Day 35, January 14, Morning

"And I have to tell you…?" His question trailed off; Sylar was honestly uncertain of what Peter wanted him to divulge.

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"When you're upset. What you're upset about." Peter glanced away, trying to think of how to communicate better. "Like if I wake you up, how would I know if you were angry and wanted to be left alone, or if you were sad and wanted," he gestured between them, "what we did last night. Otherwise I'm just guessing."

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Sylar couldn't grasp how someone sobbing wasn't obviously upset but there were different rules for psychopaths who sobbed. He'd needed so he took. (It was offered). It was a very sore subject and the only reason he spoke about it was Peter's near indifference to the occurrence – like it was somehow normal or expected. Maybe for Peter it was normal and expected; maybe mentally unstable people did that a lot or the medic's job involved it for all he knew. "And you're not going to do anything with the information other than…not-guess?" He remembered Peter bringing up the memories he said he wouldn't. It could have been so much worse. He wants…an operating procedure. That's normal. I want the same thing from him. I won't tell him and he…lies – or says one thing I know will prove to be a lie…He lies to himself, so he lies to me. He's emotionally compromised to hell. When it's…obvious, I can tell him. I can always hit him.

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"I don't understand." Peter was lying. He believed Sylar was asking if Peter was going to belittle him with whatever troubled Sylar's sleep the most, if he was going to make waking time into a more active humiliation than whatever happened in the nightmares themselves. It was so vile that to even suggest Peter might do something like that, that it was insulting. So he pretended he didn't get it.

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"You won't…ask me to do things in the future because of this?" An obvious question and concern, but Sylar voiced it anyway. Deals with Petrellis often resulted in 'sin and dirty-work first, payment-as-agreed later' but the payment never came and he usually found out he'd been fucked over and used. The bitterness of that lingered. A smart person would omit any references to future repayment in this situation – it was time to see if Peter was that slippery.

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"No." Peter looked at Sylar intently, torn between confused and concerned. Has he in the past only been comforted based on what he'd do? The image that came to mind was a mother extracting a promise from a crying boy to clean his room, and not showing any sympathy until he agreed. It was so twisted Peter couldn't see it as a real scenario until he replaced the mother figure with his father. He swallowed, suddenly able to imagine it all too clearly. What would it have been like if he'd been raised by his father and a female version of his father, or a disinterested other parent? Angela, for all her failings, had been a loving mother and many times ran interference between Arthur and her youngest son. What if someone like her hadn't been there?

"That's what I meant by not putting conditions on it. And you don't have to tell me anything. Just like last night." He gestured at the bed again. "I'm glad you feel better. That's what I get out of it." He waited a few beats, letting Sylar think about it, before standing. "I'm going to go clean up." He started around the bed, hesitating at the end of it. He touched a protrusion of blanket, beneath which probably resided one of Sylar's feet. "Thank you for letting me help you." He gave Sylar a long, steady look. "I have things I need, too." He nodded to himself and left for the bathroom, making his escape before he said anything more revealing. Peter needed to help people, wanted to, and even if it was Sylar, the last person on Earth Peter was willing to help, Sylar was the last other person on Earth as far as he was concerned right now. He'd liked holding him.

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Sylar stared at Peter's back. Did he just thank me for…? And he 'has needs, too'? But I've been asking what he needs. (No. You've been asking what he wants. I think he was saying he needs to be helpful). I thought we established that he won't help me and I can't be helped. It doesn't say anything about him being trustworthy. (He hasn't done anything monstrous, either). So there he lay, busily thinking, feeling things out. It felt nice, non-threatening even if he didn't have many answers. Does that mean he's moving in and sleeping with me full-time? (I should tell him putting out is 'helpful'). Sylar smirked to himself. He could still smell Peter. It was clear Peter was a sucker for the 'playing sick and weak' act, especially when it wasn't an act. His headache felt a little better, probably due to endorphins and a seemingly successful arrangement. Sylar wandered to the kitchen, perusing the breakfast options with half an interest. He toyed with the idea of joining Peter in the shower, if the door was unlocked.

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Peter stripped and showered, glad to be out of the grimy, damp, snotted-on clothes. He emerged, shaved, then washed his face and brushed his teeth. He was midway through his dental routine when he realized he had a problem – he had no other clothes in the bathroom with him. Under normal circumstances, in his own apartment, this was how it always was. Here, with Sylar, it hadn't happened before because he wore his dirty clothes downstairs to work out, then across the street to clean up at his place. But his clothes had never been more than a little sweaty in the past. He spat and rinsed, putting away his toothbrush.

He put his brace back on (for the last week, he'd been taking it off for bathing), wrapped a towel around himself as securely as possible, and set out. After a fruitless search of the guest room, he unwillingly paraded himself through the living room and exited to the hallway beyond. He called back, "I'm going to go look for clothes." There was an apartment at the end of the hall where he'd found the thick winter coat he'd been wearing and the shorts he had downstairs in the workout room. It seemed like his best bet, so he walked down the hall to start there.

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Well, I was wondering if I was supposed to take that as an invitation…Eyebrows raised, he stopped what he was doing and stared as Peter waltz out the front door in nothing but a towel (so he assumed). "Sure you need 'em?" he muttered, then louder, "Need a hand?"

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Peter didn't answer. He was uncomfortable about the whole situation. It had 'mixed signals' written all over it. The fact that Sylar hadn't done anything (much) about the things Peter had done which could be taken as flirty weighed heavily in the man's favor. Maybe … he's kind of okay? It didn't fit, but on the other hand, Sylar's behavior of the last few days didn't fit with him being a monster, either.

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Sylar smirked. Sure you don't. Peter cleaned up nice, even for a casual…outing. He deduced Peter would return as soon as possible, successful or otherwise, or catch a cold, so he didn't worry. It was way more amusing than it was sexy, although it served as a reminder of how comfortable Peter was around him now. The empath was clean and Sylar wanted to dirty him up again. And smell him. Sylar plotted how to get more physical contact from Peter (who was giving more of his own accord without any manipulation or request) – he couldn't break down every five minutes to get attention, it just wasn't feasible or believable.

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Peter returned wearing what he was sure were fashionable (within a demographic he'd aged out of ten years ago) cargo pants kept up with a belt that was on its last notch. The grey, sleeveless t-shirt was almost too small, which didn't make a lick of sense, but it was what he had found quickly. It's better than a towel. He knocked twice as a formality, then opened the door and came in without waiting for a response. He took the bath towel from his shoulder and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. "You, my friend," Peter pointed at Sylar, "are going shopping with me today and we are going to get some decent clothes." He stopped to evaluate how Sylar was dressed – in the sweat pants Peter had previously worn, and a t-shirt that was also too short for him, exposing a little more darkly-furred belly than Peter's eyes could pass over without pause. They paused now. He's wearing my pants … After a moment, he cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly and coloring as he looked away. "Yeah … we've … definitely got to go shopping." Trying to change the subject, he moved into the kitchen. "So what's for breakfast?"

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'My friend'? He puffed up at that.Foiled by…a teenager's clothes. Dressing the part? Acting our age? Sylar still looked him over, appreciating the tight shirt now (but it would be hell to remove in a pinch) and since he was doing that he caught Peter's look back at him…lower down, if he wasn't mistaken. Mmm. Breakfast was going to be hard. "We already have lotion," Sylar murmured to himself. To Peter, he said, "Strawberries?" and slid a plastic clam carton of them over the counter, keeping his hand on it an extra moment just to bother the other man and get a reaction. "They're an aphrodisiac, you know. Lots of seeds for fertility." While I get my forbidden fruit. He leaned on the counter and watched Peter intently, biting into his apple like he wished to devour his companion.

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Peter chuckled. He looked between the berries and Sylar's face, Peter's hand touching the other end of the carton, but doing nothing else, waiting the extra beat until Sylar pulled his hand away. "Hm," Peter gave a blandly amused hum in response. He opened the noisy plastic and pulled one out. "Are they really?" Don't they say the same thing about pomegranates? Of course, they have a lot of seeds, too.

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"They were called 'fruit nipples' and everything." This seduction is lame. Feed him then fuck him already. (Feed him what exactly?) Right. The question was put on him originally – what was for breakfast. It sounded like Sylar was supposed to prepare it. "Toast, cereal, bagels,…pancakes?" He didn't offer up any of Peter's ridiculous 'hummus' and veggies because they still didn't make up a meal.

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Peter shrugged, glancing around. Nothing was made or being made as far as he could tell. The strawberries would go great with pancakes, but he didn't feel like making them himself. "Maybe some cereal with the strawberries in it. That sounds good." He moved to get the milk and cereal, leaving spoons, bowls, and sugar to Sylar.

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"Hmm," Sylar said and turned to get started. "What's that hummus crap you got?"

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Peter gave him a brief frown. "It's hummus. Ground up chickpeas." Or at least that was what he'd been told. He'd never made it himself, but he liked eating it. "You can mix a lot of other stuff in it to make it more interesting, if you want. Like salsa or bacon bits or chopped hot peppers or whatever." Not that he tended to eat bacon, but he was pretty sure the artificial ones weren't animal products. Little crunchy bits in the dip made him happy. It gave him a different experience to seek after, just like he was doing now with the strawberries hiding under the bran flakes in his cereal bowl. Sylar had fallen silent, so Peter let his thoughts be absorbed by the pleasant adventure of his food.

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By the time Peter was nearly done with breakfast, Sylar had been thinking. He was horny. He wanted to get with Peter badly and his need was growing, fueled by the little man's every action. Peter liked having his questions answered (or so Peter thought), and Sylar wasn't really sure why he chose that question to answer other than the fact that it served his needs at the moment – a desire for more contact like they'd had in bed.

Walking up beside his seated…companion, Sylar laid a hand on his shoulder as Peter often did to him. It came to be a comfort to Sylar, to be able to touch in this way because it was unfamiliar to him and also all too familiar – almost incestuously so. Peter didn't give it much notice at first but as Sylar lingered, he paid attention. Sylar didn't immediately make eye contact about it, instead focusing on what he wanted to say.

"Remember when you asked me why I wanted sex, specifically, from you?" Of course, Peter probably didn't remember the actual question, though it surely lurked in his brain somewhere still (one of those silly excuses he made up to avoid or prevent sexual contact). That was the whole idea – that this answer was a surprise.

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Peter had been lost in truly inconsequential thoughts about the tiny strawberry seeds he could faintly see at the bottom of his bowl, swimming in the last bit of milk. He'd been wondering if they were worth trying to fish out and eat – the value being not nutritional, but entertainment. Sylar's hand on his shoulder didn't register right away. It should have – Sylar intentionally initiated touching him seldom enough that Peter should have clued instantly. Perhaps it was the lingering warmth from spending the night comforting the guy – his defenses weren't up as they should have been. He looked up and listened to the question, blinking as he oriented to the new topic and pushed his bowl away a few inches. "Yeah."

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Sylar couldn't tell if he was lying or if it mattered. "I want sex, specifically, from you, specifically, for lots of reasons: I am your brother, sort of."

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Whoa! Wait, what? Peter leaned away, drawing a confused breath and trying to figure that out. Brothers having sex? Um … no, no. Not that he hadn't thought about it a few times, but those were bad thoughts, not to be acknowledged or encouraged. Thank God he'd never shared anything like that with Nathan, or else Sylar would know it now. He said nothing, eyes locked on Sylar's, waiting to see where this bizarre revelation was going.

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Sylar let him lean away, but his hand stayed in place on the shoulder. He was far from finished. (Honestly, the idea that incest bothered Peter was laughable). "So I feel brotherly towards you the way Nathan was but…some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter, you have to know that. I want to ruin you, possess you, use you, and protect you in ways Nathan never did and never could." As Sylar spoke, his voice deepened, growing rough, and his hand began to caress the Jersey knit of Peter's t-shirt collar and barely brush the nearby flesh.

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Nathan had those feelings, too? There was a half-second of speculation about what that meant before the rest of Sylar's words obliterated his thinking process. Ruin … possess … protect … and the touch that was there so light that Peter wanted to strain for more. He had stopped leaning away without realizing it. The rumbling tone of Sylar's voice swept him up in escalating arousal. It was an answer, and a damn good one. It was specific to Peter and specific for him. Sylar wanted him – uniquely, specially, just because of who he was. It even explained away the incest angle, while leaving Peter tantalized by just what exactly Nathan might have felt towards him.

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"I want to fuck you for revenge, against Ma, against Nathan and everyone. Take you from them and keep you." His fingers slid around the back of Peter's neck, under his hair as the man breathed harder and felt hot to the touch.

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Keep me? Revenge? Warning bells were going off in Peter's head, but it was difficult to focus on them over the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. His skin was tingling everywhere Sylar was touching him. He looked up at the man looming above him, dark and sensual. The contrast between the danger Sylar posed and the gentleness of his touch was making Peter's blood rush. His lips parted as he panted.

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"I could have…had every living member of your family; I've…sampled most of them. I wonder sometimes if I should have fucked Nathan, so I could say I had the infamous Petrelli brothers but…I know what he was like in bed. I didn't miss anything. Now…I'm curious and very optimistic about you. You have such potential." He gripped the graceful column of neck, massaging it for now, a thumb stroking up the strong, visible muscle around the throat, over the artery. His other arm reached around to hold the far side of Peter's face. With that, he slid himself into Peter's lap, giving in to instinct. The rigidity against his crotch matched his own – it was a very good sign.

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Desire turned to revulsion so fast it took Peter's breath away. Another word Sylar had spoken earlier and Peter had glossed over came back to him: 'use'. Wedged between the infinitely more sexy 'possess' and 'protect', Peter had ignored it at first, but it was clear now how it fit in. He was to be 'used' for Sylar to get his revenge, 'used' for Sylar to complete his sick collection. It had nothing to do with Peter – he was expendable again, important to Sylar only because Peter was the only family member Sylar could lay his hands on at the moment. And once he was done 'using' Peter to torment Angela and whoever else he had it in for, he'd kill him and move on to another member of Peter's family. It wasn't over. Sylar was not 'kind of okay'. His recent good behavior was nothing but a sham.

Breathing shallow and fast, Peter lifted his chin, trying to pull together his thoughts in the face of Sylar caressing his throat and settling on his lap. He didn't know what to do and was momentarily frozen by the emotional whiplash. Revulsion or no, not all parts of Peter's body seemed to have gotten the message. He was still disturbingly turned on.

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Sylar dipped his own head down to rest his nose and lips against the incline of Peter's neck and shoulder, cradling face and neck, inhaling deeply and sighing at that small victory. It was completely wrong how good Peter smelled.

"I love forbidden fruit." Sylar's voice was a baritone, heated growl against his skin as Peter's Adam's apple jolted up and relaxed again with a breathy exhale.

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Oh fuck. Peter deeply regretted every mixed signal, every word and action that hadn't been a firm shutdown of Sylar's desires for him. For a few seconds, he felt like this was all his fault – he'd led Sylar on by walking through the apartment with nothing but the towel, he'd given the wrong impressions by being too close when comforting Sylar after the nightmare (or maybe he shouldn't have comforted him at all?), or maybe it was the strawberries and he should have rejected them, or at least objected to Sylar's now-obvious innuendo instead of humoring him with that chuckle.

It was the unjustified guilt over the strawberries that changed Peter's mind. He was not responsible for Sylar's actions. He was not required to question his own motives or double-check the wisdom of accepting goddamn fruit from Sylar. And Sylar knew all of this, or else it wouldn't be 'forbidden' fruit. He knew damn well where Peter had drawn the line and what was evidently attractive to him was crossing it. (That and the apparently irresistible urge to emotionally traumatize every Petrelli he could reach.) Peter's lip curled. His body stiffened. His heart was pounding for an altogether different reason now – rage.

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"I want all your spirit and passion, everything you have to give. I covet it. I love a challenge. You're still my enemy and I want to play rough and see who comes out on top. If only you'd play along." He feathered fingers into the man's hair, feeling of it and mouthing his partner's throat because it wasn't a 'kiss.' "Just take what your body already wants. Take it and you can have it, Peter."

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Sylar's body was too close to his own for Peter to drop him on his ass like he'd done on New Year's Eve. Although turning cold and acting disinterested would probably hurt Sylar more, it wasn't Peter's style. His blood was running hot.

He jerked his upper body sideways, away from Sylar's lips. "You've already taken the best part of me." And while Sylar was (hopefully) distracted puzzling out that Peter meant Nathan, Peter shoved him in the other direction, shifting his hips as much as he could to further the motion. He wanted to dump him, literally, and get Sylar away from himself. When the initial push didn't achieve his goal, Peter snarled, grabbed the back of the chair, and wrenched himself up.

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That halted everything like nails on a chalkboard; Sylar's face showed surprise, not that the other man could immediately see that. He gave Peter credit and despaired at the same time that Nathan was (finally) a reason not to have sex. It was a better reason than 'liking/not liking' but it shut the door on any sexual acts with finality because there was no way around it. And I opened my mouth and brought it up. Sylar moved as directed, standing up quickly - sitting in Peter's lap while talking about Nathan couldn't end well and he didn't feel like getting kicked in the balls. Just as clear was the fact that Peter had been lapping up the attention, but not the words. Sylar backed up, hands at his sides at first, mostly looking at the floor. /"Most of what we are is what people expect us to be. If you take that away, nothing means anything. Who's to say I'm not all that because of you?"/ Sylar shut himself up; completely ashamed of how low and how personal that was to all of them, completely deserving, too, of anything Peter wanted to do about it. Just remembering that moment, Peter being dead, made his throat tighter than it already was. His erection fled. He didn't want Peter thinking so highly of Nathan and being so dependent, either. "No, you're not…" he tried, shaking his head.

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Peter got to his feet and kicked the chair out of his way. It skittered off across the floor and fell over. The important thing was that it wasn't underfoot and nothing was between him and Sylar. He sort of wished they'd eaten something that involved a knife, but the one he'd used to cut the strawberries was over next to the sink. And anyway, he didn't want to stab Sylar – he wanted to yell at him. So he did.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" In a split second, he decided to ignore the recitation of Nathan's words from years before and keep the focus on Sylar, here and now. His wrath was less morally ambiguous that way. "I have 'potential'? Potential for what? So you can jack yourself off to thinking about killing my family? Huh? Or just rubbing it in Ma's face that we-" He cut off, shaking with anger, remembering how she'd clutched at his hand and begged him not to go. No longer yelling, but still fuming, Peter spoke haltingly, so angry he could barely get the words out, "She told me not to … not to try to get you. Was this why? Did she know you'd … 'use' me? It has nothing to do with 'me'. It has to do with you finding a new way to hurt people in a world where you can't kill the only person you've got access to!" He waited a beat, chest heaving as he glared at Sylar's shamed face. Be ashamed! Christ, you have so much to be ashamed of! "You're fucking right – we're still enemies."

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Yeah…Why did I say any of that again? (Because he asked…?) What did you expect, that he'd find any of that appealing? (He's not listening! I just said what I liked about him!) Sylar was more hurt and saddened but those things didn't have an outlet; he didn't know what else to do, so he was angry. It wasn't his best vicious effort but it was still angry at being pinned down and judged. "Right, Peter. I'm hurting you so much here. I'm really abusing you, aren't I? I'm sorry," he blasted his sarcasm, "but how is anything that I want any different than what you want from me? What is it you want to 'use' me for again? Does that have anything to do with me as a person or just my usefulness? I should probably be really insulted. Did you offer to 'like' me for sex? No! Quit making something out of nothing, Petrelli! This is reality and using each other mutually is kind of fucking implied! I know what happens if I agree to your schemes. And, you know what?" Sylar pointed at Peter's sternum from a good six feet away. "You should really decide how closely you want to be associated with your family – you send nothing but mixed messages: 'they're such horrible people, I would never do anything like that,' then 'but they're my family and I love them and I'm going to protect them.' Just make up your mind!" Sylar inhaled when finished, panting a little from the tension. More calmly, he managed to add, "You….are and are not your family. They factor into almost everything, good or bad."

The horrible idea of being enemies (again) weighed him down. He- they had been so close to something, even if it wasn't sex, Sylar desperately wanted it back, wanted to preserve it. "It's not black and white, Peter." Since Peter had shut up long enough to listen, more or less, Sylar pivoted and sat on a stool at the kitchen bar, half-turned towards the man. He scraped his fingers through his hair several times, elbow on the countertop. Morosely, he offered, "I'll stop talking. That always helps. Try to forget I said anything," he waved a lackluster hand to shoo it all away.

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Peter stared at him, breathing hard through his nose as he had for all of Sylar's part, holding his tongue and listening. He didn't want to drop the subject as Sylar obviously desired. Peter wanted to keep arguing. Or, well, at least yelling and venting and getting some crap off his chest that had been suffocating him for way too long - even if he had to take turns with Sylar doing the same. He chuffed a startled laugh at Sylar's last statement. "Does that ever work for you? Huh? What else should I forget while I'm at it?" He waited to see how authentic Sylar was with the 'I'm going to stop talking' bit. There was no point in raging at him if Sylar wouldn't engage. Peter did not want an unresponsive partner.

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Sylar managed to glare into Peter's eyes. No, it never really works. How about 'everything'? Forget everything, if you can. "I don't know. I don't go around making people forget themselves," he snipped. He ran his fingers through his hair more because it was helping and it was something to do. "Can't we be friendly?" he asked, half-begging, half-curious. It sounded pathetic, and it was, but Peter had some positive things that worked in his favor, comfort and care among them.

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Peter scowled, nose wrinkling in disgust at the idea. He looked at the ceiling, the walls, the windows. So Sylar didn't want to fight. Well, fuck, he thought in frustration. Then he shook his head and walked over to retrieve his chair. Returning it next to the kitchen table, but orienting it to face Sylar, he sat in it and slouched backwards, crossing his legs with one ankle on his knee. "No, we can't. Not right now."

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The sneer wasn't a good reaction. Sylar bit his lip and looked away, nodding to himself about what that meant. The glance he sent Peter was hopeful as he sat instead of, well, leaving him. The man's answer earned an eye-roll, "Not this exact minute necessarily."

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Peter took a deep breath and let it out, trying to be marginally less belligerent. "What I want you to do is save people's lives. What's your problem with that? Is it that you don't believe me? Or that you think there's a double-cross involved?" Here, Sylar's possession of Nathan's memories worked against Peter and he knew it. He'd tricked Nathan more than once, pretending to do one thing and then sucker-punching when his brother bought it. It was something they'd done all their lives, like those crazy wild pitches Nathan would toss him when teaching him how to play ball. It had set a tone between them – a high degree of betrayal was to be expected and tolerated among the Petrellis. Was that what Sylar thought Peter was doing? Sylar wasn't family. Peter was playing it straight with him.

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Sylar's lips pursed and he crossed his arms. He had an answer to that, of course, and reasons behind it – good ones! – but none of that would require or inspire Peter to listen to all the parts of the explanation. Peter thinking a double-cross was unheard of was….was…well, it was stupid in the extreme. The empath was not that dumb; he must be making a point. Why would anyone ever believe a Petrelli? He stared at Peter and didn't speak.

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Peter waited … and kept waiting. Sylar clearly wasn't thinking it over or looking of the right words. He was clamming up now that Peter had asked something important. Frustrated, Peter put both feet on the floor, leaning forward to put his face in his hands. He muttered to himself, "You never answer my fucking questions. Why don't you answer my fucking questions?" He glanced up at Sylar and then looked off to the side, staring in the direction of the windows as he tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he couldn't wring what he wanted out of Sylar. The man didn't trust him (which even Peter admitted was justified) and there was no way to gain his trust. It was that simple. Having sex with him wouldn't do it, either. Even assuming I was willing to.

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Sylar's jaw clenched hard several times, rhythmically. "I do answer your fucking questions! I just did! You were ready to come just a minute ago until I started talking. I even said what I was going to do and told you which question I was answering! And you freaked out! That's why I fucking told you to stop asking me questions you don't really want to know about – you don't want to hear the truth and you get upset when I don't answer. I don't know, maybe you want me to lie to you. I thought..." He exhaled harshly, breathing for a moment. He needed to calm down from being under this much pressure constantly. Things had been fine (better than fine, actually) before he put his foot in his mouth and now Peter had even more reason to think he was a freak. "I thought you could handle the truth, some of it, anyway, because you keep asking and I know how you talk to people. I'm not 'people.' I'm…going to take a shower," he ended unhappily; still uncertain if Peter would be here when he was finished.

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Peter's shoulders sagged before Sylar's diatribe. He wanted to argue back, but there was no way without making things worse. Also, Sylar was telling the truth. He looked up when Sylar paused, Peter's face mostly neutral and a little sympathetic. He frowned and hung his head when Sylar continued. He didn't call the man back when he left for the bathroom. It was as graceful an exit as any and they both needed to calm down.

Alone, Peter heaved a sigh. He pushed his hair back and then touched lightly along the side of his neck where Sylar had mouthed him. Weirdly, he wanted to push Sylar out of the bathroom so he could stand in front of the mirror and look at that spot, even though he was sure there was nothing to see. It wasn't like Sylar had bitten him, but it still felt funny and made his stomach flutter to feel of it. When his skin prickled, either from the memory of the intimacy or the exploring touches he was giving himself, Peter thought, I am fucked up.

He shook his head, trying to shake it off and ignore Sylar's point about how aroused he'd been. He cleaned up from breakfast, retiring to stand in front of the windows and look out at the blank world. There's nothing for me out there. It's all in here – between him and me. Focus, Peter. This is where the game is, where the ball is, where the meaning is – him and me. It's getting better … really … I think.

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Sylar escaped to the bathroom. There he worried more about how things would be when he emerged, if Peter would still be there (it seemed likely); and he thought about how fucking close he'd gotten to Peter. Depressing situation or not, his dick was interested in the past seduction, the taste of Peter's skin, the warmth of him pressed torso against torso. He knew the empath wanted it, too; because he hadn't fought back until the very end, and his hands had rested against Sylar's hips for a moment. Erect again, he hustled into the shower, desperate to stroke off to the memory. His masturbation was quick and violent, his hand massaging at first, his penis throbbing harder every second. Grip tightening, pace speeding up, he literally jerked himself and fucked his fist. His fantasy of sorts was something vague about rubbing against his companion and hand jobs because he was unoriginal and it sounded nice. It left him dizzy in the fog of the water, twitchy, relaxing, and only half-satisfied. The second fucking time…he noticed about jerking off in this suite. It was better than nothing, and he knew he shouldn't complain. What made it worse was Peter's matching desire. The rest of his routine was uneventful – shaving, brushing teeth, combing hair.

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When Sylar left the bathroom, Peter was still standing there, hands on hips, staring out. He glanced over, took in Sylar's watchful face, and thought about how he looked in the man's eyes. Peter knew he was in a 'power stance'. Nathan did it nearly all the time but he usually softened it by opening his jacket and gripping his hips instead of using his fists. It wasn't one of his father's preferred postures, because it didn't tend to influence others in a positive manner. It came from their mother. She did it often enough, frustrated by things, fists on hips and lips pressed firmly together as she gave someone the full weight of her disapproval without saying a word. Realizing this, Peter dropped his hands to his sides and then reached out to put his hands on the window frame. He leaned into it, stretching and trying to relax.

"It snowed last night – an inch or two. It's hard to tell exactly from up here. I think I'll wait a little while before I go out." He wondered if Sylar still wanted to go with him. He wondered if he wanted Sylar to go with him. He pushed away from the window and turned back to Sylar. "I don't want you to lie. There's more honesty between us than I've had with most people for years. I don't want to lose that." He walked over and picked up the heavy book on brain injuries, then snagged his blanket off the bed. He swiveled the leather chair near the foot of the bed, the one he'd slept in once while waiting for Sylar to recover from dehydration. "Of course, part of the reason I haven't shared this stuff with people is because it's hard to hear. It's hard for me to hear, too. We have strong feelings about it," he said, trying to pick his words carefully to find ones that applied to his situation and what he thought to be Sylar's as well. "We're doing okay," he said prescriptively.

XXX

Go out? The whole window thing? Is he…going alone? Sylar hovered in the entrance of the hallway. He wasn't sure where Peter was going to be.

XXX

He settled into the chair and made himself a nest of it, tugging over the footstool and draping the blanket over his bare feet. He opened the book to a spot at random, but he wasn't looking at the text. He watched Sylar to see how the other man would respond to Peter backing down from … everything, and just letting things be.

XXX

Several glances at Peter showed that while he appeared relaxed (and he might have been), the empath was watching him in a way that was both curious and careful. You didn't say anything offensive, he thought of that. Sylar didn't have to understand why Peter would care if he was offensive. He did know that Peter retained some sense of politeness and manners, however misplaced they were in this world now. He appreciated that, the company, and the opportunity to cool off the subject. Maybe he can learn, Sylar thought humorously to himself, pleased with that development. He ignored the looks and claimed the bed, right in the middle, with his own book. The lower blood pressure and stress, along with the orgasm and shower and other comforts, soothed his never-ending headache. He read slowly because he could; quiet time could be nice.

XXX

With no other interaction presenting itself, Peter read. Several pages of tiny type and heavy jargon later, he rubbed at his eyes and looked over to Sylar. Out of the blue, he asked, "Nathan had feelings for me? Are you serious?" He knew he should be angry that Sylar knew something so hideously personal (and probably untrue. It had to be untrue, right? What did it mean if it wasn't, though? Did it change anything?), but his burning curiosity overwhelmed his self-righteousness.

XXX

"Oh my God…" The book dropped to his lap as Sylar rubbed his forehead. Headache's back, I see. "I forgot how much you like to talk. And pester. And touchy-feely everything!" Peter. Always digging away at the one thing a person didn't want to think about or that one thing a person couldn't formulate to begin to talk about. Always with the morals and the emotions…Sylar understood so much better now, the role of elder, highly annoyed and frustrated brother. There were too many memories of that, all (or most) tinged with a reluctant affection. It was warming and sickening at once. "Why do you approach me like I'm a normal person with normal feelings and reactions?"

XXX

"I'm approaching you like you're someone who knows something very personal about someone I love … loved," Peter said very seriously. "They're dead. Me knowing this about them doesn't betray any secrets – it just helps me understand the person they were. You're the only one who can do this for me." He considered and rejected trying the guilt-trip angle that Sylar owed it to him or that the information didn't belong to Sylar in the first place – neither of those would help. The first wasn't true and the second was debatable, since Sylar had been given the memories on the order of someone who had more right than most to decide on their disposition, much as Peter might disagree with it.

XXX

This was one angle he'd hoped to avoid – divulging Nathan's secrets to the curious younger brother. It made Sylar an accessory at best or a dirty snitch at worst. Either way, he was a no-name portal to Nathan. Confusing was the part where he dreamed he owed Nathan any secrecy after the shit he'd done to his own family. The man was still an unfortunate side effect, a part of him, so…was it his secret to tell or not? Sylar pointed out the flaw in Peter's logic, "If Nathan wanted you to know about something, he would have told you, so that is technically a secret of his I would be disclosing."

XXX

And you're going to disclose it anyway. Cool. In response to Sylar attempting to guilt trip him instead, Peter gave half a shrug in acknowledgement and glanced up and to the side for a moment. That Sylar felt a need to point out the immorality of Peter's curiosity was ridiculous. He'd been happy enough to blurt the secret out when it served his purposes. When Peter looked back to Sylar, it was with practiced entreaty. Spill it, man.

XXX

Harkening back to their…argument…discussion thing from earlier, Sylar realized another problem with Peter's ideas of 'fun conversation.' They were only fun for Peter. Big surprise. Sylar narrowed his eyes about the puppy dog-eyed manipulation. As an outsider, he noticed it (and still fell for it), and as the guy's brother…he fell for it hook, line and sinker. It was bizarre how easy it was for Peter to trick Nathan into believing a bald-faced lie – Nathan was desperate, eager for that blind, yes-man agreement to his awesome way of thinking. The younger man's deception should have been obvious, each and every time. "You just like to talk about things you can hit me over," Sylar determined.

XXX

Peter grimaced and hung his head. Yes. The last time I pressed him to tell me stuff about Nathan ended with me choking him out to shut him up. He sighed. The reminder took all the wind out of his sails. Maybe I shouldn't ask? (But I want to know!) "I will do my best not to do anything. I will try, Sylar. I will really try."

XXX

"Oh, good. You'll try," Sylar droned sarcasm.

XXX

Peter winced at the reminder of Claude's words to him about 'trying'. He dropped his head the small amount he'd raised it, and kept his mouth firmly shut, ending the manipulations he'd used earlier.