Day 52, January 31, afternoon
Sylar looked up and checked his watch at the mention of food. Already? I guess it is. They would have to return somewhere eventually and moving for the comfort of reading was reasonable. "Yeah," he answered and went into the kitchen in search of an apple if he was so lucky. He found some and grabbed two dark Red Delicious. He let Peter get the door again, carrying his books. "I was going to check on the windows," he reminded Peter. If he let it slide, he had the feeling Peter wouldn't do anything about it.
XXX
"Huh?" Peter looked at Sylar blankly, then glanced back at the diner windows. They're okay. What windows is he talking about? Peter got it then. "Ah, right," he said in a subdued voice. I should have remembered those. Does he think I've done something with them in the last few days? He hadn't. He'd barely thought of them. The fate of a particular storefront Peter had smashed in an early attempt to strike out at Sylar wasn't something that weighed heavily on his mind when he and Sylar were on the outs.
XXX
Sylar oriented them towards the store. Of Peter's book, he said, "You're still reading it. Or is that because you didn't take any thing else to read?"
XXX
"It's good." Peter looked down at the book he was carrying in his left hand, then stuck it into his jacket pocket with some careful positioning. "It's really … engrossing. It doesn't just say what they did, but how they worked it out with each other, what was important to them, and how they justified things." He shrugged his shoulders ambivalently. "And some of them didn't agree with the rest. Sometimes people made decisions that led to them dying and ..." Peter shrugged more intentionally this time, "and that's okay. The author, here, he supports that and the … dignity … of their decision. How people choose to die can be a beautiful thing when it's a decision a person knowingly makes. It's interesting to see that." He gestured at the book. "A lot of people don't get that." It was a point of view Peter hadn't pondered in years, since he'd been a hospice nurse. There was a large element of that job which involved helping the dying's loved ones allow the transition with love and respect, rather than fighting it every step of the way. Not that there weren't times to fight – Peter had become an EMT so he could find those opportunities to wage war against death and pain and suffering. But sometimes fighting wasn't the answer. None of what he was saying was about Sylar or Sylar's choices, though he knew it was probably inevitable that Sylar would see parallels.
XXX
No gritty details? No wonder he's still reading it then, Sylar thought with disappointment. Then his head tilted as he thought about that – making decisions that led to either starving, hypothermia, or being killed. None were great options but Sylar had been forced to come to terms with such 'choices.' It captured his interest, as did Peter's thoughts and…dare he say it, expertise on the matter. There was something very important he didn't understand and very much needed to understand about what Peter was trying to say. "What do you mean, 'the dignity of their decision'? How is choosing how you die a beautiful thing?" Perhaps there was some kind of acknowledgement or validation about his own choices, poor and limited as they were, hidden somewhere in the conversation. Maybe it said something about his own death and the ones previous.
XXX
It's better than having it chosen for you. But Peter didn't say that. He didn't want to start a fight and anyway, Sylar's question was a good one. "If a person dies," he started slowly, "in an auto accident or of an unexpected stroke, then they don't get a choice. It happens. But a lot of people have the opportunity to decide how they want to die – where, when, and why. They can't control if it's going to happen – because barring abilities, it will – but they might have a little control over the circumstances. It's the last thing they have. How they choose to use it is precious." He gave Sylar a long, searching look before going back to watching where they were going. "The people in the book – the ones who chose to die – did it for different reasons. For a few, early on, accepting help or medical care was too painful and too frightening. They refused and they died and that's not wrong. I like that the author didn't imply it was. People get to choose. Later, some of the others decided they wouldn't eat the dead. They knew it meant starving to death. The rest tried to talk them out of it. Some eventually changed their minds. A few didn't and died because of it. They died for their principles. That's something they should be honored for. It's special." It was what he wanted to do, someday, somehow. In Peter's darkest moments, he thought finding a cause to die for would be better than going on without Nathan, with his mother looming in the background, all alone with dangers on all sides. But then he thought of Emma and the wall of photos of people he'd helped. It kept him focused.
XXX
Peter's speech made sense, mostly in ways that didn't immediately apply to Sylar (or Nathan, so he hoped). It was…just a subject, one Peter didn't abuse. Then again, it was probably one of those things the nurse held to heart. For as many deaths as Sylar had caused, he hadn't given much thought to his own death – not until Hiro had made his prophecy. He was supposed to die alone. But he'd died many times and then had regeneration. Was it too much to consider that Hiro had seen one of those deaths instead of his true end? Peter was here now, so did that mean he couldn't or wouldn't die? It seemed unlikely. The possibilities of time travel, its would-be-trampled butterflies, the thin fabric of reality and its warped nature overwhelmed that train of thought. Nathan, on the other hand, had spent his last days doing good things, trying to set everything right, even attempting to mend bonds and ask forgiveness. Peter had said he loved him at the last. Those memories, those feelings made Sylar squirm with discomfort. It was so much easier not to know any of that.
Moving on, he agreed with what Peter had to say. Dying for one's principles, however misguided, he supposed, was better than going out in a selfish blaze of glory to prove he could withstand the fire. Upon review, his principles didn't amount to much and neither did his sacrificial attempts. His thoughts turned back to the story at hand and he wondered how one would cannibalize a frozen body. Only if it was…less than frozen. He grimaced. "Do you think that…excuses them?"
XXX
"Well," Peter reached up to touch the book fleetingly as if that helped him remember what was in it, "they talk about that a lot. They didn't kill anyone. They didn't contribute to the deaths. Those who were alive talked about how they'd gladly give up their own bodies for the others if it meant some of them might survive. They were all Roman Catholic and … I didn't actually know this, but apparently there's no direct prohibition against cannibalism. I suppose there's stuff in the Old Testament, but there's stuff in there about not eating lobster or pork, so it's not that." Peter waved away the technicality and returned to the question, "If they had to do it to survive and they had no other choice, then … yeah, it excuses them. It wasn't something they did lightly. Just because some of the others made a different choice doesn't mean I think all of them should have chosen that. That's what makes it beautiful – it shows what each of them was willing to die for, and what they were willing to live for."
XXX
Sylar side-eyed him. Really? No one 'contributed' to another's death? I guess that would imply intent to eat a person. That was a little surprising, to think that the people in that situation were not thinking of survival in its most basic and bleak forms, backstabbing each other and killing others for advantage and even sustenance. They were better people than I am. That probably goes without saying. "I know what you're talking about it, but it's strange to hear you talk about death being beautiful. Usually you advocate living life to the fullest." He dutifully ignored the elephant in the room. I wonder how that relates to suicide in his eyes? "Technically, that's suicide to choose not to eat and choose not to live," he remarked to see if that prompted anything from Peter.
XXX
Peter shrugged and said soberly, "It's what we live for that's important. Sometimes, it's even worth dying for."
XXX
It didn't take them long to reach the storefront. Whatever snow had been there had since melted and there was no real ice. Sylar checked Peter with frequent glances to see how he was taking this. "When are you coming back here?" he didn't bother dancing around it. It was a test but it meant that Sylar would be doing Peter's work and figuring out how to really get under Peter's skin as punishment.
XXX
As he looked at the mostly-blocked windows, Peter's right hand was buried in his jacket pocket. His left hung loose at his side. He thought about all those sketches he'd drawn in the notebook and the various windows he'd seen in the hardware store. As far as he knew, there was nothing available that would properly or fully replace the commercial panes. His mind showed him how the place could be remade – with stained glass on the top of the middle opening, one of those round, prefabricated pieces. Under it would be one or two of the largest residential windows he could get – something that could be opened to let in the air, even if that wasn't practical in a clothing store in an imaginary blend of New York and Los Angeles. It could be lovely, with each of the three tall, vertical openings filled with color and improved functionality. It would solve the issue of not having commercial panes. There was only one problem: "I think I'm going to have to learn how to be a bricklayer. Or a mason or something." He walked over and pulled out his right hand to feel along the existing brick. "I don't know how to get the windows anchored without rebuilding this." Or tearing it up.
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Sylar hadn't considered bricklaying, or other mediums aside from plywood and other planks. He gave Peter credit and approval for the idea, yet still offered his own, "I know there's…holders that you can attach to glass, like for indoor mirrors. Or if all else fails, there's always caulk and glue." He didn't want to leave the plywood there forever. "You do know what caulk is, don't you?" he asked with a barely hidden smirk. It wasn't the innuendo (not entirely anyway), but rather the likelihood that Peter clueless about a basic handyman tool.
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Peter chuckled, then played obviously dumb. "Yeah, it's a," he held up his left hand with thumb and forefinger making an 'o' shape, "hard, tube thing and when you pump on it, white, sticky stuff comes out the end, right?" He honestly wasn't sure what colors caulk came in, but that was unimportant for the joke.
XXX
A snort and a chuckle greeted the joke, but it answered the question. Satisfied, Sylar squeezed the back of Peter's neck as they turned back for the Pegasus and their apartments. The reactions to his touch were most gratifying. "I'd be happy to show you how it goes." That was intentional innuendo.
XXX
At the touch, Peter tensed and nearly missed a step, pulling in his breath in anticipation of being jerked around and hurt. A second later, he knew the contact was friendly, or close to it. Nathan had handled him this way. I wonder if Sylar knows that? Or is it unconscious on his part? Either way, Peter let it go with a relieved sigh. He let the familiar gesture give him a moment of mental comfort even if it was from a disconcerting source. He gave Sylar a casual shove to push him away. "I'm sure you'd be happy to show me that, but I think I'm cool." He waved at his pocket. "I have my book about people starving to death and eating each other to keep my mind on other things." He smiled as he said it, but he hoped Sylar got the point. I suppose I shouldn't make jokes about laying bricks or filling in seams.
XXX
Sylar smirked back. He needs some nasty book so he doesn't act on temptation? Immediately Peter had unknowingly made the book a target, or a deadline. "You need a book to keep your mind pure and moral?" It was definitely a compliment. He eyed the pocket that hid the book. "Three or four days did you say?" Now he mostly teased as was allowed in their…rules: it wasn't night or morning and he wasn't even touching the man; Peter would have to hit him (or present other distraction) to shut him up. "I'll be sure to clear my calendar."
XXX
Peter laughed lightly in response. "It sure helps." He changed the subject to something other than his libido, which had woke up in the last few weeks and so far found little in the way of suitable outlet. "So when we were back in the library, you mentioned the Bible to me twice. Why was that? Do you think I need it?"
XXX
With a roll of his eyes, Sylar answered with some realist sarcasm, "The Bible is a great way to confuse you, screw you up, and keep your mind busy then." He was a bit taken aback that Peter had noticed the secondary reference. Two times could be dismissed, and it was usually the third or fourth repetition that caught attention. "I mentioned it because it's so painfully ironic. I think you think you 'need' it." By that, he wanted to convey his disapproval.
XXX
Peter tilted his head, surveying Sylar. What does he mean by that? Peter shrugged. "I haven't read the Bible much." And with that, he left it alone. The possibility of religion being a touchy subject was bigger than his curiosity about Sylar's meaning. For the rest of the walk, Peter watched the buildings, the dripping, melting snow, and Sylar as the other man walked to his side.
XXX
Sylar met that look with a frown of his own. Yes, you have. You've read it through at least once, which is more than most people. Any Petrelli lawyer (or would-be lawyer in house Petrelli) would know the stories and morals in the Bible. The answer satisfied Peter, or if it didn't, Sylar didn't care. They were nearly there, so they were quiet for the rest of the walk.
XXX
When they arrived at the Pegasus, Peter stomped snow off his shoes and took off his coat. He hesitated inside the door to the rec room, eyeing Sylar, before taking off his wet footgear. His socks were still mostly dry, as a quick inspection revealed, but the open air would help dry both shoes and the few damp spots on his socks. He gave the piano a long look, but decided to forge on with his reading. He pulled out the book and took the end of the couch that put his right hand on the arm of the leather furniture. He flipped through the book, trying to remember what page he'd been on before.
XXX
Sylar watched the foot-checking display, mostly thinking Peter a weirdo for wanting to go barefoot in winter. Why not leave your socks on? But he dismissed it and waited to see what Peter was going to do and where it would leave him. Sylar glanced between Peter and the piano several times, seeing the decision being turned over in his head but apparently reading some more won out. Maybe he can focus on something for longer than fifteen minutes, he thought hopefully. Peter claimed his spot on the couch and Sylar followed, claiming the middle cushion just because. It was within the rules and he pleasantly anticipated any excuse the man would make to request or demand more personal space. He kept his face ambivalent and kept his attention on baseball.
XXX
Peter looked up when Sylar settled in next to him. The guy was close. It didn't bother Peter, but it registered as unusual, given that he could see the other end of the couch beyond Sylar with there being no obvious reason why Sylar had passed it up. Unless he just wants to sit next to me. Peter smiled to himself. Maybe it's like when I touch someone in bed with my foot – I want to be close, that's all. It made him warm inside to think Sylar wanted to be near him. "Take your shoes off. They're probably wet."
XXX
The smaller man said nothing about the proximity. Sylar internally crowed about that small victory. Peter wanted to talk about…shoes? Was that what that was about earlier? Sylar hadn't thought much of it; it wasn't his apartment floor or carpet in question here. Curious, now, he leaned over and turned his feet about to determine their dryness. They were wet and his feet were cold but he couldn't tell how soaked the shoes were. Bent over and self-aware, he lingered before deciding what the hell – Peter was barefoot and wouldn't be doing anything Sylar couldn't do. If it was a plot, it was a silly one. Sylar removed his shoes and set them down away from Peter; then snugged his back into the couch and propped up his book. They'll dry that way, I assume.
XXX
"What about your socks?" Peter leaned forward, looking at the articles in question with a proprietary interest. "You should take them off, too, and let them dry out."
XXX
What about them? Sylar didn't move, warily watching Peter peer down at his feet or socks, whatever. I guess they'll dry better off my feet. But then won't my feet be cold? Is frostbite a big deal where he comes from? Slower this time, he moved to strip off his socks, laying them over his shoes with a checking glance at Peter, remembering his shoes being stolen before.
XXX
Peter continued to eye Sylar's feet. "How are your toes doing? The one that you bro- stubbed?"
XXX
"Are you worried about me?" he asked, leading and amused in his tone. Or are you just bored?
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Peter looked between Sylar's toes and his face, trying to judge the question. "I'm worried about your toes," he said finally.
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Ah, he thought, with a 'c'est la vie' attitude. "My toes are fine. They don't hurt anymore." I could probably run on them. I'm not going to tell him that. Before Peter could ask the whole rundown of injuries and their symptoms, he continued in a somewhat put-upon voice: "I'm eating better and my head hurts a little less; the nausea is only at the start of a meal or smelling some things; sleeping is a literal nightmare and it always will be; my ribs only catch sometimes for certain movements." He raised an eyebrow at Peter, daring him to ask something else.
XXX
Peter leaned away slightly as he listened. Sylar had his complete attention. Sleep is still the problem. 'Always will be' – implies it always has been and the concussion doesn't necessarily have anything to do with it. Peter gave a curt nod. "Thank you," he said, heartfelt. He appreciated the voluntary disclosure and took it as a complete report of everything Sylar was willing to tell him. Peter moved around in his seat a little to settle himself, finally crossing his legs so he could tuck his left foot under his right leg. It put his left knee out to the side, where it touched Sylar's leg and then pulled back for a few seconds. Peter had the book open by then and had found his place. He waited, poised for the moment, to see if Sylar would allow the contact or would move away.
XXX
Sylar stared a moment after Peter had turned away, almost disbelieving that the subject had dropped so quickly. No psychological background quizzes you feel the need to put me through? Peter's self-serving interest didn't inspire Sylar much; he tolerated the illusion but didn't confuse it for anything but Peter worrying his only toy would die. That at least was something he could understand, because he felt it himself (though Peter was more likely to get lost or escape). With Peter occupied, Sylar hefted his own book even as he had no armrests. Before he applied himself to absorbing the text, now that he'd sat so close to Peter, he wasn't entirely sure what to do about it or with it. There were so many rules, he practically dreaded the proximity. We're just reading. We can do that, can't we? We did it before and it was okay. This is normal; it happens all the time (I think). Then it was Peter who touched him! On…accident? Sylar didn't move, but watched from the corner of his eye the knee that poked him. If it was an unspoken message for more space, it was poorly given. It didn't seem to say that, because of its politeness. He waited to see what would come of it, all the while pretending to read.
XXX
It was allowed. Yes. Peter let his left leg relax so it leaned slightly into Sylar. That was good. It was what he wanted. That it was Sylar in particular had its downsides, but it hardly mattered for the simple, visceral, I'm-with-someone-and-they-accept-me vibe he got out of the touch. Especially here in this weird mental prison, having spent days with no one for company except Mister Bear – for Peter, this was a handshake, a peace offer and acceptance, in addition to tangible proof of companionship. He went off his near-constant DefCon of the day and careful monitoring of both himself and Sylar. Unsurprisingly, he was drowsy within minutes.
He fought it off for a while because the couch wasn't where he wanted to take a nap. Plus he was hungry, his right foot was cold, and the book was engrossing, but those weren't strong enough to keep his lids open. He flexed his knee slightly against Sylar, then lay his book down on the arm of the couch, leaned back into the corner of the couch, and shut his eyes. Maybe I just need to take a moment to refocus ...
XXX
He noticed out of his peripheral Peter doing…something other than reading. When Sylar looked, his companion's eyes were shut after he'd made himself comfortable. Maybe he hasn't been sleeping well alone, either. Sylar rested his own shut text on his leg and stared. He allowed his vengeful thoughts free rein for the moment, wishing for abilities so he could fuck over Peter's mind just like Peter had done to him; or perhaps touching the man while he could, for several kinds of satisfaction and comfort. He eyed the knee that was willingly, and perhaps purposefully, touching him. (I suppose that means he trusts me).
XXX
Sleep is a nightmare … It was the last thing he remembered thinking, turning over Sylar's words and letting his brain free-associate off them. In his dream, it was Nathan sitting next to him, not Sylar. At first, they were passengers in an airplane flying dangerously low over the Andes. Then they were in the cockpit and instead of flying over the snowy mountains in South America, they were in the night sky of the northeastern U.S. It was the plane that had carried Nathan's body to the ground. As Peter realized that, he turned suddenly towards Nathan, hands groping. We have to get out of here! "Nathan?" His voice was faint and broken, but it wouldn't have mattered if he'd shouted – Nathan was already dead. The corpse was strapped to the pilot's seat just as Peter and Noah had arranged, head lolling to the side. The sewn gash in his throat had torn during the positioning and was leaking. "No!" Peter's hand jerked. There has to be something I can do! Wait, Jeremy's power! Didn't I have it when Nathan died?
XXX
Peter was twitchy. He must be really tired and really out. As cute as Peter looked while sleeping (such a nostalgic, deceptive thing); it was boring. Sylar went back to reading, occasionally glancing at the odd spasm from Peter.
XXX
The timeline didn't make any sense in Peter's dream, nor did it need to, as he recalled briefly having Hiro's power, too, around that same period. Maybe I'm here because I went back in time and teleported into the plane at just the right moment? It was a bizarre long shot, but he couldn't let it pass without trying. He grabbed at Nathan, straining at first to move his hand, managing only a frustrating fumbling. The plane was nosing down sharply, which only made him more sure that he'd come back in time to save his brother. The timeline fit – this would be after his original self and Noah had parachuted out. He redoubled his efforts, struggling against g-forces more powerful than they had any right to be. I've got to do it. I have to do it! I have to! His breath caught and his chest burned and finally (finally!) his hand shot out and grasped Nathan's wrist. His fingers dug in. It felt so real! Now! He tried to use his ability, to channel the healing into his brother's long-dead body. What if he's been dead too long? He tried to look into Nathan's face, but Peter found his eyes were shut. With iron will, he forced them open. Everything shifted around him like vertigo, fading back and forth, and when it stopped, it was Sylar, not Nathan, that he had hold of.
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He ignored Peter's somewhat fitful sleep – deep for a mere nap so soon after closing his eyes. That is until Peter managed to reach over and grab his wrist, check it with a squeeze, and then tighten until he had a good hold. "Wh-?" he began to voice, forgetting that this nutball was asleep (right?) Already he was raising the arm to shake Peter off. No touching! he thought ironically; Not when you're asleep or whatever the hell it is you're doing. You don't randomly grab people when they're reading! (I know he said he was clingy and weird in bed, but he's napping!) "Hey, Pete!" he said, firmly enough, but the empath was dogged, leaning towards him and attempting to pull at the limb as if he couldn't bear to let go. "This isn't funny. Knock it-…" Then it felt like he'd been hit in the head again…sort of. Dizziness, vertigo, limbo, something, had the room towards him and past him, moving his perception but his body stayed still. He dropped the book. What the hell? He'd felt that before somewhere…"Petrelli!" he barked and started grabbing at Peter's hand, intent to get it off.
Peter came to finally and Sylar was glaring, expecting a very good answer.
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Peter's eyes widened. Breathing suddenly turned into something his body couldn't do properly without supervision. "No..." His eyes shot down to his grip on Sylar's wrist, then at his own arm, Sylar's arm, and back to Sylar's face because he was having trouble believing this was the guy he had hold of. Where did Nathan go? "Nathan?" His voice was small and uncertain. No more had the sound left his lips than he let go, scrambling backwards in a ridiculous, but effective, flail of limbs, up and over the arm of the couch so he could take several unsteady strides away. He hit his right hand on the way off the couch, grunting at the sudden pain. It only served to underscore that he was really awake. No dream of Nathan being alive – only this waking nightmare: Sylar here, and Nathan gone. I should have saved him! I tried to save him! Why didn't it work?! He couldn't tell if he was upset about the dream or what he'd done to Sylar at Mercy Heights, winning him back a few precious minutes with his brother. He'd wanted so much more. Why didn't it work?
XXX
"What is your-?" Sylar said just as Peter whispered that pitiful name – Problem. The question answers itself. He sighed. It explained nearly everything. He was grateful for the space Peter clearly needed and it was safer to give and leant over to retrieve his book, and then Peter's, which had been rudely knocked down. He chose to stand to do that, rather than reach awkwardly over the arm, so he walked around the corner of the couch and deposited both books on his side of the couch. Assuming that Peter would or could handle his nightmare, flashback thing was a mistake, as was taking his eyes off the man. Sylar had time to turn around, put his hands in his pockets, and see Peter pawing at his hair, pacing wildly and that was nearly his only clue that something wasn't right.
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Peter paced in agitation, but this time his upset wasn't wearing off. The thoughts of the dream jumbled together with the book he'd been reading and the situation he was in. Those people in the crash never gave up! They kept trying to the end, even when it meant they were starving to death and having to eat the dead. And what have I done? I've given up, quit trying, sitting here reading next to the asshole who killed my brother! I can't do that! I haven't tried everything yet. What if there's another way and I just haven't tried it? Set on doing something, anything, to reach Nathan just as he had in the dream, he rounded on Sylar. "You took my brother from me! You tookhim!" He reached out with his left hand, having no idea what he was going to do but it was better than doing nothing. He'd woke up using his ability. It worked, sort of – maybe there was something he could do with it, like shove Nathan's soul out of Sylar's body like future-Peter had shoved him out of Jesse's. This whole place was a mental construct, after all. The only real failure was not trying at all. "I want him back!" Teeth bared, he tried to put his hand against Sylar's chest.
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Sylar was so irritated at that point, intolerant of Peter's bullshit, and plagued by his own angry repressions that he didn't fuck around. Get off me, weirdo! He had both hands out of his pockets when he saw that was a bad idea to keep them there, and his left hand shot out and tagged Peter's face as he tried to…do something. With Sylar's longer reach, he won the contact battle and had hopefully ended it. The control valve on his emotions was perilously, shamefully damaged, "We don't always get what we want," he snapped and sneered, referring to both of them.
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"Ow!" Peter snarled at Sylar for the punch. It hadn't even been delivered with much force – it was more like a slap with a fist, disparaging and disrespectful at once. All it did was piss him off. "I don't need you conscious," he said, swinging for Sylar's head with everything he had.
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Sylar had time for the reaction of confused concern about what kind of threat that was, but had no time for thoughts. Peter was stupid enough to swing for the head; he guessed it and saw it coming. Sylar was ducking and bringing his arm up to block and interfere with such a fatalistic blow. Peter's fist connected with his forearm and slid past it to clunk into his forehead at a reduced speed. Sylar was breathing fast and completely on edge, stunned and angry. You don't need me alive! He swung fast and hard and without regret. "I don't need you conscious, either!"
XXX
Peter was already conducting himself poorly in the scuffle, but then he made his worst mistake – he hesitated. Don't hit him in the head. He hadn't, not hard, but he sure had intended to. It was only Sylar's reflexes that had saved the other man from a brain-rattling blow. What if hitting him in the head concusses Nathan, too? (What if it kills Sylar?) That last was a startling, though real concern, even if minor. As if to knock that thought out of his head, Sylar punched him again and Peter didn't defend against it a lick. His jaws snapped together over part of his tongue, biting into it savagely although the 'padding' was probably what saved his teeth. He made a noise of pain and staggered back, grabbing at his cheek and wondering if he'd severed part of his tongue. That would be bad. It made him angry all over again and he went back to the fray, swinging with his right as a distraction.
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Peter didn't go down or seem ready to quit; Sylar was straightening and watching around the time Peter righted himself. The little man telegraphed a right-handed punch or whatever he could approximate. Sylar was only too happy to let the idiot hurt himself. The wounded hand even came at him flat; it slapped against him more than anything else in self-defeated momentum. After that, he didn't give Peter a chance, batting away a weak body shot with his right, he swung left into Peter's chest, enjoying the satisfying connection. It had been foolish of Peter to start shit with only one good hand. Peter was reeled into Sylar's left blow to his head. It was awesome karma after having his ass handed to him with all the trauma to his ribs previously. He was in fine form and Peter was going down.
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This is not going well. Peter knew that, blearily, even if he didn't regret having started the fight. He'd had to – he still felt he'd had to. It was for Nathan – it had all been for him. He wished he was giving a better accounting of himself here, but he could barely see through the blinding pain of whapping Sylar in the face with his broken hand. The other strikes Sylar was landing weren't helping either – the body blow wasn't good, but it was the repeated head shots that were the real problem. Peter had taken them pretty much full-on without juking and dodging to dissipate their force. The last one made the room wobble so much that he had no choice in falling to the floor.
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Sylar laughed and climbed onto Peter, trapping the man's left arm against his body and his right arm against the floor with a knee to the bicep. He settled in and watched Peter groggily attempt to figure things out. A few well-placed slaps served to humiliate, wake up, toy with, and show Peter the massive error of his ways. It felt so good to win, soothing his deep anger at being ignored and devalued. "I told you not to mess with me, Petrelli. You keep pushing, not listening, always thinking you're better than me. Well, how does that feel?" Another smack resounded off Peter's face.
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Peter let loose an inarticulate, enraged noise. This is terrible. I have to get free. Soft spots, maybe? He twisted his left arm up between them and tried to whack at Sylar's groin from below, but the angle wasn't right, not to mention his complete lack of leverage. All he could do was ineptly hit Sylar's buttocks with his fist.
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"You little prick!" Sylar grumbled at the attempted groin-shot. Even Peter, for all his big speeches about morality and fairness couldn't manage a few rules or even common decency – not to Sylar, anyway; and certainly not when it suited Peter's purpose to bend his own rules. Sylar wound up his right fist and let fly, snapping his target's head around to the side.
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He shook his head, which caused everything to wobble. Fuck, that's not good. It felt like his eyes, or his brain, sloshed around at that. Peter shuddered, but he still had fight in him. What do I have left? If his left arm was useless, then he'd go with his right. He tried to wrest it out from under Sylar's knee. Sylar, seeing the attempt, bore down. The pressure left an agonized trail across the muscle, but Peter still freed himself – or at least that limb.
XXX
Another right-handed punch landed while he gripped Peter's hair. "Nathan's dead! He's not coming back! You're dealing with me now! ME! Learn some fucking respect!"
XXX
I have to stop this. I'm not going to lie here and be abused at his whim. Peter's contused brain tried to recall if Sylar had any injuries at all worth accounting for – something Peter could exploit – but he drew a blank. I've fucked this whole thing up. His tongue was swelling and filling his mouth with blood so fast that he couldn't even talk his way out. He grabbed Sylar's wrist and yanked as hard as he dared, given that his hand might have been rebroken earlier. It at least gave Sylar one less fist free to pummel him.
XXX
Still, Peter would not quit, wouldn't submit, or even, apparently, know when to play dead and admit defeat if even for the sake of survival. It didn't matter that it was probably a defensive move, but being handled like some inhuman thing and treated worse had left its marks. He peeled off the weak, broken-handed grip and pinned it easily. Two, three more punches closer to the middle of Peter's face wracked his knuckles until Peter relaxed and lay still for a moment. Triumphant, he rose to his feet, standing over Peter.
XXX
There was nothing he could do; nowhere he could go. The thin carpet behind him wasn't enough padding to soften the effect of Sylar's blows. He took the full force on delicate facial structures not designed for such battering. No amount of willpower or determination or strength of convictions could prevent the damage. He broke, or at least his body did. He lurched and was finally able to move – Sylar wasn't on him anymore, but Peter wasn't aware of it. All he was aware of was that he was finally able to roll over, and just in time. He vomited blood and bile, enough that it would have worried him if he'd been able to think. He couldn't, though. There was nothing but a haze. He tried to rise on trembling arms.
XXX
He watched long enough to determine that Peter was still alive and mobile. The empath was thoroughly defeated, helpless, and no longer a threat for the time being. Leaving Peter to spit up all over himself was fitting lesson enough. Sylar left him to his own devices, needing space to cool down in his victory, sleep better, and hope for…change from a Petrelli.
XXX
Peter knew there was some reason why he should be on his feet, some reason that his life might depend on, maybe even Nathan's. He couldn't do it, though. Reality didn't care about his hopes, dreams, intentions, or desires. His mouth burned, his nose felt wrong, blood was pattering down under him with rapid, pittering drops – his blood. Another wracking wave of nausea dropped him into his own mess. Sylar's words from what seemed like so long ago echoed in his head: 'See? We're not going anywhere. We're trapped here forever.'