Day 49, January 28
Home Depot was his destination and plywood his target. Head reeling, ribs aching and seizing, he dragged a few sheets of plywood through fluffy yet slushy snow no thicker than a few inches. His hands grew cold and tired, even through the gloves he'd brought from Depot to help with slivers. It took him longer than it should have and progress was slow. Peter would honor nothing he said. Peter wouldn't fix it, so it was left to Sylar to come behind and fix what he could. He'll say I made him break the store in the first place. I break things. (So does he). When he arrived, he saw that Peter had taken some actions - placing cardboard around as best he could. Sylar stared at that for a moment, pissed off some more and relieved at once. He can care for things, at least. He managed to prop the plywood up and cover the lower parts of most of the windows, where the snow was likeliest to creep in. Hammer and nails hadn't entered his mind even though he knew it would be a better result – he couldn't risk having them on him or leaving them around for Peter to find. Eating hadn't been a priority, but his stomach was growling, so he opened canned salmon for protein back in his apartment. He was dead tired, and weary, but his bed would offer no comfort in sleep. Avoiding it meant reading on the couch until his eyes closed.
XXX
The day was warmer, much warmer, than the previous one. Lured by the dazzling sunlight and a sense that he needed to focus on the important goal of getting on with his life, Peter ventured out to the grocery store and then into some of the environs near it, just poking his head into places, finding a barber shop and a tire store. Why would there be a tire store if there aren't any cars? Huh. Laden with food and supplies, his trip back was difficult. He'd opted not to take a cart due to the slush everywhere, and it was difficult to carry everything he wanted without a pack. He managed, though.
After a tasty lunch of Swiss cheese and pecans between a couple slices of oat bread, he took off his brace and examined his hand in detail. He wasn't sure how long it had been since it had been broken (and probably re-broken in their fight outside the storefront), but he was thinking it had been about six weeks. It still twinged, but that was all it did. It became sore fast when he played the guitar, but he could play the guitar. He spent the day practicing, trying to remember tunes and lyrics and jotting down notes when he thought he had them right. He wasn't sure what he might do with the rest of eternity here in Sylar's head, but making music and expressing his feelings through it was something that appealed to him. He left the brace off for the rest of the day, thinking he might be okay from now on to wear it only while he slept.
Day 50, January 29
Sylar went to his roof to see if there were any signs of life. All he saw was snow. He would have to get closer, but not too close. Checking for footprints had proved ineffective as Peter apparently walked in his own tracks. He was weak and barely cared for his own safety but paranoia won out. Circling around Peter's building at a distance, he waited and watched, out of mere curiosity if the stupid vegan still lived, if he looked normal or if he schemed. He saw Peter a few times and he looked as normal as he ever did, unconcerned about anything but whatever mini-mission that occupied his silly thoughts. Eventually, Sylar would confront him but there was nothing to say for now.
XXX
Peter stomped his way up to the Y on another mission – a better way to deal with the desire to punch Sylar in the face. Much of the slush had cleared off. What was left had refrozen overnight into patchy ice, which he avoided, taking his time to walk in the clear areas. It wouldn't do to fall and screw up his hand again. After working out, he spent most of the morning fruitlessly exploring every nook and cranny of the YMCA. He could have sworn he'd seen a punching bag here, but he'd either been wrong, or his mind was playing tricks on him again. He pondered it over lunch and set off for a new destination. In the sporting goods store, he found what he was looking for almost immediately – both a full length boxing bag and a smaller speed bag with a wall-mounting platform. The activity of the afternoon was getting everything to the rec room of the Pegasus. He worked into the evening hooking them up, using a ladder and tools he found in the custodial closet. There wasn't room to put them in the workout room and he didn't really want them in there anyway. The rec room was spacious enough to allow plenty of safe maneuvering.
For days now, he'd ignored the idea of seeking out Sylar. It wasn't difficult, given he expected Sylar to be unstable, short of sleep, paranoid, irritable, and dangerous, as well as abusive, sexually aggressive, and unpredictable. Sylar was in that uncomfortable period of being healthy enough to pose a danger to Peter and not so ill that Peter felt he had to deal with the risk to ensure Sylar's survival. Sylar would get better as time passed, or so Peter hoped. Since his hand was better, he hoped Sylar was recovering as well. Curiosity was beginning to nag at him, along with loneliness. Peter took a few practice jabs at the newly hung bag with his left hand, not daring to test his right on it yet. It was the same with Sylar - more time was needed. That meant he needed a new project.
Day 51, January 30
Peter packed his messenger bag, dressed warmly, and headed out early. Today there was no workout. He hiked off down the street in what he hoped was the same direction as the music store. He had written down the identifying information about the piano, the dimensions of his guitar, and recovered his sketchbook from the penthouse prior to making a quick reference drawing of the spank plank. If he was going to work on music as a goal, then he needed to get his instruments in order. It was a long walk with a lot of detours, but he found the place by early afternoon. He only spent an hour or two browsing the wares and investigating the surprisingly capacious back room. He grabbed a few obvious things – a tuning kit and a set of tuning forks, some new sheet music, and a book of classic rock songs – and headed back while the sun was still up. He wanted to fix the route in his mind, something best done while he could see landmarks.
XXX
Sylar had watched enough yesterday to know where Peter had spent most of his time. Today, it seemed, Peter was going elsewhere. Trying to follow Peter to some unknown destination, keep eyes on him and remain mostly unseen didn't sound like fun. Instead, he wanted to see what Peter had been tearing up all day yesterday in Pegasus. Probably a crucifixion device. How many elements is that? Nails, cross, maiming, divine retribution? It baffled him still how Peter could state his desires (only when pressed) yet he refused to please himself, except in ways that mostly uninvolved Sylar. He strolled into the Pegasus, headache intact (but lessened) and short of sleep as always but his back was healed and his toes and ribs nearly so. Mostly he was considering what kind of message he could leave his wayward companion, what of his annoying projects he could fuck up.
The rec room had not one but two punching bags. Sylar walked in slowly and stared, thinking about this development. Obviously Peter wanted them, and yes, it was probably healthy, and just as obviously they were intended for Peter's use. I wonder what he put in the exercise room then…
XXX
Peter had not expected Sylar, but on retrospect, he should have. It was, after all, just a matter of time before they sought each other out again (Peter wouldn't characterize it as running into one another, as he knew it wasn't random – things never would be, here). He jumped a little – more of a twitch, really – and kept moving towards the piano as he'd been before he noticed the room wasn't unoccupied. He gave Sylar a brief, weak, and uncertain smile, wondering how things were going to turn out.
XXX
Fuck. Sylar turned around quickly at the sound of doors. He hadn't meant to get caught and being caught meant he'd probably have to engage in some conversation with a deluded Petrelli.
XXX
Sylar looked as surprised at seeing Peter as Peter was to see him. When Sylar said nothing, no greeting or other acknowledgment of his presence, Peter paused next to the piano and offered, "Hey. How are you doing?" in a mix of cheerful and cautious. He opened his bag to drop off the clear, thick plastic bag that held the tuning kit, and then joined it with the wooden box for the forks. He headed over to the couch to set down the bag next to it, thinking they might sit and talk. He was watching Sylar nearly the whole time, though, with the manner you might watch a trained lion who was at liberty in the same room with you – no matter how well 'trained' the animal was supposed to be, it was still not a tame lion. There was no such thing.
XXX
Sylar's eyes narrowed and he tensed all over. How am I doing? Like he cares? Why ask? The realization that life would continue as Peter wished was a bitter one. Of course, everything is normal and happy for him. I have to play along. Posture and expression relaxed through strength of will; Sylar worked up a polite reply, "Fine." I'm not fine. Nothing is fine! "You must be feeling better," he gestured at the punching bags and whatever Peter brought in just now. It's my world; why does he get to have toys? "What's in the bag?" Maiming tools, if he cornered me on purpose.
XXX
Peter shrugged at the 'feeling better' comment. He must think I'm hitting that thing with both hands. I wonder if I should make sure he knows I'm not there yet, so he keeps playing it safe with my hand? "Hm?" Pulled out of his thoughts, he glanced back at his bag. I don't have to tell him that. Why does he want to know? Does he think I've taken to carrying a gun or something? For a moment, he wanted to refuse just because, but he thought better of it. Don't feed the paranoia. Just tell him. He squatted next to the satchel and opened it, showing off the remaining contents. "Not much. Just some music and new songs, my notebook, some food, and a pair of socks." The food he showed was a green apple and a plain bagel, the bagel having been left uneaten precisely because it was plain. There was also a pencil, a tiny bottle of machine oil, a couple empty baggies, and a piece of peppermint candy in there, but he didn't detail everything.
XXX
Like it was a competition, Sylar blurted, "I put plywood over the windows at the store. You remember the one." Does he?
XXX
"Yeah?" Peter said, dropping the flap of the bag and standing up. There was a lot confrontational in Sylar's tone. Peter declined to rise to the bait. "That's a good idea. I couldn't figure out how to attach anything to the brick." And where did he get plywood, anyway? I looked all over the place.
XXX
Sylar snorted, "Don't patronize me. You have more important things to do." He jerked his chin at the piano. Badly he missed his…ignorance, when he could sleep next to Peter or hear his music. He didn't think it would ever be like that again. "So do I." Sylar made for the door to escape whatever failed conversation this was and the suppressed feelings. I do have better things to do, he assured himself.
XXX
Peter didn't want to be left. He wouldn't have minded spending the evening alone. In fact, he'd planned on it. But having Sylar show up and then actively ditch him was galling and painful, especially when he'd been absolutely alone for an entire week. He didn't want to admit it, but it was getting to him. "Yeah, I'm uh," he got out quickly, "I'm going to have dinner. Do you want to come up?" Yeah, okay, I'm desperate enough to ask him to stick around even when he's in a bad mood. He doesn't look too good, either. Maybe I could help him, get a good meal into him? He could sleep in the penthouse after … I could sleep on the couch.
XXX
Sylar turned but didn't square off, scoffing, "Said the spider to the fly." He gave Peter a half-bemused, disbelieving look up and down. "That's really what you're going to go with?" After that, he chuckled. If he went willingly it saved Peter the effort of tracking him down and dragging him wherever he was wanted. Leaving Peter alone, knowing he'd been working in here for days, after the talk of maiming… "What do you have up there?"
XXX
What the hell does that mean? Peter was baffled. "Food," he said after a few moments of hesitation and a piercing look. "The same stuff that was there before."
XXX
Sylar frowned. A quick rundown flashed through his head, assuring him that there wasn't any real 'maiming' potential in being poisoned, aside from paralysis (thank you, curare) and possible coma. "And that's how you're going to play it," Sylar muttered to himself, facing forward. Of course Peter wouldn't answer; that would take all the fun out of it. The only question was: to go quietly or start a war? He did honestly consider going quietly, after all, Peter didn't think much of him. But he still had to put up with the rest of Petrelli's bullshit and ill treatment so Peter had earned no such compliance. "We can have dinner somewhere else. I'm not going up there," Sylar jerked his chin to indicate the floors above them and the suite. Which way is he going to go? Peter had two bags and had only revealed the contents of one.
XXX
Peter tilted his head, an expression of confusion and wonder playing across his features. You think this is going to work for you? You don't get to boss me around, Sylar, no matter how shitty you feel. He took off his coat and tossed it to the side of the couch, sitting down and digging into his bag for the bagel. He picked at a little flaky bit of it that he could peel off from where the bagel had been cut. "Okay. Suit yourself." He ate the crumb he'd separated from the hard roll. "The pickings aren't as good down here, but I'll let you have the apple. There might be a piece of candy in there, too. I don't remember if I ate all of them or not." He wasn't about to let the sleep-deprived serial killer set the terms of their interaction. Peter could be talked into eating somewhere else, yes, but not in Sylar's current tone of voice – hostile mutterings included. I'm not that desperate. Besides, he'd spent a lot of the day walking and didn't want to go much further. Before Sylar could finish ditching him (something Peter saw as inevitable now), Peter fired off, "Why? What's wrong with upstairs now?"
XXX
That was not the kind of response he wanted, nor was it a desirable attitude. Sylar got the impression Peter wouldn't be going anywhere and that left only Peter's food for Peter in an attempt to snub him. Peter received a viciously sarcastic look. "Because you've had all week to put who-knows-what up there. Did you really think I'd go like a lamb to slaughter?" With that, Sylar turned on his heel.
XXX
"Huh." Peter frowned, turning the bagel restlessly in his hands after Sylar left. He's really paranoid. He's going to kill me one of these days and think it's some kind of idiotic self-defense. Is there something I can do about that? Should I … get defenses, or move further away? Would that do any good? I think the only thing I can do is call his bluff and go on like he's not threatening to kill me. Because if he does, he does, and if he doesn't, he doesn't. I don't see what I can do either way. Huffing, Peter stowed the bagel, uneaten, put his coat back on, took up his bag, and headed over to his apartment.
Day 52, January 31
The next morning, he was sitting on the curb across from Sylar's apartment. He had no plan, didn't think he needed one. The extent of his 'planning' was that he'd brought a towel to double up and sit on, and an insulated mug for his hot, heavily-sugared coffee drink. But as far as Sylar went, Peter figured this was all a 'play it by ear' thing that planning wouldn't help.
XXX
Sylar looked and felt rough. He came out around nine (late for him, but his head and lack of sleep still gave him trouble). The second thing he saw, aside from the weather, was Peter Petrelli sitting on the curb opposite his building. It was creepy and foreboding, stopping him in his tracks for a moment. He's getting closer. He's not waiting. Oh, good; he even came prepared to stalk me. It wouldn't stop here, Sylar knew that much; it was only a matter of time before he would be waking up in the middle of the night to see Peter standing over him in his apartment, just watching and waiting before…Peter wasn't being subtle. He obviously wanted attention. It sucked that Sylar had to cross the street to address the pest – standing on his side of the New York roadway and speaking wouldn't be audible. Doing so, he stood just on the curb about four feet away from Peter, not circling like he probably should have done. He turned to look at the nurse. "What? What do you want?"
XXX
"Waiting for you." Peter glanced up at him, not too happy about having to crane his neck up, which he figured was Sylar's intention. He ignored the feeling for now, though. Sylar was, at least, not openly hostile. "I wanted some company. What are you doing today?"
XXX
Yes, I can see you're waiting for me. (Is he that desperate?) Sylar couldn't discern some clever threat from the truth, whatever that might be. Perhaps Peter did want company – his past behaviors lent likely credit. I was going to see where you were, what you were doing, and what's in the Pegasus. Can't check on that with you around. I have to have something to do…Why else would I be out? Do I want him around? "I'm getting new books and checking on the windows." It's not like I can tell him he can't come along, even if I wanted to.
XXX
"Cool. Mind if I come along?" He gathered up his towel and stuffed it into his messenger bag.
XXX
Sylar shifted, waiting for Peter to stand. "Do I get a choice?" he asked mostly rhetorically and by then, Peter was up and they were walking. I need new books if I'm alone. No, I need them anyway. "Don't you read anything?" It was almost an accusation. He'd seen Peter reading a few times, but nothing of real substance apart from the medical texts (I need to look at those, too). Projects alone couldn't amuse an active bachelor, not when he forsook his window project.
XXX
Peter shrugged off the first question. Sylar was a big boy. If he wanted Peter to fuck off, he could certainly tell him to do so and Peter would. But the other question, and the tone, caught him by surprise. He pulled his head back and regarded Sylar with momentarily narrowed eyes, before chuckling to himself and rolling with it. "No, man. That's why I usually had to let Hesam do the driving as an EMT – I couldn't read the street signs. Have you seen how many letters there are on some of those streets? I mean, 'Wall Street', I can pretty much figure out, but 'Schermerhorn'? 'Schenectady'? How do you even spell those?"
XXX
That caught Sylar off guard. Their interactions of late had been tense (for Sylar at least). Illiteracy would explain some of Peter's problems…Yet he wondered if this was some kind of test, because Nathan had helped teach Peter to read; and Arthur had crammed all sorts of dull text into Peter's hands and quizzed him after. Surely Peter was playing dumb now. It had Sylar huffing a chuckle under his breath.
XXX
Since he was getting a good reception, Peter continued the joke. "Yeah, it's amazing I could even dispense medicine without killing people. I only made it through college and training on my good looks and family ties." He mugged briefly for Sylar, making a point of the two things that had done more to wreck his education than it ever did to assist.
XXX
Peter commented on the obvious. Sylar gave him a more amused glance for it, as if to say, 'I didn't say anything; you said it, not me.' Peter could just as easily slept his way through college and training, or perhaps that's what he meant…The part about not killing people was considerably less funny. In his day job, if he does kill someone it's an accident and I can't go a few days without killing someone, is that it? It wasn't fair, never would be.
XXX
They walked along in silence for a few strides, long enough for Peter to decide the joke had run its course. He went ahead and answered Sylar's question. "I like adventure stories, dramas – that kind of thing." At least that was what he liked for pleasure reading, which was what he assumed Sylar was after. "Sometimes biographies, if they're well-written. I like stories about people … people doing things that matter."
XXX
Sylar sorted through several theories quickly, trying out the best one when he saw how the pieces worked together. He didn't bother to hide the surprise in his tone as he looked towards his companion. "Biographies - is that why you ask me questions? About myself?" Not that he thought anything he did 'things that matter' in Peter's metaphorical book. He wouldn't deny he'd affected Peter, especially recently with Nathan or maybe he didn't understand the statement or had gotten the theory wrong. It made sense, though, and now he was curious.
XXX
Peter shrugged, then dipped his head in a single nod. "I like to get to know people, you among them." What if no one's ever asked him about himself? So maybe it's not a thing of him never having to answer for what he's done, as much as not knowing what to answer because he's never had to think about the question itself? He turned that over in his head.
XXX
"I know that, but it makes sense now." Nathan had forever been on the receiving end of Peter's emotive inquisition. Sylar had been confused why he was considered interesting enough to be interrogated, given that Peter still had difficulty listening and accepting. His reality was easily dismissible. "What have I done that 'matters'?"
XXX
His brows rose. "Are you putting me on?"
XXX
Sylar wondered if he'd misunderstood or spoken out of turn, but answered his intent, "No."
XXX
Peter snorted. "You tried to kill the president of the United States! You were one handshake away from it. And everything else you've done?" He raised his brows again, this time tilting his face down to exaggerate the effect. "Sylar, you've changed a lot of lives. Maybe not for the better," he glanced off to the side for a moment, then back before continuing, "or not always for the better, but it matters either way." His tone was not a condemnation, but simple statements of fact – Sylar was a big deal, and such a big deal that Peter didn't even question whether Sylar could save the carnival. "You're extraordinary."
He took a few more steps before turning while he walked so he faced Sylar more directly. "The power you have magnifies the impact you can have on people's lives. It's like the owner of a company – all his employees depend on him for their paychecks. Their families depend on him. You," Peter pointed at Sylar, "when you do something, with the abilities you wield, it has a ripple effect, like that whole 'stepping on butterflies' theory. You matter, Sylar," he said as he looked away. "Everything you do matters." I know how hard that can be. If I'd trusted Adam just a little bit more, just a second longer, I would have killed nearly everyone. (But not Ma – she would have made it.) It was not a comforting thought.
XXX
Peter had his undivided attention, even as Sylar frowned a little. It sounded like everything he'd ever wanted to hear except that it came down to having- no, being a negative impact. He brought about change but…the cost was high. (I wonder if he's saying that like I matter because predators and killers are necessary…? Every hero needs something to fight. And how can I be extraordinary when I'm barely a person to him?) Whatever the unhappy, truthful reminder, Peter's words boosted his ego and he didn't think for one second that Peter lied about anything – either as a reflection of his own desperation or some measure of belief that Peter knew what he was talking about. "That…wasn't what I meant, but it's an answer. An…accurate one," he amended quietly to try to inject some gratitude for the sentiments. "You sound like Rebel - Micah. Did you ever meet him? He said something like that to me once."
XXX
Rebel Micah – does he mean that kid at Kirby Plaza? Peter thought back, barely remembering a curly-headed slip of a boy at the edge of his peripheral vision. He'd been pretty distracted at the time, so much that even his famous memory for names and faces was strained. He knew at least a half dozen other people named Micah (one of whom was a girl named Myka) and a few who went by Rebel, but Sylar had said 'him' and seemed to think he would be known to Peter. That suggested a special, which narrowed it down to the kid. "I was told he was at Kirby Plaza, but ..." He shrugged, shaking his head. He couldn't bring the face into focus in his memory. "What did he say?" Maybe that will clear things up.
XXX
"He said…Danko, Nathan, Bennet, Building 26 didn't know me, didn't know how special I am. Deluded kid said I could save all of you." Sylar shook his head. Even with Rebel's ability, he didn't know how Micah knew the things he did. It just meant Company, Building 26, Pinehearst, whoever, had underground files no one knew about. Damn them. "He said anything to get me to rescue him instead of kill him. Guess it worked. You would have liked him." Realizing he was divulging a lot about himself, he changed the subject, clearing his throat. "It's a big library. I'm not even close to reading through it yet. You'll find some important biography."
XXX
Peter looked over at Sylar's face, reading a distinct desire to not talk about it. He wanted to know one more thing, though. "Is this Rebel – Micah – you're talking about the same person who was texting Claire a few months ago, right, giving her advice on how to avoid Homeland Security?"
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar affirmed, recalling the chase of Rebel from both Nathan's and his own perspective.
XXX
"He's not deluded." Peter let it go at that, looking away as they walked and not showing any intention to continue the line of conversation. He rescued Micah, then, if I'm understanding it right. He's done that sort of thing before - like he said on New Year's Eve, he's died trying to save people, me included. He can't seem to see that in himself for some reason.
XXX
The question 'how?' was poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring out, ill-advised. But Peter Petrelli would say he was here, offering a chance to 'save all of them' (or at least, a fair number including average, unspecial citizens and Peter's special not-girlfriend lady friend). And they thought he, Sylar, was crazy. "What I meant earlier was why don't you spend your time reading here? What's the last book you read - for pleasure, too, not that one about windows or any of those medical texts you keep dragging around?"
XXX
Peter was stumped by that, glancing over at Sylar a couple times like he expected an explanation for the question. Why …? Why would I be reading here? The books aren't even real. He looked off down the road, seeing the library building in the distance. It looked real enough. He knew it would be full of real-looking books. Well, I suppose I could read here. Even if they're books out of Sylar's memory, they're probably ones I haven't read. Sylar's other question was easier to answer. "Outliers. Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers." He was quiet for a moment as he considered how to phrase the next part without taking the conversation into areas he wasn't sure he wanted to talk about. He finally continued, "After that thing at Coyote Sands, I started looking around for more information. I'd stumbled onto Suresh's book before, so I thought maybe I could find something else. I was trying to understand why I felt so different. Though I don't know if you'd call that reading for pleasure. What about you?" He clarified, "What kind of reading do you do, I mean."
XXX
"I always read for pleasure," he shrugged. What did Peter think his library of an apartment was? Homework? Then Sylar's brows furrowed as he reviewed two sets of memories. "I thought you said you'd always felt different? Even if 'growing up Petrelli' wouldn't help anyone's sense of normality." A brief grin chased over his features. "Since you liked Suresh's book, I bet if I ever wrote one you'd devour it." The idea pleased him, especially recalling how Peter had literally shown up in his – Nathan's – office, talking far too loudly about flying and waving Chandra's book around like Peter had just found religion and this was his Bible. Sylar recalled that /he'd said something about getting Peter some drugs or therapy, just before their mother had been detained for stealing socks of all things. Oh, how right and how wrong he'd been/.
The point was that Peter would proclaim such work, and hold Sylar's word up like the gospel truth, and…through Peter it would have to be well received by Sylar's enemies. He craved that kind of reception, the acceptance, being useful and part of a group that had formerly shunned him in extremis. It would never happen because there was only Peter to read and judge such a frivolous idea. "I guess that might involve…telling my side of things," here Sylar's eyes slid over to his walking partner. "Talking about…unpleasantness. I don't know that the hero wins, so it wouldn't be your cup of tea."
XXX
Peter shrugged. "Why are you so sure you know what my cup of tea is?" he said slyly, reaching over to nudge Sylar on the upper arm in jest.
XXX
Sylar's jaw clenched, he glanced at Peter, but he didn't otherwise react. Incest, rape, torture, and murder sounds like a good read to you? You already won't listen to my side of anything, so yes, I do know what your cup of tea is, he thought, maintaining the cap on his steaming reactions.
XXX
"Some of the most fascinating books I read were Catton's series on the Civil War. I liked how he told the story – and it was a story, not a history. He made figures like Grant and Lee and Burnside into people instead of generals. None of them really 'won', because no one wins a war like that – it wasn't the point. What I liked was understanding how they came to make the decisions they did, why, and what they did afterward. I liked reading about how it affected them. They did … remarkable things, for what they thought was a good cause. I'd love to read your side of things. You've said you had your reasons."
XXX
Sylar felt his ego being thoroughly stroked at the idea of denying Peter's thirst for information – about abilities, about Chandra, about Sylar's background. He didn't doubt Peter would reject any of his 'reasons.'
XXX
Sylar didn't give him any response for his interest in the man's past, so Peter moved on to a different topic. "I don't think I said I'd always felt different. I mean, yeah, to start with, everyone feels like no one else really gets them, but it wasn't until a few months before I got my abilities that I started feeling something big was going to happen to me. I was coming up on graduation and ..." He shook his head at how naïve he'd been, but even simply remembering that period was making his step lighter and back straighter. His face relaxed. A smile started to form. "I thought I'd made it. Like I'd passed some test and it was just beginning for me – though I didn't know what it was that was going to begin. I meant something. I was on my own. I was going to be someone other than a lawyer. Nathan was … he knew what Dad was, he was going to do something about it … we were going to do something about it." His smile became brittle and he slowly slumped back into the same present-day Peter who was more cynical than optimistic. "But then … I exploded, nearly blew up New York and definitely burned Nathan almost to death, Dad wasn't even really dead, Ma had tried to kill him, Christ. Growing up Petrelli, yeah ..." His voice trailed off as he looked away. He looked up at the big library building blankly, remembering that the last time Sylar had tried to lead him here had ended with Peter threatening him with a sword. Maybe this time will turn out better.
XXX
Sylar nodded, having nothing to add. Remembering how jubilant Peter had been then and how withdrawn he was now…It made him uncomfortable now in addition to having nothing to say for himself (or, perhaps, for Nathan). /And Nathan's feelings of relief and severest guilt about almost betraying their 'dead' father./ I don't want anything to do with his relationship with his brother (Peter's or Nathan's?) Either! He felt tired inside about it. It seemed unfairly difficult to procure what he needed, and what he wanted. He said he wanted company. That counts for something, doesn't it? Sylar sent a brief glance at Peter as the neared the library. He wondered if he should be protective of one of his favorite haunts, nervous to bring Peter into a peaceful place.
XXX
Peter took several quick steps as they neared the top, a sudden thought having crossed his mind: Yesterday, he thought I'd spent my time laying traps for him. What if he thought that because that's what he's been doing for me? It seemed stupid and untrusting, but Peter had been backstabbed enough by those he trusted most that paranoia was never too far away. He wasn't going into the library first – not if he could help it. He went for the door a stride before Sylar could get there.
XXX
There was an impasse at the doors. Peter was positioned to open the door and thus follow Sylar. Sylar hesitated over whether to make Peter to enter first (safety precaution, insulting him as vulnerable, even feminine) or to take the lead (claiming the right between men to enter first or accepting the vulnerable role as someone who needed to door opened for him). After a short, knowing look at Peter, he took the lead and the supposed honorific of going in first; after all, he wasn't afraid of Petrelli. Perhaps Peter was finally being smart and recognizing Sylar as he should (Not likely, but he should).
XXX
Peter noticed but ignored the way Sylar paraded inside like he owned the place. He followed a few steps behind, glancing up and to the sides cautiously, then around the place. He got plywood at the hardware store. He could get a lot of other things there – dangerous ones. I don't see a trap, though. Of course, I wouldn't see a good one. (What would he do with me if he 'trapped' me anyway? I'm already trapped here and he knows that.) Deciding he was as safe as he was going to be around Sylar, Peter hurried to catch up. The place was cavernous and it echoed weirdly, reinforcing how empty it was. He'd never been fond of libraries anyway. This one wasn't earning any points in Peter's book. It was as unsettling as the Y without the benefit of being full of things Peter was familiar with and liked.
"Where are we going now?" he asked, dogging Sylar's heels like he was afraid he might lose the guy if he didn't.
XXX
Once inside, Sylar didn't have to wait long for Peter to sidle up to him. His smirk was smug at the question. "You've never been in here, have you?" Even though I showed him the way. The library was gloriously huge, multiple stories, and large, varied sections. It was quiet. It was heaven. At least, it had been quiet before Peter tagged along.
XXX
"I've been in libraries before," Peter said defensively. The words got out a second before he realized Sylar was speaking of this specific place, whereas Peter had taken it generally. It made him sound stupid and unlettered, like his previous comments about not being able to read street signs weren't so much a joke, but possibly true. He pursed his lips.
XXX
Sylar led him to the kid's portion, ensuring that Peter saw where he was headed. "Don't break the spines or dog-ear the pages. I will know if you do. Enjoy!" he cheerfully hazed, clapping Peter on the shoulders as he moved past on his way to his own sections.
XXX
Peter looked over the shelves of thin, colorful books, some with titles big enough he could read them from here. Fits. Sure, he thinks it's an insult, but I'll bet they have a lot of good books here – probably more that are fun to read than I'll find in the normal fiction. The same idiots who make fun of kid's books probably think Melville or Tolstoy were good authors. Or great ones. You know, you're not much of an author if people can't choke down what you wrote. He huffed, spreading his arms helplessly. I don't want to be left here! I'm not looking for books. I'm looking for someone to hang out with. Jaw clenching and aching a bit, he wheeled and jogged to catch up with Sylar before the bastard got away from him. "Where are you going?"
XXX
He wanted company. No ditching him today, I guess. Sylar rolled his eyes without a surplus of feeling and paused. It sort of counted that he was desired and that made a difference, to his ego at any rate. He wanted to shush Peter into a lower volume on principle, though. "I'm going upstairs to non-fiction," was all he turned to say, expecting that Peter would catch up again if he wanted to. It was both strange and slightly familiar to have a shadow like this; he'd only had something similar was with Elle (barely) and with Luke, playing the older brother/favored uncle/father figure role. "The library has Bibles, history and science books and comic books." In addition to the kid's books."You'll find something to keep you busy." Because I don't know if I can play tour guide and keep you entertained. I haven't had to use self-control this often in a long, long time. (Can he understand that?) Once more, he glanced at Peter surreptitiously.
XXX
Peter frowned, looking around in dismay at the rows of books he was not at all interested in. He looked back at the kid's section. I'm not going to stay there. Not here. This place is creepy. He might sneak up on me and scare me. He looked at Sylar again. Vulnerability and loneliness hid behind Peter's eyes. "You don't want me with you. I get it." He shrugged. He got it, but he didn't like it. He didn't want me around to start with. "I've got to get back and work on that piano. I'll see you later." Swallowing his disappointment, he turned to head out.