Day 35, January 14, Morning
Each heavy blow contracted Sylar and held him in place, despite his own defenses and attempts to move away. Peter was winning; had probably already won, and Sylar's stupid, limited body couldn't keep up with any of it. His survival instinct flickered, contemplating accepting the inevitable as he nearly hung off/onto Peter's shoulder because the smaller man supported him, keeping him in place for his fists to target. Falling at Petrelli's feet was just not acceptable but it looked like that was going to happen, too.
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Stop. Some voice in Peter's head told him to cut it out and damned if it didn't sound like Nathan's – tense and concerned, with that faux-calmness he affected when he didn't want people to know how worried he really was. Don't do too much here. It was that same voice – not the usual one of Peter's own internal dialogue. He hesitated, his body wound up tight like a spring, fist curled and Sylar's gasping-but-otherwise-dead-seeming weight hanging from his right arm. He let the man slide down to the floor. Peter backed away, reaching up to wipe at the blood coming out of his mouth. The right side of his face was numbish, his left hand stung along the knuckles, and his neck ached. His head was ringing, too, now that he noticed it. Panting, he reeled a little until he found the arm of the couch and leaned heavily against it.
"An ant, huh?" Peter got out, wearing a threatening half-snarl like he might still finish the business. He had a few things he wanted to say. "So it was an ant who went through a fucking snowstorm when I could hardly walk, to get you medical supplies to save your life? An ant who's been making your meals, taking care of you, fucking sleeping with you?! It was someone meaningless," he paused to spit blood, "who was with you last night, was it, when you needed someone? That didn't matter, huh? None of that matters," he flung his arms loosely to either side, "because nothing's changed as far as you're concerned and that's all that matters to you, isn't it? Well, you can take your fucking 'nothing's changed' and shove it up your ass, Sylar! If I don't matter to you, then there's no reason for me to be here."
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Sylar pushed himself mostly upright to sit, on the floor, while Peter rested against the couch and ranted at him. It all sounded vaguely familiar, bits and pieces, something about Peter needing to be 'liked.' He was surprised not to have been dropped to the floor. His core ached and clenched, feeling like trapped gas, cramps, a side ache and no oxygen all at once. It wouldn't have been that bad but Peter, fresh from his work out, didn't give love taps – he put his all into it. Sylar coughed to get air, panting heavily. After all that and Peter was still trying to manipulate him, as if guilt was still a working trigger. Sylar was still angry – he wanted another go-round just to stop the talking. That or he wanted to scream until he couldn't hear anything anymore. He didn't have the breath to yell back at Peter. Yet. I hate you. Why won't you finish it? You think you do all that for me? You want me to do something for you! That's the only reason to keep me alive! "And you expect a thank you," he croaked, glaring murder up at the Petrelli.
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Peter snorted disdainfully. "That's the usual response, yeah," he snapped.
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Sylar's eyes narrowed. He was being given something of a choice, an important one, too. Perhaps he'd stumbled onto a way to make Peter talk about the underlying issue of whatever was bothering him – badger him, irritate and insult him, take a beating and then listen to the resulting lecture. Perhaps Peter's 'liking' issue stemmed from Sylar's 'ingratitude,' as Peter saw it. And if Peter felt 'liked', then…sex, right?
But the act of saying 'thank you' stuck in his craw. Now you know what it's like to save someone's life, do a good deed, make a gesture and have it go unnoticed all because your intentions are evil. I didn't ask him to show up or help; I told him I'd be fine. He would be perfectly okay if I died except for the fact that he needs me to fix his stupid, self-made Petrelli problems. This isn't new, why does he think I don't know this game? "/What are you going to do? Beat it out of me?/" he rasped lowly, blinking and turning aside as he realized where that came from. That wasn't the response he'd wanted to give. Maybe he would get that second round after all, accidentally.
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Peter hesitated, a 'Go fuck yourself' hanging on his lips as he processed where he'd heard Sylar's line before – at Mercy Heights, when he'd tried to get Nathan back. It hadn't helped then, either. "No," he grunted, feeling like he would have rather been hit in the face again than be reminded of that far more painful failure.
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Clenching his teeth, Sylar remembered how Peter had wanted recognition of his victory at Battleship (not that the whole incident had ended much better). Peter liked the humiliation. And the domination. It's just words, he coaxed himself. I don't have to mean them. 'Thank you, sir; may I have another?' Right after a fight he wants me to thank him? But…that's the punishment routine, isn't it? I'm supposed to be grateful for that, too. I have to be trained to give a 'usual response.' Finally, the anger bled out of him and turned into despair. Some change of heart or through Sylar's own somewhat intentional foot-in-mouth, Peter no longer found him worth caring for as he had been so far. It was the desperation that made him want to continue the fight, just to feel something else.
"Thank you," Sylar said quietly, eyes unfocused at nothing, face blank. This wasn't how he wanted to express gratitude but that wasn't part of the choice.
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We're still fighting, Peter realized. It's just that the blows are different. "That's not what I want!" he burst out, coming to his feet. "You sound like you're thanking me for punching you in the gut," he said with disgust, turning and heading out of the room. He paced randomly in the lobby until the tension and the blood he'd swallowed combined to make him queasy. He went to the bathroom where he spat, retched, rinsed his mouth out, and examined himself. All of his teeth seemed fine. He'd just cut or bit the hell out of himself when Sylar had punched him. He wet a paper towel and wiped his face with it, pausing to run his fingers over the spot on his shoulder where Sylar had bitten him. He could have bitten me a lot harder. Did he hold back because I hit him and disrupted him, or because he didn't want to take a chunk out of me? I need to sterilize that either way. He rinsed his bruised knuckles and checked over his brace. Miraculously, his right hand had come through without being reinjured.
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Again, Sylar could throttle him just for being the definition of frustrating. He sat there, immobilized by his own mind and its reactions. Do you really expect me to thank you for manipulating me? He was grateful Peter removed himself to be illogical elsewhere; it was probably a good thing he didn't care where Peter went or if he was coming back. In this moment, it was a relief not to stress about that whole phobia. Several minutes passed alone, before Sylar pushed himself up. He ached, felt tired and used among a host of other indecipherable things. Peter had won, cleanly, with little effort it seemed, delighting in humiliating him then being upset when he didn't get his way (whatever that might be). Sylar was left alone after it all. He trudged to the elevator, then up into the suite.
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Peter emerged to see the elevator doors shutting. It took him a moment to work that out and a quick glance in the rec room to confirm that Sylar had left. It made Peter a little pissy that Sylar hadn't waited for him, but then again, Peter hadn't told Sylar where he was going or when he'd be back. Maybe Sylar thought Peter had gone up already. That calmed him. If the guy could walk on his own, then he wasn't nearly as hurt as Peter had thought. Or he's a lot tougher and more stubborn … which is likely. With a shrug of his shoulders, he pressed the button for the other elevator car, thinking, I need to go get the trauma bag anyway for alcohol wipes.
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Sylar went to the freezer and got out some frozen tater tots. He couldn't deal with Peter right now, but that's what Peter would do, wasn't it – get out something cold to reduce the swelling? That would be kind of funny if I have internal bleeding. How do you die from that, anyway? I can't remember. His muscles were complaining because it hurt to do anything, even walk to the bed where resting was sure to be equally uncomfortable. And lonely. Fuck everything! Sylar told off the part of himself that wanted care in spite of everything else. He doesn't think I can take care of myself and he doesn't care if I can't. So the best way to get on his nerves is survive and be healthy. I'm not stupid enough to think something has changed; that's why, Peter! He's the one who won't adapt to this wasteland!
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Peter gave a couple knocks muffled by being the side of his fist rather his knuckles, then opened the door. He gave a quick glance in and to the side, even though Sylar was clearly visible and not in the middle of staging an ambush. Peter gave him a wary look anyway and moved to the wheelchair, upon which sat the trauma bag. He went through it for some gauze to pack his cheek with and wipes for his shoulder. That done, he glanced over at Sylar, wondering if he needed anything, and the reception such concern was likely to get set Peter off all over again. He straightened and walked closer, the wrapper for one of the wipes held tensely between right thumb and index finger. "Do you really not get it? You think I'm just trying to manipulate you with all of this?" He gestured around the apartment, indicating loosely the groceries, meals they'd shared, and cohabitation in general.
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What do you want? Sylar glared at the fact of the other man's presence. (We've never fought here). Why let that stop anything? He tossed his make-shift ice pack to the bed, crossing his arms. Peter went straight to the medical supplies like he'd actually been hurt. The little man had a pair big enough to walk closer and address him again. Sylar bit out, "What else would you be doing? You don't think anything's changed either." He wasn't sure he was on board for psychoanalyzing their fights after they happened. In retrospect, allowing Nurse Peter to give him all those mental health tests was probably a bad idea.
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Peter's lips tightened. It wasn't the answer he wanted. Rage boiled up inside of him until he wanted to hit Sylar again and again – that dismissive expression, like Peter and everything he'd ever done was worthless or worse – it ran all through him and hit most of his buttons regarding insecurity and inadequacy along the way. He thought maybe Sylar was right that there were ulterior motives involved and nothing he'd done was worth thanks. Peter could put an end to that. "I've been thinking," honestly, he hadn't – the idea had just now occurred to him, "that I had dreamed I'd blow up New York. I dreamed that over and over again. And you know what? I didn't – it didn't happen. So what, if I dreamed you saving Emma at the carnival? There's no reason that's going to happen either. Maybe it's even something I'm supposed to prevent, like blowing up."
Peter transferred the paper and foil wrapper to his left hand, curling it into a painful fist that did little to distract him from the fear he felt about his next words and all their possible consequences. It felt like he was giving up and he hated that, but he'd already been thinking Sylar wasn't the answer. He just hadn't gone so far as to make it real by stating it aloud. "I don't want your help with the carnival, Sylar, where I'd always have to worry if you were going to save everyone from disaster by having a little lower body count through your own mass murder. I don't want your insincere thanks when you don't even recognize I've done anything worthwhile for you. And you know what I don't want most of all? You." With a snarl and a huff, he threw down the wadded wrapper and left the room, not bothering to shut the door because he didn't trust himself to do it without slamming it.
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'Don't want you in any capacity' was the clear message. 'Murderer' had been in it as well, so nothing had changed. Sylar still felt like a sucker. "We'll see about that when you need your 'big brother' to bail you out of trouble! That's what always happens!" Sylar roared back, knowing Peter would be forced to hear him (even if the door hadn't been open). And now he felt like a fool, several times over. He'd somehow cornered himself and Peter had…denounced him, called his bluff, stripped his protection. He didn't buy it for a moment – Peter always needed help and Peter always wanted to save people. The empath giving up was unthinkable. It was just more manipulation. He tries- tried that on Nathan a lot and it usually worked. I'm not stupid and I'm not stupid Nathan. He can't cut it on his own. All the same, Peter was making valid threats for the time being. Without Peter's savior complex mission, he didn't need to keep Sylar alive or healthy. Sylar had no safeguard and thus no safety for the first time since Peter had arrived.
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Peter stomped down the hallway in a snit. He'd paused and cocked his head just outside the door, listening to what Sylar had to say, but then continued on without a comeback. Is that … is that another he-thinks-he's-Nathan moment? He shook his head, but filed it away as further proof that Sylar's slips were unintentional. Peter was frustrated, angry, and put out. He felt like Sylar had somehow manipulated him into throwing away the only lead he had to saving Emma and the others. Now – he had nothing. He ground his teeth and took the stairs, needing to burn off energy even if the back of his calf where Sylar had stomped him was trying to cramp up. That set his destination. After stopping by his apartment for warmer clothes, he headed to the YMCA for a very long soak in the hot tub, followed by a day of engaging exercise.
He found an Italian restaurant within a few blocks for an early dinner and took his time about preparing it, wondering if Sylar would be eating tonight. Sylar had both the concussion and possible internal bruising to discourage taking meals. While Peter thought the guy shouldn't go around punching him in the nose, he still spent more time thinking (worrying?) about Sylar than he thought he should. It intruded on his thoughts again when he walked back, hesitating outside his own apartment building and looking up towards the penthouse of the opposite building, where he'd last seen Sylar. If he misses a couple meals or a night of sleep, it's not going to kill him. With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, Peter went upstairs to his own apartment and hit the sack.
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There was no way he was staying here tonight. Peter was upset about being caught and they apparently didn't need each other anymore. Taking his book, ice pack, Peter's pillow, and some food items, Sylar moved to the next-door suite. It lacked the same feel – it was bigger, emptier, less lived-in but he convinced himself those were good things. It was quiet on top of everything else, leaving him with bad choices and unprocessed emotion. He checked himself for what would become bruises. He lay down, tried to focus on reading and eventually succeeded. This is peaceful. (And safe). I don't have to be around him if I don't want to be. Peter might come back – probably would – and could say whatever he wanted then. This is all just a game. Nothing is new. His dinner consisted of water, crackers and cheese, choked down around his lack of appetite. His head ached fitfully and he fretted as he felt his body dragging him down to sleep. It was going to be a rough night.
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Day 36, January 15, Morning
After breakfast at the diner where he'd eaten weeks before, Peter went by to check on Sylar. Even if he didn't want or need anything from the guy, Sylar was still a human being, and one who needed regular care and checkups for the time being. He gave the door a muffled knock with the side of his fist, avoiding putting his bruised knuckles to the wood as he had the day before. When there was no answer, he called out. "Sylar?" He beat harder on the door, then stopped and listened. No noise. He turned the knob. Unlocked. He went in. "Sylar?" he asked less loudly. There was no need to yell through the door now. A quick search showed the place empty – Sylar had not expired of a ruptured internal organ due to Peter's negligence. That was a relief. The bed's mussed, but the dishes look the same. He robbed the fridge for the grapes and picked up his heavier winter coat while he was there. Snacking on the fruit, he proceeded to Sylar's original apartment, where he repeated the same routine, also finding it empty. If he's well enough to be out and around, then he's fine. Peter went on with his day's activities – swimming, half-heartedly scouting for a decent clothing store and getting absorbed in the sporting goods store instead, and finally that evening, playing a few games of pool in the rec room.
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Sylar squirmed awake, then started with a painful jerk. The noise wasn't coming from his door. The night hadn't passed pleasantly or quickly. He strained to hear if and when Peter left. It was unlikely the medic was being unusually creepy and waiting for Sylar to return so he could attack him. Soon enough, Sylar thought he left, after all, Peter had 'better things to do' surely. He spent his day moving very slowly as the stiffness set in. The nature of the Peter-inflicted injury meant it hurt to move torso/arms or legs. He showered, read, made a small lunch, took a nap, and mostly recuperated on his own. He was miserable. I wonder what Peter is doing. If I'm lucky, this is all just a dream.
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Day 37, January 16, Morning
Peter made the same rounds on the next morning, then lingered in the rec room for a lot longer, hoping to catch sight of Sylar. I wonder if he ditched me? What would that mean? He found himself ambivalent about it. Being alone, genuinely alone, was hard to wrap his head around and he wasn't sure he wanted to go through the exercise. This was better than the cargo container – he knew who he was and why he was here and that his continued aloneness was a function of Sylar abandoning him (not like he'd expected better of the guy), Matt not helping him (whom hehad expected better of), and his mother … (yeah). On the other hand, being ditched by Sylar meant being safe, and even if he wasn't making progress towards saving the carnival, he at least wasn't constantly beating his head against the wall that was Sylar's unwillingness to help. So there was that. Two days isn't enough to worry. He's probably laying off, licking his wounds, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then he's going to show up out of the blue for a rematch. Peter did his laundry and some grocery shopping, stocking up his apartment in case that ended up being the main place he would reside in from now on.
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This time Sylar moaned about being disturbed from an already disturbed sleep. As soon as he realized what was going on, he shut up and lay still. He'd learned the 'stay close to known places' trick when he'd hunted and shapeshifted. People always looked near and far, but never the barely-removed distance. He wondered what Peter's second visit meant, and if Sylar decided to linger here, how many times Peter would check back, how long it would take until Peter gave up. He said he'd never give up. He'd finished the baseball book and the apartment came with a collection of dull encyclopedias. The first volume was huge and too heavy to lay on his gut to read, even with a pillow as a buffer, so he lay on his side and propped the thing on the bed to read at an angle. He didn't try to do much, though parts of him longed to be active and interactive. I don't need people like he does. He needs his people. He has people, or he did. He said he'd never give up, so what does that mean for me?
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Day 38, January 17, Morning
Peter pushed the stairwell door open as he made it to the ground floor in his apartment building. It was the first thing in the morning … and there was Sylar. He stopped immediately, letting the door swing shut behind him. Peter tilted his head and shook out his arms, thinking the rematch was on and being grateful Sylar hadn't jumped him from surprise. When Sylar didn't immediately start anything, Peter dipped his head slightly and tried a cautious greeting. "Morning."
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Sylar lifted his chin to that. It was brisk out, but manageable to work in.. "I thought you had a window project to finish," he intoned the statement, neither here nor there about it.
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"What's it to you?" Peter challenged, not liking at all that Sylar had shown up to taskmaster him. It didn't help his mood that he hadn't given thought one to the storefront for the last few days. He felt guilty about that, didn't want to feel guilty about it, and so took it out on Sylar instead.
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Sylar frowned, disappointed it was going this way already, and snapped back, "I told you you'd need my help." That's the main issue here. He wanted…an admission, something to revert things to their natural state; or at least how they'd been before (which Sylar would admit was much more tolerable and preferable than whatever this was going on now).
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"Your help?" Unintentional slips or not, Peter wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to rub Sylar's nose in it, given his mood and the subject matter. "No, you told me I'd need my brother's help and I don't see him around anymore." He paced closer, angling his body somewhat and sizing Sylar up. "Now if you want to start shit with me, do it somewhere other than on my doorstep. I don't care what memories of Nathan's you have – you are not my brother and you do not get to show up and get on my case first thing in the morning." If he was in luck, Sylar would be intimidated after losing the last fight and wouldn't risk round two.
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Bobbing his head forward once, Sylar sneered a little, "I think I just did." He saw the threat and matched it with his own scoping glance. (If all else failed, maybe if Peter beat him badly enough, he'd come back to the suite).
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No such luck. Well, I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to back down. Not here – this is my building, not his. Peter gave him a wry smile in return. "Yeah, I know you did. Now you can get out of here and cut it out, or we can throw down. Choose." He squared off a few strides from Sylar, waiting.
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Like that's going to work, he thought at Peter. Sylar's face was amused as he spread his hands to either side of himself with a hint of a shrug. In doing so, he knew he'd manipulated Peter into the fight (while maintaining deniability, making Peter choose).
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Fuck. It was the 'come at me, bro' gesture. Peter had already given Sylar a thorough look. The odds of this being a trick seemed low, which meant it was just a straight-up fight. He hated straight-up fights because they never were, no matter what. Nathan, interestingly, had been the one to drill that into him over and over. Life isn't fair, it isn't even, and no one gets what they deserve. He hadn't been able to convince Peter that it shouldn't be that way, but he'd definitely shown him it was that way right now. Since Peter had backed himself into a corner with his posturing, gambling Sylar would back down, he had to deliver now the man was calling him on it. Knowing full well he would get hit going in, he charged anyway. Another thing Nathan had taught him: Better to take a hit you're ready for than one you're not.
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It was more instinct than anything else. Peter had to approach him, so Sylar prepared to hit him first. He planted himself and swung for Peter's middle as just payback. With the man's forward motion, the sucker punch should put him down for a good while and ensure victory.
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Prepared for it, the wind was not knocked out of Peter. The blow had hurt, but much of his falling back was staged, as evidenced by how he didn't actually go backwards, but rather down. He'd been planning on straightening and punching, but as long as he was down here, he wasn't going to overlook a target of opportunity. Just like Peter, Sylar hadn't moved away. He was right there in arm's reach, so Peter reached him. Still crouched in false gut-clenching, Peter jutted out his left fist, catching Sylar squarely in the groin.
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Ha! Sylar thought. Just as he was realizing that something was off, pain exploded in his groin. Sylar went down, clutching himself. The hit was solid, the fight basically done. Recover…recover…Come on! But the nature of the temporary injury left him helpless and vengeful; Peter had him down and would kick the crap out of him now and that sucked.
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Peter grabbed Sylar by the hair with his left hand, wrenching his head up enough so he could growl mockingly into the man's face, "Now I'm concerned for your balls." Twining his fingers into that thick mop of hair, he stood and tried to steer Sylar with him towards the door. Peter deliberately ignored the many options of inflicting damage at that moment that might have ended the fight entirely. His winning condition was getting Sylar outside, not beating the crap out of him.
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Whoa! Okay. Ow. Sylar snarled and gripped Peter's controlling wrist to try to alleviate the spread of trauma to his scalp. It was embarrassing; it was sexy; it was 'fighting words.' He panted and grunted as he was dragged for the door, based on his warped viewpoint, having no option but to 'go with it' for now. It was valuable recovery time, which was stupid of Peter to give him. When they reached the door, Peter had to open it and then Sylar sprang into action. Arms and legs shot out, expanding his considerable reach to grab and catch at the doorframe and resist being forced outside. He clung and snarled more as Peter struggled to hold the door open, yank his hair and disentangle Sylar's limbs. And the minute Peter was distracted and committed to that, Sylar put his head between the other man's legs and rushed him at the knees and thighs. He released, not wanting to take him down hard, and let Peter stumble back until he fell back on his ass, the momentum laying him on his back.
Sylar then slithered up and over Peter despite the pain in his side from the previous altercation. He tried to get between the man's legs and keep those powerful fists out of action – mostly holding or pushing them aside. Once there (though the arms would be a dangerous work-in-progress), he began pushing his pelvis against Peter's, partially faking his low-voiced grunts but not his smirking grin. "You should be very concerned with my balls, Petrelli!"
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"Oof!" Peter started to scramble backwards when Sylar climbed on him, but he was slowed by surprise at the tactic. It was a poor one, as was throwing him to the floor and not following through. He's not following through. Wait, he's not trying to hurt me? Peter's mind boggled. About then, he was distracted by the sexual and insulting nature of Sylar's attack, so he tried to punch him. Sort of. Not very hard. Peter was confused. Am I supposed to be fighting him, or what? What the fuck is he doing? Sylar was struggling to stay in position and yet still keep both of Peter's arms from being useful. It was tough to do and obviously he was focusing on Peter's left, so Peter grabbed the front of Sylar's coat with his right. Sylar shoved the limb to Peter's left, across his body, but not before Peter managed to yank Sylar down a little closer. Before Sylar could pull away, Peter cut back with his right elbow, catching the man across the mouth. He might have split a lip, or he might have done nothing. His elbow was padded by heavy winter coat, after all, and Sylar had been moving away from the blow. Ever persistent, Peter grabbed at Sylar's front again with his right. One of these times, the bastard would open his right side. In the meantime, he taunted him, "They have little blue pills for that problem you're having, Sylar."
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It was shameful how the aggression, mock-violence, tension, position, and then that elbow to the mouth turned him on. Sylar tasted blood, doubtlessly from the pressure of his lip against his teeth. They were definitely playing – finally Peter seemed to understand that. His mouth gaped at a grin, at least until Peter spoke, the little prick. "There's no cure for Petrellis! And I am 'having' my problem right now." Sylar pulled at the other man's clothes, wanting to see how the bite marks had healed (hopefully they hadn't). He couldn't believe Peter was allowing this much contact and outright molestation; it made his head spin and his dick hard.
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"That's good! First step to curing a problem is admitting to it," Peter got out, still struggling around in what he regarded as a ridiculous semblance of fighting. There were things he could be doing that were a lot more effective than what he was actually doing, but he was biding his time, trying to get just the right shot rather than taking whatever he could at the moment. He wasn't losing ground, nor did he feel threatened or even too insulted by Sylar's antics, so he felt like he could afford the wait.
Finally, he got the shot he was waiting for and slammed his left fist into Sylar's side, as near the center of where he'd beat on him a few days before as he could get. Peter didn't think there were any cracked ribs there, but it had to be bruised to hell. He kept hitting that spot until Sylar did nothing but protect it.
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Moments of getting his way evaporated with his air supply in an instant. His core erupted in pain, almost as bad as the initial injuries and the healing process of cramps and stiffness. He groaned between punches. Sylar curled over, or tried to, his face landing against the same pre-bitten shoulder, helpless once again.
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Peter shoved the other man over and straddled him, tightening his knees to drive them into Sylar's sides as much as he could manage. He looked down on him and hesitated. It occurred to Peter that other than the expression of pain, Sylar looked fucking sexy – eyes glittering, skin flushed, mouth parted, and hair in disarray around him. And that Peter was on top of him in what wasn't far off from being one of his favorite sexual positions. Erm. We're fighting, right? But I shouldn't hit him in the head. Well … then what the hell do I do? He grabbed Sylar's throat with his left hand because he felt like he needed to be doing something violent and aggressive, or else this was going to get awkward fast.
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There was a significant pause (Sylar would notice later) from when he was flipped, breathless, onto his back and straddled and when Peter grabbed his throat. The assault had taken some of the virility from his erection but he was dazed enough to consider the sexual possibilities of their position. And then there was the grip on his throat, which, even if it didn't feel the same as before when he'd been choked out, was still a serious threat. Sylar froze, eyes a little wide, trying to gauge the point of that maneuver. If it wasn't a threat, then it was weak, low, and fucking hot. Sylar felt a resurgence in his dick, which was still more or less between Peter's legs.
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Peter leaned in slightly, more a tilt of his upper body. He had Sylar's complete attention – that was good (and very sexy) – but he didn't know what to do with it. Again, he felt at a loss here, not sure what the point of the fight was if it wasn't to win. He needed to say something, though. "Are those windows really this important to you?"
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Sylar left Peter's grip alone and reached around to grasp Peter's buttocks, one in each hand, and squeezed. His brain splintered into a multitude of thoughts: Great ass. Peter's ass. Is he letting me grope him? Why isn't he choking me? Keep your hand there. I'm hard – is he hard? Fuck me in the damn doorway – do it! It took a few seconds to corral his mind enough to speak, purring around the interfering hand, "I could be distracted from them."
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Peter grunted. It wasn't the answer he wanted; it wasn't a useful answer. Also, he was not at all thrilled with Sylar taking liberties with him. He gave a hard squeeze to Sylar's throat, as hard as he could, but brief.
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Sylar's eyelids lowered with predatory interest and he rutted his erection up against Peter in response.
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The thrust against his backside settled it – he was done with this weird, violent, 'toying with each other' thing. What are you, like, five? (Or fifteen, rather.) Peter snorted and got up, standing and getting away from those gripping hands. As before, he passed on the opportunity to kick Sylar as he went, or even scare him with the threat of it. He stalked off several steps, which was inconveniently further into the lobby. His gloves and headband had fallen from his pocket sometime during the fight. They, also, were on the far side of Sylar. He glared at the escaped articles of clothing, then at the door out, then back to Sylar.
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Of course, Peter got up and moved away, leaving him unfulfilled yet again. This time it was worse. It left him heart pounding with adrenaline and a boner, lying flat on the ground. "Fucking tease…" Sylar murmured, staring up at Peter. He wished for telekinesis to better shred clothing and pin the slippery empath down. Or maybe he wished for Peter to be interested, consensual, aroused at the least. Being turned on by a man was sick, yes, though it didn't rank on his list of sins. He'd love it if I had shapeshifting. Busily, he plotted ways to compel Peter's involvement.
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Peter smirked at Sylar's comment. He liked the admission that Sylar wanted him and wasn't going to get him. The man was lying there panting with frustration and an obvious bulge in his jeans. He waited a beat, but Sylar didn't look to be in any hurry to get up. "No more fucking around," Peter insisted. "Get up and get out of here. If you burn this place for me, then I will take away everything about it that you want. The next time you're not looking, I will move somewhere far away and I won't move back." He was pretty sure that was the biggest stick he had available to swing – bigger even than, 'I'll kill you while you're asleep' because it was so easy for Peter to do, and cost him so little. He wasn't invested in that particular apartment, but having a boundary between them, a territory that was his and not Sylar's, was very important. You like forbidden fruit? Let's see how fast this one goes sour on you.
XXX
Sylar rolled his eyes and began to get up, taking his time about it just because – and his side was now aching constantly just like his head. When standing, his eyes turned to slits at the threat. He didn't point out his unique and exceptional experience in hunting people down (it would be vastly more difficult if the target knew he was coming and kept mobile, and there was no one to question about Peter's whereabouts). I stepped in the fucking lobby – a common area… "Right, because your building is sacred," he snapped by way of mentioning the broken door and being punched and choked in his own apartment. He had nothing to threaten with. Peter would be ambivalent about Sylar moving or disappearing; they weren't fucking; and Peter had taken away the threat of 'not helping' with his girlfriend. Sylar didn't think reminding him of just how miserable he could make Peter's life would be beneficial – Peter should already be very aware of that anyway. Bitterly, he continued, "So next time I'm supposed to wait in the elements with all the other animals because the fucking lobby is your space?"
XXX
He pressed his lips together and exhaled heavily. Peter looked away to stare at the door he'd come through, then the elevators, then around the lobby. "That's a good point," he muttered, but it was loud enough to carry. He shifted his weight, trying to make up his mind how much he wanted to take a stand on principle. It's cold outside. What if it was raining? It'd be dumb to make him wait outside. He looked at the double doors. Requiring Sylar to remain outside the second set of doors was insulting and impractical. It's not like I want him to wait on me, but we're the only people here. Sometimes it's going to happen. It's not like he can call me on the phone.
He tilted his head at Sylar, regarding him finally. "Would you stay in the lobby and not go anywhere else in the building?"
XXX
"Yes, fine." That was…reasonable if not ideal. Sylar prided himself on being so negotiable this time.
XXX
"Okay," Peter nodded grudgingly. He was getting what he wanted (a limit, a boundary), but he wasn't 'winning' because Sylar wasn't being forced to leave. I need to get over myself. He sighed lightly and glanced up, conceding the point even to himself. "Okay, well, I'll get a chair down here later. I have some extra furniture across the hall from my apartment. But before any of that, I'm going to breakfast." He shot Sylar a steady, expectant look for a couple seconds, which was as close as Peter was going to get to giving an invitation to accompany him, then headed out.
XXX
Furniture was more than Sylar was expecting. It just sweetened the deal. He raised an eyebrow at…whatever he was being addressed with. "Alright." Apparently he was meant to come along, which was just as he'd said, 'alright.' It took him about two blocks to forcibly calm everything down: ego, erection, expectations. He focused on what he'd gotten out of the…exchange, such as it was. A deal, Peter hadn't hurt him up until the end, and a pseudo-invite to breakfast. Does this mean he's caring for me again? Sylar wanted that back badly. "How did you sleep?" Since you've been away…
XXX
"I slept fine." Which was true, as far as it went. He wasn't going to admit to the feeling of purposelessness that had been eating at him. "How about you?"
XXX
Sylar shook his head in answer. His sleep had been plagued with nightmares, phobias and paranoia. He'd been alone, stupid, pathetic emotions all over. The whole process had been quite upsetting, which was probably the point. He still didn't know where he stood, where they stood.
XXX
"How are your ribs? Would you know what cracked ribs felt like?" Peter's concern hadn't kept him from hitting the guy there again, but he was still concerned.
XXX
"Bruised to hell, how do you think they're doing?" Sylar pointed out. "I probably know what it feels like…What does 'cracked' mean, medically speaking? Broken or fractured…?"
XXX
"Yeah, that's what I mean. I'm trying to tell if you have fractured bones or just soft tissue damage." He eyed the man. Sylar wasn't having any difficulty breathing, which was another signal the injury involved no more than bruising. Obviously, it still hurt, though. "Have you been taking your painkillers?"
XXX
"No. I haven't been doing much of anything. I need to do laundry," he said aloud. I want to move back to somewhere comfortable, my apartment or the suite. "I…" Sylar began again, sighed, then consigned, "Yeah, breakfast."
XXX
"So … you haven't been sleeping, haven't been taking your medicine. Have you been eating regularly?" Speaking slowly, Peter continued, "It sounds like you need someone to help you with keeping a schedule and managing self-care. Too bad there's no one in the city except ants." He gave Sylar a lengthy, unamused look. There was no way in hell he was going to overlook that Sylar thought his assistance was insignificant at best and self-serving at worst. He was sure if Sylar thought there was a larger world of people out there, that he'd be tacking on 'glory-hounding' as well. The diner was just ahead. Peter gestured at it, since otherwise he didn't think Sylar knew where they were going. "This is the place."
XXX
"I have too been sleeping and eating – just not…well. I told you I could take care of myself." Sylar snorted something of a chuckle. "That's really too bad, isn't it? But you are an ant, Peter. No more powers, remember?" He opened the door of the diner for Peter and gestured inside, "After you."