shaky inside and out, but he took only a moment to gather himself and struggle up to use the step.
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Peter's eyes widened at the violence Sylar displayed, but it was (safely) directed at the snow. After several seconds of simply watching, the tension eased from Peter's frame. There were things they could do other than be upset. He pulled his gloves back on and wriggled to the side, flattening the snow in a space big enough for both of them. When Sylar came up the step, Peter extended his arm in a hook shape and braced himself. "Use my arm. Climb over me if you have to." He could have backed out and let Sylar get out by himself, but he wanted to help.
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Sylar found himself making something of a snort at the offer. Climb over you, huh? Well, he invited me to…But he didn't do it. He didn't want Peter's help any more, at least, not in any sort of grabbing, holding, lifting fashion. It didn't work out quite that way. There was nothing to grip except mobile snow after he jumped and lifted himself up sufficiently high. He was taller and didn't have to work so hard in that respect. He was forced to grab onto Peter's coat and arm to lever himself outward and atop of the drift, his back pulling tight. After that, he managed to turn sideways a bit so he wasn't face first down the hill, fortunately not rolling enough to slide on his back.
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Peter scooted backwards and stumbled down the slope after Sylar, drawing up next to him in calf-deep snow. A beat passed with neither of them speaking. I guess we're not talking about what just happened. "Hold still," Peter said quietly, brushing the snow off Sylar's side. "The less of this there is to melt on you, the better off you'll be." He did a more thorough job than was necessary, wanting the contact (indirect as it was through gloves and heavy clothing) for reassurance since conversation wasn't happening. When Sylar was clean enough that there was no excuse for continuing to pat him, Peter left off and gestured down the street in unspoken invitation to get going.
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Since he hadn't done anything – recently – wrong, Sylar didn't expect any violence though he thought it justified. So when he glanced at Peter as he came in to groom him, his face held little wariness, more…vulnerability and weariness. His back felt stretched and dry. It was a strange sensation of cold/friction with Peter batting away at his clothing. It didn't seem very necessary but he didn't shirk it. He stood, took it, and tried not to make any awkward eye contact. "Thanks," he mumbled shortly and fluffed at Peter's coat briefly before beginning to shuffle through what was still knee-deep snow.
The sky was the most threatening part. It was still gray and heavy, but the wind and cold were more normal, with snow being blown about. Sylar exhaled a relieved puff of warm breath into the air, hands shoved in his pockets. I just want to get home, anywhere but here. He cast a suspicious, parting glance at the E.R. After all this time, it didn't dull his instincts to run and hide himself in the non-existent crowd so he couldn't be found. He didn't see anyone or anything amiss and when he turned back, he found that he'd shuffled closer to Peter. A checking glance showed the man was getting over it as best he could under the circumstances, but Sylar still gave him more space. He didn't trust anything now. He continued to look behind them every so often to reassure himself that they weren't being followed but that didn't mean much when the Company was so good at bagging and tagging. Likely they were allowed to leave and would face a trap up ahead somewhere. "We should take side roads," he said quietly after a few moments of trudging. "They might have let us leave. I didn't hurt anyone – at the hospital, at Mercy," he blurted nervously. He wanted to keep Peter on his side but after the man had flashbacks…
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Peter looked back, scanning the snow behind them. It was pristine except where they'd walked. "Maybe," he allowed. "But the less time we're out here, the less time we'll be in danger. Let's take the most direct route. It's not snowing enough to hide our tracks. We're going to leave a clear trail wherever we go." He chose his words carefully. Peter wasn't in agreement with whatever worrisome persecution delusion Sylar had going on, but he didn't want to create mistrust by contradicting it. So for now, he molded his statements to fit Sylar's version of reality.
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Sylar pursed his lips. Peter had a point – both routes had their pros and cons. The safer route was more dangerous for weather, the shorter because of the possibility of attack, and neither would hide their tracks so… "Hmmph," Sylar grunted affirmation, not necessarily thrilled about it.
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A few strides later, he added, "I know – about how everyone was okay at Mercy. I checked in with them after you left." He waited a few beats before saying, "That's part of why I let it be. I didn't follow you. I didn't try again. For one, I didn't think neutralizing your abilities would work on you a second time. For two, it really hadn't worked even then. And three…" Peter shrugged. "I was hoping if you were…Nathan…then you'd come back on your own and if you weren't…then…I-" He shook his head. "I didn't know what I was supposed to do, but starting more shit with you when I didn't understand what had happened sounded stupid." He closed the gap that had opened up between himself and Sylar, preferring to stay within arm's reach or less in case one of them stumbled.
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Sylar was shaking his head before Peter was finished. "You did no such thing. I fucked you up by forcing you to drop-…me," he finished quietly, almost uncertain of himself, but more concerned with how Peter would handle that identification. It wasn't a secret. "You accepted that he was dead. You mourned. You must have went to his funeral." The last was also uncertain, considerably desperate with questioning. "I-I don't want to talk. Not now. Maybe not ever." They both needed to get home and having an argument or a fight was ill advised. The blanket around his head and throat was very beneficial, acting as a hood he could burrow into for warmth or protection.
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Peter arched a brow at Sylar, though it probably went unseen given the hood and blanket. The tilt of his head was apparent, though. "You fucked me up, alright," he said. His voice was tight. He could feel the tension rising inside of him. He looked away and tried to quell it, stomping through the snow with more energy than necessary. "It's not on my top ten list of things I want to discuss with Sylar, either." Which was not true and Peter knew it. He was desperate to talk through those events with someone, anyone, and especially with Sylar. But this wasn't the time. They weren't going to have a productive conversation out here trudging through the snow, yet on the other hand, he didn't want to just fall silent and let his overactive imagination fill his mind with another recounting of the events of that night at Mercy Hospital.
"Was that revenge fucking you mentioned earlier, or was it something else?" he blurted out, a slightly aggressive tone to his voice.
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Sylar allowed the other man's emotion to pass him by. This wasn't the time even if he did want to engage or if he had anything to say (which he didn't, beyond pointing out that he'd been fucked over in the process too. That still wasn't relevant). He knew Petrelli was lying about not wanting to talk about it but that wasn't important. "If you want it to be…" Sylar hedged. "Of course it can be something else."
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"You described it as...cathartic." Peter mulled over what Sylar had meant, exactly, by his statements from before. Sylar had called it therapeutic, too. Was it an invitation to intimacy and perhaps the support Peter had meant when he'd spoke of self-medicating with sex, or was Sylar talking about something rougher, like the whole whipping thing? "What if I hurt you?"
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A checking side-glance showed him that Peter was thinking about it. "That's an option. I would expect it, but you don't have to. Just…do whatever you did with those other people, 'get loaded' if you have to." He shrugged, less than thrilled at the prospect of being fucked by a rough drunk. It would be too easy for Peter to imagine he was fucking someone else and not connecting with Sylar. Offering up 'anything' too blatantly made him feel extremely cheap and desperate.
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Peter huffed. He shook his head with exasperation. "You don't get me. I'm not going to use you like that. Or anyone. That's not what I'm about." He hunched into his coat, grousing, "Never mind. I shouldn't have even brought it up. It's stupid." It had, at least, gotten his mind off the hospital.
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"What I think about it is irrelevant. It's–" Sylar began to blurt that it 'isn't about you' before he caught himself. And Peter was fooling himself because he had used people before, probably not violently, but used them all the same. It would be interesting to experience how Peter was with other, normal, acceptable bed partners. He wondered again why it was so imperative that Peter understand this or his compulsion to offer himself again and again. He knew the answer to the last question. Having any meaning in this empty world could only come through sex with Peter. "It's not about what I think of you, it's about what I'm offering. If you don't want that, then you don't have to do that; it's simple. Use me how you want. That's the point. If you weren't horny, you wouldn't have asked."
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Peter shook his head, gritted his teeth, and rolled his eyes so hard his head tracked with the motion. "You're still not getting it." He sighed angrily. "It's cold. We have a long way to go. Neither of us got much sleep. Let's talk about this tomorrow or something." Or never. Never is good, if we're talking about the when, where, and how I might have sex with Sylar. He shook his head again, trudging through the knee-deep snow, determined to get where they were going. The faster he did that, the faster Sylar would be taken care of, and the faster Peter could bow out and get on with his life here, alone, and away from Mr. Doesn't-Get-It. Peter chafed, irritable and uncomfortable with the subject, but tried not to inflict his mood on his companion any more than necessary. He buried his gloved hands in the big pockets of the heavy down coat and continued on.
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Sylar understood that much. What he didn't grasp was Peter's mood and where the other man thought a conversation was implied by Sylar's statements. I'm not getting it and he's still not listening. The Italian was right – it was frustrating. The snow was high enough to make travel slow and with no other dialogue he was forced to pay attention to that.
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The walk from hospital to their apartments was not an epic journey of obstacles and leagues. It was only a mile or so, down flat roads, and a fairly straight route once you knew where you were going. Peter's problems with it before had been due first to retracing a course which hadn't been direct to start with, and then on coming back, doing so at night, in a snowstorm, and slipping and hurting himself so badly on the ice-covered streets that he feared he might get stranded and die of hypothermia. His later trips had been fine. Getting to the hospital the day before, even in the face of a mounting blizzard, had been survivable. By the time they'd reached the ER, Peter had been cold even through the coat, but his thinking had been fairly clear. Today was largely the same – the snow wasn't falling as fast, the air was warmer, and the wind wasn't whipping as badly, but the downside was having to slog through snow that ranged from ankle to knee deep and generally being on the high end of that range. Having good shoes was nice, but it didn't save his legs from being stiff, cold, and soaked. They were almost home. He knew he'd be fine once they got there. Sylar, though, he worried about.
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Sylar's jeans quickly became soaked and a cold interference between himself and the snow. It kept the snow out of his shoes and socks (for the most part). It was miserable, but he wasn't alone in that suffering. His back made him tired and the constant heavy-lifting of knees got to him after the halfway mark. The blanket around his head, neck, and chest was a boon, but his legs and hands were practically exposed. Sylar allowed his brain to fuzz out rather than focus on the depressing problem of Peter's inhibitions. He'll probably leave me after he cleans my back. If he remembers. He forgot last time. It's not important, he told himself. I'll live. He felt like whining about stopping anywhere else along the way to curl up together so he could catch his breath, but the image of his own bed at the Pegasus kept him going. The snow seemed to get more slippery the closer they got to the suite, his balance wavering several times.
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At first, Peter thought Sylar was struggling with the occasional icy patches hidden under the snow. Then he realized what was happening. His next few steps brought him to Sylar's side. He said nothing as he slipped an arm under Sylar's and around his back, looping Sylar's arm over Peter's shoulders. He did it as a natural and expected thing to do for someone. Fortunately, they had less than a block to go.
The warm air of the Pegasus building's entryway and then lobby had never felt so welcome. He immediately stomped off what clinging snow he could from his feet and legs, watching to see if Sylar did the same. Peter hung onto Sylar – one hand on his wrist and the other around his lower back – even after they were inside the elevator and heading up. He'd let go of Sylar's wrist briefly to hit the buttons, then renewed his grip. Now he grimaced a few times to get his cold lips to work and asked, "Are you still with me, buddy?"
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He didn't think his stumbling had been so apparent. Though it was a relief when Peter latched on to support him. He grasped onto the shoulder of Peter's coat even as Peter held that same wrist. Sylar still wanted to make some excuse but the breath of warm air in the building distracted him. He'd been panting fairly hard for half the trip. Petrelli continued to hold onto him so Sylar made a paltry effort at knocking snow from his own shoes, following Peter's example. It wasn't a big deal – any snow they tracked in would quickly melt in the lobby. "Yes," he muttered softly, but audibly. "I'm fine," he protested. He didn't let go or move away from Peter. If I'm fine, maybe he won't scrape up my back again. Maybe he'll just sleep here like normal.
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Once inside the penthouse, Peter took Sylar to the bed, dropping him down to sit. Peter stripped off the gloves, which felt next to useless for keeping his hands warm even though he knew they'd helped him enormously on the walk. Sylar had not had that advantage. Peter tossed the gloves aside on the floor, along with his hospital-blanket headdress. Then he reached for Sylar's hands, pulling them to him and up under his coat, putting them directly on what was probably the warmest reachable part of his body. "Put your hands on me." Peter's face contorted at the sting of ice-cold digits against him, but he dropped his coat over Sylar's hands and pressed them to his sides despite the discomfort. He took a deep breath and tried to figure out what his best course of action was.
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Sylar followed the motion, more collapsing to sit on the bed. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This is my plan. I'm supposed to be the leader. He knew Peter didn't approve of any of his methods and most of his motivations – that left Petrelli with the moral high ground and Sylar unable to suck up. It should be me helping him home, dropping him on the bed, taking care of him. Not paying attention to what Peter was doing, Sylar didn't know what to do with his hands. If he'd had more clothes off, he would have shoved his hands under his armpits or his thighs, but both were covered with damp, cold clothing. He didn't want to move until he was warmer even if moving to strip would make him warmer faster; it seemed like too much effort. His face had mercifully begun to thaw, but he wasn't up for big expressions. Peter took care of that by taking up his hands and shoving them beneath his shirt and against the bare skin of his sides, making Sylar gasp on instinct and a little embarrassment. It felt really good, but he knew it was painful for Peter and that sacrifice made him uncomfortable. It also felt wrong to touch Peter Petrelli like this, even in a moment of legitimate need. A few glances showed Peter wasn't concerned about any of it and that wasn't much help. He hoped his shudders didn't transfer into Peter's body because it felt like weakness and an obvious lack of control for a robot, or killer, or watchmaker.
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Peter lifted his hands and flexed his fingers. He struggled with the throat latch of his coat for several moments until he finally managed to pull the Velcro free. Then there was another effort to get the ties for the hood loosened enough that Peter could shove it off his head. Unzipping his coat only took a downward swipe of his hand once he made it that far. He reached over and pulled off Sylar's blanket-covering and tossed it in the same direction as his own. Then he balled his fists into his own neck, needing to warm his fingers up before trying anything with the buttons on Sylar's clothes. "Put your face against me. Like we did yesterday."
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Sylar grunted when the makeshift cowl was removed, but it wasn't much of a complaint. The seemingly hot air rushed in over his neck and face and damp hair. "No," he mumbled firmly, reaching out with his left hand to snatch one of Peter's wrists when Peter went to warm his hands against his own throat. Sylar brought the other man's hand to his own neck, uncaring of where it landed, in his hair or under the neckline of his shirt. It wasn't unbearably cold. Sylar's feet and legs were the worst. Petrelli's hands were a medium temperature that would quickly adjust to his increasing body heat and it would feel better than the empath trying to warm himself. It felt dangerous (and he couldn't decide if that was good or bad) to have Peter's hands touching him there. That done, assuming Peter would follow the instruction, he returned his palm to the flesh of Peter's side and his face pressed to Peter's cotton-covered abdomen. He sighed and relaxed a little.
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Peter inhaled just as sharply as Sylar had at having his hand taken and placed on the other man. He froze for a beat, considering the impact of putting his chilled hands directly over the major veins and arteries in Sylar's body. It was not a good thing for warming Sylar up. On the other hand, the faster my hands warm up, the faster I can help him. Tentatively, Peter added his other hand and settled his fingers over the trapezius muscles at the top of Sylar's shoulders. As Sylar took him up on the offer of warming his face against Peter's core, Peter turned his hands and brought his fingers up the nape of Sylar's neck, under his hair. He wished his skin wasn't as numb as it was. He would have loved to have felt the fine hair that brushed against him. He curled his fingers in and drew them down the sides of Sylar's throat – the backs of his fingers against Sylar's skin so there was no hinted threat of choking the man. Peter leaned into him, basking in the experience, warming up and occasionally shivering. When his hands had enough dexterity to do what he needed with them, he reluctantly gave up the enjoyable process of touching Sylar's body. He reached down and started unbuttoning Sylar's coat. "Same as last time, buddy. Out of the wet clothes. You're going to be okay." After the coat, he went to Sylar's feet, taking off shoes, then socks, and then looking up to Sylar's face as Peter made a gesture towards Sylar's waist. "I'm going to take off your pants, then you can get under the covers. Okay?"
XXX
The warmer he became, the more tiredness tried to drag him down. He felt drained in a hungry, thirsty way (not in any kind of sexual metaphor for once, but intimate contact would be most welcome if Peter stayed). He felt battered. He looked up at Peter, who was unbuttoning his coat for him so dutifully. The mention of 'okay' made him mildly suspicious that Peter was lying, but he'd died plenty of times to know that he wasn't dying now. He probably could have managed it by himself, most of it anyway. Sylar found he wanted the attention even as he felt disgusted for his selfishness because if Peter was helping him then Peter wasn't helping himself. His throat tight, Sylar answered, "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say besides an out-of-place, unwelcome, awkward apology.
Peter unfastened and shucked his pants with far more grace and ease than Sylar could have managed. It's the leverage and angles, he thought randomly. He felt much safer in the Pegasus suite, their own little fortress. The possibility that they'd been followed or tracked was still a concern. Even wearing Peter's underwear was okay right now. It was better than nothing or a meager blanket held over himself like before. Sylar plucked at the buttons of his dress shirt, wanting the clammy, sweaty thing off him before he slid beneath the covers. He made a few noises at his own clumsiness in the process. The feelings of frustrated pain was a continuous cycle between his mind and his body, each feeding the other.
XXX
Peter threw the pants on the growing pile of wet clothes. He left Sylar to deal with his shirt and then tuck himself in as Peter turned to his own shoes and socks, and then peeled off his equally wet jeans. He tossed his coat aside, too. He was clad in only a t-shirt and underwear now. Sylar wore underwear and his singlet. Peter considered trying to get something hot to drink into both of them, but Sylar was shivering too badly to manage a cup. So instead, Peter climbed in bed with him. "Roll over. We'll spoon. It's okay."
XXX
It would only be a matter of time until he was warm, beneath the sheets. There was no help for his legs, feeling like solid ice and making the rest of him worse off. He spared a tired glance over Peter's body in only the man's chosen pajamas. He felt stupid for shivering still, looking pathetic and vulnerable. I should tell him I'm fine. While working up the words, Peter approached him and got into the bed. That was another instant relief and even more interesting when Peter moved under the sheets to be as close as possible. There were no spoons or food in the immediate area and that was what his brain stuck on. Spoon what? he thought in confusion that only lasted a few seconds when Peter didn't keep his distance. Oh, okay. Sylar accepted that too easily when they were both only dressed in underwear and shirts. Rolling over took several more seconds and then there was the comforting heat of Peter's body pressed all against him in ways that shouldn't feel as good as it did. This would help Peter, too.
XXX
Peter wrapped himself around the other man as best he could with someone several inches taller. He hooked his arms around Sylar's belly and laid his face sideways on the man's back. The worst of the belt strokes had been to either side, mostly on Sylar's right where the end of the lash had cut deepest. Peter tried to stay away from that part, but otherwise tucked himself up flush. Sylar's legs were as worrisomely icy as his hands. Peter didn't have any quick solutions for that – warming Sylar's core was the most important thing right now. Getting him dry, insulated, and sharing body heat was the best course, while letting Sylar's body go through the natural process of warming itself from the inside out.
XXX
Having Peter hold him so thoroughly broke what was left of the terror and knife-edge of stress and distress that had bound him up for the past two days. It was sick, he knew, to take such comfort from the person who wouldn't hesitate to destroy his mind and replace it with someone 'better.' Shortly after feeling Peter's arms around him, Sylar laid his top-most arm around Peter's – almost as if they would hold hands, and their hands were close, but…What was even more wrong was trying to connect with Peter Petrelli. There were limits; even Peter had limits and that was one of them. Holding hands wasn't something he was cut out for even when he had functioning hands and the desire to hold someone else's. It wasn't sexual. That always surprised him when he found some sensation like this, non-threatening (for now) and pleasant, that he couldn't categorize. The other man's warmth surrounded him and helped heat him from all sides it felt like, soaking into his back. Sylar closed his eyes and nearly slumped as much as he could with the rhythmic spasms of shivering.
XXX
Tiredness sunk through Peter, dragging him down with it. It wasn't just this morning's walk, but the cumulative effect of both days, little sleep, and all three marches through the cold. He felt Sylar's shudders become intermittent and finally cease altogether. Only the deep, slow motions of somnolent breathing were left. Peter retracted his arm that Sylar was lying on, that he'd previously wormed under Sylar's body to better hold them together. Now it was more comfortable to fold it between them. His other arm he left wound around Sylar's waist, tucked there by Sylar's arm. He could have risen, made coffee, maybe showered...but he was tired. Sylar was asleep and slowly warming up. The realization that he could rest, finally, swept through Peter. His eyes slid shut and he joined his partner in sleep.