Day 77, February 25, Evening
Peter finished putting on his shoes as Sylar righted the table. He stood up and went to the wheelchair where he'd hung his jacket. "I'm going for a walk." His head was buzzing with everything Sylar had said. He was trying very hard not to imagine Nathan's last moments, despite having asked for and heard about them from a firsthand witness.
XXX
Sylar inhaled roughly. He felt raw and uncertain. He wanted to be confident that he'd done the right things in the past, or said the right things now so he could pick a fucking reaction and stick with it. He wanted to know Peter would return or if tonight would be lonely, leaving him wondering each night afterwards if Peter was coming back. The one uncertainty he was okay with was he didn't know if Peter leaving was a good idea, if it was what he wanted, if he wanted to accompany Peter. For some reason, that made sense.
He stared after his partner, crossing his arms like the room had suddenly gotten colder. (Am I supposed to let him go?) Sylar wanted to be tortured or hugged or vented at, something! This quiet breaking away was too detached. Belatedly, he croaked, "That's a good idea," even as he stood now behind the table, having moved there to pick up Peter's chair from where the table had taken it down.
XXX
Peter shrugged into his jacket. "I'm going alone. I want to get away from you and I want to grieve." It was strange to be so blunt and so honest, but Sylar hadn't sugar-coated anything in the story. Peter wouldn't do the same to what he needed after having heard it. He shut his eyes and turned his face mostly away from Sylar. He knew what Sylar needed to hear from him, or at least, one of the many things Sylar needed to hear: "I'll be back tonight, after dinner, to sleep here." With you, hung unsaid on the air. He couldn't give voice to that yet though. It would make it sound like he needed Sylar, wanted to be with him, which was impossible to say on the heels of what Sylar had just confessed. Peter glanced back to check on Sylar, seeing him out of the corner of his eye as he headed for the door.
XXX
Sylar cleared his throat. "Hmm. Yeah, okay," he agreed as if it effected Peter at all. He didn't watch as Peter closed the door behind himself. Instead, he stared sightlessly at Peter's chair, lying on its back on the floor. He felt like an idiot. For doing what he'd done, for stupidly telling Peter about it (what good would come of it?), for slipping into foreign memories. He felt so helplessly angry at himself, and for Peter having little to no reaction because what the hell did that mean? Didn't Peter care? His reaction had to be private? Sylar knew he was going to a rooftop and he begrudged Peter that the empath had permanent dibs on that spot. Where does this leave me? he asked the universe, in lieu of asking Peter.
Numbly, he righted Peter's chair and placed his own chair next to the table proper. Peter knows it meant something. He'll never agree with my reasons. 'It's not a secret. You don't have to hide it', Peter had said. (Why did I think I had to hide that? I still have things to lose, things he can take, revoke, or deny). Some part of him wanted to drink it all away, and he might resort to that if Peter failed to return. He sat on the couch for a while and eventually slumped over and curled his feet on it.
He couldn't settle himself internally. Did he want to be Nathan or Sylar? How did he want Peter to view him? To treat him? He would have no defense if Peter decided to be cruel – he would probably welcome it. It would answer questions, confirm their standing, and make sense. On the other hand, deep down, encouraged by Peter's general kindness, care, and persistence, he wanted Peter to continue that way – when there was no reasonable explanation for him to do so. Sylar could no more explain the desire than he could Peter's actions.
It didn't feel right, morally. Peter was the expert on all things moral and right, so shouldn't he trust Peter's judgment on this or anything else? The indecision was breaking him and making him doubt himself. Would he agree and submit to Peter's choice or would he fight it on principle and long-confined anger? He wanted finality and couldn't make up his own mind. Or maybe the back-and-forth was part of existence, part of the punishment?
Sylar was tired. He knew Peter was tired. He wanted to assuage Peter's pain but had little to give and had selfish motives, as always. He felt like a worthless toy, guilty because he'd been caught and everything backfired, and angry for feeling pathetic, allowing himself to be played, and angry for every one of Peter's reactions and the consequences.
XXX
Peter walked the freezing cold streets, keeping to the windswept clear patches when he could and trudging through drifts when he couldn't. His goal was easy enough to find, though blocks away – the tallest building in the city. He'd climbed its many stairs a day or two after coming here, consumed in denial and rejection of the ways of this world. He climbed them now – ten flights, twenty, thirty. He didn't recall how many there were altogether. His steps echoed in the harsh, empty stairwell like it might go on forever. His thighs burned. His chest ached. It wasn't that he was short of breath – he was in great shape. But emotion was sapping him. His will to go on faltered. One step, two…
'On his third step, I cut his throat.' Sylar's words echoed through Peter's mind.
Peter missed the first step of the next flight. He stumbled, landing hard on the unyielding stairs. He froze there where he'd caught himself, panting and wincing from the impact to his knee. Two drops wetted the concrete under his face – two drops that made him bare his teeth and force himself to his feet. He stared up the seemingly endless stairs and blinked away the rest of his tears. He thought about his stubborn insistence the first time he'd been here and the days of hobbling from blistered feet and crippling muscle aches he'd had from it.
'I knew what was happening. It wasn't going to take long. I couldn't take another step.'
Peter sniffed and wiped at his eyes. I can't keep going like this. Nathan's death defeated him. There was no choice but to surrender. He looked up the stairs again, up the narrow opening between the flights where they disappeared dizzyingly into the distance. That sort of infinite reach, the 'anything is possible', just keep trying and never give up – his heart hurt thinking about it. Nathan wasn't coming back from this one…and neither was Peter. He gave up. With leaden feet, he turned on the landing and pushed open the fire door. He walked through eerily empty cubicles to the elevator. He pressed the button.
'I knew I was dying, but you were safe. It was okay.'
He wasn't safe. He was never going to be safe. He was trapped here with the man who'd killed Nathan and he was fucking him, fighting with him, trying to find a way to be decent and kind to someone who had ripped his heart out. Peter sagged against the wall as the lift whisked him to the top floor. He walked into a sumptuously appointed conference room to rest his forehead against the tilted glass. The city was unfurled before him, but hazy and vague in the dark. Sylar, he thought. He's out there somewhere, wondering where I am, worrying when I'll come back, stuck in his own personal hell without me. With me, he's putting out and answering questions he doesn't want to and spending time with someone he hates. He has no choice and I don't know how to make being with me okay for him.
'This isn't supposed to be about me!'
But it was. All of it was. I should hate him more for everything he said, but it feels like less. I should have hit him, but I didn't. I wouldn't. He told me what I asked. He untied me. He gave me my shoes back. He was cleaning up. He didn't used to clean up. He didn't used to make me sandwiches. He didn't used to answer my questions, but he's answering them now. I asked him to work on it – on us – and he's doing it.
'I offered that: myself. Maybe we could have a future together in some unique way.'
He tried to be with Claire. She turned him down. He killed Nathan. Now he's with me. Some 'unique way' for us: 'It's an arrangement. Just like those one-sided deals you like so much.' He's not promising Emma's life or threatening it. She doesn't have anything to do with it. He wants to be with someone – it's that simple. Peter thought back to Noah's advice to him not to isolate himself, to engage with his family, to reach out to his people. He'd disregarded it for the most part. But he'd really enjoyed holding Sylar, on a deep level he couldn't articulate. It was so selfish and fucked up. He didn't know what to do about it. It colored everything.
When he heard Sylar's reasons ('He was a menace. He was a danger. To you, to everyone you loved, to everyone like you. I have no sympathy for taking him out. He deserved it more than anyone. … I saw him as a legitimate threat to…my kind.'), his tongue fell still. Sylar, having had years to contemplate his crimes, still felt justified. And yet: 'It was all a mistake. It was a nightmare.' Which is it? Right? Wrong? Right at the time, but wrong later? Does it matter?
That was what sent a shiver down Peter's spine – the thought that maybe why Nathan died didn't matter anymore than any of the other fucked up things that had happened in Peter's life. It was just another trauma, layered onto an already overstrained psyche. What was important was what was left – family, love, self – the things that were good in the world. People. Helping. Making a difference.
With a sigh, he dried his tears. He went back to the elevator. He wound his way through the frozen streets to the Pegasus Building where they shared the penthouse. Things were complicated. He didn't know what to do. But he knew where he wanted to be and for once, it wasn't brooding on top of a building.
XXX
Sylar would have tried to smile if he thought it was worth anything. He met Peter's eyes with gratitude and a sense of duty. He felt relief all the same to have Peter back, assuming they would both sleep in the penthouse. Hopefully, perhaps, Peter was done talking for the day. Maybe he could be comforting for Peter.
He turned down the bed and sat on the couch to read and await his turn in the bathroom.
XXX
Aside from an acknowledging nod and a moment of eye contact, Peter didn't have any greetings for Sylar. He took off his jacket and headed for the bathroom to clean up. He had no intention of anything happening tonight, but they would still be sharing a bed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and hands of any residue from crying earlier, and combed his hair.
XXX
Peter emerged and so, of course, Sylar turned to look, especially when the other man was still dressed and held a change of clothes. The possible explanations for that were confusing. He began to put away his book when Peter, lost in thought, took off his shirt…and then his shoes…Sylar sat frozen, staring.
XXX
He didn't notice Sylar's gaze until he straightened from taking off his pants, the garment still in his hands. Stark naked (though from the angle and on the other side of the bed, he was concealed from knee down), Peter looked back.
Sylar had already seen him at his most vulnerable, whether that was asleep or so injured he was blind, disoriented, and defenseless. But those were…unintentional. It could be argued that Peter hadn't shared himself in those circumstances in any consensual way. Much like now, looking up to see Sylar's eyes on him when if he'd thought about it at all, he would have expected Sylar to be off minding his own business in the bathroom. He hadn't stripped for Sylar's pleasure.
Peter dropped the jeans on the bed, leaving himself without a stitch of protection between them, because none of that mattered and if Sylar hadn't realized it already, then he needed to. He'd already destroyed what Peter would have died many times over to protect – seeing him naked was less important. Peter glanced down at his body – not erect, muscles not tensed in any special pose, stomach slack. He knew he looked okay – good even by most standards – but he had also not made any effort to be appealing. It wasn't on his mind. Most of his lovers had seen him bare, had they cared to, as had a few roommates even when they'd preferred not. Sylar would just have to deal.
He gave Sylar a faint, amused smile in return for the shock and turned to get his boxers, letting Sylar see his rear end as well, if he wanted to look. Peter covered himself in as normal a fashion as he could given the scrutiny, but permission to look was definitely granted. He opted for boxers first because he knew from experience that enough ogling from a potential partner would be arousing. That would be an embarrassing mixed signal he didn't want to give. Next, he pulled on his t-shirt, folded his jeans and set them aside, then climbed into bed.
XXX
Peter was completely naked before him. From his first, instinctive glance at the man's junk, Sylar met the empath's glance and it held for what felt like minutes. It was intense. Peter was calm and unashamed. When Peter discarded his jeans, it broke the question in the air and altered it to be a different kind of tension, at least for Sylar. This was intentional. Peter wasn't afraid or hiding – he was confident. God, it made Sylar's head spin. Somehow those gestures were innocent, beautiful, and inviting. He wanted more but was content to observe, drinking in whatever this moment was. When the jeans hit the bed, Sylar still held Peter's gaze for a moment longer, conveying that he understood, before allowing his eyes to wander.
He saw a slim waist, the light and shadows of the man's abdominals in their completion. There was a well-earned 'V' leading from Peter's thin hips to his groin. Peter's pubic hair was dark, patchy above the relaxed penis. He'd had Peter's dick in his mouth last night, tasted it, smelled it, pleasured it, but he hadn't seen it like this. More often than not, Sylar's presence made it stiffen. The empath's thighs were thick and muscled, creating a lovely silhouette. He took his time, looking over each feature individually, then as a whole, trying to commit it to memory without reasoning why.
Finally, he looked up to Peter's eyes again to see the man give him a happy smile. I forgot: he enjoys showing off. Peter had done this before, been naked, exposed, leered at, and more. This time, it included Sylar among the audience. As soon as the smile appeared, Peter was turning away to reach for something to reveal his plump, firm buttocks below a defined, strong back. Sylar didn't dare to blink. He didn't know how badly he wanted to see the empath's body until now. He knew on some level he was being teased. Peter wasn't so shy that he had to rely on Sylar to initiate. Within a few seconds, Peter was covered, at least from the hips down. A few seconds after that, Peter wore a shirt and was snug in bed with Sylar still staring.
Sylar swallowed. He felt aroused, but…not. Something else was happening and he knew it wasn't right somehow because he wouldn't be able to keep this experience. He set his book aside for better things and rose to his feet. He walked at an angle between Peter in the bed and the hallway to the bathroom, stopping between the two. In a husky, quiet voice he asked, "What was that about?"
XXX
Peter was glad of the covers over him. Sylar's undivided attention as he stood there next to the bed had been easy enough to get through without a reaction. But the approach coupled with the thirsty, wanting tone of voice undid him. It was no more than walking across the room and asking a question, but the curiosity spoke of desire and appreciation. Sylar wanted him. He'd liked what he'd seen. And yet Peter still felt safe. Definite turn-on.
Peter fluffed the blankets and answered slowly. "It means I'm comfortable enough with you to undress normally." I don't want to have my defenses up all the time.
XXX
Sylar blinked, even though his assumption was confirmed. He felt a quick thump in his chest, concern that he'd somehow broken Peter. If that were true, was it really a bad thing? His fingers and skin itched with greed to touch Peter and he was grateful to be allowed to sleep in the same bed and steal human warmth. (It's always stealing. Always cheating and lying to get something. It's getting old. He knows I'm disgusting – that's what's taken him so long). "You shouldn't bother with clothes next time," he said with a tilt of his head. Exchanging another look with Peter, wanting the empath to fear for his innocent virtue, Sylar stalked to the bathroom to prepare for bed.
XXX
Peter raised his brows a little at the suggestion, fidgeting with the blanket again as Sylar headed off. I wonder if he's going to jerk off in there? Too bad I don't have enough time to do it out here. But then the conversation about Nathan came to mind as soon as he thought of why he shouldn't just do it anyway, time enough or not. Every trace of arousal bled out of him as he thought about what might have happened at the Stanton if they'd treated Sylar as someone they could have negotiated with rather than beaten down. He probably wouldn't have listened to us anyway. I've been here for months, we're lovers now, and it's still about power. He's afraid I'll beat the crap out of him or walk (or both), so he's putting out to protect himself. Back at the hotel, he had all the power. Why would he have cared what we had to say? He already had all those reasons why he wanted to kill Nathan. He intended to kill me, too. I wish I could have traded with Nathan.
XXX
Peter hadn't showered, but Sylar wondered if he was supposed to. It might be a waste of time if Peter didn't want anything tonight – and all the more obvious that Sylar had over-prepared. He settled for brushing his teeth after considering if he should masturbate (again, if Peter didn't want anything or even if he did perhaps. What if Peter did expect him to get off and he couldn't because he'd jerked off fifteen minutes ago? It wasn't ideal and he didn't feel horny enough). It left him frustrated at his own desires, his own body.
XXX
Peter's expression when Sylar rejoined him was somber. His gaze was direct. I don't want to be alone, either. I can't have my brother. I just want to rest.
XXX
Peter looked…quiet. That probably meant he was sad. Sylar's lips thinned, but he approached the bed. Once there, on his own side of the mattress, he shucked off his shoes, jeans, and started on his shirt. He hadn't decided if he would or should bare himself completely.
XXX
"No," Peter said. "Leave the shirt on. I want to be close, but I don't want to be sweaty."
XXX
Sylar paused and gave him a look. The request made sense (because he knew Peter was attracted to him for some reason), so he left it alone with a shrug and climbed into bed. He wants to be close.
XXX
Peter moved towards him, starting to touch Sylar's shoulders and upper arms with the intention of guiding him to the position he wanted to sleep in. I hope he's okay with this.
XXX
Oh. Okay. Sylar ducked his head, turning as Peter made contact and began to move down the man's body in an obvious repeat of last night's activities. Before he could really process what was probably relief or formulate a plan of how to execute a better, more enthusiastic blowjob, he was stopped.
XXX
"No," Peter said softly, urging Sylar back up after the man was clearly going all the way down on him. Sylar's unhesitating willingness made an impression, as it always did. With no more than a nudge, Sylar had headed off to give him head. I have to be careful with him. "No sex. I just want to hold you. Like this." He slid his lower arm between Sylar's head and the mattress; the upper rested on Sylar's hip for now. One leg hooked around Sylar's. "Like last night."
XXX
Sylar exhaled with more disappointment than he anticipated. No, Peter, come on…He frowned a little, but followed Peter's motions, allowing Peter to pillow his head for him. He opened his mouth, intending to protest and thought better of it when he felt the man's leg around his. Just do what he wants.
XXX
Peter shifted forward enough that he could bend his elbow and move his hand to brush fingers across Sylar's shoulder. The other hand slipped around the small of Sylar's back. He didn't feel guilty about requiring Sylar to do this much, under these circumstances. Sylar breathed heavily, the tension bleeding out him. Feeling the man relax in his arms was so sweet, confirming that his sense of the situation had been accurate. Peter made a faint, but audible sound of pleasure in the back of his throat.
XXX
Still, Peter wasn't done touching him, hopefully taking what he needed. It was unthinkably good for Sylar. He was grateful for it, undeserving of it. Voice a quiet whisper, he asked, "Why…this, Peter?" He glanced up at Peter, his face wondering. "After everything…today?"
XXX
"You mean," Peter said, "listening to you talk about killing my brother? About how you murdered him out of wounded pride and arrogance?" Peter's voice was conversational, his tone only a little more emotional than if he'd been discussing the weather. He didn't know how else to sound. He felt lost in how to meaningfully talk about a subject he wanted to yell himself hoarse about.
XXX
Maybe it was the inappropriate mildness that made Sylar's relaxation vanish and his shoulders hunch. His face went blank and pale, but he didn't look away.
XXX
Peter sighed and looked away. He knew it was unfair to reduce everything Sylar had shared with him today to how it had directly impacted Peter. But he wasn't entirely sure Sylar knew, or cared outside of how it had turned out badly. If he'd gotten away with it, then Sylar would have never spared a second thought to Peter, no more than he probably had for any other victim or their loved ones. It was that suspected lack of caring that let Peter off the hook for being selfish in return.
"I don't know if I've ever been able to be with someone and not be what they needed me to be. What they wanted. What they expected." He breathed out unevenly, turning his head to the side so he wasn't blowing in Sylar's face. The man was still watching him. "It's not that I lied. But I…felt…them so strongly…that was just how it was."
Peter met Sylar's eyes, his gaze harder. "It's different with you. You killed my brother. You get to deal with the fallout. What you said, today, was rough to hear. I know it was rough to say, too, but that's not my problem. What is, is that I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want to be lying here replaying every word you said. It hurtstoo much." Peter's voice caught a little. He brushed his fingers over Sylar's shoulder and continued more steadily. "You said I could use you to 'self-medicate'. Well, this is what it looks like."
XXX
He didn't feel Peter's behavior and words aligned as far as what his partners needed or wanted. Not with Peter so desperate to find answers, damn the consequences. It connected with his need to cope, to medicate and use Sylar that way. The admission of pain was…somehow a relief if Peter could voice it and get it out in the open for both of them. He had nothing to say. There was no comfort to give other than what he was already doing, apparently. He still wished to do more active penance somehow. Peter wasn't seething with hate (or wasn't admitting to it) and it was difficult to imagine Peter was finally in the healing stage so quickly. But perhaps it was progress.
XXX
It was a laughably mild revenge, but it was what Peter needed at the moment – someone to hold, someone to be with, someone whose presence would keep him from sinking inside himself and wallowing in how much he hurt inside. That it was Sylar who had to fill this role was perversely fitting.
Peter's hands clasped Sylar lightly. He turned his head and leaned forward to rest his cheek on Sylar's forehead. It was brief, turning back to touch his nose on the same spot, then pulling his head back to rest on the pillow. Sylar blinked at him, his eyes dark and large. They looked wet. He made a single nod to Peter, ducked his head, and shut his eyes. The relaxation returned, but slowly. That was okay. Peter might have refrained from petting Sylar's shoulder and side if he'd thought Sylar was going to sleep right away. But he wasn't, so Peter indulged himself until drowsiness pulled him under.
XXX
He couldn't tell where he was. The scene kept shifting. One constant was the threat he was under. He was reliving so many moments of déjà vu, but reality was fluid. /His head and lungs burned from lack of oxygen after his throat was cut. He tried to swallow or gasp or clear his throat, something. He felt weak, fading away as his body went into shock and struggled to fight the inevitable. He wished Peter were there so he wouldn't die alone (Sylar standing there, watching, didn't count), but that wasn't going to happen and wasn't safe even if it did. It was right, this way, and wrong, too. He'd had choices, good and bad that led to this. He wanted this as a surcease from pain and the opportunity to put things right. It was like watching himself in a mirror and seeing multiple reflections of himself – he could turn behind himself to look for his non-existent double, but it wouldn't explain the images in the mirror itself. It was still horrifying to experience death, whomever it belonged to./
Sylar tried to make noise. He knew someone was near. Just maybe that person could help – would help. He writhed against light, but strong impediments all around him, as if they were responsible for his asphyxiation. /The scene blurred from warm taupe to cool gray. There was more solid contact around him, against his back and more intense pressure directly against his throat. He was staring at someone familiar, a young man. They should have been amiable. Or was that an illusion, too? A lie? That young man, with dark hair and darker, menacing eyes had him pinned against a cold wall, bodily with impressive strength./
/Peter's hand was shoved against his throat, but not squeezing hard enough to kill – not yet. Peter was vengeful and not terribly rational. It was obvious to see what had happened to him and that explained the anger. He could see Peter amping up and he knew what was coming, wasn't too concerned about regenerating. He was immobilized quickly and the sensation and sound of his own bones snapping so close to his ears surprised him. As he dropped helplessly to the ground, he was left looking towards the window and door of the cell. A flash of fear revealed his mother and he knew what was happening. It was almost too late./
Sylar thrashed and tried to make sound again, pitiful, whimpering, maybe even begging. He tried to clutch at his throat to fix it or remove the impediment to his breathing because he was couldn't get air. It didn't make sense and he couldn't discern who was dying and the moral reasons why. Both seemed senseless, painful.
XXX
Disturbance. Distress. Fear. The emotions bled through into Peter's consciousness, into the dream he'd been having of living in a cabin in the woods that his EMT coworkers kept inexplicably showing up at and wanting to hang out. There wasn't even a road up to the remote camp, so how were they getting there? The emotions he was starting to feel didn't fit the dream. Peter was even able to recognize that they weren't coming from within himself. Foreign. He struggled to wake up, but he was disoriented.
Some things were real: He was with someone, they were upset, it was dark. The dream faded. "Sylar?" Although the name left his mouth, he didn't know how he knew that was right. An image came to mind of a teenager with messy, uneven hair standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving. "Gabriel?" The name had a certain rightness to it, at least in association with the memory. He could also remember carving 'I AM SYLAR' into his own arm, blood welling out and then sealing over. It had barely even hurt. He'd painted it on a wall using blood on his hands. It wasn't his blood. The memories had an overpowering feeling of dissociation and disconnection.
Those aren't mine, Peter realized, drawing his focus back to the man in his arms. "Gabr-, uh, S-Sylar? Sylar?"
XXX
Someone was speaking to him, saying his names. Saying more than one name. It leant itself to the now, not of being relieved. He felt his throat flexing, just on the cusp of drawing in air when some physical sensation of movement thrust him into wakefulness and only then did it dawn on him that it might have been a dream. He gasped for air, shaking badly. The next moment he detected that same person moving very close to him, possibly still attacking him. Sylar shoved away, getting his legs up as best he could, coughing as he got oxygen in himself in hurried gulps. He couldn't speak yet and warn the person away. He didn't even know where he was or the context of anything.
When he'd thrown and dragged himself free of the bed and bedding, he stumbled to his feet and turned to face the mattress. It was dark. He felt dirty. /Maybe he'd been buried in the ground…in the woods, by a road?/ It was too dark. He could barely see…Peter. He somehow knew Peter was here. Then the light blasted his eyes making him cringe and blink. He felt exposed in the light yet better able to defend himself. "Peter?" he whined and only then realized he'd been crying, sobbing dryly until his throat was tight.
XXX
"Yes?" He peered at Sylar, as effected by the sudden brightness as Sylar was, even if Peter had been the one to roll over and click on the bedside lamp. Sylar's plaintive tone had Peter sitting up and shifting to the edge of the bed, brows drawing together in concern. But he didn't stand up. The violence of Sylar's departure discouraged that. Peter knew enough not to press. "Sylar? I'm right here."
XXX
Shakily, Sylar grasped his throat because that was tangible and he could try to fix it. "What…? What-?" He felt like some Frankenstein zombie come back to life in an unnatural, raw way. He kept a distracted eye on Peter, mostly to make sure he didn't move from the bed. When he couldn't answer his own questions, he whispered, "Who…?" as if to himself. His eyes wouldn't clear – they continually filled up and spilled over. Sylar touched his chest, his heart beating a panicked rhythm.
XXX
"You're okay. You had a nightmare." Peter watched the way Sylar touched his throat. Did he dream he was Nathan dying? Does he know who he is now? The tears running down the man's cheeks made Peter shift uneasily. He wanted to help, but getting in Sylar's face or chasing the still-disoriented man around the room would do the opposite. The apartment was big and Sylar wasn't going anywhere so he stayed put.
XXX
"No…No…It's different. I'm…I'm different?" He croaked. What if I can't fix this? Some piece of me is missing and I don't know what piece or where it is. He rubbed at his throat compulsively, frowning at Peter. "Is this my body? Do you…know…me?" There was such a feeling of danger he had of Peter. Some guilt and shame he couldn't cleanse to make the man hate him beyond any doubt. What if Peter didn't want to help? Or couldn't? He might never know himself without someone else to see him and if Peter attacked him or didn't help…
XXX
Did he wake up thinking he's Nathan, but in Sylar's body? Peter adopted the same firm, steady tone he'd used earlier that day when Sylar had lapsed into the same memory and identity. "You're Sylar. You're the man I know as Sylar. Understand?" He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the bed on both sides of his legs and telegraphing an intent to get up.
XXX
Something about the tone, or the question at the end, or the body language to stand up made him inexplicably suspicious. I'm just supposed to accept that? Take your word for it? He spared a quick glance around the apartment for an exit in case he needed it, taking a step back and away. Then he went back to keeping an eye on Peter.
XXX
Peter straightened and put his hands on his knees. Sylar's expression, eye contact, and posture said 'no' to Peter standing, so he didn't. Instead, he spoke. "We first met at a high school stadium in Odessa, Texas. I stopped you from killing Claire. The next time we met was in Mohinder Suresh's apartment. You killed me. We met again at Kirby Plaza and fought." He waited to see if the recounting of shared history helped Sylar orient on the correct identity.
XXX
Sylar frowned. /I was there when you were born, Pete,/ he thought before he was snapped away from that line of thinking by the other things Peter said. He twitched at the mention of Claire (Not my daughter, he reminded himself) and grimaced about Kirby Plaza. "Stop! Don't. Don't talk about her….Or Kirby."
That was literally a painful memory every way he looked at it. Being burned and suffering from radiation, being left by his Heidi for all the lies catching up to him, and his career going up in literal smoke after almost letting his baby brother die for his family's schemes. Being in the hospital for three months in agony and what he could remember was gruesome. He thought he heard Peter's voice in the middle of the painkillers and the haze just before his recovery – a miracle the doctors said. But Peter was gone. Had been gone the entire time….Ma was convinced he was dead and it brought on the pathetic drinking binge in an attempt to cope. He should have made the right decision immediately. Peter was worth the sacrifice of his career.
Or the other story, trying to prevent the bomb by calling Mohinder to be betrayed, seeking help from his mother (another mother) only to be told he could be special if he went back to the job market. She said that without even knowing his power, so innocently assuming he was a harmless person with the capacity, maybe someday, to be a good man, to be saved and redeemed enough to enter Heaven's gates. And then the stupid struggle, the accident, the blood and her corpse…but he couldn't leave it alone. Not with his abilities. Seeing her again like that brought back so many other memories…Sylar closed his eyes briefly, hearing the faint ticking of clocks, then scrubbed the moisture from his cheeks and ran his fingers through his hair.
He dragged shaking fingers down his chest and arms as if searching for something. Dirt. Blood. Some telltale sign of identity based on his clothing. Pajamas aren't helpful when he and I…We? He? Wear the same thing to bed. He had this nagging impression that he should be somewhere dark and cold, filthy in borrowed clothing until there was too many lights and he was trapped in various cages. His mind kept returning to the face of a kind, tall, dark woman, but deep down, he knew she was long gone.
XXX
"More recently," Peter said slowly, "you were made to think you were my brother, Nathan. But you threw that off. You know you're not him." Peter dipped his head to the side and glanced away before looking back. "I know you're not him." He gestured at the other man. "You're in Sylar's body. You have Sylar's personality. You have Sylar's memories. You have Nathan's, too, but you're still Sylar." He waited a beat while Sylar processed that.
XXX
As Peter spoke, more pieces came together. Somehow, he knew Peter was telling the truth. It helped to know Peter was being honest, but he wasn't satisfied by the results. Peter's watch was silent, distracting and jarring. He tried to nod, but wound up shaking his head, worrying at his lower lip and gazing out the window. Rubbing at his forehead, he flapped his other hand in a shrug as he shuffled away from the bedroom. He found himself standing between the couch and table. His reflection in the dark window showed a familiar, tall, lanky brunet. Everything except the expression was 'him.' If I saw someone else, would I still think it was me? He dropped the hand from his forehead, touching over his chest once more, seeing the movement reflected.
XXX
Peter rose and immediately angled his body so it was clear he wasn't approaching Sylar. He headed to the kitchen, where he flicked on the light and got out two glasses. They weren't about to go back to sleep. Peter accepted that. He frowned into the refrigerator, making a mental note to get some beer or liquor at some future point for moments like this when they both needed something to take the edge off. In the meantime, he took out the orange juice and filled the glasses. He returned the bottle to the fridge and offered one glass to Sylar as he passed near. Peter sat at the far side of the table, where he waited, letting the momentary silence be comfortable. He sipped his drink and stared out at the blackness of the night sky.