Day 76, February 24, Morning

By the time Peter was ready, Sylar had unbuttoned his shirt and lifted his singlet. He sat waiting on the couch, angled so Peter could view his back and didn't give the touch on his shoulder much thought. That is, until Peter kept staring at him. I'm missing something here. Before he could decipher it, Peter had moved on. He thought he'd told Peter about the infection he'd had once before, before Peter's arrival. Not to mention all the care Peter had taken to prevent infection – strange if he didn't believe it was a possibility. "Why would you think it's sterile?" Because you think it's my mind? If he thinks that, then wouldn't he think disease would be more likely? He more-or-less watched Peter as he adjusted his shirts, wondering why he was believing the illusion that sexual involvement might make him safer.

XXX

"Well…" It's your mind. Nothing's real here. Peter grimaced briefly, rephrasing his thoughts to something more relatable to Sylar's point of view. "There's nothing else alive here other than us. Or at least that's what I thought." He shrugged, wondering if there really were other creatures, maybe dangerous ones, out there on the fringes of what passed for reality. That might be a good reason not to go wandering off alone. Not that I'm going to while he's sick…or while it looks like things might work between us. Peter slung on his coat as they went down the hall. "Tell me about your friend, Luke." Another case where it looks like things worked out between you and someone else. He pressed the button for the elevator, walking inside. "Did you make a pass at him?"

XXX

Sylar blinked at that. "No," he said slowly. "He was seventeen." That was self-explanatory.

XXX

Peter shrugged again. "Claire was a teenager when you tried to kill her." He smirked. "What, murder is fine, but otherwise consensual underage sex isn't?"

XXX

Sylar spun and grabbed Peter by the throat, squeezing and growling, "Call me a pedophile again, Petrelli. I've already answered that question. You don't know about the Walker girl. You don't know anything about it. I told you about Micah. Yes, I kissed Claire but she was in college and I was using an ability to learn the truth. I was…responsible for Luke. It…I've seen what that," he spat the word out, "does to kids. It happened to…someone I knew. So I understand that you want to know just what kind of pervert you're dealing with, but I'm warning you about this."

XXX

Peter snarled, peeling Sylar's fingers off his neck as soon as the man was done. But he'd listened very closely to the outburst. Peter stayed where Sylar had pinned him against the wall of the elevator, not giving an inch. With clenched teeth, Peter responded, "Seventeen is not pedophilia. It's not even illegal in most states. Unlike murder!" He shouldered past Sylar as the door to the elevator opened on the lobby. Mentally, he filed away the possibility that Sylar had been abused as a child or at least taken advantage of at some young age. Peter wasn't sure what effect that might have on possible relations between them, such abuse having never been a focus of his studies or practice. He wanted to ask about the other situations Sylar had brought up, but it was clearly a hot-button topic.

XXX

Sylar glared, anything but pleased that Peter would question it further. "Doesn't matter. It's different." He followed Petrelli at a distance and kept and eye on him.

XXX

Peter waited until they were outside, cold air cooling his temper at being manhandled, before continuing. "You've called Luke a friend. You had enough respect for him for that. He wasn't just some kid." Peter looked over at Sylar. "Aside from age – warning noted, I get it," he conceded, "why would you make a pass at me and not him?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth but the explanation didn't fall out. "For one thing, you're my age. I've known you for a long time." He shot a meaningful glance at his companion because that held more than one meaning. For all his knowledge – his memories, rather – of Peter, it somehow left him with the ability to trust the man (to a point) and have no answers or explanations at all. It was a lovely and annoying mystery simultaneously.

He shrugged. "Simple chemistry. It's a unique situation. It's a mutually beneficial solution. You're far from unattractive. I told you I enjoy your passion. And I think you're an amazing fuck with most people, the kind of people you like. I really haven't over-thought about it. I don't think either of us can…agree to make it more than…what it will be. So I'm okay with it just being what it is." That wasn't all, but it was what Peter wanted to hear and could tolerate.

XXX

Peter listened, looking over at Sylar several times as they tried to stay to the more windswept areas with shallower snow. The answer was flattering and Sylar saying he hadn't thought about it was, to a large extent, the right answer. Attraction wasn't a rational thing. It happened or it didn't, and it sounded like in this case, it had definitely happened. Something about me works for him. I'm…okay with that, too. He accepted the legitimacy of Sylar's desire for him. At least there's no mention of revenge against my family this time.

Speaking of family, Peter's mind turned to another difficult topic. "You were Nathan for a while," he said as they turned a corner. The breeze was chilly, but not strong. "You know more about him than anyone. More than anyone ever will. What would he think of me if we got together more than we already have?"

XXX

"We're not–" he began as his head came up and his jaw clenched. Sylar was overwhelmed by what he could imagine of Nathan's reaction: his little brother fucking his murderer. Anger, betrayal, disgust, jealousy and envy, a desire to protect and avenge. Before he knew it, Sylar was no longer walking, but had his eyes shut against the deluge of imaginary feelings attacking him. He didn't care if Peter hit him or even noticed; he just had to get this handled. It wasn't even his problem. It was Nathan's. It wasn't even necessarily Peter's problem, either, but Peter would choose to bear it nonetheless. Sylar raised a shaky hand to push his hair back. "What the fuck kind of question is that, Petrelli? What do you want me to say?"

XXX

Peter tilted his head and raised a brow, but he didn't give any hints. This was even more of a trick question than the one about Luke. Sylar's upset about it was natural. Peter wanted, needed, the authentic emotional response. He waited quietly for Sylar to sort himself out.

XXX

When he opened his eyes, he went back to walking, not looking at Peter. A few seconds passed before the rest of it wouldn't stay in. He turned back and pointed a finger at the other man. "No. He'd understand the part about getting laid and being desperate, if you did it right." That part was a bit accusing because he got the impression Peter wasn't going to 'do it right,' that Peter didn't know how. That was almost a shame. "It's not like we're 'together'. We never will be. It's just…relief. Temporary relief. I mean…he was a fucking alcoholic. You're not him, either. You're better than him, is that what you're trying to say?"

XXX

"It's not about me," Peter said very quietly. And it wasn't. He was trying to parse Sylar's answer into 'how will the part of you that sometimes forgets and thinks you're Nathan respond if we're intimate?' He ignored the disparagement of Nathan's character, even if it still rankled to hear Sylar speak ill of him in any capacity. "How would I do it right?"

XXX

Part of him suspected Peter was being intentionally dense, forcing him to admit to something this pitiful, making him act like he wanted it. It felt like begging or groveling. "If it doesn't mean anything. Roughing me up if you feel like it. It's just an arrangement." He turned and they began walking again. Sylar didn't know how to take the following silence and tried to tell himself Peter was using the time to be creative about his options.

XXX

'If it doesn't mean anything,' he repeated to himself. It's alwaysgoing to mean something. Peter frowned and spent some time walking quietly, thinking that over. I'm not desperate. I'm just really tempted. It is relief, though. Me touching him yesterday was exactly that – a temporary way for me to manage my emotions. Maybe not temporary. But whatever. Is that wrong? I don't think that's wrong. Is he saying it's wrong? It's not what he wants – I can hear that in his voice. 'It's just an arrangement', 'You're better than him' – because I wouldn't sink so low as to fuck him for relief? So that's wrong, but it's what Sylar expects of me. It's what he thinks is right. Or what he thinks Nathan would think was right, or at least okay, to treat a partner as disposable, convenient. But Sylar doesn't think that's right. Wait a second, does he think that's right or not? He kept frowning. He thinks it's what I should do, but not what's right. I think. If I don't do it that way – if me being with him isn't about just using him, then Nathan wouldn't understand it, and neither will Sylar. That was troubling, but Peter wasn't sure what to do about it. Nor was he certain that what he thought Sylar thought was accurate. He noticed once again that Sylar's ideas about right and wrong were just as nuanced and well-developed as anyone else's, which was remarkable for someone with his past.

They moved into the grocery store. The relative warmth of room temperature felt wonderful against his face. He looked over at Sylar, doing a compulsive health assessment of coloration, posture, and movement. His toes were fine yesterday – no blistering, no frostbite. He's walking fine, standing right. Looks cold, but I think he's okay. Peter opted for an easier question than the previous ones, this time taking more direct aim at Sylar's moral compass. "You said at Kirby Plaza that you were the hero. Did you go there with that in mind – killing me to save others? Or were you just there to kill me? Again," Peter added, "because three murder attempts within a month was not something I enjoyed dealing with." Contrary to what Claire said, dying had always been a big deal even if it wasn't enough to deter Peter from what he thought had to be done. They grabbed a cart and filled it with canvas bags. There was no point in loading the cart with more than they could carry in a single trip.

XXX

"Ahah…" Sylar let out a breathless, unamused chuckle. It wasn't a difficult or terribly personal question as it was worded. There was more background to it than he wanted to get into, but that was easy to omit. It was nice, not being dealt a loaded question for once. "Yeah, well, I had that same nuclear ability, too, if you remember. I knew one of us was the bomb." He paused to reflect. "There was nothing heroic about not being the bomb or making the person who was the bomb go off. Maybe it was kill or be killed; something like that." Sylar bunched his fists deeper into his pockets.

XXX

So…just there to kill me or die trying. Great. It wasn't a comforting revelation. Peter asked for something more likely to result in that: "Have you tried to save people when you didn't die? Or, you know, didn't have to go through any danger, but you helped people anyway?"

XXX

He gave Peter a sideways glance. "I saved you from your dad. There might be more, but I can't think of any."

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. He was in danger – from my dad, and he knew that. But he did it anyway. If he has that in him – a willingness to face down danger for others, then…why? Why does he hurt people? Peter chewed his upper lip, feeling his chest tightening just thinking about the next question that came bubbling up in response to his thoughts. "You made me watch while you were going to kill my mother. In front of me. The same day I'd learned my brother was dead. Same day I realized the guy who'd killed him had been the one I'd been helping recently. You were going to make me sit there and watch while you…kissed her." His brow rose. His face paled. Peter's expression was grave. If he hadn't still been so angry about it, then he would have been near tears. "Cut into her. Robbed her. Killed her. You were going to force me to watch that. And you knew I didn't have anything to do with that whole impersonation thing. Why? Why were you…that cruel?"

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth, baring them slightly. "It was a rough couple of weeks as you know. It wasn't so much about you. I don't know, why was your mother that cruel?" Even now, he didn't know what he'd intended to do with Peter at that point. It would have been easy to answer with something like, 'I didn't intend for you to live very long after.' It bothered him that he didn't have a better plan, motive, or response.

XXX

The mental image of Sylar forcing his lips on Peter's mother brought to mind Sylar's earlier comment about kissing Claire. Kissed Mom, kissed Claire, was certainly kissing up to Dad. He's kissed me. What the hell, does the asshole go around kissing all the Petrellis he can get to? Wait, Claire… Something from weeks ago popped up in Peter's head and connected. His face contracted in disgust and disbelief, then anger. His glare turned to Sylar. Peter felt white-hot rage stoke through him. But it was important to be certain before acting. Some of the facts weren't adding up, but the ones that did were awful. "Weeks ago, when I first came here, you said that you'd done something to Claire at the Stanton that made her be a lesbian." He cut off any attempt from Sylar to interrupt. "You said something like that. And just a few minutes ago, you said you used an ability to kiss her." Peter turned his head slightly. "Telekinesis comes to mind, because I've seen you do that before," he nearly hissed as he said it. "You did things to her until she told you what you wanted to hear? Am I understanding this right? You did things to her until you thought she'd never go back to men?"

XXX

"Oh my God," Sylar rolled his eyes at his predicament. Of course that's what Peter would think – that was, more or less, the reaction he'd wanted (and received those months ago). He'd put those ideas into Peter's head. "When I kissed her, she was already a considering being lesbian. Her roommate was a pervert and she seduced Claire and Claire thought she could trust this girl; whatever," he summed up dismissively because it really wasn't important. Claire wasn't interested in an immortal/immortal relationship.

XXX

"What?" It was all Peter could say, flummoxed by outrage and confusion. He realized Sylar was trying to explain, but it was difficult to follow when the explanation contradicted what Peter thought was the sequence of events.

XXX

"The ability I used was Lydia's – you remember, the tattoo lady from the Carnival? Basically a lie detector test – much less invasive. Stanton didn't even register on her list of traumatic run-ins with me and it shouldn't have because I didn't do anything to her then, either. I sat her down, gave her wine, and talked to her. I know, I'm such a monster," he intoned with acidic sarcasm. "I just said that then to upset you and clearly you believe quite a bit." Now he lacked the deniability he wanted and was bitter because of it. Peter jumped, as he had then, at the mere suggestion of torture and rape because it obviously wasn't difficult to imagine. "And, no. I didn't hurt her roommate," he added after a beat, the bitterness leaking out.

XXX

Peter stood there in the canned food aisle, knuckles white around the cart handle. What Sylar had said mostly made sense, but that improved things only marginally. "I want to hit you," he said with clenched teeth. "You intentionally wanted me to believe something like you'd molested her with telekinesis until she caved. That's what you wanted, Sylar. Just a couple months ago, here. You wanted me to believe that. A few months before that, you wanted me to watch my mother die in front of me after you'd already taken my brother!" And my father. Sort of. Peter drew in a deep breath and blew it out in disgust. His voice was louder than was polite in a grocery store, his tone cutting. "What do you want now, Sylar? You want this 'arrangement', right, where I stop remembering the past? Where I stop believing what I've seen and you've said? Or maybe where I just stop caring about it, because that's the part that's inconvenient for you, isn't it?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth to retort a wry, flippant, 'Go ahead – no one's stopping you' in response to the other man's desire for violence. The rest was quite inexcusable and probably ill-considered even by his own standards. I'm not asking for anything, let alone the impossible. (Though Peter seems pretty forgetful when he's hard…) He moved a step or two away from the emoting Petrelli, who was making an embarrassing display in a public place, too. (The last time I was in a grocery store Elle was shot…) The whole thing threw him off balance and he struggled to put up some self-defense with a frown and tense shoulders.

XXX

Peter pushed the cart down the aisle, his steps stiff and keeping his attention warily on Sylar even when he wasn't looking directly at the man. He expected an attack to shut him up at some point. He welcomed it, but he wasn't going to throw the first blow. "It's a good thing you're not the one with the ability to wipe memories. I'll bet that's something you want as bad as you did Claire's healing. But that's got to sting – because if you take away what everyone knows about you, then you're nothing, you don't exist. Not as Sylar. Not as yourself. Would you pay that price? Would you give up everything you had been to start over fresh, but as you, keeping all your memories this time but knowing no one else would ever know?" He stopped at the beginning of the dairy department, unwilling to gather food while he needed to keep an alert eye on Sylar.

XXX

Sylar couldn't fathom the horrors Peter was speaking. There was no surcease. He felt sickened, at the words, at himself, at what he hoped wasn't the truth – or was it the imagined lie that was worse? He could feel his ability stir at the very mention of such a perfect solution, so tempting, so beautifully aligned. It would fix…everything. No longer would he be forced to choose or sacrifice, whoring himself out to be betrayed again and again. Of course, the price was truly becoming the monster everyone said he was – and his conscience would be the only one that knew it in the end. The evil, familiar sweetness rushed through him before he could check it: I could reinvent myself, be whatever I wanted. No one would hunt me or hate me. No one would know anything. I could be special. A darker part of him growled, Just like Mom said: I could never hurt anyone.

He knew he was supposed to listen to this obediently as part of his punishment. This kind of humiliation was exactly what he'd feared from Peter. Finally, the other man stood still and Sylar shoved him hard on the shoulder, "Shut up!" he yelled, hearing the creepy echo of his own voice throughout the building as it overpowered Peter's previous volume. He knew when he did it that Peter would attack him immediately, but he didn't care because he didn't want to think about any of it.

XXX

In a way, it was exactly what Peter wanted – to push Sylar over the edge, piss the guy off, make him react and feel helplessly angry because it was only a shadow of what he'd inflicted so willfully on Peter at Thanksgiving. Pushed, Peter lost his balance and stumbled into the cart handle. He had a fraction of a second when he could have done nothing – it wasn't lost on him that Sylar hadn't actually swung on him – but then Peter rushed him, taking the offered provocation. "Fuck you!" He went low and swung for Sylar's ribs.

XXX

Sylar took the hit and quickly, though not completely unexpectedly, Peter was right on him. This hadn't been his plan of how he wanted to spend his afternoon of seducing Peter, but now it was what he wanted in the heat of the moment. He took a fistful of the empath's shirt and silky dark hair partly to balance himself, growling, "If I ever wanted the Haitian's power, you're the obvious source, Petrelli!" The Italian snarled and twisted away, landing a vicious shove that had Sylar back peddling to stay upright. As he flailed, he struck something – another stand that fell and scattered its contents on the floor and underfoot.

XXX

Peter didn't wait for the man to recover his footing. He stayed close and kept swinging even if most of his blows were sloppy or blocked. Sylar managed to hit him repeatedly, but the only one that gave Peter pause was a shot to the gut that left him sucking air for a second. It was suspiciously like the guy had tried to land a liver shot. Even though Sylar had missed that vital target, Peter was still momentarily staggered. I'm not going to win this if I stand here and trade blows! He clumsily grabbed both of Sylar's upper arms, initially just to tie them up and hang onto them. Regaining his strength, he pivoted and slung Sylar into the nearby end of a floor case of dairy products. He didn't know what good it would do, but it changed the terrain before Sylar could get comfortable on his feet.

XXX

The grip on his arms confused him and Peter made good use of it. The next thing he knew, Sylar was tripping and falling over and into a refrigerated storage case and landing hard on his back. His knees were caught up on the black-rimmed clear plastic of the case and useless because his feet didn't touch the ground because of it. It stunned him to land on a bunch of cardboard boxes of product, not quite leaving him breathless, but more surprised that Peter had either successfully tripped him or thrown him into the case. Peter didn't give him a break, advancing with a raised fist. Sylar had seconds to come up with a decision to defend himself when his body was in such a vulnerable and useless position. His arms couldn't reach Peter unless he sat up, his torso was angled down, and his shoulders had precious little room to maneuver as Peter had his legs nearly trapped. Nearly. He wrapped his legs around Peter, jerking him inward, closer than Peter had intended to be. It bought him enough time to curl upward and grab Peter's shirt to yank him closer still. There was no game plan, just anything to frustrated Petrelli and cause pain.

XXX

"Oof!" Jerked downward, Peter had to catch himself with his right hand on the top of the case. It was about level with Sylar's head. If he let go, he'd complete the fall forward onto Sylar. But he was braced for the moment. He tried to cram his left forearm under Sylar's chin with the intention of choking him.

XXX

He had an instinct that Peter would go for his throat and tucked his chin to block the incoming forearm (less dangerous than the man's open grip and medical knowledge of how to choke him out). Immediately he felt the pressure and weight against his jaw and the back of his neck. It was not a long-term solution even assuming Peter would sit still. It was the only threat at the moment and Peter couldn't easily escape so he grabbed onto and began to push against Peter's elbow to rotate it off his chin.

XXX

This isn't working. Peter could see that Sylar's head was either against the solid back of the case or so close to it as to not matter. Either way, it made a straight-on punch dangerous to both Peter's hand (so recently healed) and Sylar's head (so recently concussed). I need a better option. Peter snarled and looked around for something that would give him an advantage. There was nothing handy except boxes of cheese food. Out of desperation, he grabbed one.

XXX

Peter was so distracted and asking for it. Sylar wound up and threw a punch hard up and across the other man's face. It hurt his fist in a satisfying way. With any luck, it would rattle Peter until he forgot whatever he was planning.

XXX

"Ow!" The fist caught him right across the mouth, knocking his head back with the force. Frustrated and angry about the pain, he came back with the cheese box – a squishy, two-pound brick sheathed in cardboard – and slammed it into the side of Sylar's face like it was a bludgeon. Not wanting to continue the mistake of staying in Sylar's optimal striking range, he dropped the now-ruptured box and collapsed onto the man immediately after. Peter gave up his failed attempt to choke him and instead wrapped his left arm around Sylar's head like it was a football. It was, for the moment, a perfect pose for Peter to repeatedly feed the guy a knuckle sandwich. But that wasn't what Peter wanted to do. Now that he had Sylar restrained for the moment, he had a few more things to say.

XXX

Part of him couldn't believe he was going to be hit with a large box of dairy. It seemed like such a waste of good food, but that was Peter for you. The blow was…sufficient and Sylar grunted. The next thing he knew, Peter had thrown himself atop him, pushing his air out uncomfortably. Quicker still, Peter had his head gripped and was aiming a spare fist at his face. Sylar's eyes widened as he focused on that, suddenly more concerned than he had been up until now. He struggled and reached out to grab at that fist, hoping to immobilize it or keep it away from his head at all costs. No, no, no, no, no…!

XXX

"You don't want to hear me?" Peter yelled, bleeding from his mouth and perhaps his nose. He wasn't particular about the source of the red stuff. Getting his point across was more important. He cranked down on Sylar's head with his left arm and kept his right poised to hit him. "I'm not some ability you can 'practice with' whenever you want! You have to focus; you have to listen!"

XXX

Peter threatening him on the heels of making light of mind-erasing just made him not give a fuck. He knew it would piss Petrelli off, dismissing him just like he hated, but he didn't care and couldn't stop himself. He felt helpless and belittled as it was. Sylar snarled, "Make me, Petrelli!" Once he had Peter's right wrist somewhat within his grip, it spared his other hand to smack at Peter's face. Get the fuck off me!He didn't quit. Peter was committed to holding him in place and thus keeping himself in place. Sylar continued to hit at whatever he could reach that was Peter's. Each blow was satisfying in its own dark way.

XXX

"You fucking asshole!" Peter tried to struggle free, pushing, elbowing, and shoving while trying to block Sylar's blows. The brawl was rapidly becoming a mess. The legs hooked around Peter's back were his biggest problem. He couldn't control the distance in the fight as long as he was tied up like this. He put his knees against the case for leverage and ended up actually pulling Sylar partly out of the floor-mounted cooler in Peter's attempt to break the leg lock. After that, he was jerking and twisting to do his best in dodging Sylar's long arms. He grabbed one of them after being tagged painfully a few more times, and let gravity take them both to the ground.

XXX

He didn't know how, but Peter managed to drag and lift and pull him bodily from the case. It helped that Peter held his head in the vice of his elbow. It strained his neck without being dangerous. He still clung to Peter with his legs even as his balance wavered, partly dependent on Peter because of that. Sylar set his left foot down and then Peter was wriggling away. He continued to swing wildly at Peter, hitting him about the face and shoulders mostly. Peter simply took hold of his right arm and yanked it down and to the side – with one leg still trying to hold Peter and the other arm busy, it toppled him off the case. It was easy to roll, partly to negate the impact of falling onto the hard tile and avoiding Peter pinning him again.

XXX

Peter was expecting the twisting roll, as Sylar had had plenty of time to anticipate hitting the floor. As such, Peter just rolled right along with him, coming up on a knee to swing a vicious elbow across the side of Sylar's head. The man's head lolled. In a fury, Peter grabbed up a handful of Sylar's torn shirt and yanked him close. He tagged him twice in the face before realizing Sylar was doing nothing to defend himself – hands down, mouth agape in a sloppy grin, eyes wide and fixed on Peter's face. It was a strange expression. Peter felt an icy lurch in his gut about what that might mean.

XXX

Sylar's part in the fight had become a lot more defensive halfway through. Whatever struck him first rattled him and slammed his head sideways. When he was able to look back, he could see Peter was bleeding from his face and that was somehow familiar. He'd made enough of a point and taken enough damage in turn – damage that Peter wasn't finished dealing out. God, it felt familiar. Just like that hallway in Primatech: Peter lifting him and punching him hard across the face. Sylar just held on to Peter's biceps.

XXX

How many head strikes did I give him? How many can he take? Is he concussed again? … I feel like shit. Ow. Peter panted, staring at Sylar long enough to verify that if anything was wrong with the guy, it wasn't something Peter could do anything about right away. He let go of Sylar's shirt slowly, letting the cloth slip between his fingers as he watched to make sure Sylar was able to manage without support.

XXX

Peter released him and Sylar allowed himself to flop back to lie prone on the floor, taking care that his head didn't smack. His legs relaxed from their hold on and around Peter. He always ends up between my legs,he thought tiredly. His hand struck something that wasn't the floor when he let them fall away from Peter. Without thinking, he grasped the object, bringing it up to see that it was a cheese slicer. A fucking…? It strained his credulity at reality or irony or something. Because of that, he threw it at Peter and it bounced off his arm/side.

XXX

"Hey!" Peter said sternly. But he was relieved. Sylar had shown the presence of mind not to hit his head on the floor and to pick up and throw things accurately. While he might well be concussed (the definition was a bit loose anyway), it wasn't to the degree Peter had feared. He glanced around at the mess – scattered utensils, fallen cream cheese boxes and the burst box of Velveeta, the broken floor case, and everywhere, the shockingly crimson drops and smears of fresh blood. He looked over at Sylar, assessing him more thoroughly. Some of the blood had come from him, but nothing was bleeding profusely.

Peter sank to his hip and then to his back. If Sylar could lie on the floor so unconcerned, then Peter could do the same. But he felt deeply troubled by the whole thing, like the fight had been wrong. He'd endangered Sylar out of pique and resentment. He felt nauseated and dizzy, his emotions roiling in his gut.

XXX

Peter complained and left it alone, going off somewhere to his right to sit and rest. The various aches and pains became sharper as the distractions and action stopped. He could feel his neck stiffening, knuckles burning, face swelling up. He didn't look at his companion.

XXX

Peter stared at the ceiling. He let his emotions be as they were and focused on the physical. He could feel the hammering of his heart as it slowed down. He could hear the rasping of his breathing gradually decrease. His nose was clogged. There was blood in his mouth. He hurt in a score or more places. His knuckles ached and a couple fingers were twinging. But he'd gotten off light. He hoped Sylar was no worse off. He glanced over. Sylar was silent. Listening, Peter realized.

He reached out – a long stretch – and touched Sylar's arm lightly. Only the tips of two fingers made contact, both because of the distance and a degree of tentativeness. We're okay, right? With each other? It was perverse – this need to make sure even (and especially) after a fight that the relationship (such as it was) was still intact, that the other human being here still accepted him. Peter had started the fight – just as Sylar had done at other times here; there was no moral superiority for either of them in it. There was only pain. Peter exhaled softly. "We need to work on this – us."

XXX

Sylar turned his head to look at Peter, feeling the contact against his arm – gentle and non-threatening. Inside he was a wreck. He couldn't make sense of anything. He could see Peter, lying beside him, splayed out and Peter looked tough yet innocent. The empath was bleeding from his mouth, his hair was in disarray and still with those serious hazel eyes. It was another mess of things he couldn't interpret. Pain and chaos, beauty, undeserved kindness, a sick bond, helplessness and anger, vengeance, love, possession…

Sylar's sense of self wavered. /He saw his brother beside him on the roof of a hospital. He had a decision to make – about how Peter would view him ever after. Peter had had blood on his face, always the earnest eyes, and nearly-black hair hanging in his face./ He didn't know whether to strike at that and ruin it or embrace it like a savior, bringing comfort and surcease. It was something about the blood and inflicted injury. It pleased and dismayed him simultaneously and that was weird that it was two things at once. "Yeah, we do," he agreed quietly. 'We.' A statement, like a promise.

Sylar slid across the tile floor, lifting himself up on his elbows to hover over Peter. One forearm went up, above and around Peter's head while still in contact with the floor. That hand brushed the Italian's hair because he could. Peter was allowing it, staring at him and Sylar wanted to see him smile and laugh. His eyes broke away to focus on Peter's lips for a moment. The blood meant Peter was alive. Without any answer or clear motivation, he leaned in to press his mouth against Peter's, knowing it was wrong and unwanted.

XXX

Sylar's approach made Peter wary, but preceded as it was by Sylar's agreement, Peter wasn't too worried. He just watched, breathing through slightly parted lips. He was surprised by the touch to his hair. This felt…affectionate – a slight stirring that was too faint to be familial, but would be romantic in other circumstances. He supposed it was an answer to his touch on Sylar's arm, but he still couldn't stop the paranoid (or was it simply more rational than the rest of him?) corner of his mind that feared Sylar might grab his hair to fix his head in place so he could punch Peter in the face or jerk him around in deserved retaliation for the fight. That kind of behavior matched up more with Peter's experience of Sylar than 'romantic' did.

When Sylar leaned in, Peter had plenty of time to pull back, to put up a hand and block, or simply turn his face away. But he didn't. He still wants to kiss me after this fight? After I've hit him so many times for kissing me or trying to kiss me before? He still wants me, even after everything? Peter knew it was naïve to believe Sylar's desire for him could be genuine, but it felt so much like what he'd always wanted: to be worthy and welcome as who and what he was. That this approval was offered by the man who had killed his brother made everything complicated and confusing. It twisted him up inside, but he wanted it no less. Peter lifted his head and opened his mouth, reaching for the kiss no matter what anyone – his family, his brother, himself – would think of him for it.

XXX

The kiss was small, simple. Sylar's eyes were open because whatever his motivations were, he knew this was stupid. He blinked when Peter met him. It wouldn't last; it never did even if Peter entertained it for a second or two. Maybe Peter can't pull back. Maybe I hit him too hard. Maybe he doesn't want to hit me for trying this after we fought.The kiss…continued for more than the usual time. There was nothing, no exhaled disappointment, no tense surprise in Peter's mouth and all that was new. It gave him pause as he waited for…some kind of reaction. When it didn't come, Sylar adjusted, opening his mouth and pressing harder, deeper, taking more of Peter and the blood between them.

XXX

It hurt. Peter's lip was split, his front teeth loose, and his jaw sore from all the blows Sylar had thrown his way. But Peter didn't flinch from the pain or the kiss. He could taste the blood between them, which seemed emblematic of their problematic relationship. It tasted right, which was fucked up and Peter knew it, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if the blood was his, Sylar's, or both. His heart was pounding all over again. This was a total betrayal of so much he believed in, defiled in the name of selfishness, lust, and a fragile hope that Sylar had enough humanity to be decent. Peter might have told himself that being with Sylar was okay, but it was one thing to think it to himself in an empty apartment and another to press his lips to the man's. He could feel his gut flip-flopping and his pulse racing. Peter let his eyes slide shut and his thoughts fuzz out. He just wanted to feel. It was better that way. It had always been better that way.

He raised one hand, slowly so Sylar wouldn't think he was going to hit him. Peter's fingers touched Sylar's cheek, brushing the faint stubble down to his jaw; then briefly on the side of his neck, the skin warm and softer; then to his shoulder where Peter's hand settled on firm muscle. His body was buzzing. He was hard. His ribs hurt and the hammering of his heart was making every injury into a throbbing pressure.

XXX

With his eyes open, he saw Peter lifting his hand to touch him. Surely this was the push/pull to end his perversions. All the same, he twitched when that hand caressed him. There was no way it was accepting. That was impossible. Wasn't it? He was beginning to lose focus and forget his concerns. The kiss felt so good (painfully good) after a fight – they were just making up, right? Sylar slid his tongue out to taste more of Peter, feeling his own breathing accelerate with excitement. That's it. Just give in to me.