Day 75, February 23, Noon
Sylar snorted as he leaned back against the rail, hands in his pockets. He put his shoulders back as he considered the compliment. It meant Peter was listening to some of what he'd shared. That was gratifying. "No, not often," he replied. There had been a small handful of those good types of arrangements, not just the ones where he was used and useful. It was depressing to consider exactly how many of the other type there were, just beginnings that ended badly.
It choked him how often it involved someone being killed because Peter saw that only as repeated, intentional failures. (Is that what he meant with that compliment? That I'm 'the toughest man he knows' so I can take a lot of punishment on the job? Or he means I'm the one who can't work as a team?) "Obviously, they didn't work out. My skillset has its uses," he finished in a clipped tone. "I…I prefer being with specials but that's difficult. For obvious reasons." God, were they at the lobby yet? Peter needed a diversion and quick.
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"Obviously?" The door dinged open. Despite Sylar's tension, Peter pursued the subject (and Sylar, as he exited the elevator). "Are you telling me you killed every special who ever tried to work with you?" He wasn't accusatory, just confused. Peter racked his brain for all the people he knew of who had worked with Sylar in any capacity. Mohinder, right? But he didn't have an ability back then. And there's Danko, but he didn't have an ability either. My dad? But wait, he killed him. Or helped. He left me alive after that, but I didn't have any abilities right then either. "What about that Luke guy? You said he was your friend. He had an ability, didn't he?"
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Sylar grit his teeth, giving Peter a narrowed-eyed look. "No, that's not what I meant. But if that's what you want to believe, go right ahead." His tone was arch, almost a warning. Of course, Peter would take that as a general pattern, or worse, a threat that wasn't intended.
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"It's not about what I believe. I'm trying to find out what happened." Peter pivoted from the past to asking about the future. "How are you going to deal with life around people? Will you just stay away from specials all the time? You said that just knowing your future self found a way to overcome the hunger gave you hope."
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"Yeah, having a family might have 'given me hope', too, but we know how that turned out. And that future either can't happen or won't end well. You're the only other person here to judge." He tried to say it flippantly, like he didn't care about any of Peter's judgments.
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Peter looked up at Sylar with a frustrated, yearning expression. He wanted to pull the answers out of the man, but Sylar was becoming evasive. If he wouldn't answer about the possible future, then Peter would ask about the present. "Do you feel that pressure here and now, with me? And I'm serious – not just if I bother you, which I can see I do, but do you feel a compulsion to kill me?"
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"I didn't say I killed everyone!" Sylar exclaimed, not appreciating being put on the defensive over…a clear misunderstanding. "I'm not going to talk about this – or anything else – if you're just going to interrogate me," he said with a frown, but still unsure of how Peter would respond to that.
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Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. "Okay." He started to cross his arms, then changed his mind and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay," he repeated. He glanced around the lobby, anywhere but at Sylar whom he very much wanted to keep questioning, and very much knew he should lay off.
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A sigh escaped him before answering. "There's always a reason. Sometimes there's more reason than others. Like the ones I've spared in the past," he paused with a pointed look at Petrelli, "almost always come back to make my life a living hell. It's damage control, getting rid of a potential problem before it becomes a problem. Usually it's not personal. You do fall into that category, yes. And it's not a compulsion," he added dismissively with contempt at the idea that he lacked control. "I don't want to talk about this anymore." Sylar waited to see how that would be received. This current topic was making him tense.
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"You think I'm making your life hell?" Peter snorted. I could leave. But saying that won't go over well. Sounds like a threat and that's not what I mean. He softened his tone a little. "What would make things safer between us, Sylar?" He gestured at the rec room. "Let's go in here unless you were wanting to head out." He walked that way, giving Sylar some literal distance and time to calm down.
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Sylar rolled his eyes now, getting annoyed, his tone showing it with a hint of a growl. "Not necessarily right this minute, Petrelli." It was difficult to classify being in bed together and receiving medical attention as 'hell.' This conversation, maybe… "You've definitely made it hell in the past." Sylar followed into the rec room, hoping Peter would quickly pick a less-verbal hobby to engage himself in.
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Peter raised a single brow at Sylar, but he didn't have anything to say to that. He could make no claims about them having a stable past. Instead, he walked over to the speed bag, tapping it a few times before shooting a checking glance at Sylar. The device was going to be noisy once he started in on it. Fortunately, Sylar didn't look like he thought the conversation was continuing. Peter turned back to the bag and began to rap out a slow pattern that quickly sped up. Does he mean I've made his life hell in the recent past, like here, or back before? I hardly knew him before. I stopped him at Kirby Plaza. And Odessa. And I got in his way when he was doing whatever with Dad. And when he was going to kill the president. But he was being an asshole all those times. I wasn't doing anything wrong – he was. If he wants a better life, then maybe he ought to work on being a better person. It's like he goes around whacking hornet's nests and then complains about getting stung. Peter snorted and switched it up on the speed bag, trying different combinations and working on dodges and head dips as he did it. For the most part, he avoided thinking about what it meant that Sylar had started dodging hard when asked about safety between them, or between Sylar and anyone who had an ability. Peter supposed it was just one more reason to work out and stay sharp.
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Sylar wasn't sure what to make of that silence, followed by the choice of activity. He agrees, doesn't want to disagree, or he's thinking. Maybe a combination of all three? There was no way Peter was satisfied or finished. Hmm. It's…admirable, Sylar thought to himself, admiring the smaller man's physique. He should do this shirtless sometime. I bet it wouldn't be difficult to convince him – save a shirt, save on laundry or something like that. Sylar stood there for a time, waiting, watching to see if he was being ignored (on purpose or otherwise). "I can stare at your ass all day, but is there something I should be doing here?" he said after a few minutes of observing.
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Peter broke pattern on the speed bag and put a hand up to stop the oscillating racket. A flattered smile spread across his face as he looked back at Sylar. He was looking at me? Peter carded his hair back with a slight head toss. "You can look all you want." Of all things, Peter's mind flashed to him crouching over Sylar, pressing the nail gun to the man's thigh and getting a twisted jolt of satisfaction from hearing him scream when the nail sunk home. And now he's scoping me out and asking for advice on how to spend his time? Things had changed so much in just a few months. He rubbed at his slightly sore knuckles and chewed his upper lip, regarding Sylar somewhat…hungrily. Sylar had said he would do pretty much anything Peter told him to – sexually or otherwise – and here he was asking…again. Peter felt more tempted than usual to put that to the test. Instead, he fought off the impulse. Peter stepped away from the bag and headed towards the exercise room across the hall. "I'm going to work out. You can read, join in, whatever."
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"Bring me back a book," it was almost a question. He wanted to view Peter…and have something else to occupy himself with. Sylar trailed after him into the gym room, making himself comfortable on an exercise bench.
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"I think there's a couple books in the rec room about broken bones and head injuries. From when I was reading up on that stuff a couple months ago." Peter said it absently as he searched the exercise room for workout clothes, but there weren't any. "I've got to head up to get different clothes anyway. I'll take the stairs, but I'll bring back whatever's on your nightstand. Okay?"
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Sylar could see Peter's distraction. I don't want to read your books. That's your job.What he answered was, "Yeah."
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It was a lot of flights to go up, but would serve as good enough cardio that Peter didn't have to spend time on the treadmill later. He thought about the various buildings he'd had to carry people down the stairwells as a paramedic, and the truism that the higher the floor the patient was on, the more likely it was that the elevators were out. Then his thoughts returned to that fight he and Sylar had had at Mercy, the only one in the real world where they'd been on a level playing field – neither having powers – and how he'd totally beaten Sylar's ass that time. Yet the man still wanted him. Or maybe he wanted him because Peter had beaten him. The fight had been equal measures frustrating (because he lost Nathan) and satisfying (because he thrashed Sylar). It was hard to sort out how he should feel about it now, but how he did feel about it was an unexpected dominance. It wasn't a feeling Peter was accustomed to. He'd been 'lesser' for most of his life, having to fight for what little acknowledgment he got.
Peter changed in the apartment, the sweatiest part of his workout already over after all those stairs. He looked at the nightstand on Sylar's side of the bed. It featured a book and one of the bottles of unscented lotion Sylar had picked up at the store weeks ago as a prank (or maybe wishful thinking). Familiarity had given it invisibility. He hefted the opaque bottle, trying to judge if any had been used. Far as he could tell, it was still full. Doesn't he jerk off at least? No wonder he's so fucking frustrated if he doesn't.
Peter tried to remember the last time he'd masturbated. Last week maybe? Longer? Fuck. No wonder Sylar looks so good. He fondled the bottle, considering breaking his dry spell right then and there, but he was in the middle of his workout. What if Sylar came up in the elevator to see what was taking so long? Also, perversely, he did not want to use his own bottle on the other side of the bed – he very clearly wanted to use this one and use enough for Sylar to notice. Peter shook his head at his stupid libido with its stupid ideas. I usually can't do it alone anyway. He determinedly ignored that doing it with Sylar's lotion and imagining getting taken to task for it later would probably be enough 'interaction' to get him off. Reluctantly, Peter returned the bottle and picked up the paperback. He took the stairs back down, handed off the book without comment, then hit the weights to try to burn off some of his pent-up energy.
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Peter appeared to warm up with plenty of muscular flexion for his abs, arms, and legs. Before he moved onto weight machines, there were some squats and occasionally allowed peeks at his belly and chest when he used his shirt to wipe away sweat. Of course, Sylar was diligently reading during all this. It was such a filthy, voyeuristic pleasure to be able to watch Peter sweat and get worked up (minus the usual emotional outbursts) at something that wasn't directed at him. No wonder he's so strong.
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Peter swabbed the sweat off his face using the hem of his shirt. Okay, maybe the stairs weren't the sweatiest part. He looked at Sylar, who was still sitting on the bench and had been there throughout the workout, probably watching him in the mirror at times, or even directly. Peter hadn't paid him much attention, but it was soothing to have company nonetheless – at least, once he'd gotten over the initial tension of wondering if Sylar was going to confront or assault him like he had the last time they were in here together. But Sylar had kept to himself and Peter's thoughts had quickly enough turned to the mechanics of pushing his body as far as it would safely go. "I'm going to head up the stairs again and get a shower. I'll come back down after. You want anything else from up there?"
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Sylar could tell when Peter's attention returned to him. It had been conspicuously absent for the workout. He guessed Petrelli enjoyed zoning out because he obviously felt comfortable enough to do so. Sylar put a finger between the pages of his book and looked up. Then Peter spoke, bringing up an interesting question. Do I trust him to be up there alone? Do I believe he'll come back? He replied with a slow shake of his head. Just want you back from up there.
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Peter nodded and set off to slog up another course of stairs. It went much slower this time, the exercise having achieved the desired end of purging his anxious energy. The shower and new clothes made him feel like a new person. He snacked while standing around in the kitchen, feeling human and right with the day. Making music sounded like a lovely way to express his buoyed mood, so he went back to the rec room (elevator this time) and made some noise (more appealing this time than the banging of the speed bag).
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The empath's cheer was refreshing. Peter hadn't grilled him too hard or abandoned him (the threat that he might go off exploring was still a concern), so that boded very well. Sylar lay back on the couch, reading and lounging. He must not be too upset that he didn't get all his answers at once. Maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll forget and won't ask again. That seemed unlikely. But the instrumental noise, after sleeping together and the one-man gym sounds, were pleasing. It was easy to rest this way.
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After a half hour on the piano and a little longer on the guitar, Peter moved on to the pool table, rolling the balls around and clicking them together. "Hey, Sylar. You want to take a break from that and shoot a game or two with me?"
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Ah. There it is, Sylar thought of the continuation of questions Peter surely had. "I thought you didn't like to play games with me," he teased, half-serious even as he stood to join. He took up a pool stick and the triangle before beginning to gather the balls.
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Peter scoffed. "I'm just not so keen on the ones where I don't know the rules. That's when I feel like I have to play dirty to win." He rolled the cue ball back and forth on the top end of the table while Sylar arranged the triangle at the other end. "I prefer the ones where the game is the fun part – not who wins or loses."
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That struck him as more than a little false and he said as much, /"Like the time you got up early every day for weeks to train to beat Howie Kaplan at the hundred meter dash?"/
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Peter half-straightened from where he'd been about to take his first shot. "That's not your memory," he said, serious and quiet. He watched Sylar until he could see the other man accept that. Then Peter launched the white ball down the table, making a good break and sinking a striped ball. He circled the table to choose his next shot. "He was a bully and an arrogant prick. Someone needed to show him up, and that someone was me."
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Sylar frowned. What do you mean, it's not my memory? Before he could understand why, it felt like his back was up ready to defend himself. Peter wasn't backing down, staring into him to force the issue. It took longer than it should have, but Sylar eventually grasped what Peter meant and broke the contact by pretending to move around the table for a better view or future vantage point. He cleared his throat. "Which totally explains why you're so insanely competitive for a guy who isn't hung up about winning or losing." He had personal experience on the receiving end of Petrelli's drive to win and finish. I know he's one of those, 'everyone is a winner in their heart!' types.
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"That's because I don't like it when people pretend to be better than other people. That was my problem with Dad, and Howie, too." Peter took his second shot, narrowly missing. He drew away from the table for Sylar's turn. "What about you? Is getting to play enough of a reward, or are you going to be keeping score all the time?"
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Sylar exhaled something of a snort, derisively aimed at himself. Right. Because no individual person is better than another. We're all just so…equal, he thought sarcastically. In the meantime, Sylar took a moment to compose his shot. There were several options to choose from – he was solids; Peter was stripes. He considered the question and pulled back his stick, landing his first ball and bouncing another out of place (with some thanks to 'memories that weren't his'). "I don't think I've ever had anyone to just play with before. If I don't keep score, someone else will then I'll…regret that I didn't do it in the first place." He shrugged, not comfortable with that amount of truth or the truth itself.
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"I'm not keeping score against you, Sylar," Peter said with a glance up. He took his shot, sinking it easily and ending up so well aligned for a second that it looked like he'd done it on purpose. He raised his brows and made a surprised head tilt at that before moving to take advantage of it. The second ball went in as well, but he scratched on his attempt to make it three. He backed off from the table, leaving Sylar to his turn. "The thing is, it's one of those things that's human. People are going to do it anyway – we all want to measure ourselves against something and it's less painful to measure ourselves against other people than against ourselves. I can't say I haven't done it or won't do it. But at the same time, we're all people and deserve respect for that much no matter where we fall in the advantages of life. You don't have to prove that to me, Sylar. You've had a lot of advantages, a lot of disadvantages, and you've done a lot with what you've had." Peter leaned on his cue stick and regarded the table sourly. "It's not like the score could be evened anyway."
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Sylar opened his mouth to respond to the first part. Peter was too keeping score, when it suited him. But the words didn't make it out as Peter continued. The rest of it sounded off-topic: too social, emotional, or understanding and thus passing by his frame of reference. The last comment, though…Peter wasn't looking when Sylar immediately stiffened and pressed his lips together with a blank expression. That was all the confirmation he needed. It wasn't like I was asking for or expecting his forgiveness. It's not like fucking him will even any score. It's not like I'm losing any face because I was careful not to make any of that known. It's not like he's talking about anything he's done or anything that's happened to me. He's just…telling me how it is. Sylar would have had less of a reaction if Peter had physically slapped him. "No. Of course not," he agreed in a monotone, walking around the table to approach the cue ball. Peter hadn't left him with any great shots – the angles were off – so he attempted bounce it off the far wall of the table and ricochet his ball to bump it in. It bumped as intended, but with insufficient force. Sylar withdrew.
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Peter sighed. The cue ball was in a bad spot for any of his shots, tucked up neatly behind a solid green one of Sylar's. He tried to work out angles and finally decided to just punt it. Balls ricocheted a little wildly and the green ball ended up in a side pocket. Peter grunted and huffed, ceding the turn to Sylar. "Back to one of the questions I was asking earlier, about the Hunger and compulsion. You said it wasn't a compulsion. I felt it, the once, you know. Maybe twice, if you count when I went after Ma. What do you call…How do you explain that? To yourself, to anyone, to me? What is that?" He tried to be careful not to have it sound like he was laying blame or starting an interrogation. He wanted to understand what had happened to him the time the Hunger had moved him to kill; as well, he wanted to understand if that was the same thing that had happened with Sylar; both factored into if Peter was 'safe' now, and if they'd be 'safe' if they got out of here.
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"You know, Petrelli, ignorance is bliss a lot of the time. I don't try to explain it to myself. That's the key to successful killing. Be glad you had the ability to jump around through time and clean up after yourself."
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Peter frowned back at the other man, not liking the lack of meaningful answer, or the implication that he'd acted intentionally to cover up the things he'd done wrong. If could use time travel that way, I would have never stranded Caitlin. But he didn't voice that, because he wasn't sure if losing Caitlin had been within his power to prevent and he had simply been too stupid or ignorant to know how to do it. He'd had so many shocking near-misses with his abilities that it was a wonder he'd had as little lasting collateral damage as he had. "I didn't wake up on that autopsy table wanting to kill Nathan. But somewhere after him letting me go, I…" Peter shook his head and hunched his shoulders. He wasn't sure if the future version of Nathan counted as a near-miss or not. He'd killed his brother. He'd lifted his hand, bared his teeth, and killed him. It didn't feel like a miss even though he'd come back to find Nathan safe and sound in the present time. Peter's chest felt tight and like his heart was beating too fast. "I can't really remember…"
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Sparing a quick glance at Peter determined that Sylar wasn't being interrogated per se. This wasn't necessarily about him. At the same time, he immediately understood what Peter meant and what the other man must have felt (or must be feeling) and that was something he didn't want to have a shared experience of. It was frightening how much he understood and how much he didn't want to understand that Peter felt some of the same things. Oh, God. Did Nathan drop him somehow? The mere thought of the reverse of Mercy – of Nathan dropping Peter, abandoning him, betraying him to death – was making him sick to his stomach. He said he killed Nathan in the future, not…that time Peter jumped off the building and made /me catch him and I couldn't. He couldn't remember then, either. I called it a suicide attempt./
Because of the clarity of feelings, what he thought he was understanding even if (or perhaps, because) the specifics weren't clear, Sylar wanted no part of it. "Knock it off, Petrelli! You are not getting inside my head!" With the butt of the stick still planted on the floor, he pointed the tip of his pool stick at Peter.
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Peter gave him a hurt and angry scowl. "Go fuck yourself," he said in a hoarse voice. Peter retreated to the couch, leaving his stick leaned on the arm of it as he sat heavily. He put his elbows on his knees and face in his hands. "I'm not messing around with you or your head," he said from behind his hands. Feelings and events were whirling around inside his skull – Caitlin, Nathan, wanting to compete with and relate to Sylar and yet being unable to deal with the debts Sylar owed Peter and society, the confusion of Peter's own debts which would never come to pass yet had somehow already happened to him. Peter felt helpless to sort it all out.
"I thought you could help. I thought you might understand why I did something like that. I wanted to understand him, what was driving him, but that's not a reason to kill someone!" He shot Sylar a frustrated look. They'd had this discussion before and at that time Peter had taken some small measure of comfort from sorting out the surface level of his motivations, but the closer he looked at it, the less sense it made. "I don't even know if I'm supposed to be upset about this." He put his hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering. "But I am. I came back and Nathan was still alive, so what the fuck happened?" He waved his hands in angry emphasis. "It was like a nightmare, but one that really happened - to me, but no one else! Like Ireland, like Caitlin, no one knows her, or what she meant to me, or what happened to me on the way over there or once I was there. Just you. I never told anyone else – who the fuck can I talk to about any of this, Sylar?" Peter looked at the man intently. "Who else has any frame of reference? Who else wouldn't think I was crazy?" He made a gesture at the way out, winding up his rant. "And if you can't take it, you know where the door is."
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That was such a mess of everything; it was difficult to sort through. Sylar was stuck in place with several conflicting emotions. Anger was winning out. He didn't want to be responsible for this. At the same time, Peter clearly needed him and him alone. His experiences were useful and morally acceptable only when Peter had need of them. Peter was applying something like guilt, whether intentional or not. And then Peter was challenging him, like if he left, Sylar would be the weakling. A large part of him didn't want to help because Peter had ignored him before – the first time they thought they were brothers. Perhaps he was upset because there was a good reason he was ignored…
"You don't ask for much, do you, Petrelli?" he sassed back, voice losing the edge of anger. After a pause and a glance to see Peter still calming himself and wondering if he was taking on the role of a substitute brother, Sylar said, softer still, "I'm never getting a normal game of pool or anything else, am I?" But he knew it was true and sad that Peter would never relent. "I don't want to talk about me so don't even think about trying to turn this around on me, or beat me up, or give me crap about anything. I've already talked enough today. I know where the door is."
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Peter looked pointedly between Sylar and the way out, but the other man wasn't budging. Peter shrugged and looked away. Tension drained from him, leaving him tired and deflated. "Most people go," he said bitterly. "I stop being the fun party guy, the easy lay, or the friend who's always focused on them and what they need, and they bail. Like Nathan, like Dad. Useless second son," he said of himself with a sigh. Even those who were supposed to be there for him in his life had made their attention conditional on his conformance to their needs and standards. "It's not always about you, Sylar. Thanks for staying." He got to his feet and walked over, ignoring the possibility of the pool stick being used as a weapon against him. Peter raised his hands slowly, putting them down on Sylar's shoulders. "Just having you here listening is more than most people will do." He dipped his head in the direction of the pool table. "Let's play. Whose turn is it?"
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Sylar considered that and noted the other man's need. And gratitude. It told him he'd made the right decision to stay and listen to Peter. The empath needed to trust and be tolerated and heard. Who knew it could be that easy? "Don't make it weird. You were never any of those things to me." You're certainly anything but an easy lay. Will fuck anything that moves, except for me, of course, he thought, but said aloud, "It's my turn." Sylar smirked, waiting until Peter broke the contact.
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Peter snorted softly, eyes roaming over Sylar's face for a moment. 'Don't make it weird'. Because it's feeling sentimental to you, isn't it? Pleased by that, he patted one of Sylar's shoulders and turned away to get his pool stick. "No, I wasn't," Peter said of what he had been to Sylar. Their past had been more complicated. Making light of it, he said, "I was the guy who kept showing up to kick your ass and get in your way." Collecting his stick from the arm of the couch, Peter waved at the table and added in a warm but challenging tone, "Take your best shot, buddy."
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Some combination of the medical or psychological stress, the relief that Peter hadn't gone exploring alone and had been caring for his injuries, the affirmation that he was succeeding in seducing Peter, and now the Italian calling him 'buddy', got to him. Sylar dropped his pool stick (he did not want that coming between them), stalked over and grasped Peter's face. He leaned in and pressed a consuming kiss on Peter's unsuspecting lips. When there was no immediate reaction, he opened his mouth wider to cover Peter's. It still surprised him that Petrelli didn't reek of corruption or taste like it. The danger of the kiss was a rush – if Peter allowed it to continue, he would definitely win. If Peter didn't, he'd still win. Somehow. Sylar slid his tongue out to taste those crooked lips better…
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He saw Sylar approaching, saw and heard the clatter of the stick falling to the floor. Peter tensed, heart hammering again as his adrenaline spiked for a second time in less than ten minutes. Peter was instantly ready for a fight. But the body language wasn't there. Sylar's expression was intent, but not aggressive; his hands reaching, but open and not fast enough for an attack. Peter ended up just standing there stiffly, fixed in place as he tried to work out what was about to happen and what he needed to do about it, a holding pattern broken only when Sylar's lips sealed onto his own.
At that point, he was free to act. He could have acted. He didn't. He drew in a deep breath instead. He could smell Sylar. He could feel him. He knew what had caused this – he'd virtually asked for it with his challenge. This was Sylar's 'best shot' and it wasn't a violent assault. It wasn't pain and fear from getting punched in the face by the guy, cut across the forehead, or stripped of self-control by telekinesis. It was just hands holding his face firmly, but without too much pressure; lips on his own, demanding acknowledgement but not forcing the issue. Peter wanted, more than anything else, to kiss back and provide that acknowledgement. He felt a surge of desire so strong it threatened to blot out his reasoning mind. That was why he did nothing, frozen to the spot, fighting his own internal struggle.
The shift of Sylar's mouth and wet, ticklish swipe of tongue across Peter's lips was what decided him. It was too much of a liberty. (He didn't want to think about why the kiss by itself had not been so easily classified as 'too much'.) Peter jerked backwards out of Sylar's grip and hooked his left fist over the top of Sylar's arm, tagging him solidly across the face, but without the wind-up necessary for a hard punch. Peter bared his teeth and fell back another step or two, blading himself to his opponent. His own pool stick was still in his right hand. He hung onto it, but kept it vertical without brandishing it. He didn't want this to be a fight. "I meant the game," Peter nearly hissed, "and you know what I meant."
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Sylar wasn't expecting that, exactly. The last time he'd tried anything like this, Peter had throat-punched him. The pain was almost pleasant. Sylar's eyes widened as he touched his face and laughed. "Right. Of course you did." He made a show of licking his lips and glancing at Peter's mouth. Violence with sex was not the deterrent Peter thought it was. It was more of an invitation.
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Peter's gaze followed Sylar's hand to his face, then lingered on his lips. Distantly, he registered that he hadn't given Sylar a split lip. There was no sign of blood on the tip of tongue Peter saw, and stared at. He'd hit him just right. He looked to Sylar's eyes when the tongue disappeared, catching that Sylar was checking him out just as much in return. Peter blinked several times and leaned back, trying to make clear with body language that no return to intimacy would be allowed despite the obvious shared interest. He raised his fists a few inches, pool stick included. Sylar seemed to get the message.
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"Like I said. For me, you're not an easy lay." With that, Sylar retrieved his stick (noting several phallic jokes) and turned toward the table.
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Hardest fucker you'll ever get in bed. But Peter didn't say that. There were too many other interpretations of the words that clouded the meaning. Even if he meant all of them, he didn't want to blurt them out and deal with Sylar thinking Peter's impossible, impractical, unethical fantasies were something achievable. Things were problematic enough as they were. He looked away, setting the butt of his pool stick on the floor. Sylar had virtually licked him. Tongue with obligatory saliva had wet Peter's mouth more than the typical residual moisture of a reasonably chaste kiss. Peter wiped with the back of his hand, then licked his lips clear of the remainder.
He looked back at Sylar with a smolder in his eyes. The flavor of the man clung to his tongue. Peter wanted to fuck him. It wasn't just a fantasy – he actually wanted to do it. He licked his lips again and bit them, because he couldn't have what he wanted. It was ridiculous. The man was an asshole. He'd killed Nathan, but Peter had never before in his life experienced the feeling he was having at the moment. Taking Sylar anyway was somehow not at odds with what Sylar had done. The idea was there that Peter could get revenge through sexual domination, hitting Sylar 'just right' – enough to hurt but not injure, enough to get blood pumping for both of them without setting off Peter's aversion to harming his partner. He could fuck Sylar as long as he fucked him up in the process, something Sylar had obviously realized a long time before.
Peter turned away again, expelling a deep breath. It was wrong. It was so deeply wrong. (But that didn't stop his desire.) He scrubbed at his face restlessly, then finger-combed his hair back three times more than it needed. He paced around slowly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sylar pocketed a few balls.
XXX
Sylar glared for a moment. He watched Peter attempt to wipe his mouth, obviously wanting to be rid of the association. So that's still the problem, is it? As soon as Peter was finished with that, Sylar caught the look directed his way. If the empath could scorch his clothes off with a look, he would have been doing it right now. Oh. Petey wants it bad. His own glare disappeared as he relaxed and slowly licked the corner of his lip, assuming a taller, hips-forward posture. All that from one little kiss? Maybe he's easier than I thought. (Is that why he doesn't want me to kiss him?) The punch was an unmistakable wordless sentiment, but the rest of the body language and reactions Peter had given were inconsistent. Wanting to pour fuel on the flame, he purred, "Don't worry. I enjoy a challenge." Then he returned to the game (without making a single dick joke or abusing his pool stick). Sylar was sure to accentuate or reveal the parts of his body he knew Peter wanted to see: his shirt rode up his lower back and stomach and his ass stuck out in invitation as he took his other best shots.
XXX
Peter had wanted to keep the table between them, but Sylar's next play 'had' to be taken from whatever side Peter was on. Peter not so dim he didn't recognize what Sylar was doing, but knowing that didn't keep his eyes off the man's backside once it was on display. "You mentioned," Peter struggled to get his mind back on a useful track and out of a very dark gutter, "there was always a reason why you killed people, keeping a problem from getting bigger. That almost sounds like…your- the ability senses the future somewhat. Is it…guiding you in what to do? Isaac's ability let him paint the future; my mother's let her see it in dreams. If I look back at it, I can't really say there wasn't a good reason for me to…kill," Peter grimaced in distaste, "either of them – Nathan or Mom. Both of them were…they weren't on my side when I did it. They were acting against me, I guess, and that was what I wanted to get out of them – why they were doing what they were doing. It didn't make any sense for people who supposedly loved me." Peter's brow furrowed. "That future version of me said I would need your ability to understand how to essentially manipulate the time stream, tell what I needed to change and what I didn't. Is that it – you know who you need to kill to achieve whatever goal you're working towards?"
XXX
Sylar made a growling sigh. Petrelli's overcompensating for his desires was worse than the dick teasing, adding insult to blue balls. Just fuck me already! he protested mentally before tuning in to whatever new smokescreen. He sucks the fun out of abilities. After making one close shot and missing it, he listened and latched onto something new (other than Peter's theory). "You killed Ma- your mother?" he asked, shock coloring his voice. Had Peter been lying or omitting that until now? He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
XXX
Huh? No! Why would he think that? Peter thought back over what he'd said. The words themselves did lend to that interpretation. Oh. Peter pointed at his own forehead vaguely and said, "No, I just tried to. You were there. In the cell on Level 5?"
XXX
"Oh," he breathed out. I'm reading too much into it. And, he realized, probably being obvious about it. "No. Obviously it doesn't work that way or you'd be dead and so would your mother." He didn't feel like kicking the tiger too much by adding 'and Nathan might still be alive.' Strange how Peter was more devoted to Nathan than his mother when both seemed to be equally immoral and important. "And a whole lot of other people." Pursing his lips, Sylar observed, "It would be much simpler if it worked that way, like an early warning system." He didn't mention the part about how nice it would be if his ability did work like that – trying to count his traumas and those responsible was enough to dismay. He didn't pursue that line of thought, instead watching Peter too closely as he took his turn. "But…" he began slowly, considering. "It might feel that way to you because you're not known for your long-range planning." He looked at Peter expectantly, interested in the reply and pleased it wasn't something deeply personal that he himself had to answer.
XXX
Peter shot Sylar a scowl from over his shoulder as he leaned over the pool table. Then he gathered from Sylar's expression that it was an observation, not an insult. He took his shot and sunk the ball. Next up was the eight ball, but it wasn't in a good position. He circled the table, hoping to see something new. "It felt like I was making the decision. I chose what to do and then after it was done, the consequences hit me. It was like the opposite of long-range planning, because I wasn't thinking things through." He set the pool stick butt-down on the floor, leaning on it slightly. "Even if it was critical for me to know what was motivating Nathan in that future, or my mother when I saw her on Level 5, cutting their heads open," Peter said that phrase with emphasis, raised brows, and a dipped head, "is a really stupid way to find that out. Let's say that after I do that, the reason conveniently pops out of their brain like a jack-in-the-box - something that's probably not going to happen, but stay with me. So what? Now I know what they were up to, but they're still dead!" Peter cast his arms to either side at the futility of it. "What good was that? Keep in mind, I didn't need their abilities! I had every ability future…" you, "Gabriel had, everything that future version of me had. I had so many abilities churning around in the back of my head I could barely think! There's no other reason to do it!"
He turned back to the pool table and took a careless jab at the cue ball, launching it across half the table and hitting nothing at all – but it put it in a worse position for Sylar and his remaining shots. In a cranky, frustrated tone, he said, "I'm trying to find a way where you killing all those people makes some kind of sense, Sylar." He waved at the table. "Your turn."