Day 35, January 14, Morning
We didn't discuss what happens if I don't answer. I'll choose not to be insulted that you'd rather talk about Nathan's kinks than about mine. "Fine, whatever," Sylar bit out gruffly. He already knew this wouldn't be pleasant; how could it be anything less when he inevitably spoke like he was Nathan on this of all subjects? This was his chance to shatter some of that rose-colored glass which Peter surrounded himself with. It was tempting and Sylar seriously considered it for a moment, then he considered the more truthful words he could use and avoid a beating. Peter…valued the truth, so maybe, this once, it would actively count for something. (I can always play it off as a joke). "He raised you and you worshipped him; you were close, loved each other…He was horny," Sylar shrugged. "I'm sure even the blind and disabled find you attractive. It…occurred to him more than once, but nothing…big or obsessive or…serious." Not too obsessive and serious anyway. Brotherly love and all that crap? Petrelli is as Petrellis do? "C'mon, Peter. If I didn't have every single one of his memories, I would have definitely said you two were doing something. You have to understand that." He does, doesn't he? Wait…What if he thinks that's…sexy? I don't want to re-enact… "I'm not going to be your brother for you. Ever. For any purpose." His voice and posture were taut with discomfort.
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Peter raised his head slowly, listening with an intent face. He liked the compliment – clearly Sylar liked how Peter looked. He was trying to puzzle out what he and Nathan had done that led Sylar to think it was fair to accuse them of looking like they did more – not that Peter cared too much what people thought of honest displays of love. He knew there had been nothing inappropriate going on, and Sylar knew it, too. For once, him having Nathan's memories was useful. "O-kay," Peter said slowly in response to Sylar's last statements. Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. "Whoa. No. No fucking way, man. Never." That would be sick. (And kinky.) And really, really sick. Peter shook his head.
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"You like dick; you love your brother…" It seemed like a natural conclusion. "Didn't you ever think about it? With him? With Claire?"
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"No, no! Not ..." I'm lying. He squirmed. "I mean … no. Not really?" Why did I bring this up? "Not … I mean, not ..." He stopped and took a deep breath. I'm making it way worse by not answering directly and plainly. I look guilty as hell and I never actually did anything wrong.
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Sylar raised a knowing eyebrow and kept it that way.
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"Okay, I thought about it a few times. But it wasn't something I should have been thinking about, so I didn't." That was true, at least as far as Nathan went. The occasional prurient appreciation of his form was unavoidable, but as Sylar had said of Nathan's memories, it wasn't serious or obsessive. It was more incidental. Claire, though, could not be characterized that way. "I didn't even know I was related to Claire at first," he mumbled. He lifted his head quickly with a sudden flash of anger. "Wait, are you implying that I fantasized to ideas of Nathan and Claire together? I'm not a voyeur and that's disgusting, anyway." He wanted to be vehement about that, but considering he'd just admitted to harboring immoral thoughts about his brother and niece (separately, thank you very much), so getting bent out of shape about the two together seemed indefensible.
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"No, I wasn't," Sylar scowled at the implication and the idea, "But thanks for answering it anyway." The last part was facetious.
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"Did … Wow, I don't know if I want to know this, and if I don't, then … I guess don't tell me. But did Nathan think of her that way sometimes?" Peter cringed to even ask, but he wanted to know. Had Nathan been that low? And what if he was? It was just a fantasy. Was there anything wrong with it? Why am I even asking this stuff? "No, I don't want to know," he cut off any possible answer Sylar was going to give. "He's a human being. Whatever worked for him, you know, that was his." Peter stood up abruptly, kicking off his blanket, setting aside his book, raking back his hair, and stalking into the kitchen.
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Okay, this is awkward even for me now. Suddenly his pillows needed adjusting. I'll pretend I didn't hear any of that. Please keep my mouth shut! I don't want to know either! The topic and the inquiry was the source of awkwardness. This was stuff Nathan, king of denial, would have lied, cheated, and killed rather than divulge – it was that secret. While, yes, Claire did the same needy puppy-dog number as Peter, it was…different and as such, it didn't garner the same…'response.' Claire was his daughter, even Sylar had trouble distinguishing himself from that; she appealed to him on an emotional and protective level, and one of supreme guilt. Besides, Sylar knew she wasn't Nathan's type.
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"I know he wasn't perfect, Sylar." He stood in the middle of the kitchen, not really wanting anything aside from the opportunity to run away from the conversation. I need to go work out. He was feeling antsy all of a sudden, but he knew why. Reluctantly, he returned to the chair. This is how it started before, too. I got upset and started pacing, then eventually I charged him.
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"You can say that again," Sylar muttered, eagerly hefting his book again when he was released from the conversation – and when Peter sat once more. He wasn't sure what he should think now that he'd so cleverly planted an appealing…not appealing? taboo in Peter's head regarding Sylar's sexual interests. It was an incredibly stupid correlation to make, literally shooting his efforts in the foot. Upset with himself, Sylar pressed a different angle. "Is that how you…justify things like that, I mean, sexual interest whether it's right or wrong: 'whatever works for them; it's not my business; they're imperfect'?"
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Peter bristled, glaring at Sylar for a moment, teeth bared. Then he pressed his lips together and dropped his eyes, getting a grip on himself. Wait a second – he's not saying there's anything wrong with how I justify things … he's just asking. Right? He gave Sylar a piercing look, deciding that was the case and his anger was misplaced. "Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah, that's … that's right, but I wouldn't say there's anything right or wrong about interest, necessarily. With Nathan, if he thought about Claire, I'd say we're not always in control of what we're attracted to, no matter how wrong it would be to act on it."
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Sylar's head tilted immediately, blinking, as he tore that apart in his mind, looking to apply it to himself. He did nothing else for a good thirty seconds. So…desires…interests are okay, it's the…actions? If I could- no, if I wanted to stop the actions…according to Peter's morals, I'd be okay? (That sounds way too easy and way too simple). And it sounds like I wouldn't get laid. The mere thought of conforming or surrendering so Peter would, what, like him? was ridiculous. If he didn't pursue and push, there would be no sexual tension or advancement because Peter wasn't into him at all. Well, Peter would fuck his body in a heartbeat but he'd ignore the rest. Out of the confusion and hurt that caused, Sylar's eyes narrowed and he attacked at whatever he could – in this case, Nathan, always an easy target. "So incest is bad even for Petrellis; out of all the sins you've committed, that one still stands out. How does that work with your whole 'love thy neighbor and thy brother and anyone else you can fuck'? I mean, you've obviously forgiven him more than his seventy-seven times seven."
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Peter's scowl came back. He propped up the heavy book that had been lying unattended in his lap since he'd returned to his seat. "What I decide to forgive my brother for is none of your business," he said sharply. He let the silence lie for a moment as he stared sightlessly at the book. "What are you getting at?" he finally asked, looking up. He wasn't sure what Sylar was implying – that Nathan had harbored thoughts about Claire and Peter needed to disavow him because of it? Or was it simpler, and Sylar was angry that Peter had forgiven Nathan for anything, ever?
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"Oh, Peter, please," Sylar sarcastically pleaded. "If you wanted to say that and make it stick, you wouldn't have fucking turned me into him! It is my business. You should have thought of that before you – and mommy dearest – decided I should be the new and improved Senator Nathan Petrelli. See, this is where you lose the right to privacy and not answering shit that I want to know!" He was…angry, agitated, and directionless. (What was I getting at?) A few short, nasal pants of breath focused him a little more. Passive-aggressively, he pretended to drop the whole thing and calm down, "I'm not getting at anything. You're perfectly okay with perverted thoughts by anyone." Including me! Aha! I got you! "And it would be strange for you to consider sex with your brother and then be weird about having sex with other unlikely people." Sylar went back to his book, smirking slightly because he couldn't help it.
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Peter bristled again at Sylar's sarcasm, his scowl morphing to a snarl. The only thing that kept him from biting back at Sylar immediately was trying to figure out what the hell Sylar wanted to know that Peter wasn't answering. By the time those few seconds of uncertainty had passed, Sylar was moving on to pretending it was no big deal. "What's-" Peter cut himself off. What he wanted to say was that Nathan, brother or not, was an enormously more likely sex partner than Sylar. One person he knew and loved; the other seemed to go out of his way to provoke Peter, when they already had so much between them that it was a marvel Peter didn't end it for both of them. He glared at Sylar, toying with the idea. It didn't have as many downsides as it should have. His features showed his lethal thoughts as clearly as they could have. If I kill him and that kills me, then it will be quick and over. If I kill him and it doesn't kill me, then I'm still rid of him even if I'm stuck here. And it might kick me out of here, possibly without even killing him for real, out there. Maybe it would kick us both out and then he'd be pissed I tried to kill him. Peter's expression shifted to a frown. His eyes dropped introspectively. He'll feel betrayed then. He trusts me, some, not to kill him. I've told him I wouldn't. Peter leaned back, pulling into himself and sighing as he gave up the fantasy of offing Sylar. He looked at his book, glum and quiet. There has to be another way.
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No response. Based on the glaring looks he was being given, Peter understood; he just…didn't respond. Sylar did take the glaring a tad more seriously than he otherwise would have, based on their past and more recent events and freaking Nathan in general. It was satisfactory, if not what he'd been after. Maybe Peter understood that was irksome and did so on purpose. He didn't hit me. He started it by asking about incest, an act he detests, and Nathan, a touchy subject, so what did he expect?
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Peter read only long enough to prove he wasn't running off from the 'conversation', such as it was. Once that time had passed, he stopped staring at text he wasn't absorbing, and rose. "I'm going downstairs to work out."
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Sylar's head came up. That was his plan earlier, wasn't it? "I'm coming, too." Shutting his book after noting the page number, he scooted to the foot of the bed, closer to Peter. He could have easily drifted off to sleep reading there, but Mr. Activity wanted out and Sylar didn't question his need to stay with Peter. Opportunities perhaps.
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Peter frowned, but didn't object. Sylar could be wherever he wanted to be. Maybe he'd just read in the rec room, like before.
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After a quiet elevator ride (he wondered if they took the lift because of Peter's politeness/medical awareness and the concussion), Sylar followed him into the exercise room itself.
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Peter picked up his workout clothes from the corner of the room, where they were hanging on a bench to dry. He looked over at Sylar, trying to decide what to do. I could go to the bathroom and change there. That's kind of prudish and weird. Or I could change here with him watching me. Changing around others was hardly foreign – he did it every shift at work and regularly when he had been on the swim team or at the gym. But that had always been surrounded by people who weren't interested in him, or whom Peter didn't care were interested in him. Sylar had been in his lap earlier, nibbling on his neck. Peter reached up and scratched at that spot. He looked away, chewed his lip, then turned his back and began to strip as quickly and efficiently as his brace allowed. He's not going to run me off.
Peter took off his shoes and socks, then the too-tight t-shirt and the too-baggy pants. He left his boxer briefs on, even though during a normal workout, he went commando. He pulled on shorts and a looser t-shirt. He looked at his bare feet, glancing over at Sylar's. Sylar had not moved this whole time, probably ogling him, but Peter didn't raise his eyes to see. He was considering the foot thing. He'd been working out barefoot because it wasn't like he was sharing the facilities with anyone else, and what diseases or foot fungus were they going to share in the unlikely event Sylar joined him? But it was rude. And at the same time, Peter very specifically only had the one pair of fitting shoes at the moment. Well, if Sylar doesn't like it, he can go back to the rec room. The show's over, anyway. Lifting his eyes to Sylar's face, he gave a threatening half-glare before moving to the equipment.
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Sylar for his part, stood near the entrance, arms folded, peering around to see what was what. He'd rather spend his mornings in here than…(staying in bed with me)? That's what it was – an escapist location. He didn't see the appeal. When he looked at the apparatus (because calling them 'machines' was too generous), he saw a variety of kinky platforms. He caught Peter's eye when the guy turned back to see where he was or what he was doing. Then…Peter started to strip. He was changing, of course, but…it involved stripping down to underwear. Sylar stared and stared. This was as naked, intentionally so, as he'd seen Peter with this pair of eyes. Peter had amazing skin and a somewhat prominent butt currently turned towards him in the almost-too-tight black boxer briefs. Sylar's hind brain didn't know what to say to that or how to articulate what he saw.
All this after the empath had been holding him earlier, letting himself be touched, allowing Sylar to sit in his lap and mouth him…If it was a clue or a hint, it made no sense. It was as mixed a message as any so far. It made Sylar's face heat up and his heart beat faster. He's so…confident, so vulnerable. How does he know I won't do anything to him? Peter certainly acted like he didn't care, as if Sylar weren't in the room. He's in a weight room. It has weights. He feels safe here? This is his place, obviously. The stubbornness, the capability, the challenge, the fearlessness, the vulnerability was a heady combination. He was making progress with Peter. With effort, he pulled his mind from the gutters, trying to focus on anything else other than the desire to bend Peter over, touch him, rub him, own him.
The glare he received was a completely bipolar warning. Sylar glared back on principle. Yeah, glare at me, Petrelli. You're the one you started taking your clothes off of your own accord.
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Peter straddled the bench for a chest press, one where he could put his forearms on the padded handles and avoid the problems of his right hand. It was why he did this one first, before he was sweaty, tired, and less careful. He did some shoulder stretches as he tried to watch Sylar and pretend not to be watching him at the same time. One wall of the room was mirrored, but Peter had his back to it at the moment. Eventually, he got over it and moved on with his routine.
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Sylar circled the room, pretending to closer inspect the equipment like he didn't know what their purposes were. Peter wasn't acknowledging him, which was neither here nor there. He stole glances at the other man. "Do you usually work out alone?" Sylar asked, voice a little rough from…earlier. Peter really expected inhuman acts of restraint from him, not to make use of the toys all around towards evil ends.
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Having finished with his upper body exercises while Sylar was poking around at things (or whatever it was he was doing – Peter was trying not to watch him and mostly succeeding), Peter had moved on to crunches on the incline bench. His knees were locked in place around the set of roller bars, head down the slanted board. He paused for a second, then finished the set he was on before answering. He didn't bother to sit up for the answer; he just laid back and stretched a little. "Yeah. That's how it's been for the last few years, when I had the opportunity to work out at all."
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Sylar recalled Peter's comments about his own isolation because of abilities. But he hasn't said anything about me being here. He wants an audience. After all, Peter was a little pervert who enjoyed showing himself off. He likes teasing me and I've encouraged it – is that good or bad? Sylar considered making another hand job comment just to watch Peter react and jump around like he had before. "You like that you can do whatever you want here, don't you?" Sylar looked up at him from beneath his brows, pausing his circling for a moment. If the Petrelli enjoyed the power trip, it meant one more thing in common between them and destroyed another one of Peter's excuses. Peter had a dark side and Sylar just had to find it and coax it out – another challenge.
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That stopped Peter twelve reps into his fifteen rep set. He ended sitting up and gave Sylar an appraising look. Where is that going? He'd heard the tone of voice. Now he saw the expression. At least it didn't look like his first, split-second fear, which was that Sylar's question was a prelude to showing Peter how easily Sylar could destroy his small control over this world. He still wasn't sure that wasn't what Sylar was getting at. With a quirk of his brow, Peter said neutrally, "I like getting what I want wherever I am." He gave a tilting bob of his head. "Doesn't always happen."
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"How far would you go to get what you want?" At the other man's look, he amended with some annoyance, "Whatever that may be." Sylar continued circling the perimeter of the room, surveying its contents while he waited for the answer.
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Peter lifted his chin as he surveyed Sylar. He really doesn't know me. Or is it that he doesn't believe me and thinks I slack off when people aren't looking? "As far as it takes."
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Sylar's expression was closer to a frown of serious curiosity than anything else. "How hard are you trying to get what you want here?" Or is something else going on?
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"'What I want here?'" Peter snorted softly and finished the set before rolling off and heading for the machine Sylar was hiding behind. Technically, Peter still had his obliques to work on, but fuck that. He wasn't going to lie on the floor or tilt his upper body back and forth while Sylar watched. He wanted to apply a little more muscle than that (plus herd Sylar out of his current spot, or at least crowd him). Peter sat down and made adjustments for more weight than usual on the leg press. "I'm here, Sylar," he said before starting the exercise. "And you're alive. A few weeks before I came to get you, no one wanted you dead more than me." He wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction at how things had worked out and shoved hard at the weight, flexing his thighs to full extension. "So how hard to you think I'm trying, huh, Sylar?" He grunted with exertion as he kept moving the weights. "Would you ask your brother's murderer for help?"
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Sylar stared at him a moment. He then vacated his spot, walking a wide circle around to Peter's right so he could see the guy. He watched some more, frowning a little. A lot more credit need be given to the Petrelli upbringing because sometimes Sylar was fooled that Peter didn't want to kill him. Maybe it was just Peter's Petrelli libido that was confusing things. Peter's phrasing was also open to interpretation: I wonder if that's changed…He's not trying really hard, at least, not consistently. Sylar's head came up as he straightened, multiple reactions, the least of which was anger, darting through him. He enunciated his displeasure, "No." I don't have any brothers!
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Of course not – because you're done asking people for help no matter how much you need it. "Well, I would," Peter said self-righteously, "because people's lives are more important than my ego."
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"And anyone else's life is more important than mine," Sylar murmured treacherously, half under his breath, as he turned back towards the weights. He knew he was considering the dumbbells as blunt instruments in Peter's demise.
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Peter had gotten a little too full of himself there. Something about the tone of Sylar's muttering drove that home, even if Peter didn't catch the words. "What?" He slowed down on his reps to hear better.
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"Nothing," he snapped. I wish there was one of those punching balloons. Sylar hefted a pair of weights, a fifteen pounder and a ten pounder, morbidly considering the pros and cons of heaviness in a murder weapon. It was only speculation...for now. The subtle threat made him edgy and depressed, killing the good mood he'd had earlier. Peter, who would hold and comfort him, who wouldn't fuck him, who wanted to kill him still (because why would that ever change?), was tightening the screws of tension, not in a good way, and increasing Sylar's frustration exponentially. The empath's comments and casual disregard made him angry on top of it. "You don't seem to have any ego involved in killing me. Why is that?" Sylar turned his head enough to look Peter in the face, his own expression dark.
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Peter stopped, brows drawing together slightly. I do have ego involved in killing him. Don't I? I didn't go after him after he killed Nathan the same way I went after Dad. I was stopping Dad to save people, to prevent a disaster; I was after Sylar because … that was personal. He'd been a lot hotter after finding out about Nathan, plus more determined to get his brother back. "Other things are more important," he said vaguely, trying to work out if the attempts to kill Arthur and Sylar were parallel.
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"Aside from that and being alone. We're the only living things here. Would you kill me if those things didn't exist?" Sylar was insistent, more curious than invested. He'd since turned his body to square off before Peter, his butt against the weight rack, arms crossed. "I already asked if you hated me and you barely made an answer."
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Peter's lips pressed together and his face held the expression of concentration and thought from a few moments before. "If we were back among people and," he hesitated as he framed the scenario, "the carnival wasn't an issue? No, I wouldn't try to kill you. We've already talked about that." He reached down and sullenly adjusted the weight a little lighter, to something more manageable. "Assuming I had to go up against you again, for some reason," Peter waited a long pause before continuing, "I think I'd try to talk to you first." Not that I'd probably be able to stop him anyway, what with all his powers. "Would you listen?"
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Sylar narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Peter down, waiting to see if he would crack. Sylar didn't move either. Peter didn't budge and there was no follow-up punch-line, so in itself, the statement was serious enough. Sylar's head tilted at the question. Talking? We never did that. Do I want that? As much as I enjoy the surprises and the action…Would I trust him? "Would you be alone?" The probability of sneaky Petrellis creating a diversion seemed obvious.
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"Yeah, probably." Peter chuckled drily. "I can't think of anyone else stupid enough to go with me for something like that." That wasn't entirely true – he could think of several who were brave and determined enough, willing to take whatever risk was necessary to stop Sylar. But he thought it would pad Sylar's ego to tell him how dangerous and unstoppable he was.
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A shrug prefaced his reply. "I might listen." Peter was almost no threat by himself and Peter probably knew that. It put all the power in Sylar's hands. At this point, since he really didn't feel like himself or like much of anything except a fucking wreck, he wouldn't (or maybe couldn't) kill Peter on principle, or even as a default – not any more.
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Peter hesitated a moment, then nodded slowly. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a hopeful, broken half-smile. "Good. I hope I'd have something useful to say."
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(Yeah…I hope so, too). Sylar silently agreed, surprised and disgusted with himself.
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After a few more reps, Peter asked, "What sort of tact should I take? Like, with Nathan, he'd want to know what he was going to get out of it. Maybe with someone else I should make sure they understand the consequences of what they're about to do. What's the best way to talk you down from something I don't want you to do?" It was a bald question and Peter knew that, but sometimes just putting it out there was better than dancing around the topic.
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Sylar gave a sour look at that. He had almost fallen for that. He straightened up off the weight rack. "Okay, sharing time is over. I'm not some half-wit you can lead around like that. I am not a normal person you can talk down and I'm sure as hell not Nathan," he said with some heat, pointing at Peter's chest. The reminder was a crude slap in the face. "You might remember that he's dead and I'm a walking weapon bank. You'd rather fucking fight me and die, or kill me, than talk anyway. We both prefer if that way, so let's just stick with what we're good at, huh, Petrelli?" Sylar kicked a medicine ball, aiming at the wall, but it was heavier than it appeared, maybe twenty pounds. It rolled, but it lacked momentum and pained his leg and the whole thing was irritating as hell. He marched out of the gym, slamming the door because he could. Jesus! What would we talk about anyway? He'd just try to convince me to be a good guy, some peace-loving hippy. That'll go far. Why didn't he ever try talking before? He paced in the lobby, his footsteps and breaths loud in the large echoing marble room. That last thought he turned over in his head again and again because it was new and easier than thinking about any other times he'd tried 'talking.'
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Peter kept his face impassive until Sylar left. Then he smiled in amusement. Okay, that didn't work. Yeah, I know you're a loaded gun, that's why I asked where the safety was – apparently you'd rather I led you around like a half-wit than just get things cleared up like adults …whatever. At least he left me alone to do the rest of my workout in peace. Peter rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, as he dismissed Sylar's antics. He made a mental note that Sylar's dislike of manipulation extended to the most overt and open of tactics – what Peter had been offering was hardly even manipulation and more of negotiation, but Sylar had rejected it just the same. Considering he'd just brought up a hot button issue for Sylar, the rejection was practically polite. He finished his workout and changed into the baggy pants he'd found earlier that morning, but stayed with the less-snug t-shirt he usually reserved for exercise rather than the too-small one he'd had on before. He looked around for Sylar, thinking it unlikely he'd gone far.
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By then Sylar had formulated a new approach and he wanted to try that before the tried-and-tested 'beat Peter's face in.' Seated in the rec room, elbows on knees, hands barely clasped, he looked up at the sound of the door. "Why didn't you ever try talking before? By your logic, you expected to die either way." You could have talked to me and you didn't? That almost…hurt with a foreign feeling of loss he could barely explain. "Early on it…wouldn't have worked but…later…Even when we were brothers, you didn't…" he trailed off, thinking about that problem. "Why would you suggest talking now? Nothing's changed."
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"You don't think anything's changed?" Peter blinked at him, moving to sit on the end of the piano bench, facing Sylar, his right elbow on the key guard. He was sleeping with the guy and fixing him meals. Even if it was required medical care Peter should have been willing to give anyone, giving it to Sylar (and to the degree and duration) hadn't been easy. Did that mean nothing?
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Sylar tilted his head, not appreciating the redirected question. He didn't want to answer it; didn't have one; and didn't see why his thoughts mattered, either. "You still want me to do something."
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Peter regarded him steadily for several long moments, studying Sylar's face and the play of expressions on it. Finally he glanced off to the side briefly and took a deep breath. "I know you better than I did. I know you've … done the things you've done for reasons of your own. I don't understand them, but I think they are, and must be, understandable. Even …" He shrugged one shoulder. "Even Nathan." That one encompassed a lot of territory, but Peter didn't want to get bogged down. He moved on. "So whatever it is you're going to do, if I want to stop you, I have to see it from your point of view. I have to know why you're doing it. Then I have to help you … not do it, if it's something that shouldn't be done." He pursed his lips and shifted his legs tensely. "I'm not good at finding options, Sylar. But … fighting you … is not a good one. I don't want to die, Sylar." At some point in the last month or two of living with Sylar, he'd started to see him as a person with autonomy rather than someone Peter could pluck out of Parkman's mind-jail and drag to the carnival to do his duty. Sylar had a choice in what happened to him and how things played out – that was clear.
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Sylar's eyes narrowed dangerously and he glared. The pressure of his rage built to a boil, straining at his muscles and demanding action, retribution for those belittling, mocking words. "As someone who never got his fingers wet, I don't think you can understand. I am special and there is nothing you can help 'fix'! I don't need Nathan! I don't need you!" He stood and covered the few steps between them quickly. "I fucking warned you, Petrelli," he growled and snarled, grabbing at the front of the other's shirt, hauling him to his feet.
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Peter didn't respond quickly enough to the shift in mood. He saw it – yeah – but he didn't expect violence to come of it. Likewise, when Sylar stood and closed with him, Peter straightened and leaned back, tensing, but not leaping to his own defense. Sylar had grabbed him the day before in the clothing store and done no more than vent at him. He assumed this was the same and let Sylar have his outburst uncontested.
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Sylar drew his left fist back, punching Peter across the face. It hurt his hand and he shook it out but he held on with the other. "I fucking warned you!" he blamed. "Stop psycho-analyzing me! If you think this is my mind, then you're going to play by my fucking rules! I am Sylar! And you are a fucking ant now, compared to me!" he screamed this at Peter and it felt good to do it.
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Painfully, Peter discovered he had assumed wrong. Ow! Fuck! Asshole! Not fighting back before had led to this – that stood out plainly in Peter's mind. He hadn't stood up for himself in the back of the clothing store so Sylar was taking it a step further this time. Well, there's one answer for that. He didn't want to fight, but Sylar was going to continue if he didn't fight him (either today or next time). He'd lost the last two fights – he had to win this one. He wasn't in a good position; he knew that. The backs of his knees were against the piano bench, the piano to his right, the rest of the room to his left, and Sylar holding him off-balance and bent back. The only good thing was that he wasn't hurt too bad yet – smacked around a little and with blood in his mouth, but he wasn't even too rattled.
"Fuck you and your stupid rules!" He brought his left hand up between them and swung it out, striking the inside of Sylar's right elbow, throwing himself back and trying to force a fall to get free. It would be onto his back, onto the bench – that wouldn't be a problem. Having Sylar kick him while he was down would be.
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The strike to the bend in his elbow wasn't strong or particularly painful, but it had the intended effect of startling him and loosening his grip a little since the muscles were tensed. Peter then tugged and twisted away. Sylar had been pulling back for another preparatory strike so he was slow in reorienting to grab at Peter and restrain him. Having the Petrelli loose was far more dangerous – he knew more hand-to-hand and he'd shown he wasn't afraid to use the rough stuff. Sylar tried to stomp on some part of him was he moved away, anything to slow him down. He immediately saw why that was a bad idea.
XXX
Some portion of Peter's shirt ripped as he fell. He tried to tumble off the bench and onto his feet, but it was a bad angle and Sylar was right on top of him, legs moving and feet threatening. Peter dodged, Sylar connected with the back of one of Peter's calves, and gravity did the rest to put Peter entirely on the floor. "Ah!" He rolled onto his back and kicked out wildly, hitting Sylar on the shin. He would have rather knee-capped the jerk, but he hadn't taken time to aim. Hissing as he pulled air in past gritted teeth, he pulled his foot back for something more accurate and debilitating, but Sylar was already out of range.
XXX
Sylar took the hit without a sound and backed off. There was no way he was getting close to Peter even though Peter was the one on the fucking floor. The adrenaline had him panting. It was clear Peter had thought he wouldn't be hit earlier – he thought Sylar was weak and tamed. It added to his anger. He was angry enough to want to kill Peter, but he wanted the familiarity of the fight to normalize everything. It was 'on,' like it had been at Mercy – do or die. "I didn't know when I killed Nathan, I'd castrated you," he sneered, watching the man rise to his feet. "Are you that fucking impotent without Big Brother holding your hand? Did he take your balls to the grave, too?"
XXX
"You seem real concerned with my balls, Sylar," Peter said as he took the opportunity to scramble upright. "I think you just can't handle the idea that I'm not desperate to drop trou for 'Mr. Special'." He had his balance and did a quick sizing up of the situation. All useful weapons – pool balls, cue sticks and the like – were on the opposite side of the room. The few books next to the couch weren't any good. To get to the metal chairs, he'd have to get past Sylar. So it was just him and Sylar, hand to hand. Peter knew his own weaknesses and he knew Sylar's pretty well. The last thing Peter wanted to do was hit Sylar in the head, or hit anything with his right hand, and he figured Sylar knew both of these. Which meant, of course, that was what he led with. Hand extended, he literally grabbed at Sylar's face with his right hand, forcing the other man to deal with it or get jabbed in the eye by the brace.
XXX
What-?! Was Sylar's only reaction to having a hand shoved, not thrown, at his face. He leaned back (his height and Peter's reach didn't completely nullify the attempt) and smacked it aside. Just as he straightened to focus on the next attack, he saw the feint for what it was – or rather, he felt it. Peter's fist slammed into his ribs, grinding against bone and compressing the thin muscles. Sylar pivoted to present his front rather than his side and back, grabbing at Peter's shirt once more to swing at his face with his left.
XXX
That first solid blow was so sweet to Peter. He didn't think he'd landed anything in the last fight with that sort of impact, other than when he'd head-butted the bastard. He'd finally – finally! - been able to hit him with some power behind it. Sylar weathered it well enough to turn Peter's joy into frustrated rage. It should have counted for more! Then he got hit on the right side of the face again, this time nearly on his temple and enough to jar his thoughts once more. He couldn't let the guy keep getting head shots on him or he'd be as fucked up as Sylar. Speaking of which, he needed to take advantage of the man's unsteadiness, so he rushed him, trying to angle him into the back wall of the room where Sylar couldn't get away from him.
XXX
Peter struck him like a linebacker without any padding. The impact with the wall stunned him, hurting his spine, the back of his head, driving the breath out of him. Sylar struggled to recover and pushed at Peter's shoulders and body-mass as the guy clung to him. It was too close; why was Peter holding him? The question answered itself when Peter went back to punching his side, his gut, anywhere he could reach. Sylar couldn't breathe again – his side, back, head, and lungs all hurt.
He began to wrestle and writhe to get away and avoid the blows. If they hadn't been fighting, the proximity and intimacy would have been wonderful. For now, it was poisonous and deadly – where would Peter stop this time? Would he stop at all? Sylar was completely lost as to what emotion he should feel. Everything was a tangled mess. Lust, excitement, despair, depression, regret, hatred, frustration, he couldn't decide or decipher. He could hardly think. Weak and nearly curled over Peter's shoulder from the abdominal muscle contractions and gasps for air, Sylar bit him on the shoulder/neck join hard enough to mark and returned body punches to Peter's side. They weren't as strong as Peter's but hopefully it would do some damage or provide a distraction. He wanted all or nothing – to be destroyed utterly or for Peter to quit and…something better to resume. With his brain swimming like it was now, he couldn't process if surrender or continuing his efforts would get him what he wanted.
XXX
That feeling of wild exultation surged up in Peter again as it seemed like he was finally getting somewhere. Sylar felt like he was crumpling, but Peter wasn't about to let up because of something like that. He'd hold Sylar up if he had to, anything he needed to do to keep slamming his left fist into whatever soft spots he could reach, grunting with the exertion much as he had while working out. Between the adrenaline of the fight and the rush from the impression he was winning, he hardly felt the blows Sylar landed. He shrugged off the bite, but the sexual nature of it lingered in the back of his mind. Hadn't Sylar said something about wanting this from him?I'll give it to him, all right!