Day 38, January 17, Morning
Peter's stomach turned to ice at being so casually, flippantly even, dismissed. He'd beaten Sylar when the man was at the peak of his powers and Peter had had only one – beaten him thoroughly and brought Nathan back from the dead in the process. Yet he was still nothing to Sylar. He looked at the door opened for him, to usher him inside where Sylar wanted him to be, where Sylar could make more demeaning, insulting conversation while Peter tried to eat and be peaceable. Seething inside, he looked back to Sylar and his eyes narrowed to slits, his face frozen. In a very soft, mild tone, Peter said, "You don't have any power here, either … Sylar." He put a slight emphasis on the man's name – Sylar, the all powerful, most special, whatever-the-fuck, was as powerless as anyone. He has no power over anyone - including me. No reason to keep Sylar alive, work with him, stay on his good side, or try to build a relationship. "Have fun with that." He took a long step backwards (no way was he turning his back on Sylar while in arm's reach, not in Peter's current, near-explosive mood) and headed off in a random direction. Anywhere was good, because they were all further away from the man he wanted to tear apart.
XXX
Sylar turned to watch Peter…leave? "What about-?" He sighed and huffed. He knew why Peter was upset but the Italian was so sensitive and overly emotional. Oh, how Nathan remembered dealing with this hot-and-cold bullshit. "Running away doesn't solve anything, you know," he called after him; this was one of Peter's favorite plays after all. He's not…leaving leaving is he? He said that was…something about his apartment. Do I believe that? "Where are you going?" he had to yell louder to be heard as Peter moved away. I believe he'll break a rib or two if I catch up to him. Trodding, by himself now, he made his way back to Peter's apartment, out of curiosity, to see if Peter went straight home or took a walk or whatever. How am I supposed to ever know if he's home if I can't come inside? The chair Peter had mentioned he would bring hadn't appeared yet, not that Sylar expected it now or ever. He lingered there for longer than he should have, feeling and looking like a pathetic lost puppy in the damp, gray weather. Sylar wondered if he was safe. Peter's most recent history was devoid of sneak attacks. He'd better not be trashing my apartment again! That forced him away from Peter's building to check on his own apartment, though he wasn't happy about any part of this. When he got there, everything was untouched. I guess laundry. I stink, he thought dully. The isolation was getting to him, the nightmares, his health (and his injuries). He could feel it all and he denied it because it made him dependent and needy in ways he couldn't satisfy. A boring hour or so was spent watching the wet clothes spin around and listening to the drone of the dryer.
Sylar managed soup, ate most of it. His surroundings were a comfort, his books, his bed, his clocks, if nothing else was. He didn't get very far into a book before falling into a disturbed sleep.
XXX
Peter walked off at a brisk pace, listening behind him and occasionally glancing back to confirm he wasn't being followed. That calmed him down a lot – the absence of the other. He didn't know where he was going right away, but before a block was up, he'd mentally reoriented to head to the hospital. It was a long way off and so would hopefully function to keep him and Sylar away from one another's throats. It was a place comfortable to him and probably not so much to Sylar. He'd hole up there overnight, negating the whole issue of Sylar being in his lobby or anywhere else in the apartment building where Peter didn't want him to be.
Day 39, January 18, Morning
Sylar was slow and stiff all over again. His head and side protested every movement. Painkillers. That's what he says all the time. Sylar took six Tylenol and didn't give a damn. They helped. It was cold and crappy out and it was time to check on Peter. He came home, right? He doesn't think it's his home, but he got to choose. There was still snow on the ground but still no indication Peter had come around. Fuck. Fuck. This development spiked his anxiety considerably. I didn't go inside! That was his whole problem, wasn't it? How would he know? He's not fucking here to police me! And with that, Sylar scouted the back entrance with similar results.
He's somewhere. The hospital, the Y, and the hotel were all possibilities involving a lot of walking. He'd do that, kill me by walking, trying to find him. Fucking hilarious, Petrelli. It's a stupid way to die. I said I could take care of myself and I'm not dead yet. Why does he care? He doesn't, obviously, not anymore. Desperately, he wished he could figure out what he felt about that. For now, Sylar was panicked and paranoid. "Peter!" he called up at the building. A sign of life….anything. The reality of being alone again was creeping up around him. Sylar tried to walk quickly through his side-ache but the Y was abandoned as well. This isn't unusual. He's done this before. The hotel yielded nothing. Sylar wandered after that, tense, mind racing unpleasantly until his stomach rumbled and he wanted to go back to his apartment to eat and get warm. The weather was increasingly windy as it blew bits of snow up into his face and everything felt icy. He walked by Peter's building again. Tracks! The worry evaporated and even the wind seemed to calm down. The rest of his day was more comfortable, spent indoors.
XXX
Peter felt lousy the next day, stiff and sore and tired from bad and interrupted sleep in a pantry off the hospital cafeteria. For whatever dumb reason that had made sense at the time, he hadn't wanted to sleep in a normal bed in a patient room. By the early hours of the next morning, he regretted that decision, but was too stubborn to change it and too unsettled to sleep, anyway. His nightmares revolved around Sylar hunting him through the medical facility, a fear he couldn't convince his subconscious was unrealistic. So instead, it was Peter restlessly making the rounds through the unnaturally quiet, darkened halls.
He packed up a new bag of medical supplies, since the others were in the penthouse he didn't plan to visit right away. After that, he didn't hurry back – there was nothing to hurry back to. By now, Peter was concerned Sylar might be erratic, threatening, and miserable from all the factors currently plaguing him. Deciding what to do about it was the problem. Prevailing over his concerns was the belief that Sylar was well enough that Sylar wouldn't die from anything wrong with him currently (unless it was from his bad judgment in picking fights). Staying away from the asshole was probably best for both of them, or so he told himself. (That, and making sure he was equipped for the next bout of violence.) He made it back to his apartment in the late afternoon, approaching the place in indirect stages with a lot of careful watching down the empty streets. If Sylar was lying in wait for him, he wasn't doing it openly. As it turned out, he wasn't doing it at all.
Day 40, January 19, Morning
With a restful night of sleep in a good bed behind him, Peter was feeling more charitable the next morning. He thought about the battered storefront, but decided to work on something closer to home. He went to the apartment across the hall from his own, the one where he'd put the surplus furniture, and pulled an overstuffed chair from it. With slow maneuvering, he got it into the elevator and down to the lobby. He went back and made a second, faster trip with an end table and a coaster, in case Sylar had a cup of coffee with him or whatever. He set the seat canted with back partly to outside, where Sylar could watch both elevators and the stairwell door at once. Peter was pleased with the setup, and more with the idea of Sylar waiting on him. It was like he was important. He supposed that shouldn't amuse him, but the guy had been talking about how insignificant Peter was, so he didn't feel too guilty about it. He would have liked to have left a copy of Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People on the end table to passive-aggressively drive home the point, but he didn't have any books and didn't feel like trekking to the library just to be mean. Having eaten breakfast in his apartment, he returned to it now to pass the time toying with his guitar and working on stretching exercises for his hand.
XXX
The next day, Peter had brought out the chair, just like he said he would. There was much relief in that gesture. Peter was probably still angry – he hadn't come to see Sylar or check on him (based on the lack of footprints in the snow). He knew where Sylar lived. Sylar considered leaving a note but he had nothing to say that wasn't disgusting levels of gratitude for Peter's mere existence. It was such a fucking problem. He sat in the chair; he dozed in the chair. Peter came out late morning and startled him to death, Sylar jerking ungracefully and sitting up quickly, taking a breath. For a moment they stared at each other. He was glad, willingly grateful that Peter wasn't a creation of his sick mind (or maybe he was, either way, it was entertaining).
XXX
Ah. There he is. Peter's consolation in seeing the other man was closely followed by irritation and tension. What would Sylar do now? Why had he been waiting for him? Had he been taking care of himself? Was he going to start another fight? Peter's expression hardened as he studied Sylar, waiting to see how things would play out.
XXX
Sylar licked his lips, put on the spot by that look. 'I told you running wouldn't work,' was the first thing he thought to say. "Um…Good morning," he tried. Wasn't that what Peter always said to him? "You brought the chair out," he shrugged a little, justifying his presence before Peter could freak out about that (again).
XXX
Peter waited a beat, but Sylar said nothing else. Usually, an admission that someone had done something a person liked was followed with a 'thank you', but apparently the one highly coerced noise of gratitude Sylar had made under duress days earlier was all the man had in him. Maybe I'm asking for something he doesn't have to give? (That seems impossible. He's human, after all.) Maybe the book idea is practical, not mean. Peter's expression softened anyway. He nodded to the greeting. "Yeah. Is it comfortable?" He knew it was – he'd sat in it himself and he'd just woke Sylar out of napping in it, though that might be more of a statement on how little sleep Sylar had been getting recently than anything about the chair. If he couldn't get gratitude, then he could at least get confirmation that his actions were pleasing.
XXX
"Yes," Sylar hastened. "Very." He wasn't sure which one of them was being trained here, if Peter was being trained out of needing the groveling or if Sylar was being trained to give it. After debating the pros and cons of each, he noted that Peter did pleasing things either way. A simple thanks didn't cost much and Peter acted like he'd never said 'thank you' to him before when he had, several times. It was a simple trick to amuse Peter or to get what Sylar wanted. The secondary thing, the thing that really got him thinking was the completely needless gesture. Sylar had no need of a chair, let alone a nice one and a side table. Maybe he's desperate. If I feed him, he'll stay, right? "Thank you," he said, glancing out the glass of the entryway.
XXX
Peter eyes widened in surprise and a little bit of a smile came over his face. Sylar had thanked him? And for real - not something forced out of the man at the end of a fight. Peter had been fishing for a compliment, but he hadn't expected as much as he'd gotten. Peter dipped his head and tried to play it cool. It would be embarrassing to make a big deal of it. He made a wave at the door. "Um, I came down to eat out. I saw this Vietnamese soup place on my way back yesterday. I thought I'd check it out for lunch." He paused for a moment, his voice turning guarded. "Do you want to come with me?"
XXX
Soup? Sylar found that amusing. Peter was adventurous with his food, but he'd have to be, since he was a vegan or whatever. "That would be consistent with my diet," he replied, playing it cool.
XXX
They headed out. Peter turned south at the end of the block, following his mostly-filled-in trudge marks from the day before. With the north wind snapping at their backs now, he slipped on his headband and offered for conversation, "It's been bitter cold. It does get warm around here sometime, right?" He gave a half-chuckle and looked over at Sylar.
XXX
Yeah, when you're around. Sylar looked back at him, an amused twinkle in his eye. "Oh, it gets warm. It's New York."
XXX
"Do you do anything different to pass the time when the weather's good? Go to the park, lay in the sun? Nude sun-bathing maybe?" He stiffened, regretting that he'd already strayed into what might be interpreted as innuendo. "Um," he shrugged, trying to think of what to say to make it more clearly a joke and not a serious inquiry. "Because that's what I'd do." Shut up, Peter! That's making it worse. (Even if true … Here all alone …) He shrugged again and awkwardly cleared his throat. "The restaurant's a couple more blocks up here on the left."
XXX
Sylar blinked. It sounds like you missed me, too. I bet that's what you'd do, Peter. "No, but we can certainly add it to the rotation," he promised smugly. Does that mean he wants to see me naked? He shut up for a few minutes, ignoring Peter's flustered embarrassment to plot several ways to make that happen, should he feel the need to. He'd already had a few opportunities…"Do you like Asian?" he asked, referring to the food, "Or is it just something that appeals to your vegan…lifestyle?" He didn't know what the proper term in the correct tense was. The cold was more manageable with company and the promise of food. Sylar's appetite had been returning, with ebbs and flows, but he took it as a sign of recovery. His head hurt worse than his ribs now.
XXX
"Lifestyle?" He arched a brow at Sylar. "You've seen how I eat. It's not vegan. Technically, I suppose, I'm a 'pesco-vegetarian'. I'll eat fish. Anything that breathes water, is cold-blooded, doesn't have a complex brain – that's different enough for me. But pigs and cattle are mammals. Birds are close enough that I'm not going to eat one, not even a chicken. But eggs, milk, cheese?" He shrugged. "Anything that doesn't involve killing the animal, I'm okay with. People need to improve the living conditions, sure, but I don't see that boycotting the product is the answer. We made animals for this stuff, like, over thousands of years. We can't just abandon them."
"In the big scheme of things, I'm going to put my efforts into people and avoid eating things I wouldn't want to kill." He remembered a disastrous and traumatizing hunting trip with his father and Nathan when he'd been a boy. When Peter proved unwilling to shoot the innocent creature they'd spotted, Nathan had wrested the gun from him and killed it himself while Peter protested. He remembered the scene so clearly: Arthur laughing and clapping Nathan on the back as they walked back, silhouetted along the darkening trail as Peter followed along, sniffling. In the photographs Arthur had taken of Nathan, holding up the limp head of the dead deer and mugging for the camera, a person could see Peter still crying off to the side, an unimportant bit of background whose feelings were as insignificant as the deer's. Peter had been utterly ignored by both of them after he'd failed the rite of passage his father had engineered for him. Dark thoughts and unprocessed anger at his family swirled in Peter's head. There were things he'd never be able to convince Nathan he was wrong about – important things! It felt so damn unfinished. He gritted his teeth. But none of this had anything to do with Sylar in the here and now. With an uneasy roll of his shoulders, he tried to put it away.
Peter opened the door for the restaurant and changed the subject as he went in. "Asian food's good. Most of the dishes are a mix of a lot of different things. I like that. And it's not that hard to stir fry stuff. I've done that before." The results were definitely edible, even with his cooking. It beat ramen noodles, at least. He'd had a wok in college, left behind by a girlfriend who had shown him how to use it. He wondered if the cooking process would work the same in a normal pan. "What about you? You mentioned your diet?" It seemed dumb that he was asking about food restrictions at this point, since he'd made meals for the guy. He recalled asking about allergies, but that wasn't the same thing. Peter was hardly allergic to prime rib, but that didn't mean he wanted someone to serve it to him.
XXX
"Asian is good. Healthy," he remarked. A pointed finger indicated his head, "My head, the concussion, doesn't exactly make for a big appetite. I had soup the other day." When I was by myself. I said I wouldn't die, said I could take care of myself.
XXX
"Huh," Peter grunted, a sound of dubious approval that Sylar was at least eating. But what did 'the other day' mean? That the last time the guy had eaten wasn't yesterday? Shaking his head about that, Peter peered into the refrigerated cabinet in the restaurant kitchen. He looked at one of the small plates to the left, lifting it to examine the pair of spring rolls, presumably waiting for paying customers who would never come. But it was certainly convenient that Sylar's mental hell included prepared food. Peter wasn't going to complain, especially given how downright reluctant Sylar was to fix meals.
"I think this is tofu," he muttered, trying to make out the contents behind the cloudy rice paper.
XXX
"Spare me," Sylar responded sarcastically. He scanned the available ingredients, formulating a real, main dish even as Peter focused on appetizers or snacks. "If I let you pick out our food, that's what I'm getting, right?"
XXX
"Well, maybe. Tofu's not bad," Peter said with a degree of indignation. It was better than not eating at all, so he didn't think Sylar had much in the way of grounds to complain.
XXX
Sylar rolled his eyes at Peter's poor eating habits and trying to include Sylar in the cardboard diet routine. "You set the table," he instructed. Peter had mentioned soup, so that's what he'd be getting. Sylar wanted some rice since Peter had said something about that being a good 'healing' food. It sounded perfectly bland enough that he could add sriracha or other flavors. Between Nathan and himself, he remembered enough of what went into a pho soup – nutmeg, cinnamon, star anise, lime, those little crunchy things, lemon grass, ginger, fish sauce and a dozen other herbs.
XXX
"Hm," he said in vague response, eyeing the food he'd already found. Peter wasn't sure if that was really tofu he was seeing in the middle of the roll. It was a crispy-looking strip of something that was white on the cut part. It could have been chicken. Or it might be fried pork. Since he wasn't sure, he put it back, a decision that had nothing to do with Sylar's preferences. "Oh!" He spied something else and pulled out a similar plate, but these rolls clearly had shrimp in them. "These are good." He pulled out a second plate and took them to the table, craning his neck to see what Sylar was doing as he went.
XXX
Why is he still here? Sylar wondered as he gathered the ingredients, getting irritated that Peter wasn't following a simple direction. Typical. I'm trying to work here, and he's goofing off. (He just wants a spring roll he can eat). That's exactly the problem. And he's in my way. (Well, actually he's-) He will be in my way. At last, Peter obeyed and wandered off. (He's distracting no matter what he does). He heated the broth and added noodles.
XXX
Peter set the table, fetched condiments, and poured up drinks, as instructed. When Sylar joined him at the table with food for both of them, Peter was quietly delighted. I was just thinking about how he didn't cook … um, I bet that's not a vegetarian broth. His smile faltered as he recalled the hamburger Sylar had made for himself at the last restaurant, and Peter decided to simply not ask. It was probably better that way, even if it robbed him of the pleasure of having Sylar handle the cooking for a change. He started on his spring rolls instead, dipping one in and taking a hearty bite out of the end. He chewed three or four times, then stopped abruptly. He looked at the exposed interior of the roll, frowning at it.
XXX
"What?" Sylar prompted, holding his own roll, dipped but as yet untasted.
XXX
Peter finished chewing and swallowed. "It's, uh, not just shrimp. There's … I think there's pork in there."
XXX
"Oh." Sylar looked between the roll and Peter, trying to gauge where this was going. "It won't kill you."
XXX
Peter scowled at him, but he knew Sylar hadn't engineered the situation – at least not with the spring roll. The jury was still out on the broth. "It's not what I wanted." He sniffed at the roll, but the smell wasn't off-putting. "It's just a cold cut," he said, more to himself than to Sylar.
XXX
"Why would that make a difference?" Sylar bit into his.
XXX
Peter shrugged. "There are some pork products I can't handle. It doesn't have anything to do with being a vegetarian."
XXX
Now Sylar's face showed curiosity. "It doesn't?"
XXX
Peter took another bite and chewed slowly – like Sylar said, it wouldn't kill him, and it was already on his plate. He wasn't happy about it, though. When he was done, he dipped the open end of the second half of the roll. "You'd be surprised at how many EMTs and first responders don't eat pork."
XXX
"Ah," Sylar said, catching the reference to the similarity in smell between a human body burning in a car and a side of pork roasting in an oven. He finished off one of the spring rolls and pulled over his bowl.
XXX
Thinking about the number of dead bodies Sylar had been around, Peter said bitterly, "Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised." How had Sylar managed to kill so many people and still have a thriving appetite?
XXX
Sylar's face blanked. He stirred the broth along the edge of the bowl. Those small comments, clearly intended to bite, were almost as bad as the loud, direct declarations. He didn't appreciate the reminders or the memories. It cast him in the permanent role of sinner and outcast.
XXX
Peter huffed, irritated by the bad choice in spring rolls, his lingering suspicions about the broth, and how they had conspired to remind him the reminder of Sylar's past. "Ted … and Isaac … their brains were gone. What happened to them?"
XXX
Sylar's expression went from guarded to glacial. His fingers curled more firmly around the handle of the spoon. Now Peter was just pissing him off. "What are you implying?"
XXX
"I'm implying I don't know what happened and I've always wondered." He just hadn't previously felt irritable enough to ask something so rude.
XXX
Sylar made a slight, noncommittal head tilt. Peter could take it as a vague agreement or a mocking 'you'll never know.'
XXX
Peter finished his spring roll and pushed the other to the side. He wouldn't be eating it, anyway. "So what happened to them? Did you … wash them down the drain, toss them in a dumpster, eat them?"
XXX
That was gross and he had enough trouble eating already. "I did not eat their brains," Sylar said between clenched teeth. His head was lowered and he glared up under his brows, doing his best to be intimidating.
XXX
Peter was less intimidated than he probably should have been. Familiarity had bred a degree of contempt. But he took the warning flag for what it was and changed tactics, trying to tone it down. He offered one of the less gory alternatives he'd imagined: "Did your ability transmute them?"
XXX
Sylar blinked once, then again. He lifted his head slightly. "What are you talking about?" he asked carefully.
XXX
"Well," Peter shrugged and gestured to himself, "I was put, entire body, inside someone else. We shared space." Sylar's eyes narrowed. If I don't calm him down, I'm going to start a fight and it will be my fault. What does he like? Everyone likes being right. He doesn't have all those books because he's dumb. Peter tried yet another tactic. "So it's not like abilities respect the laws of dynamics-"
XXX
"Thermodynamics."
XXX
"Right." Peter made an airy gesture as he let Sylar think he was an idiot. "And conservation of space and all that."
XXX
"It's mass, not space."
XXX
Peter nodded agreeably. As he had desired, Sylar was sitting up now and listening to him attentively, even if it was just to find more things to correct Peter over. He felt he was safe now to go back to what he really wanted to know. "So the brains were missing. I was wondering if your ability absorbed them or something."
XXX
Sylar's sight line made the short journey back and forth between Peter's eyes. Eventually he said quietly, "No, it doesn't work like that." As far as he could tell, what made sense, was his brain duplicating what he saw within the other's brains, gaining not only the ability but the understanding of it.
XXX
"Okay." Peter pulled his soup bowl over and began the customary struggle over getting enough noodles into his spoon or onto his chopsticks to eat in an at least halfway dignified manner. Whatever he'd been served, he was going to eat. He'd been irked about the food, took it out on Sylar, and then defused the situation successfully. He didn't feel he needed to keep needling the man. One taste told him it was not a vegetarian broth. He frowned and fished through it with the chopsticks, but found no actual meat. He probably didn't notice what kind of broth it was. He was trying. He listened to me, to what I wanted, and he tried to give it. Peter nodded once in recognition of the attempt, his face calming, and continued eating.
XXX
Sylar watched him for a few moments, then made a displeased face and went back to his food. "Claire asked the same thing."
XXX
"What's that?"
XXX
"If I ate them," he said, eyes on his bowl, disappointed in people and how they viewed him.
XXX
Peter paused, spoon half-raised. Claire asked? "Wouldn't she know?" He was afraid to ask it, but he felt he had to.
XXX
"She asked me…during…" As he said it, Sylar realized just how awkward it was – telling this to the girl's uncle. And, remembering the teddy bear incident, I hope he doesn't have a Claire complex, too…
XXX
Oh. The emotional weight of that was so great, Peter didn't know what to do with it. He remembered Sylar making small talk while trying to cut Peter's head open in Mohinder's apartment. He rubbed at his forehead, then shook his head and went on eating, trying not to let it affect him. He needed to say something, so he said brusquely, "You were trying to kill her, Sylar. I can see that being something she'd want to know."
XXX
"I wasn't going to kill her. As it turned out, I couldn't kill her."
XXX
"Did she know that? Sounds like you didn't." Peter's tension returned. All the possible ways Sylar's attack on Claire might have played out were spinning through the back of his mind. He tried to ignore them. If he knew the details, it made it more real, and he might have to do something about it – something violent and stupid which wouldn't help anyone, so he was better off not thinking about it. At the same time, he wanted to know … hence the conflicted tension.
XXX
Sylar made another dismissive gesture and went back to eating. He didn't want to answer that. So many things going on in his head at the time, bleeding out, focused on his mission and the irony of it all…Having a conversation like that with a person who wasn't…dying (being murdered) had been…
XXX
Peter forced himself to relax, or tried to. Sylar seemed lost in thought. Peter wondered what he was thinking about, specifically. Maybe it was some pondering of the permutations of abilities, but Peter suspected it was something more human. Sylar wouldn't have come back to the topic after Peter dropped it unless it mattered to him on a deeper level. The answer came to him as a flash of inspiration. "She's the only one who's still alive. Is that it?"
XXX
Sylar couldn't hold back his grimace, looking away from Peter towards his own soup, but he did mute it somewhat. "Is … is that what?"
XXX
Peter watched the guilt being hidden away behind anxious and insincere confusion. He thought how hard it must be to have to deal with one of your victims, or the brother of a victim. How hard it must be to wake up every day, put a good face on it, and act cheerful and normal and something other than cringing with guilt and shame because you murdered someone close to the person you were dealing with. At times, Peter had wondered if Sylar was a complete sociopath, but he seemed to have normal emotions. Guilt was a good start. This didn't seem the right time to rub it in. "Nah," Peter gave a shake of his head. "It's nothing. How's your soup?"
XXX
Sylar had his suspicions about what Peter meant. He gave a shallow nod as if in agreement to the unspoken conversation, and said, "At least it's not tofu."
XXX
Peter made a strained chuckle. "Tofu's got a bad rep. You ought to give it a try sometime." Maybe try living without killing things, he thought snarkily. He pursed his lips, thinking about Sylar's 'I'm not the savior kind.' What kind of person is he, then? He doesn't seem to want to be a killer. "You didn't answer me earlier - have you ever considered trying a vegetarian … lifestyle?" He gave Sylar a quirky half-smile because of how corny he knew that sounded. "I'm serious about that. A literal answer is fine." He took a slurping mouthful of noodles, veggies, and soup, trying to figure out a way that 'Have you tried not being a killer?' didn't come out sounding like 'Have you tried being not gay?'
XXX
Sylar's spoon clanked in against his bowl as he took the time to turn and glare at Peter. The empath's whole hang-up about meat was the killing/murder/death aspect. In light of that, the question was very pointed. Literal answer my ass. "Like, eat more brains, save a chicken?" he snapped. "It would be stupid of me to kill people and be a vegetarian, wouldn't it? So, no. I never considered it." At least I'm consistent.
XXX
Okay, that didn't work. Peter gave Sylar a very unimpressed frown for joking about people's lives, but otherwise he turned his energy to eating. Pho was a stubbornly messy food and he'd rather get more of it inside of him than argue with Sylar over ethics. Regardless of his attempt to be tidy, he was pretty sure his food was not all going into his mouth.
XXX
Sylar was stewing when he felt a few tiny droplets of warm broth flick onto his hand from Peter's wild noodles. He sighed, rubbing his forehead in the now-awkward silence. Of course, Peter would be intimidated and sulk, hating him and everything he stood for. "That's…not a reflection on vegetarianism. You just…have to think before you ask…questions. Everything comes back to that," he intoned, referring to his criminal history and violent tendencies. He meant it by way of clearing the air if not by way of apology. It sounded like an excuse.
XXX
I do think! But Peter said nothing for the moment, merely pursing his lips. After another spoonful, he said, "If I knew the answers, then I wouldn't have to ask the questions. You're going to have to deal with me not knowing." He pushed some bell pepper and a slice of squash into the broth already on his soup spoon with his chopsticks before using the sticks to pull up a wad of noodles. With a hint of faux innocence, he said, "I thought those were the rules or something – I do things and you adjust?" The food he'd staged went into his mouth.
XXX
Sylar stiffened and his jaw clenched. He did not appreciate the reminder that Peter could do anything he liked and was well aware of it.
XXX
"On a certain level, that's how it always is. We're the only ones here - of course we react to each other. From your point of view, you're having to adjust all the time. From mine … I'm the one adjusting." Peter cocked his head a little, wondering if Sylar, smart as he was, could get the idea of seeing things from a point of view other than his own. On the other hand, he didn't have a history of taking others' feelings into account.
XXX
Naturally, that begged the question of what Peter thought he'd been 'adjusting' to thus far. Sylar was able to answer it himself: Not having his food made and his dishes cleaned for him. Being alone. Dealing with me. (That sucks. He must hate it here). Peter didn't look at him or make more direct comments and it was a relief. Sylar put his head down and tried to eat his soup in a quiet, self-contained manner. It bothered him that an otherwise…palatable situation for him was so unbearable for his companion because Peter had to put up with him. Underneath all that was the implication that Peter wasn't happy with Sylar's adjustments. He doesn't need me, he said. "What do you think your biggest adjustment is? Besides you-know-who."
XXX
Who? Peter blinked uncertainly at Sylar. Does he mean adjusting to being around him, or adjusting to life without Nathan? It was the latter, definitely, though he wouldn't discount how problematic the former was. The corners of his mouth turned down. Avoiding putting his difficulties in any hierarchy, Peter instead mentioned the most recent: "For one thing, this isn't a vegetarian soup."
XXX
Sylar looked to his companion's bowl. "It's soup," he said, as if his statement would make the question (and any blame) disappear. "I didn't thi-" No! That makes it worse! He cut himself off from admitting he'd been thoughtless, careless, and made a mistake even though Peter was aware. He stared at the bowl, wondering if Peter's empathy made his sensitivity to taste better than most, if all soup contained meat somehow, or if Peter was just joking and making things up. He didn't know the effects of meat on a vegan, hopefully not something like an allergic reaction… "That won't make you sick, will it?"
XXX
Peter studied Sylar's face, surprised to see Sylar cared (even if what he was caring about was probably just his ego, that he'd done something wrong and been called on it). "No," was all he said.
XXX
Sylar relaxed at that. He felt obliged to comment, "You didn't have to eat it."
XXX
"You made it for me." He shrugged, hoping this wouldn't discourage Sylar from fixing food in future. "It won't kill me."
XXX
Sylar knew he was caught then, stuck. They both knew who made the soup, and Sylar couldn't claim ignorance (especially not after Peter had mentioned it just prior). Perhaps Peter took it that way: Sylar deliberately being a jerk, which wasn't above him and neither was killing. It was a definite reflection of Peter's expectations and Sylar's failure to conform to the necessary 'adjustments.' He stared at his own broth, tense and working himself up to it. "I'm…sorry," he got out after a long pause. It was an honest mistake. I can't tell if he knows that. I can do better.
XXX
Peter's brows rose. An apology and thanks all in the same day? And he did make the soup for me. He cleared his throat slightly and pushed the mostly empty bowl to the side. "It's okay. You didn't put any meat in it. I could tell you were trying." He gestured at the lone spring roll. "I didn't get it right, either. Happens." A lot. More than it should.
XXX
He just nodded and gathered their bowls to transport to the sink. How is that okay? It was one thing for Nathan to notice Peter had stopped eating meat at home and started ordering salads at restaurants, but Nathan also didn't care. The whole love-peace movement was important to Peter, so feeding him meat was like going against kosher (a big deal to those weirdos). It was rude and he knew that. What if he's just saying that? Sylar's mind was busy as he gave the dishes and cooking tools a brief scrub with soapy water. He's not holding me to a different standard, Sylar was shocked to realize. He's not blaming me for my mistake, which was exactly like his mistake. He glanced at Peter, looking him over for deceit. He found none, which didn't surprise him.
XXX
Peter rose and helped with clean-up. Once done, he put on his coat, fussing with turning up the collar before moving on to headband and gloves. "With the weather like it is, I'm not going to do anything with the storefront today. The roads should clear off eventually." He shot Sylar a checking glance to see if the other man was upset about it, or seemed to be reading Peter's concession to reality as giving up. "I think I'll go back and play some more music."
XXX
Still turning this new idea over made him agreeable to whatever, so long as he was somewhat included. Music is good. "Okay." A full mind and belly, company, music and the lack of tension was heaven, especially if he got a nap out of the deal, which was likely. He's tolerating me today. Sylar shrugged himself deeper into his coat and put hands in pockets to follow Peter out into the wind as it blew in their faces. Maybe it's just not a good day to handle glass or big pieces of plywood, he thought, worried about Peter's commitment and his own interest in a building he had no attachment to. He still had questions, of course. "It's not vegan if it's had meat in it at any point, is that it? Like a chicken-base broth?" That must be annoying, checking every product for contents. And even then, I think the contents is a flat-out lie or publicity scam.
XXX
Peter shot him a look. That was pretty basic stuff, but Sylar didn't seem to be messing with him, so he answered it seriously. "If someone had to kill an animal at some point to make it, then I don't want to eat it."
XXX
Sylar frowned at the sky a moment, looking for a reason to denounce veganism for Peter just for kicks. It seemed like an equal trade-off of healthy and unhealthy, what with all the minerals in meat and animal products and it clearly wasn't an easy way to eat (or for Sylar to cook for that matter). Talking Peter out of it was for their combined best interest. "Is that ironic or hypocritical that you 'don't eat meat' and you're gay? I thought that might be kind of a given." He smirked about that, digging for confirmation if Peter dominated or submitted during sex.
XXX
Peter snorted. "Nobody dies when I have sex with them, Sylar." No, they just die afterward, because you had sex with them. Simone and Caitlin flashed across his mind. The horrible truth of that nasty inner voice made him suck in his breath and hunch his shoulders. "I'm done talking," he snapped, voice rough. Not sure how Sylar would take the suspicious and abrupt end of the conversation, combined with his tone, Peter added, "It's too cold," in as close to a normal voice as he could manage. Sylar, for once, obliged. Peter didn't register the incorrect orientation until a few minutes later, but he wasn't about to break the silence for it. What is it with him and not getting things? He keeps calling me a vegan, too. (Nathan was the same way.) Is it the concussion, or is he just not listening to me?