Day 40, January 19, Afternoon
Peter was glad to get back to the recreation room of the Pegasus and out of the wind. It seemed to be getting worse, picking up the snow and throwing it in his eyes enough to make him thankful he had opted out of any outdoor activities. He shed his coat and headband gladly, settling on the piano bench as he worked off his gloves first, and then went on to unfasten the brace from his right hand.
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Sylar settled himself in the couch, watching Peter muck around with his brace. It brought something more important to mind. "How is your shoulder?" he asked, voice deepening at the thought. He wanted to see it (he wanted to do a lot more - it made his mouth practically water to contemplate).
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"What?" Peter glanced over, stretching his fingers carefully. "It was stiff for a while, but it's fine now." Between exercise, the hot tub at the Y, and the passage of time, it was all better. It was an odd thing for Sylar to ask after, especially in that tone of voice.
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"The bite."
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"Oh." Peter automatically reached up and touched it with his left hand, knowing the exact spot. He'd had a lot of fun with that spot and a slew of fantasies about Nathan and Sylar which were entirely perverted even by Peter's standards. He'd hadn't spent all their time apart exercising and hot tubbing at the Y. He'd been relieved enough about the return of his sex drive after months of it being in absentia that he hadn't questioned it. "Oh," he said again. He'd never imagined Sylar might want a status update on the damn contusion.
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Sylar stood and moved closer to view it directly up close. Oh, how he wanted to touch…He hovered over Peter, watching him dutifully move his clothing to bare his shoulder and his wound.
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He hoped it looked normal. Peter sat there looking up at Sylar for a second too long, trying to figure out how to get by with refusing to show it, just in case it didn't look right after his manhandling of himself, and yet not lose access to any of Sylar's injuries when the other man needed medical care. He couldn't decide and there Sylar was looking expectant, so Peter took the gamble and pulled his shirt aside.
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Sylar froze. It was much darker than it should have been, after nearly a week of healing. Sleepless, lonely nights had little to do with his paranoia (so he thought). There was only one answer. Peter was happy today, he'd been with someone else. Peter hadn't told him about this other person who'd…who'd done things to Peter's mark – to his mark on Peter. There was someone else here with them! He grabbed Peter by the lapels, yelling, "Who did that to you?! Who else is here?!"
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The sudden attack took Peter completely by surprise. I guess it doesn't look normal, was all his floundering brain supplied, along with contradictory mental messages to fight Sylar and yet not endanger his unprotected, still-healing, broken hand. He grabbed at Sylar with his left – his hand landing on Sylar's forearm, then his chest, then dropping a few inches and to the side as some presence of mind reminded Peter of where he'd punched Sylar before. It might still be tender, but all Peter was doing at the moment was targeting. His right hand was off and back, putting his body between Sylar and the injury that mattered most to him. Only at that point, with Sylar in his face waiting for an answer, did he try to process what was being asked of him. Another person? "What?!" he answered in bafflement. "No one! Why would you think that?" He pushed on Sylar – not hard, just a strong suggestion to back off.
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"It's darker than it was before! It's been almost a week! So how did it get so dark, Peter? Huh? There is someone else here!" He shook Peter a little, desperate to know the identity of this stranger who was definitely on his radar now, and possibly on his hit list. He felt crazier than ever. How had he not noticed this?!
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"Wha-" Peter cut himself off from repeating the same 'what?' mantra that was going on in his head. "Okay, it's-" He racked his brain for how to explain this. Sylar shaking him wasn't helping. He considered fighting him off, stopping the questions with his fists, but Sylar was asking questions. Sylar wasn't necessarily trying to fight and that made it tough for Peter to make the transition to violence on his own. He brought his right hand around to grip Sylar's wrist and give him more stability while he pushed on the guy with the other hand. But Sylar seemed immovable unless Peter was willing to escalate. He wasn't, so he confessed. "I did it, okay? It was me! Now let me go!"
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…? Sylar stared. That's what he would say if he didn't want me to know someone else was here or that he was…fooling around. Or…is that a joke? I don't understand.
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Neither one of them was moving now. Better, Peter thought. But Sylar hadn't released him as ordered. He elaborated, hoping that would get the guy's hands off him. "I pinched it. Right there," he gestured with his left hand. "Too hard, obviously." He was embarrassed and angry, teeth bared, but eye contact uncertain as he didn't want to look Sylar in the eye for this. What a fucked up thing to get interrogated over! What the fuck is wrong with him? This is not right.
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Finally, Sylar blinked. "Why…would you do that?" The answer was so bizarre and unexpected that it served to viably distract him from the possibility of a third person.
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"I told you: get off me!" Peter pulled the fingers of his left hand into a tight claw and jammed his knuckles into Sylar's ribcage on his lower right side. Peter had landed a few punches there the week before. Bones took longer to heal than soft tissue. Even if he was wrong about the spot, the twisting motion he put into it was enough to drive most people off. With his right he made a much lighter shove and only at Sylar's wrist. Peter was still sitting on the bench in front of the piano – hardly the best place to start trading blows.
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Sylar grunted and slapped at Peter's hand, indicating his displeasure. He did step back and release Peter, though – his earlier continued hold had been due to shock and confusion. He glared, snapping back, "And I asked you a question! Several of them."
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Peter got to his feet, left fist curled. Once again, there weren't any decent weapons on this side of the room. (Probably should keep it that way.) He fumed anyway, glaring at Sylar and pacing back and forth uneasily, looking like he was on the verge of attacking, but in reality burning off restless energy to keep himself from doing exactly that. He still wasn't getting the right signals to fight. Embarrassing questions were not just cause for hurting someone. He stopped, hands loosely on hips, and looked at the ceiling. "There's no one else here. It's just you and me. That's it."
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"I don't believe you," Sylar enunciated, focused on the dialogue. He wanted the real explanation or at least a good one. The denial of a third person's existence only went so far and the longer he had to wait, the worse this feeling of insanity would get.
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Lips thin, he looked at Sylar. He remembered the man's questions early on about where Claire was and Sylar's belief the world was real. For Sylar, there was always the possibility there were other people out there. Peter had no idea what the bruise on his neck looked like. He knew where it was by feel and that was all he needed, so he hadn't looked at it for days. Did it look like someone had grabbed him? Or like a hickey? He exhaled heavily and looked off to the side. 'Why would you do that?' Well … it was a good question. Like so much that involved passion or lust or tangled emotions, it didn't have a good answer.
It did, though, have an honest one. Peter knew he had to defuse this. If he'd been alone for years and thought there was someone else here, he'd be berserk to know more, too. "I like a little pain right when I get off sometimes," Peter blurted out before he could lose his nerve to say it. "It was convenient. That's all." The scaldingly embarrassing nugget was out in the open now. Downside: Sylar knew. Upside: Sylar couldn't use it against him or freak out about non-existent other people. Voice quieting in threat, Peter said, "It's none of your business."
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Sylar…took a few seconds to fully absorb that. It was just as likely to be truthful for all he knew. He also knew instinctively that it wasn't 'convenient.' Another person, one Peter found attractive, had purposefully inflicted the bite, unlike the broken bones in his fingers, which would have been more 'convenient' and much less personal. Sylar's head tilted as a slow smile bloomed across his face. "Right. Of course. I should bite you more often, if that's your problem. You let me know when you need a…re-application," he smirked, straightening as his ego inflated. So that's why he's tolerating me today – he got off. And he likes some pain with sex.
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Peter glared at him, but he couldn't see a way to shut Sylar down that didn't involve talking about something he'd never wanted to talk about in the first place. Instead, he returned to pacing until Sylar settled on the couch. Fortunately (for both of them most likely), Sylar didn't offer any further commentary on the matter. Peter shot him a few reproachful looks anyway before sitting at the piano and making a fussy show of adjusting his shirt so the bruise was no longer visible. He played much more aggressively than necessary, hitting the keys hard enough that every song made his broken finger ache even though he was careful not to actually use it. He made wincing faces at it between sets and stretched it gingerly. Eventually, he calmed down and spent the next few hours playing more normally (and less painfully).
Peter didn't repeat songs as much this time as he had in the past – he played one, then tried another and another, then back to the first tune, then a different one after it. If Sylar cared, he didn't show it. He dozed or slept or at least zoned out. Peter found it … soothing – the company and the presence, even if it was his brother's killer. He stopped playing to sit massaging the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, watching Sylar's recumbent form and considering how hard it was to see his as an inhuman monster. Sylar was so very human: Biting, needy, grouchy, temperamental, murderous, threatening, arrogant, grabby, Peter paused in listing Sylar's attributes to adjust his shirt again, as though just thinking of Sylar pulling it askew had caused it to need attention. He's a pain the ass. It wasn't an entirely unamused thought. He took out his comb and worked over his hair, then rose and stretched his back. Replacing the comb, he started towards the door, thinking he'd go upstairs to scavenge for something to eat.
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Finally, his sleep had been restful. Sylar curled up and didn't feel like moving; it was glorious. When the pleasant music stopped, he stirred and saw Peter trying to sneak away. He sat up and made a noise so Peter knew he was up, in theory if not in practice yet. "Time for bed already? You can sleep in the suite."
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"It's not that late, as far as I know." Peter took a step into the lobby and looked out the front. It was dim, but that seemed to be due to clouds rather than dusk. "I doubt it's even dinner time." Frowning, he turned back to Sylar. "Besides, why would you want to sleep with me? You said I meant nothing to you." He knew he should provide Sylar an out to take back his hurtful comments, that he ought to ask something like, 'Has that changed?', but he didn't. He was still angry about the 'ant' comment, but he'd moved past venting. Now his voice was forthright with only a hint of bitterness.
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"Oh, Petrelli drama," Sylar got up, passing Peter with an eyeroll. "Did I say that, exactly?" An eyebrow rose at him as he wandered around the lobby.
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Peter gave Sylar's back a very unimpressed look. "You called me an 'ant.'" Or maybe it was that I was an ant compared to him, but either way, I'm not going to let that pass.
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"Like I said: I called you an ant. I didn't say you were meaningless or useless." And that was true.
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"Yeah?" Is he thinking of taking it back? Is there a compliment in there somewhere? Peter doubted it, but he wandered closer anyway, following Sylar in a general fashion towards the glass doors to outside. "How am I meaningful to you?"
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A light bulb went off in Sylar's head. Nathan never stroked his ego. That was what Peter wanted out of his older, hero-worshipped brother (hell, out of his whole messed up family) – a little praise. I wonder how easy he'll be to manipulate now that I know that? "You think 'the last person on Earth' is an insult; to me, it's accepted fact." His voice softened as he admitted, "I don't mind the…privacy."
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Peter stiffened at first, taking Sylar's words as a threat. Privacy – like he'd rather be alone and he wants to get rid of me? He relaxed then, responding to Sylar's tone and body language, Or does he mean it's okay to be here, private, with me? He likes it that way? Why? There were a lot of possible reasons for that, too many for Peter to sort out. The easier route was to ask. "What do you mean by that?"
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Sylar shrugged. "It's…You're here. Nothing will change that, except killing you. I won't do that, so you're…part of the world now," he winced. "Not like that, but…there's another person here with me. I adjust and it's preferable." He looked away to minimize how sappy it all sounded, pretending to be distracted by the clouds shifting outside. Companionship was preferable to being alone, that was obvious.
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Peter turned his back on the outside, leaning against the glass. "Yeah, but what do you mean about the privacy, exactly?" There was something intimate and desired in the idea that someone valued the opportunity to be alone with him, but at the same time he was talking to a serial killer whose uses of seclusion didn't line up with Peter's.
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"Years of being hunted gets...irritating. Having just one person to watch is a big improvement, probably the best I could ask for, and that never happens. And I have my own place."
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Peter nodded slowly. It wasn't the compliment he'd hoped for, but it wasn't an insult. He gave a brief head tilt and lofting of brows. Well, it wasn't much of an insult. Yes, Sylar had just implied Peter was here to kill him, but … "I think I know what you mean." He held up his left hand and gestured at his non-functioning watch. "I'm not on a timetable. People aren't going to die if I don't do something right away to stop it. If you have … pressure on you all the time, some place like this," he waved at the lobby and building, "lets you get away from it." He smiled crookedly. "Having only one person judging me is a big improvement, too."
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Sylar's eyes narrowed for a second as he considered the part about judging, specifically, Sylar's judgment of Peter. Pressure he understood in spades – not having his ability riding him was a relief he never thought he'd have. "I think I know what you mean," he parroted.
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"Come on." He pushed away from the wall and headed for the stairs. He tried to remember where he'd last seen a snack machine. That's at the Y, not here. Peter spoke as he went up the steps. "I got up to get something to eat – a granola bar, piece of fruit, sleeve of crackers, whatever." He pushed open the door to the second floor and went in the first apartment, figuring it wouldn't take long to turn something up even if Sylar followed him instead of fanning out to search on his own.
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He followed him up, half-mourning the lack of elevator ride so he could irritate Peter with questions about hickeys. The company was phenomenally better than anything else so the slightest thing Peter did was of interest. It was soothing and normal.
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Peter pulled a yogurt cup out of the refrigerator he had looked into and handed it to Sylar in an automatic gesture. Then he reached in and got a second one for himself. Spoons were next. Again, he handed one to Sylar without asking if he wanted it. If I'm hungry, he's hungry. And he probably hasn't been eating well while on his own. Peeling back the foil lid, he asked, "How's your head been feeling lately? You know, as far as the concussion goes?"
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Oh. I guess I can eat. Yogurt is good. He made me that parfait, I think, a while back. Snack for him, dinner for me. I know I need to eat more. He wondered what Peter would do with useless information like that, but he'd mostly accepted that Peter would ask things of that nature. "It's better. It hurts all the time, but my thoughts are clearer and my coordination has improved."
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"That's a good sign. Have you had any problems over the last few days?" That you're willing to tell me about? But he didn't add that. It was hard enough to get Sylar to talk about himself, even if these were the same questions Peter had asked him nearly a dozen times in the course of trying to take care of the guy.
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He peeled back the foil in one piece and began to scrape the yogurt off the top's inside with the spoon, giving a shrug as he did. "Just the usual." He'd been miserable, and upset about Peter's lack of needing him for his grand mission. "What about you?" he asked slyly, looking up under his brow.
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I'll assume you mean you couldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, and have been paranoid the whole time. Peter looked Sylar over, trying to gage if the guy was really hurting (and concealing it very well) or if he was as unaffected as he acted. He grabbed me earlier because I had a bruise that looked funny. That argues against him being okay. He sighed. "I've been fine." He hesitated before shrugging and admitting the obvious, "I was lonely, but here we are." Peter gestured between the two of them, trying to indicate he had company now and his need for it was part of why he was okay with spending time together.
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Hmm, yes, he was lonely. He liked being missed even if he wasn't what had been missed, specifically. He made do with the feeling. "Tell me more about this hickey interest of yours," Sylar smiled slightly, still most pleased with himself about that development.
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Peter's brows drew together and he paused in the act of getting another spoonful. He waited until Sylar glanced at his shoulder even though Peter knew perfectly well that was what Sylar was referring to. "It's a bruise, not a hickey. All you did was bite me." He glowered briefly at Sylar. The next step in the conversation was obvious – Sylar would require him to defend or explain (again) why or how he'd bruised himself there in the course of masturbation. He wasn't interested in doing that, so he went on the offensive instead. "What about you? Why were you trying to bite me like that in the middle of a fight? And speaking of which, what's up with these fights you pick with me and then don't actually fight, but just … fuck around?"
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"Don't complain – you enjoyed it." Did he masturbate to the bite and the play fight? "I enjoy playing, fighting." He said that without any shame, daring Peter to mock it. "You didn't fight me, either. My head and neck are still intact and I'm still walking around. I thought you finally figured it out." What a fun relief that had been!
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Peter snorted. I enjoyed winning. He's taking a huge gamble that I'll play along with this. "Ballsy move. Do you really think I'm going to be turned on by that? How's that supposed to play out? You lose either way. You know that, right?" Sylar had to know that – or at least Peter wanted him to know it wasn't a game Peter was going to play by Sylar's rules, whatever those were.
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That confused him. "How is that a lose-lose?" he voiced, knowing that it wasn't a lose-lose for him even if Peter wasn't 'turned on' by it. Plus, he was almost sure Peter had enjoyed sitting on him last time, with a hand on his throat.
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"You either lose because I beat your ass, or you lose because if you get me down and," Peter hesitated, not sure how far Sylar would go, "I don't know, molest me or something, then you're not safe here anymore." He recalled Sylar taking it too far on New Year's Eve after tying Peter up. Although drink and time had left the details foggy, he knew he hadn't appreciated it, had told Sylar to cut it out, Sylar hadn't, and so a fight had started.
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Now Sylar was lost. I've only molested him a few times. He's retaliated in his own way and I'm not sensing any lingering threats… "What do you mean, 'I wouldn't be safe anymore'?"
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Peter set the mostly-empty yogurt cup aside and looked uneasy. He started to speak, then stopped, thinking. He hadn't considered the nature of his threat, mostly because he had no idea what he would do. It all depended. What he'd meant was worst-case scenario, that Peter would rather check one or both of them out of this nightmare hotel than hang around with someone who had sexually degraded him. The groping, hurried kiss, bite, and similar were things Peter could, would, and had dealt with without having to issue ultimatums. He supposed he was trying to warn Sylar off from possible escalation. He should know better, how to act. He shifted uncomfortably, aware that relying on Sylar's moral judgment was not wise. Even so, all he could say was, "Stay away from anything that's a violation."
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Okay…my safety isn't important. Big surprise. Peter's reply was far too open and vague to be of any use. Normally, Sylar would let that slide and exploit the ambiguity but Peter explicitly threatening his safety was noted. More than anything, he did not want Peter to get creative in his tortures. "What do you consider a violation?"
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Peter stared at him for a very long moment, wheels turning in his head. Being raped. Having to suck your cock. Anything where I'm helpless while you fuck me over. Is there any point to listing that stuff out? Or does it just let him know what I'm most concerned about? He wants me. I don't know his boundaries. He doesn't know mine. I punched him in the crotch the other day. He dry humped me. Those were okay, but how would he know where I drew the line? Biting sure as hell didn't bother me (as long as he doesn't break the skin … or do it a lot … are we playing? This is about playing, not fighting, right?) Am I seriously going to lay out rules for this? Finally, with an expression like he didn't believe he was saying this, Peter said, "If I tell you to stop and you keep going." Tell, or ask? Fuck that – I'm not 'asking' him to respect me! 'Tell' is good. He thought for a few more seconds, then added, "It's not like I want to fight with you, but I promise not to abuse that and try to call a halt to fights unless ... unless you're doing something I won't be able to handle."
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He didn't buy it. He promised. Has he ever told me to stop and I haven't? Probably, I'm just not remembering it. So, stop is the magic word. How…mundane and rare. I won't know I'm 'violating' him until he says it. (Maybe he doesn't know? Unlikely). That's not helpful (but it is great for using the ignorance card). Sylar anticipated 'stop' being used for Petrelli cheap shots but he didn't exactly have a choice. Peter was looking at him like he expected a response. "Alright," with the return to his yogurt. After thinking about it, and without optimism, he asked, "Does 'stop' work the same for me?" Will I believe him if he says yes?
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Peter swallowed back the 'of course' he nearly blurted out, thinking it over just as he had for the previous exchanges. All of this deserved careful thought, much as he suspected he was overlooking important things and maybe even being maneuvered into a verbal trap or some deal he would regret. But the agreement between them to honor limits – it was hard for Peter to see how that was a bad idea. "Yes," he said solemnly. "It works the same for you."
He picked up his yogurt cup again and scraped at the sides with the spoon. Cautiously Peter said, "I suppose I should stop choking you, then? Since you wouldn't be able to tell me to stop …" This is really weird. I feel like we're negotiating fucking safe words. Which … we are, I guess. But we're not having sex, so … I guess they're still safe words. He ate his last spoonful of yogurt and watched Sylar suspiciously, wondering if that was the 'trap' his subconscious was worried about. This means everything is okay as long as neither of us says 'stop'. (Everything?)Peter's mind boggled on the possible repercussions – there were too many of them to process. He almost wanted to start shoving Sylar around just to see what would happen.
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Sylar felt his insides coil with anger. He never intended to stop choking me whenever he feels like it; all his shit was a lie. 'Stop' only works if I can speak, so all he has to do is make sure I can't speak. He stabbed at his yogurt and lipped, "Whatever, Peter."
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Peter hesitated at Sylar's obvious irritation. Maybe he liked being choked? Didn't he say as much? He let it pass and moved on to a more important question. "How do I tell what kind of fighting we're doing – what's the difference between an all-out fight and this roughhousing? Or," Peter stepped over to toss is empty cup in the trash and spoon next to the sink, "are we agreeing we're not going to have all-out fights anymore, because we're in this together?" He looked wary, because although he understood the theory of not backstabbing someone every chance you had, Nathan never played with him that way. Whether it was throwing baseballs, showing him how to throw a punch, or family politics, Nathan always mixed it up, took him by surprise, and (one could charitably say he was trying to teach Peter that people would) take advantage of him letting his guard down for a second. Maybe it was Nathan's way of toughening him up, but it had left Peter with a very 'all-or-nothing' mentality on violence and interpersonal confrontation. When he let his guard down, he was purposeful in doing it, knowing the consequences, but when he decided to bring it, winning the fight was his only priority.
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Finished with this poisoned yogurt snack one way or other, Sylar rudely clanked his spoon down next to Peter's and threw away the cup. "I don't know, Peter. You're the one who can't tell the fucking difference. You're the one who starts nearly every fight. And you're the one who goes full-throttle. There's no point in talking to you."
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Peter pulled his head back, suddenly very aware that he'd left the brace for his right hand downstairs, sitting on the top of the piano. That was in his mind, but he bulled ahead with the conversation anyway. "That's the way I was taught to handle fights. If someone's going to hurt you, you hurt them first and as much as possible. You win. You stop them – no matter what."
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Sylar spread his hands out at his sides, blithely inviting. "Carry on, then. I'm not complaining." He turned for the door, intending to go back to…whatever they'd been doing, the conversation ended. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Petrelli," he muttered, looking boredly around the apartment. Just like that, something occurred to him. "Is that what this is about? Are you waiting for me to cry uncle, say 'stop,' and beg you or something?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you do that to all the bad guys or am I just special?"
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Peter frowned at Sylar. This is like the bruise on the bite mark – something small that shouldn't have mattered and he's blowing it out of proportion. I must have said something – maybe about the choking – that set him off. Didn't he do the same thing at the Taco House, before he had that breakdown in the police station? "No," he answered calmly. "You're special." Not that he would have minded a little begging from the bastard, but if his gage of Sylar's mental state was right, the last thing he needed was to be antagonized. Peter went on serenely, "You mentioned the suite earlier. Let's go up there. I think I left my book there and I want to do some drawing. I'm done with the piano for today." They weren't really lies – they were just convenient and well-selected truths, with the aim of getting Sylar into a bed and asleep again. A couple hours on the couch were good, but it wasn't everything Sylar needed, if Peter was reading the mood swing correctly. I can slip out after dinner, or maybe before and just leave him sleeping.
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I'm special. Sylar latched onto that. Peter had said as much before. He ignored the part where that might mean Peter treated him differently, didn't want to think about it. The relief he felt was familiar but it wasn't necessarily his own feelings. He remembered being completely confused and scared when he left the Carnival to show up at Peter's door and hug him tight like he was safe and his problems were over. Now, he wished he could do the same but that would make Peter leave. Anyway, the desire was repellant and weak. "If that's what you want to do, sure. Yeah," Sylar nodded.
He led the way to the elevator, wondering if he was still holding Peter back from his activities. (Let him do what he wants. I'm not good company). He fidgeted in the car, a little worried about that. Once in the suite, he stood by the bed (assuming the intention was for him to lie there but hesitating) and asked, "How is your hand?" He cares for me. I should take better care of him.
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Peter had decided Sylar was fragile from five nights of broken sleep, so in the elevator, he stood quietly, let his mind wander, and kept his mouth shut. That way he said nothing that could be misinterpreted or require Sylar to go to the effort of a response. Once inside the penthouse, he snagged the sketchbook and walked over to the couch, glancing at the snow drifting against the glass of the expansive windows. At Sylar's question, he turned. "It's been a month." He looked down at the hand in question, lifting it halfway. "It still hurts. I can't do anything with it." Peter hesitated. He'd come to the conclusion that Sylar had intentionally avoided striking or harming Peter's hand in their last several scuffles. He appreciated that, but couldn't think of how to say it and be certain it would be well-received. Instead, he went with indirect advice. "I have to make sure I don't bump it until it's healed. That might be another three weeks or so." Can you keep being careful that long?
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Sylar nodded. "Do you do anything for it at night? Do you have to protect it more when you sleep?"
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"Yeah. I keep the brace on it so I don't roll over on it. I think I left it downstairs. I should probably go get that after dinner."
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"Oh. Right." Sylar moved to the kitchen to take up the cooking duties. "Still need meat," he muttered as he surveyed the possible ingredients. Straightening, he looked back at Peter and asked snarkily, "You ate meat earlier today. If you were okay with that, then why aren't you okay with eating meat from now on?"
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Peter snorted at the false analogy. He hesitated a moment, weighing the prudence of saying something inoffensive against his desire to stand up for himself. The latter won, of course. "Just because I've killed people before, Sylar, doesn't mean I should kill anyone who hacks me off." Like you.
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Sylar gave him a droll look, refusing to acknowledge Peter's implied threat. "Please. I was the one who sent the bullet into Arthur's brain, not you."
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"He wasn't the only one."
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Sylar raised a brow in question, wondering which of Peter's many violent altercations he was counting as an intentional kill. Surely he's not thinking of when he released that disease? Killing someone with your own hands is completely different.
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"So what's for dinner?" Peter asked, having no interest whatsoever in talking about having killed Nathan in a parallel universe.
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Sylar's eyes narrowed at the dodge. He understood perfectly the desire to simultaneously talk and avoid talking about those events. What he wanted to know was how much they had in common on the issue. "You'll see," he replied to be annoying back at Peter. He eventually mixed some veggies with rice and the damned hummus. "Come and get it," he called, amused with the double entendre. With plates, utensils and water, they sat at the table. Sylar stabbed a forkful of broccoli. "You know, it's strange. You're used to being around people and you'd rather have space and I'm not used to being around people and I'm around you a lot. I'm surprised either of us can stand it." From that perspective, they were both fairly healthy, alive and…mostly sane. Maybe things do change. Of course they do – adaption and necessity. He did not want to spend the night alone, so he was motivated to be solicitous.
XXX
But I just had a snack. We both did. Peter watched as Sylar went to put together a meal. He said nothing, though. This one was easier to decide on the side of prudence. He set the table, tried to stay out of Sylar's way, and sat down to eat a meal he wasn't very hungry for. It was another weird combination of foods, but it tasted fine. Peter shrugged ambivalently at Sylar's comment. "I've been going through a phase of trying to distance myself from people. It just seemed … smarter." Who could I have gone to anyway? Everyone I should have been able to rely on turned on me. Would I have noticed what was wrong with Nathan if I hadn't been off to myself? Peter made an off-hand gesture at the world they were in now. "This is okay. Maybe it's good for both of us to have someone to be around." He looked around for the pill bottle. "You should take some ibuprofen with your meal. It'll help with your head and you'll feel better. I think I'll take a couple, too. My hand still hurts from the piano." He'd beaten on the keys too hard, which he'd known while he was doing it.
XXX
"Yeah," was Sylar's thoughtful reply about company. He knew it was good for them – it was a connection of sorts, after all. He swiped the pills from the counter behind Peter, sharing them out. Maybe I should carry them around so I don't forget. Was his phase before or after Nathan? Before. I remember leaving him messages. "What…um….what happened?" Sylar was proud of the conversational tone he managed. "It wasn't /me/. I mean…You weren't calling me back." Me, whoever I was. He definitely didn't notice. Or care. He feels guilty about that. Did he kill someone recently?
XXX
"No, I wasn't calling anyone back." Peter toyed with his mostly empty glass, letting pass Sylar referring to Nathan as 'me'. It didn't feel accurate, but Peter didn't want to argue it. Voice bitter, he answered, "What happened was that every time I tried to do stuff, it fucked up – and it fucked up for a lot of people. I was trying to keep my head down and not get involved." He waved a hand loosely at the world. "You can see how well that worked out. This is probably the best place I can be." He stood to help clear away the dishes and clean the kitchen, offering, "I'm going to draw for a while, if you want to get some rest."
XXX
It sounded good, so he didn't argue his apparent 'bedtime.' Peter was here and he'd always stuck around. Just in case he didn't wake later (or didn't want to leave the bed or just to 'be prepared') he got ready for bed, brushing teeth and changing into pajamas mostly. I wish I was better so we could play, he thought muzzily. The tiniest sounds of drawing and breathing, the certainty of company soothed him to sleep quickly.
XXX
Peter curled up on the couch with the sketchpad, filling a page with geometric snowflakes, curves that were supposed to be drifts of snow and swirling wind, and finally circles and spheres as an exercise. By then, his hand was aching. Between the piano and the myriad inadvertent little motions he'd made with it without the brace to prevent it, even the painkillers couldn't damp it down. He fetched a beer, downed it in short order, and resolved to get something stronger in the suite – for medicinal reasons if no other. He looked over at the slumbering Sylar and figured this was as good a time as any to take off. With any luck, he'll get a full night of sleep out of it. Peter shut the front door behind him with infinite care, impressing himself by making not a sound.
XXX
He'd barely had time to start a nightmare of crushing emptiness when he woke up, alone. It made him sweat and panic before he could think. "Peter?" he called out, his voice echoing, "Peter!" Is he still here? Is this a joke? Is he gone? Or worse, Was he ever really here? There was no sign Peter had been here – his drawing pad was in the same place as before, the dishes were washed, there was no chair, no clothes, no brace, nothing to indicate Peter had been or might still be there. Sylar was standing in an instant; he didn't bother with his clothes, stepping into his shoes to check the guest and bathrooms. "Peter!" he yelled, louder, dreading the echo. The unreality was making him dizzy, the horror was making his blood run like ice. Peter takes the stairs….Did I make him up? Fucking Nathan! Fucking Parkman! No! Sylar resolved not to be alone if it was in his power because he just couldn't be alone. He ran down the stairs, hitting the lobby with fading hope. If Peter was here, where would he be? Did he hide? Let me be wrong! He was rushing for the door when he saw movement and heard a slight noise to his right – his shoe tread stopped him so fast he careened the other way.
There he was, casually hanging around the rec room, the vision (at least) of Peter Petrelli. "Peter," he breathed, letting his shoulders sag and air expand his lungs again like a parent who believed their child lost, only this feeling had been far more intense. With some haste, he steadily approached Peter to confirm his reality by touch. Peter saw him and turned. Sylar touched his shoulders and nearly fell on the smaller man, covering his shoulders and neck with his arms, tighter than he should have. He's real.
XXX
Peter had heard the stairwell door bang open when Sylar entered the lobby. What's he doing on the stairs? He usually takes the elevator. And he's usually quiet. He set aside the cleaning supplies he'd just finished using to clean the floor – shortly after putting on his brace, he'd noticed the dark stain from where he'd spat blood on the floor the week before. He hadn't been able to make it disappear from the short-napped carpet, but it was less noticeable now. He rose and turned as Sylar came in, a flush of awareness washing over him that something wasn't right. Sylar wasn't stopping. He's going to hit me? Tackle me? Peter's own hands came up halfway. His face doesn't say he's going to hit me. That was as far as he got before Sylar was grabbing him and pulling him close. Oh! Hug. Got it. Peter's arms finished coming up, patting awkwardly at first and then easing into it as he relaxed. He woke up and I was gone. That's what happened. He's terrified. Peter breathed out and hugged Sylar back, genuinely and warmly. "It's okay," he murmured into the man's shoulder.
XXX
I thought you were gone. I thought you were never here. Why-? What did I-? As he stood clinging to Peter, because his hands weren't obeying the orders to release him, he said, "I'll make breakfast. You take good care of me; I can take care of you - be of use to you, convenient, be quiet…" The words were utterly pathetic, pitiful, disgusting, and anything decent he could think to say rushed out of him. Anything was better than the void. It frightened him to the core.
XXX
"It's okay," Peter repeated. "You're going to be okay." They were trained to tell people that, as paramedics and EMTs. No matter how bad it was, you were supposed to tell people they'd be fine. Sleeping in my apartment isn't going to work. At least not tonight. He's panicked. It's like that dream I had of being stuck in the cargo container again – all alone. I woke up and he was there for me at least; it was so much better that way. "You found me, okay? I just came down to get my brace," he lied. "I got a little distracted cleaning up. We can go back up now. Come on." He pushed away, finally, breaking them apart and getting them moving towards the elevator. He savored 'you take good care of me' as the small room moved them upwards, wondering if he was wrong to find that admission-under-duress as validating as he did.
Once in the apartment, he encouraged Sylar back into bed. Peter took the extra blanket from his side and a pillow, heading over to set up camp on the couch. He had made some resolutions to himself about not sharing a bed with Sylar anymore, but none of those included Sylar needing him this much.
XXX
The couch had always seemed far away but now it was dangerously so. Peter had snuck away from there before. Will he stay this time? How can I be sure? Loudly, he pointed out, "The bed's more comfortable." Sylar swung the covers aside to make room for Peter. It wasn't paranoid if it had happened before; now it was just…protecting what was left of his sanity. He needed to keep in physical contact with Peter as he slept to be absolutely certain. He was so focused now, he didn't consider being refused and didn't know what he'd do if that happened.
XXX
Peter sighed. This isn't going to work either. If my goal is for him to sleep, then I have to be over there. He cast about the place for something that might pass as sleepwear, but there was none that was not already on Sylar's body. The best he could manage was trading his long-sleeved tee for one with short sleeves. After changing, he sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing jeans, taking off his socks and shoes as he went through his usual nighttime foot check and careful shoe placement. That done, he scooted under the blanket, for once not bothering with putting a layer between them. If this isn't safe, then I'll have an even better argument for never doing it again.
XXX
Sylar lay on his side, facing Peter of course. When the empath was settled, he shut his eyes, yawned and pretended to accidentally extend his arm so the back of his hand rested against Peter's arm. After a few moments, it was allowed; Sylar slumped in relief of many varieties. The low ebb of pleasure and sleep took him again, better than before.