Day 45, January 24, Morning
Peter's mind was busy as he pumped iron the next morning. I've seen his tracks, so he's around. He probably saw the food I left. He knows I came by. If he doesn't want to see me, then he'll clear out same as before, so if I go by, he's gone. But if he does want to see me, then he'll stick around to see if I come by just like I did yesterday. (Or he could come find me. That would be the polite thing to do. Not that he's polite.) Either way, I made the first gesture. If I come back today, I'm showing him that he can expect me to make the second even if he ignores the first one. (That's not good.) And I'm showing him that I'm not taking his distance for an answer, that I'm not respecting his space. (That's worse.) I wouldn't want him ignoring me ignoring him – I'd be sending a message with that and if he tracked me down anyway, especially a second time … yeah.
Ultimately, he left Sylar alone. Peter made himself a fruit salad, threw some nuts and yogurt in it, and spent the morning in the rec room, getting better at pool and tapping out some tunes on the piano.
XXX
Sylar went for a walk in the early hours. It hadn't snowed more, so it became a task to deduce where Peter had gone from the multitude of footprints. He wasn't in any hurry and he didn't exactly intend to engage Peter, but if it happened…It was more of a process of elimination than deduction now. It was closer to midday, at the end of possible locations. He heard Peter before he saw him.
XXX
How Peter didn't notice the sound of the door was a mystery to him. Sylar was quiet when he wanted to be. The guy could have spied Peter sitting at the piano, drumming out a love song, and stealthily slipped away should he have desired and Peter would have never known. As it was, Peter caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and nearly overturned the bench leaping to his feet. Eyes wide, he waited to see what Sylar's appearance meant.
XXX
The empath's reaction was gratifying and predictable, though it wasn't the welcome he'd rather receive. "You're still here," Sylar remarked, still standing in the doorway. It was a relief and at the same time, it meant the Petrelli's issues were glaringly present as well.
XXX
Peter looked Sylar over, then reached out with his foot and nudged the bench back into position (and subtly out of his way). "Yeah, I'm still here. I told you I wouldn't leave." An offering of small talk seemed horribly inappropriate, especially given the prowling, antagonistic vibe Sylar was giving off. He'd been less creepy at Mohinder's apartment before he'd killed Peter for the second time. No, this is more like Odessa, Peter thought, following Sylar's movements and saying nothing more. I wonder what would happen if I threw us both off the penthouse at the same time, like at the stadium?
XXX
We have different definitions of 'leaving.' Sylar entered the rec room slowly, making a wide circle around Peter. He felt eyes on him. He wanted to know if his absence had made the right impression on someone whose head was thicker than a bunker door. For now he was calm about it. "Did you miss me?"
XXX
"I wasn't shooting at you." Peter sat down again, turning his back to Sylar and refusing to play the frightened victim anymore. He picked a simple exercise of practice chords, pretending to tune Sylar out and ignore him.
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Sylar blinked. It took him about that long to understand what Peter was referring to, that it was an actual answer. It felt like whiplash – one minute Peter was all eyes and ears, the next, his back was turned, and Sylar was written off. Why did he immediately think about shooting me? "You'd like that wouldn't you? That's right. I forgot. You can't say what you really want, can you?" Sylar sneered. He slunk over to drape himself over the side of the piano, hoping to bother Peter and get a genuine reaction out of him again. "I've been telling you from the beginning. Accept that you're here, with me, alone, and things will get easier. Your denial has never been healthy, Peter." (He wouldn't believe Nathan was dead and look what happened after that shoe fell).
XXX
Peter leaned back, hands still resting on the keys. The challenge about not saying what he wanted couldn't go unanswered. (The comment about denial, he ignored, which was its own form of denial.) "I don't want to shoot you, Sylar. That's way too impersonal," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It's not that I can't say what I really want to do to you. It just seems obvious and impolite." He gestured at Sylar with his chin. "You have an imagination. You figure it out." He went back to repeating the chords, disgusted with the topic.
XXX
Sylar breezed by the dismissal. "I've already imagined it all. I want to know the gory details." (It helps). It will break him out of that stupid friendly denial he's in.
XXX
That stopped Peter again. The interruption was annoying, but the reason was more important than his irritation. "You really want me to tell you how I want to hurt you?" he said with affront. "What possible use could that serve?"
XXX
He shrugged, not really having a fantastic single reason or two to give. Perhaps it was difficult to explain. "It's…honest. It's fair. I want to know and you said you're a straightforward man. It's not like it's going to shock me in any way." I've been honest with you. I want to know what I'm dealing with; what to expect.
XXX
Peter blinked up at him. It had never seriously occurred to him to disclose to Sylar (or to anyone) his darker fantasies about his brother's murderer. The idea of stating them out loud made him squirm. They weren't thoughts he was supposed to have. He knew he shouldn't have thought them, shouldn't have allowed them, shouldn't have indulged that part of himself. At the same time, he knew he was human, he loved Nathan, and that sort of fantasy was normal. He'd assumed it would run its course, if he'd assumed anything at all about it. He had never imagined he might be called upon to confess them to the person they principally involved. He'd boxed himself into a corner, though, by claiming he could say it and then acting so superior about it. "Uhh ..." he said unhelpfully.
He looked down at the keys, half depressing a couple – enough to move the key down, but not enough to cause the hammer to strike the wire. "I … don't want to kill you. I just want to make you suffer … hurt. The way you've made everyone else hurt." He shook his head because that wasn't right. "No, not like that, because even if you had friends or lovers or relatives, they shouldn't be involved. So just you. Maybe maimed. Something you'd miss." He looked up at Sylar finally, Peter's expression guarded. He looked at those pretty eyes he'd thought so much about gouging out. He'd miss those. And maybe he'd never be able to kill anyone again, or take their ability if he couldn't see what he was doing.
XXX
It pleased Sylar no end to have a viable answer at last, the damn truth finally between them! It was a victory, and a helpful one, too. At the same time, having it out in the open was…painful. The hatred aimed at him was pure and unavoidable now. His imagination had no trouble filling his mind with horrors and creative tortures that would keep him alive but make him long for death (again). Sylar's chin tilted up after a minute, maintaining the eye contact Peter had begun. He wouldn't look away or cringe like a guilty coward, not when he'd asked for this. It only highlighted and illuminated the problem making him feel ever more hopeless. With a voice nearing the breaking point of edged emotion, he hissed, "How is that any different from what's already been done to me?" Any different from what you've already done!?
XXX
"It's different because I haven't done it." Peter got to his feet, anger surging around inside of himself with nowhere to go. "I've had the opportunity, and I haven't!" His voice was hard, body tense. He grabbed up his coat and gloves, not sure where he wanted to go, but certainly away from here. He didn't want to face the moral dilemma Sylar posed – his moral obligation to seek vengeance against his brother's killer, and his other moral obligation to avoid harming people. Even worse, he didn't want to deal with how Sylar didn't recognize Peter's forbearance.
XXX
If he was in Hell, then Peter was coming all the way down with him, deeper into the pit. "Yes, you did! Yes, you did! You did! You fucking did!" Sylar screamed at him as Peter tried to walk away from it once again. In his defense, it was a little beyond the Petrelli's usual denial.
XXX
What? I did not! "Fuck you!" he snapped. The time for any meaningful conversation had ended. One thing about this whole play-fighting thing was it allowed Peter the idea that losing was not a death sentence. Not that he wanted to get hurt, but he wanted to put a fist into Sylar's face. Peter felt he'd treated Sylar so well it was virtually an ability all by itself, considering the man's very personal offenses. If Sylar didn't recognize any of that, then fine, Peter would put a fist in his face. Snarling, he swung his left fist at Sylar's chin, expecting Sylar to make sure it didn't connect. It was only partly a feint, but as he'd expected, Sylar put his main attention into blocking it. Peter's solid kick to the shin went entirely unopposed. It wasn't the face shot he'd wanted, but it felt good nonetheless.
XXX
Sylar backed up an unsteady step before swinging a few punches of his own. The adrenaline was pouring through him. Peter was going to regret losing this, for fucking around with him, teasing him, for the stupid denial routine, all of it.
XXX
Peter stayed well out of range now, circling right and sizing Sylar up as though he was considering rushing him. He was trying to figure out how to best crack this nut. He was obvious enough about it that Sylar said, "Finish it, Petrelli, finish something you've started!", so Peter lunged at him … and kicked him in the other shin instead of committing to the bull rush.
XXX
Sylar made an inarticulate roar at that and smacked Peter solidly across the head. He wanted to rattle that dopey little brain around until it started making sense! He readied himself to land another punch and he didn't plan on stopping. It wasn't any kind of self-defense or preventative method for the maiming threat – this was reality, fairness, and making a goddamn point. He would not be ignored and so easily slid under the rug any more.
XXX
Peter jerked back and down, getting hit on the side of the face and then had his shirt grabbed by Sylar's other hand. He wasn't sure what Sylar was planning with that, so he twisted away, the taut fabric slipping out of Sylar's grip before he could tighten it. Peter got his balance. He should have probably been thinking of a strategy, but instead he was just responding. It turned out to be better that way.
XXX
Sylar stepped forward, advancing and attacking aggressively, swinging at Peter's head with his long arm that took a while to unwind. It worked before, so it would work again.
XXX
Mind empty and hands lightning quick, Peter grabbed the guy's wrist, side-stepped, and yanked him forward, following the path of momentum just like he'd been taught years ago. Hey, that worked!
XXX
Sylar fell forward flailing onto the couch. He didn't panic. His plan was to bounce up and to the side in case Peter was following him…The dark leather cushions were soft and didn't provide a solid platform to push off against…
XXX
Peter came down with a knee to the back of one calf as Sylar was trying to get back up and slammed his right forearm across the back of Sylar's neck to force him back down.
XXX
Sylar face-planted on the leather couch and couldn't draw breath for a half-second, long enough to get disoriented in the middle of a fight. This was worrisome. If Peter got him down again – Peter who was stupid enough to punch him in the head – if he was lucky, it would be a quick death. It wasn't over yet.
XXX
Peter grabbed Sylar's left wrist with his free left hand, applying pressure with his right to keep Sylar's head down. He still wasn't sure what his endgame was here, but immobilizing the guy seemed like the best plan. The judo throw had worked – maybe he could manage a pin.
XXX
Sylar thrashed – tried to kick, roll, heave him off, and turned his head to breathe. He tried to get his free arm under him somewhat but not too much or that would trap both arms if Peter applied weight. He sought to push off and twist away from the inevitable hold. They were all useful actions that made sense in context, but none of them stopped Peter from twisting Sylar's left arm around behind his back. Peter wrenched the wrist upward and the fight was over. Sylar gasped and involuntarily cowered down away from the pressure. He was stuck. He couldn't twist away forward with the couch blocking him and the right side he could escape to was blocked by the back of the couch and Peter's other hand. He was panting, sweating, and drooling ungracefully. Sylar was enraged beyond forming words, sensible, witty or otherwise. It took him long, tense minutes to give up.
XXX
A few moments after Sylar went limp, Peter lowered his wrist a few inches, but didn't let go. What did he say? 'I did'? What the fuck have I ever done to hurt him that he didn't bring on himself? The concussion? But that didn't make sense. It felt earlier. Sylar had had a chip on his shoulder from even before that. Sylar had started that fight for some reason, after all. At Mercy, he wanted to crucify me … it must be before that, too. He was impersonating Nathan before he was going to go after the president – was he after my whole family? I didn't do anything to him! Or is it that we stopped him, Nathan and I? He killed Nathan for it, and now he's after me, is that it?
Keeping his grip firm on Sylar's wrist, his right forearm pinning the guy down, he asked, "What was it I did?"
XXX
Peter was fortunate he had Sylar incapacitated. Sylar was angry enough to strangle him and beat him to a pulp. "As if you didn't know! You violated my mind! It was the one thing I had left! First your mother, Parkman and Bennet, and then you! After you said the Haitian did the same to you!"
XXX
Oh. "You-" Peter stopped himself from telling Sylar that he'd started it, brought it on himself, had to be stopped from whatever megalomaniac scheme he was pursuing. "The Haitian," he said softly, to himself. Rene had wished Peter a better life, had told him so before wiping his memories. He'd seen it after regeneration recovered them. Given the horror show that was Peter's family, it would have been a kindness if it had worked. It was certainly meant that way. He refocused on Sylar. "I don't blame him. He thought he was doing the right thing. The people I get really pissed at know they're doing wrong and do it anyway." His hand squeezed on Sylar's wrist without his conscious mind having anything to do with it. "What about you? Did you think it was right to kill all those people?"
XXX
Sylar adjusted his position slightly, tilting his head up and forward to roar wordlessly at the arm of the couch in frustration. Panting then because Peter was pushing on him and actively holding him down, he turned his head to the side to growl. "I already answered that, Petrelli, and you're an idiot if you think I'm going to talk like this. Go ahead. Break my arm or worse. I'm done talking."
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"No, you didn't think it was right," Peter said. "The one thing you had left was one more thing than you left any of your victims." He let Sylar go, not willing to break his arm, dislocate the shoulder, or whatever 'worse' was. From his position on his knees behind Sylar, he pushed off from the guy's shoulders to get to his feet, then took a few quick steps back to get some distance between them. He didn't expect Sylar to come up swinging, but it was a definite possibility.
XXX
Sylar felt the push and spun around, crouching to watch Peter skitter away like he should. His glare couldn't be any more intense. This was the worst possible outcome, where Peter refused to acknowledge the event for what it was, his involvement in it, and Sylar's feelings; where Peter could continue to deny everything like it never happened. He truly hadn't expected he would have to fight and argue about this. Peter, who cared about everything and everyone, yet this was…pleasing, acceptable, not worth noticing, deserved?
It was unthinkable that Sylar of limited morals would take responsibility for his actions – assaulting Claire, killing Peter, Nathan, Arthur, and many others – and Saint Peter could not or would not own up to one singular deed. He wasn't expecting an apology or an offer of help, on the contrary – Sylar wanted the acknowledgement that he'd been deeply, irreparably, heinously wronged. Of course, no one else had ever validated anything done to him. (This is hopeless. How do I live with this?) He should have known this would happen; why would this time be any different? Why would Peter be any different?
His face twisted in horror and disbelief. He hadn't wanted to think his unworthiness, his just desserts, the maiming, the torture of every kind, being inhuman, monstrous, unfixable, and hated beyond measure; he didn't want to think about living with someone who thought that of him, treated him that way, and expected him to ignore it, accept it, and act perfect and normal and behave. More than almost anything, Sylar did not want to go back to that way of living. It wasn't really living.
His voice shaking, but clear, he said, "This is not about me, or any of them. It's about you and what you did." What few, broken and mismatched mental marbles he still possessed were about to be scattered to the wind if Peter…continued this way. The darker, deadly part of him was barely held in check, waiting on the result.
XXX
It's not about you? That's a nice way to parse it, Peter thought with sarcasm. Maybe it was a defense against the strength of Sylar's wrath. This is a fine time for him to pick something out of context, like I mind-wiped him for no reason. (Did I?) No, I was saving Nathan. (Trying to. Failing.) That doesn't matter; what matters is that I tried. I couldn't not try. Peter straightened, relaxing a little from being quite as combat-ready as he had been. Regardless of how angry Sylar was, they were talking now and not trying to kill each other. They were making progress. He took a few deep breaths and tried to clear his head. But he's right. This isn't about Nathan, either. It's about me and what I did to him, to Sylar. From Sylar's point of view, that's all it's about. He doesn't care about Nathan. He doesn't care about any of the others. He cares about himself. (That's not entirely wrong.) Peter frowned, the beginnings of a scowl on his face. Tensing again, he said, "I did that, yeah." His teeth parted only the bare minimum as necessary to pronounce the words.
XXX
Sylar felt something wild rise up from deep inside him, like relief and the desperate need for answers and healing at once. His hands shook against his thighs; he was still leaned forward to hear everything. "And?" he prompted more firmly than he felt – there was more and now he was sure Peter knew it, too.
XXX
"I killed- tried to kill you?" Peter looked uncertain, not because he didn't know what he'd done, but because he wasn't sure how to talk about it. The regeneration didn't make Peter's actions any less of a murder attempt and he knew that. Would I kill to save Nathan? In a heartbeat. Especially Sylar. (Because he deserves it?) No one 'deserves' it. (Then why did I do it?) Nathan. That was the answer, without need of further justification in Peter's mind, but he still struggled with the principle. (It's wrong to force people to provide organs to let others live, even when the donor would survive. You can't even force blood donation. So how does that make it right to kill Sylar so Nathan could live?) "It wasn't … right."But I'd do it again anyway. (If I thought it would work.)
XXX
That wasn't good enough. Peter's hesitation was telling and Sylar needed to hear this. He was still too tense, terrified though there was no threat. It wasn't like him to put things in such black-and-white terms, but he refused to let Peter dodge this. "You knew it was wrong and you did it anyway," his voice took on an edge, demanding the truth.
XXX
Peter didn't have anything he could say to that. A sudden urge to run flashed through him – to escape this painful, embarrassing, infuriating confrontation physically, but that was cowardice, wrong, and would only make him smaller than he already felt. He swallowed, knowing he'd either paled or flushed because his blood pressure was wonky and the room was threatening to close in on him. He wished he could sit down, but the couch was past Sylar. Sylar, who was waiting for an answer. "Yes," he said simply, because there was no defense he could or should mount to that – trying to remove Sylar's entire being was more thorough a maiming than any gouging out of eyes. It was truly 'something you'd miss' and it was obviously something Sylar had missed, as he spoke of the period as traumatic and not merely some painless but disturbing blank spot in his memory like he'd have if he'd been anesthetized or otherwise unaware. Peter stood there too defeated to even look guilty.
XXX
Sylar breathed once and couldn't again. Still, every answer was not enough, he knew it never would be, but that didn't stop him from chasing it. The trembling fluttered in his gut now, some horrible feeling just waiting to burst somehow. He didn't know where that simple admission left him. Why would gentle, caring Peter rape what was left of someone's soul when he knew it was wrong? "Why?" he rasped because his throat was tight. "You wouldn't do that to anyone else. You think it's wrong," Sylar panted a moment before screaming from his very core, "SO WHY IS IT OKAY FOR YOU TO DO IT TO ME?!"
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Peter recoiled a step from the scream, studying Sylar warily in case that was going to be followed by anything physical. He finally answered, "It wasn't. I know it wasn't. I thought I could get Nathan back. And you were the one who'd killed him. I wanted you gone. I wanted him back. That's all I cared about. More than right or wrong." His face turned sullen. He didn't like being shouted at. He'd admitted he'd done wrong. Being verbally abused for it wasn't something he was going to allow. He knew he could either stand there and take it, leave, or do something about it. Fuck him. If we're going to talk this over, then we're going to talk it over. We're not going to scream at each other from across the room. Peter headed towards Sylar, steeled for another potential fight. This one would be over something so stupid as whether Peter could sit on the couch. Arriving there, on one end, he sat and gave Sylar, who was sitting too close for his comfort, a shove on the shoulder. "Get over," he ordered.
XXX
Peter advanced towards him and every rational and irrational fear about having pushed Peter too far; that Peter would maim him again in the same or different ways overwhelmed Sylar's awareness. How quickly things reverted to a hopeless and pain-filled existence. He barely managed not to cringe, tried not to regret having asked what he had done, and sitting in the middle of the couch, he knew there would be contact. Sylar stared him down and weathered the…push? to his shoulder…It made little sense. Before Peter could make it worse, Sylar shoved back in defense and in doing so, put some space between them. He was breathing irregularly but that seemed to be the end of it. For once, he really didn't want to be beaten today, not on top of all the rest of the hurt he felt.
XXX
Peter weathered the push in return and sat himself down on the end closer to the piano, where his stack of medical books rested next to the arm of the furniture. He went back to what they'd been talking about. "The drugs were to restrain you while I tried to figure out what I could do, but then you attacked me and we got to fighting and …" He shrugged. "I got angry. I didn't care anymore." Quietly, glancing down at the floor, he said, "I just wanted you gone and my brother back."
XXX
For the moment, Sylar sat with the Petrelli, on a couch in an isolated world. That was never going to work. I don't think he cares. This was never going to work either. Nathan will always be more important than anything, right or wrong. I fucking hate Nathan. I hate him, too, for not having a brain to think with! (I hate him for not knowing it was me; I hate him for not trying to save me). One thing was clear – he couldn't just sit here with this…person. He began speaking, softly, standing to loom over Peter and waiting until he had the other man's attention. "That was never going to work. Your precious brother is gone. You are just like me, just like your faithless family, doing any crime to protect that worthless bastard; only you don't have the decency to kill the people you hurt. Don't you ever try to judge me again." Sylar left him there, hoping that hurt like a boot to the balls because it was no less than Peter the hypocrite deserved.
XXX
So much for talking it out. He doesn't want a fair exchange of ideas – he doesn't care. Peter's eyes narrowed as the other man stood over him, trying to be intimidating (and generally succeeding – the last time Sylar had been upset and in his face, Peter had been punched for not taking him seriously enough so he was paying a lot of attention right now). But he found some of his fire at the idea he and Sylar had some moral equivalency, or that Nathan's death and all of Sylar's other murders made Sylar superior. "People who are hurt can heal!" Peter called out at Sylar's retreating back. "The dead don't!"
XXX
"No. People who are hurt suffer, regroup, and come back after you without learning their lesson. They just…suffer." Sylar's shoulders were slumped. He was morbidly depressed about what that meant about him, about Peter, Nathan, his mother, Elle, about life, about being a monster…People didn't heal without help. Nathan would have had help - he did have help - but every time the bastard wasted his chances, abused his helpers, and rejected the aid. Nathan chose to die, for Peter and Peter couldn't be grateful about any of it. All Peter wanted was to add to the layers of scar tissue from previous maiming, as if that was a mercy or a gift to be alive and feel the hatred, pain and loneliness - as if that would allow him to 'heal.' Sylar couldn't begin to phrase how sick Peter was for wanting someone alive forever to torture and persecute, to purposefully inflict suffering with his desire to 'maim.'
XXX
Peter snorted at how ludicrous that was. It flew in the face of his entire profession as an EMT. The more he thought about Sylar's accusations, the more incensed he became. I am nothing like him! Peter got to his feet and said, "I was trying to save a life when I tried to kill you. Yes, it was wrong, but what I was trying to do wasn't. That's not the same thing as going around trying to take abilities for the hell of it, because you want them or they make you special or your ability is driving you to do it and you never do anything to stop yourself! I will judge you for that!"
XXX
"Playing God isn't a sin if you're a Petrelli," Sylar sneered. He was not a person and he never would be; trying to convince his enemy of that was futile. "Your motivation and intention for killing someone is no better than anyone else's – what matters is that you killed someone and that is what you will be judged on. You can trust me on that." I know the truth. Weathering Peter Petrelli's hypocritical delusions would continue, just not today. He'd had more than enough and he left hurting far more than he had when he'd arrived. Wishing to be numb, he trudged home where he sat on the couch, staring at nothing, trying to think of nothing. The effects of someone vehemently believing he was worthless and deserving of torture or replacement, and hearing it so openly, still paralyzed him inside. I thought I was over this. He's been brainwashed; he's the hero, of course he's always right.
XXX
Peter shook his head, but didn't do anything else to call Sylar back. If he was going to be damned for making a last-ditch effort to save his brother's life, prioritizing that life over that of Nathan's killer, then Peter would accept his sentence without argument. That Sylar couldn't or wouldn't see that boggled his mind. I've mentioned it. I've told him straight out. Why the hell does he think I'd pick him over Nathan? Nathan is precious to me, but he says it like it's sarcasm. Frustrated, he gathered up his guitar and the book on bone injuries, and retreated to his apartment. Neither of them brought him any comfort. What there was to be had he got from cuddling with Mister Bear. Sylar doesn't even relate to stuffed animals without abusing them – why would he do any better with people? What was left of the day was quiet and drear.
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Day 46, January 25
The next day Sylar was fuming. How many times did he have to tell Peter that he wasn't responsible for everything? That intent didn't matter? That they were the same? That there was no mission? That he did Peter a favor? And yet it was Sylar who had to take the abuse and listen to talk of being maimed because it was 'right.' I want to fuck with him and get a connection, be friends, but he…? I have to ignore everything he does and try to suck up to that fucking Petrelli? Peter's stubbornness was legendary – he was the ultimate immovable object. It would be like talking to a wall, which might actually serve him better. It was left up to him to capitulate or struggle, brainwash himself for the good of their survival or continue to hurt himself with no hope of success. It wasn't a choice because it was being forced on him, as he knew it would be. And he wants me to like him. Sylar went for a very long walk, so long that Peter wouldn't catch up to him even if his footprints were visible. If I'm lucky, I'll catch frostbite and die; it's not like he'll kill me.
XXX
Peter stayed in his apartment building all day. It seemed like the best way to avoid running into Sylar. When he needed space, he went to the roof and paced it. He tried to motivate himself to make a snowman, but it didn't seem right in a world that didn't have any people in it (aside from the two obvious occupants). It would seem like he was trying to make a companion for himself and that wasn't the case. He knew where Sylar was if he wanted to go talk to him. The simple fact was he didn't want to. So he made snowballs instead and practiced throwing them against a neighboring building, or dropping them over the side to see them disappear in the snow below or splatter when they hit exposed pavement. He told himself there was no point in trying to work things out with his brother's murderer. When he held onto that thought, he threw the snowballs harder and faster and further, and they sprayed into pieces against brick of the far building in a satisfying way.
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Day 47, January 26
The third day, Sylar tried desperately not to think about his fate. Insanity was inevitable, just more of the same he'd had all his life. If Peter Forgive-and-Love-All Petrelli can't see any value in you then there isn't any to be found. But I already knew that, didn't I? It felt like the constant stress and unseen threats were killing him, bit by lonely bit. It was a waking agony and when he slept…well, he very nearly hadn't slept. I have a very good imagination; 'something I'd miss.' My mind, my sanity, my sleep…He went for another long walk, shorter than yesterday, but it left him too much time to think. Sylar found himself wandering through random rooms, scavenging for distractions. He began to hope he wasn't 'real', either, that this was all just another type of torture, perhaps self-inflicted. He tried to sleep in the unfamiliar building he'd found, on a forsaken couch, because there wasn't any point in going back.
XXX
Peter moved back to the Y for the morning, doing his workout there instead of across the street at the Pegasus. Even though the big emptiness of the YMCA still bothered him, he didn't think he ran the same risk of bumping into Sylar as he would at the Pegasus. The repetitive exercises left him bored and sore, tired across his chest and back in a way that even a long soak in the hot tub couldn't dispel. Maybe I need something with more of a goal? For the afternoon, he sought out the tallest building in the city again, scaling the stairs as a test of his endurance. Every aching step up was a step away from Sylar, away from the stupid situation Peter had put himself in, away from confronting the fact that he didn't know how to get out of it. He didn't care about the view from the top, but the vista was inviting for other reasons than scenery. What would happen if I just picked a direction and headed off? That wouldn't really be 'leaving', would it? He sighed. It would be and he knew it would be. It was a long, cold, and spooky walk back through the dark. His body hurt from overexertion and his mind felt numbed by the lack of human interaction. If Sylar only sees me as a threat and I don't have any use to him as a companion, then when will he get rid of me? It could be any time. He peered at the shadows and thought he should be frightened by the prospect. He felt resigned instead. It's not my decision to make. It's not like I'm going to change my mind about Nathan or letting Sylar fuck me or whatever.
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Day 48, January 27
Sylar spent too long in the shower, feeling catatonia or claustrophobia, a listlessness coming over him. His thoughts were consumed with ways to die, wondering why Peter refused to torture him outright and kill him and be done with it – then he would remember that pain was the goal. Like it had before Peter appeared, it felt like the windows were full of judging, prying eyes. He'd tried to explain everything to Peter and it counted for nothing. I already asked him to end it. Am I…supposed to make him do it? Engineer it? Help him do it? He was still voiceless in a world with one as he was in a world with none or with crowds; usefulness was a joke with a captor who abstained from inflicting his justice as he saw fit. He went back to the couch, covering his face with the scratchy couch pillows to shut it out, gripping one to his chest and crying until he fell asleep again.
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It blew freezing rain all day, except for the brief periods when it relented and blew thick, drifting snow instead. Even though the Y was only a few blocks away, Peter opted for the Pegasus, thinking and hoping Sylar would be as deterred by the weather as he was. For Peter, it was across the street. For Sylar, it was a block down. Hopefully, he'd stay away. Peter remained alert and wary in any case, never able to lose himself in exercise or music the way he wanted to. The tension was ultimately maddening. He caught himself more than once simply sitting, still and poised, mind blank as he listened to the rattle of sleet against the windows ... and waited for the return of someone he didn't want to see.