Day 74, February 22, Afternoon
It was difficult to watch Peter constantly as he spoke, so mostly Sylar relaxed and stared at the man's hip where it was within easy viewing. It…bothered him that Peter so casually drugged someone after he admitted how he hadn't liked it himself. But this was still Noah Bennet: Mr. Us versus Them. Nothing would change that even though it raised more questions about how Bennet and Peter got along, but that was hardly the most interesting part in any of this story. Then Peter got to the heart of it, telling the truth of it.
Sylar's eyes snapped up, raising his head a little to do it though he knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Peter's face was wary, judging him as if his natural, instinctive reaction was somehow offensive. He did that…before? He did that to someone else? Matt did, too? And Bennet…Then they all did it to me? He stared at Peter, trying to make some logical sense of it and failing. His body had tensed and his hand jerked away from touching Peter. He was instantly furious with self-righteous, self-defensive rage and inexplicable, stupid hurt, torn open by the callousness and willful repetition of it all while Peter's expression was condemning.
Sylar had known this alleged 'empath's' apology about Mercy had been false but he hadn't guessed this was behind it. He hadn't needed any reminder or confirmation of what Peter (and the rest) thought of him. It was literally painfully obvious. They did not expect me to survive. They never have. As if that justified anything. Digging for information was easy. It looked like a practice-run before the main event…Sylar found he completely lacked the words to express how disgusted, horrified, and disappointed he was. Mercy was no accident. (He brought drugs…He was going to torture me). That wasn't news, but it had much worse context now.
There wasn't a reaction strong enough or one that covered every cycling emotion. But he had to know. Sylar growled through grit teeth, completely unmoving, "Why." What world-ending answers did Bennet have that necessitated that kind of torture? He had a sick, gut feeling that he already knew and would hate Petrelli even more (if possible) when he heard it – he didn't know if it would validate or break him.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a good, long look as he tried to decide just how sideways things were about to go and what he could do to prevent it. Assuming he wanted to prevent an outburst. He found himself not caring too much about that, aside from issues of personal safety. He gave the hand that had retracted from him a cautious glance and leaned away slightly. Maybe one of these times he'll realize I'm not who Nathan thought I was? Or at least, I'm not that person to Sylar. Then there was the matter of Sylar's growling non-question itself. I've already told him why. Or does he mean, why would we use Matt's ability for something we might have been able to talk out of him? "We had to be sure the information was real." Peter shook his head. "None of us could trust him. We had to know who was behind this...attack on people like us. It could have been the Company again, the government, some other government, some other Company, maybe someone with an ability that let them manipulate people's loyalties – anything. These people had a cargo jet. They coordinated attacks on multiple continents in different countries; they had high-end gear and tech. We had to know what we were dealing with and we had to know for sure."
XXX
That seemed to be a fair enough reason. Sylar understood it, at least. He hadn't given much thought to what it must have been like for the 'average' special being attacked (perhaps again, but this time different from the Company). Building 26, being a government agency, was predictably militant. He didn't desist from staring Petrelli down. Why Bennet? Why not your precious Nathan if you knew he was involved?
XXX
He frowned and tilted his head insightfully at Sylar. "That's not what you want to know, though, is it? You want to know why we'd do that to a person? Why we'd tie them up, invade their mind, and try to pry something out they didn't want released?"
XXX
No, fucker. That's obvious! Sylar thought viciously. Did you ever have any regard for someone's mental privacy? But I want to hear this bullshit again. I'm sure he thinks it's not the same thing at all. "Sure," he agreed sardonically.
XXX
Peter took in a deep breath, held it for a calming moment, and let it out. "What happened to Noah was different from what happened to you. Nothing was done that changed his idea of who he was or how he saw himself. I've had people – Matt, specifically – try to draw information out of me like he did with Noah. It hurts. So does you punching me in the face. But it doesn't mess with who I am. You want to know a situation that's a lot more of a parallel for yours?" Peter paused, raising his brows with the rhetorical question. "Me getting my memories wiped. No sense of identity. No name – not even someone else's. Woke up dying time after time, then Ricky and his group did it all over." He pressed his lips together in a serious line. "Who was I? Did I deserve this? What were these abilities I had? How was I supposed to respond to everything, deal with it, cope? No answers. No idea. Just all alone trying to put myself back together. It's not an exact fit with your case because there was no one shoving me into a box that wasn't mine, but it's as close as we're going to get."
XXX
A frown appeared the most Sylar listened. Again, he was still getting stuck on the part where he was even remotely defending Noah fucking Bennet. He saw Peter's actions (and Matt's! And later Bennet's unsurprising involvement) as a premeditated precursor. Legally speaking, it was most damning. It did nothing to explain the Peter Petrelli's normal rigid adherence to all things moral and why this 'information' was suddenly different from any other immoral choice. Sylar knew he was far from the kind of person who could pass judgment over such a thing, but he wondered in the privacy of his own thoughts if that changed Peter's inherent 'goodness' forever. Peter even admitted he had some understanding, as a victim, yet he'd still made those decisions. But Peter didn't know what it was like to be told to be someone else, to have to fill that person's role in life, live with that other family, a job, the questions that couldn't be answered.
Sylar knew he'd asked before and been answered before, but it was so…out-of-character and it was still such a deep wound that he needed to understand it. "If you know what it's like, then why would you do something like that to someone else?" It was a betrayal, both to how Nathan knew him and what Sylar thought he knew, or, perhaps, what he wanted to believe.
XXX
Peter gave a bitter smirk. He knew Sylar was asking about Peter's attempt to restore 'Nathan' at Mercy Hospital. "Yeah. You know me – always the white knight, wouldn't touch Dad's blood money, protesting the war, all that stuff. Why would I do something so obviously wrong?" He leveled an intense, piercing look at Sylar. "Because I loved my brother more than I loved doing right. I would have gone to hell for him," his voice caught slightly, "and he knew it." He breathed out, letting the intensity fade, but there was still a quiet savagery in what he said next. "You took him away from me. I was going to get him back." Peter shrugged one shoulder very slowly, looking away briefly in feigned indifference. "Or at least, that's what I thought. I didn't know how it worked."
XXX
That strangely stung, knowing he – Nathan – in the past had taken Peter completely for granted and knew all his little brother's limits and shoved them further, past what Peter should have been able to bear, let alone accept. It felt wrong to accept that sin, but foolishly, Peter didn't seem to be laying blame, even to Nathan's dead name. Sylar couldn't grasp how truly, willfully blind Peter was. But Peter's phrasing struck a familiar chord. (I want him to be bad for me, too. With me, for me, to me, any of it. I…I want…his loyalty. I want to own him like Nathan did and more completely). It was the greenest shade of envy. It was all the most twisted to have murdered Nathan and then attempt to take his place. It made him want to act like Nathan to get a reaction or just to cause pain, and simultaneously act even more like 'himself', whoever that was now, acting out and distancing himself from it all. Voice rough, he whispered, "What did he ever do to deserve you?"
XXX
"He's my brother," Peter answered immediately, because that accident of birth was all that was required. The fierceness of his answer, though, struck him as too much in the face of what was actually a compliment. He doubted Sylar had meant it as flattery. Peter sighed and dialed his intensity back a notch. "My hospice patients didn't 'deserve' to have someone listen to them. The people who call for EMTs don't 'deserve' to be helped. That they are helped, that someone does listen, says something about the people willing to help. It doesn't say anything about those in need." He tilted his head as he looked at Sylar. "He was my brother. What I would do for him is about me. What I was willing to put up with, what I tolerated, what I looked the other way for, what I excused," Peter pursed his lips, "those were my decisions. What he did, didn't have much to do with it." He rolled his eyes briefly and looked away. "Turning me into a 'domestic terrorist' was on him, though." He looked back to Sylar. "Having the whole country hunting me was the breaking point." Peter nodded. "That was too much – brother or not. I have my limits. That's why I shot Dad." Disgusted by his family's antics, he looked away.
XXX
Sylar exhaled, having nothing more to say, but much to think about. Obviously Peter's love came from within because there was nothing that could justify the rest of his family. That was…ambivalent news at best. It meant Peter had a revolting level of tolerance and once he decided to love, based on duty (and other stupid parameters most likely) he would love most loyally. That was his belief system. Is he that naïve? Sylar didn't know whether to be horrified or charmed. Peter was devoted to family because they were family and Sylar could understand that. It was familiar. The bad part was that he'd successfully killed Peter's…anchor, for-better-or-worse an otherwise permanent fixture in Peter's life and Peter did not love him for that. In a way, he was…pleased that Nathan left such a shitty legacy; he hadn't deserved Peter. But that left strange shoes to fill. And the empath hadn't felt truly loved in return or else he wouldn't have thrown himself around so desperately.
Sylar finally broke his stare, glancing between Petrelli's eyes for a moment, his own narrowing before he relaxed his face into the pillow. How does he manage to make me trust him less but not paranoid enough to want him to stay the hell away from me forever? His former neediness decreased where he didn't want to cling to Peter. He felt he had to say something and not let Peter off the hook on principle for fucking around in even Bennet's head. "I guess it's a good thing my opinion about your 'decisions' doesn't matter." Loftily, he sniffed, "A real brother would have shown you how to get what you want without resorting to mental torture."
XXX
Peter snorted softly, but had nothing to say to either of Sylar's statements. He didn't want the man's opinion about his misplaced loyalties – Peter had heard it before and more or less agreed on a rational level, but it was irrelevant in the face of the emotional bond he'd had with Nathan. Who was, speaking of which, a much more 'real' brother than Sylar had been, despite the 'that's what brothers do'. Sylar hadn't chosen the role either time it had been thrust on him (the fault for which was Peter's family's, again), so he left the understandably sore subject alone. Very shortly, Sylar shifted, bringing his hand up and for a moment Peter was quietly overjoyed that things had blown over and Sylar was going to replace his hand against Peter's leg again. But instead, Sylar put it over the side of his head and face as though loosely warding off an unlikely explosion or preparing himself to fend off some unwarranted strike of Peter's. Even though the man was facing him, it seemed unnecessarily defensive.
As best Peter could tell, Sylar had shut his eyes, leaving Peter was alone in his disappointment. It left him free to peer at the hand as though that would help somehow and rake his eyes over Sylar's body language time after time. He was tempted – very tempted – to reach out and take that hand and put it where he wanted it, next to him, where it had been before. He said I could use him how I wanted. Self-medicating. This isn't sex. It's okay. Why is he doing that? I'm not going to hurt him. (But I'm thinking about making him do something he doesn't want to do, or else he would have done it himself, so…) Peter huffed, pursed his lips, and squirmed, looking away briefly as he wrestled with the unexpected dilemma. He looked back yearningly at the hand, still debating what he wanted and the ethics of taking it, oblivious to the unique nature of a Petrelli having qualms about exercising their will on Sylar. I could ask. (I'm not going to ask.) I could put my foot on him. (He's already defensive. He's hurt. It would be wrong to impose right now. He doesn't want to touch me or he would. He's the one who pulled away. He's vulnerable. Leave him alone. This is all about my insecurity.) Peter made a different choice than the rest of his family had. He shrugged his shoulders to try to disperse the tension, looking away and around the room. His eyes lit on the mess still on the dining room table. Peter left the bed and set off to clean up.
XXX
Sylar opened his eyes, having shut them after a few moments when Peter did and said nothing while still sitting on the bed. Shifting slightly to keep Petrelli within his vision to see Peter wasn't just moving around – he was getting up. Now Peter was moving away and he wanted to see where the other man was going. The empath didn't make for the door, electing to remain in the apartment. That relaxed him; more when he saw Peter cleaning up the table. I think he'll stay for a while. More tired than he'd known, that would have to be enough for now. Sighing, Sylar lay down almost entirely on his front, hand still protectively over the back of his head, and closed his eyes again.
XXX
Peter moved to the table, cleaning up the bloody and soiled gauze, washing his hands briefly, then returning to put away everything that wasn't expended. Glad to be doing something more active and productive than stupidly pining over Sylar's hand placement, he scrubbed and disinfected the table, then washed himself to his elbows. This was a comforting routine. This was something he knew how to do, himself, without worrying about help or interference. He still spared Sylar the occasional glance to see that he was still resting on the bed, but otherwise Peter stayed busy. Once he was clean, he sorted through the various soups in the cabinet, eventually settling on cream of mushroom for himself and split pea with ham for Sylar. He set the cans out and looked back at Sylar. He's probably not asleep. But he should probably stay there for a while more. How long has it been? He walked over halfway to the bed, looking over Sylar's back. "I'm going to go downstairs and get the laundry. You stay here. Your back doesn't look dry enough yet." He paused for agreement. "Okay?"
XXX
He realized he was dozing when he heard Peter's voice cut through the fog of near-sleep. When he was aware enough to comprehend the words, he tensed and his heart beat faster with concern. Sylar propped up on one elbow to look at Peter where he stood. I'm tired, he thought before Peter finished. I don't want to chase you. Why can't you just stay here? He listened and understood more. It's about my back? Sylar had since begun to frown at being commanded to heel and wait like a dog, though he wasn't up for going even though he might feel the need to. "Wh–" he started before his voice croaked drily. He cleared his throat and tried again, "When will you be back?" He didn't like the arrangement, but getting Peter to verbalize a return time might help. If Peter didn't arrive by that time, then he would know to go looking and Peter wouldn't have much head start. He wasn't sure why he bothered to ask this time instead of all the others. He wanted to know Peter would be returning because the other man hadn't specified that.
XXX
"Just a few minutes. The dryer's probably already done and even if it isn't, it's not like our clothes were soaked through." Peter shrugged, deciding Sylar was going to stay like he should and Peter was clear to leave.
XXX
Sylar desperately wanted to roll over, at least onto his side, preferably to his back – Peter said it wasn't through drying. His expression showed his resignation, but Peter's errand was legitimate even if it involved retrieving the empath's coat, which could just as easily be done as he left the building. He crooked his elbow beneath his cheek as he settled back, shoulder twisted so his face was pointed at Peter. There was nothing he could say.
XXX
Peter returned with a haphazard armload of fluffy, warm clothes, wearing his down coat because that was easier than carrying it. He dumped the clothes in the leather chair, then took off the coat and hung it over the back of it. He surveyed the clothes, then the dark outside, and decided there was no point in getting dressed if they were going to bed soon. But there was no way he was going to sleep without food. To Sylar, he asked, "You hungry? You need to eat some and take your medicine. How do you like pea soup?"
XXX
Sylar exhaled in relief when he heard Peter's steady tread in the hall. Those few moments alone were increasingly unpleasant and filled with doubt. He tensed again when he saw the glance outside. No. Stay here. He lay where Peter had left him. When Peter spoke, he sat up, feeling the urge to put his hands on Peter in some old, familiar way. "Yeah. Sounds great," he agreed, grateful. It seemed chillier with Peter gone and now that Sylar was up and walking into the kitchen, the air was brushing his upper body all over. Still, he didn't want to ask if he could put his shirt on. He wanted to feel Peter's body heat again. How long will he hold out and deny himself? Sylar wondered. If Peter had been halfway to fucking him this morning, what would tonight bring? He was both nervous and calm about it.
Entering the kitchen behind Peter, he took up the can of soup Peter had designated for him. It had ham in it. Peter hadn't mentioned that. A glance showed the other man's meal preference. He snorted. Of course, Peter wanted the 'vegetarian' one. Several 'meat' jokes sprung to mind. He considered if he should start his seduction early and realized that might annoy Peter and make him leave before dinner was through.
He was brushing elbows with his companion, watching him move casually from the corner of his eye. The little man appeared focused. "What are you thinking?" Equally casual, Sylar took the can opener when Peter was done with it, wrapping most of his hand around Peter's to do it. The Italian's hand wasn't small – his hands fit his stature – as such, Sylar could easily hold most of Peter's hand in his own. It was just another curiosity, another risk he was allowed to take this time. The discovery made him feel dominant and accepted.
XXX
The question took Peter by surprise, as he'd mostly retreated into his own head. He gave Sylar a brief look for the odd manner of taking the can opener from him, but didn't think about it otherwise. "Uh, nothing really, I guess. I was worrying about how to not scorch this stuff." He indicated the soup and milk he was now combining in a pan on the electric stovetop. "I don't know if I should be stirring it more, or heating it up slower, or maybe this is just a thing it always does because of the milk…?" He glanced over at Sylar, wondering why he hadn't thought to ask. "Do you know?"
XXX
He gave Petrelli a questioning look colored with some disbelief. Are you serious? That college education really paid off in terms of basic physics. It served as an unintentional ego boost. "Of course," he replied.
XXX
Peter frowned and considered getting huffy about the deliberate lack of explanation. He didn't feel like getting huffy. Besides, he actually wanted to know. "Then how do I make it work?"
XXX
'I know how things work…' Sylar briefly considered withholding his knowledge if only so Peter would be dependent on him for smooth, unburned soup. But the temptation to teach and impart (such obvious) wisdom was more enticing. Sylar walked around Peter a few steps to look where he knew he'd seen a whisk, taking it out, turning towards the other man and holding it up. Mr. I don't know what a dish scraper is but I know what a 'cheese cutter' is. He waved it once in Peter's direction, "Do you know what this is?" Apparently that was a question he needed to ask.
XXX
Peter's gaze darted between the implement and Sylar's face a few times. He was suspicious, but he gathered that Sylar was actually going to tell him how to improve his dinner. That expectation made a little mockery along the way endurable. "It's a whisk. You use it to make eggs, or pancake batter."
XXX
Just…? Sylar paused to think about that reply. "It can be used for more than just breakf-…" That's what memory had been bouncing around in his mind, knocking to get out. So many smells and moments, some good, some horribly tense rushed through him, bittersweet. "Ah, yes. You always did want to be just like the adults. As if making your own breakfast would make you more of a man in Dad's eyes."
XXX
Peter grimaced and snatched the whisk away from Sylar. "As a matter of fact, I made my own breakfast so Maggie didn't have to spend her time serving me." He gave Sylar a mild glare. "Maybe Nathan didn't notice," (oh yes, Peter had noticed Sylar's accidental appropriation of Nathan's memories), "but Mom slept weird hours and Dad was never there. I wasn't going to have people make a full meal just for me. Not when I could learn to do it myself." He looked in the pan, remembering thankfully that the maid had taken the time to teach him and done a good job of it at that. In a milder voice, he asked, "Now what do I do with the whisk? Just stir it up?"
XXX
Sylar resumed his position on the opposite side of Peter. The rationale seemed almost needlessly selfless. /"She got paid whether she made you breakfast or not./ But yes. Stir and," he nodded at the temperature handle, "Turn down the heat."
XXX
"Okay," was all he said to the comment about the maid, or the implication that it was fine to make himself a burden to others simply because his family was rich. He adjusted the heat. "This much?" He glanced to Sylar for affirmation, then looked in the pan as he whisked the contents. He could already tell this was going to make it more consistent, something he never managed when simply using a spoon. "It'll take longer to cook this way." He wasn't disappointed – just stating the obvious. "Thank you," he said a little softer. "This makes sense."
XXX
Sylar looked again to see that Peter had turned the heat much closer to 'simmer', no longer 'boil.' The lumpiness was dissipating thanks to the whisk. He glanced at the other man's gratitude. It's just soup. It's really not a big deal.
XXX
As he cooked, Peter looked over at Sylar, who had never put his shirt back on. It seemed inappropriate for a meal with company, not that 'I hang out in my apartment naked' Peter had much room to judge. He generally only did that while alone. "You could put your shirt on now if you want," he suggested, thinking the reason for Sylar's undress might only be careful following of medical directions. "Your back should be dry."
XXX
It was a little chilly to be shirtless, but he could live until after he ate. Besides, Peter was likely to sleep with him – and perhaps do more than just sleep. In the event that all they did was sleep, he thought it fitting to torture Petrelli with what he was missing. "Oh, okay," he replied compliantly, sitting down with his own microwaved bowl of soup without fetching his shirt.
XXX
Peter carried his soup over, blinking once at Sylar's dinner outfit (or lack thereof) and otherwise blowing it off. Staring was rude, so he looked to his food. After several months here of fending for himself, unscorched, relatively unglobby cream soup was almost a novelty. Peter sat at the table, spooning it up. "This is like real soup, like what I'd get at a restaurant," he said brightly. "When I made this stuff before, it always had lumps in it." He swirled his spoon around, kind of missing the lumps, kind of not. The uniformity of the dish wasn't to his liking, so he picked up some crackers to address that, mushing them up and dropping them into the bowl. He gave Sylar's upper torso a lingering look, intrigued by the swirled pattern of the hair, before turning his attention to something safer, like getting more crackers.
XXX
After a few spoonfuls and silence, Sylar thought up a question. "How did you and Bennet go back to being...friendly again after you tortured him?"
XXX
"I-" didn't torture him. Myself. Okay, yeah, whatever. Doesn't matter. I was there. It was a meaningless technicality. Peter didn't bother to try to convince Sylar of any dubious innocence that Sylar wouldn't believe anyway. "I'm not sure we ever quit being friendly. I mean, even while he was being forced to reveal things, he…he didn't hold it against us." Peter took another bite, this time with half a cracker included on the spoon. "I never meant to imply it was the same as your case." Peter gave a shake of his head. "Noah and I never talked about it. There wasn't anything to say. He knew what we wanted, he knew why we wanted it, and we knew why he didn't want to give it. Everything was," Peter shrugged, "out on the table. I think it probably helped that none of us were a threat to him, to Claire, or to anyone he was trying to protect." Peter ate another spoonful. "In your case, I still worry about who you'd go after if you had the opportunity." Sylar's comment earlier about his desire for revenge had not gone unnoticed. Peter hadn't asked about it, and he didn't now, because of the many times Sylar evaded, deflected, or went on the offensive when Peter inquired too closely about his intentions.
XXX
Petrelli's reply was…about what Sylar had expected. Should that make me feel better that even the heroes don't talk amongst themselves about 'important' events? I'm sure it does help that his sense of self wasn't being violated and destroyed. That's really considerate of you, Peter…in hindsight. Sylar gave an 'oh, really?' expression to the hint about his plans, but didn't see a reason to answer. In a way, Peter was being smart in addition to being curious (though he hadn't actually asked it as a question) because if Peter knew, he would attempt to intervene as he always did. The split pea (with ham) didn't take long to finish off. With his body on the mend, he had an appetite, though soup was not his idea of a decadent meal, it did serve as good comfort food. (Does that mean Bennet 'forgave' Peter? Or that he understood that the whole 'kidnap/torture specials' thing was wrong? Sylar didn't know which was more likely). He was a little concerned about the rest of the night – if Peter would stay, sleep with him, or…perhaps do more? They gathered up the dishes, cleaned them together with minimal other conversation.
XXX
When it came time to turn in, Peter took a pillow and the extra blanket from the bed, retreating to the couch without comment. Sleeping in the same bed with Sylar seemed perilous and he was tired of fighting his desires. He brought his shoes with him, too, setting them up in case he needed them, then lying down and trying to get comfortable.
XXX
Initially, Sylar didn't notice that Peter was stealing away from the bed. Moving his pillow and blanket was a natural part of getting into the bed. Seconds later it was clear that Peter would be sleeping in the suite, just not in the bed with no explanation given. That was…disappointing (and relieving). "Wh-?" Sylar began, catching himself. "Where are you going?"
XXX
"Just over here," Peter answered, giving no other reason. Sylar could see perfectly well where he was going and if the guy hadn't figured out why Peter might not want to sleep with him, then Peter wasn't going to waste his time going over it yet again.
XXX
Still standing near the bed, Sylar was tempted to approach and get in Peter's space, if only to prove the little man couldn't walk away. "I won't bite, unless you ask nicely," he said regarding sleeping together and…sleeping together. Already he felt colder and lonelier to without Peter sharing the bed. He wanted the companionship to continue even in sleep.
XXX
Peter grunted, not dignifying Sylar's comment with anything more. He arranged his blanket and pillow.
XXX
"Come on, Peter. Come back to bed. Just…to sleep," he added quietly, embarrassed but willing to appease his partner to get what they both wanted.
XXX
Sylar's tone was more appealing than it had been before. Peter looked over and momentarily contemplated changing his mind. But he can't promise what he's offering. I'm the one who, like he said, tried to fuck him through two pairs of shorts. "No," he said curtly.
XXX
Sylar inhaled deeply, resigning himself. He was immensely grateful that Peter hadn't left entirely and made sleep even more painful. It hurt a little, the implied rejection or implication that he wasn't good enough or he was too much trouble. (He did not want to be too much trouble). It took a several long seconds, but Sylar resolved to try to sleep, knowing someone was near, being able to pick out the other man's breathing amongst all the other silence. Slowly and miserably, he crawled into the bed that seemed far too large for one man.
XXX
As a sleeping surface, the couch remained as steadfastly disagreeable as Peter had remembered it. Smooth leather that was great to sit on stuck to his bare skin and became clammy after lying in the same spot too long. The whole cushion was stiff – again, great support for sitting, but it didn't conform like a sleeping surface should. The seams between cushions dug into his side. The very slight tilt to the seat subtly pushed him towards the back, leaving him feeling wedged in. He had plenty of opportunity to catalog the couch's issues. Sleep was elusive. When he managed to doze, it was shallow and easily broken.
XXX
To his relief, Sylar could hear Peter breathing when he wasn't shifting around. He was smugly pleased that the empath was uncomfortable due to his self-inflicted righteous choice. Realizing that Peter wouldn't be over there unless he was sorely tempted, Sylar was able to relax. Closing his eyes was…peaceful. He didn't remember when that blissful lack of awareness overtook him.
After a while, some awareness came back. Peter had him on the ground somewhere and was slowly carving off strips of the flesh of his back, scraping and scratching at him without mercy. Saying things, making demands, often without waiting for any sort of reply and tearing at his back whenever he tried; things like, 'It hurts, doesn't it? He's still in you! You give him back to me body and soul. I'll just take away everything that's you. Did your victim's pain ever stop you? Were you looking for revenge? What were you thinking? I want him back! I don't need you conscious…' followed by cold, threatening laughter that didn't match Peter at all, but reflected the harsh reality of what he'd become. Sylar alternated between arching his back and curling inwards from the pain, twisting and thrashing otherwise silently, having given up any attempt to speak. He didn't have any answers and hated every word.
XXX
What? Something woke Peter and for once, it wasn't the damn couch. He found himself reaching around before he came fully awake, trying to touch the source of the disturbance. Then he realized no one was there. He grimaced and sat up partway, intending to roll over and seek a more comfy position, dismissing whatever had bothered him awake as his imagination. Then he heard it again - irregular breathing, bodily thrashing, along with muffled noises of misery and pain. Sylar? Peter looked over at the man, his general form visible enough in the diffuse light from the hallway that they usually left on for just this sort of thing. Peter folded back the blanket and stood up. After a beat, he grabbed his pillow before walking over to get a better look at what was going on.
XXX
The longer it went on, though his resolve and convictions were strong…Sylar found himself wavering in doubt and confusion. Peter was so sure of himself, so determined, ruthless and pitiless to get what he wanted – one of them was wrong, but who? He felt things bubbling up under the surface of his skin and he rejoiced and felt a stab of terror that Nathan really was within him – or was it the other way around: that he was Nathan? Curled protectively around himself as if to hold whatever unknown chaos inside himself to maintain his own structural integrity, he panicked at the thought of displeasing Peter or prolonging this exercise indefinitely. He began to claw at the floor, but found no purchase. Escape was pointless. He knew he was helpless, alone with his tormentor. Will I become Nathan even if I'm not just to give him what he wants? Is that all I have? That's all I am? His emotions swung between relief at seeing his brother, so selfless and powerful, doing evil just to save him – the love he received from Peter was staggering, then…the next seconds brought horror at being violated and forced to comply, helpless and useless until he surrendered himself utterly to be destroyed and made into someone better. The memories overlapped and joined until he couldn't feel who he was.
XXX
"Sylar?" Peter asked softly, reaching out with the pillow and pushing it against Sylar's hip and thigh. "Sylar?" This time he spoke more firmly.
XXX
Sylar gasped, some parts of the dream shattering, some continuing, but fading. He made some sort of half-cry because he could hear himself (and by his voice he was Sylar, Gabriel, his own form, but that didn't mean Nathan wasn't lurking inside, unseen). Sylar heaved himself up, half-seated, half-lying down, and clutched at his body, feeling over himself as if that would determine Nathan's existence. "Uhnn?!" he said in dismay, realizing he couldn't discern his identity for certain, then swallowing his fear when he saw the shadow of someone beside the bed. Surely this was Nathan as some shadow or ghost, his own twisted psychosis, or was it Peter who had been torturing him the whole time?
XXX
"Sylar?" Peter said slowly and carefully. Although physically relaxed, he was mentally preparing for anything from hysterical laughter to being tackled to the floor. "It's okay, buddy. It was a dream. It's over now. You're okay." He turned his head, peering in the dimness, trying to read Sylar's expression. He wanted to touch him, but wasn't sure if Sylar was ready for that yet.
XXX
That voice. Peter. Was it a comfort or was his mere presence a threat? The answer depended on his ability to ascertain who he was, which person, whose life this was. It didn't seem like a dream; this seemed all too real in a very unreal way. The threat versus comfort Peter represented, and the process of understanding who he was – if he could ever truly know that – overwhelmed him. Sylar didn't realize he was crying until his throat spasmed.
XXX
Peter took Sylar's shoulder, the pressure of his fingers signaling that he wanted to embrace. "Come here. It's okay. It's gone. The dream's gone." Sylar was only half sitting up, so after a beat, Peter climbed in bed with him. It was what Sylar had been asking him to do earlier anyway – sleep with him, be close and keep the nightmares at bay. Peter stuffed his pillow near the headboard. He wrapped his arms around Sylar and drew him in so Sylar's head was on Peter's chest.
XXX
Sylar was exhaling quick sobs with the start of many tears and had ceased to pay any minute attention to Peter's proximity. It was close, warm, and anything but painful. He felt…apologetic and couldn't explain why. Shame was present, though the fear of being tortured until he gave up one of his selves or until he chose or was forced to become one of them was worse. Distantly, Sylar could feel his head moving forward and arms around him. Instinct drove his trembling hand up, over the side of his face to cover the back of his head even as he went with the motion.
XXX
The tangle of arms confused Peter for a moment. What's he trying to do? When Sylar stopped moving, Peter felt over the configuration. He's protecting his head, just like he was earlier. "I'm not going to hurt you," Peter said in a whisper. "It's okay." I'm trying to help. He thought about trying to explain that, but decided what Sylar needed more was a moment to catch his breath and get oriented, not a series of questions about what he did or didn't want in this situation. Peter dropped one hand to Sylar's hip and lower back. The other arm clasped loosely across his back at the level of Sylar's shoulder. He held him and kept his mouth shut.
XXX
After what felt like a long time, the hiccupping breaths began. His body panicking as his emotions calmed. (He knows I can't be saved. He never tried. This is how I have to live). Uncertain if he trusted the answer, Sylar gasped out, "Who's body is this?" Would Peter know? Would he tell the truth if he did? There was no point in looking at himself in the dark to identify his own body. It felt like his body, but that meant precious little.
XXX
That question answered much of Peter's curiosity about the nature of the nightmare. "You're Sylar," Peter said firmly and immediately. After a beat he added, "I've known a future version of you who called himself Gabriel, in case that name means something to you." A few alien memories flitted unbidden through Peter's head to confirm it was an important name and probably the one Sylar had used before 'Sylar'. He pushed those memories aside. "You're Sylar now. This is Sylar's body." With one hand, Peter brushed lightly at Sylar's defensive head guarding. "I'm not going to change you. I didn't do anything to you. No one else did, either. It was a dream. Nightmare. It wasn't real." He went back to holding and let Sylar guard himself as he wanted.
XXX
Sylar quickly clenched his hand into his own hair at the touch. Peter would have to tear his hand (and his hair) away to get at him. He found his muscles momentarily tense though the medic's words would seem soothing. Another name added to the confusion was no help: Gabriel. "You already did. Y-you should have thought of that before. Other people did, too." The depression and decompression had him laughing, quiet and coarse through his plugged sinuses. "Don't fool yourself – you will again. Three times just isn't enough."