Day 54, February 2, Morning

"How do you know he's gone?" Peter asked, undeterred by Sylar's statement. It was a crazy world indeed when 'he's dead and you buried him' wasn't a guarantee of someone's passing.

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Sylar gave him a look of disbelief that went unseen. Really?! If you really need to hear me say it…"Because I killed him and watched him die."

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Peter pulled back and made a restless motion with one leg. It hurt to hear. You stayed and watched him die? (Why would he do that? Was it to make sure, or … was there … some kind of … dignity to it, something spiritual or honoring him?) He'd heard that some hunters felt that way – a oneness with their prey, and a respect that seemed bizarre given they were inflicting death, but Peter's hospice training had taught him that people had a lot of different ways of dealing with the end of life. It left him curious about Sylar's way. He took a deep breath. His thoughts turned back to Nathan. "What was it like when he was there, with you, in your … body?"

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That had his jaw clenching, lips tight, body tensing. He took a few moments to…not snap at Peter again. "That's…very personal." Doesn't he know something of what it feels like? He's been put inside someone else's body before!

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Yes, it is, Peter mentally agreed. He could hear the tension in Sylar's voice. He put down the ice pack that had been on his face and carefully extended his left hand to find Sylar's shoulder. He touched briefly before pulling back and replacing the ice pack. Some seconds passed as Peter considered what he knew and what he didn't know. I also don't know what Sylar knows and doesn't know. Are they just blank spots for him when Nathan was in control, or was he along for the ride like I was with Jesse? "Do you remember what he said to me," he swallowed roughly at the memory, "at Mercy Heights? And what happened there?"

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"/You said we'd made it through all the craziness; we'd make it through anythin'.// I tried to tell you…And you hugged me. I…made you let him go. /I told you to accept that I was gone; that you had to carry on for the both of us. Fight the good fight. You've always been everything good in the world. And I had a feeling the world hadn't seen anything yet. You can do anything, Pete. Anything. Remember that. I love you./" Sylar groaned and squirmed away. It felt like dying, killing himself, killing a part of himself and having to continue living a half-life, saying goodbye forever to a deeply, truly loved one who didn't belong to him – wrenching, agonizing, tear-filled, foreign, voyeuristic, unwanted, pathetic. It gutted him, closed his throat and he found a tickling, wet trail on his cheek, another about to start. Every twisted bit of it was true and that was almost worse. "Fuck," he growled, clapping his book closed, and standing to rake an eternally frustrated, shaking hand through his hair. "Of course I remember! I made you let him go! Fuck!"

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Peter listened with wonder, hope, and horror as those familiar words were recited to him nearly verbatim. He's … slipping, he thought numbly. His identity slips when it's emotional. That's when … Nathan surfaces. He swallowed again and pulled away, caution provoking him to bring his knees up halfway when Sylar left the bed. Nathan's voice … he even sounds like him, as much as a different throat can. Peter sniffed, unable and unwilling to hold his emotions at bay. To have his brother so close! It was such a reminder of him, like a last voice message saying exactly what Peter wanted to hear. And he had no power to reach out and grab Sylar and make him into the brother he'd lost. Hearing that voice and those words, the inflection and the meaning, Peter had a flash of empathy for his mother, for how and why she might have done what she'd done with Sylar. Even just the shadow of Nathan's presence was more comfort than the gnawing, empty void of it. Yet he knew it was pointless – Sylar was not Nathan. Trying to force him to be was a violation to both of them. Frustrated tears of an aching heart trickled down his face. He covered his face with the hand that was holding the ice pack, letting it slip in front of his face so the towel wrapped around it would dry him. For a while, he was quiet, breathing unevenly and occasionally snuffling.

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Sylar paced to the kitchen, swiping at tears he couldn't be sure were entirely his own. He was angry at Nathan, Peter, Angela, the Petrellis in general, Bennets, and Parkmans, at himself…And it fucking hurt and he didn't know why. He'd been helpless to help himself for as long as he could remember, let alone helping Peter. It was fucked up to deal with this with Peter and Peter with him. Even his limited empathy got that loud and clear through unmistakable irony. Sylar dug out a bottle of water for himself and tried not to slam the door of the fridge. He wasn't sure who he was most angry at (or who he should be most angry at). Basic things like giving Peter space or holding Peter with his bloodied hands was so convoluted and he was supposed to have the answers. Morphine isn't going to cut it, reminded him of his constant failures to fix people, heart, mind, and soul. So he had to listen to Peter cry, and mourn, and hate him through those already fucked up eyelids. As it wound down, he crept back into the bedroom, bringing Kleenex because that much was needed, sitting at the middle-edge of the mattress on his side of it. There was everything and nothing to be said; Sylar didn't know where to start. He pressed the tissue box against Peter's left hand.

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Peter twitched at the impersonal touch of cardboard. He felt over it, knowing Sylar was trying to give him something. Finding the tissues, he nodded and pulled the box over. He made a motion to move in Sylar's direction – for contact, a hug, anything - but aborted after only a few inches. He couldn't see the other man's reaction. He didn't know if he would be received well, and it was obvious Sylar was saying something about Peter's countenance. Since there was no shift, word, or motion during his few seconds of immobility, Peter pulled back, turned away, and cleaned himself up.

When his tears had dried, Peter still had questions. "What do you mean, 'You made me let him go'?" There was hurt and uncertainty in Peter's voice, along with a little suspicion. Although Sylar had said nothing of Nathan's desires to stay or go, the way he phrased it made Peter wonder what would have happened had Sylar not interfered. What if Sylar had left Nathan alone? Could I have talked him out of leaving? Is he still there, but Sylar's keeping him from … being?

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I guess that is the next natural question. Is that what I'm supposed to do? Give him answers? That certainly seemed to be the pattern, one that Peter wanted and this time it wasn't going to end in a physical fight. "I was there on the roof with you. But you're so stubborn. You got it into your head that it was Nathan up there and you wouldn't shake. So…I faked everything to get you to accept what…had happened." It was uncertain how much blame could even be laid upon Peter, who'd done what was desired and expected of him by growing attached to what he saw as his brother. Angela would have known that was needed. There was no Nathan without Peter's say so.

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He faked everything? What was there to fake? It didn't make sense and so Peter ignored it. "I know you were there," he acknowledged. "I know it happened. I want to know what Nathan was … feeling when he died that second time, at Mercy?" He hesitated, wishing there was some way to implore the information from Sylar, hoping the man would give him what he wanted. He had to know, and Sylar was the only one who knew for a fact: "Why? Why did he go?" His voice broke slightly with the final questions. Why did he leave me? On purpose … rejected … again.

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Sylar stilled in horror. Is that the problem?! "It wasn't him at Mercy! It was me! All of it. He never came back – it was all me and my abilities and your mother and Parkman. It was my body; anything you did you did to me." He did not apologize for the emotional outburst. Sylar moved into the bed, reaching out to touch Peter's arm and will understanding into him. It took a moment to calm down from his own struggle.

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Peter was shaking. He had no idea how to react – recoil, attack, sob? He was frozen in place, realizing now what Sylar meant about faking it. Precious last moments Peter had treasured with his brother were … false. So false! He wouldn't say they were a lie, because it … it was exactly what I wanted to hear from Nathan and he never said to me. Tears started flowing again in earnest.

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In a quiet, strained narrative, Sylar continued with what Peter wanted and needed to hear, "Nathan died at Stanton. From…what I've gathered…he died to protect you because the two of you weren't winning – weren't going to win and he knew that. You were the vital key for success, if you got the right ability from me. You were in the middle of being electrocuted to death, so he attacked me and…sacrificed himself to save you and preserve the plan – save the president. He…was a soldier and he was there to perform his duty. He didn't think twice about it, Peter."

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They were comforting words. It was so strange to hear them from Nathan's killer, stranger still to think that had been Sylar 'faking it' at Mercy – hugging Peter, holding him, seeming to struggle from one identity to another, refusing to save himself, and saluting Peter as Sylar sauntered off after the fall. Peter couldn't begin to sort his emotions. He didn't try. He just let his heart pour out his misery. There were so many jagged wounds in his core that needed to heal, and this – this was a start. It was (and it felt like) the truth. He fumbled with a fistful of tissues and then turned towards the only other living being here. It occurred to him that Sylar might not appreciate being made to witness Peter's distress, but it was only a second of thought to conclude he didn't care what Sylar did or did not appreciate in this matter. If he doesn't want people upset, then he shouldn't kill the people they love. Peter huddled close to the man, held on to him loosely, and was gratified (and surprised) that Sylar had enough patience and empathy to endure it. Nathan wouldn't have. It made Peter cry all the harder to think such things.

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Sylar shifted up and around to be sitting against the headboard, following Peter's lead as he wished to scoot closer. He went so far as to lay an arm around him as he sobbed his guts out. It left Sylar definitely feeling…something. Like regret for hurting Peter this way. It was extremely uncomfortable. Parts of him even thought to take advantage of Peter's obvious weaknesses – because Peter was weak now, on the inside. Seeking comfort from Sylar meant that Peter was accepting some things, perhaps even his own weakness.

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He felt weak after grieving – tired, like sleep was half-claiming him already. Nathan never … he never said that to me. It wasn't him. He never said it. That was one of the hardest things to take. Nathan's actual farewell, according to Sylar, was no less noble in dying for Peter and Peter knew how much like Nathan that was – infinitely more like him than pointless suicide (by falling, of all things). Peter could see that now, but it still hurt to know Nathan hadn't said those words to him.

He pulled away from Sylar and tried to clean himself up. The tissues were sodden. He dropped them to the floor next to the bed on his side and plucked new ones. Sylar knew Nathan better than anyone in the world. Did he pick those words because they were likely? He sighed, despondent, because he knew in his heart Nathan would have never said something so unconditionally supportive. I should have known. "I saw him in the future," Peter said, turning back towards Sylar, "the future when I met you, or you-as-Gabriel. He was … he was everything he was turning into when he was around Dad at Pinehearst. That's … that's part of why I forgave him." He gave a short, hopeless laugh. "Maybe it was just his destiny to be an asshole, you know? It was just … how he was. I wanted so bad to know why he was that way, but there's no answer to it. Later, I knew I had to accept it, and to learn to love him anyway." Peter touched his mouth with the impulse to cover it in horror and grief. "That was hard, though. And almost as soon as I did, I lost him again, and I didn't even realize it."

He gathered himself. "There's one last thing I have to know - is there any way to get him back? And I don't mean through you, or in a way that would … hurt you. Just, you know, can he be recreated somehow, or time travel, or … I don't know. I never imagined what happened would happen, or even could happen, so I don't know what else is possible." Please? If there's a way, I'll do whatever it takes.

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Sylar pursed his lips. "As much as I think he shouldn't be brought back, that's not what you're asking. Not in this world. There are no bodies, probably no bones or ashes in the graves…I don't know, Peter. I don't know what you'd get if you tried with his body." If Peter believed in a soul then it seemed hopeless as Sylar pictured something like a zombie. "That's not my specialty and I don't- didn't have any abilities that would…bring that about. I do know that…whatever you get through me isn't Nathan. It's like…a home-movie instead of a real person. Don't try it…Please."

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Peter shook his head slowly, letting it droop. He didn't argue about Sylar's opinion of Nathan's right to life or the unreality of where they were. None of that matters - it's the same as Caitlin. He felt his eyes prickle with moisture again at the futility of it all. Am I ever going to stop crying?! He tried to get a hold of himself and seemed to succeed. Emotional lability is a known symptom of concussions, paraded through his mind. He recalled Sylar's moodiness from when the man's similar injury had been fresher, though Sylar's manifestation had been heavier in the area of irritability than melancholy. Peter sighed, realizing he could breathe more or less easily through his nose again – somewhere in the process, his clogged nasal passages had been cleared. Small victories, he thought wryly, trying to give himself a boost. "I'm tired, Sylar. I'm … I'm going to go to sleep." He fussed with getting his ice packs arranged.

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Sylar decided to change the ice packs. "I'll bring new ones," he told Peter softly as he plucked away the old packs, somewhat melted. Again, Peter didn't seem to need his clothes, more food or water – though more water was highest on the list. Sylar taped two cold packs to Peter's head (eyes and back of the head). Because he could, he stroked Peter's hair into a neater arrangement and returned to his own side of the bed.

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Once settled, Peter found himself stuck there. If he moved at all, an ice pack would dislodge, but he sure as hell didn't want to sleep … the way he was. "Can you come closer?" he finally asked, moving his left foot and hand towards Sylar and then back to Peter's own body. "I'd like to … touch," Peter said awkwardly. He was pretty sure he'd mentioned that back when he'd tried to warn Sylar of his sleeping habits. Peter wanted it more acutely at the moment than usual.

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Sylar was not about to turn down an explicit invitation such as this. He scooted and slouched down to be more even with Peter. Rolling onto his side to face his companion (because Peter couldn't see him and Sylar could stare as much as he wanted), he extended a hand to rest it on the other man's arm. Peter reached out with a leg to further the contact.

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"Thank you," Peter said, meaning more than just the physical contact. He slept.

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In the afternoon, propelled by a full bladder, Sylar snuck out to get more supplies – more clothes for both of them, ice packs, and better food – balanced meals – for when Peter could handle it. When he returned, Peter was still out. He read some more about baseball – the rules and history of it, completing most of the book. It was fortunate he had more than one book to read. Soon he'd be able to discuss his understanding of baseball with Peter. When his eyes needed a break, he would look at Peter or out the window. It was less disconcerting when Peter had an ice pack over his eyes – the rest of him was unmarked, normal. Peter slept quietly this time, making Sylar feel like a bit of a voyeur to watch him sleep for days, alone, just the two of them, but it was comforting to be allowed this and watch over him.

Around ten o'clock, Sylar got ready for bed after making himself dinner. He fretted about Peter's food and fluid intake, or lack thereof. He woke Peter gently, and helped lift his head to drink from the water bottle. After that, he slid between the sheets and laid a hand against Peter's back until he fell asleep.

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Day 55, February 3, Morning

Long hours later, Peter woke. This time, he had a sense of the passage of time. If what he could see looking around the room was any indication, it was just dawning outside. He could get his eyes open more than the day before – well enough to see and move around, assuming he wasn't picky about his field of vision. He didn't feel like doing so, though. He tugged at and rearranged the pillows he'd been propped up on, moving over closer to Sylar, who was facing away. Peter didn't quite spoon. He kept most of a foot between them and folded his arms in front of himself. He touched Sylar briefly on the back, thinking something warm and disjointed about it having been Sylar who said Peter was everything good in the world. He didn't trouble himself to sort it out. Dozing was more important.

Sylar was facing him now. Peter struggled to get his eyes to open correctly before remembering that was not yet to be. If he relaxed, he could still see, albeit a narrow slice of the world. The room was well-lit with morning light. Sylar seemed still asleep, so Peter spent his time looking at him. He's handsome. I'm mostly naked here, but he hasn't taken advantage. I think he's taken good care of me. Of course, maybe he just wants to hear me snoring. A slight smile creased Peter's face. Did he really say those things at Mercy Heights? The smile faded as he thought about it. It doesn't have to mean anything. He was saying them as Nathan, saying what he thought I wanted to hear. That's probably all it was – flattery, essentially. He sighed and reached up to scratch at an itchy spot at the corner of one eye. Nice flattery, though. It worked. Maybe Nathan could have said something like that – he did at Kirby, after all. But then after Pinehearst, he was so angry – 'That's not what I would have done!' – would he have left me to die? Dad already had (and Ma, twice, or three times if you count the suicide mission of being given a gun and sent to deal with Arthur in his … (lair?) base, with me having no abilities). What would Nathan have done? He rolled over onto his back, made restless by uncomfortable thoughts. Guess I'll never know. He turned his head to look back at Sylar. He'd know.

If that wasn't Nathan on the rooftop, then it wasn't Nathan in my apartment, either. He came to me for help. He tried to kill Ma, but didn't. He showed up at Mercy to kill me, but … didn't. Peter's eyes tracked across Sylar's features with curiosity at that tiny pattern. He rolled back to his side to get a better look. He didn't kill Matt, either. Did he go to Matt for help, just like he did with me? How many people has he asked for help? How many times has it not worked out?Peter thought about his own efforts to find assistance and how he had been swiftly reduced to booking a ticket out to the desert, and counseling Claire about the correct manner of shooting him in the head. And I … I had more resources than he did. Jeremy, in that house, with his parents decomposing; Ted, who'd lost his wife to cancer; Claire … didn't have it easy, either – a lot of us have trouble. We need help … compassion. And now, he thought as he reached out and touched Sylar's bare forearm, skimming it just lightly enough that Peter could feel the warmth of his skin, he just wants someone to sleep where he can hear them and I have to have the crap beaten out of me to make me do it. "I'm a real pain in the ass, aren't I?" Peter asked softly. His lids slid shut and he didn't fight the slumber that took him.

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The combination, however slight, of foreign touch and talking woke Sylar though Peter appeared to be asleep again. He wouldn't fake that if he can't see, right? Sylar had been asleep too long, but it was mostly, actually restful and Peter didn't snore despite his damaged face. He lazily lay in bed, looking at Peter, the ceiling and out the window. I wonder if he needed something and couldn't wake me. He's so needy, even when he's not injured. He thought about that – his own capacity to deal with neediness, his own view on it, how best to handle it. That got him upright and into the shower, leaving Peter to sleep some more. He hardly dared to let relief sink in that he might be free from his greatest fear and it weighed on him, a worrisome undertone to everything he thought and did. Quietly going about his routine of shaving, combing and arranging hair (this time with his own products), and changing clothes, his mind continued to wander as it typically did. Even if I do care for him, give him answers, and behave myself, none of that means he can see me as a…person. He still can't see that he did anything wrong. I'm asking too much as usual. He looked sadly at himself in the mirror. It will never be fair, will it? When he came down the hall, Peter was awake, sitting up. "Morning," Sylar greeted.

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"Morning," Peter responded, listening to Sylar pad around. He scratched idly at his upper chest. The rest had done him a lot of good. "Are there other clothes around here?" Ones that aren't filthy with blood and stuff?

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"Yeah." Sylar kept his mouth on a tight leash from any comments about that. He'd left the other man's clothes on the chair that had been on Peter's side of the bed. Gathering them up, he deposited them next to Peter. "Sweats, shirt, pullover, socks," he identified them and backed off only as far as the foot of the bed. Since Peter had made it to the bathroom on his own yesterday, he would probably manage garments alright, provided he was sitting. "Can you see anything today?"

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Peter felt over the clothes, tilting his head and looking at them with what vision he had. They look clean. "Yeah, I can see a little, but it's kind of hard to keep my eyes open. They feel so heavy." He tried a quick drill of covering one eye, then the other. "I can see out of both of them, okay as far as I can tell, so that's good." After dressing, he followed the edge of the bed to the corner closest to the dining area. There he hesitated. I don't really feel dizzy. But that's not necessarily something I'll get a warning on. What would I tell someone else to do?

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Improvement, but he was not the nurse here. Sylar asked just in case, "Do you want help walking to the table? For breakfast."

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His lips pursed. He was not happy about needing help to walk across the room. I'm not that messed up, am I? "Yeah," he answered. It's probably safer that way. And safer still for Sylar to think I need it. (Yeah, right, I'm doing this for Sylar's sake.)

Peter took Sylar's arm and followed to the table, where he let go and took a seat while Sylar went on to busy himself in the kitchen. Peter shut his eyes, listened to the sounds, and spaced out until something was placed before him. He looked at the bowl of oatmeal with mild surprise, realizing belatedly that he'd come to the table out of habit instead of need. I'm not hungry. And anyway, I haven't brushed my teeth, or worked out, or …. He sighed slowly. No, I'm just coming up with excuses. I'm sure it's good food. He made it for me. I should eat it. (I would have preferred applesauce.) "How long has it been since the fight?" He picked up his spoon.

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"Almost three days." I guess that's the only way he can keep track of time, really. "It's oatmeal. I suppose you could drink it, but I don't think you'll make too much of a mess if you use a spoon. Did you want raisins or…jelly in it?" He remembered little Peter liking something in his oatmeal.

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"Raisins, please." Then I can pick them out special. Peter nodded slowly about the passage of time. If it's been three days, then I really need to eat. I don't feel like it, though. Oh, wait! "Zofran. There should be some in the bag. It's for nausea. I got it for you."

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Sylar had seen it when looking for morphine (Maybe he needs more of that, too?) but had since forgotten it like an amateur. The guy with the concussion remembers more than you – that's pathetic. He brought the vial, a fresh syringe, and an alcohol wipe because even if there were no germs, Peter thought there were germs and Peter was the medic here. He prepped the arm closest to him, Peter's right (again) after putting it on the table. "How much of it? Ten milligrams or whatever?"

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"You're going to … Yeah, you are." Aren't you supposed to push that stuff slow? Is that what I did when I gave it to him? Well, that was in an IV bag over a half hour or so, right? (That was New Year's Day.) But then there were other times … Was I doing it wrong, or am I remembering the wrong drug? "Um, yeah, I guess." Peter watched the injection. I need to get better. This sort of 'I don't know' is okay with an anti-emetic, but the narcotic could be fatal.

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Sylar nodded, loading the syringe and pressing the needle home. "I think you need to drink as much as possible today. You've slept a lot." And you only went to the bathroom twice in three days. His biggest hope (for the man's medical condition at least) was that Peter either knew if he was dehydrated or not or that Peter could be easily hydrated. "How are you feeling today?"

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He noticed that Sylar's touch was gentler and more lingering than it had been before. Does that mean anything? He liked it. "Spacier than I want to be," he answered. After Sylar moved away, Peter still didn't eat much, but he believed he picked at his food with more enthusiasm than he would have otherwise. He worked at drinking. I have to drink enough to pee. That's the rule. "But I can see. I can get around. I've had hangovers worse than this." I'm sugar-coating it. (Is that wise?) "I definitely need some more downtime before you should cut me loose." Meaning: don't ditch me because I'm high maintenance. Not yet at least.

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Sylar left the 'spacy' comment alone since the man had reason to be. He noticed the amounts of food and water intake. Cut him loose, huh? Is that how he sees it? I wonder if he forgot our agreement. The other big question was what Peter remembered about their previous conversation and Peter finally grasping important facts. He was legitimately concerned that Peter's memory had lapsed over something so potentially life changing for Sylar. "Do you remember anything from yesterday?" He didn't deny he leaned forward on the table, momentarily forgetting his own raisin-free breakfast. He didn't know what he would do if Peter couldn't remember and returned to his flawed mission of retrieving Nathan through Sylar.

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Yesterday. Peter tried to focus. That was harder than it should have been, so he spoke his thoughts aloud. "I'm not sure what yesterday was, specifically. There's now, and then there's what happened since the fight, and there's what happened before it. I had some bad dreams, then … you. We talked. Different bits of conversation are there." He swallowed, remembering one conversation almost entirely. It felt like the most recent. "I asked you about how to get Nathan back … and how he … left. I remember." He sighed and turned away with a pained, distant expression. After a minute or so, he continued with a quiet and grave voice, "He died at … at … at the Stanton Hotel." He felt his eyes water. "I don't know how to get him back. It's not p-possible here." He wiped at his tears with the back of his hand, changing the subject to something less depressing. "You said you understood me, I think." He turned his face back in Sylar's direction. "Do you?"

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Sylar exhaled and slumped back into his chair. He didn't care if Peter heard that or even if Peter thought the conversation of yesterday was some concussion-induced nightmare. Against all odds, Peter had absorbed it despite the head trauma. (Or maybe head trauma – or even being blind – is what helped it sink in?) Peter was looking at him now, more or less, though he didn't think he was being seen in every sense of the word. He took his time breathing and slowing his jumpy heart. "I said I understand that he and your friends mean a lot to you." I still don't agree that any of it is right or possible or that I should be involved in any way.

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"Yes," Peter said. "Yes, they do." So that, at least, was real. The cargo container stuff is probably bunk, and probably that airplane stuff, too. "My … people," he continued soberly and with great emphasis, "are very important to me." He got his eyes open to look at Sylar, tilting his head back to do it. "Claude didn't believe that – he was the guy who tried to show me how to use my powers. He told me to shut them out, but it was only when I focused on them that I could use my ability. Claude didn't get that and so he didn't get me." Point made, he took another small bite of oatmeal, getting a raisin this time. He sucked at it within his mouth, prodding it with his tongue as he tried to pull together the rest of the important things they had or might have discussed since the fight. "You said there was a price, for something. What was that?"

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Sylar scoffed. Oh, that. "Eat," he directed and hefted his own spoon. It was of interest that Peter brought it up at all and was the first to mention it.

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Peter frowned at the direct order, loading up his spoon again and then holding it above his bowl defiantly. He didn't say when. Or how much. He would have liked to have glared at Sylar, but it was beyond his power. Peter's imagining of Sylar simply staring at him defused the knee-jerk refusal. I'm supposed to eat. Stop being a prick about it. He's not Arthur, or Nathan. Or even partly Nathan. He dropped the frown and ate.

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Sylar noticed the pause, but didn't interfere – after all, he remembered how nauseous he'd been with his own concussion. Rushing anything wasn't going to help. Healing required patience, of which he had enough. Maybe he's upset about my answer. He always wants a complete, explicit answer. "I don't want to talk about it right now. It's not going to affect me caring for you. It's difficult to explain and it's complicated." That was going to have to be good enough for now.

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Peter mulled that over in his mind. "Okay." He tilted his head around, opening his eyes and managing to find the bottle of painkillers Sylar had dropped off earlier. He opened the bottle gingerly, given his right hand, and dumped out a few pills to take. "Tell you what – I won't push it right now – because you're probably right. It might be complicated and I want to be able to understand it when we do talk about it. Was there anything else important that happened that I haven't mentioned?" He knew he was missing stuff.

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Yay, Sylar thought facetiously, We get to talk some more. He watched as Peter managed the pill bottle just fine. "No," he replied. He knew from…Nathan's past experience that Peter had, so far, been a model patient considering it involved a concussion. He counted himself fortunate that Peter could accept logic and Sylar's domineering care.

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Peter nodded and stirred his oatmeal. Of nausea, he was feeling little at the moment. Mostly he simply felt a disinterest in eating. That he felt that well he attributed to the medication and ate mechanically to get something in his stomach before the drugs wore off. He mostly finished the bowl, not making the effort to get his eyes open and scrape up the last bits. He suspected Sylar hadn't given him much to start with, but it still felt like a victory. Pleased with himself, he pushed the bowl away, announcing, "Peter Petrelli, conqueror of small breakfasts. No, 'devourer of small breakfasts'," he corrected. "That's cooler-sounding. I could be a big monster like Uluru the Invincible – all huge and hulking and covered with rock, and my special power would be the ability to consume any breakfast in a single bite." He smiled at ridiculousness of his own imagination along with the incongruity of a fearsome creature with such a paltry power. The smile faltered as he realized he couldn't see Sylar's reaction. I sounded like an idiot - stupid, immature. Insecure, he got to his feet and swiped at his hair, mumbling something about the bathroom, which he legitimately needed.

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Before Sylar could say anything, Peter was on his feet and on the move, though he wasn't going very fast. Sylar relinquished his spoon and stood, "Do you want help getting there?" Does he have to puke? No…he knows I could get a trash can over here faster than he can feel his way to the bathroom, right? I didn't say anything. (Maybe because I didn't say anything?) He didn't give me a chance! He's not…upset, is he? What is there to be done if he is?

XXX

Peter made a dismissive wave of his left hand in Sylar's general direction. I might be childish, but I'm not helpless. I can go potty on my own, Sylar. Even his mental voice sounded whiny and juvenile to him. He was glad Sylar did not come with him. It let Peter direct his mind somewhere other than berating himself. He shut the door behind him this time and saw to his needs. After washing his hands, he looked over his right hand. It was swollen just a little and very painful to move the affected fingers. But he could move them and without it feeling like that was a horribly wrong thing to do. Hm. I wonder if it's not any worse than it was before? Seems okay, other than kind of insulted and inflamed.

With a shrug, he moved on to a much-overdue brushing of his teeth. He got his eyes open again to attempt to look at his tongue, but he couldn't tell much there, either, except that it was healing. His nose was the same – light manipulation left him thinking it wasn't broken, or if it was, it was something minor. The cartilage might be separated, he mused, deciding that wiggling it wasn't helpful (and was gasp-inducingly painful anyway). I've seen people get out of bad fights with less permanent damage, but not often. He must have slammed my head on the floor. There's no way I got a concussion like this from him straight up punching me. He felt of the spot on the back of his head, still tender. That fits. He hit me while I was down. It was hard for Peter to blame Sylar for that, as he assumed (hoped) he was still fighting back. It's probably what ended the fight. I wonder if he knocked me out? Didn't he say something like, 'You started it; I ended it'? Thinking was hard and there seemed no point to trying to work out the details. The fight's over, and he's taking care of me like he said he would. That's good enough. Peter washed his hands again out of habit before going back to the bedroom.

XXX

Sylar let it go with a huff, sitting down to finish his own, larger breakfast. He'd given Peter enough oatmeal to find mostly blind with a spoon. He listened for any emergency sounds in the bathroom, but it was otherwise quiet and lonely. Keeping an eye towards the bedroom, Sylar started on the dishes and saw when Peter returned to bed. "Do you need anything?" he asked as he sat sideways at the foot of the mattress.

XXX

"No, um," Peter huffed. "A few more brain cells maybe." He felt over the wrinkled covers next to him. Should I go back to sleep? Or sit up? I can't do much like this, but I'm not sleepy. "I don't guess I'll get done with that book I was reading after all. Not in three days. Maybe tomorrow. How are you doing on yours?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled, audibly for Peter's benefit. "It doesn't count if you can't actually read, like now. You've got a little over two days when you can see to read." He moved around the bed to hold his book as he spoke, turning back to Peter on habit, "I'm almost done. It's easy because I don't have to think of games I've seen because it's written in this…quiz format, so I have to pay attention. It's a lot of facts and numbers, some pictures, and a lot about the evolution of the game."

XXX

"A quiz format? Try me." Listening and talking were two things he was still capable of. Peter messed with the pillows, arranging them so he could sit up, turning to face the direction of Sylar's voice.

XXX

Sylar paused to consider that option. He has a concussion, how well does he think he'll remember random history? But in the end, Sylar was the one with the answer keys – he might 'know' more than Peter about baseball – and that was tempting. I'll have him do something else if he can't do this. "Who were the first set of twins to play baseball together?"

XXX

"I have no idea," he answered honestly. Peter had been expecting the minutia of the rules or history of the game, but life was always throwing him curve balls.

XXX

That was a quick reply; Sylar waited for Peter to think it over.

XXX

"Who were they?"

XXX

"Joe and Red Shannon in 1915."

XXX

"That's hard stuff. What's another?" he asked eagerly, undeterred by not knowing the answer.