Day 75, February 23, Afternoon

Sylar raised an eyebrow, at the emotion and the following actions. His expression turned pitying. Imagining Peter Petrelli, with all focus and energy, no planning, and two dozen abilities he didn't understand not including the intuitive aptitude…well, it sounded like the ultimate recipe for disaster. It was obvious what the cause was. Not that Peter would want to hear it. He shrugged, contemplating the table and his poor position, "I don't think it was meant for…using on family. You were looking for different answers from specific people." I guess it's a good thing it didn't work that way with my family. He didn't want to consider why he hadn't pursued that, when he still (as then) had questions.

Sylar bent over again, attempting a shot, grazing his ball and rolling it in. "I was always curious why you didn't cut into my head. I was still alive. I guess that answers it: I wasn't 'family' or important…and you probably didn't want any of my answers even then." He straightened up slowly, gazing at Peter from the side of his eye. Whatever attention Peter had neglected before, he wanted now with two types of interest.

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Peter snorted and rolled his eyes dismissively, barely noticing the undulating manner Sylar had used to bring himself upright. It was almost a pose – a sexy one at that. But what Sylar had said was more engaging than the posturing. "Hey. Stop cutting yourself down and trying to guilt trip me while you do it. That's not what this is about." Peter moved on quickly to something more relevant than lingering over Sylar's low self-esteem and resentment that Peter hadn't been there for him when there was no reason Peter would have been. "What do you mean it's not meant for using on family? Family were the only ones I used it on. And if you'll remember, I thought you were my brother right then, when I popped into that cell on Level 5. Or at least I'd just been told you were by that future version of you. None of it made any sense, so whether I believed it or not is debatable." He squared off with Sylar, Peter's thoughts on his suspicions that Sylar's mother had been one of the man's first victims. More slowly, Peter said, "What do you mean that it's not meant for family?"

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Sylar's eyes narrowed at Peter's attitude, only for the empath to follow up with an annoyingly obvious question. "I mean exactly what you said: 'Once you have the answers, you don't have a family anymore.' And you obviously didn't believe it or I would be dead by that logic."

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Peter listened to that. He scowled at Sylar's continuing insistence that Peter had slighted him by not attempting to cut his head open way back then. In an irritated tone, Peter asked, "What about you? Your family didn't matter to you?"

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Sylar took a shot with a shrug. "Guess not. They're all pretty much dead." The ones that are alive, I'm not eager to claim. His solid sphere rolled into the pocket, leaving them one ball each. He didn't know why he bothered; Peter was distracted.

XXX

Peter chewed his lip in frustration. "I promised I wouldn't ask about your mother. So I guess we're done with this topic. Let's talk about something else." He went to the pool table to take his shot in turn. "What's on your mind?"

XXX

The pieces slipped together in his mind and Sylar straightened up, forgetting the game completely now. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" He didn't care if his anger came across. He couldn't believe Peter would think that, yet he understood how it made sense. "You think I killed my family for answers?"

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Peter hesitated, doing an instant's worth of assessment of where he and Sylar were, emotionally, with one another. Would he start a fight with what he was about to say? Did he have to handle Sylar carefully with so sensitive a topic? Or had they progressed to the point where this level of honesty was possible? He snorted and took the chance. "I think you killed your family for the same reason I went after mine! And it wasn't that I'd been going around for years thinking I needed to knock them off," he made an expansive gesture with his arms at how ridiculous that was, "but that I took your ability and unlocked it. I did that and the next conscious five minutes of my life was killing Nathan and going after my mother!" Peter pointed at Sylar with the hand still containing his pool stick. "You had it for years! You say they're dead and you don't want me asking about what happened to her. Fine, but I don't think it's any surprise that I've connected that stuff." He left it at that, extending neither sympathy nor judgment. It was enough to get his suspicions out in the open and leave it for Sylar to dictate how things went from here.

XXX

Sylar frowned and glared, squaring off to Peter, still holding his pool stick as well. "You don't know anything! You're wrong and you don't know anything!" He felt at least eight year's worth of frustration bubbling up to confuse him. He didn't know what he was going to do if Peter kept insisting he'd killed his own family because of his ability. It was a perfectly logical assumption, too. It fit him like a glove. The truth…wasn't much better. Whatever answers his family could have given might have been more terrible than the stories he'd conjured up because he knew he couldn't handle those truths. Now, he didn't want to tell anything about it even as his silence made him look all the more guilty. Lifting his chin, and growling through gritted teeth, he said, "That's bullshit when I left my father alive – my father, who had dozens of abilities and lied to me about every question I asked. But I understand that it's easier for you if I'm the original bad guy here. What you believe doesn't change anything."

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Peter registered the body language – the way Sylar's hand slipped down the pool cue closer to the balance point, knuckles whitening; the change in pitch and literally baring his teeth as he talked – yet at the same time the last two statements were an attempt to give Peter an out, as if trying to say, 'I don't care, that didn't actually hurt me like it did, what you think doesn't matter anyway.' All patently false. Sylar cared a lot. Peter had hit close to the bone on this one, but not close enough for Peter's version of events to be true. "I'm wrong. I see that." In a softer voice, Peter said, "When I don't know, I have to believe something." Sylar also looked guilty as hell, despite and because of his failure to address Peter's uncertainties. Once again, there was a complete absence of mention of Sylar's mother. Peter looked at the pool table. There was one white ball, one black, and a solid blue of Sylar's. Peter's last play had been sinking one of his balls. He guessed it was still his turn, but the eight was flush with the bumper. He took a light shot to dislodge it for later, not bothering to call a pocket even though it was potentially the last shot of the game. It rolled to the middle of the table and stopped. "Your turn."

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He didn't realize just how tense he was until Peter appeared to drop the subject and return his focus to the game. It left him feeling…shocky. He almost wanted to tell Peter the truth, to his own surprise. But Petrelli didn't ask to 'understand' as much as he claimed. No, it was more entertainment and moral judgment, comparing himself to Sylar. Petrelli wasn't to be trusted. "Do you?" he asked, with fading venom. "You just happen to believe the worst possible thing." Sylar shook his head, relaxing further still, moving slowly to position himself around the table. Mostly to himself he muttered, "Would have thought Hiro would have run to tell you about it."

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You're still not saying the worst possible thing isn't what really happened. Peter tilted his head at Sylar's last comment. "What would Hiro have told me?"

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Sylar froze in the act of lining up for his shot, eyes losing focus for a moment but not taking them off the ball. "Nothing." So Peter didn't know or was playing dumb. "I'm not going to tell you, Peter. It's personal. I don't have to explain." That was said with some confidence, more than he truly felt. It was a close game. Sylar having a better understanding but Peter had more experience. The cue ball was in a good, open position but his ball was near the edge of the table. Pulling back and pushing forward with his stick, he scratched…somewhat intentionally. Sylar straightened and looked at Peter. "Thanksgiving must have been extra weird for you, then; watching your mother being cut into again and feeling just as helpless to stop it."

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Peter bristled. "Yeah, it was," he said stiffly. His skin flushed cold while his core flashed hot. The way Sylar said it – an offhand comment, an unimportant event other than to use as a jab at Peter – ran all through him. That's all that was to him? I don't believe that! He felt unreal, like he wasn't really there, instead remembering his feelings of impotence in that moment, fixed against the wall in his apartment. All he wanted to do was tear Sylar apart with his bare hands, but he knew words would do a better job of it than any blows. "Is that how it was for you – 'extra weird'?" Peter snarled. He wondered if Sylar had seen his own mother die that way, the way Peter could remember the horrified look on Angela's face in that Level 5 cell. "Is that why you stopped, because some shred of Nathan's humanity didn't want to watch his mother die that way, right in front of him by his own hand?" Peter took a single measured step closer to the pool table. Sylar couldn't hold him back here. He had no wealth of abilities to protect him. "Or was it that some shred of yours didn't want to see your mother murdered all over again?" Peter's last word was a grimace of bared teeth.

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Sylar noticed Peter was not returning his attention to the game. That, and the attitude, drew a frown from him. He tilted his head while Peter made it painfully clear exactly how his words sounded. He stood patiently, weathering the Storm Petrelli until the final note. It felt like he'd been stabbed with an icicle. How did he know? Had Peter guessed? Sylar quickly adjusted his expression to be the blankest of canvases before it could give him away (but perhaps the blood draining away from his face did that anyway). His chin went up and he crossed his arms. That was a lucky, barely educated guess. He wouldn't fall for the trap of explaining himself, confirming or denying. He was rattled, exposed – struck by the honesty, self-inflicted hurt, and guilt he didn't know how to acknowledge. Instead, he clarified what he'd intended to convey.

"If you're quite finished losing your marbles…?" He asked, voice betraying only the tiniest shake hidden beneath an acidic, patronizing delivery. "What I meant was: in light of the new information I didn't know then about you killing your brother in the past that you say never actually happened and feeling helpless against having my ability then…and feeling helpless…at Thanksgiving. It's like it happened twice." Maybe because he stepped on butterflies or something. "That's all."

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Peter was unconvinced by Sylar's attempt at poise, but he noticed how tightly the emotions had been bottled up. If he kept tearing at the man, there would be an explosion neither of them wanted. But Peter wasn't going to let Sylar deny what had happened. Peter shook his head slowly. His words came out steady and still harsh with anger. "I was stuck to that wall in my apartment because of you, not because of me. The one makes me hate you, the other makes me hate myself. That wasn't my hand," he swapped the pool stick to his left hand so he could lift the right in the manner Sylar had used in front of him at Thanksgiving, when Peter hadn't been able to stop him, "I was looking down, in that apartment, at someone I loved." He moved his fingers slightly to the side as though actually using Sylar's ability to cut into someone. Though in this case, the target for his pointing would have been a few feet to the side of Sylar. It made his stomach twist to do it. Peter grimaced and shook his head again. "You can't convince me you didn't see her as your mother, because you're still confusing me for your brother." Peter looked off into the distance to the side, imagining the chaos that must have been going on in Sylar's head back at the apartment. "I guess Nathan would have done the same thing I did in that situation – get overwhelmed, have to do it, no matter who it was." His eyes focused on Sylar again. "What you did to her then – stopped in the middle, couldn't finish – was almost exactly what I did to him in the future. Except I took it just a few seconds further, and he was dead."

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Sylar was so relieved when Peter didn't look at him to drive home the worst fact – that, at best, he'd been confused then about himself and about his relationship to Angela. He anticipated Peter would demand answers about what he'd been thinking, feeling, aiming to achieve…but no inquiry came. He did not expect Peter to bring it back to himself nor did he know how to proceed. Anything he said, no matter how casual or unrelated, was likely to piss off the Italian. "So it's still my fault and always will be. Does it help you if I pretend to be surprised?" he asked sarcastically.

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Peter snarled at him, angry all over again at Sylar's tone more than the actual words. "Yes, Sylar, it's still your fault! It was always your fault! It will always be your fault!" Peter moved a step closer, leaning forward in Sylar's direction. With an expression of disgust, he added, "You can pretend whatever the fuck you want. You know what you did!"

Peter turned his head to the side, his lips tight as he moved away again. He hadn't meant to snap like that, but the words were out. He breathed out through bared, but not clenched, teeth and turned to the table. He collected the white ball from when Sylar had scratched, gripping it in his fist as hard as he could. He tried to ignore the urge to smash it into Sylar's face. Instead, he deposited it on the felt-covered slate with a loud smack, then moved behind it to take his shot. He breathed out again, focused on what he was doing, and sunk the eight ball in one smooth, satisfying shot. As it went in, he realized he hadn't called the pocket. For a moment, it occurred to him they'd never clarified the rules they were using so maybe he was fine; then he remembered Sylar was operating with Nathan's memories. Sylar knew exactly what the Petrelli house rules were. That's why they'd started the game without so much as a mention of them. Peter threw his stick on the table with a rattle and stalked off to the far end of the room. The game was over either way.

XXX

It was a definitive tone from Peter at last. In a long-suffering, morbid way, he thought,I wonder how 'forgiveness' factors into that? There was no question of what he could/should do to fix anything from the past – yet another surprise. Perhaps not so surprising since it was clear Peter didn't have a clue what to impose to fix the past. Sylar remained where he was, arms crossed and unimpressed by the huffing and puffing, but ultimately passive-aggressive pool play. That was almost disappointing, particularly when he could feel the other man's tension.

Even as Peter's ball rolled towards the pocket, Sylar noticed the oversight of the rule to call out the pocket for the final shot. He knew Peter had won, so he transferred a knowing gaze to Peter. They exchanged a look and he could tell Peter was aware of the mistake, even if a technical one. Neither said anything about it as Peter quit in a show of poor sportsmanship (he'd won after all). Sylar ignored some of his more frustrated, violent urges to put the little snot in his place and teach him that Sylar's mother was completely off-limits and beyond reproach. Instead, he acted as if nothing bothered him as he claimed the couch and the book he'd had Peter fetch for him earlier.

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Peter paced restlessly. He kept himself to the opposite end of the room where he wasn't so tempted to pick a fight (physical or verbal) with Sylar. When the sharpest edge of his anger had passed, he noisily beat on the speed bag until his knuckles hurt, trying to vent the dark energy that way. It didn't help. He glared at Sylar after, then moved to the pool table. Peter racked the balls for another game, intending to shoot solo, but as soon as he was ready he lost interest. He clipped the stick into the rack on the side of the table, then leaned against the game and stared at the far wall, arms crossed.

He was still upset. He could feel the emotions coiling through him, cycling repetitively. He didn't want to play the piano, or the guitar, or pool, or put the ping pong table half-up to play it, or do a puzzle, or even go work out. He wanted to yell at Sylar and not even about anything immediate. The man was sitting over there minding his own business, but Peter still wanted to tear into him. For cutting into his mother's head at Thanksgiving. For shoving him against the wall and making him watch that, seemingly aware of how exceptionally cruel it was to make Peter witness his mother's impending mutilation and death. Sylar had been sadistically enjoying Peter's plight as a side effect of the main course of murder. Then he'd so casually brought it up, 'must have been extra weird for you', acting oblivious to the trauma he inflicted on others. Yet he'd banked on it during the act, smirking in pleasure at other's pain. This was just that one incident – one incident where no one died and Peter was jaded enough to think he and his mother had come out of it shaken, but relatively unscathed.

Then why do I want to pulverize him so badly? Peter uncrossed his arms and looked at his tightly clenched fists. This isn't going to work. No more than it did when I had Ted's power. I've got to calm down. He took a deep breath and deliberately stretched out his fingers. I have to live here with him. He's not a monster. He's not a psychopath. I don't understand him, but beating the crap out of him (or trying to) isn't going to help. Peter exhaled slowly and looked at the ceiling, letting his hands fall to his sides. See him as a person, a patient, a human being. What would calm me down?

Peter pursed his lips, an idea popping into his head. It seemed workable. He didn't even have to swallow too much of his pride. He walked over to Sylar. "Let me see your feet." His tone was clipped. It was almost, but not quite, a question. He resisted the urge to put his fists on his hips.

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If he'd had time to examine it, Sylar would have noticed he was tense just from Peter's body language and increasing proximity. He was wary, looking up at Peter's superior height. Whatever follow-up Peter had would not be pleasant- But when Peter spoke, it erased everything he'd been anticipating. Feet? How did that connect with anything? Blankly, he blinked at his companion as if to say, 'I don't think I heard you right.'

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Peter looked away uncomfortably, then back. He probably thinks I want to break his toes or something. He shifted his weight and fidgeted. Images of little kids being required to hug it out or wear a get-along shirt came to mind. He grasped for some explanation that didn't sound so demeaning because what he was trying to do wasn't juvenile discipline but rather tap into the basic human nature that worked on both children and adults. "Remember what we said about after fights – a massage?" His tone of voice was better, but it came out awkward and kind of strangled.

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Oh! That was a fight? When I said that I meant…(it as a joke) physical fights. That was upsetting enough to need a massage?What he said aloud was, "Yes." It was two types of agreement.

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Peter sat down about midway down on the couch and gestured stiffly to his lap. "Take your shoes off. Let me see your feet. It's just like at the hospital when you had frostbite." He tried to make this sound not strange, like they'd done it before, like it was okay and normal and just something they did to cope with each other. But Peter remained tense. He felt like he should be embarrassed.

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It must have been the context, but the…request? command? felt like he was being told to undress in some way. Sylar moved back into the couch arm to accommodate Peter, setting his book aside to bare his feet as directed. He wasn't dreading Peter doing anything to his feet. If anything, it was just the opposite. It had to be wrong to enjoy Peter touching him at all, let alone after a mild disagreement about murdered family members. It was definitely wrong to be gleeful about the contact. It took him less than thirty seconds to strip off his shoes and place them beside Peter's thigh. To offset his own awkward uncertainty, he murmured, "You really do have a thing for feet."

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Peter felt relief at getting such quick cooperation without a challenge, without having to explain himself or justify what he was doing. It was such a surprise that he chuckled at Sylar's comment, ready to accept whatever theory Sylar wanted to put forward (other than the truth: Peter was upset and wanted to know everything was okay with the only other human being around). "Yeah."

He put his hands on Sylar's feet – doing no more than that for a few seconds, just resting one hand on each. Then he tugged loose the socks from where they were stuck to Sylar's skin due to pressure and perhaps sweat. He didn't want Sylar thinking he had a foot fetish. That wasn't what this was about. But he needed to say something, so he ran with it. "I have a thing for faces, too. And eyes. Lips. The shape of people's noses." He lifted Sylar's feet into his lap, heels in the valley between his legs. Peter peeled off the socks and set them closer to Sylar. Again, he let his hands simply rest on the bared skin as he stared sightlessly at them, feeling the faint tingle under his palms. His shoulders slowly loosened.

"Hands," Peter went on after the pause. "Hands and feet are pretty important – delicate, all those nerve endings. People underestimate how much you need them. They're sensitive. You get one hangnail or ingrown toenail and you realize just how much pain your body can tell you about." He began to rub gently, talking slower. "I don't think I have much of a thing for knees or elbows. But backs are good. Butts. Thighs. Sometimes calves, if there's definition. Not so much ankles. I guess joints aren't where I'm at. Except wrists, maybe shoulders, but not armpits. Forearms are good, too." His voice had softened. The strain in his back was lifting. The boiling rage he'd been feeling had evaporated, just as he'd hoped it would.

XXX

As expected, Peter removed his socks and again, Sylar felt a twinge of discomfort and dismay – surely his feet smelled or were dirty in some capacity. Peter appeared to relax, though, Sylar's feet in his lap and touching them gently. So Sylar leaned back and exhaled as well, listening. 'The shape of people's noses'? he repeated to himself, amused. He'd never given it much thought. Peter mentioned hands and Sylar's eyes darted to where the medic's hands were caressing his feet from all sides. Distantly he noticed his heart was beating faster, even listening to Peter talk about hangnails and ingrown toenails…and on to butts, thighs, calves, shoulders…listing body parts and touching him. He wants to fuck me. He's touching me and talking about what he likes. Sylar felt himself flushing with inappropriate heat. It was a very intimate, strange storytelling that he didn't think he'd prompted or asked for. His imagination was supplying him with helpful images: Peter touching him in all those places or Sylar touching Peter, it really didn't matter. The last time Peter had done something like this…well, Sylar had misunderstood and kissed Peter. He swallowed and slid his hand off to the side, retrieving his book to place it over his lap.

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Peter started giving more of a proper foot massage – it might look odd if he didn't. His grip became firmer, manipulating the foot and stretching the joints through their normal range of motion. He rubbed each toe in turn, hesitating at the one Sylar had jammed. "How's your toe? Will it hurt if I do anything with it?"

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Sylar's imagination was running wild. Touching his toes, while not erotic of itself, tickled his nerves in a very pleasant way combined with previous experiences and the pep talk was shamefully arousing him. How did he turn me into the pervert with a thing for feet?he wondered frantically but couldn't bring himself to care too much about it – Peter was either innocent or doing it on purpose and playing along. Sylar shook his head in response to the second question; his throat felt dry.

XXX

At the lack of verbal answer, Peter glanced over to see the head movement. Sylar was…flushed. With a book over his groin. Peter snapped his eyes back to the feet in his lap, realizing Sylar's repeated accusations of sexual interest in feet might have more to do with Sylar than Peter. Oh. He thought about what to do about that. How about nothing? Nothing sounds good. Let him stew. He won't die of blue balls. It's kind of cool he likes it that much. Peter smiled slightly and devoted himself even more to his task. He could do a really good job of it when properly motivated. It wasn't hard to listen to Sylar's slightly accelerated breathing. The whole world was quiet, they were a few feet apart, and neither was speaking.

As he wound things up, he touched over the sides of Sylar's feet with one or two fingers, stroking the soft, smooth skin. Sylar had the usual patch of dark hair on the top of each foot, along with tufts for each toe. Peter's touch skirted around them, outlining them, interested in the difference. He ruffled the hair, then smoothed it, then made a slow circuit of the hairless part of the top of each foot for a second time. His hands were buzzing with pleasant energy. He glanced over, his eyes snagging only for a moment on the book before continuing to Sylar's face. Was the paperback at a different angle? How much of an effect had Peter's ministrations had? He knew it was twisted to gain satisfaction from teasing the guy, but on the list of wrongs between them, it seemed pretty insignificant. "Are you doing okay over there?" His voice was just a little bit sultry and smug. Peter was definitely feeling better.

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Sylar had completely forgotten what he needed to present: was he pleased or just humoring his partner? He didn't care and didn't struggle with his answer for long. "Great," he replied huskily. He perversely hoped Peter wasn't finished even if it extended his torture. Does he know? It was really stupid to fall for this, he reminded himself. What if he wants to play another game or go somewhere? He didn't intend for it to be anything…Unless…he's trying to win me over so I'll 'save his friends.' That drew a momentary frown from Sylar as he stared sightlessly at Peter's hands resting on his feet.

When it seemed like Peter was winding down (while winding him up), getting it out of his system, Sylar cleared his throat and instructed, "Your turn."

XXX

"What?" Peter had been caught up in a fantasy of Sylar pining after him and being unable to do anything about it. Somehow he'd overlooked the aspect of 'fair play', or even simply that when they'd done this at the Y; it had been reciprocated there, too.

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"It's your turn." As he said it, Sylar knew he was on the right track. "We fight; we give massages." That was a bulletproof excuse especially when Peter himself had just used it.

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Suddenly, getting Sylar all sorts of turned on looked like a bad idea. Unless he does something really out there, like try to suck my toes, what can he really do? This is safe. That decided, Peter moved to unlace his shoes.

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Because he hadn't thought it through beyond how getting his hands on Peter was a good thing, he knew when he saw Peter bending for his shoes that he didn't want Peter's feet. Just a different quid pro quo. "No. Your back." It felt good to express that like a command or a desire he wanted fulfilled. You said you liked that. I bet you enjoy being touched there. 'Non-sexually' of course,he mentally sniggered. The more he thought about it, the more his dick ached, pushing at his self-control.

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"Uh…" That wasn't the plan. (Not that I had a plan. Shit.)Peter looked at Sylar for a moment like a deer in the headlights before blinking it away and sighing. Fine, whatever. He can't do anything to me that way either. (At least, not anything bad.) Reluctantly, he turned his back. His spine straightened as Sylar scooted closer and Peter couldn't stop shooting glances over his shoulder to see exactly what the other man was doing. Despite his attempt to tell himself there was nothing a sexually stimulated Sylar was likely to do to him in the current situation, Peter's subconscious was on high alert. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were trying to stand up.

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This was exactly where he wanted Peter. They were less than a foot apart, although Sylar had his leg bent, lying flat to support himself on the couch between his pelvis and Peter. "Hmm," he purred approvingly, making it sound like he was settling in. Sylar clapped his hands on Peter's shoulders in a familiar way, squeezing once, hard before sliding his thumbs in and up towards the back of the neck that was presented to him. The skin of his neck was unprotected and soft.

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Peter twitched hard at the sudden contact. He faced away and grimaced, baring his teeth with nerves.

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"You need to relax more. I can help with that. I don't bite often," he chuckled, easy and calm. "I agree with you about hands. They're extremely sensitive. So are backs – tons of nerve endings. Maybe you need massages more often to help you cope with your tension." This speech was slow, matching the work of his hands gripping and rubbing at Peter's upper back and shoulders through the shirt.(Do I dare talk about his ass?)

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Peter found himself struggling to control his breathing, to even it out, to relax. The contact itself was fine – good pressure, not so much that it hurt and not so little as to be nothing but a caress. He made a brief shudder and let his head hang forward, slowly and cautiously releasing his tension as his unruly instincts settled down. "Maybe," he said quietly. What I need is more certainty that I'm okay with you. That I know what you're going to do next and that it's something I can deal with. More contact would probably give me that rather than less – not necessarily massages. I need trust.

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"You're very proportionate – symmetrical, balanced, fit. Like a finely crafted machine. I suppose there's something to be said for muscles. Strength…Dominance…Power…" He murmured this as his fingers slipped over Peter's shoulders, brushing over his collarbones and the tops of his pectorals. It brought his face close enough to breathe on Peter and breathe him in. His chest was nearly against Peter's back. Even if this started a fight…well, they both might get off on it. It would be worth it.

XXX

Oh fuck. Peter had no more lowered his defenses, forcing himself to accept Sylar's touch, than Sylar took up the slack, literally closing the distance between them so Peter could sense the heat of the man's body faintly through his shirt. He could feel Sylar's breath against his neck. And the words – it sounded so much like Sylar was admiring him. Peter certainly wanted to see it that way. He could feel himself getting turned on. A tingle danced across his skin where Sylar was touching him.

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"And healthy hair…" Sylar had been working his way back up the column of Peter's neck, now sliding his fingers into Peter's hair at the scalp. It wasn't often Peter allowed him to touch in return. At the moment, it was forbidden, covert, and extremely perverted, but beneath that it was sweet and simple. Sylar was still aroused; more so than he'd been for Peter's massage of his feet, and was desperately controlling his urges to push for more.

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Peter made a strangled, needy noise as Sylar's fingers splayed through his hair. A vivid fantasy shot through his mind: Sylar making a fist in his hair, arching him back, pressing the line of their bodies together so Peter could feel Sylar hot, hard, and wanting against his back, holding Peter firm around the chest, and then Sylar biting him on the side of the throat to renew that much-faded mark. It could happen. It was so close to happening. Peter wondered if he ought to just turn around, shove the man down on the couch, and climb on top of him to get it over with, to end the sexual tension with a decisive affirmation. He wanted to so badly it hurt, threatening to blot out any other rational thought or concern. At the same time, he knew none of this was going to work in reality. He'd popped the guy in the face not an hour earlier for simply kissing him. No matter how much he wanted it right now, he needed to be sure it was what he would still want in an hour, or the next day.

"No." Peter dropped a hand to Sylar's left knee, the one on the outside, foot resting on the floor while the knee nudged Peter's thigh. Peter used it to lever himself up, pulling away from all that sensual touch, feeling it fall away with a nearly physical pain. "No," he said again and mostly as direction for himself. Peter stood and took several steps away before looking back at Sylar. It was hard to sort out that this was just a back massage. They were both erect, or at least Peter assumed so. His gaze was thirstily locked on Sylar's face. He didn't need to check lower down for signs of interest or to see how visible his own reaction was. "No," he said a third time, slowly shaking his head. As steadily as he could muster it, Peter said, "I'm going to my apartment. I'll be back to the penthouse for dinner."

XXX

Sylar held his breath for a moment, wanting to continue before Peter could completely change his mind and commit to it – knowing, too, that if he continued, Peter might succumb. But even that brief pause allowed Peter to recover and pull away. Sylar let him slip out from beneath his hands, feeling helpless and rejected, confused about whether to be hurt or angry. When he looked at Peter's face he caught the full force of the empath's desire. Sylar stared back with predatory intensity to match. He wanted nothing more than to tackle this irritating man and fuck him on the carpet. Then the words…Peter needed some private alone time after this – no question what he would be doing with his…private time. Sylar smirked an evil, knowing smirk. Back for dinner and dessert.When Peter didn't retreat fast enough, he tried one last ploy, standing, dashing forward to grab hold of Peter's elbow, "No. No, no, Peter. Don't go. Stay. Relax. Live a little." He was so hot and knowing that Peter was hot for it was giving him thrills. He sidled up next to Peter, looming over him.

XXX

There's really no harm in it.Peter knew that – it was 'only' sex and the lines were already thoroughly blurred by sleeping together, cooking for one another, sharing meals, providing medical care, and…massages that were fast turning into a flimsy excuse for mutual stimulation. He looked at Sylar with both misgivings and yearning, searching for the words to express the complicated emotions roiling inside him. If I stay, I'm going to do things I might regret, or at the very least, I'll never be sure if I did the right thing or just what was convenient. ('Convenient' meaning what my dick wants to do.)He breathed out slowly. "I can't, Sylar," he said earnestly. "I just can't." Peter pulled away from the grip on his arm, picking up his coat on the way but not bothering to zip it shut or get his headband in place.

XXX

Peter paused, clearly thinking it through. It appeared to be a difficult thought process. But the fact that Peter took the time and used it to think already told him the answer. It was always that last little push he couldn't get yet. Yet. He'd tried everything, some things getting a better response than others and some of the more classic moves were forbidden. That left him with only the moves that showed any promise. He still held onto Peter's arm, close enough to smell the man again as he watched the rejection work its way to Peter's mouth. Yes, you can. You want to, he nearly said. It seemed pointless to voice it. Sylar tried to decide if it was worse to say it or remain silent. He let Peter move away and walk out.

XXX

Peter slogged through the drifted snow to his apartment, fortunately just across the street so he didn't have to go far. His erection managed to survive until he was in the elevator. By the time he was in his apartment and actually able to do something about his arousal, it was entirely gone. He snorted, rolled his eyes at the contrariness of his body, and wrapped up in the blankets on his bed after shucking his damp jeans. He wasn't tired, but he had to think things over. The cold weather discouraged doing it from the rooftop, so here he was.

I want him. He wants me. We're already kissing. Or at least he's kissing me and I could have stopped him before he started but I didn't. I only stopped him when he was licking me. We're rubbing each other down and making out. Even if we're not making out for very long, we're making out. I knew he was turned on. I played with him anyway. I stoked him up. I can't just…do that. It's cruel. And it's stupid. And it's completely hypocritical if I'm trying to pretend there's something morally wrong with us having sex.

Is it wrong? And that was the question. Peter floundered on trying to find an answer. 'Relax. Live a little.'Peter sighed. It was so harmless. Yes, stay. Enjoy each other. Get off. Get him off. Do something more satisfying than yelling accusations and trying not to let things escalate to where they were hitting each other over the head with pool sticks. But wasn't it morally wrong to bring pleasure to someone who had wronged you so deeply? No, actually, it's morally right to put aside grievances. But I haven't put aside any grievances. I just want to be with him anyway. Like eating together, or playing pool. Or touching him. Peter frowned, his fingers stroking over the blanket restlessly.

I'm not going to leave. I came here to get him. I'm not going to live alone, and obviously I'm not going to be a monk. I think I've been hard up more often here than I had been for those years since Ireland. Very slowly he thought through, Would I be able to live with myself if I went ahead and was with him? If I ever run into Nathan again, in some other timeline or whatever, could I face him after having done that? Or Claire? Or Ma? Ma probably knows already. If she does, and she didn't tell me, then that's on her. My lying family. Ma, Nathan, Dad – all of them. Lied. Betrayed. Used me. At a certain point, they don't get my loyalty. If I want to work things out with Sylar, that's my decision. Fuck them. Maybe Claire would understand – her whole thing with Noah. She knows how complicated things can be.

This whole thing is complicated. Sylar's still got Nathan's memories. Sometimes he still thinks he is Nathan. What will he think of me if I go that far with him? I mean, sure, he says, 'Live a little', but is he going to be okay with that? I doubt he'd know until after it happens. Nathan didn't have many scruples about cheating, but I'll bet it will be different when it's him being betrayed.

When. Not if. 'After it happens'. Huh. Peter noticed his language had changed. It made him feel cold inside, afraid, yet even more determined to work through this. He took a deep breath and moved on. Then there's Sylar himself. I've been so concerned he'd be even more of an asshole if we did something. But we've already done a lot. He hasn't gloated about medical treatment or me holding him after his breakdowns or made comments about sleeping together. Or even about scoring a kiss or me getting turned on. He's even thanked me for some stuff. I think he realizes…He's not taking me for granted.

So what do I do? Things are so easily screwed up between us. Just…let it happen, like he said? No…no. I don't think this is going to work if I let him call the shots. I have to be smart about this. I have to be safe. I have to keep us both safe. He's a serial killer who wants to fuck me as revenge against my family, but that's not all he is. I'm not going to forget that. I don't understand him, but I know he's not a psychopath. He's not a sociopath, either. Whatever happened to his mother, he feels guilt. He's human.

So am I.

His own humanity, his own internal admission that he couldn't resist his desires forever, was painful, yet honest. Also important was how 'on his own' Peter felt he was, and had been, since the brief familial feeling he'd shared with Nathan at Coyote Sands and then the Stanton Hotel. Watching the group burn what Peter had thought was Sylar's body had turned his stomach. It was proof they'd learned nothing from Coyote Sands. They were still killing one another, but he didn't know what else he could do. Peter had walked away after that and kept as much to himself as he could manage. Now, here he was trapped in Sylar's mind and no one – not Matt, not Peter's mother, not Rene – was going to come along and help him. Or help Sylar. Peter had no one…except for Sylar.

He roused himself from the bed and pulled dry jeans from the dresser. Steeling himself, he made another short trudge through the knee-deep snow to the Pegasus. Peter stomped off the wet, clinging snow before heading up to the penthouse to find his sole companion. Once at the door, he knocked loudly with three solid raps.