Day 74, February 22, Afternoon

Groggy, Sylar awoke to the knowledge that Peter was spooning him tightly and making him sweat. Is that his skin? For a moment, Sylar worried that he'd been drugged or that he was naked because he was feeling Peter's definitely-male legs pressed against his. Quick enough, he determined that he was at least wearing underwear and that was good enough for now. Likely nothing had happened. He squirmed for space to relieve the heat between them but Peter wouldn't allow it and followed him, resulting in a brief gasp of cooler air between them before returning to their mutual sweat. Sylar went still, thinking, relishing the proximity. Peter must be still asleep if he hadn't said anything. He was strangely grateful and greedy at this experience. The simple sensation of Peter breathing steadily, so very relaxed and trusting, was lovely. Their hands were already close but Sylar tilted his head down to observe it, gently laying his fingers over Peter's to pet them. Not for the first time he admired Peter's hand, thinking of how they were nice to look at, strong, not too masculine or feminine, and generally without blemish. The empath maintained his nails properly – not disgustingly short or long or dirty. Sylar slipped his fingers to interlock with Peter's from above, slightly turning the lightly-captured digits to see where the man's fingerprints would be. Hands had a lot to say about a person. Just as softly, he slid his fingers free and brushed his fingertips across the back of Peter's hand. I wonder how long he'll sleep.

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Hands are full of nerve endings, in the top three of most sensitive parts of the body along with mouth and feet. Peter would have felt less if Sylar had taken to stroking his dick. He woke with a rush of confused alertness and vulnerability. For a second, he was hot, sweaty, and entirely disoriented about where he was, who he was with, and what they were doing to him. He made a small, helpless sound and curled his fingers, and to a lesser extent, his body, bringing his knees up against the back of Sylar's legs and the side of his face pressing to Sylar's back.

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Sylar hummed at the reaction, unsure until now what the reaction would be. Obviously not repelled was the answer. He took to petting the back of Peter's hand with fingers, now experimenting with how much Peter could take before waking and how much would be tolerated after.

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Peter panted as he got his bearings. Sylar. I'm holding him. We went to sleep like this. He was cold. We're okay? Guess so. He relaxed deliberately, making himself calm down as much as possible. A second later, rather than withdrawing, he cuddled, his hand returning the attentions from Sylar that had woke him. He gave Sylar's hand a few quick pets and a squeeze before holding his belly so Peter could hug him, eyes shut, breathing him in. It was entirely inappropriate. Even if it were physically similar to the fetal position he'd tried to adopt a few seconds earlier, in fear, this was different because it was intentional. Peter hurried the experience in before he had to stop, while he still had the increasingly paltry excuse that he'd just woke up and didn't know what he was doing. He knew perfectly well what he was doing – the empath equivalent of copping a feel – and felt guilty and angry that he had to resort to this level of subterfuge for basic, nonsexual human comfort.

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Peter had yet to pull away, if anything he seemed to welcome more attention. More…proximity. It seemed so innocent. That was confusing and difficult to accept. He didn't want it to end. Sylar laid his hand over Peter's and dragging them both across his side towards his abdomen, with Peter's palm and sensate fingers in constant contact with Sylar's body. Once there, Petrelli still didn't shy away or protest. So he continued, sliding the other man's hand upwards to caress just under his sternum, then slowly back down to just under his navel. It was lazy and inviting, but perhaps not enough to trigger the Italian's pesky morality. He just wanted it to feel good – and it did, through his shirt.

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Peter shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with cold. He should have pulled away, immediately, while he had the chance, before Sylar had taken his hand again and started doing...whatever with it. But Peter stayed right where he was now, other than to turn his head so it was his forehead against Sylar's back. His eyes were shut. He let himself feel as the wave of tingling spread through his entire body, lighting up strongest where they were in contact. Faintly, very faintly, this was starting to take a turn from nonsexual to sexual. There was no way it couldn't – with the way every system in Peter's body was waking up, it was unavoidable that his libido would be turned on just like everything else.

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Peter was so still and quiet that Sylar wondered if he was even awake. That would have ruined the moment, the build-up. The silence grew into something uncomfortable. The curiosity of what Peter was doing or feeling was too much. Softly, in a low voice, he dared to break the quiet, "Have you ever fucked anyone like this?" Man? Woman? Because he admitted to himself that this was beyond a casual morning-after hospital and frostbite trip.

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"Nnng," Peter said inarticulately. He shuddered and pulled his hand back, out of Sylar's immediate grasp. But he didn't take it away entirely. He held Sylar's hip, which was really no help when considering the sexual nature of Sylar's question. "Yes," he said slowly, fingers exploring the hip under his hand. It was lean, well-defined, easy to hold onto. Good for leverage. He tried and failed to steer his thoughts elsewhere. He at least managed to back up an inch or two off of Sylar's ass.

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With his other fist clenched, he was winding up to exhale a sigh when Peter pulled his hand away to reposition it. Sylar held his breath for a moment, letting it out roughly. He knew this was no more than the usual teasing from Peter, giving in to his temptation before he remembered his allegiances. The empath's fingers began to feel over his hip. His eyes closed of their own accord, because he wasn't being watched and didn't have to adjust his reactions; his head relaxed into the pillow. He felt it when Peter moved away and pretended to shift for comfort's sake to take away the space separating them. "Do you like it?" A stupid question because of course Peter liked it, but he wasn't…as focused as he should have been. No, the man's hand felt nice and Peter had yet to seriously pull away or say anything to ruin the mood. Neither of them had to move and Sylar was actively trying to lounge in bed doing…whatever – flirting – for the rest of the day.

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I shouldn't be talking about this. Not with him. Not in bed like this. (I shouldn't be doing this at all!) But none of the clamoring objections of his conscience made much headway against the flesh-and-blood temptation in front of him, or the non-threatening nature of a simple, direct question. Peter's other hand turned, his fingertips pressing on Sylar's back. Then he shifted the hand down, sliding his fingers under Sylar's side as though to make a rough approximation of holding him on both sides. With a husky tone, Peter said, "It's hard to get much thrust like this. My whole body is against the bed. So's yours. It makes it tough to move." He pulled his hand free and used it to prop himself up, because what he really wanted was to see Sylar's face. This was not one of his favored positions for exactly that reason – the difficulty in seeing his partner. He wanted that line of sight now, though more to understand what was going to happen next than to see the mutual pleasure a partner during sex would be sharing.

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Sylar heard and felt the shift. He twisted his neck to be able to look at Peter in turn, wondering what the other man was doing besides not moving, still with his hand on Sylar. His questioning, otherwise innocent expression quickly changed into something challenging, something interested – like 'come and get me' or perhaps 'make me.' Whoa. I can feel him. (Peter's erection, that is). This time Sylar's hips shifted back into Peter once again, feeling more than just Peter's pelvis. "I'm sure you can manage," he purred encouragingly.

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A soft chuckle escaped Peter's lips. "Yeah," he said breathily. The challenge, the offer, the invitation, was making him high. His leaned into Sylar's body. His voice softened. "If you're trying to do something gradual, something sensual, like a slow burn," Peter kept watching Sylar's face, still leaving that hand on Sylar's hip, fingertips spacing themselves along the line of the bone, nothing but a single layer of thin cotton between his hand and Sylar's skin, "then it's really great." To punctuate his words, he gave Sylar's backside a slow grind. He had a full erection by now. The sensation of his hard dick sliding along the groove of Sylar's ass shot through him so strongly he wondered if this whole thing might be resolved by him simply coming in his shorts. Things were rapidly, seriously, getting out of control. Peter watched Sylar's face with a hungry intensity, his subconscious grasping at any excuse to make this (and going further...going all the way further) okay. He wanted it so bad he ached.

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Sylar swallowed as he allowed his face to show some of the lust he was truly feeling. His lips parted and he found himself taking nearly-panting breaths. Even more heat flooded over him, as did some level of embarrassment. (Peter Petrelli wants to fuck me that way?) The words echoed in his ears: Sensual. Gradual, Slow burn. It sounded too good to be true, too intimate and pleasurable to be allowed, but the sentiment, even in jest or teasing or a moment of forgetfulness was still fucking hot. Then Peter's solid erection was pushing up against his ass. Sylar's eyes widened for a moment. That thrust he clearly felt and recognized terrified him in different ways. It was suddenly real and overwhelming. With Peter's words hanging in the air, his own twisted emotions, and the crazy situation, he still didn't want to stop. Maybe just slowing down? He wasn't sure. He lay still, watching Peter with his equivalent of 'fuck me' eyes.

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Very softly, almost panting, Peter said, "You'd really let me do this." To you. With you. He looked at Sylar with amazement. Despite all the banter and Sylar's many offers, it somehow still seemed unbelievable that it could happen, that Sylar would do that with Peter. The idea of taking the man (and not just fantasizing about it, but actually doing it) flooded through Peter's brain, overwhelming his sense for the moment. All sorts of sizzling hot scenes came to mind – taking Sylar, topping him, possessing him, owning him, fucking him hard and rough and fast for everything he'd done, penetrating him repeatedly, gripping, seizing him, and putting him in his place for a change. 'Use me how you want' came to mind. It was so real. It was seconds away from becoming real and he knew it.

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He could not believe how aroused Peter looked and sounded (and felt, down below). Everything was spiraling out of control and perhaps that's how it was supposed to be. (Isn't that his job to know how everything should be?) Sylar's thoughts were racing and he couldn't keep track of them because it felt so forbidden and dangerous. He couldn't sort it out because either the forbidden and the dangerous could result heaven or hell – even then he didn't know which he wanted or what was right. They were locked in eye contact, never having broken their intense duel of gazing. Sylar's neck was beginning to cramp up and his whipped sides protested the position. "Yes," he whispered. It seemed so silly, but what's more useless for Peter to ask that. (What's the point of asking? Why would he ask me? Isn't it obvious?) He felt like he was blushing from growing embarrassment and emotion and hoped that wasn't the case. Sylar remained still, except to breathe heavily, waiting and watching.

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'Yes.' He said, 'yes.' We can do this! We can do this...right? Peter stared at Sylar, his brain a mess of conflicting signals and opposed thoughts. He felt like a little kid trying to figure out right from wrong when presented with his favorite candy and then being told not to eat it. Advice from some college event about consent floated through his head: 'If you can't tell for sure, then don't do it!' But he was pretty sure that had to do with the person you were going to have sex with, not yourself. He fought to get his higher functions back in charge of his body. It would be so simple to pull down his underwear. He was sure Sylar would pull down his own. There was lube right there on the nightstand, for God's sake. Peter turned and stared at it dumbly, looking confused and disoriented. "No," he said unsteadily. "I...I can't. This...shouldn't..." He peeled his hand off Sylar's hip and his groin from Sylar's rear with the greatest of difficulty, like a starving man pushing away a meal. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, back to Sylar, feeling twitchy and strange, exposed and sad. The voice of sanity in his head knew, Things are about to get bad. Sylar...he's not going to take that well. Peter looked at his hands. It's my fault. Fuck. I shouldn't have done any of that. But there was nothing he could do about it yet. He was still struggling to process his own emotions, much less respond appropriately and gracefully to any rejection or other fallout that Sylar might be feeling.

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For a long moment, nothing happened. It was like Peter froze in time, but it was clear he was busy thinking and thinking wouldn't end well. As expected, Peter spooked and pulled away. This time the loss of the other man's body heat was surprisingly unwelcome and disappointing. Sylar slumped, facing away, and mentally kicking himself for his failure. I should have distracted him! (How?) I was…looking at him. He probably wanted me to turn away. That's why he liked that position. Idiot! Sylar raged at himself, feeling low, troublesome, and useless. He wished to lie there until Peter got up, went about his day, and forgot about him – or at least turned and began his sorry lecture. At least that way the rejection would be complete, the message overt.

But he knew that behavior was pathetic and unacceptable. Curling up into a ball was weak and he couldn't show that to Peter. Instead, Sylar rolled over, still beneath the sheets, and extended his arm to touch Peter's side as he had before – just a brush of fingertips over the man's shirt. How is that less pathetic? It was like begging for attention and forgiveness and he already knew the answers to his own question and the begging. Sylar sat up and moved to fold his legs in front of himself, his shins touching Peter as he began to caress Peter's shoulders in what he hoped was a seductive, comforting manner. He couldn't allow Peter to wallow or feel bad about…any of it, even if all of it was depressingly natural. He didn't know what to say, until he opened his mouth and something came out, "I thought it would be a cold day in hell before you fucked me."

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Peter twitched at the first touches. A glance back showed him there was nothing to be concerned about. Sylar looked appealing, not vengeful. Then Sylar sat up behind him. At the feeling of legs against his back, Peter jerked and tensed, ready to get up, but aborting the motion as Sylar's hands settled on his shoulders. Carefully, slowly, Peter relaxed and hung his head as Sylar kindly caressed his shoulders. It felt like empathy. Either that, or Sylar had no understanding whatsoever of what Peter was going through and was just trying to coax him back into bed. He was pondering how (and if) he should go about discerning the difference when Sylar spoke.

Peter shrugged off Sylar's hands, turning to his side. They were still close. Sylar's legs were still touching him, now against Peter's hip and thigh instead of the small of his back. He was still in reach of Sylar's hands, easily. He shot Sylar a sustained, intent look with a hard expression as he tried to make sense of the words. This is his reaction to the rejection. Him just saying, 'Yeah, I expected this wouldn't go anywhere.' It's okay. Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, reaching out deliberately to put his left hand on Sylar's knee, just above where it rested against Peter's thigh. "Do you understand why that would be – why I wouldn't?"

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Sylar sighed, allowing his hands to be shrugged off. His lips pursed, but his eyes curiously took in the man's hand, re-establishing contact. Right. He has to touch me, not the other way around. Something vague about how intimate Peter had already permitted things to be between them passed through his mind. Every little touch was strange, most of it unnecessary. "Yes," he said shortly, looking back up into Peter's eyes because he wasn't afraid to. "But I also understand that you were a breath away from fucking me through two pairs of shorts. I don't know who you're trying to fool, but I'll play along." Disinterested in further dialogue, he glanced out the window. It was growing dark early because of the weather. He didn't even want to stick around in bed if it involved talking and attempted guilt-trips. Sylar stood, being sure to practically crawl over Peter to do it. Patting the man's cheek affectionately, then ruffling his hair, he quipped, "Tonight just skip the shorts," and prowled into the hall, then the bathroom. He knew Peter would be watching.

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Peter was scowling, preparing to retort, when Sylar began his exit. Peter pushed on him and made protesting noises as Sylar squirmed past him. Peter was looking merely put-out by the time Sylar was patting his cheek like Peter's mother might do (or maybe Nathan). The hair tousling was definitely Nathan. Peter's eyes narrowed and he frowned at Sylar's back. Oh yes, he was watching. Definitely. "Asshole," he said as Sylar left his sight. His voice was annoyed rather than angry.

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Sylar smirked to himself. "You would know!" he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hall.

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Peter had to repress a strong urge to force his way into the bathroom and possessively eject Sylar from it, just to show who was in charge. It was dumb and Peter knew where it was coming from - sexual aggressiveness mixed with a desire to stand up to the man who was telegraphing too many 'Nathan' signals: a sort of sibling rivalry/rebelliousness with a helping of lust. Peter shook his head and looked away, turning so both his feet were on the floor, his elbows on his knees as he touched at his forehead and face.

Although he was hungry and the kitchen was beckoning, Peter didn't want to stay. I need to clear my head. Focus. Quit all of this. He's just distracting me, getting on my nerves. He's playing me. Peter rose and scooped up the damp clothes they'd abandoned earlier. He stood at the end of the hall and called out, "I'm taking the clothes down to the dryer. Take a shower or something. I'll work on your back when I get back." He hesitated a moment, weighing Sylar's apparently compulsive need to accompany Peter everywhere against his own distinct desire not to see Sylar's face. "Don't follow me. I'll be back in ten minutes or less. Promise." He sounded exasperated to have to say it that way, but he did, and followed up by leaving the apartment, arms full of their clothes.

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Already edgy with the incompleteness of their wakeup, Sylar tensed to hear that Peter was leaving. He didn't like being commanded what to do (or not do) and the hit-it-and-quit-it implied by Peter's shame. Assuming he wasn't hallucinating Petrelli altogether, Sylar was mostly certain the medic would return, if only to tend his back. It felt as if the cold was coming back to him even though he'd been separated from Peter physically for a few moments now – being further away was worrisome. "But-!" Too late he called out, entering the hall then the empty dining room. He didn't have a viable excuse anyway. I thought he said showering or bathing was bad? He'll help me with the things I can't do myself. Sylar brushed his mangy hair from his face, knowing he needed a shower to be clean if not for the heat. I really need to shave, too. That decided him.

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His down coat went in a dryer set on 'air dry', while the rest were on high heat. Peter watched them spin. He knew how to do laundry. Despite the rich background, he had resisted the urge to schlep his stuff home or use a service. Besides, he got to meet a lot of interesting people in laundromats. And the timing of a load was usually enough to go somewhere private, do something sexual, and return. That was important back in the days when that was a much greater motivation than it was now. He considered the way they'd woke up and how he'd conducted himself. I can't sleep with him. That's just how it is. Because he's right. Something's going to happen. (I should have better self-control than that.) But I don't and the way to make sure it doesn't happen is to not be there. (So much of that was so nice, though…) That's why I can't even let it get started. It's too tempting. I'll slip. (What if I did have sex with him? It's what he wants…) Fuck what he wants. He'll still treat me like he does. He'll probably be even more of an asshole. He'll think he has something on me and he'd be right. How could I look anyone in the eye and tell them I'd loved my brother if I was fucking the man who'd killed him? With an angry huff, Peter stood. Right. I couldn't. So I won't.

He returned upstairs as he'd agreed.

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The shower and shaving took longer than usual. Sylar felt cotton-headed and still tired. He was distracted with wondering if Peter would return, or be angry, or even sleep with him tonight. I'm sure it's my fault somehow. But he wants it, though. With a towel wrapped around his hips, all alone in the apartment, he'd went looking into the dressers and closets for some more of Peter's clothing that had been worn, washed, and returned here. He wasn't a fan of briefs and the ones he'd had were Peter's. Sweat pants, underwear, and a too-short t-shirt in hand, he heard the front door opening. Sylar straightened and stood there dumbly, much relieved and stupidly grateful until he was addressed. Am I supposed to dress first or…? Crap. He's going to get pissy because he'll think I did this on purpose to seduce him. For once that wasn't the case.

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"Oh." Peter gawked at the lean, clean, and nearly naked man in front of him for a second or two longer than sheer surprise required. Sylar looked good, even when run down, signs of which Peter noticed a half-beat after the sexiness. He averted his eyes to the medical bag, muttering, "Um, I'll just be over here," and turning shoulder-on to Sylar to give the man some illusion of privacy, hoping like hell Sylar wouldn't dress right in front of him. He hadn't expected to have his resolve tested so quickly. It looked so intentional. He wondered how long Sylar had been lingering in that towel, waiting for Peter's return so he could tempt him. It irritated him to be played so obviously.

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Sylar took the clothes to the bathroom, hanging up the towel, combing his hair back and donning the clothes – everything but the shirt. He came back feeling more human, but apprehensive about the medical process and the pain involved.

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Sylar's ready departure left Peter checking himself – had the towel thing been on purpose, or just inadvertent? Was I wrong? I guess I should ask. Peter laid out the supplies he'd need to use to clean Sylar's back while the other man was gone. Then he washed his hands thoroughly and waited. When Sylar returned, Peter gestured at the chair. "Take a seat and I'll get to work." He gave Sylar's back a careful examination before getting started, making sure the treatment still fit. Not caring too much if it made things difficult and awkward, Peter asked, "So why don't you explain to me why I'm not going to fuck you, ever?" He swabbed down Sylar's back with antiseptic, then took up the gauze to begin the painful process of scraping out the infection down to healthy tissue. "You said you knew."

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"What?!" Sylar's reply was lost in a growling hiss of pain and confusion. Fuck, his back was tender! It had stung in the shower but this was different. He clutched at the chair back and mostly succeeded in not squirming forward or arching as the gauze continued to assault him. "You really want to ask me this now?" he retorted with disbelief and some irritation. He focused on breathing, the timing, each second passing by because it was almost worse not being able to see when the pain would come.

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Peter barely hesitated, hearing the pain in Sylar's voice and changing tactics. "Did the pain of others ever stop you from demanding they give you whatever you wanted?" He kept working, picking up the pace a little but still trying to be gentle. He started talking in a consistent, distracting patter, not too different from what he'd done for patients many times before, but the topic was definitely a new one. "Didn't you say you tortured an agent to death once? I wonder what that was like – for him, not you?" He was asking intentionally insulting questions, but he didn't pause much for Sylar to answer them.

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Sylar opened his mouth to protest and offer up some defense of himself, but honestly he was rather shocked. The raw scraping sensations sped up just enough to be nearly constant. Sylar was horrified and despondent, yet listening. He knew the answers and didn't want to say or admit them, feeling a dark churning in his gut that may or may not have been related to his literal wounds being opened again. I didn't show mercy. Not the way he understands mercy. Peter's words were so rapid-fire (and seemingly not malicious) he wondered if he was supposed to actually reply. It would be important because he was being accused of a murder he didn't technically commit. That agent attempted to kill him and Luke had unexpectedly intervened. That wasn't to say he wouldn't have had to kill or imprison Agent Simmons in the end to prevent him from blabbing off to Danko. Somehow he didn't think Peter cared about that.

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"I've been tortured to death," Peter continued. "But something tells me that I'll bet Ricky's gang wasn't as creative at it as you probably were. They were pretty matter-of-fact about it with me. What was your state of mind? Were you looking for revenge? Were you taking out on that agent everything you'd wanted to do to the Company after they locked you up and experimented on you?"

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Sylar straightened, lips tensing from the pain and the on-going rebuke. I know that's a lie. He says he wants to know what I was thinking, but he doesn't – not really. He can't handle it. It's not what he wants to hear. Peter was rambling off about things he didn't – couldn't – know about, yet he was only wrong about a few things thus far. Does he want me to correct him and give myself away? Not that he thought he was giving away any telling information. The accusation that he was so angry and clumsy as to torture Agent Simmons as revenge was low and classless. Sylar grit his teeth and gripped the leg of his sweatpants in his other hand. He felt low and pathetic, all this started because he wasn't obedient enough to answer a damn question.

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Peter laid a careful hand on Sylar's less-damaged shoulder, light at first and then holding more firmly as needed. In a much softer tone of voice, he said, "Easy. Hold on. I'm almost done." Then he went back to speaking more roughly. "I stood by while a guy was tortured once. I probably should have felt something. But honestly, I was just annoyed it took so long. We should have been in and out, got what we wanted, and been gone. I had enough time to leave, check out some of the information, come back, and they still weren't done with him. Funny thing is, he didn't seem to hold it against me later." Peter gave a jerk-tilt of his head. "He survived, obviously."

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He didn't want to admit it, but he took a deeper, more relieved breath when Peter tried to comfort him in several small ways. It helped to know that it was nearly over. How much more does he want to get off his chest? Sylar wondered. He was almost immediately surprised to hear that Peter had been part and party to torturing someone. Who? Why? What did 'they' do? Is he just trying to lay the blame on the other people (if there were any others)? It seemed initially out of character for Peter Petrelli…unless…the mission was so huge that the means would justify the ends. Like Mercy. And he didn't kill anyone – so he says. It told him that Peter had some concept of the workings of reality, the whole 'drastic times, back-against-the-wall' scenario. That was extremely important.

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Peter stopped and surveyed the results. All the infected areas had been rubbed raw down to healthy tissue. With the hand that was holding Sylar's shoulder, he moved his thumb back and forth lightly on the unmarked skin it rested on. In the soft tone he'd used before, he said quietly, "I'm done with the part that hurts. Hang on and I'll get ointment on everything. It won't hurt so much after." That was applied, then he took fresh gauze and cleaned Sylar up from the blood, serum, and seropurulent drainage streaking his back. Tossing the contaminated cloth on the table for later clean-up, Peter hooked his arm under Sylar's to help him stand. "Come on. You need to lie down on the bed, on your belly, and let your back air dry. Still with me, buddy?"

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The ointment felt like a balm, the surcease from the verbal attacks felt like silence after too much overwhelming chaos. Sylar started when Peter grabbed under and around his arm, encouraging him to stand and move. Shaken and tired again after the widespread, throbbing pain, bed sounded amazing, with or without Peter. He cleared his throat so his voice would be clear, not croaky and whispery like he felt, "Yes." He didn't need Peter's assistance in getting to the bed, so he disengaged and crawled up to lay atop the comforter. I should lay down a towel so I don't contaminate anything. It's not like he'll be sleeping in the same bed as me ever again.

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Peter helped Sylar settle in, pulling the blankets around so the man's feet and lower legs were covered. The upper body had to remain bare for now. Once done, in the same caring tone as before (different from the aggressive one he'd used to relate cruel things and ask almost jeering questions), he asked, "Do you want me to stay right here with you, or would you rather have some space? I could go in the kitchen."

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With a quick glance over his nurse, Sylar murmured, "You can stay." He wasn't certain he wanted Peter around – or how Peter could manage being around him, caring for him. He almost said, 'I don't care' just to see what Petrelli would do, but he didn't want the rejection if he was left alone. Having his feet and legs covered was a thoughtful, unnecessary comfort. Sylar felt like dirt and didn't reach out to make contact with Peter, though he was facing the available portion of the bed where Peter was most likely to sit.

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Peter nodded. He circled the bed, took off his shoes and climbed on his side. He arranged the pillows so he was sitting up, reclined against the headboard. He reached out and touched a few fingers briefly to Sylar's shoulder. He murmured, "I know that had to hurt like hell. I was just trying to distract you with what I was saying. You don't have to answer any of that." He still wanted to know what Sylar did and didn't understand of Peter's motivations – and the various questions he'd fired out during the interrogation were things Peter was curious about as well. But this wasn't the time. Sylar was hurting; Peter's job was to take care of him, not to use Sylar's weakness as an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He settled in and made himself present, occupying his thoughts with memories of the complicated man who was Noah Bennet.

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"It's fine," he answered hastily with something of a shrug. As he replied, he tried to look up to make eye contact, or at least see Peter's face to get a sense of what he was feeling. As it often did, Petrelli's face was neutral or perhaps kind. It was all in those furrowed, intent eyebrows and hopeful brown eyes. Sylar let it go, settling into the bed and allowing their interaction to fall into silence, partly because he needed to think. He took deep breaths and finally wormed a hand over to lay the side of his hand against Peter's thigh, wanting more comfort than it provided. It sucked to have to lie facedown like this, but the worst of the pain was over and the throbbing was passing.

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Peter was still dressed only in t-shirt and boxers. He acknowledged Sylar's touch with his own, a short caress or a pat, then he withdrew his hand out of concern that he didn't know how much contact Sylar was comfortable with. He's touching me like I touch him when we're in bed. That at least made a small smile play across Peter's lips.

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After ten or fifteen minutes of quiet, Sylar murmured, "I didn't kill Special Agent Simmons and I didn't torture him for revenge. He knew-…he had information I needed." He'd been about to tell the truth explicitly, that Simmons had known where his father was, but he decided to leave that out. It wasn't relevant. It turned out that Simmons didn't know and his lies made it seem like he knew. Luke had known – and Luke had been the one to accidentally kill Simmons. "Before it was all…just business. Now there are some people I would like to torture. For revenge. What I want isn't in the cards right now," he meant that about more than just torture and revenge because it applied to a lot more than just that. It was…inconvenient to torture Peter beyond what he was already doing. "Who did you torture and why?" This was easier than talking about why Peter couldn't just tune out and fuck him.

XXX

He listened carefully, both because the information was something he wanted to know (He didn't kill the guy? Special Agent Simmons – he remembers the name, too.) and because Sylar's voice was quiet. And calm. Peter wasn't happy that his answer would likely end that state. "The last time I told you something incriminating about myself, you kicked me to the curb and told me off." That would be when he'd confessed to having killed Nathan in an alternate future timeline. Peter had murdered Nathan himself, using Sylar's ability, as opposed to the other time he'd killed Nathan by releasing the virus through stupidity and gullibility. He blamed himself for that one, too, but not as much. There wasn't the same self-loathing and horror at how easily and intentionally he'd done it while tapping into the watchmaker's power. He could more easily wrap his mind around what he'd done wrong in trusting Adam. If he used Sylar's ability again, Peter had no idea what he might do. That made it frightening.

XXX

Sylar lofted an eyebrow, too lazy to shrug. "Fine. Then don't tell me." He was banking on the use of a kind of command and reverse-psychology.

XXX

He waited another few moments, watching Sylar for a reaction – any reaction. He didn't expect this time to stir as many emotions in Sylar as the confession about Nathan. It wasn't as personal to either of them, but it wasn't completely distant and removed. Finally, he said, "Noah Bennet. He had information we needed."

XXX

Bennet? His brain tripped over that once, then again, and again. That was unexpected. The Man With a Plan being tortured? Not that it was impossible to get the drop on him. And Peter torturing a friend, someone who was practically family when the empath held fast to so much human decency often to the detriment of his plans and the bigger picture? It would have been baffling except Peter did sometimes remember his end goal and have his moments of efficiency. Sylar had been quiet for a moment while his thoughts zipped through points of fact and history. "Wait. Who's 'we'?" Let me fucking guess…

XXX

"Mohinder, Matt, and I." Peter gave Sylar another lingering look, still wary of violence, but mostly due to things he hadn't said yet and expected to have to say in the course of explaining things. He looked away, out the window. Whatever Sylar was going to do, he'd do, and Peter hadn't said anything he thought was especially upsetting yet.

XXX

Eyes narrowed, Sylar was disbelieving that Nathan didn't play some part in it. Parkman and Mohinder. Torturing again. It made him angry even though Bennet was certainly deserving of whatever they'd done to him – and more. The rest of his consciousness growled incoherent emotion about those two and their would-be heroics disguising their petty fears.

XXX

Peter spoke dryly. "The situation: My brother…sold me out to the government. It was Noah who did the transport. One of my pillow cases was over my head, but I recognized the voice. He's not very careful with how he tosses people in the back of vans." He took a deep breath, remembering the tarp over him, the zip tie cutting into his wrists, and the persistent feeling of claustrophobia. "It was a long drive. Then they hooked me up with that…tranquilizer." His voice got quieter, losing the sardonic tone as his sentence structure disintegrated. "The plane crash. Shooting. Shooting to kill us. Noah…he passed on an opportunity to take me down. Twice. Some of us got out together. We needed information before we could figure out what to do. The easiest person to get to who knew what we needed was Noah. We took him to a hotel room. Tied him up." Peter stopped to bite the inside of his lip. He looked over to see what Sylar's face might betray about his thoughts. There was still time to shut up.

XXX

There he is, Sylar thought of the mention of the overpriced elder brother. It was an inevitable appearance. He was listening as long as Peter was still talking, somewhat mindful of Peter's crack about not handling Peter's bullshit very well. He could imagine how being kidnapped, for someone as delicate and emotional as Peter, could be frightening. But it seemed like overkill when Petrelli was a special – one of the most special (and, in theory, the most capable) people ever. Hm. Drugs. That…changed more of his internal reaction. "Then what?" He prompted because Peter was looking to him for something. Does he think I care that he tortured Bennet of all people? (I thought he mentioned Bennet giving him advice about hugging it out with Ma Dearest or something…Something recent?)

XXX

"I sedated him." That had been Peter's primary role – that, and preparing the roofie that put the man down in the first place. It was amazing what Matt's ability allowed him to solicit from people, and the man's background in the police told him exactly who to ask. "Then Matt started interrogating him. Mentally." He stopped there, his expression serious and guarded as he watched for Sylar's reaction to the idea Peter had willingly and knowingly participated in someone's prolonged mental violation. There was nothing apologetic in Peter's expression, though. Peter knew what he'd done and why he'd done it. It had been wrong, but it was the choice he'd made. He also had a very good idea that this was not going to sit well with Sylar.