Day 78, February 26, afternoon

"If we're stuck here," Peter asked eventually, "what kind of life do you want to live, here? Is there anything you want to accomplish? I mean, I guess we don't have to accomplish things, but how would you like things to be between us, if everything was okay, if we were comfortable with each other?"

XXX

Fuck. Fucking philosophical argument I have to fend off anyway. I didn't do anything! Sylar mentally groaned to himself. It distracted him from the void of the answer. It nearly hurt to consider those things. For a moment, he remained still as if hoping he could ignore that he'd heard the question. He needed time to think. Eventually, he lowered his book to his lap but didn't open his mouth to speak for longer still. When he did, he spoke slowly.

"I want impossible things. I don't have those kinds of expectations. It was different when I was alone. Now, my focus has changed and I need to keep you satisfied. That is my goal. It's important. And, no; I can't tell you why." He spared Peter a knowing look.

XXX

"You don't-" Peter stopped himself, because telling Sylar yet again that he didn't need to keep him 'satisfied' wasn't going to work any better than any of the other times he'd said it in different ways. It was a disgusting concept, but Peter had already wallowed in that long enough to want out of it rather than indulging in more self-hate and frustration about how Sylar was responding to him. What did he actually say? 'This is his goal. This is important.' Well, fine then. I'll just echo it back to him and maybe he'll have more to say. "That's important to you?"

XXX

Sylar looked at Peter for a moment. "Yeah," he confirmed. "It's important."

XXX

"Okay." Peter tried twisting Sylar's words just a little bit, taking out the sexual connotation to see what Sylar did with it. Would he double-down on the sex meaning, or let it pass? "You want me to be satisfied and happy with how things are between us, is that right?"

XXX

"Yes, as much as is possible, given our history." His eyes narrowed in a kind of annoyed suspicion at Peter's apparent density.

XXX

"I'd like the same for you," Peter said after a beat. He considered trying to address the unnecessary lengths Sylar was obviously willing to go to in order to achieve that goal, but he didn't know how to do it without sounding like criticism, or a threat to Sylar's security. Peter was stymied. "That's important for me, too. I want you to know that." He got to his feet and wandered over to the table with the puzzle, pulling out the chair and settling in this time. He spent the rest of the afternoon putting pieces into their places.

XXX

Sylar had nothing to say to that. The offer and its sentiment were undeserved. Was this Peter's belated attempt at being a good 'partner'? I know what he thinks of me and he's not wrong. I doubt that's changed. He doesn't know what I want. (What would I do with that?) He was curious despite himself, eager to test Peter's limits. It seemed likely that Peter did in fact want the appearance of a normal relationship but that was almost unhelpful because Sylar had no idea what one looked like, particularly between two men. His pensive gaze tracked Peter for a little before he went back to his book.

XXX

A single sandwich for lunch wasn't enough to keep him from getting hungry early, but Peter pressed on until he had the puzzle complete anyway. Peter smiled down at it, content for once, then turned to Sylar. "You willing to go out for dinner? I was thinking pizza. There has to be someplace around here with an oven. I don't think it's all that complicated. If it doesn't work, we can hit up the grocery store for some frozen ones."

XXX

"It's not that complicated until you get your hands on it," Sylar smirked mercilessly. He was pleased with the suggestion. "I know a place." They retrieved their coats from the suite and Sylar led them out. It was cold and snowing lightly but it hadn't built up on the ground. The walk wasn't a long one, only a few blocks to the nearest Italian pizzeria.

XXX

"Let's make separate ones," Peter suggested, getting a pre-prepared round of dough. Fortunately, there were enough of them that he didn't need to fiddle with the plastic-wrapped round balls and figure out how to make them uniformly flat. His first attempt illustrated why he'd wanted to make his own. It was mounded with all the veggies, three types of cheese, and anchovies.

"Huh. Maybe I should take some of this off and level it out." Even after taking some of the toppings off, it still ended up as a thick pie he had to put through the oven a second time to get everything thoroughly cooked. By that time, it was a bit scorched around the edges. But he didn't care. It looked delicious. Peter settled in at the bar with a glass of lemonade. He looked over at Sylar's results.

"So, where do you fall on the whole 'pineapple on pizza' debate?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled to observe Peter's efforts. It was just as well Peter wanted his own. Sylar had gone for a simple thin crust, lots of sauce, cheeses, olives, and pepperoni. It was very crisp, more than he'd intended. "Ha!" Sylar said after trying his first mouthful and finding it much too hot for the moment, completely melted and gooey. "I don't mind it. It's very sweet, almost too sweet by itself. I like sweet and salty or spicy." He gave Peter a look from the side of his eye, considering the man. I wonder if that taste runs to people – is that why he's tolerable? Then his mind combined tasty people with food…"I like trying new food. I can see where vegetables or fruits can make a pizza controversial. The sauce and the dough makes the pizza, regardless of anything else you put on it."

XXX

"Yeah? Me, too, on the new foods thing. Vegetables are pretty standard, though." Peter pulled his pieces apart so they might cool faster and picked one up to curl into a c-shape. The excess of toppings didn't work too well with that. He lost some and the rest crammed together in what was basically an open calzone. "I'm starting to see why they don't usually make pizzas like this." Nevertheless, he blew on it, took small bites (having seen Sylar's mistake), and sipped his lemonade. "This tastes really good, though. Exactly what I wanted."

XXX

A lofting of his eyebrows showed his agreement about pizza creations. A thought popped into his head and wouldn't leave. "Out of curiosity, what exactly are you offering me regarding satisfaction?"

XXX

That was a strangely good question. Peter blinked a few times and looked at his food blankly. "What do I offer the people I want to be in relationships with?" He glanced over at Sylar to see if that was an accurate restatement of the question.

XXX

Sylar glanced aside and gave a one-shouldered shrug. That was a fair estimation of the answer he wanted.

XXX

"Company. Affection. Sex, if it's that kind of relationship. Reciprocal sex, not just you blowing me." And leaving me fucked up afterward. "Helping you get what you want out of it. Support, maybe?" He gave Sylar a cautious look. "You said once you wanted my passion. That's … available. We just have to get on the same wavelength somehow."

XXX

Swallowing hard, Sylar quickly scanned the area. Peter was explicitly Talking About It. They were alone, but that didn't dull his immediate paranoia. The stare he returned to Peter was yearning and tormented. Did those things apply to him? The empath listed everything he wanted. There was no mention of trust (hidden inside 'affection' perhaps) or love (no commitment beyond the persistent word 'relationship'). What if there was no real need for either? It wouldn't be 'morally right' to accept those things but he knew he didn't have the strength to refuse temptation. This was still a game – Peter would want things, too, and it mattered whose wants came first.

After a long period of staring at Peter in such a vulnerable way, Sylar broke their eye contact to look to his plate. The more he tried to doubt Peter, the more evidence he found in the man's behavior to support Peter. It was terrifying, unthinkable! Heaven and Hell resting on mere choice?

"That's…quite an offer. You know Petrellis have made me similarly amazing offers in the past. They used me and then betrayed me. Your family would disown you. Nathan…still interferes. Are you truly comfortable with giving those things to a monster, to his murderer? Even if I'm not ashamed; if I don't want to change or can't; if I go back to killing people – maybe even your family? You've said you don't know me or what I want – and I agree – but you don't know some of the things I've done or why and you'd still offer yourself to me?"

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar looked apprehensive and clearly tempted. Very tempted. Peter didn't interrupt the man's thought process, or later, his words. If he thinks I'm a sadistic asshole who has to be placated, then he either won't believe me or he won't understand how that computes.

He addressed Sylar's comments in reverse order. "You're sitting right there, Sylar. That's what I have to go off of: you, as I know you. Not what you might do. And I know some of what you have done. If I find out about worse?" He rolled his eyes and looked away. He looked tired. "I can't imagine what's worse than what I know about, but I'll deal with it when it happens. Not if; when. You won't be the first person close to me to surprise me with bad news about themselves. I'll get over it or I won't.

"I've already thought about my family in regard to you, or us. They're not here. They won't understand. They'll probably never understand. That's how it is. I hope I find my way back to them someday so I can explain it." He shook his head. "But I don't expect them to believe me. None of it even matters, because we've already been together. Repeatedly."

"I don't know if I'm comfortable with it or not," Peter said honestly. "But I want it."

XXX

That much was good. Peter said he took him at face value. (Honesty wouldn't necessarily help that, but perhaps…was it that simple?) 'Not if; when' echoed in his head. You're confident I'll spill every secret to you…You know I'll tell you at some point. And he's not promising he'll forgive or understand, which I wouldn't believe. Somehow Sylar could feel tension in his chest at the idea of Peter not finding his way back to his family. It's just a concept. It's the fucking Petrellis! He's better off without them! But being with me – he'd have to choose one day. Is it cruel for him to have to make that choice? (He thinks we've 'been together'?) Is that the same as…wanting me?

Sylar still had concerns, of course. He was grateful and eager; it required some self-restraint with what was on the table. Hugging and touching Peter was probably acceptable now...With something of a nod, he said, "I see. That's quite generous."

XXX

Generous? Peter made a tight smile and went back to his pizza. It's not generous, it's just normal. And I'm a fuck up anyway. I'm no prize and he knows it. I'm so dangerous that just being normal strikes him as 'amazing' and 'generous'. I'm trying, and that's probably still not good enough. He chewed and kept quiet, concerned that anything he said would make things worse. He enjoyed his food, picking up the stray vegetables that had fallen from his slices and popping them in his mouth when he was done with the pizza itself. He was full by then, but it was still fun to do and it took his mind off the tension inside him.

After, he licked his fingers, wiped them on the napkin, and then rose to take his dish over to the sink, washing it and his hands. Peter asked over his shoulder, "Do you have a brand of beer you like? Liquor? Is there a store nearby? There are times when I want something to take the edge off."

He didn't want to admit that looking forward to continued tense and negotiation and careful 'reading between the lines' made him yearn for a stiff drink (or to get falling down, puking drunk as an excuse not to perform or participate). He walked back, wiping his hands on a towel to dry them. As he realized his true intentions in seeking alcoholic oblivion, Peter changed his mind. "You know, never mind. It's probably better if we just skip it and head home."

XXX

It was difficult to tell how Peter felt about that. Either way, the conversation died. The empath's eating process was amusing to watch. He seemed comfortable with himself most of the time. Sylar envied and admired that. It brought him back to when Peter was a child. Sylar finished his own slices until he couldn't eat anymore. He assisted with the clean up.

He'd been about to answer, thinking nothing of it at first. Then Peter retracted the request and he began to overthink. Take the edge off what? He's getting off regularly. We're not fighting…(Oh, aren't we? There's no 'we' anyway). Is he concerned about getting drunk around me? The memories of New Year's were pleasant. It didn't seem the moment to offer sex, somehow the message didn't appear coded that way. He decided to simply ask. "Okay. I could always give you a massage. You know, take the edge off," he said conspiratorially. "Why so tense? You're not worried about getting buzzed around me, are you?"

XXX

The idea of curling up in someone's arms (Sylar's?) and simply being held while he forgot all his troubles was deeply appealing. Even though it wasn't what Sylar had offered, it was what came to Peter's mind. We're already doing that in sleep. The last couple nights have been fantastic. If we could just do that and nothing else…. And it's the same thing as the alcohol, looking for a way out. Avoidant, much? Peter sighed. "I'm not worried about getting buzzed. I'm more worried about getting carried away with it. Massage might be nice. What takes the edge off for you? What helps you relax and enjoy yourself?"

XXX

Sylar frowned. That hadn't answered the question about the cause of Peter's tension. Getting carried away…with alcohol or with me? Or both? "I wouldn't mind. It might be fun," he suggested before moving out from the kitchen area, waiting for Peter to follow. "I…I guess reading or fixing my timepieces. Puzzles. Nothing exciting, really. Sometimes cooking and…cleaning, as weird as that sounds," he spared a self-conscious look in Peter's direction. "Maybe touching your hair…" he added quietly. He left out getting a fix from gaining a new ability because Peter would focus on the morality of murder. Louder, he said, "Where to next?"

XXX

He followed Sylar out the door. "Let's head home, I guess. I'm full. The walk sounds good, but let's go toward the Pegasus. We can always just keep going if we feel like it." The cold air felt more bracing than usual. Peter dug his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders a little. He wished he'd brought his headband. "It sounds as though you like mental work, like finding patterns? Something you can zone out on and go autopilot?" Like my hair? And what does it mean that he wants me engaged and passionate if he enjoys being laid back more than being active?

XXX

Sylar shrugged, half against the cold, partly as a response. He didn't want to seem like a pathetic brainiac weakling geek and didn't know what to say. "Yeah, I guess. I like physical work, too," he said in a deep voice. "I like exploring the city."

XXX

"I know this is weird given all of what you listed was mental, but have you ever tried jogging? Running is like…meditation. Great way to zone out."

XXX

"I…appreciate being able to get back to calm hobbies. It's always meant something and I wasn't always able to have those things. That doesn't mean I don't miss my…more active pursuits." He shot a checking glance Peter's way. When Peter didn't react harshly, he continued truthfully, "I do. When I was younger there was a lot of judgment regardless of what I did. If I was quiet, it wasn't the right kind of quiet activity. If I wanted to ask questions or be loud, then it was too much. If I wanted to go out and participate, I would have to do things alone because of…everything," After a pause Sylar gave up trying to find the right words to describe the masquerade of interacting with others in relation to his parents and their church. He didn't know why he spoke of it at all, except as some far-fetched reason to give Peter some context.

"I had to do what I was good at, you know? It was survival to some degree. Sometimes it's nice, other times it's claustrophobic. I used to run…years ago. Getting ready for having abilities," he snorted an ironic chuckle. "Then getting regeneration, I didn't need to. Then I was alone here…" Now you're here, he thought and glanced at Peter again. Do I need to start again? Is that a suggestion? (Maybe my body isn't his type after all? He liked that Kevin guy who worked out). I've worked out with him before. (Just the once, though. Peter goes every day). That might even be like fighting, sweating and tired… It was a good suggestion, whether Peter intended it that way or not, one that held a fair amount of appeal.

XXX

Peter moved his head back and forth ambivalently. "It can be tough to find that middle point, yeah. The Goldilocks thing – too much or not enough. I can probably credit my dad with pushing me to the point that I quit caring what other people thought of me." He walked for several paces before shaking his head. "No, that's not true. I still care. But I go ahead and do what I want anyway and just feel like crap when people don't like it." He sighed and looked away.

"I never could find the middle point either. Maybe my stakes weren't as high as yours." I'm assuming he means abuse? Child abuse? 'Read between the lines'. He wants to get back to calm hobbies. "Do you miss the sound of all those clocks in your apartment?" Something occurred to Peter. "Do they need to be wound? When was the last time you were by your place?"

XXX

Sylar allowed himself a range of micro-expressions. He gave a tiny smirk at Peter's admission before worrying he'd said too much himself. "Sometimes. A few of the older pieces, like wrist watches, need to be wound." He breathed a chuckle. "I…don't remember off the top of my head. It's not a big deal. It should be there when I get back. Do you want me to take a look at your watch?" he offered, not for the first time.

XXX

Peter looked at his wrist. "I suppose you could," he said slowly. "But I like the idea time's standing still for me. It gives them more time, out there. If I go back somehow, maybe nothing will have happened and I'll still be able to do something to save people." He pursed his lips and looked down. "Because otherwise…if time's passing out there normally, then my body's probably dead and the only life I've got in front of me is in your head." He tapped the face of the watch uneasily. "I think I'd rather not have it fixed."

"It's been months. I know it's possible I could be in a coma under life support somewhere, but it seems equally possible that I'm not. Matt Parkman was willing to wall you up in his basement with no idea if you'd survive or not. What's to say he didn't do the same thing to me?"

XXX

"According to you, a year here is the same as an hour…'there,' wherever you think that is. You don't have to worry about that. It's just you and I. We're friendly. I'll take care of you." Petrelli and Parkman were friends – that had to count for something. There were many people willing to wall him up in a basement; less so for Peter.

XXX

Peter peered curiously at Sylar as they walked, in no hurry to speak. 'I'll take care of you.' What does he mean by that? It was compelling; Peter wanted it. A friend, a relationship, you and me, don't worry? Sounds too pat. Is this more of that 'keeping me satisfied' crap? Eventually Peter breathed out heavily and spoke. "I think I'd rather you left the watch alone. It's not like it bothers me. Look at it this way," he added lightly, "I can never tell you you're late."

XXX

Peter did not gush about that so Sylar glanced at him. He tilted his head in reaction to the expression Peter wore. He snorted about the concept of tardiness. He'll let me suck his dick, but not touch on his wristwatch. Peter, this is why people don't understand you, he thought with an amused, affectionate kind of annoyance. "As if I would be late. Now I can tell you that you're late."

XXX

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, fine. So do you want to go by your place or not? Or would you rather go by sometime when I'm not tagging along?" I've never let him in my apartment, so maybe he'd just decided to keep me out from now on.

XXX

Sylar frowned. Something in the way Peter phrased that, or perhaps that he'd mentioned it at all, seemed off. "Um…Either is fine." It would be weird regardless – if Peter visited or not. "I could stop in, if you need space," he suggested, considering the recent topic of his solo, home-based hobbies. He was a little concerned, after being so physically close and sharing so much about Nathan, what if Peter was tired of him? Clearly he wasn't providing sufficient entertainment, not in the ways Peter needed.

XXX

"No, I wasn't trying to ditch you. I was offering to let you ditch me if you didn't want me in your place." He shrugged. "I'm not sure if we're being awkward with each other or respectful. Let's just keep walking." He hunched his shoulders against the cold, collar turned up, and enjoyed stretching his legs.

XXX

Sylar blinked. That was very considerate of Peter. The empath had certainly made good on his word to be more respectful of Sylar's possessions and it was much appreciated. He got the feeling he'd indicated he wanted space from Peter when that hadn't been his intention.

It definitely got awkward when Peter pointed it out and he didn't know which was preferable. "Tell me about med school. What was that like for you?"

XXX

"It was nice. Like finally getting a breath of air after having been trapped underwater too long. College … fucked me up. Knowing what I was looking forward to – a life as a lawyer prosecuting whatever cases Dad told me to, or doing legal paperwork or whatever, always being under his thumb, surrounded by his connections, relying on him for money – in college, I threw myself down a hole to avoid thinking about it. I drank. I did drugs. I fucked anyone who was remotely interested in me and the moment it was more than remotely, I moved on. I skipped classes. I missed deadlines. I hated my life.

"But somehow, it looked like I wasn't going to avoid law school no matter what I did. Then I got that money. And fuck it, I enrolled in nursing school. It still took me a while to shake some of the bad habits, but I got there. Clean, sober, and, uh, relatively celibate. Sort of. At least, when I was with people, I meant it. I had a purpose, though. I knew I was going to be something better and brighter than a lawyer on the take. I was meant for something more and that feeling just got stronger the closer I got to graduation."

He looked over at Sylar. "Med school was good. It was…yeah, it was the best period of my life. I got my shit together. Then I got abilities and everything got…desperate. It took a long time for me to work out who I was again and who I wanted to be."

XXX

After a few steps, he circled back around to something. "Do you regret the way you left things with those people you partied with in college?"

XXX

"Some of them. It's tough to tell which ones at this point. I know some of them were just as happy as I was to go our separate ways." He looked over at Sylar. "I assume you don't mean the people I knocked back a few beers with and made jokes with about Professor Shlittler's name."

XXX

"No, not them. How many of those people were…men?" he asked, both leading and reluctant.

XXX

"Numbers-wise? Most. A lot. They were easier to hook up with." Peter shrugged. "More of them were okay with a one-night-stand than the women were."

XXX

Eyebrows lofted, Sylar rapidly analyzed that. It surprised him for some reason, having imagined mostly women and the occasional man. Looking back over his own experience, he couldn't agree or disagree about one-night-stands of either sex. (He must have a lot of experience then, a treacherous voice whispered). Swallowing, he continued, "Where did you meet these men?"

XXX

"Bars mostly. Parties. Some friends I knew. I got around in the art department a lot. There were certain places people went for that sort of thing and that's where I went."

XXX

He made a disbelieving face about the walking clichés of the art department. What kinds of places-? He started to wonder before ideas, seedy memories flooded in. "/I remember when I had to bail you out of jail for alleged prostitution! Remember that?"/ Sylar chuckled.

XXX

Peter snorted softly. "Yeah, I do," he said with a sad smile. "That's not your memory, but it's nice to think someone still knows that other than me." He sighed. "I suppose it is your memory now. But you know what I mean."

XXX

Sylar shut his mouth, confused about what to feel. "At least you had fun. Does that mean you like…artistic types? Or just liberal bleeding-hearts?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I usually had fun, yeah. I definitely fit in better with the liberals than with a bunch of stuck-up conservatives that reminded me too much of Dad." He looked over at Sylar for a moment of emphasis before saying, "I fit in with people who don't think I'm a loser or a fuck-up. I liked making people feel better about themselves. Getting them to talk about what they liked. Getting out of my own head. It was a lot easier to do back then than it is anymore."

XXX

"Why is that?'' Sylar asked, open-ended intentionally. He expected it had to do with going through hell, losing family, and abilities.

XXX

"I don't know. Like with you. I'm angry about things I can't leave behind. In college, nothing mattered. The point was to get away from it all. Fuck my family, their goals, the stuff that never made sense until I knew about abilities - all of it. I could put myself in someone else's life and feel good for a while.

"It's hard to do that anymore. I can't just relax and be here, when I'm always worrying about what's going on out there. At the Carnival, at my work, with other specials. I'm always second-guessing myself: Is this the best thing to do? Do I have the right ability today? Did I do enough? It's all this confusing pressure. There's no one I can fit in with because I think I'm a loser and a fuck-up."

He sighed. "Now I'm stuck here. Sometimes, I'm almost happy I can't get out." He swallowed. "It was easier back then."

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows arched for a moment. "By that logic, that would make me less of a fuck-up. I find that very hard to believe." He touched Peter's arm to steer him back the way they'd come. It was cold and Peter was still concussed. "It's all about perspective."

XXX

Peter looked at the touch gratefully. He couldn't think of another time when Sylar had done something like that – tried to direct him. It wasn't the sort of thing Peter welcomed when it was overt, or anything like a command or a challenge. But this wasn't like that. So he went where Sylar pointed him, even if it was retracing their steps.

XXX

"Do you think you feel that way because, with abilities, you said you need to be connected to your people? Sometimes you mope, but you're not without confidence. Unless there's a part of you that subconsciously doubts yourself or you're still trying to live up to other people's standards whether you want to or not."

XXX

"I'm not sure I understand most of what you're saying there. I've always nee- wanted to be connected to people. When Nathan would leave…. That was always rough. But there were other people around back then. I had some friends in school and later in college. I was always with someone. Or people, more than one." Peter snorted softly and glanced at Sylar. "I'm not talking about sex right now. Just being with people. Human contact. I'm sure it's connected to my abilities. But there's probably a feedback with my confidence, too."

He was quiet for a few moments before saying in a low voice, "My life's been pretty empty for the last few years, since I got abilities. The most interaction I've had has been with patients or other specials and neither of those are in good situations. Nearly everyone an EMT meets in the course of work is in distress and…same for the specials."

He liked hanging out with Sylar, but didn't know how to say it in a way that captured all the complications and layered meaning. It was too complicated. It needed to be simple. Just 'I like hanging out with you' or even 'I like you', but how to say that to someone who felt he was such a brute that he needed to be bribed with sex? Peter walked along wallowing in his thoughts about it instead of saying anything.

XXX

"That sucks," was all Sylar said. He contemplated himself in relation to Peter's needs – not exactly healthy in any sense of the word. It had to weigh on Peter considerably. They slogged a little faster as it began to rain, trying to snow. When they reached the Pegasus, stomping and squeaking on the smooth floor, Sylar asked, "Pool?"

XXX

"Yeah, sure." Peter shook off his coat and then batted the rain out of his hair. "My head's cold." He combed his hair when he was done, then offered the comb to Sylar.

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter's wet hair. He wanted to dry it, fluff it, pet it into place even knowing it would resist his efforts. He watched as Peter played with his hair, mostly getting it to behave with help from a comb. "Hmm. I bet," he replied in a distracted, deep voice. He smirked, greatly amused by the display, carrying of the comb on his person, and being offered the comb in turn.

He started at the back of his head with the reasoning that it was proper to begin at the ends of one's hair – and also to see if Peter was watching. My hair is nearly longer than his now! I should suggest a haircut – just a trim.

XXX

Wonder of wonders, they managed to get through a few games without fighting or even threatening one another, but Peter didn't have much to say during them aside from calling shots as needed. He had an ice cream sandwich when they went upstairs, then regretted not having picked up any beer. It occurred to him there might be liquor of some kind in the cabinets somewhere, but he didn't look. It was just jitters, he knew. He took his turn in the bathroom first, then got in bed.

XXX

Sylar readied for sleep with his now-usual level of care. He could get used to this – proximity and companionship. It didn't have to be much more, it didn't have to be a connection (or even the connection). Controlling his own (self-)destructive urges was another mystery entirely. Crawling beneath the sheets, he wasn't wearing a shirt. He glanced at Peter with something of a grin twitching at his lips. "Goodnight," he said and Peter turned off the light. Sylar slid closer and extended a hand until he made contact with Peter, he inhaled deeply and relaxed.

XXX

"Hey," Peter murmured, letting his fingers find Sylar's hand and slide around it. "You reached out to me." He smiled, though it probably wasn't visible. He gave Sylar's hand a squeeze instead.

XXX

Sylar bit his lip. It wasn't that novel, he'd done as much before but Peter sounded so happy about it. I'd do more, if you'd let me. You do let me; you just…can't stomach it. Holding my hand and squeezing it is good. He was content with that. He had to be.

He closed his eyes. So many of his seduction techniques were useless here. It's one thing to be satisfied with him – that's almost easy. It's something entirely different for me to please him in any way. Phrased like that he realized how ironic his 'It's always about him!' complaints had been because it was true. That didn't mean he had answers.

XXX

Peter spent most of the night uneasily. Between waking at slight motions from Sylar and rousing himself from sick dreams where Peter had morphed into his father and was victimizing Sylar in various implied ways, he didn't get much sleep. His waking thoughts were no better. Everything was so painfully confused between the two of them. He felt stuck. The concern and paranoia about accepting Sylar's offers of sex had contagiously transferred to suspicion about his offers of other intimacy. Peter found himself endlessly questioning even the smaller gestures, like walking with him or taking his hand. Somewhere towards dawn, exhaustion led him to finally put aside his worries and let himself rest.

XXX

Sylar woke first. Peter was spooning him lightly. Sylar purred and allowed himself to doze and daydream, listening to Peter breathe. Eventually, he truly woke, unable to sleep any more. With his faulty, mischievous instincts, perhaps because he was enjoying himself, he wanted to mess around with Peter – playfully, of course.

Slowly, he rolled the bedding off his torso, allowing cooler air between them. Sylar slipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and slid them down, wriggling them the rest of the way to his knees to give him mobility.

Feeling naughty, he pressed his ass against Peter's clothed groin. He did it again, gently rocking and rubbing in lazy circles. He took Peter's hand and draped it over his waist, wanting to feel flesh against flesh, wanting to be touched.

XXX

Another dream. This time, he wasn't his father. Peter was himself. But he was still taking advantage of Sylar. He was fucking him. It was hot, sexy, and even in his half-asleep state, Peter knew he had a raging boner. His hips pressed forward. It felt so real. It's all in my head. Fuck. Can't I just enjoy a fantasy? It doesn't have to be a nightmare. Sylar's body pressed back. Peter's hand fumbled at the soft, lightly-haired skin of Sylar's belly, his hips making uncoordinated thrusts. The dreams are freakishly real in this place.

XXX

Sylar purred, feeling Peter's interest. The motions were unmistakably erotic. He was flattered and enjoying himself so far. It doesn't take much to get him going, does it? That was gratifying. "Does it feel like a slow burn yet?" he asked in a low, husky voice. He could detect Peter's heat and hardness, only separated from it by the man's underwear, grinding against his bare cheeks.

It was far from the empath's usual strength, but even without it Peter's shaft pushed between his legs. His breath caught and he held it, surprised and…aroused. He chuckled, a little unsure, petting the man's arm as it lay on his belly, "You are full of surprises, Petrelli."

XXX

Peter made another thrust. Even though it was a feeble motion, he somehow penetrated Sylar to the hilt, all in one go. Someone laughed. Sylar was speaking to him in a very real voice, encouraging him to do more, but Peter had a sick certainty this was wrong. It was all wrong. Fantasies are harmless, right? (Are they really, here? he answered himself.)

He forced his eyes open. The dream faded and there was the reality: I can't stop myself from fucking him. Then, with vicious certainty: Oh yes I can! "No!" Peter jerked back, pulling himself away, and bailed out of the other side of the bed. He got to his feet with a snarl. "What do you think you're doing?"

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow at the drama. "Nothing I haven't done before." Hell, he'd done worse before and Peter had enjoyed it. "Waking up and starting the day right, helping you take care of morning wood. I got tired of waiting for you."

XXX

Peter retreated, grabbing at his shoes as he went. He carried them to a kitchen chair, which he jerked out and sat himself down in. He stuffed his feet into the shoes. All he could think of was how into yesterdays' blow job Sylar had been, followed by how used he'd acted after.

"I can't do this. I can't let you do this. No more sleeping together. No showers. No living with each other. I am not going to wake up and find you making me into the exact same thing I had nightmares about last night!"

XXX

He saw Peter swipe up his shoes, sit, and angrily shove them on. That dissipated of his playful teasing and worried him. Sylar threw off the blankets, forgetting his nude state. Peter wasn't paying attention and didn't see. He yanked up his underwear and walked nearer to the kitchen table.

"Wha-?" Sylar couldn't even finish. He gaped, blinking and trying to calculate how Peter had figured any of that out or why he felt that way, especially after he pleasant way they'd woken up. Quickly giving up on that endeavor as a matter of lesser importance, he focused on how to respond to that.

XXX

Peter got to his feet. "I have been worrying myself fucking sick about you! You are using me! And I don't understand why or for what, but I'm done with this!"

XXX

Sylar was completely taken aback at Peter's words – somehow accurate, concerning, and giving him sensations of warmth of being cared for, which he didn't deserve, twisting something like guilt within him that led to anger. "You are so ungrateful. You want sex and complain when you get anything close to it." Sylar crossed his arms.

"You are impossible to please. Do you want me to beg and grovel? Does that get you off? You promised – so you can't abandon me. All that 'relationship' talk," he slurred the word mockingly, "was clearly just a joke. That doesn't leave you with much but taking advantage – not that I'm complaining."

XXX

"You're being a manipulative asshole and I don't buy it anymore. I'm not going to take advantage of this and neither are you! I didn't promise to live with you. I didn't promise to fuck you or let you do things to me." He felt unclean from having woke up like that, like Sylar was entrapping him and yet Peter felt he only had himself to blame. Which meant it was his responsibility to do something about it as well. He went toward the door.

XXX

Sylar squared up, feeling this chance, the privilege, the opportunity of Peter's company slipping through his fingers. He could sense the rejection coming, the ultimatums, the return of loneliness. He stalked forward and knelt in before Peter, staring intently up at him and reaching for the waistband of the man's boxers. "I licked it, so it's mine," he growled. "You know you want it."

XXX

"Get out of my way," Peter said coldly, but he didn't do anything more than to bat at Sylar's hands and try to keep his boxers up. Sylar, on his knees in front of him and obviously willing to provide whatever Peter wanted – there was something sexy about that, yeah, but not in the current circumstances.

Peter lashed out at him verbally where he thought it would hurt. "Who's this even coming from, huh? Nathan? Or you?"

XXX

His entire body tensed with shock. Sylar's hands, no longer grasping Peter's underwear, balled into fists with the idea of punching Peter in the kidneys. The glare he fixed on Peter changed to vengeful anger. Who is he to say that? He thinks he knows me or what I want? (There was truth he couldn't acknowledge – it offended Nathan's ghost. How had that dagger become double-sided?)

"Since when do you care?" he spat back, watching as Peter moved away and past him. Peter knew he had nothing else to offer and had called his bluff, somehow, by both accepting and refusing it. It was wrenching. Resorting to begging wasn't a viable option – the empath's pity was used up. "You Petrellis. No loyalty from any of you. You don't even know what a relationship is! That would involve keeping your word. This should be just your style then! No strings, just a quick fuck, somewhere no one will see or hear."

"What, you think you can change your mind about me? You'd fuck me no matter who I was. You're stuck here with me!" With that he strode up to Peter, intending to catch the medic before he slid out the door. He raked his hands through Peter's hair, pawing at the locks and rubbing (perhaps a bit too aggressively, if not roughly) at the scalp.

XXX

Peter ducked, but refused to let Sylar's 'assault' distract him. It was, if anything, refreshingly non-violent. He jerked open the door without answering any of the charges laid against him. They didn't matter anyway. He wasn't getting what he needed or wanted. Maybe if Sylar had been someone else, then Peter would have stayed no matter how bitter it was, out of a sense of obligation not to upset the other person, out of a lifetime of ingrained habit of putting himself second, out of his inherent and heartfelt desire to please others. But this was not pleasing Sylar. He walked out the door with Sylar's words following him down the hall.

XXX

"That's what I thought! Your word only matters when you want it to! You said I could do this any time I wanted to!"