Day 34, January 12, Afternoon
Peter nodded. Home Depot was fine with him. Maybe it would have different window choices than the rather crowded 'HARDWARE' store. As for mothers, he gave Sylar a sidelong look with one brow raised in question, before grimacing slightly and leaving the topic alone. I don't want to talk about Angela and he's put the topic of his mom off-limits. So, what else do we have to talk about? "Would you like to eat lunch at one of these restaurants?"
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"Yes," Sylar eagerly agreed to the change of pace. His stomach rumbled, too. "You just like my cooking better." Not that he considered pancake-carrot-broccoli tacos to be his best effort.
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Peter laughed easily at that. "Maybe," he hedged. "I don't mind fixing breakfast, but I've never had to make meals three times a day, seven days a week. Not for anyone. Not even myself!" He chuckled again. "Suddenly I'm understanding trapped housewives who beg their husbands to take them out now and then." He shook his head at the image. "Hey, you said you were from Queens, right? Did you ever go by Erawan Thai? They have this really great dish called pad mamuang with mushrooms and cashews and they do this mild curry sauce on it that's delicious." Peter stared off into the distance, remembering food much better than something served out of a can or eaten raw. Not that he minded either, but there was better out there. "Man," he sighed in yearning.
"So where do you want to eat?"
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Amused, though the dish Peter described did sound delicious, Sylar replied, "Thai I guess?" Mostly he wondered if he could replicate something similar. And if that made Peter something of a wife.
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Peter nodded. "How was high school for you? All those people around all the time – was that the best thing or the worst?"
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"Long and vicious." Sylar admitted before he could censor himself. They're fucking lucky I'm not into 'small game.' It was embarrassing because high school was his highest education, compared to…well, the rest of the Petrellis. No better than fucking Parkman and he can't even read. (Well, I can't make connections). "I could see how it could be nice for a people person to be surrounded by people. It didn't pay off for me. I got good grades because I worked hard." Really hard. Not that any of it matters now. "Not really any sports."
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"Yeah?" Peter cocked his head. "Is there anyone you miss from then?"
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Sylar surprised himself and actually thought through it, picturing the faces he could remember and what each had meant to him (which wasn't much). Girls he'd liked from afar, bullies, the teachers. Perhaps he didn't understand the question – why would he miss any of those people? It's one of those Peter things. Not even the teachers who'd interested him or been kind were really worth revisiting. "No. Not…really. I had some good teachers, even ones who liked me but I don't really 'miss' them."
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"Were you expecting to be a," Peter fell into silence, trying to remember the exact phrasing Sylar had used before. There had been something to Sylar's voice that made the distinction sound important. "A restorer of timepieces?" It was quite a mouthful, like Peter insisting he be called an emergency medical technician rather than an EMT. But maybe he'd misunderstood and 'watchmaker' was fine. He knew he didn't always read Sylar right and even when he did, sometimes he didn't know what to do with the information. "Or did you have another career in mind?"
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Sylar gave him a prolonged glance, giving Peter points for (intentionally?) using the actual title before he attended to the question. "Uh…I wasn't really thinking of what I wanted to be. I had…a lot of potential options, if I'd went to college. My…dad started training me when I was young so it seemed…natural, I guess? I was good at it, so why not? It was kind of expected of me, at least, he expected me to restore timepieces and run the store. The whole family thing. You know."
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"Yeah, they told me I was going to be an attorney. Every now and then that sounded like it might be okay, like I could join the ACLU or something to hack Dad off, but most of the time I just knew it wasn't what I wanted to be. I felt … stifled, smothered." Peter craned his head as they came to a new intersection, now well into an unfamiliar area of the city. "Wait, what's that down there, on the corner? Is that a bar, a pub, a sushi house?" He reached over and familiarly whacked Sylar's arm with the back of his left hand. "Come on. That's something. Let's go see what it is."
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"Su-shi…" Sylar tried to question. Not from the common feeling of disgust about 'raw' food, instead thinking back to all the times Nathan had been to sushi houses, the most recent with Angela. Then there was the very familiar, very light backhand. It didn't bother him but like most times it didn't make a lot of sense and it was unexpected.
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"Hey, did it ever occur to you this whole place is like a post-apocalyptic horror movie without the zombies? My first couple days here, I kept wondering if I'd open up a door and find … you know, find the people, just that they were dead or something." Actually, he hadn't imagined undead, but simply an entire population slain by the resident serial killer. It seemed rude to mention it that way, so he didn't. He smiled at Sylar genially despite the morbidity of the topic. "It's me and you against the world, Sylar." He turned, walking backwards as he raised his fists (or at least his left fist and right hand, both swathed in gloves) and threw a mock punch at Sylar with his left. He was two arm's lengths away so this wasn't at all a serious threat. Sylar's reaction to even the pretense of contact caught Peter's attention. He'd seen it before, a lot. Dropping his fists and turning to walk in the direction they were both headed, he asked, "Why do you always freeze up when I touch you?"
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Sylar chuckled. Peter's delivery of 'the people' was funny. "I thought the exact same thing when…I…first got here." For some reason he hesitated there but he couldn't phrase it any other way. He was about to say something about their abilities and zombie-fighting when Peter asked his question. "What?" The surprise in his voice and face was only slightly false. He was taken aback by Peter…not only noticing it, but addressing it. "I do not." When that sounded too defensive, Sylar amended, "And you didn't even touch me." Why would you want to touch me? You can touch me but I can't…Is it because he thinks I want to fuck him? Why would he even notice? No one else ever had. Sylar knew what it was: a self-preserving habit (people don't touch me nicely, why would they?), though he didn't know how he was supposed to take Peter's attention and interest, such as it was: be more paranoid or less.
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Peter was watching, closely, for Sylar's reaction to his question about freezing up. It was denial and the implication Peter was only talking about this one time. So the reason is … something Sylar doesn't want to talk about. Okay. With a mental shrug, Peter redirected his attention to the storefront they were approaching. It was something Peter was curious about, obviously, but if Sylar didn't want to talk about it, then Peter certainly didn't have any right to insist.
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They entered the sushi-pub-bar (Sylar letting Peter go first to avoid more noticeable touching), Sylar looked around the dining area with half-hearted interest because the important things, like food, were out of sight in the kitchen. "What do you think about zombie-fighting if we had our powers? That would be you and me against the world." Plus life-threatening/life-saving sex would be a lot more likely…'Shh, Peter. Keep it down – the zombies will hear you!'
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"I think if we both had all our powers, the zombies would never have a chance, and that's no fun," Peter said, looking around at what looked to him to be a classy combination of a sports bar and the set of Cheers, with a big, polished wood bar in the middle and the peripheries of the room full of small tables of varying heights with matching chairs. There were a couple deep booths in the back, but the swinging doors to the kitchen were where he headed.
Once inside, with Sylar following, Peter elaborated. "Now, we need to work out what kind of zombies we're talking about. The slow, shuffling kind really aren't very scary, but the super-fast ones are just ridiculous. So let's assume they're in between, and can do anything a normal human can if they were exerting themselves as much as possible, okay?"
Peter milled around in the food prep area, looking at the cold and empty grease vats for making fries and taking an interest in the plastic wrap covered trays of burger toppings. "Hm," he hummed, getting distracted by lettuce, tomatoes, onion rings, and a selection of pickled vegetables. It wasn't really what he wanted to eat, but it was a start.
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Sylar didn't know how the food preparation was supposed to go – were they both cooking, was one fixing both meals, were they even eating the same thing? Unlikely, Sylar thought sullenly about the recent lack of meat; Because sushi doesn't count. "So…hamburger patties, turkey, chicken, pork, bacon, hot dogs and sausage…some fish, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, potatoes, slaw…All American, basically." Maybe by listing the options Peter would give a hint about who was doing what. That didn't seem to appeal to the other man, the poor vegan. Sylar rolled his eyes and listed the other rabbit items, "Mushrooms, lettuce, cheeses, soup, chili…tofu…" He added the last just to see the reaction.
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"Oh, good," Peter said, coming up behind and beside Sylar to join him in looking in the freezer. "Did you say mushrooms? Some mushrooms, Swiss cheese, and maybe a hard fried egg on a burger bun would be great. What are you going to eat?"
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"Yes, I said mushrooms…" Sylar swallowed and passed them over, making contact with the other man's hand/arm/shoulder as he did so but didn't confirm the reaction with any glances. Peter's diet was weird, plain and simply weird.
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Peter noticed the rub up against him – and especially the deliberateness of it. Not deliberate in the 'please notice that I'm doing this intentionally', but rather in the simple, 'I'm doing this on purpose' way. Equally on purpose, Peter reached up his right hand (having come up on Sylar's left side to look in the freezer) and patted the guy's shoulder a couple times before turning away. He walked off casually, half his mind wondering what the contact meant and might lead to, and the other half occupied with the subject of his dialogue, which was, "They wouldn't keep cheese or eggs in the freezer, so … there it is." He moved over to the refrigerator unit next to the sinks.
Looking inside, he found what he needed and more. "What do you want to drink? They've got milk and a bunch of juices in here, then of course there's the bar out there."
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Goddamnit! Why does he do that?! Sylar stared after his companion. He perked up about the bar, remembering their last alcoholic event. Is Peter going to drink? "If there's anything German, I'll try it." He fetched his own burger food, bacon and avocado among others. He wasn't sure he could eat it all but it would at least taste good and sate his craving for, well, real food. Firing up the large flat-top stove…more of a grill, he set about preparing his own sides. "Do you want any burger or bacon?" Sylar smirked a little to himself at the offer.
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"No thanks," he said to the invitation to eat meat. Once done cooking his egg and putting together his sandwich, Peter set his plate on the bar and went around the side to browse the selection of beer. He picked something out in a green bottle that was light and Irish. For Sylar, he looked through bottles until settling on a dark amber bottle with a blue and white label that featured a German-sounding name. He slid onto his bar stool, handing over Sylar's drink. "So back to the zombie thing – regular-people-type zombies, and you and I only have one power each. And no, 'well, I have one power that does a bunch of different things', or 'I have one power that lets me have a bunch of other powers.' Just a single ability. Which one would you pick?" Peter shook his head, thinking of something to add. "Oh, and no time travel or whatever that negates the entire scenario. We've got to fight our way through, or kill enough of the zombies to make a place that's safe for us."
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The stove heated quickly so the burger didn't take long. Assembling it, he took his seat beside Peter and listened to the parameters of their little fantasy. "You're not fun, Petrelli," Sylar mused in good humor when Peter got to the part about ability specifications. He rather liked the scenario. "What about regeneration?"
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Peter thought about it. "Yeah, I suppose you could pick that. But once they pin you down and eat your brain, it's not going to do you any good. I was told if your head is removed, you're dead-dead, forever. At least that's what Adam told me. He'd had regeneration for centuries, so even if it wasn't like he'd tested it, it seemed like the sort of thing he'd know." He tried to take a bite out of his burger, only to have the mushrooms escape out the back while the egg stayed affixed to the bottom and the cheese was melted to the top. "Dammit," he muttered, pushing a few 'shrooms back between the bread and leaving the rest to be eaten after.
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So he does know of a way to kill me... Sylar shrugged. Peter's reason made enough sense that he wouldn't push for it. He didn't point out that the whole thing was rather skewed – any pair of abilities (well chosen) against a planet-full of zombies wasn't really fair…for the zombies. Though Sylar and Peter would tire eventually there was nothing in the rules that said they couldn't hide and recoup before re-engaging. The image of depending on Peter like a brother, or brother-in-arms more likely, fighting back-to-back against a ravenous crowd was…interesting to say the least. It had its appeal, definitely. Surely that compensated for the lack of regeneration.
"I can think of a few that would work well. I'd be biased if I said telekinesis right away because it's easy to use, you know, low strain, high output, renewable. There's the nuclear power…but I'd irradiate the planet and us. Same with Samuel's power; make the planet unstable. Super strength would work if you wore enough protection not to get infected." Sylar chuckled at his own thoughts, "I knew a guy who had impenetrable skin!" Just as soon as he'd said it, he didn't mention how he'd tried and failed to get that ability since his audience had a delicate stomach for it. "I had one where I could focus and snap my fingers and turn anything or anyone into dust, literally. I never tried it on multiple targets at once but I should have. I knew a guy who make black holes but I never had that one. Maya- There's another one that's basically the Black Death and that one does work on multiple targets…I don't know how well it would work on zombies, though…" This was almost as interesting as the burger!
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"What about invisibility? You could just stay away from them all the time."
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"No, no. They'd smell you." I can smell you, even over the food.
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"Good point," Peter nodded. "Well, maybe phasing would be better, but I don't think a person can do that continuously. The version I had didn't seem to work that way. What I'd like would be zombie control, like telepathy that worked on undead. Or, wait! I'd like to be able to heal them – cure zombie-ism. Then every time I'd convert someone, I'd be making another freedom fighter for our side!" Peter grinned. He liked that idea a lot!
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Sylar's eyebrows slanted up in amused disbelief. "Well, then it wouldn't be me and you against the world. I'm not sure that would be a permanent fix, either."
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"Fine. Then I'll just recure them," Peter said stubbornly. "Look at it this way, if you got infected, I could save you, too. Wouldn't you want that?"
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"Um…" Sylar replied, purposefully taking a drink and making a vague nodding motion. The whole zombie-plus-brains implications was too ironic for a decent answer. Being a mindless drone, bent on another kind of hunger might not be so bad and at least he would die on cue as a zombie.
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Feeling jazzed about the ability to rescue people, Peter said, "There's always flight ..." before realizing that wasn't the best option to be discussing. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, "Super speed is pretty useful in a fight, but it has the same problem as phasing – you have to stop eventually. Impenetrable skin sounds good. I wonder what the zombies would do if they couldn't hurt you? Would they give up eventually? Or just gnaw on you all the time? I bet they'd do that. They're not smart enough to realize it wasn't working." He had a mental image of being half-buried in rotting but animate corpses, whose teeth were bared as they mechanically, savagely, relentlessly tried to tear him apart. "They'd just keep chewing and suck-" Whoa. Somehow that turned into something very different. If you couldn't be hurt, but you could still feel things … um, yuck. "Yeah. I'm sure it'd be gross." It was time to stick his sandwich in his mouth some more before it sounded like he was a fan of zombie porn.
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A narrow-eyed look was Sylar's reaction to the mention of flight. I didn't mention it on purpose – it's useless and…useless to mention. But the moment passed, not that Sylar expected Peter to press it. The next bit of interest had Sylar's eyebrows arched way up. "For the record, Peter: no zombie blowjobs. Ever. That's probably the only time I don't want one." I might be depraved but that's nasty. He chuckled a little, "I can't believe you actually thought about that."
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"My thoughts don't always go where I expect them to." Peter gave Sylar an amused smile, watching him out of the corner of his eye. "I think I've picked what I want – the ability to cure people. Of course that doesn't leave me much in the way of fast defense or offense, so you're going to have a lot of slack to take up. I'm assuming I'd need to touch the people and could only do one at a time. A lot of powers seem to work that way. When I had healing, it wasn't something I could use automatically like other abilities." Peter made the smallest grimace at the memory of the fatigue he'd had after using healing, along with the more important one of seeing news of Jeremy's death on the television at work. "What ability are you going to choose?"
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"I always have a lot of slack to take up," Sylar deadpanned with some feigned resignation. Healing wasn't really an ability on his list of things to get, but his attention still snagged briefly on the fact that it wasn't automatic. That seemed to go hand-in-hand with its purpose. "Since I'll be covering your ass…Telekinesis. You realize for every person we save, if you succeed, I'd eventually be taking care of thousands and millions of people, assuming our food and water resources didn't run out." Again, what's wrong with the 'me and him alone' part? He'll only be using me for my ability, as usual. He'll 'cure' someone he actually wants to fuck.
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"They should be able to take care of themselves. At least some of them. Just because they need saving doesn't mean they're helpless. Besides, every person we save is one less zombie to fight." Peter took another big bite of his burger, nearly done with it by now. "Okay, here's another scenario. Imagine I get taken out. You have a vial or a syringe of zombie cure that you can use to pick a new sidekick. It just so happens that you can pick anyone you've ever run into or known, alive or dead – I guess they rose as undead, or something. Who do you pick?" He supposed Sylar could say he cured Peter, but even though Peter would have thought the sentiment was nice, the implication was Sylar had to choose someone else. Would he pick Arthur? His father? They both supposedly had a lot of abilities. Or would he go with someone who meant more to him, like Elle?
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That was a much more difficult and unclear choice. Sylar rested his forearms against the bar, still idly holding his burger as he considered. It all depended on his motivation for saving that person – revenge, love, lust, companionship. The worst part was that only one person embodied all the aspects and he wasn't sure he'd pick her for fear of, well, regretting his choice and repeating history. Virginia was not an option, neither was Martin or Samson. His birth mother…He still had questions and with no other specials to become more special or more monstrous, his killings would be justified as self-preservation of himself and another…perhaps his mother would still love him. It was a gamble. Of course, if she didn't, he would have wasted a valuable opportunity. Luke more than Micah made the list for companionship.
Sylar took into account that 'saving' any one person wasn't really a nice thing to do to them, given the situation. Whomever he saved would hate him for it and probably long for death. It wasn't like he was great company to begin with. Noah or Parkman came to mind because fucking with their heads would be fitting and entertaining, purposefully 'saving' them to live a horrible life with him for as long as it lasted. Arthur would be no fun at all. Mohinder and Angela were out because he'd kill them on principle (Mohinder was more of an annoyance factor). Perhaps Dr. Gibson? Lydia? Both would be useless but they'd been kind and they were female.
What about Nathan? Oh, if only it were that simple. He would only resurrect Nathan to alleviate the hunt on himself, the pressure to become Nathan and pay for the sin of killing him. I'd give him back so they'd leave me alone! Sure as hell, Sylar would never resurrect the bastard for Nathan's sake because he was still glad and proud of ridding the world of that snake. It would be a pointless gesture because no one would be around to rejoice at Nathan's fucking triumphant return. And then Sylar really would kill him again. Peter? I already have Peter. I mean…I'd be adding another person to our group, right? (A threesome? That changes my answer…) "That's a tough one." Wait…does he expect me to say Nathan?! I'm not answering that! "I'd have to give it some more thought," he declined, "It depends what kind of person I'd want for the rest of my life, or close to it."
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"That's true." Peter thought about who he'd pick. Caitlin, floated immediately to the surface, probably due to his previous thoughts about who Sylar might save. He frowned at the idea, though. He hadn't been able to protect her before. Was she even an option? What would he do if he lost her twice? Not saving her out of fear of failing was incredibly shitty and just about the worst possible reason to hold back. Maybe there were better choices, though. Maybe I should pick someone who would keep me alive? But his subconscious wouldn't give it up. He was right back to thinking staying alive didn't matter if he had nothing to live for (other than killing more zombies) and that he'd work a lot harder to keep himself alive if he was looking out for someone else. But I can't tell Sylar 'Caitlin'. "Claire, maybe? There's Noah. He'd at least be smart. But I couldn't trust him, so he's out. Oh." Peter stopped, eyes rising to Sylar's. Nathan. Um, wait, would that really be a good idea? Other than bringing him back to life, what would that do? He wanted to die. I don't … His thoughts were a morass, far more complicated than he wanted to consider for a fun game over lunch. "I don't think bringing Nathan back would help."
He scratched the side of his neck, lying badly, "Um, yeah, Claire, I guess." He shook his head, lifting his beer and telling the truth next, "There's no way in hell I'd bring back my dad." He finished off the drink.
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Sylar snorted about Noah. Definitely untrustworthy. Sylar froze at that look, staring back. He didn't think he was in any danger – Peter was the one to bring up both the question and the obvious person – and the meal had been going very smoothly and enjoyably, but it was the principle of the thing. Sylar tried to breathe evenly, playing it cool but he felt like sweating, whether he was or not. Because of that, he didn't bother to point out the incestuous theme the Petrellis seemed to favor. He wondered how serious Peter was about what he'd said. Sylar cleared his throat, raising his bottle to his lips, "What about /Ma/ - I mean, your mother?" More booze. That will help. He admitted he had some investment in the answer, and a small right to hear the answer, too.
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Peter gave Sylar a brief, exaggerated frown for calling her 'Ma' in what Peter assumed was either mockery of having been lied to and told he was a Petrelli, or some Nathan-esque holdover. But the thing was, it didn't make him angry to hear Sylar call her that. He'd been through this before and so now his frown was an airing of his opinion on it without heat or, more importantly, without assault or threat of assault. Peter was getting better.
As to the answer, he pulled a sullen face and finished off his beer before saying, "You'd think she would have seen it coming, wouldn't you?" Peter exhaled heavily. Regardless of his anger, he had a duty to his family. With resignation, he allowed, "I'd bring her back, yes, but if I had only one choice, she wouldn't be it." He rolled the empty bottle back and forth between his hands.
"Let's change it up. No more sidekicks – just us. Two powers, not one, though I'll admit telekinesis is pretty great all by itself. It's only one power, yet it lets you do so many different things – attack, defend, levitate – and all at a distance, too, which reduces your chances of getting infected. What would your backup ability be if you could use two?"
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"Maybe Samuel's power to move the earth and elements. If I only used it on the crust of the planet, it would almost always be reversible and wouldn't cause too much damage. Be handy for making a defensible fort or a trench, moat thing. Burying people, too." The last was morbid, so he quieted. "I could always blind the zombies with a sandstorm. I know how well that works."
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Peter nodded. "That's another smart, multi-use power. I have to say, I think I'd take regeneration. Then you wouldn't have to worry about me getting turned and as long as they didn't get me down for very long, I'd still recover fine after you blew them away. Being able to go without sleep, food, water, being able to heal and not getting exhausted? Sign me up. I think that would be a lot more useful than blasting people or projecting forcefields. Plus, if you got hurt, I could give you a transfusion and you'd be good as new. Give me a shotgun or a flamethrower and I-" His eyes caught on the label of the bottle he had been absently rotating in his hands. It said the bottle was brewed in Cork, Ireland. Faintly, he finished his statement, "I think I could hold my own." Shotguns. Burned bodies.
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Sylar chuckled. The image of Peter with any kind of gun was amusing to say the least. "You are such a pacifist. Two passive powers? You really do expect me to hold off the universe while you play doctor. But isn't that counter-productive of you to shoot someone then save them?"
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Peter straightened, brows furrowing as he studied the bottle. He hadn't thought anything special when he'd picked it out. It had been green and towards the front. That it was Irish he'd noticed, but it hadn't mattered. He'd paid more attention to the label on Sylar's bottle than his own. But what were the odds that he would have ended up with a random bottle manufactured in Cork? He scowled at it, lifting his head to look around the place. It had no special resemblance to the Wandering Rocks, but there were little touches here and there that stood out to him now that he was looking – the color scheme, the arrangement of the bottles along the wall behind the bar. The rich wood looked as weathered and dark as that in Ricky's place and there was just that hint of wood smoke to it, different from cigarettes or cigars. In the Wandering Rocks, there had been a fireplace. Here there was none, so whence the scent? And worse still, why was there an undertone of scorched flesh to it?
Peter slipped off the bar stool abruptly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as his nostrils found some confirmation for his thoughts. It felt like someone had walked over his grave. The place was obviously different. He'd say he was seeing things where they weren't except he wasn't even seeing them. He just had this pervasive feeling that the place was more familiar to him than it should be. Somehow, the Cheers song seemed perverse. He murmured, "A place where everyone knows your name. But no one knew it." He drew in a quick, shallow breath, the burned meat smell reminding him of the stench Ricky's charred body had made after Elle was done with it. His eyes lit on a door at the rear of the room. The one to the kitchen was to the side – swinging double doors they'd already been through. So where did that one lead? "None of them knew my name."
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O-kay…We're done eating? "Peter," Sylar said though it wasn't completely a question.
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Peter strode to the door, a wave of hesitancy striking him as he reached it, making him open it slowly, not sure what he'd find. The old fear that he'd find 'the people' rose up in him as the door swung – those missing inhabitants had to be somewhere, his subconscious promised him. Inside the room, he didn't see people or bodies, but instead his eyes met something that rattled him nearly as much. There on the boxes and crates, neatly arranged and ready for an occupant, was a collection of blankets, with what he knew was a hooded sweatshirt folded for use as a pillow. They'd made him sleep in the back room (or let him, depending on how you looked at it) – Ricky and Will – and his makeshift bed had looked exactly like this.
"NO!" he shouted in defiance to reality. He didn't know what to do with the surge of desperate emotions as his sense of what was real went abruptly topsy-turvy, so he channeled them into actions, and violent ones at that. He seized the blankets and threw them, but it wasn't enough. Peter kicked one of the boxes and shoved another one from the stack. It toppled to the floor. Glass jingled and cracked. Peter slammed his foot into the fallen box and those bottles not already damaged were smashed. The bottom of the box darkened as the smell of strong spirits filled the room.
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It was a back room. The significance of it bypassed Sylar entirely. He looked it over and dismissed it, instead focusing on his shaken companion. Peter was tense, a little clammy, and pale; that is, until he snapped and went berserk on the room without any provocation. "Pe-" he began but didn't finish it. When Peter began stomping on things, namely glass items, Sylar felt obligated to intervene lest the other man hurt himself. He approached quickly, from behind and to the side, and wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pulling him or holding him back. He said "Peter…" in his ear, since Sylar was facing the bar and Peter was directed into the room.
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Sylar had nothing to do with this and Peter didn't want him to have anything to do with this. Exasperated and angry, he tried to wrestle free of the arm and shove Sylar away. It was easier desired than accomplished, even though he managed to wedge his elbow between Sylar's arm and Peter's body, levering it off of him with a wrench and a twist. Why is he trying to stop me? Why does he care?
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"No…Peter…." Sylar said again, just as before, hoping to induce some calm, even as he matched the other man's struggles.
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Peter gave an ill-tempered glance over his shoulder at the door frame. If he drove Sylar into that, the man would probably let go of him. But it also might hurt him, especially if he hit his head. Various other forms of escalation ran through Peter's head, along with surrender – both false and authentic, as he wasn't overwhelmingly invested in winning. In the end, he fought enough to loosen Sylar's grip on him, then went to the floor, straight down, letting gravity do what he didn't have leverage to do while standing. He slithered and scrambled sideways, bouncing off the stack of boxes and backwards as he got to his feet, one heel in the puddle of caramel-colored alcohol staining the floor. "Was this your idea? Huh?" He glared, waving curtly at where the pallet had been made up on top of the crates.
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Sylar blinked, coming to the conclusion Peter was accusing him of. "No. I just came here for lunch. I've never been in here before." He wondered if that was going to cut it. At the same time, he was aware that Peter wasn't angry with or at him, and the pair of questions were the only things directed at him. Nathan was no help with an answer here.
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Peter narrowed his eyes at the answer but then shook his head. "It couldn't have been yours. It had to be mine – they're my memories." He was breathing hard, the fury draining out of him like the liquor streamed out of the box, spreading across the floor. "It's what you said before, that first day – 'this is my mind, playing tricks on me'," Peter said, echoing how Sylar had originally said the words. "That's all it is?" He looked at Sylar intently again, but this time it was a searching look, imploring an answer that would reassure him.
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"I think so. Yes," he added when faced with those puppy-dog eyes. It wasn't like self-induced mind-games were unheard of here. In fact, they were prevalent.
XXX
Peter left the cramped room that now reeked of bourbon. He didn't go far, though, sitting heavily at the end of one of the booths, body pointed out into the room instead of across the table. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and face into his hands. He huddled in on himself, angry and embarrassed that he'd had such an outburst in front of Sylar. It made him look volatile and unstable. His shoulders slumped as he supposed he was. "I lost her. I left her behind. That's why this is haunting me. Because I've pushed it out of my mind for so long that it's no more real than anything else here."
XXX
Oh, Peter. Sylar sighed. It didn't matter who Peter was talking about, concerned about: Simone, Emily, his mother, Claire. The guilt and grief was the same, very familiar to Sylar himself. He was still stuck on what to say, what he could do; Peter was very partial to the shoulder-patting, so maybe…Slowly, he drew closer and tentatively did just that, giving a squeeze and eventually leaving his hand in place there.
XXX
Peter leaned into the touch, appreciating it. He felt … miserable, much of which was from the realization that he would need to explain himself to Sylar, which involved explaining things he'd never talked to anyone about (except, to a limited degree, Adam). He began to speak, but it was about something else – it was his fears of hopelessness and futility, just like he felt about Caitlin's fate. "Sometimes I think maybe this is all I've got – you and this empty world. Maybe my body died out there and I'm not going back. Matt told me if I came in here, I'd never get out." Peter was quiet for a moment, remembering how Parkman had yelled at him. "I heard him. Clearly. I knew what he meant. I came anyway." He shrugged the shoulder Sylar wasn't touching, not wanting to risk dislodging him. At least here, now, he had not abandoned someone who wanted and needed his help. It gave him hope. "I think it's okay. This isn't a cargo container where I don't know who I am or where I'm going. I know this. I had a purpose in coming here and it was a good one, even if it doesn't work out the way I wanted it to. You're not alone anymore. Even if I don't accomplish anything else, at least I'll keep you company, huh?" He murmured and hung his head again. "That's worth something. I hope it's worth something, to you."
XXX
Instead of Peter making him feel helpless, now he felt hopeless as a mirror of Peter's views. He didn't like it; Peter was usually stupidly optimistic, it seemed to hold him together but perhaps that was fraying and if it went away…Sylar didn't know what would happen to either of them. That's a shitty consolation prize. It's not even a prize. (I'm never a 'good purpose'). He wondered how much his opinion mattered: that Peter was slightly crazy and his motives unfounded, his ideas impossible. Maybe he just has to think it's possible and that…keeps him going. I'm not keeping him here; why does he make it sound like I am? If I'd just behave his life would be perfect. For someone who thinks I should suffer and die alone, he has a funny way of showing it. What a stupid silver lining to find with me. He didn't come here to save me and I'm a waste of his time. But still, there was nothing to be done about it. Sylar tried to shake off the twinges he felt internally and agreed with Peter, "Yes. Of course it is."
After a moment, Sylar supplied, "You…you shouldn't beat everything up, Peter. Sooner or later, you're going to break something that I can't fix." Realizing that sounded sappy as hell and said far more than he ever wanted to for which he cursed himself; he tried to cover it gruffly, "Just…don't be an idiot." He grabbed Peter by the scruff of the neck like Nathan used to, giving it a sort of squeeze/massage for a moment. Somewhat bitterly, he finished with a few hard pats to the shoulder as he walked back to the bar, "Emily and the world are counting on you and all that nonsense. Now my burger is cold."
XXX
"Emma." But Peter only whispered the correction. He didn't know if the word carried. "I busted her cello," he said a little louder. "Can't fix that. I'm a pretty lousy pacifist, Sylar." He looked up with a small smile. "You get me mad and ..." He stood up and walked over to the bar, shaking his head at how stupidly destructive he was. "Get me mad and I'm a regular Petrelli. But when I'm not, I can do things no other Petrelli can, with powers or without." He reached past Sylar to swipe his plate. "Let me put that under the warmer for you. Hang on." He said this more softly than the rest, going off to heat Sylar's burger up as a show of appreciation. He snagged a bag of potato chips off a bracket near the swinging doors, adjusted the infrared lights, and leaned on the counter next to them as he opened the bag. There was a serving window through which he could see Sylar well enough to talk with him.