Day 57, February 5, Morning
Peter woke, finding he'd rolled over in the night to face his companion. They were closer, too. The back of his hand rested against Sylar's bicep. Sylar more or less mirrored him. Peter sighed, chasing away the unsettling dream he'd had. In it, his father had found him reading in the library with Sylar, confronting him disdainfully about why he was keeping company with such trash, only for Peter to realize Arthur was addressing Sylar, not Peter. He groaned and rolled over, sitting up and rubbing at his face. His eyes were better, but his nose and forehead still hurt. He went off to see to his morning routine in the bathroom, electing to leave off working out and save his strength for dealing with Sylar and, perhaps, continuing on the storefront.
XXX
Peter dressed in the guest room, so Sylar could have the bathroom. He'd been awake while Peter was in there previously because he couldn't sleep with even that limited noise going on. It was pleasant, alive, close by. It was quite domestic, too, but he ignored the idea. They hadn't said anything to each other yet. In the shower, in between bouts of despairing at his unattractively plentiful body hair, he contemplated his approach with Petrelli. Tell him nice stories, keep it light, ask him about the things he doesn't tell other people. He redressed in clean clothes and went to the kitchen, to be with Peter certainly, gauge his progress (and mood) and make breakfast, probably for both of them. Today was eggs and toast, with plenty of jam, though he watched to see if either was too 'flavorful' to tolerate.
"Do you sleep well in that bed?" With me, he didn't add, although Peter had slept in it alone (at least, partially). I'm asking about his needs in an appropriate (self-serving) way, giving him attention. That's what he likes.
XXX
"Yeah." Peter glanced over at it, wondering why Sylar was asking. "I was pretty tired. I think I slept like a log." Clearly he'd moved around some. He studied Sylar's expression in case Peter had done something inappropriate in his sleep. "How about you?"
XXX
It's not about the bed for me. It's probably all about the bed for him, Sylar ruminated. "Good. Your eyelids look better," he prompted, appearing more interested in his food. Does that mean he doesn't need me anymore?
XXX
Peter nodded, relieved that he hadn't embarrassed himself last night and happy that Sylar's nightmares weren't plaguing him. So sleeping with him was doing some good. Peter crunched off the crust of his toast, finding the dry bready portion more appealing that the part liberally smeared with butter and jam.
XXX
"Did you go for a walk last night?" Sylar wondered if Peter had been sneaking away somewhere, possibly back to his own apartment, but had…returned to finish the argument or make a point or something.
XXX
Peter answered quietly, putting down the rest of the toast to pick at his eggs. "Yeah. I went to the storefront and did some stuff." He took a bite and watched his food more than necessary. "I'm going back today. I'm going to see if I can make one of those sketches real." He jerked his head in the direction of his sketchbook. He worried this was going to lead to questions about his non-existent 'plan' or 'offer'. Maybe that's why Sylar's been fine. Maybe he thinks I'm off working on a solution.
XXX
Sylar's head quickly canted to the side, eyes widened, expression more open with surprise. "You…" he began. "You went to the store to fix some of it?" That was worded carefully, but he felt a thrill of…being cared for? The attention and good will, the thoughtfulness and effort – lots of effort in Peter's still-fragile condition! It was full of meaning to him. He had doubts, but dismissed them. He fixed something of mine? For me? (Right after I said he wasn't offering me anything). He said he would and he did it. (No…he did that for me). Actions spoke so much louder than words and the two matched in this instance.
XXX
Peter swallowed and paused, drinking in Sylar's response. Maybe I'm working on a solution after all? "Yes," he said carefully. "I just wasn't sure how to go forward before, so I'm...going to try something and if it doesn't work, then I'll...just keep trying other things until something does."
XXX
Sylar caught his mouth hanging open some. "I don't- Thank you, Peter. I know it's…not important, but it…" he stumbled around everything but the expression of gratitude. It felt like that bit of hope he'd had for Peter's character (at least, the character of the past) wasn't misplaced. "Thank you," he said again when more words wouldn't come.
XXX
Peter smiled softly to himself and ate more, going back to the richer part of the toast he'd passed over earlier. I'll need the energy if I'm going to put in a lot of work today. Sylar's appreciation made him feel stronger already. Maybe the plan or the deal didn't matter if he was doing something else meaningful enough. And even if not, he was at least not wasting his time. If it made someone happy, then it was worthwhile. Peter cleaned his plate and made to head out.
XXX
Sylar was almost finished with the dishes when he heard the noise level pick up. "Wait," he called out, drying his hands and moving out of the kitchen. Is he okay to do this? Am I supposed to let him? Accompany him? I'm not going to help any more than I already have because it's his mess…None of it seemed appropriate to mention, so he lamely asked, "Do you need food?" And right after he voiced it, he mentally kicked himself for sounding like Peter's wifely housekeeper – shameful no matter how he looked at it. "Or company?"
XXX
"Um...I could take an apple. I'll come back for lunch." He thought about the storefront as it was now, and the two fights they'd had there. "There's not much to see yet. I'd rather you came by when I have more done." And when any disappointment or fussing would come too late to derail the project. He read Sylar's genuine concern. It was warming and strange to see. "I'll be alright," Peter promised. "I'll come back." He picked up his headband, pocketed the fruit Sylar offered him, and left.
XXX
So he stood there, considering what he could do about not liking the part where Peter was going away. The empath specifically expressed that Sylar shouldn't accidentally 'wander' past the store. What does that mean? He tabled those desperate, unnamable urges because his ability to screw things up was apparently limitless. Just because Peter's eyes were better didn't mean he could be out alone, with tools…unsupervised. The Petrelli was notorious for not appreciating being 'big brother'd' so that was out. Sylar simply nodded, skeptical and needy as he watched Peter walk away.
XXX
Peter was glad he didn't have Sylar with him. It would have complicated things enormously. The morning was frustrating, reminding him repeatedly of why he'd shelved the project. He simply did not know how to do some of the steps that needed to be done. He had no power tools, his materials were inappropriate for the scale of the job, and he had the nagging feeling this was all a metaphor for something anyway. Metaphor or not, I have to get it done. This whole...world...is a metaphor. 'Trapped in his worst nightmare', wasn't that what Matt said? Or Sylar said it. He knows why he's here, at least on some level. Is this my worst nightmare, too? Peter stopped to stretch his fingers and arms from sawing an angle into a thick board. After a moment of reflection, he had his answer: No. This isn't my fault. But these windows are, so I'm going to fix them. He went back to work with purpose.
The days blurred together for Peter. He returned as he'd promised for lunches and dinners. He would have liked to have talked – the hours alone left him with plenty of time to think, even if he was trying to stay focused on his work – but he was generally too tired and mentally drained by the time he got back to the apartment. Sylar didn't ask many questions, which contributed to the early bedtime and limited conversation. But the day came, less than a week later, when Peter considered the project as complete as it was going to get. He'd cleaned things up and returned the tools and shopping trolley to the hardware store. The paint and varnish were dry. If he turned in a bit earlier than before that night, Sylar didn't mention it, joining him in bed as he usually did, regardless of what hours Peter was keeping. That was...so nice. Peter didn't know what to do with it.
Day 63, February 11, Morning
The next morning, as breakfast concluded, Peter said, "I'm done. With the storefront. Would you," he swallowed, feeling nervous about this, which was why he'd said nothing the night before, "like to come see it?"
XXX
Finally! At last, an invitation, progress! Being alone for days while Peter worked on the project had left Sylar with plenty of time to think things like, 'what if all he's doing is spray-painting 'fuck you' artistically all over the storefront?' It seemed too good to be true and he'd been warned off checking it out for himself. He'd had to rest on faith. It wasn't trust, but faith implied hope, which he did have even if religion and gods were beyond his ability. Today, he got a formal invitation so he didn't have to sneak out to see the finished product or ask subtle questions (and it was no longer 'off limits'). It felt…good. It was like receiving a present (or an olive-branch of sorts), but being unsure if that present was some April Fool's prank. I didn't hear any explosions, so it's not like he torched the place, he reasoned with himself. Sylar looked at Peter, scanning his face and waiting a moment before responding. It seemed legitimate as Peter was awaiting his reply. "Yes."
XXX
On the walk there, a thousand doubts ebbed and flowed under Peter's quiet demeanor. Should I say again that I'm not a carpenter? It doesn't look very professional. What if he doesn't like it? It's done, though. At least maybe we can be around each other now. A couple of our fights were over this place. I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't like it. He's been real quiet while I've been working on it. I'll bet there's stuff I could have done better on it. What if he gets mad and tears it up? He hunched his shoulders against the chill and tried to stay stoic about the whole thing. Looking desperate wouldn't help at all.
When they came into sight of the new construction, Peter's pace quickened despite his intentions to play it cool. "There," he said unnecessarily, "there it is." He watched Sylar for his reaction.
XXX
Sylar wavered a thousand times between hope and…planning his revenge if Peter had fucked it up on purpose. He hated being led around, but the idea of someone fixing something for him specifically was novel and most welcome. I wonder what this means, regardless of what he did? Upon arrival, Sylar had slyly moved to the edge of the sidewalk for a better angle to see it sooner (suddenly considering that, perhaps he didn't want to see it).
What he saw was…beyond what he'd imagined. Stained glass on the top window, the others below it appeared to have the ability to open and close, surrounded by varnished wood frames. He stared and approached it slowly, reaching out a hand to touch it. He had to be sure it was firmly affixed to the building, not some cleverly placed display. The glass was cold and solid when he applied some pressure. He peered up and around all the windows with mild curiosity now. It felt real. The new appliances didn't necessarily match the brick or the other buildings, but it looked clean, permanent, and weatherproof. I have to say something now. What do I say? I didn't think about this. He opened his mouth once and couldn't think of anything appropriate to say between men who still hated one another.
"Solid construction," he lamely began. It's already made, for me; he can't take it away now if I say something wrong. "I like the stained glass," he added with some rueful amusement. He felt an odd attachment to such a random, inanimate object with such a history as it had - an attachment he knew he should have or encourage. "It means something." His brows furrowed a little as he finally turned to look towards Peter, hoping his limited wordplay (implying that its meaning could be attached to his gratitude or the stained glass portion) would be understood. "Thank you," he voiced again softly.
XXX
He likes it? Peter watched Sylar touch what he'd built and talk about it. The words, and Sylar's tone, sounded good. When Sylar thanked him, he felt a swell of happiness. He likes it! He grinned in genuine pleasure, much more thorough than when Sylar had accepted the clock Peter had brought him around Christmas. "Come on," he said enthusiastically. "Look inside! Look at the way the light comes through." He gestured as if to grab or slap Sylar's shoulder, but his fingers missed by a few inches, making it only a gesture. Peter moved to the door and looked back to make sure Sylar was coming.
"It's warmer in here now, too." Peter walked inside. It was all cleaned up – materials and tools had been returned to the hardware store. He pointed at the play of colored light slanting off to one side. "See? This tracks across the floor as the day goes by. When it pointed to the edge of that counter, I'd go home for lunch." He shut up there, thinking Sylar was probably better versed than he was on the matter of sundials, but it had been a neat thing he'd noticed during his second day of work. "The label on the stained glass panel said, 'Moon', but I think it's an eclipse." It was a light grey circle with expanding rays of rainbow light radiating from it. "The moon's involved in eclipses anyway, so maybe it's both." He beamed at it, very happy with himself and happy that Sylar was happy.
XXX
Sylar followed inside. He gave Peter a questioning, obvious look about the building's warmth but let it pass because it wasn't like he'd been inside it when it was warm before. The stained glass – whatever its artistic shape or name, for all its multi-colored affect – cast a beautiful sunspot on the floor. That was truly unique. He didn't care for the idea of a solar or lunar eclipse being in his window, but it hadn't been his first impression of it, so he tried to keep it that way. In his mind, it was more like a sunrise over water, with half the pallet being warm, the other cool, but with different hues in each pane around a circular, dark center. "It's beautiful," he murmured to no one in particular, stepping closer to the window and the colors on the floor.
XXX
Peter retired while Sylar continued his examination. He smiled to himself as he took note of what Sylar looked at the most, which seemed to be the play of colors. "You know, I've been at this for nearly a week. I was thinking I'd just take it easy today, maybe play music or read...Damn! I never finished that book!" He shook his head, unhappy that he hadn't finished the story as he'd said he would, but glad anyway to have completed the windows, especially since Sylar approved of them. That made it all worthwhile.
XXX
Sylar poked around the interior attachment and sealant. He found himself wanting to touch the stained glass portion – he did when Peter wasn't looking. It was…fixed. Peter had fixed it, for him. It meant nothing more than that; what it did mean was wonderful, perhaps because it was disconnected from any other need or argument. Most people didn't understand the need for things to be fixed (and this didn't mean that Peter understood, but it was a nice feeling). "I told you you couldn't do it in three or four days," he said with some amusement. A concussion and swollen-shut eyes didn't allow for great reading, which was partly Peter's fault to begin with.
XXX
"Yeah, yeah," Peter said after a brief pause (when he gathered Sylar wasn't criticizing him), stepping closer to jog Sylar's shoulder lightly in jest. "You were right." Peter was pleased and upbeat, which was reflected in his light, joking tone of voice. He added, "Let's go back, unless there was something else you wanted to do over here."
XXX
"Not really," Sylar allowed. The library was on his list – it had been for a while now. He'd moved on to a history book he'd found in the Pegasus and had snooped on Peter's medical tomes in the rec room. "What gave you the idea for the stained glass?"
XXX
Peter stopped to look up at the panel in question. "I...I wanted it to be pretty." He looked over at Sylar now. "All those clocks in your apartment – I've looked at them – they're all different. They're not just...functional. They're...art. Delicate, like glass. So I..." He gestured at the stained glass, turning to gaze at it again. "I wanted it to be like that – more than just functional - pretty."
XXX
Sylar found himself checking the windows again as Peter did. He listened and blinked at it. The reason, the statements were penetratingly accurate. Many people didn't or couldn't discern such meaning. He was taken by surprise at the thought behind the action because it was far more than he'd expected in both cases. It fit. "It is," he said, because he had to say something and didn't know what else to say, "I see that." He made it nice and beautiful. It was a little overwhelming; he needed to process this.
XXX
When they returned to the Pegasus, Peter went straight to the piano after shucking his outdoor clothes. He played brash, upbeat songs with a lot of energy, as cheery as his mood. His heart was singing. He hadn't felt this happy in a long time. It seemed like a small thing and objectively, Sylar's approval...well, it was the only approval he was likely to get so he grabbed onto it with both metaphorical hands and hung on tight. He banged out melodies with enthusiasm, and refused to let his lurking doubts drag him back down too easily.
XXX
He zoned out to the music, which he hadn't heard it weeks. It was another thing he liked to think was for him, at least a little bit. He knew they both benefited either way. The man's fingers must be improving, as was his ability to play. The piano still needed to be tuned and that was a project he could help with (not that he necessarily would help with it). It was nearby and it didn't hit his or Peter's hot buttons of any kind. It might even come close to a normal interaction, all history aside. Maybe. As he watched Peter making music, he thought about that from something closer to Peter's perspective. Normal interaction isn't so bad. That's what I want. It doesn't get me any kind of even footing with him. He claims I'm decently safe, but I know how far that gets me. Again, knowing is better than nothing. Normal interaction might get me a reluctant, necessity-driven, convenient friendship. Someday. What does he need here? (Besides the stuff he keeps telling me that I'm mostly already giving him and the things I can't give him).
After the songs, Peter promptly brought his book over to sit with Sylar like it was natural. Sylar couldn't help his tiny smirk about that, even as they sat on opposite ends of the couch. He opened his own book to read about repetitive and ironically applicable history.
XXX
Peter plowed on through the book, realizing after only a few pages the reason (at least the emotional reason) why he'd started the fight with Sylar. These people weren't going to give up on each other. Their wrenching story was full of angst and tension and frustrating uncertainty, but the one thing that was certain was their desire to keep each other alive. He could see how this translated into him making some desperate play for Nathan. But if Nathan is gone, Peter looked over the top of his book at his companion, then it's Sylar I can't give up on. He can be a good person. I've seen it in him, but he's the one who's given up on it. That lent a different feel to things. It gave him a direction, and hope. Is he the one who needs to be saved? (He came to me for help. That was him I was hanging onto on the side of Mercy Hospital. That was him who said those things about me.) I need to help him. Can I do that? He was realistic about his emotions – they remained deeply conflicted, but he was beginning to think the hate, no matter how much Sylar might deserve it, wasn't helpful, good, or right.
When they broke for lunch, Peter asked, "Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?"
XXX
"Maybe the library?" he said questioningly, mid-scrub of the dishes. He'd made sure Peter was still taking whatever painkillers he needed as he had throughout the fixing of the store. "Or fixing my clocks," alone. Because he didn't trust Peter around them. (Perhaps, after the comment about noticing his clocks, and the gift of a clock, he needed to reevaluate his position). He considered that Peter might have plans and ended with, "Or no plans, I don't care."
XXX
"Well, I could stand to get another book, but that's not going to take all day. We could swing by your place after and pick up a couple of those board games you've got."
XXX
Sylar's lips twitched. "That sounds good," he said honestly. Board games were far more controlled than any verbal, card game, or combination of the two apparently. Once again, he had curiosity about the second bite mark he'd made in Peter's flesh. He had plenty of alone time recently, he thought, mind in the gutter. They still slept together, or they had up until this point. Is he going to play a board game with me then dump me back at my place? I wish cell phones worked here now – Peter always answered when Nathan called. Almost always. He probably wouldn't pick up for me. Or maybe a two-way radio.
Shortly after, they were on their way to the library. He wanted things from Peter, still more than what he was already receiving. His new goal was information and he had to start somewhere. "What was the best friendship you've ever had and why?"
XXX
The question came out of the blue, but it wasn't that different from many of their previous conversations while walking here or there – favorite this, worst that. He rolled with it. There were worse things to discuss. "I suppose we're excluding relatives?" Peter gave Sylar a momentary sour look. "Not that Nathan was ever really my friend. Not that way." He sighed and moved on to answering the question. "Kevin, in college. We were roommates. We saw a lot of each other. He gave me some good advice, but it was…things I could take or leave, you know? It was probably the first time I was hanging out with someone who had their shit together and wasn't trying to organize mine for me. He never acted like he was better than I was. He just had a different take on things, different experiences. After a while, I started listening." Peter made an embarrassed laugh. "It took me…longer than it should have. The whole experience was kind of new to me. He was the one who got me into some weight training and eating better. He didn't mind me tagging along and asking questions. He didn't even mind me making a pass at him, but he was straight, so it didn't go anywhere."
"I guess the 'why' is that I wasn't hiding anything from him, like I am with Hesam and…everyone else I've known in the last few years. Even in nursing school I was careful with who I told what. I didn't want them to know about how I'd been in pre-law and think I was some party freak who couldn't keep his pants on to save his life. Claire's a friend, but…no relatives. Emma…hadn't gone much past acquaintances, maybe friends. In any case, I don't think we're friends at all now, much less 'best'. None of them really know what's going on with me anyway, so they're friends with this idea of Peter Petrelli without being friends with me." He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension that came with acknowledging that he put an outward face to the world as much as his politician brother ever had. "But Kevin knew me. He was cool. He didn't tell me how to live my life and I appreciated that."
XXX
Sylar wondered at the concept of being friends with a person's name, not the person themselves. Peter had spoken about Kevin, briefly, in the past, mostly to the extent to say that Kevin had been his most permanent roommate of the paying variety. He makes passes at his friends? Or…roommates rather? Straight guys, too. I thought he said something about 'friends don't offer handjobs.' That must be a common Petrelli trait – being unable to keep it in your pants to save your life. Lesson of the day: don't tell Peter what to do; let him decide. "He sounds nice," was his generic comment, then briskly cut Peter off before he could start some pointless return, "Don't bother asking me the same question. Why would you make a pass at him if he was your friend, or even your roommate?" Sylar pressed, interested in the fine line between friend and lay, or perhaps why it was okay for Peter to so something that was off-limits to Sylar.
XXX
Peter grimaced at being cut off, but he supposed he already knew the answer – Luke – though maybe not the why. Sylar's question distracted him sufficiently. Defensive and a little self-righteous, he answered, "Being a friend or roommate does not mean-" Suspicion stopped him. Sylar was getting at something here. Peter regarded him for a few steps before saying, "I liked him – a lot." That should deal with Sylar's 'We're roommates, so why don't you make a pass at me?' angle.
XXX
One eyebrow quirked briefly. Peter was catching on, even when Sylar wasn't leading him that way. I can't believe he's talking about this! Partly for the sake of annoying Peter and clarifying, he slyly asked, "Why do you hit on straight guys? Isn't that going against your live-and-let-live standard if you're forcing them to…do that, to convert? Especially if he's your new roommate who has to choose between fucking you and moving out."
XXX
Maybe I was wrong about the angle thing? Peter snorted softly. "I was a freshman in college, Sylar. I'd been telling people I was straight for years when I knew I wasn't. He was really nice, listened to me a lot, eye contact, he went to the gym, took care of himself … I know that's a stupid stereotype, and I'm not saying I was all that smart about it. I asked, he turned me down, explained why, and that was it – no big deal. Which was kind of a big deal, since, you know, we were roommates, and yeah, that could have been awkward. As a general rule, I try not to hit on straight guys, lesbians, or gay guys who won't come out of the closet under any conditions. At best, it's pointless and a waste of everyone's time." They walked for a few more strides before Peter tried to change the subject by sassily adding, "Doesn't mean I won't flirt with them if it'll make them laugh, though." He smiled.
"So, are you telling me that you think just me hitting on a straight guy would 'force' him to convert? It would, like, make him gay for me just because I asked him out?" Peter was half-joking, half-serious, wondering what Sylar's views were.
XXX
Sylar was almost completely distracted by the 'I don't hit on straight guys/gay guys who won't come out of the closet under any conditions' part. I thought that earlier, about being…too straight for him. Can he tell that? No, he couldn't tell with Kevin. Or he didn't care. In any case, acting…more gay won't hurt my case here. (And he'd still pester them anyway after they already said no? Then why is he so upset when I do it? Why would he respect that if he…really likes them and he's still after them?) From Peter's tone, he could tell there was something to his questions. "What? No. Getting that kind of…attention could imply the straight guy is interested or…gay somehow, when he's not." It was the kind of thing that could stick to a person. Wait, is he tricking me into that whole 'gay isn't a choice' thing? Yeah, he's got another thing coming…
XXX
Peter gave Sylar an intent look. While I do try to make passes at people who are interested, me making the pass doesn't make them interested. Maybe he's saying it makes them look interested? Or makes other people, who might be watching, think the guy is interested? That must be it. "You made a pass at me and the choice wasn't between fucking you and moving out." He looked over at Sylar again. "Was it?" It certainly hadn't turned out that way, but was that how Sylar had meant it? "Put out or get out?"
XXX
Sylar scoffed. That angle was confused and improbable. "I made a pass at you before any of that and I never said anything like that. So how could it be 'put out or get out' at any point? That doesn't make any sense, Peter." For once, the timing of the start of hitting on Peter worked for him, instead of against him, much to his relief. The whole topic was suspicious with Petrelli loopholes and reasons that only applied to everyone else. Working an information setup, his next approach was, "What do you mean by 'gay guys who won't come out of the closet'?" Does he mean me? He knows nothing. Maybe he suspects?
XXX
No, of course you never said any of that, exactly – but you might have meant it. Peter made an exasperated sigh that happened to coincide with Sylar's last question. "Just that," he said shortly and left it at that. But he could feel Sylar patiently and expectantly waiting for a better answer. Peter finally elaborated, "I mean guys who go looking for other men on the down low, but want to keep it a secret all the time, from everyone, and won't admit that they're doing something gay even with the guy they're doing it with. Just..." Peter looked pained and unhappy, "no emotions. It's just sex, or maybe not even that as far as they're concerned." He shut up again. He'd had one heartbreak over that and been no more than a booty call enough times to make him sensitive about it. There were a lot of things in his life that had not worked out well.
XXX
Sylar's lips pursed. Sounds like my sex life, what's the big deal? "Doesn't that make you 'a gay guy who won't come out of the closet'? Wanting it on the down low, lying to the women you're with. You're not 'out of the closet' with your family. We've established how important they are to you," he added with a roll of his eyes and some wry bitterness. Not that Sylar had much opinion on the Petrelli family's involvement – he couldn't and didn't want to imagine that conversation (and the awkwardness of Angela's ability possibly seeing Peter…doing things). Maybe that's the reason you got dumped so often – never occurred to you?
XXX
"What?!" He tensed all over, hands coming into fists and his body turning to face Sylar, whose posture and expression showed he had no idea how insulting and provocative his words were. Or maybe he did and he was taunting Peter. In either case, Peter reached out and shoved him hard with the heel of his left hand, his next strides taking him several extra feet away from Sylar, more to keep himself from swinging on the guy than to protect himself. "Go fuck yourself!" he vented, stalking along angrily.
"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about, Sylar! I don't care what fucking memories you have from Nathan, because you're right, he didn't know shit about that side of my life. My family didn't know, didn't need to know, and made it real fucking clear they didn't want to know. I followed their rules," he growled. "I never lied to the people I was with. I'm not gay. And I'm nothing like those men!"
XXX
Sylar's weathered the shove by tightening his arms with what little warning he was given, but his hands didn't leave his pockets as he stumbled back. We established the 'go fuck myself' part, too. No need to repeat it. He was very disappointed. In Peter, actually. It was just another disgusting thing Peter did and had no problems about doing. It went against everything the man said he believed in. It was just another Petrelli facade, double standard as always. It was just another stupid idea Sylar had had that Peter was 'better than that.' How Peter could sleep with both men and women, not lie to any of them about it, have his family know and yet not know about it, demand more honesty of others than he was giving them, sleep with men and not be gay, and over everything else, be 'nothing like those men' was a flat contradiction and therefor a bald-faced lie. Or several of them. Sylar supposed he could cut Peter some slack since the man had a long history of being deluded, but this was too much. Peter was upset enough and he clearly expected Sylar to swallow each lie. So that was what he did.
Unable to repress a roll of his eyes, and with a very disbelieving, exasperated sigh and tolerant tone, he replied, "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Petrelli." He only wants what he wants and everyone else can go to hell. Am I surprised?
XXX
Peter calmed down a notch, more convinced that Sylar had no idea of the impact of what he was saying. "Don't call me a liar."
XXX
Sylar glared, because, really? He wasn't allowed to properly address it again. Instead, he sassed, "So when did you know you were 'not-gay' and wanted to fuck guys?"
XXX
"About the same time I knew I wanted to be with women. And this is none of your business, Sylar. What about you? Tell me about your sexual history, huh?"
XXX
He'd been expecting that at some point. Haughtily, he said, "We're not talking about me." None of my business, is it? What happened to, 'if you want to, you can talk to me about things'?
XXX
"Right," Peter said tightly, walking in silence after that. The morning had started so well. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Sylar looking over the repaired storefront. It was a nice memory and served to cool him down a lot.
XXX
At least I learned some things, Sylar thought of the exchange, even if he wasn't thrilled with what he now knew. Peter seemed to relax after a few blocks, walking closer to him but not as close as they'd been in the beginning. Sylar was still ruminating on the lies to ask more questions. The rest of the walk was brisk and not overly uncomfortable. Sylar opened the door for Peter, following him in.
XXX
The library was still a big, spooky, empty building, but it was easier to take the second time around. Besides, it's not empty once we're here. Sylar's here, so I'm not even alone. As they walked through the lobby, Peter mused inwardly about how Sylar was a companion and not a stranger, someone he was here with rather than just happening to be in the same area. "Second floor again?" he asked, following Sylar's lead to the elevator. The stairs are right there, he thought, but didn't object to them taking the easier route. When they exited, Peter spoke up again. "I'm going to look for another biography." He got his bearings and headed off.
XXX
"Yeah," Sylar said, going to his own section. He'd finished his other mystery book; it was good enough to hold onto. He wanted to find something similar and unrelated to Peter because it suited his mood. When he'd found a few options, he saw Peter returning to him. He made a point of peering at the man's book. "Ali?" he asked with plenty of question in his voice. Oh, great. Heavy-hitter. Subtle. 'How to Start Fights and Win by Muhammad Ali,' he mocked, just what I need. Whatever. Let him be stupid. I'll end up taking care of him or being taken care of. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, huh?" he prodded.
XXX
"Uh-huh. He's a real interesting guy. I read part of this, or of a different biography of him, I don't remember, when I was in high school." Given the nature of the fake world he was in, Peter doubted that he'd actually 'read' anything new this time around, but it had been so many years, he figured he could easily do with a refresher. "I was doing a report or a research paper on athletes and personal philosophy. They have a lot of good things to say. Like Bruce Lee was really cool. And so is Michael Jordan." He shrugged. "I've noticed that people like them tend to say things that make more sense to me than businessmen and politicians. They're less self-serving. Plus," he concluded with a grimace as he waved the book in the air, "no one's likely to eat anyone else in this one."
Peter knew as well as anyone else the incorrect, stereotypical perception of athletes as being a bunch of dumb jocks with nothing to say that was worth saying, so he changed the subject. "What books are you getting?"