Day 41, January 20, Morning
Sleep left Peter slowly, leaving him feeling warm and comfortable. His intention to get up was cut off as he realized his position. His bedmate – Sylar – had his face pressed to Peter's left upper arm, his nose against his bicep and deep, sighing breaths tickling Peter's skin. One of Sylar's forearms was folded loosely around Peter's and there was a knee resting against the outside of his lower thigh. Peter smiled despite the identity of the other, and moved his hand to settle over Sylar's arm just below the elbow. It was a nice way to wake up.
He's a good sleeping partner. He doesn't kick or push. He doesn't mind me touching him – or doesn't seem to mind. He's not all over me. He doesn't run away from me in bed; he doesn't complain about me touching him. He doesn't sweat. He doesn't even snore. This isn't that bad, is it? It's not wrong to sleep like this with him, is it? Peter didn't want it to be wrong. After a while of lying there, basking in the simple human comfort of not being alone, he eased himself out from under the covers and sat up, one leg folded in front of him while the other dangled over the edge of the bed. He thought he should get up completely, but it was harder than he'd expected to work himself up to it.
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When Sylar woke, Peter was sitting up close by. He wished to be allowed to show his gratitude, his need. His hand reached out to caress Peter's lower back once again. That tiny taste of touch was a drug.
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Peter turned at the contact. Disheveled bed-hair fell across part of Sylar's face. Muscular shoulders were bared by the sleeveless tee the man had worn to bed. He's so handsome. Large, dark eyes partly screened by the hair peered up at him hopefully. Sylar didn't ask him to come back to bed, but Peter didn't need the words to be spoken to hear the request. He was sorely tempted by it. He felt a yearning inside for the intimacy, the friendly contact, letting down his defenses and letting someone in.
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Sylar hadn't moved but his fingers still did, back and forth, the backs of his fingers, then the pads over Peter's cotton t-shirt and he gazed at Peter, willing him to give in for both of them.
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Peter looked down at the hand caressing him. He did this the last time we slept together, when I woke up. He'd been afraid that night … and he let me hold him. Contemplative, Peter reached for Sylar's hand and touched across the long, straight bones of the man's index finger. He's letting me do this. (What else would he let me do? He's offered …) He passed over the bump of knuckle to the veined tendons on the back of Sylar's hand. He traced over wrist and forearm, losing himself in appreciation of the human form, letting his mind be blank of everything except the feeling. He straightened the wayward hairs of Sylar's lower arm, making things right. This feels so right. His skin tingled everywhere they touched. He raised his eyes.
"You are beautiful," Peter murmured, heartfelt. He meant nothing feminine about the word. He could have as easily described Sylar as magnificent, but that would have lost the sense of allure Peter felt for him, the desire he knew he shouldn't express. Peter curled his fingers around to the softer, silky-smooth skin on the underside of Sylar's wrist.
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Sylar's breath escaped him and his toes curled at the touch to his index finger. The small, willing, gentle, sensuous gesture meant a plethora of things to Sylar's twisted brain (phallic, homicidal, worship, acceptance, eagerness) and it made his dick swell. I'm so glad you think so, but you haven't seen anything yet. Sylar's breathy exhale hid a moan at the fingers sliding around his wrist – such a slow, delightful torture!
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The tingling spread from his hand, up his arm, and flushed his entire body. Peter had to stop himself from climbing on top of the man. He wanted to so bad – to get back under the covers and make love to him. Sylar would let me, I know he would. He wants me. The yearning inside was a conflagration now, burning him up inside and heating his skin. He was stiffening in his overly-confining jeans, every part of his body coming alive and online, ready to act. No, no, no! he struggled to get control of himself while he still could. He killed my brother. (He is my brother, sort of.) That doesn't make it right. This isn't right. Don't do this. I won't do this!
With an effort almost physical, Peter tore himself away and stood, breath coming harder than it should for such a small thing. It hurt. He moved away, around the end of the bed and stopped there to regard Sylar with hungry eyes and an erection that wasn't going away. He felt like he was trembling inside. He still wanted to go back.
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Once again, Peter held onto his restraint and put distance between them. He hasn't been laid in ages! Come on! Sylar flopped back with a sigh of frustration, eyes shut for the moment. He didn't hear Peter moving too far away…He opened his eyes to observe Peter devouring him with his own heated hazel stare. Sylar interrupted him, purring, "You are delicious. Literally," he added, referring to the bite he'd made earlier. Peter was completely hard, poking out at his pants and still not moving. He won't come get it. And with that, Sylar whipped off the cover to reveal his own proud erection tenting his pajamas. He stalked to Peter with one obvious thing in mind.
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"No!" Peter reached out in an attempt to heel punch the oncoming man in the sternum. This isn't going to happen. I won't let this happen.
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The push was predictable; Sylar snatched the wrist and jerked it to the side before pressing himself into Peter, against him, their bodies flush and firm against one another. Peter was heavenly – warm, hard, aroused and shaking a little, and he was all Sylar's. In nearly the same motion, he kissed Peter, hard and full on the mouth, demanding what was his, owning him through his lips. He wanted nothing so much after that as to cram the little man against the wall and finish them off.
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Oh God. Peter's trembling wasn't purely internal anymore. It took him a moment to figure out what to do. Part of him wanted to quit thinking and just go with it. The rest knew that was stupid, even for him. He doesn't get to do this to me! Fighting his way free wouldn't work – anything that smacked even a little of fleeing would backfire. Instead, he reached up with his right hand, slow and non-confrontational, letting the kiss happen without much participation on his part while he moved his hand to Sylar's ear, giving a token caress of the man's stubbled cheek along the way. At that point, he grabbed, twisted, and yanked downward.
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Sylar hissed angrily – his fucking ear of all things. It wasn't sexy or expected. Naturally, he reached up to hold onto Peter's hand as it held him as if that would help somehow.
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Peter grabbed Sylar's shoulder and shoved down in the same direction he was pulling on the man's ear. It was a pressure point and a good one.
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At least it's not my throat this time, Sylar thought. His ear was well attached to him, so where Peter pulled (none-too-gently, either), he had no choice but to go. What upset him more was that the fun was over – he'd been this close to consummation; he'd been against Peter and his raging hard-on. The tugging sent Sylar to his knees, where he glanced up, anticipating a lecture or some insult. It was then he realized where he was. He looked at the man's groin, still engorged and positioned right in front of his face. Heat flooded into him again. He hated it; he lusted for it. It was degrading, dominating, and hot to be placed there. Kiss you down here instead. A leer spread over his face as he opened his mouth, licking the corner of his lips suggestively and looking up at Peter, angling his face in invitation and question.
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For a perilous half-second, Peter was tempted. He'd had more than one fantasy that had included this scene. The x-rated part of his subconscious eagerly filed away Sylar's willingness. The rest of him shoved Sylar away, giving a huffing laugh. "Ha. No. Not today." Dream on. Both of us. He backed off a couple steps, then turned to go further, pacing in the transition zone from dining area to kitchen.
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Sylar swayed back on his heels, still leering about his success, happy with today's victory. "Someday," he rumbled. He stood, with his dick stiff and non-participating companion. Intending to amp up Peter's sexual frustration, Sylar stated, "I'll take the bathroom," leaving Peter to figure out how and where to unload himself. He wasn't too concerned about Peter wandering away, no, not after that. Sylar sauntered to the bathroom, pausing to see if he was being watched. The door remained open while he began to strip. He wants it. Badly. I don't think that was morning wood.
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Peter stopped, put his hands on his hips, and leaned back as he looked at the ceiling. I just made a complete fool of myself. This can't go on. I've got figure this out. I have to- (Is he undressing with the bathroom door wide open?) Sylar's shirt was off and those sweat pants (Peter's sweat pants, which Sylar was stubbornly not giving up and Peter, just as stubbornly, continued to see as 'his') were about to join the shirt on the floor. Damn. Without waiting for the rest of the show, Peter turned on his heel, headed to the front door, and left.
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Sylar stepped into the shower, leaving that door open a crack as well, dousing his back with the lukewarm spray. A light groan bounced around the bathroom as he took hold of his dick, pumping it. He was completely swollen, aching after each rough stroke. His panting and gasping was probably audible over the sound of the shower – he wanted Peter to hear. The next time Peter would be under him, getting fucked and getting off. Sylar licked his lips for the taste, roaming his free hand everywhere that had been in contact with Peter: chest, abdomen, pelvis, even his balls. Fisting himself harder and faster, he didn't bother with the lotion obscenely placed on the counter. He was so ready all he had to do was thrust into his own grip several times before he spilled against the wet tile, gasping with the orgasmic rush. Next time. Next time.
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Downstairs, Peter's erection wilted. Whether it was his jarred emotions, simmering anger, or having left the presence of the biggest turn-on left on the planet didn't matter. Nor did he care. He hit the first floor and went to the workout room with a mission – to clear his mind and get some focus. After changing into the shorts and t-shirt he kept in the corner of the room, it was time for the heavy weights. Exercise was a stress relief. It had helped him cope with and get through things far worse than this, he reminded himself.
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After a hazy soak, Sylar shaved, brushed, combed, and redressed. He checked the lobby level for Peter, finding him in the exercise room. Leaning near the doorway, he smirked in at the empath.
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The sight of Sylar rekindled Peter's anger. He'd calmed down on most fronts, but the anger – he didn't know if he'd ever stop being angry at Sylar. Not wanting a repeat of Sylar's last conduct in the weight room, Peter snapped at him, "If you're in here with me, you're either going to work out or leave." There would be no loitering around, threatening and insulting him – not this time.
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Sylar wanted to retort something like, 'you can't tell me what I can or should do,' but he was in a good mood. All he said was, "Bossy," and walked in. He began to stretch, for the direct benefits and for ogling Peter to make him nervous or aroused or get a reaction and just to watch him. Stretching legs, arms and back, he made a bit of a show of it, not that Peter watched. In fact, he looked kind of pissed. At the risk of further injuring himself, Sylar made his way in to one of the arm machines – he had no idea what it was called, although he could guess the muscles it was supposed to work. "Do these things have names?" he gestured to the entirety of the equipment.
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He stopped and got his breath, irritated at being interrupted. "Yes, that one's named Robert," Peter said in a pissy tone. "That one over there is named Richard. He's a bit of a dick." With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he went on, "It's a … It's a pulldown machine. It works your lats." He hooked his head at one of the racks on the wall. "You can switch out the bar for handles and work your obliques with it, or do cable pulldowns for your arms."
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Sylar paused at that, turning to give Peter a blank look at first. Richard, dick…Someone didn't get off this morning. Passing on several 'dick' jibes (particularly ones about Peter's interest), he smirked, "I don't think you've been here long enough to name inanimate objects. Besides, there are real people to be with." Hint, hint.
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No matter how much Peter tried to get back in the zone, it wasn't happening. It was no help at all that Sylar was staring at him so much. For a variety of reasons, Peter was very aware of when people looked at him and how. The looks he was getting were not conducive to maintaining clarity. That he couldn't even complain that Sylar wasn't working out only annoyed him more. He walked out to stand in the lobby, stretching his shoulder muscles and fuming.
When Sylar came out of the exercise room, Peter was on him immediately. He shoved him, fast and sudden to the middle of the chest and said, "Is this going to be your thing now? Every time I sleep with you, you make a clumsy pass at me the next morning? Because if there's anything you can do to drive me off, that's it." He cocked his head. "In fact, that is a great tactic, Sylar. Keep it up. It's perfect. You can get used to getting all your sleep during the day." Lip curled and body poised, he waited for the riposte.
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Sylar was more offended at the insult than the shove or the threats (for one thing, he had been getting most of his sleep during the day around Peter or sleeping poorly on his own). He rolled with the push and rolled his eyes. "Oh, the pay-attention-to-my-mouth, not-my-dick thing, huh? I'm supposed to pretend my 'clumsy' pass wasn't working? I tried being civilized – I offered, I flirted, but that isn't what you want, is it, Peter?
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"I don't want you," Peter said softly, as if it was an afterthought to his very close scrutiny of Sylar's expressions and body language. Not liking what he saw, he chuffed. "Fine. Don't fight with me." He half-expected that by itself to provoke Sylar, and reached out (telegraphing it more this time, and not nearly as forceful) to push the guy again, before backing off a couple steps to sulk. I wanted a fight, dammit. He wanted it to be Sylar's fault and for himself to come out on top. He wanted to regain some of his lost dignity and a little violence seemed like just the ticket. Sylar wasn't rising to the bait. It disarmed Peter.
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Sylar slapped at Peter's hands as they came in to push him. It annoyed him; he frowned. He wasn't going to take everything passively. Peter was being…immature. That meant he was upset about something, or everything, or Sylar in general, as usual. I'm not to blame for everything. His eyes narrowed to match Peter's glare. I have to be the freaking adult. "Fine, I won't."
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"I want my brother back." He fixed Sylar with a steely gaze for a few moments. "But let's talk about what you can actually do something about – if you want me to sleep in the same bed with you, then we have to work something out where the next morning does not include this." He waved his hand up and down, towards the penthouse and the workout room, meaning the whole fiasco of a morning. "I don't like it and if you don't help me fix it, then you can just be chronically short of sleep." He snorted softly. "You taking naps during the day certainly makes you easier to be around."
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"Why do you always freeze up when I touch you?" Sylar snapped, quoting Peter's question to him from a while back. It went both ways and it was something that bothered him, that Petrelli, baby-boy, lovey-empath expectation that Peter could touch whomever however he pleased, yet Sylar was held to a double standard. He waited, a little tense and poised, staring in Peter's eyes.
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Do I do that? "That has nothing to do with it." Peter refused to let Sylar derail things, however much he wanted to explore that. "It sounds like you're unwilling to address the issue of keeping it in your pants and are trying to distract. That doesn't work for me."
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"I have kept it in my pants! You know something, Peter? It's not always my problems that I have to fix so you can be happy. Because you almost putting out makes you easier to be around." He sighed, familiar with the argument by now: Peter would say, 'don't'; Sylar would say, 'but it works.' "For argument's sake, what do I get out of it besides sleep if I decide to quit pressuring your libido?"
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"What you 'get out of it' is sleep! If you don't promise to stop it, then I will promise to be unavailable." Peter squared off, being emphatic but not aggressive. "I am not in your bed because I want you, Sylar – secretly or openly – and yes, this is one of those things where you need to pay attention to my mouth instead of my dick. I have been with you because you're having nightmares and anxiety attacks when I'm not. You don't have to be alone anymore, but if you don't 'decide to quit pressuring my libido', then you will be." He lowered his voice slightly to underscore his point. "It's your choice."
I need to make it a choice where he's not losing face. "I'd like it if you'd choose something where I'm not alone, too." Pretend you're doing it on my behalf, to keep me company. Will that work with you? It was hard for Peter to imagine anyone didn't enjoy the opportunity to help someone else. Even Sylar.
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"Promise…" Sylar murmured, pondering it. You do want it, not me; and not for sex, or so your mouth says. (I wonder if he knows you can want to fuck someone without wanting them?). I want my cake and eat it, too – can I leave him alone when he's weak? I'll always have opportunities. The empath's manipulation was clear, sensible, and appealing: I don't have to be alone anymore. He understood that Peter would sleep with him every night now, for the sake of Sylar's sleep and sanity. It was an improvement and it was a connection all the same. That it was sexless didn't negate his gratitude or, unfortunately, his compulsion to procure more than was offered. Take what I have so I can keep it or he takes everything. I'm not losing anything. Ha, I'm doing it 'for him.' He wanted to protest being dependent on Peter, and about the 'anxiety attacks' but that's exactly what it was, even if he thought it was 'normal' after being alone for so long. Peter had allowed a hug this time, too.
Sylar opened his mouth, then shut it, several angles running through his head about how to spin this. He looked around the cold city to buy time. Peter wasn't asking him to quit seducing him entirely. "What happens if…something happens? If I…?" he hesitated around the word 'accidentally.' It wasn't like he'd ever slept with anyone to know what was normal or able to be overlooked during sleep. The outcome was obvious and not worth the question. Clearing his throat, he moved past it, "I choose to leave you alone in the mornings. I can be patient." Sylar looked his partner up and down with intent. "Let's...get breakfast, or something." He began moving aimlessly at first.
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Peter cocked his head slightly, not liking Sylar's word choice or failure to finish his question. "It's not just the mornings – at night, too." He hesitated.
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"Or at nights," Sylar amended with a small roll of his eyes.
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He either gets it or he doesn't, Peter thought, and I don't think he really does or he wouldn't be hedging. Arguing more won't help. We've had enough excitement for one morning. I can be patient, too. "But sure, let's get breakfast. First, I have to clean up. I'll do that at my place. I'll be back." He took off, pleased that had gone as well as it had. He hadn't offered anything new – he was still willing to provide medical care and, as necessary within that scope, comfort. Hopefully, he'll make a quick recovery and we can go back to something more arm's length, safer. What I really want is just for him not to fuck with me while I'm trying to help him. That's, like, the bare minimum. Peter went about a quick shave, brushing his teeth, and showering before returning to the ground floor to find Sylar waiting on him. He smiled at that, still pleased to have Sylar waiting for his company. It's like I matter to him, whether he calls me an ant or not.
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He huffed about the detour but walked with Peter to his building. He was irritated even though he'd 'won.' Peter's motivations and end games were unknown. It left Sylar wanting to rattle the other man's cage (or poke at the tiger), annoy him in return, and get attention and answers. He noticed the more glaring anomaly. "Why would you offer me a choice? What if I didn't choose what you wanted?"
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"Then I wouldn't sleep with you," Peter said. "It's that simple." He pulled on his gloves before they set out for the diner a few blocks away. "I haven't for most of the last week. I don't want to be alone; you don't want to be alone. You have something you can offer me, Sylar …" He trailed off, not wanting to deal with what he wanted out of the man Sylar. The things he would readily admit to weren't nice or feasible – things he wanted Sylar to do (suffer, be tortured, apologize, confess, submit). The things he wouldn't admit to were things Peter wanted to do, usually to make the former list come to be. But since it was wrong to do those things and Sylar wouldn't respond as desired anyway, it was a dead end. He trudged through the several inches of fluffy snow, searching to the left to find an area where the wind had scoured it shallow, nearly to the road bed. He walked there, glad it had been cold enough before the snowfall that there wasn't a layer of ice under it like before.
"We don't have to be at each other's throats here." That's obvious, but maybe it helps to say it? "It's kind of like eating. I know I don't have to, here, but not doing it … doesn't turn out well."
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Sylar's eyes slid to the side, not moving his head as they walked. He was all ears but the climax was…familiar? The concept of peace and tranquility between them was bizarre, desirable in a sense, but mostly bizarre. Peter harped on it all the time, how Sylar was the enemy, not behaving, not allowing Peter to…to what? The man refused to take advantage and please himself in any way! And then he…and Nathan…remembered, Peter's infallible deniability clause. Not that anyone could blame the poor kid, growing up as a Petrelli (and some small part of Sylar still wailed about the blood and brains, denouncing it as something he was capable of); Nathan had it bad, too. He thinks Nathan is alive, that Nathan can come back, that he can save his girlfriend and there are people around. I'm wrong because he can't face…
"I see how you work, your brain," he stated, pointing at Peter's head. "/Your denial about the 'family business' or whatever you called it. Every step of the way you fought it, after how many times I told you to lay low. Ma called it your 'rose-colored glasses' and Dad called it-/"
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Peter stopped in the street to glare at Sylar for the words that were obviously Nathan's. "'I told you to lay low'?" he repeated, more offended than angry. "Why don't you turn that insight into how brains work towards your own? What's going on with you, Sylar?"
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You! That's what's wrong with me! "If you want to be so friendly with me, then fuck me!" He exclaimed, grabbing onto Peter's coat, both hands, with undignified desperation. A moment of eye contact before he released him, before Peter could smack him away or get upset. The pressure within him was building. "Just…fuck you. It's not even fair. You fucking Petrellis…" He devolved into angry muttering, shaking his head and walking apart from Peter. He wanted something, a fuck, a fight, time alone, an admission, a solution - something! The problem came from wanting things from his captor, enemy and attacker, when that same stuck-up person claimed complete ignorance of what he'd done.
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Peter fought down a surge of adrenaline from being manhandled. The last time that had happened, he'd been punched in the face. He tried to bat Sylar away even as the other man was letting go. Wary now, he paid complete attention to the words, gestures, posture, and muttering. "You're hearing me, Sylar, but you're not listening. What I told you a couple weeks ago is still true – I didn't come here for your entertainment. You are not entitled to my dick, or anything else from me. You killed my brother and who knows how many other people? I don't want to be friends with you!" He started off down the road, letting Sylar be the distance apart from him that the man had already set. "Do all your friends have to fuck you? Might be why you don't have any," he snapped. Is this the progression? He wants to be near me, then in bed with me, now he's going to insist on sex? What the hell is next after that? Is this some twisted form of the Hunger, where since he can't take an ability, he wants to take me? Peter shot a glance at his gloved hands, thinking about that odd tingling he had sometimes. Does he have some counterpart to that working at him?
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Sylar snarled. No, usually I have to fuck them! He didn't care what he sounded like. "Leave me alone!" (Or I'm going to do something bad). "I have to be responsible for everything but you get to stand there and make all the rules, like you haven't done anything. You should try hitting my head some more, or choking me so I can forget everything, too!" Sylar was shaking from his own whiplash. It was so familiar, being hurt, angry, powerless, and told to forget what happened and keep going. The re-programming was a lonely, painful, time consuming process. Peter wasn't going to change; the constant nitpicking and complaints meant he expected Sylar to shape up. (If only I could. If he didn't have to see my face…) He never has to do anything! It's like it never happened! Lips tight and jaw clenched, Sylar broke away from Peter, skidding on the icier parts of the road to cross it and get some distance. He couldn't eat with the faithless Petrelli and he didn't intend to go back for as long as he could manage.
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Peter lagged, watching and wondering if he should do something. Is this another thing like at the police station, where what he needs is reassurance? He's really upset. Should I give him space or stick with him? I'm pretty angry, too. The content of Sylar's words was largely ignored as he committed the same sin of not listening that he'd just accused Sylar of. When Sylar peeled off for his own building instead of the diner, Peter asked lightly, as though they hadn't been half-yelling at each other moments before, "Are we eating at your apartment?" He wasn't that clueless. He wanted Sylar to either tell him off again or take it back, and Peter didn't really care which.
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"Fuck you!" was the unimaginative reply, shouted over his shoulder. It was almost a relief to have an understood position finally, knowing his worth. Almost. Shouting off rooftops, kicking random buildings as he passed, beating the hell out of something was what he felt like doing, just venting the frustration at a world and a companion who couldn't hear him. Peter wanted nothing from him and it was a real problem. Sylar was left helpless to whatever whims Peter did want – talking, eating, pretending to work on the windows (yes, he saw now that was just a joke), all the fake comfort.
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Peter shrugged, backed off, and went on his way. Sylar's problems are not my problems. He's not making sense. (To me. He probably makes perfect sense to him.) I guess he's pissed I won't have sex with him. (Better angry and honest than smiling and scheming.) Am I safe? I think I'm safe.
He went to the diner and had a satisfying, if lonely, meal, then returned to the rec room at the Pegasus and reread about bone growth. He tried meditation and focusing healing thoughts on his hand. It felt numb and tingly and warm, but he wasn't sure it meant anything. It still hurt when he messed with it so he quit messing with it. He made a leisurely search of the neighborhood for a restaurant for lunch, settling on a burger joint he'd passed on previously, but since it was close, he figured he might as well check it out. He kept expecting Sylar to turn back up, but it didn't happen. He returned to the rec room mid-afternoon, playing the piano and then pool until hunger moved him again. He ate in the penthouse, wondering if Sylar was returning. I agreed to sleep in the same bed with him if he'd cut the rest out. If he doesn't come back, does that mean he's not going to cut the rest out?
Eventually, Peter gave up and returned to his own place for the night, uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping there and possibly being jumped by Sylar in the night. Once in his apartment, after some hesitation, he stacked cans in front of his door again even though he told himself he felt perfectly safe and wasn't worried at all.
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Sylar walked aimlessly for a while. Eventually, he made it back to his apartment, uncaring if Peter were to ambush him there because the slimy Petrelli would get a real fight on his hands at last. Hours later, he was still stewing about it as he idly made toast for 'lunch/dinner.' Focus. He's not worth it. Emotions make you sloppy. Make a plan. Find something he wants or give him hell. So he plotted, nibbled, and tried to sleep. It was a rough night.
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Day 42, January 21
The next day, Peter was slow to drag himself out of bed. He wasn't tired or ill, just depressed and uneasy. He went through his routine, though, because he was stubborn. He worked out at the Pegasus, he had breakfast at the diner, and he went to the Y to swim and soak in the hot tub until noon. He had lunch in a Starbucks, munching on their high-priced, high-calorie health foods (and washing it down with an enormous, over-sugared, over-caffeinated concoction he mixed up) until he was nearly buzzing with energy. Self-medicated, his depression was gone. Giddy, he returned to his apartment, snagged the guitar, and waltzed (literally, with the guitar as his dancing partner) into the rec room. Much enthusiastic and inharmonious thrashing of the strings ensued.
Late that evening, having spiraled deep into the inevitable crash that followed, he slowly climbed the stairs to the top floor so he could sulk in the empty penthouse. He made the bed and cleaned the place up before going back to his own place, equally slowly and still quite stubborn.
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Sylar felt drained when he woke. Hygiene and a little food didn't help. He could feel the shadows and threats closing in like a waking version of his nightmares he had every night. He told himself he was okay if Peter wasn't real, that he wasn't real. It was better this way anyway. And if Peter was real, then Sylar's absence would hurt him. Eventually. The bastard needed to feel what it was like to squirm alone without knowing if his suffering would or could be eased. It was a message, because for all that talk, Peter paid attention to actions and contact. He read some and cleaned his apartment. In the evening he settled in to work on timepieces (he determined to get Peter's and fix it because denial of the world and of time itself wasn't going to be allowed to fly). The work was comforting and familiar even in times of stress and uncertainty; Sylar lost himself in the small pieces and the interwoven gears – things that made sense, things he could fix. He didn't leave the apartment. He avoided sleep for as long as he could. The emptiness of his bed reminded him that if he capitulated, he could pretend to be human and have company. Bundling himself tight, he shut his eyes and forced himself into more nightmares.
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Day 43, January 22
Unwilling to spend another day wallowing (and Peter refused to consider why he felt like someone had dumped him), he rose early, worked out, ate, and moved on to the important mission of finding better clothes. He headed to the busted storefront to start with, thinking there might be sweats or something unisex inside that could serve at least as pajamas. Or maybe there would be a men's clothing store nearby.
He was distracted by the amount of snow that had drifted inside the store and spent the morning shoveling it out. The afternoon went by trying to find something to block the windows, but all he could scare up was cardboard or sheets, neither of which could he figure out how to affix to brick. He sat on the cashier's counter with a beer and a bag of trail mix for dinner, thinking about the hardware store and its contents. It would have adhesives. That would work for the cardboard or fabric. It would have boards I could make into braces for plywood, which it would also have. But would they have a saw so I could cut the boards? I don't remember seeing any big tools like that. Is there something else? Maybe they sell something I could use as a brace?
He munched and thought. At the end, he used cardboard propped up with pallets to block the lower half of the windows. It wouldn't do, but it was better than nothing. He went home (checking the penthouse first – empty) and hit the sack early.
XXX
He's just like the rest of them, Sylar thought in despair. It was very depressing to realize. Peter thought of Sylar the same way everyone else did, treating him with some…irregularities (probably explained by the denial issue) – the medical care, sleeping with him, not mocking him about crying, the chair. He didn't know what he expected of Peter or from him, but not being tortured and pretending important events hadn't happened certainly wasn't it. He should have known better. It's just a mindfuck. They do this for fun, he thought of the Petrellis, the indistinguishable group that they were. Sylar went to his building's roof for air and a view and some strange psychologically distant familiarity that didn't belong to him – the power of flight, Peter, and rooftops. Remembering that made him uncomfortable; Nathan faked his death on a rooftop, saved Peter from a sniper's bullet and jumping like a fucking imbecile, and had too many confessional conversations. Rooftops…didn't belong to him and if Peter saw him…well. He scanned the other roofs but Peter wasn't real. It was Sylar's own mind that judged and tortured him. It was too cold to stay long (at least, that was his excuse), having remained there to make a point to the imaginary hero. Sylar poked around the rest of the apartments not for the first time in three years, doing it just to do something and perhaps unearth an item of interest. He did find a little hand-operated music mechanism – the kind with the metallic comb-like teeth that struck on tiny bumps, making sounds like bells. The song was some sad lullaby but he wondered if Peter would like it. He saved it for a rainy day when he needed to bribe a man who wanted nothing from him. It was all so pointless.
XXX
Day 44, January 23
He was done waiting to see if Sylar would show back up. After working out and cleaning up, Peter went to the diner and made a breakfast of biscuits, eggs, and gravy. He packed it up neatly in to-go containers, put it in a sack with a couple fresh coffees, and marched it over to Sylar's apartment.
Where no one answered the door.
For a few minutes, he was worried. He pounded the door. He considered trying the knob. He knew how easy it had been to kick the door down. He knocked again, more politely this time, for all the good that did him. He banished his suddenly looming fears that Sylar had committed suicide or injured himself or was suffering some unknown and unexpected side effect of the concussion on the other side of the door, needful of Peter's help. That's stupid and I'm just trying to give myself an excuse to break in there. I haven't heard him. He's not there, and if he's not there, then there's no reason for me to go in.
Sighing, he sat on the floor of the hall and ate his biscuit dipped in gravy until the biscuit was gone. Then, since he hadn't brought utensils (having expected to use Sylar's), he took his half of the breakfast and left Sylar's next to the door. He went outside and for the first time looked attentively at the tracks in the snow. I'm pretty sure some of these tracks aren't mine. That means he's around. He's okay. He's not even avoiding me. He's just busy. (Yeah, right. Dream on, Peter.)
Shaking his head, he went on with his day, returning to his mission of finding clothes. He found a men's formalwear shop (not helpful) and returned to the sporting goods store he'd seen early on (also not very helpful). There, like at the formalwear shop, he found things that fit him, but not necessarily what he wanted to wear. (Though he got a kick out of imagining Sylar's expression should he show up in form-fitting bicycling shorts.) Another evening passed and this time he didn't check the penthouse, but he still stacked up his cans.
XXX
Sylar found a reason to venture out, for basic groceries. It was just to see what, if anything, Peter was…make sure he was real. He saw the medic had been out based on the new footprints to the diner; he kept his distance. When he returned, he found food containers outside his door. At least the door was intact, but Peter had been around and had come looking for him. It only served to anger him. He hated being forced into more rules to suit Peter (who had cleverly figured out what and how to hold things hostage), he was sick of the frustration, and he detested the idea of charity. He threw out the food, whatever it was. Probably poisoned and definitely cold.