Day 56, February 4, Afternoon

Peter let out a slow, deep breath. He studied Sylar for a moment, thinking about why Sylar was putting that topic off-limits. He probably hasn't had relationships he wants to talk about. What happens when you try to break up with someone like Sylar? What happens when you argue with him over where to hang the washcloth after it's been used? His thoughts turned to Sylar's lethal track record. Rather than talk about people Peter cared about or ones he knew little of, he spoke about himself.

"How many times have you tried to kill me, Sylar?" Peter held up the pinky finger on his left hand. "Odessa." He held up the pinky and ring finger. "Mohinder's apartment. Both of those, totally uncalled for, by the way." He waved his hand dismissively. "Then there's Kirby Plaza. You tried, but you failed." He extended his middle finger at Sylar eloquently. It was convenient that it was third in his list. "I'm not going to count Gabriel in the future. He wasn't trying to kill me specifically. But Stanton counts. You lured us there on purpose. Then there's Mercy, where you told me what you'd showed up for. I'll skip Thanksgiving, even though I'm sure you would have gotten around to me." He hesitated, remembering that was Sylar who'd stopped himself, not Nathan. Or was it just the mental commands interfering? That must have been it. But there was still that nagging discrepancy. Peter ignored it for now, turning his hand palm out towards Sylar and wiggling the five digits. "Five times. You know what kind of prison sentence a person gets for that? You're a serial killer on individual people, Sylar!" He put his hand down. "Has it occurred to you that my life matters to me? At least, you know, more than getting laid?"

He chuckled. "Maybe if you'd caught me ten years ago, we could have done something, because what's a couple murder attempts between people who want to get it on, right? But I'm not in that place anymore."

XXX

Sylar was…pleased? The number was lower than he'd thought and it was that much less to be held against him by this living victim. It was also a very clear sign of failure. He's failed to kill me successfully (and I resent him for that) and I've failed to kill him and others. No thought was given to the threat of prison – not only would the evidence fail to stand up in any court, there was no prison that could hold him, an immortal with lifetimes to spare. The Company, on the other hand, was a legitimate threat to him. "I am not a serial killer," he said again with a hard edge, glaring. I'm in 'that' place. Sylar felt belittled, ashamed, and judged by the implication. "No, Peter, it never did occur to me," he sighed. "And you know why? Because the trouble you get yourself into seems suicidal. Someone who wants to live plans to live and makes every effort to stay alive, so they can, you know, get laid? I think you value other people's lives more than your own. You've said as much about killing yourself and valuing others. I don't know…maybe we can't kill each other," he voiced a theory he'd had just now. "And some people want to get laid because they don't know if they're going to live." He immediately speculated if that was admitting too much.

XXX

"Well, you've got me pegged," Peter muttered. He assumed Sylar's last statement was true and self-referential, but he thought little of it. He sat there quietly thinking about his last two relationships, the ones he'd had since he'd gotten abilities. Other people were more important and Peter knew that made him poor relationship material. Putting others first was what he did, so why did it make him feel so useless? Even now, he was pondering how he wasn't a good partner for Sylar, for Sylar's sake.

XXX

Peter said nothing for a bit. Eventually Sylar asked what he'd thought earlier. "Have you ever cheated on someone you considered yourself to be with?"

XXX

Peter raised his head, broken out of morosely wondering what sort of life Caitlin would have had if he hadn't ruined and ended it. He thought about Sylar's question. 'You don't have a right to ask that', he almost said, but didn't bother. "Not intentionally," Peter grudged. He looked away briefly, then back. "I've been with people who thought we were exclusive just because we'd hooked up once or twice." He shook his head. "I went through a phase for a few years where I...I really only wanted one thing."

XXX

So they thought it meant something more than you did? Sometimes he doesn't think much of them. Or he says he thinks more of them than he really does. Sylar let that settle a moment. What was with this emotionally attached, monogamous male bonding of Peter's? It wasn't 'normal,' but neither was Peter. "What's wrong with a quick hookup? Sometimes that's all you really need."

XXX

Peter shrugged and said, "I never said there was anything wrong with that. But things for me have changed. I want more now." He looked away again, chagrinned. "Or at least, I would want more, if I... You know, the last two people I was with are dead. I've kind of sworn off...anything." He looked away with a mix of sullenness and guilt on his face, remembering the way he'd felt with Emma, helping her appreciate the beauty of her ability. That had warmed him so much. He could have had romantic feelings for her, but then there'd been the scene with his mom, the nightmares, the cello, and things spiraling out of control until he was on a suicide mission to California to face Sylar. He was toxic. He put both feet on the floor and held his hands loosely between his knees. "Being with people is probably not something that's in the cards for me anymore."

XXX

Aha! "That's kind of fatalistic, don't you think?" Of course, Sylar understood the feeling, the dilemma: abilities and significant others co-existing, because he'd wrestled with the concept himself, coming up with no solutions. Even aside from abilities, there was this…violence factor they both seemed to share.

XXX

Peter slumped unhappily. "Maybe. Abilities make it too dangerous to be around anyone...that way, so I don't do it."

XXX

"I mean there are no abilities here. That's something." His grin was small, because the lack of abilities went a long way toward making other things possible. Perhaps. "The rest is just…regular self-control. Or not," it was his turn to shrug. It was important not to demand or force Peter into any one behavior. If Peter wanted to be violent, he certainly could be and probably would be. Sylar wouldn't be missed if Peter screwed up here. Some of what he'd said was…an exaggeration. People (or was it just Peter?) told him similar things, as if abstaining from killing was a simple choice or matter of self-control. (I think it could be…but it usually isn't. Hasn't been). It was his turn to look away in thought. "I guess you feel…robbed of choice." That was deep of me!

XXX

"What do you mean by that?" Peter sat back a little, his hands on the top of his knees now. "Is it like abilities keep me from choosing to be with people?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head. How do I get around that? I'll always be a bad choice. We don't have a choice. "I don't know. When life gives you lemons, you know? It's still a choice to use the lemons even when you'd rather have oranges. It doesn't have to be 'more.'"

XXX

He could see where Sylar was going with this. Peter frowned, nearly a scowl. He shifted to the corner of the sofa and pulled one leg up, perching his foot on the edge of the couch. Sylar is the lemon and he wants me to...use... him. With a put-out sigh, Peter said, "We're not going to hook-up, Sylar. Things will never be casual between us." Peter said it flatly, as a statement of fact. He cared too much about everything Sylar had done to be able to put that aside and have meaningless sex with him (not that sex was ever meaningless to Peter, no matter how casual it was).

XXX

"I don't see why it has to be anything more than just that," Sylar retorted. He huffed his breath out through his nose, checking the washer – almost done. He hated these machines, always saying 'six or eight minute' cycles but taking closer to fifteen minutes. "But if you feel you have to be difficult about it, what does it take for it not to be casual for you?"

XXX

Peter crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders a bit. His head hurt. He was feeling pressured and grumpy. Sylar's characterization of him 'being difficult about it' nearly caused him to overlook the question that came after. Not wanting to fight pointlessly over his 'right' to be difficult about who got to have sex with him, he seized on the question. "You and me isn't happening. But do you mean in general?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar allowed, since he couldn't get specifics on himself and Peter, even as a remote possibility.

XXX

"What would I want in a relationship if I didn't have abilities, ever again, like Dad took them or I just lost them and there was no way to get them back?" Peter was quiet and looked off to the side. "I don't know if it would matter. I'd still be involved in this...lifestyle." He sighed and looked down, thinking about how he'd felt with Emma. Or Caitlin, back when he'd known no more about himself than his first name. His foot returned to the floor and his arms loosened. "I want to have some feelings for the person I'm with. I want to care about them. I want that...opportunity...to care about them. I want to make them happy, to see them again, to know they wanted to see me, and that I mattered to them. I want to be somebody for them." It was an echo of his words from the top of that thirty-story building, he knew, about how it was his turn to be somebody.

Tired of being required to justify his basic preferences, Peter turned the questions on Sylar. "I get that you want to be with me. That's flattering – thanks. But it's not happening. You killed my brother. You've killed me. And you seem to act like that's in the past and I should just ignore it. Why is that? Why shouldn't I care about that stuff, huh?"

XXX

It all came back to the things he'd never been able to cultivate, try as he might. The irony was cruel – the one person he could possibly be with wanted only the things he didn't know how to give or create or…be. It was very clear that sex was eternities away; that was upsetting because the easiest, fastest, most familiar way to get what they both wanted was near impossible. Everything fell apart at the beginning with feelings – Peter had none for him. Sylar's entire proposition specifically ignored that as a requirement or as a possibility because…well…It was unreasonable to expect or demand it. Wasn't he listening to my fitting citrus metaphor? If I have to settle, so should he! Peter didn't care for him (other than medically) and Sylar had yet to play sick to give him those opportunities; Peter making him happy wasn't given much thought; and he hadn't overdone his excitement to see Peter whenever they'd been apart but he thought Peter knew he was meaningful – hadn't he said as much before now? So this new character he was creating must include things that Peter found attractive and worthy. The best analogy he could imagine was Peter desired a connection of sorts with him. That is, when Peter wasn't trying to turn him into Nathan, use him for his bygone homicidal skill set, or tell him to go off himself for the good of humanity. It was confusing and daunting to say the least.

Sylar frowned at Peter now. "Because I think in a place where I get to set some of the rules that the world should be more fair. You take my…inaction for granted. I shouldn't care about the past, anything you've done to me either, right? It's not like you ever talk about any of that," Sylar said with a pointed edge. "It's not important just because things happened to you. Usually, this is the only way to work with people. You have to…choose which way you're going to do it, Peter: yours, mine, or the midway."

XXX

'Inaction?' Okay, fair enough. He could try to kill me. I'm always a little concerned he might. That he isn't is...yeah, okay, something I shouldn't take for granted. Got it. (That's not comforting.) He caught the reference to Peter wiping Sylar's mind. (He didn't kill Matt over that, so why's so fired up over me doing it?) Peter didn't like that line of thought – it sounded like he was trying to shift blame – so he focused on what Sylar had offered. "What's your way?"

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes, grateful for the loud beep and buzz of the washer. His voice was a grumble, "You already said 'hell no' to it." He busied himself with dragging the damp clothes out of one machine to throw them in another.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said. "Then your way is us just fucking." Yep, that's a big load of nope. He noticed, again (since Sylar was facing away and bending over from time to time to migrate the clothes to the next appliance), that his posterior was truly worth staring at. This is really fucked up. He looked at his hands instead, putting his face in them for the moment.

XXX

Sylar corrected (vaguely enough not to agree with Peter) with some attitude, "You already turned it down. Just assume it's some biased advantage for me and forget about it."

XXX

Still hiding behind his hands, Peter asked, "So what's my way?" Might as well find out everything I can about how he sees things. Maybe there's a...way or something.

XXX

He barely suppressed another eye roll. "We have to like each other. Have a relationship like a couple of girls? I have to agree to kill someone or not kill someone? Something like that, I think."

XXX

Peter snorted and leaned back, letting his hands fall to his sides. There was a lot he could say about Sylar's ridiculous version of 'Peter's way', but the weird thing was that even though Peter wanted to argue about the semantics, he had to admit Sylar was basically right. He didn't want to argue, so he simply asked, "Then what's the middle way?"

XXX

"It's fair!" He slapped at the dryer door to close it, facing Peter again. Uncertainty reigned as he contemplated if he should say 'that was the price I mentioned.' That bit of manipulation or demand, that plan hadn't been going so well. And if Peter wanted it his own way, then it would be a lot like speaking out of turn and putting his foot in his mouth – wishing to take back something that could never happen which he'd insisted upon. "No one's asking for a fucking apology or forgiveness or the world's best sex here. Just…admitting that it happened?" Sylar frowned again as he hesitated over that. I'm talking about myself. He didn't know how it worked or even what it was that he wanted. "I don't know. It never works. You'd win and it would be just like your way." God, he was frustrated. He dug into the next load of laundry, tossing it into the vacant washer with some relish.

XXX

Fair? Like we have sex and like each other or…don't have sex and don't like each other? Both of those are fair. He listened as Sylar went on. Admitting that...the past happened. But he means things I've done to him. He still thinks those are equivalent to what he's done. Or does he? Maybe he doesn't care if they're equivalent or not. Maybe he just cares that they happened. I can admit that. "I've fucked you over in the past." Peter was looking in the general direction of Sylar's feet, but his mind's eye was directed elsewhere – Odessa; Mohinder's apartment; Kirby Plaza; hell, even apparently coming back for Sylar when he was with Arthur was sticking his foot in Sylar's plans; then of course there was the Stanton Hotel; and Sylar seemed to have an especially big axe to grind over Mercy Heights, which despite Peter thinking Sylar had totally started that in more ways than one, he acknowledged Sylar's emotions about it. With a tilt of his head, he looked up at Sylar and said honestly, "I appreciate that you're not killing me over that. Sometimes...yeah, I worry you're going to."

Peter mulled it over a bit more, then chuckled. "Look at it this way – at least I'm not afraid to track you down wherever you are and jump in your shit." He waved a vague hand at their surroundings. "Even if that's, uh, kind of suicidal. I don't mean it that way, usually. I'm just trying to get something else done and knowing you might kill me for it doesn't mean I won't try." He looked over at Sylar with as much intensity as his still-droopy lids could muster. His brows made a brief twitch. "Except for Mohinder's apartment. That was just an accident. I didn't expect you there." Peter looked down again. "And when I tried to get you out of Pinehearst I was trying to help. Really." He'd had a few moments of loyalty to Sylar there – a few days, actually, where he tolerated Sylar, asked him for help, and tried to have his back. "Guess maybe it didn't come off that way."

XXX

That initial phrase was so general and brief yet it was huge in the sense that it was the first recognition of any wrong done to him. It did nothing to curb the emotional need for justice or compensation, which was still larger than this monumental initial recognition. (He's not sorry. All that and he's not sorry about any of it. He had no one to blame but himself. And I told him I wasn't looking for a fucking apology). Sylar felt too stunned to react in any way. He'd gotten enough of what he'd asked for and no more than that. It was far from satisfying; explaining was pointless.

He knew Peter would never satisfy him in that way because the Petrelli family would always come first. Nathan, and turning him into Nathan, would always come first. Mercy Heights wasn't mentioned. That meant it would be Peter's way and Sylar was screwed. Sylar would be a non-person, a thing, a toy even in the 'relationship' arrangement Peter demanded. He felt his gut sink into despair. "Fucked me over. That's…" he was silent for a moment, simply shaking his head wordlessly. Eventually, he tried to sum up because he had to say something and he tried to leave it at that, "That's putting it mildly."

XXX

"The mind-wipe at Mercy," Peter said slowly and cautiously, pointing at his own head. "That was the worst, right?"

XXX

Sylar stared at him a moment. Obviously the playfulness of their outing was gone. The question itself wasn't an instant insult. He grated out a hiss, "Yes."

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment, picking up on Sylar's intense disappointment in him. He didn't know what to do about it. Still careful, he went on, "Are you more angry at me than you are the others? Or does it just seem that way because I'm here?" Peter had the feeling that Sylar acted like he'd betrayed him then, which didn't make sense. Peter's loyalties at Mercy were very clear-cut and as far as Peter knew, Sylar had no reason to think he was among them.

XXX

The questions seemed laughably unimportant compared to the depth of the topic and Sylar's feelings about it. His breath huffed out through his nose. "Both, I suppose." He was getting very fed up with the whole of the conversation now.

XXX

"I don't know if it makes any difference, but if I'd known you weren't…I mean, if I'd known Nathan wasn't there, I wouldn't have done that to you." I would have probably done something else, but it wouldn't have been that. In a very small voice, Peter added, "I thought he was."

XXX

"Shut the hell up, Petrelli. Don't push me," Sylar snapped and snarled immediately, pointing at him. "I told you the truth and despite my warnings, you still tried to turn me into your fucking brother just a few days ago. That got you here, with me scraping you off the floor." He enunciated, "I don't want to hear it. Any of it."

XXX

I did? Peter blinked up at him, trying to summon memories that weren't there of how their last fight had started. Being scraped off the floor was a particularly graphic image, even if he couldn't remember it happening to him. Peter's work as an EMT gave him way too many visceral experiences to relate to what Sylar might have had to do for him. It seemed unfair to have things thrown in his face he didn't recall, but he wouldn't deny them. It was less time ago that he'd accepted Nathan hadn't been there at Mercy Heights, so, yeah, maybe the fight had been started by another of Peter's stupid but well-meaning attempts to save his brother. He had to remind himself that the last time he'd genuinely seen Nathan had been at the Stanton Hotel … before Sylar killed him.

The same man who stood over him now with finger outstretched like he wanted to slice into Peter's skull and end him again. The gesture made Peter's skin crawl and his heart race. Despite himself, he winced at Sylar's motion. Peter had two ways he could respond – treat Sylar as an enemy, stand up, threaten him, challenge him to a fight Peter knew he'd lose...or treat him as something else. He thought about that foggy memory he had of crying in bed a few nights ago and Sylar comforting him. He hoped it was real. Peter curled up in the corner of the couch and looked at Sylar's feet, studying the sneakers and saying nothing, thoroughly subdued.

XXX

Sylar felt that he'd been curling his fingers into fists in preparation even as Peter…did nothing and said nothing. It left him confused about what to do because he still wanted to pummel Peter into the ground. Again. He got what he thought he wanted with this well-practiced obedience and deference. It's just an act. He doesn't get it. He never will. I have to get used to…appearances all over again. His next breath was a rough exhale. At one time, with abilities, as something genuinely special, he'd been worth more than appearances. I'm still worthless and he knows that's not his fault. His mind thoroughly elsewhere, he instructed on his way out the door, "Watch the clothes." Sylar wanted to be somewhere else. Too much Peter, too much caring for him had strained him, as had the pair of uncomfortable series of questions in one day.

XXX

Peter stretched out a little after Sylar left, sighing and looking at the ceiling. He didn't blame Sylar, or himself. He just felt sad that this was how things were between them. Sylar had looked after him and even if the support was uneven and the care brusque, Peter acknowledged it as an effort on his behalf (and one that was not in dispute as to whether it had actually happened). He rose to inspect the settings on the dryer. It would not do to have Sylar return and Peter not to have done his job correctly. Everything looked normal, so he returned to the same corner of the couch, made himself small, and put his head down on the arm of the furniture as he dozed. He knew he usually wasn't what other people wanted him to be. It was frustrating and depressing, especially when he needed them.

XXX

Sylar found himself outside, circling the building, literally cooling off while he thought. Nothing but his own desires was getting in the way of everything. That's how it usually was. Desperation from needing something and tiring of banging his head against whatever impenetrable wall a person represented wasn't pretty, but it garnered a different approach, results of some kind. I don't want to have to suck up to him. I don't want to…be nothing. But he already was nothing and Peter knew it. So…exploit it? When he lost track of his footprints, he returned to the laundry center. When he went to the dryer, he cast a glance at Peter who was watching him, but still lying on the couch, digging out its contents there. Sylar plopped them in the middle cushion of the couch, partly on Peter's feet and legs. As something of a wry, almost humorless joke about everything, he said, "Make yourself useful," and stood watching to see how that would be taken.

XXX

"Sure," Peter said quietly, taking the clothes and spreading them over himself. They were warm. They smelled good. They were fluffy. He insinuated his hands between the layers of cloth, smiling as he drew up a shirt to inhale. Being covered in freshly laundered clothes was lovely, though he knew Sylar hadn't meant to do anything nice for him. With a sigh, he cut short the play and started to fold the shirt in his hands (one of Sylar's, he noticed). Peter didn't look at Sylar or address him, but he stayed tense and his motions with the clothes were close to his body. He didn't reach out and he tried not to move from where he was sitting.

XXX

Sylar watched longer than he'd intended as he observed Peter's moment of…useless enjoyment? fun? some memory Sylar didn't have or recall? Either way, it seemed so typical, rebellious Peter, so strange and otherwise pointless but obviously innocent in some kind of delightful pleasure that it captured his attention in attempts to deduce the reason (and, perhaps why Sylar himself didn't feel the same about…laundry). It…made him want to join in. He didn't because it was purposeless and Peter had already moved on to the proper purpose. He sat, awkwardly it felt, and his thoughts turned to how impossible his task seemed. Not the laundry, but befriending and seducing Peter as some illusionary human being. I've only managed something close to that when I was…really in trouble. Sylar grabbed at the nearest garment – boxers, obviously Peter's. Didn't I make a joke about this before? 'Seeing each other's laundry' or something? He looked up from under his eyelashes in case this was inappropriate but there was no answer; Peter ignored him. Anyway. He's not interested in helping, he can't be, and he can't help. So I interest him with his interests. He likes talking for one thing.

"Is your head hurting you? Your eyes? Stomach?" he wanted to rule those out.

XXX

Peter kept his head down and mumbled, "Head hurts some. Eyes – only if I touch 'em." He didn't mention his stomach. It seemed to have gone AWOL, not bothering to tell him when he was hungry and needed to eat, but not hurting him either. It just felt numb.

XXX

"I thought you liked talking," Sylar remarked, open-ended, snapping out one of his own shirts before laying it across his lap.

XXX

Peter sighed softly. He was glad to be drawn out, but it didn't tell him what he needed to say. So he said just that: "I think you're angry about the things I did to stop you over the years. I don't think I did anything wrong. Dumb, maybe, but not wrong. So I don't know what to say." He gave Sylar a few glances, trying to gage his response.

XXX

Sylar looked up, stunned at the accurate eloquence of that. He expected Peter to still be ignoring him but he wasn't. Sylar's eyes accidentally met Peter's and he glanced away. That's exactly how I feel about you. He set himself back to neatly folding his shirt. Everyone knows what I did was wrong, of course, but the feeling is the same. Exactly. (He can make me do the things he wants because he didn't do anything wrong and I can't because he didn't do anything wrong. It was very much like he wasn't even supposed to be angry about it, or vulnerable, or act in self-defense, which was what he had feared). He affected a shrug he didn't believe in, keeping his eyes on his work, "I guess that means there's nothing to say, then." It hurt, badly and deep, but it wasn't a new pain and the process was not unfamiliar to him. He'd just…expected better of Peter, always. But desperation and need were more important.

XXX

"No," Peter countered in a low, quiet voice. "I think there's a lot to say, to be said about what's…happened, but I don't want to be angry about it and I don't want you to be angry about it. So…you know, we were both there. It happened. I'd like to know, most of all, the 'why' for some of the things you did." Peter kept his voice calm and low. There was nothing casual about the way he was talking, and he wasn't trying to pretend there was. He knew full well he was handling something delicate between them. His eyes flicked constantly between the clothes he was folding (a pair of socks at the moment) and Sylar's face, with the intention of breaking off at the first sign of storm clouds. He decided he'd start with something easy, something where neither of them had to be defensive (he hoped). "Like, say, that time at Pinehearst, when you threw me out the window? Why did you do that? Why didn't you just come with me?" He looked up steadily at Sylar for his last question: "That was you, wasn't it? Who kept me from dying?"

XXX

Sylar nodded only after he saw Peter was watching him intently. He hadn't meant to invite more questions, at least, not more of this type. I thought we weren't supposed to talk about…certain things? What happened to that? And how was he under fire for saving someone's life? Or was Peter pissed that the push, fall, and catch were technically rather unprovoked by Arthur merely walking into the room? Why am I always saving people who don't want to be fucking saved? Sylar kept his attention on the task at hand, setting the neatly folded shirt aside and reaching for another (they were more difficult to fold...the way he wanted them).

XXX

"Yeah," Peter scoffed, having moved on to a new sock. He rummaged through the unfolded laundry looking for a match for it. "Couldn't have possibly been my dad, could it?" Son falling to his death right under his nose and all he has to do to stop it is lift a finger? Nope. Not that Peter had seriously thought there was any question which would raise a hand to save him: Sylar, the career serial killer who hardly knew him, or Arthur Petrelli, his own flesh and blood. He found the other sock and rolled them up, waiting for Sylar to address the other questions he'd asked.

XXX

Ooh. Shit. That was the reason for the empath's intensity. Wrong savior. Taking credit where it isn't due. "Uh…Sure," he tried to insist about Arthur. Even he would readily admit that was fucked up of Arthur to do nothing to save his son. The more he thought about it, perhaps Peter wasn't so readily useful (to Arthur) as Sylar thought – not when Peter had chosen a side, Angela's.

XXX

"Sure?" Peter questioned. Is he trying to defend that bastard? "You helped me kill him," Peter groused. "You knew what he was." The fingers of his right hand curled painfully on his knee. He looked down at it and recognized what he was doing: Like I'm holding a gun. He splayed his fingers and looked up at Sylar, trying to tamp down the unprocessed anger because Sylar wasn't the cause of it. "You didn't answer – why did you do it?"

XXX

"/Ma/- Your mother said you needed my help." He shook his head as if it would rid him of the mistake, the memories, the sick attachment he couldn't purge. She said other things, too. Lies, of course. Sylar doubted she even had a favorite son, the lengths she would go to protect – and kill – both her sons was more than a force of nature. "You weren't safe there," he intoned like it was obvious.

XXX

His anger faded, replaced by curiosity and earnestness. "But why would you help me? Why did you care? You could have dropped me out that window and my dad would have patted you on the back, given you a promotion, trusted you more, something." Peter looked intently at Sylar, remembering so clearly that 'because that's what brothers do'. "You thought we were brothers – sure, but we're Petrellis first. One less brother in the family is one fewer you have to compete with. You hardly knew me. And like you said later, I didn't have anything you needed. Why would you care if I was safe, or if 'Ma' wanted me alive?"

XXX

For a moment, Sylar could only sit there, taken aback. He'd never contemplated his deepest reasons for doing what he did then. Now that he did, he didn't want to explain his pathetic, personal, and poorly realized reasons. Peter had risked his life to come back for him. It meant something even if the attempt was nearly pointless and reckless. He told most of the truth; the rest wasn't mentioned. "I was useful then. She wanted me, he wanted me. I thought I could gain his trust without killing you – and I did. I didn't have to kill you. There was no point. And I didn't want to have to…compete." More than anything, he did not want to compete for attention, purpose, family, and love. How stupid to hope that he could fix the Petrelli family, bring them back together. It was still irritating to be questioned for saving someone because Peter still expected him to kill on a whim to solve any of his simple problems. "I just needed you to be…somewhere else; you needed to go back to the rest of your family. Besides, I can take Arthur," he shrugged with a bit of a smirk. He hadn't needed Peter's help, either.

XXX

Peter listened intently to all of that, leaning forward, absorbing it. Until Sylar got to the end, where Peter chuffed, rolled his eyes, and leaned back. "Sure. Yeah, of course. You did take him." After I pinned him down and Rene nullified his powers. The smirk vanished and Peter shook his head. How did murdering my father become a joke? He sighed and instead of addressing that, directed his thoughts to the rest of what Sylar had said. "So you got me out of there to remove a complication. I get that." It wasn't the proof of regard for life (particularly Peter's) that he wanted, but it was a sign that Sylar didn't kill just to kill. He moved on. "What happened next? After Claire and I left, what did you do?"

XXX

"How is that important, Peter?" He half-growled through a sigh. "I talked to him, he…told me things about myself then he showed me where he was keeping Elle. I think I did what he meant for me to do, with her. After that, he sent us after Claire. Then the eclipse." Sylar moved on to a pair of socks. Wanting badly to change the subject (and not really able to turn the questions on Peter when he already knew what Peter had done via Nathan), he injected, "If we both wear black, how do we tell whose socks are whose?" He tried for a faint, distracting grin, holding up the subject matter.

XXX

Peter's mouth was open to ask about Elle when Sylar interrupted about the socks. He frowned at them, mind switching tracks. "You're already wearing my sweats. You know I don't have a problem with wearing other people's clothes." He reached out and snatched the socks from Sylar, inspecting them. "The longer ones are yours." He rolled them up. "You must be like three sizes bigger than me in the feet." He tossed the ball of socks to Sylar. He tried to remember what he'd been going to say. The part about Elle slipped his mind. Testily, he said, "It's important because the guy was going to ruin the world, Sylar. I saw the future. I couldn't let that happen. He had to be stopped. Aside from, you know, him being..." an asshole, "the way he was." Peter huffed, grabbing up a pair of his jeans to fold. Still a little angry, he asked, "Do you know what my dad was up to? Really up to? I don't believe...I don't really believe...what my mother told me. Or Nathan."

XXX

"I only know what he told /me. And I saw him testing the formula on…a soldier/. He still had to save the world from…exploding? So he needed the formula and the catalyst and…/me/ - Nathan – to make a world full of specials as if that would work somehow. Just a grab for power." There was much more about Arthur as Nathan's father returning from the dead and the shameless, familiar manipulations that sucked him right in, the feeling of losing his whole identity and the will to decide for himself in the face of his father's magnetism. It had been Nathan's unquestioning duty to obey, as Arthur had made very clear.

XXX

Peter huffed again, rolling his eyes, but not at Sylar so much. "My future...self said he – Arthur – was going to give everyone abilities and that would tear the planet apart. I'm not really...I mean, I trust...me, but I could have been wrong." As if to himself, he said, "Sounds like I wasn't, for once." To Sylar, he said, "I don't think it would have worked, either. That much power – it's too easy to lose control of it."

He changed the subject from his father's stupid ambitions, to something that mattered more to him. "Were you angry at me for leaving when Mohinder jumped on you in the lab? That happened earlier that day." He looked away guiltily. "I felt…bad. I didn't mean to leave, but they were going to kill me. I couldn't help. Not by…getting killed."

XXX

Sylar frowned, pulling away from the very words. Looking away, he shook his head. "You knew I wasn't your brother. I'm not their son. I'm not a Petrelli." It was absolute truth and yet it wasn't. It felt wrong; it hurt to say that, as himself and as the now-deceased son and brother. "That…wasn't your job. Mine was saving you. She…got what she wanted. She usually does," he added bitterly of Angela. And Peter did weigh his suicidal battles it would seem. He knew he had never been a worthy cause and didn't expect loyalty after what Peter had already shown.

XXX

Peter nodded and shrugged, looking down in resigned agreement with Sylar's assessment of the situation. "Well, I came back for you because you came back for me – not because anyone said you were my brother, but because of what you did."

XXX

Peter had been able to fold clothes with his healing right hand without complaint but it was best not to push that too far. Sylar returned the folded clothes to the hamper, thinking about that unasked for bit of confessed information. "Too bad it doesn't work like that anymore," he said wry and rueful. If only it did. If all he had to do was perform the right actions to get reciprocation. Nathan raised his ugly head once more; he was so easy to blame, overlooking the crowd of other corpses of Sylar's doing.

XXX

"It wasn't that long ago," Peter said quietly, but he left it at that. The clothes were folded and the subject seemed at an end. At least, Peter felt he had a better understanding (and more importantly, a shared one) of the incident, even if he hadn't learned a lot that was new. They'd talked about it and that was progress. Sylar hefted the hamper and Peter followed him upstairs to distribute things into drawers.