Day 56, February 4, Afternoon
"I think I'll read for a while," Peter said after everything was put away. He made the bed loosely, found his book, took off his shoes, and settled himself against the mound of pillows. Initially he curled towards the wall and windows, but after only a minute, he turned to face the room so he could better see what Sylar was doing. Not that he watched with any attentiveness – he was actually trying to read – but he preferred the awareness of the other person in the room, and the ability to look at him from time to time.
The book was a challenge. He couldn't remember where he'd left off. The best he could clearly recall was the part about the plane crash, which he definitely didn't want to read again. He skimmed around until he was well past that section and started up in text he was sure he'd read before. Bits and pieces of the experience came back to him with the letters on the page, but it was difficult going. He found himself getting moody and angry, pissed that Sylar had beaten him up so badly that he couldn't even remember it. (That's nothing compared to what's been done to him.) He frowned at his thought, set the book down on his belly, and watched Sylar. He was aware of his bad mood; equally aware it was his problem, probably exacerbated by his physical condition and difficulty in concentrating. It dissipated as he simply sat and zoned.
XXX
The chores and activity had been refreshing, but the talking and its topic had undermined that. He felt stuck here, with Peter, doing…not much of anything that he wanted to be doing (alone or with Peter). His clocks weren't here to lose himself in; all he'd done for days was read it seemed, and while that wasn't usually an issue, Peter was here. Perhaps he needed Peter to engage with him in doing something else, since talking and sex weren't going well. Truth or Dare again, maybe? Sylar kept himself busy with organizing the kitchen and living room. His board games were in his building and they weren't impossible to fetch, but it involved a trip across the street.
He felt budding hunger pangs and remembered that he needed to keep Peter well fed, for both their sakes. It might even keep the empath's curiosity to a minimum, or turn his curiosity towards something more preferable. He made a quick meal and called Peter over to the table.
XXX
Peter settled in for a simple cheese sandwich, thinking it looked perfect – bland enough not to be an issue, but substantial enough to keep him going. After his third mouthful, he said conversationally, "It's funny that as I read, the things I'm remembering from before the fight are all sensory – like the taste of the coffee, being nauseous from the things in the story, and the feel of the cushions on the couch. But I'll read a paragraph I would swear I hadn't read before, and remember some little detail of what we were doing while I was reading it the first time around – it's weird."
XXX
Sylar paused. "That's like muscle memory, but like sensory memory. Or…sensory association. The brain is an amazing organ. It was more like déjà vu for me, but…I get that a lot. Lots of…overlap." He shut himself up there, and went back to eating. "It's like you're sensing words or letters," he added with a grin. Isn't that what people on drugs say? I know there's a similar saying.
XXX
"Yeah?" Peter asked. He wanted to ask more about what it was like for Sylar, but he hesitated. His prying about how Sylar did or didn't channel Nathan hadn't gone so well. He talked about himself instead. "When I was with Adam, he said I needed to focus on what mattered most to me, and then it would all come back – the regeneration would heal it. Is that how it was for you?" What is it that matters most to him, I wonder?
XXX
Sylar felt caught between frowning or…not. And just how would he go about 'focusing' on what mattered most to him, in theory? His initial answer came out harsh, "No." He took a drink, fussed with his food, waiting a moment longer. "You can't focus on anything to that effect when you don't know which person you are or how to turn back into yourself. Other people really aren't…supportive of that," he winced, remembering being utterly inconvenient to everyone else's plans and emotions in trying to be 'himself', whoever that was when there was clearly so much on the line, but he continued. "Danko…he told me something like that once, about my shapeshifting. It helped a little too much, back then."
It was definitely something he would think about more, in near privacy later. That…'solution' wasn't best suited for here, with the distinct lack of abilities, but the idea, the goal of a connection…That was very much worth all the attention he could give it. He cleared his throat, "Meds," he said as he pushed the bottle across the tabletop, deftly changing the subject once again. "Are you up for a board game? Or cards?"
XXX
Peter took the bottle and counted out his pills, swallowing them down. "Cards are good. I'm a little fuzzy on some of the rules, but if I can't keep up, I'll be happy just watching you play Solitaire." He waved at the apartment. "Is there a deck around here?"
XXX
You'd be happy? Something I can do would make you happy? Sylar grinned to himself a little, deeply pleased with that even if watching Solitaire didn't sound like fun. "I don't know yet." After he'd finished eating, he washed his plate, then went about finding a deck of cards, considering why watching Solitaire would possibly be 'fun.' He's used to a big brother doing things Peter can't do. I'm surprised that doesn't bother him, being…almost ignored like that. Sylar knew he himself would struggle with watching someone play as a general rule, or watch them plan, or perform a task imperfectly - just being around someone else. He found cards in their suite and to proclaim the previous owner's status as a bachelor, the card art design was naked women in various pin-up poses. Of course, they lacked faces.
XXX
Peter grimaced at the cards, checking over the much plainer back to make sure they weren't as individualized as the faces of the cards. The faceless beauties were more disconcerting than alluring. Peter left it to Sylar to shuffle and cleared off the table. "So what are we playing?"
XXX
Sylar made an ambivalent face, "Hearts?" For irony.
XXX
"Okay. I've played that before. It's like Spades, right?" They settled down to the game as Sylar went over the rules. Peter's concerns about not being able to keep up mentally seemed unfounded – either that, or getting some food into him was more fortifying than he'd expected.
XXX
After a few mild rounds, the last of which Peter won, (and perhaps the raunchy cards were to blame) Sylar wanted to spice things up if only to irritate Peter after the profoundly frustrating talks of the day. This place was definitely a prison and Peter was his almost-cellmate, but certainly a fellow prisoner. As he gathered the cards, shuffling them, he suggested, "We could always make this more interesting by betting."
XXX
Peter shrugged, content with what they were doing. "We don't have anything to bet."
XXX
Sylar gave him a look like Peter was particularly, perhaps intentionally, dense. "Of course we do."
XXX
"What?" Money didn't matter here, but Peter supposed they could find some and gamble with it. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any anywhere. But we could just use matches or toothpicks or whatever the same way.
XXX
Some of his smirk slipped out, "Ourselves." It was Peter he was after, though Peter wasn't after him. It would have been rude not to include himself in the bargain. Depressing was the likelihood of being taken up on anything, but oh, the possibilities if Peter ever did.
XXX
Peter leaned back, pulling in a deep breath. His face grew blank as he considered what Sylar might mean – Sex? Stripping? Or…violence? "That's higher stakes than I'm willing to play for." It seemed possible Sylar simply meant who had to do the dishes, but given that smirk, Peter doubted it.
XXX
"I don't mean...everything. There are secrets, answers. You want those, don't you?" Sylar shamelessly exploited one thing Peter had repeatedly demonstrated he desired. "And maybe tasks. You were willing to play Truth or Dare on New Year's Eve, with booze, and that was when I had a worse concussion than you do. It's practically the same thing."
XXX
Warily, Peter kept looking for the trap. But I can say no whenever I want, right? It's just…there are things I'd like to know. What does he want to know? Is he saying I took advantage of him on New Year's Eve? I don't think he is. He leaned back to the table. "So, what? Winner of each set gets to ask, like, a Truth or Dare option of the other person?"
XXX
"Sure. High or low card wins?"
XXX
Peter looked at the deck of cards, eyes a little wide. "You mean we just pull cards like War?" He calmed at that. It turned the arrangement into a 50/50 deal, where he wouldn't have the pressure on him while trying to play, nor the resentment if Sylar won more than his share of hands. Although there was still a random factor of who got to ask first, it would at least be fair. "High card wins." He reached out and took the top card, looking to Sylar briefly for confirmation. He flipped his card after Sylar drew his. Peter had a king of spades; Sylar, the three of diamonds. "Ha!" Peter said happily, then sobered as he realized he hadn't given any thought to what to ask.
He thought about everything they'd gone over today. There was a lot of it. He didn't want to overanalyze for the best possible question, so he blurted out the one that had been bugging him the most. "You said what I did to you at Mercy Heights was the worst thing I'd done to you. I want to understand that. You showed up there to kill me, right? Or...am I wrong about that?"
XXX
And just like that, Sylar remembered what he hated about this game. Or rather, what he hated about Peter, who did this anyway, game or not. To some degree, pain aside, he appreciated these opportunities, longed for them even. It was something that was important to him, after all, unless Peter was going to make it about his own perceived self-defense. He leaned back, lips thinning, arms crossed. "I went to Mercy to kill her." There were other sins against Peter – the whole brother thing the first time; being attacked no matter how civil and peaceful he was; Stanton…and Peter's general failure to kill him. But Mercy was one of the most horrible things he could think of, period; and gentle, loving, almost-brother, hero Peter had done it without a second thought and still defended it. "I…wanted to kill you; fuck around with you first. Because of Stanton – you got me into the whole mess."
XXX
"Her…Angela?" Sylar's expression was of no help to Peter, though his mother seemed like the obvious choice. Sylar certainly hadn't shown up there to do in Nurse Hammer. "But you were there to kill me, right?"
XXX
"One question per turn and your turn is up," Sylar stated, reaching for another card. All the fine details of motive and intent seemed so trivial to him, but they were apparently everything to Peter.
XXX
Sylar was reaching for another card, so Peter made an exasperated sigh and did the same. He had so many follow-ups that even the whole deck might not be enough. Twenty-six draws of two cards each. He flipped his, seeing a six of clubs. Sylar had the ace of hearts. He blinked at it. We didn't specify if aces were high or low. He gave Sylar a questioning look. "Aces high? I think that's the default."
XXX
Sylar smirked a little at the win and because a plot was beginning to emerge. He accepted the rule (honestly the 'default' depended on the game and this one needed an 'eleven/ace' more than a 'one'). He wanted to play and play with Peter, have it returned, in more than just cards. He remembered that intimacies like he had in mind weren't the best approach and he was sure not to get any of what he wanted long-term, but he wouldn't press it too much, too far. Holding onto his treasured ace, his murmur so delicate for all the desire behind it, "Let me bite you again," then he looked into Peter's face.
XXX
"Bite…me?" Now Peter was blinking at Sylar in uncertainty. It took his mind a moment to realize this didn't have to be all questions. Sylar had specified 'tasks' were included and even Peter had likened it to Truth or Dare. He was beginning to feel off-base from the feel of the rules changing on him, even if he was sure they were not. "Where?"
XXX
One of Sylar's eyebrows motioned upwards, just briefly. That sounds so…open? I get to chose? Only something somewhat acceptable was going to gain Peter's agreement. He liked the neck before. I like his neck now. Yes, somewhere I can see it. "Your neck…" It was almost a question.
XXX
"Um…kay." He wanted to think through how he felt about that, but Sylar was on the move already. "Don't break the skin," he blurted before it was too late.
XXX
"Sit back, close your eyes and enjoy," Sylar purred, moving slowly, relishing it. Once he was in place, he first plucked Peter's shirt away from his neck by sliding his finger underneath. His left hand went to the man's cheek and jaw, the other sweeping away Peter's hair on the right, though it wasn't really in the way. That left hand moved down to cradle the other's head and expose his long, smooth, muscular neck. It looked fucking delicious. The willingness of it all, the mutual pleasure, had him excited.
XXX
He hadn't expected Sylar in his lap again (or right in front of him, rather, straddling his lap), but that was what he got. Peter made a small noise in the back of his throat and swallowed down anything that sounded like a complaint or whining. One nip or even a hard bite and I get another draw, another chance to ask questions. It's not a big deal. Peter put a hand on the man's hip and the other on the seam of his shirt under the opposite arm. He was intimately close, but at least this time he wasn't sitting on him.
XXX
Sylar exhaled at the contact and the proximity, taking a breath of the smell of Peter as he leaned in, just inches away. He opened his mouth and set his teeth against the middle of the column of the empath's neck. It was a firm bite, juicy and satisfying – it had him exhaling hard through his nose, the air puffing against Peter's skin, rebounding back against himself with his nose pressed into Peter such as it was. He had a good grip, right on that strong muscle. He was marking Peter, tasting him, and he felt like he was losing his mind from the desire to bite more, harder, continue far past the boundaries of the game. It would be insanely easy to do.
XXX
Peter knew he had been a fool the moment Sylar's lips touched his skin. This wasn't just a bite. It wasn't Sylar being a pervert and asking for a liberty that he might go jerk off about later. It wasn't about any of that. It tingled. Peter tingled, all over. Sylar wasn't savaging him. It was like a hard kiss, pressing into his flesh, burning its way down with its intensity.
Peter's fingers dug in like claws. His toes curled in his shoes. His head tilted back further and to the side as his eyes rolled up. "Oh, fuck." It had been so long since he'd had anyone and here Sylar was reminding him so viscerally of that and of how Sylar was right here, wanting him, asking for him…taking him. Peter was hard. His breath left him in shuddering exhales as the kiss (Peter didn't think of it as a bite anymore) kept going on. Sylar wasn't quitting, wasn't stopping, wasn't letting go. He's giving me a hickey. On my neck, where he can see it. It was fucked up and scorching hot at the same time. He had an awareness that he might eventually come from this – from the tension, the frustration, the sensations, being trapped and wanted and lusted after…
And this was rapidly crossing the line from 'playing a game' to 'dishonoring his brother's memory'. He was enjoying it way too much – that's what it hinged on. It's not like he's going to let me go as long as I'm holding him like this! Peter pulled himself together with a groan, pushing Sylar away from himself and back into the table, separating them. He shoved Sylar against the table a second time as Peter got shakily to his feet before brushing past him to go pace the living room in agitation.
XXX
Sylar felt his mouthful rudely snatched away, but not before he felt Peter clutching him, melting into him, heard and felt the groaning expletive, the hurried breathing. It was everything he wanted and that made him dizzy. He was completely erect (had been for some moments), however he was swiftly pushed against the table and left there. It was better than nothing, but it was a primal, base thing he felt, requiring no words or complicated reasons or explanations. He felt as if he owned Peter now; right where he wanted him at the same time, feeling naughty because Peter would always be forbidden fruit. He released a sigh, palming himself and knowing the moment would never return. As much as he wanted to say things, lots of things, whatever came to mind, he knew he'd pushed very hard just now – Peter was unhappy with him even though he'd agreed to it. If only my dick would listen. If only he would listen to his dick. I love his control. Usually he doesn't have much. I like the struggle, torturing him like this. It's all about me.
XXX
His neck was stinging and cool where Sylar had been. Peter's hands itched to touch it. He wanted to run in the bathroom and look at the mark. He felt like a moron that he hadn't seen the whole thing coming, and a reprobate that he hadn't put a stop to it sooner, that he had been and still was so fucking turned on by it. He paced back and forth, adjusted his shirt repeatedly and raked at his hair, mostly staring at the floor and refusing to look at Sylar. His face was hot. He felt stuck between feeling taken advantage of and wanting to be taken advantage of. It wasn't where he wanted to be and certainly not due to a fucking card game!
XXX
Sylar lazily licked his lips, savoring the faint, salty taste and lingering sensations, fully intending Peter to see him do it. After all, he had no shame. He watched Peter's display, noting with glee that the man still chose not to leave and alleviate his frustrations that way. His backside was leaned against the table, casual and smug.
XXX
Sylar was simply waiting, quietly, which made Peter feel like he was overreacting. A few glances shot Sylar's way confirmed that Peter was providing the evening's entertainment by blowing this out of proportion. He stopped, staring at the floor as he got a hold of himself. He's watching me. Peter was both exasperated and delighted by this. Snorting softly about his own raging libido, he turned on his heel and went to the bathroom. I might as well look. I want to and I'm not going to quit wanting to until I do. He stood in front of the mirror and stretched his neck to the side. The reddened teeth marks were still darkening. They'd probably bruise. The middle part, the hickey, was already angrily red. Peter touched the stinging skin carefully. He didn't break the skin. Peter felt himself hard again at the illusion of boundaries and self control them, that he might tell Sylar to do something and have it respected. That's ridiculous. This isn't a game! (And it's wrong.) He snatched his hand away, only now realizing he'd left the bathroom door open so Sylar could peep on his exploration. With a grimace, Peter shut it. He used the bathroom to provide a flimsy excuse for why he'd come in here. After he washed his hands, he wiped down his neck, too. He gave the spot a long look, then at his near-raccoon black eyes and eyelids still swollen enough that he looked like a stoner. Rougher than I like.
He returned to the table. As Sylar was still leaning on it, Peter pointed at the other chair and said, "Sit." It was rude, but he felt he had to show that he wasn't Sylar's chewtoy. He looked at the deck of cards, then at Sylar, before reluctantly sliding into his seat. "You can't pick something like that again."
XXX
A roll of his eyes showed his disproval of the order, but he complied. Mostly. Sylar sat himself where he'd been before – beside Peter. Of course that second demand was too tempting. "Why not?" he pressed, innocent but sassing all the same. Let Peter explain why it was so wrong and impossible, while the obvious lie looked him in the face.
XXX
Nastily, Peter responded with, "Because I'll quit playing." Okay, maybe it is a game. (That doesn't make it less wrong.) He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his chin, reaching out decisively to slap over the jack of spades from the deck. When Sylar's relaxed draw revealed a six of diamonds, Peter didn't hesitate to ask, "We were trying to kill each other at Mercy Heights – at different points maybe and in different ways, but we were both trying to kill each other. Why is what I did there worse than any other time we tried to kill each other? Why do you blame me especially for what I did?"
XXX
Sylar stared for a moment in disbelief. "I already answered that before, Petrelli!" he protested emphatically.
XXX
Peter huffed. No, you didn't! Or else I wouldn't still be asking! But he thought about what Sylar had said almost two weeks before, so angry and upset the man had been nearly screaming at him. "You said I shouldn't have done it because it'd been done to me. But Rene taking my memories wasn't...bad. It was being trapped in that cargo container," Peter's voice caught. He swallowed and went on, "The losing-the-memories part was...annoying. It was being abandoned, lost, not knowing..." He shook his head. "What happened to you was different."
XXX
Agitated now, he rubbed his temple, alternating between looking away and looking blankly at the table. How could this not be distressing? Maybe it doesn't matter how many times or how well I explain it? Of course it doesn't. Then why is he still asking? He didn't consider not answering. It was important to him, never mind what it meant to Peter. When he began again, his voice was tight, nearly a choked growl, harshly enunciating. "Instead of the Haitian wiping your mind, let's pretend it was me and I wanted to turn you into Arthur – a man you hate. I value Arthur over you; I value any other human life over you. You're worth nothing; you should be obliterated anyway. All I want from you is your ability to turn your body into Arthur and be Arthur for me. Your mind, your personality, your knowledge is garbage. I want it gone. I wouldn't do that to anyone else, in fact, it's against my principles, but I hate you so much that I'm totally okay with destroying your mind and turning you into some monster. It's not for any good, noble cause. I just want him. Afterwards, I sort of realize the other people who did that to you before and myself, we were wrong to do that, but, you know, of course I'd still do it again. Oh, and I think you really brought it on yourself and I want you to like me after all that, too."
He took a couple of rough, quick breaths, though they didn't help his panicked panting. Sitting here, pretending to be calm was taking everything he had; his muscles and joints hurt from the prolonged tension. "Seeing that the list of people who have…collaborated…in that….is very short….You did it to me twice. It's the worst thing to ever happen to me. I…thought better of you. I don't know why. I just expected better from you." He shrugged, or tried to, feeling like he was going to cry and hating himself for it. Always with the weakness. "I won't make that mistake again." After that, he stood up quickly and walked around his chair, hands on the back of it, placing it between himself and the Petrelli. He couldn't express how worrisome and insulting it was to have to stay and listen to whatever blasé bullshit that was sure to come from Peter in response. Just don't fall apart. It's just a card game; just a game. It's not fair.
XXX
Peter listened quietly through the entire analogy. His expression changed here and there – eyes narrowing about Sylar turning him into Arthur, a wince and pained look at his worthlessness (he knew Sylar preferred other than him – that was natural and normal but still painful to hear, especially since Arthur had shared the opinion). He swallowed hard and listened intently to the rest, his eyes not leaving Sylar's face. His brows rose slightly at Sylar's mostly accurate encapsulation of Peter's motives. It was less cutting than the first part, which had brought to his mind his father giving him to Mohinder as a test subject to be used up and destroyed, because Peter wasn't fit for anything else in the older man's eyes. That had hurt, but it merely confirmed all his worst fears about his father instead of what Sylar was saying, that Sylar had thought Peter was different, thought he was a hero, thought that meant something. 'Because that's what brothers do.' He thought I'd never stoop to that because he thinks of me as one of the good guys. He swallowed again and hung his head, having nothing to say for a while. I wanted to be one of the good guys, but I wanted Nathan more.
"I understand now," he said softly when the silence had stretched on too long. He looked up at Sylar steadily, face sympathetic. "Do you want to take a break? We could go for a walk."
XXX
As they looked at one another, Sylar tried and failed to understand the depth of hatred and pain between and inside them both. It left them with nowhere to go. "Do you?" he whispered so his voice couldn't crack. "Do you understand? What do you think you understand, Petrelli?"
XXX
Peter gave a small frown at being addressed by his last name. Sylar seemed to do that whenever he wanted to lump Peter in with his relatives. He could see why Sylar did that, especially given the current topic. He drew in a deep breath before saying, "You came to me for help...when you were Nathan. You thought I would help you - you, as you were. You didn't know I was only trying to help my brother, that I wouldn't have helped you. I should have - I should have been willing to help you. I know that." Peter looked aside and rolled his head with resignation. "You know that. But I wouldn't have because you killed him."
He waited for a moment, weighing his feelings. Nathan's death should have put Peter forever against Sylar, unwilling to let the man pass him on the street without putting a fist in his face and a boot in his gut. Peter didn't adhere to the Italian code of family honor quite that closely, but he knew what was expected of him – what Nathan might have expected of him. Such enmity was simply unworkable. He continued, "You showed up to kill my mother and saw that she and I were working together on something. I understand how that would make you angry." Of course it would. No one liked to be thwarted, much less in a way so obviously life-threatening. "Then you found the drugs I had and you knew I wouldn't help you. You wanted to be special. I tried to make you the opposite of that - gone, and Nathan back instead. I didn't want the person you were to exist. That hurts - I know how that hurts. Other people have the right to have their own feelings about you...and some of them...aren't what you want them to be." Peter knew how much that hurt, too.
XXX
At least Peter understood that. Little of this was news. It wasn't as if he hadn't had these realizations weeks ago: no help, no friendship, no being special, definitely no connections. There was nothing, just like the barren wasteland of before, except Peter was the one inflicting it on him, intentionally or otherwise. It was all a very good grasp of their mutual situation; most of it was statement of fact. Necessity and desperation were still the parents of invention and only time would tell if that would bring any change…if it would be enough. "Then I assume you understand that I have no reason to cooperate with your goals – being Nathan or bringing him back, saving your girlfriend, behaving myself here," he gestured around them. "None of it. If anything, you're threatening me with all kinds of things, like what happens after I do what you want? You aren't offering me anything."
XXX
Weakly, depressed, Peter said, "Yeah, I know." He shook his head. "When I came to get you, I didn't have any idea how to make you do those things. I mean, I'm not good at making people do things. That's...not...That's my dad's thing, Nathan's, Ma's. All I knew was I had a dream where you saved them at the carnival. So I thought if I could just get you to the carnival, then..." He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought...forward." Peter looked off to the side, slumped in his seat. He hadn't had a plan and he wouldn't have known how to make a useful one anyway. Nothing he would have planned would have mattered – he certainly wouldn't have expected this strange, empty mental world.
Sylar was still standing behind his chair, immobile and listening, so Peter spoke. "I'm not threatening you. And you should behave yourself here, because you have to live with me, or at least live with me being in the same world with you. Unless you kill me, which I know you can do. I've known that from the beginning. You won't hesitate if that's what you think you need to do." He met Sylar's gaze steadily for a long beat. His life was in Sylar's hands at nearly all points in time. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to take away your memories. I'm not even going to hurt you if I can avoid it. I'm not offering you anything, but with me, you aren't alone."
XXX
It was his turn to frown now, not severely, but the entire thing could have been worse. He was stuck between amusement and feeling crushed with nowhere to go and that was probably the result of the heaviness of the topic and the intensity of his recent emotions towards it, inducing some kind of hysterical reaction. Is this the point where he expects me to offer the same? As if we could ever be on an even playing field. (A shame, because I could work with that). It's not about 'making' me do things, is it? It…doesn't have to be, but he's not interested. "A Petrelli with no plan and no deals. What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" Sylar asked that with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his head, hands still attached to the chair's back. He said it half rhetorically, half-jokingly, just to sum up this fucked up mess. "You sound like me - or how I used to sound." He glanced away, then back, "And I guess I sound like you used to. Happy adjustments for everyone," he added with only the barest hint of bitterness and a shake of his head.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a faint, hopeful look, almost a smile. He didn't know what to suggest and wasn't sure how to take Sylar's words. The tone was better, though. That was good. He waited for something more definite.
XXX
Sylar pushed himself away from the chair, "I'm going to take that walk. I suggest you come up with a plan. Or a deal." Should I help him with any of that? (I don't think he'd go for that). He attempted to focus on what could be done, rather than the metaphorical immovable object that Peter represented lest he lose himself to despair.
XXX
"What?" Peter said in a strangled voice as Sylar headed for the door. He blinked several times, startled by having the responsibility for figuring this out put on him. "I..." The sound of the door shutting behind Sylar was the end of the sentence. Peter's first instinct was to leave – go back to his apartment, hole up there, and wait, out of concern (fear) of what Sylar would do if Peter didn't come up with a satisfactory plan. But hiding was dumb. Either Sylar would come for him eventually (which Peter didn't want), or Peter would give it up (which made it pointless).
He scowled at the room in general. I don't want to be here. He's going to come back. And I don't have a plan. Or a deal. (I've got to take control of this...situation somehow.) He rubbed his temples, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Don't give up. Don't ever give up. What does he want? Sex? Friends? Peter looked around the apartment, which was empty of anything Sylar cared about. Clocks. Forgiveness. I've got to give him something to live for. Or at least something to let me live for. He touched the bite mark on his throat. It had stopped stinging and tingling some time back. This isn't too far gone – how things are between us. If he's still trying to sex me up, then he's not going to kill me. (So I think.) He sat for a few more minutes, thoughts spinning in tighter and tighter circles. 'I thought better of you … I won't make that mistake again.' 'I have no reason to … behave myself here.' 'I'm going to take that walk. I suggest you come up with a plan. Or a deal.' (Or else.) None of it helped.
With a start, he stood decisively, dressed for outside, and headed out, scavenging through the nearby apartments until he found some decent sunglasses. Even so, the afternoon sun was dreadfully painful on his concussion-induced, light-sensitive eyes. His head ached and his eyes burned until he felt dizzy. He kept going. Tucked under one arm was a hammer he'd picked up in the maintenance closet downstairs, one he'd seen when he'd installed the punching bags. He made it to the ruined storefront as it was getting dark. He took cover inside until his head stopped spinning and twilight had fully fallen. Then he started. He pushed away the plywood and cardboard, using the hammer left-handed to beat on the metal frames affixed to the brick. He smashed at them ruthlessly and methodically, taking out his pent-up frustration on the structure once again, but this time with a purpose. He didn't want to wound Sylar or even get his attention. But he needed to strip out the old before he could install the new. He was careful not to chip the brick. He'd need it intact for later.
The small bit of demolition took less time than he'd expected. His main problem had always been uncertainty on how to proceed. Now that he was moving, things flowed fast. Buoyed by his success, he set off for the hardware store and was lucky to find it without getting lost in the dark. He was out of gas by then, but further from 'home' than he wanted to be. He loaded up what supplies he could carry – mainly tools – put a few boards over his shoulder and headed back to drop them off at the store, following his tracks.
XXX
Sylar walked in a large circle, long enough to warm up. As he did, he thought, long and hard about their coexistence. We're not offering anything, so what does that leave? It was strange on many levels: dealing with Petrellis (always a weird bunch), trying to make friends (always difficult), trying to make a connection (so far, impossible), having to coexist (it had been done before, but it hadn't been pretty), deciding what was important (usually goals came to him easily), and what he could and could not live with. Being alone could not be an option. Peter had been right about that. But Sylar, the overachiever, wanted more, naturally. Or was it something else that made him want more? Lydia's words about a connection rang in his ears, though her voice had nearly faded from memory, 'need a connection.' And Claire's words, and Hiro's…Had they meant that he needed a connection, or had always needed one? And it was damnably unspecific – what kind of connection and with whom? Did it have to be someone in particular; what made a connection? Would a friendship suffice?
But Peter wanted none of that. He wanted his cake and to eat it, too, but he wanted to put very little work into Sylar. Understandable, really. I'm…demanding things, setting conditions. Usually people make deals or have something to offer so I've never really had to set conditions or even bargain. If I don't, I…I'll what? Die? Feel horrible? That's stupid. He won't help me and I can't help myself and I can't live like I have in the past (neither can he) and I can't live in this…limbo. I'm sick of it; it's been years! And years before that. I need goals! I would make the plans and the deals, but he refuses to work with me on anything but the barest necessities. Am I that untrustworthy? He said I wasn't…
Something was nudging at his consciousness, something obvious and overlooked. Peter enjoyed, not just tolerated, his friendliness, when Sylar could manage it and didn't push it. He'd also said something about…doing things, 'I came back for you because of what you did.' That's it! He sees people based on what they do! (And say, sometimes). He loves Nathan because he was the kid's hero; he loves Angela because she's his mother (the witch). He likes me when I'm…doing good? (That was bullshit about not being able to 'make' me do anything. Doesn't he remember that?) No, he doesn't like me, but he…reacts the way I want him to, more like his old self. His whole family, his entire past is still in his head (like mine). That halted his mental roll as he felt through it. He doesn't want a distraction. He's not the same as he used to be – he would have jumped at…helping someone else, or being part of a team, never mind that he'd still have no plan and be a crap teammate. Maybe he'll be easier to fix than me? He was always a better person to begin with; he doesn't have as far to go. I can't fix myself, but maybe I can fix him. (He is not going to like my way). Finally, he had a workable plan of action. He'd be so happy: talking does help. Sometimes.
Returning back to the Pegasus in the dark, he now noticed, he saw a second set of footprints leading away…and Peter returning. The panic that barely had time to build burst into relief on seeing his companion. Peter looked completely haggard. Well, I didn't invite him partly because he's still injured and he shouldn't be out walking. What is he doing out here in the dark? Sylar shuffled up to him, suddenly tentative despite his new plan.
XXX
Peter didn't see Sylar until he was quite close, so focused was he on simply getting one foot in front of the other and making it to whichever apartment he was going to sleep in. When he noticed he had company, he reared his head back and squared his shoulders, but a quick review of Sylar's body language led him to relax as soon as he'd tensed. When they were close enough to speak, he asked bluntly, "Do you want me to...stay with you tonight?" having almost said 'sleep with you tonight', but that had connotations he didn't want to make, even if it was literally true.
XXX
He knew what he wanted – what he needed – and thought he knew what the other man wanted. What if he says no after I say yes? Sylar looked him directly in his still-puffy, dark-rimmed eyes. "Yes." He was desperate all over again for the slightest things.
XXX
Peter hesitated a beat, mind stumbling over the unconditional acceptance. He'd braced himself for an argument, a demand, or something ambiguous he'd have to figure out. He nodded in relief and returned to his task of getting himself to the apartment, now that it was settled as the penthouse. Once there, he took off his coat, headband, gloves, jeans (which were wet up to mid-calf), socks, and outer shirt. He headed over to the bed and prepared to climb directly in it, wearing only sweaty undershirt and boxer briefs, the condition of which weren't impinging on his consciousness at the moment.
XXX
Sylar shut the door of the suite behind them, content in keeping Peter for the night. "You don't look so good. Do you need more food or meds or something?" Another sponge bath? he didn't add because he was learning, slowly.
XXX
"Um." Did I eat dinner? I don't think I did. "I'm not hungry." Should I eat dinner anyway? I'm so tired. I can't think. I'll eat tomorrow. He continued with climbing under the covers, unable to deal with the complexity of choosing, preparing, and eating something.
XXX
Peter was clearly going straight to bed, hell, he was in bed already. Sylar dismissed any innuendos about it. He brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas, then sat on the bed, having the feeling that something was off. "Peter? Are you awake?" he asked softly. He smells…strong today.
XXX
Even just a few minutes with his eyes shut had refreshed his brain a little. "Mm?"
XXX
Sylar was silent, mouth open and ready. "I didn't mean to tire you…today," he began eventually. Maybe he wants to hear that he's right – Nathan always liked that. Not that Nathan heard it in words often, but Sylar was more dubious about his own capacity to word it. Well, Peter likes talking.
XXX
That was nice. It wasn't the confrontation Peter had been worried about, the demand he present some plan or deal or offer to satisfy Sylar. He started to reach his right hand out towards Sylar's leg or hip to make a reassuring contact.
XXX
"I know you'll figure something out."
XXX
Peter's hand froze in transit, having not yet reached Sylar. He dropped his eyes, swallowed, and pulled it back, thinking that sticking his right hand out in Sylar's direction was stupid anyway.
XXX
Wait. That's another hitch, isn't it? I'm making him figure me out. He rephrased, not observing Peter's motions, "I mean, it will work out somehow, for both of us." That's better; it sounds comforting. And mutual, generic.
XXX
Peter looked back up at Sylar for a long moment, then nodded. He gave a pained smile. "Yeah, we'll work it out, okay?" He waited for Sylar's affirmation before rolling to face the wall. He felt miserably insufficient. Being unable to live up to expectations was something he'd had to deal with all his life. Abilities were the one thing he finally seemed to be able to excel in, and even that had been stolen from him – once by his father and now, here. He wished for his job back, to be a paramedic where he knew what was expected of him. All he had to do to be a good paramedic was show up and care. He was good at that. He was even better at trying hard, another thing that was valued. People made mistakes, even EMTs. Other EMTs, nurses, his supervisors, and precepts understood the job was complicated, stressful, and performed by fallible human beings. But as long as he was trying and paying attention, what he did was good enough. He didn't know how to apply that to his current situation. He felt lost at sea with grief weighting him down and the only rescue being offered by his worst enemy. He sniffled, hunched his shoulders, and fell into a restless sleep.
XXX
That didn't go over well, either. So…something else is wrong? Of course it is. He had nodded in response, but he sighed now. Once Peter was settled, Sylar slid under the sheets, feeling warm soon after, at least physically. They managed to sleep together when Sylar dropped off.