Day 63, February 11, Noon

Sylar felt some of the blood drain from his face at that. The blood then hurtled through his body with anxiety (and a masochistic excitement he couldn't entertain). My past, my memories and what they 'mean' to me…Peter had spoken of similar things before and they were still red flags of danger and judgment. The safety angle was a valid point, but that didn't make it easier to answer. If I got out of here, I think I'd try to find a mountaintop to live on. Or…He hesitated to even think it, Find someone to take away my regeneration. I'd like to kill Peter for what he did to me, but my abilities weren't…working before. Impotent. I'd find a really remote mountaintop on an island then and avoid him. "Oh," Sylar deadpanned, partly with intent to offset the heaviness of what Peter had said. He recovered more gracefully with something of a joke, "So long as you're not trying to 'help' me in any way, because that would be hazardous to your health." Turning and walking towards his apartment, he threw over his shoulder, "All that will be much easier if you stop thinking of me as something human. I'm not. Neither are you, technically, since abilities involve changing your DNA."

XXX

"I know that," he muttered loudly before tramping along a few strides behind Sylar, uncertain if he was being invited to the guy's apartment, but deciding Sylar was perfectly capable of asserting his boundaries if Peter wasn't welcome. "We're still human, though."

XXX

"I'm- we are mutations." Sylar turned back to scan Peter with his eyes, "Some of us more acceptable than others." He was fairly certain Peter's power worked differently because of his lack of understanding and control of the abilities he picked up. The level of personal fucked up-ness varied between them, in his opinion. It was obvious he didn't fit into the definition of Homo sapiens or someone would have surely informed him, labeled him. That was why no one knew what to do with specials and most of the answers had yet to be found.

XXX

Peter huffed. He didn't want to argue that, or walk in silence, so he elaborated on the answer he'd given before. "You know how I said I used to 'get' people with my old ability? I don't 'get' you. I can't wrap my head around why someone who seems so otherwise sane and well-adjusted would do what you've done. If I can't understand what caused you to murder in the first place, then I can't work out if I'm safe, or if anyone is safe, around you."

XXX

Sylar blinked and lifted his head back. I was sane and well-adjusted?! (As far as he knows, I guess). More understanding broke over him. That's what he wants me to be, isn't it? Safe, sane, well adjusted, that would-be father he found in the future who helped him. The good guy, the hero, who helps him save his girlfriend and a bunch of strangers. That's…really too bad. 'That ship has sailed.' Peter did want to change him, 'help' him even – and Peter's methods left everything to be desired, especially if involved the Haitian's or Parkman's abilities. What's more, he resented Peter being the one to try to change him. What was so wrong with being depraved and evil, treating him, Sylar, like garbage when no one could see? (Peter had stooped to it before and now pretended he hadn't). It was easier. It was the way of things. It was the return of the punishment he had mostly avoided so far and that was the right thing, wasn't it? What happens when he gets fed up of being patient? He's not above torture. Many answers fell into place regarding Peter's desires and actions, past or present. Sylar wasn't certain how he should react to it. (I bet it's a condition of fucking him, too. Just to make it all more difficult). "That's…what I'm trying to tell you. I don't think you can look in the usual places for answers like that. Three dimensional answers, remember? Everyone is safe if I'm locked up or dead," he shrugged, going back to Peter's initial bomb in the conversation.

XXX

"Except me. I'm kind of important to myself, Sylar." He shrugged, remembering the depression and pointlessness he'd felt after their last fight, and some of the semi-suicidal things he'd said. "At least...most of the time. But we could look together – for answers." Not wanting Sylar to think he was suggesting group therapy, he added, "We don't have much better to do. And I need to know more about abilities anyway." Peter largely pulled that last out of his ass.

XXX

"Good. That's good. You are important. And you're important to me," Sylar tacked on the shameless flattery; what was it, validation? that Peter craved. It sounded sickeningly like something Nathan would lie about, coupled with 'thank you for your vote!' Peter's invitation got him thinking when either of them had ever gone to the other for answers. In a limited capacity, Peter had come to him in the future (apparently), asked about the Hunger (but didn't listen), and followed and supported him when he was in Nathan's form to investigate the Haitian's warning about the storage unit in Arlington. It wasn't quite the same thing when the younger Petrelli thought he was helping his brother (and those had been the only times he recalled going to Peter). Peter seemed to think that coming back for him at Pinehearst with Arthur counted but it had been neither helpful nor necessarily desired. "And you think I'm Yoda and I'm going to tell my secrets to someone who's too serious to play around with his own gifts and who'll probably turn them against me? Besides, you blew dozens of chances to talk to me about abilities when we had them and it mattered. But poor Peter isn't kinky enough to play with himself," he smirked broad and smug. Through the lobby and up the elevator they went. It was only then, Sylar realized he was leading Peter to what was essentially his home, not knowing why he was bringing the man along or what would happen when they arrived. Or is he following me?

XXX

Peter had been buzzed and pleased from Sylar saying, out loud, that Peter mattered to him. He scoffed cheerfully about the innuendo of not being kinky enough. "Fine. But I should know more about them, given my own ability." He paused. "And I thought it was something you'd be willing to talk about. Better than some other topics."

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar agreed, "That's true." He considered it, or rather, reconsidered his position and decision. "Your delicate conscience would allow you to take advice or knowledge from me? A monstrous, psychopath killer? Because you know people had to die for me to learn what I know and you're awfully bent on making me miserable for that while you use my expertise."

XXX

"I...uh..." Peter walked in the elevator, putting himself on the far side of it from Sylar. He blinked, internally stumbling over the topic. "I, uh, really hadn't thought about it that way." It's not like he's still killing people. Does that make it okay? There were medicines we discovered using less than ethical research practices, and I still use those. Would I use one if I knew how it was derived? His brow furrowed and he frowned, staring at the floor as the elevator rose. Like with my ability - I don't always know who I get a power from. I wouldn't think I'd bear any responsibility for that if it was an accident, but I know what the deal is with him. If I'm asking him questions, it's not an accident. When the doors chimed and opened, he shook his head and followed Sylar. "I'll have to think about that," he muttered.

After Sylar went inside his apartment, Peter leaned against the doorframe, not quite entering. He filled the doorway and kept it open. "You got plans for lunch?" he asked, changing the subject to something less morally troubling.

XXX

Peter hung in the doorway and that was…odd, but not yet worrisome. "Uh…making you lunch?" Sylar asked in return, assuming that was the direction of the question. "Did you want something from here?"

XXX

"That's nice," Peter mused in response to Sylar's offer to make lunch. He wasn't sure where Sylar wanted to eat. Here or the Pegasus seemed obvious. "You want me to grab some board games while we're here?" Peter asked without stirring from the door. He didn't have an invitation to come in yet, but agreeing he could get the games would serve.

XXX

"Sure," Sylar said while attempting to hide his enthusiasm. Keeping Peter very close, somewhat occupied was perfect for asking questions. Pushing those boundaries whilst 'playing' and multitasking was fun. He noticed his second question went unanswered, and he interpreted the silence as a negative.

XXX

Invitation granted. Peter grabbed Monopoly and Battleship because they were near the top of the stack, and pulled out one of the puzzles to go with them. That, plus his book, was as much as he wanted to carry. Idly, he pulled out a discarded shirt that was stuffed down between a couple games, blinking as he recognized it as one of his own. Oh. That's from New Year's Eve. He looked over at Sylar. He's keeping that because it makes him feel better. He wants it. He wants me. He said it just a few minutes ago: I'm important to him. Peter was glad to be wanted and not only for the personal safety it bestowed by reducing the chance Sylar would kill him one of these days. He liked the ego boost even more and certainly enough that he wasn't about to say a thing about the shirt. He dropped it right back where he'd found it. "Ready to go?"

XXX

Sylar saw the tail-end of Peter putting what was technically his own shirt back within Sylar's possessions. He knew he was being allowed to keep it, out of indifference, or a sense of honor, or something else entirely he didn't care why. It was an unverbalized request and relief to have it granted. He hadn't forgotten the shirt, if anything he looked to keep it safe there for lonely, rainy days. So far, he hadn't really been alone (or indoors enough) to need it, not when he had the real thing. Okay, even when he 'had' Peter, he still wanted the man's shirt. It was undeniably perverted, he knew, and his uses for it ranged from the perverted to pathetic basic comfort. (He has Mister Bear). What does he think about that? Why does he let me keep it? Maybe he didn't recognize it.

He shifted and gave Battleship a look. I thought he said he wouldn't play that again with me. Or was it that he wouldn't play if I played like a computer and 'didn't have fun'? Then he smirked, either way, Peter was offering it as an option, "Oh, yeah. I'm always ready."

XXX

The walk back to the Pegasus was uneventful. Peter set the boxes on the pool table in the rec room and followed Sylar up to the penthouse. There was lunch to be had and he picked up his book, the original one, Alive! "Let's go downstairs to read," he said in the tone of a suggestion.

XXX

Sylar brought along a pair of salmon cans for their lunch before remembering that Peter was probably still on the nausea-recovery diet. Lunch was settled and consumed with a little small talk but not much. "Okay," Sylar agreed though Peter sounded commanding. He was still uncomfortable about being interrogated into confession earlier and he dreaded the return of that topic. He couldn't stop wondering how often Peter was thinking about it and what he thought about such sensitive information (because there was no way Peter was done digging). All the same, he was very willing for distraction.

XXX

The rest of the day went quietly. Peter set aside the book when he was done and played a few soft, slow songs on the piano until Sylar was ready to go up. He didn't want to start reading the one about Ali right away. Alive! was a lot to process. "I finished it," he told Sylar as the elevator whisked them upward. He raised the book to indicate what he was talking about. "Do you want to read it? More of them survived than I expected."

XXX

They didn't play either of the games, yet. Sylar had missed the music while Peter had been too injured. Reading together was fine, almost normal, especially after being cornered earlier. He didn't know if doing nothing made that easier to handle or invited more thinking and worrying. So he did try not to think about it. Now, Sylar shook his head at the offer but he listened (because, alone in an elevator, what else was he to do?)

XXX

Peter looked at the book contemplatively. "I know the author did his interviews not long after they were found, but I wish they'd talked more about the recovery. And, you know, long-lasting effects. It mentioned a few. Even though they survived, they were changed. I wish it had gone into that more – changed how, and how they coped with that. The book was sort of 'well, they're alive, they made it back, and that's good enough', but it's not." Peter spoke with quiet certainty. "There's more to it than that and I wish there were a few more chapters about it." He gestured to offer the book to Sylar in case he changed his mind and wanted to read it, or just look through it. "Survivor's guilt if nothing else," he said, his thoughts skirting around his own loss.

XXX

Sylar felt his muscles tighten unconsciously because it hit close to home even though it wasn't an accusation. With an edge in his voice, he responded, "Long lasting effects like feeling like killers? Or eating the flesh of their friends and being cannibals? Yeah, I'm sure they did change. A lot." Survivor's guilt was completely accurate. It implied another portion of the process as well: the necessary acts for survival and its lingering effect on the mind. And the part about not being accepted back into society. "There's a difference between surviving and living," he added bitterly, not entirely meaning to commiserate with Peter. "Maybe that's what you meant. You probably won't find anyone who wants to ask those questions, or hear the answers – not to that kind of thing."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips, made tense by Sylar's tone. "That's exactly what I meant: how did they live...with having survived?" He looked away as the elevator doors opened, walking out as he said, "I think you're right about most people not asking those questions." But I want to know anyway. He kept his mouth shut on the rest of his thoughts. Most people don't want to cut other people up, but we still need surgeons. We still have to learn medicine. I still have to understand you.

XXX

In the suite, Sylar set about making dinner. He wanted to push at hidden, dark, painful secrets the way Peter had pushed him earlier. He knew Peter would return to it, bit by bit, slowly driving him into further insanity. He was still ignoring the part of him that felt relief at being…made? invited? to confess. It was a vulnerability that would surely be exploited. So he dreamt up something equally vulnerable and painful to ask Peter.

XXX

Dinner was vegetable soup and a split bagel spread generously with cream cheese. Peter didn't investigate the label of the soup can too much. It didn't have chunks of beef in it and that was good enough for his qualms. As he ate, he fantasized idly about going out after dinner to find a place where he could get a milkshake (and the various things he would add to it), even though his craving for the rich dessert didn't seem strong enough to bother with an outing.

XXX

"Who did you kill with my ability?" Sylar asked while comfortably munching on his half of the bagel. He sought to equalize the discomfort he felt from Peter's earlier interrogation, though he did not want to revisit the exact conversation. Besides, he felt like he already knew (and he probably did) all Peter's attempts at…control and adaption. Now, he watched Peter carefully, with an expression of disinterest.

XXX

The milkshake fantasy shattered. Peter stopped, eyes widening and skin paling, with the bagel raised halfway to his mouth. It went back down on the plate as he stared at Sylar, filled with anxiety and a growing tightness in his chest. He's asking! (Now? Why now?) I shouldn't tell him. He doesn't have a right to that. I don't have to tell him. (He's always answered me.) I don't want to be afraid of him asking. (I'm not afraid.) I am afraid. Right now. His internal nay-sayer didn't have a comeback for that. I don't want to be afraid. He cleared his throat and spoke before he could lose his nerve. "When I was in the future. I- Nn...Nathan. My bro-ther." His voice broke on the last word. "Then I came back and tried to kill my mother. And you. I thought you were-" He shook his head and looked down at his food, breaths coming too quick and shallow. He'd tried to kill his whole family that day, not yet being aware his father was alive and still thinking Sylar was related. Peter felt hot and cold at the same time. He choked down the unexpected heave from his suddenly revolting stomach and stood abruptly, gathering his plate with the remaining quarter bagel and bowl still a third full.

He went to the sink, hurriedly pouring out the soup and tossing the bagel in the trash. "I guess we have that in common," he said harshly, "we both went after presidents." Only I killed mine. He rinsed the soup bowl jerkily as images of Nathan at his hands went through his mind – burning in the atmosphere over Kirby Plaza, bleeding in his arms after that press conference, and the last, most poignant and shaking of all, when he'd helped move Nathan's corpse in the airplane. It was the last time he'd embraced him, held him close, even though the flesh was cold and had a deeply disturbing, clay-like texture from lividity. He'd hugged him anyway, because none of that mattered – not for his brother, not for someone he loved so much. Peter's nose burned and his eyes watered. He put down the dish with shaking hands and held the edge of the sink to steady them. Half a sob escaped him. Nathan was gone – in the future and the present.

XXX

For long moments, Sylar had nothing to say and it took his mind several efforts to grasp what he'd heard. Perhaps it was some sick joke? He…Nathan? What? He killed Nathan. He killed Nathan?...What?! He'd been bringing his dishes into the kitchen, but now he set them on the counter and simply stood. Betrayal, disappointment, fear, sadness, horror, smug, gleeful satisfaction, righteous anger for himself, for Peter, and…even for Nathan, who was part of him for better or worse – part of both of them. Everything, each reaction clamored through him, demanding the spotlight to vent on Peter, who fucking deserved every word. (How could he? There was that 'I expected him to be better' thing underneath it all). He said he got my ability in the future. My…It happened to him, too? Relief was added to the list, but it was no more prominent than any other emotion, all of them deep and painful in their own right.

XXX

Blurry thoughts of finding the roof top or returning to his apartment went through Peter's mind. He didn't know which he was going to do, but as he turned to leave, Sylar was between him and the door. Not in any capacity to block him – he was just there, being there, being somewhere, being a witness to Peter falling apart. Again. And I don't even have the concussion to excuse it. He remembered Sylar holding him the last time he'd cried. He couldn't recall what he'd been crying about – pain, perhaps, or Nathan, or just how much of a fuck up he was. Head down, Peter walked slowly towards Sylar, reaching out hesitantly for him, asking with gestures for the comfort of being held. It wasn't philosophically any different from accepting his mother's sympathy after the revelatory confrontation with Sylar at Mercy Heights – they were both responsible, but he'd go to them anyway if they'd have him.

XXX

So consumed in his own reactions, his face twisting now and again through his feelings though he tried to be blank, Sylar stood still without seeing much of what Peter was doing – approaching him and reaching out. When he felt the initial touch, he raised his hands in disgust, slapping the other man away and stepping back, "Get your fucking hands off me," he snarled in a deadly, low voice, his throat unable to produce anything louder. "You son of a bitch…And you were going to keep me in the fire for killing him? You fucking hypocrite. You understand exactly what it's like. Why the fuck would you ask me what any of it is like when you already know?! You're just hoping it's different? Hoping you're not me? Hoping I have the answers? That sounds so familiar: maybe not understanding why you did it, not having a good reason, maybe you don't even know how you could have killed someone you loved, but you fucking did. I bet you want a fucking pass on it, too – killing your brother! I told you that blood doesn't come off; there is no peace! You certainly don't get fucking hugs for killing people. Welcome to my fucking world now, Petrelli."

XXX

Peter flinched when slapped and cringed when the rant began. He raised his face slowly, tears still streaming down, but he stood there stolidly to receive Sylar's abuse. His only outward response was the slight winces he made whenever Sylar emphasized a word. He's right. (I shouldn't have told him.) He didn't know what else to do – the only person in existence was tearing into him, blaming him, shredding his ego. The words were like knives. This was the person he'd turned to for comfort and more pain was what he'd gotten for it. When Sylar finished, Peter swallowed roughly and carefully maneuvered around Sylar, heading to the door. He picked up his jacket along the way, but nothing else in the room mattered to him. He let himself out quietly.

XXX

When Peter left, it was worse. Sylar was too upset to feel triumphant. He understood, too clearly, the cause of Peter's pain, hell, even the 'why' behind the murder. He knew he was hurting the little man deeply (as if those pathetic, large, plentiful tears weren't enough) because he understood minutely what he was doing to him. It was that familiar to him. It was the principal of the thing. Killing people was never rewarded with what was most needed. Ever. Regardless of who the murderer was – and Peter needed to understand that. It was only fair. Sylar told himself this as he paced and raked a hand through his hair many times. He knows it's true – that I'm right. Why else would he stand there and say nothing and fucking cry at me? (Why was he crying at me? Why would he come to me for comfort?) And he left because he knows I'm right. He's not going to like it. (He'll blame me). I have every right to say what I did. He needed to hear it.

XXX

Peter returned to his apartment and half-heartedly put up his stack of soup cans in front of the door. Then he stripped off his clothes and slipped naked between the sheets, pulling his stuffed bear in with him. He cried again, this time because of the rejection. He wasn't sure if he should hate himself for that or not – it was stupid and he shouldn't care about Sylar's opinion of him, but he was human and he'd been telling Sylar the truth earlier that day when he'd said Sylar was all of Peter's people now. He shuddered anyway and tried to stroke the bear's fuzzy coat into some semblance of smoothness, Peter's deep-seated desire to find comfort in helping others showing itself. He murmured to the bear all the things he wished someone was there to say to him, until he finally fell asleep.

XXX

Stupidly, his mind's eye kept replaying Peter's last motions – reaching out, flinching, cringing, crying, the face of utter hurt. The part where Peter thought he was someone of comfort was still more disturbing and confusing. It's a cruel lesson. He will never comfort me about killing someone. (Why didn't he defend himself? Not even a token effort. He'll still think he's better than me because I've killed lots of people and him only a few. Deeper still, he wondered, What would he have felt for me if I had hugged him?) It was a sort of missed opportunity but the legitimate feelings of betrayal and hypocrisy had to be voiced. Sylar went home that night, to be alone; not wanting to be around if Peter returned and unable to sleep around the smell of him.

XXX

Day 64, February 12, Morning

If Peter dreamed, he didn't remember it. When he woke, he felt loggy and tired. What he did remember was what Sylar had said – every word of it – and the way he'd knocked Peter's hands away from him, like Peter, and Peter's need, was repulsive. A desire for solace in the face of losing a loved one was not weak. It was not abnormal. Peter knew this. He didn't blame himself. If anything, he was happy that after everything Nathan had done, that Peter still mourned him. It meant he wasn't dead inside, not completely, as he sometimes feared he had to be due to the way his ability worked (or rather, didn't work anymore). If Sylar wanted to hurt him for the sin of feeling – remorse, regret, confusion, fear, mortification – then Peter was done with Sylar.

He lay in bed most of the day, rising only to make some chocolate milk and eat a couple peanut butter sandwiches, both plain. He was tired inside and didn't want to deal with making sense of Sylar's response, even though his mind would stubbornly think of nothing else. He assumed Sylar had killed his own family as well. Peter hadn't thought about it before, but now it was clear: the 'Hunger' hadn't turned itself on to goad him to attack Gabriel, or even the various people who showed up at Gabriel's house in pursuit of Peter. It had only manifested in Nathan's presence…and then (supposed-brother) Sylar's…and then Angela's. Blood will out, Peter thought miserably, thinking Sylar was as wretched as him. He just deals with it...badly. I am not going to excuse him, Peter resolved, staying curled up in bed and letting the world pass him by.

XXX

Sylar slept miserably, too cold, mechanical, and alone. He had dreams that he was back at Gray and Sons, desperate to determine the cause of a Seiko watch that a medic had brought in. Try as he did, he couldn't get the watch to function. He kept going over every piece time after time, taking them out, inspecting them, replacing them. It felt like the most obvious mystery that he was just not seeing. He woke, feeling unrested. Grooming and breakfast were bland affairs by himself and his apartment felt stiflingly small. Doubting his reality, he went through every watch he'd found during his three years alone – most had already been fixed (some more than once), but he didn't find the one from his nightmare, though he knew he'd seen it before, and recently. He remembered the previous night and Peter's betrayal of so many things. He was angry and triumphant of their mutual crime. He's like me now. Somehow even being right, winning at something, having proof of being wronged, finding a similarity that he shared with someone else was depressing and unsatisfactory. Sylar stayed in, almost wishing Peter would appear to apologize (or try to hug him again).

XXX

Day 65, February 13, morning

The second day, Peter made himself get out of bed, eat a cold cheese sandwich for breakfast, and wash up. He dressed. He made his bed. He put the soup cans away in the pantry. He went down to the lobby and crossed to the Pegasus workout room. He was late and off-schedule for a workout, but he didn't care. Small steps are better than none, he told himself, determined to get back on his feet.

XXX

Sylar was determined the next day to find Peter, lure him out, corner him somewhere, something; to get attention and the lay of the land where he stood with the irritating, slippery Petrelli. He began by searching the usual haunts and he found Peter working out at the Pegasus. He was a little impressed that Peter was out, functioning, the day after such emotional trauma. Sylar invited himself in, lingering by the door as it shut loudly enough to announce him, then around the outside of the equipment, glancing at Peter and the machines both. "There you are," was all he said. He didn't know what kind of response he wanted or expected.

XXX

Peter lifted his head enough to see Sylar in his peripheral vision. Then he sighed and went back to doing lat pulldowns. There was nothing to say, so he said nothing.

XXX

Well…that wasn't either what he wanted or expected. Not knowing what else to do and not liking this quiet (or worse, being fucking ignored), he went for superior. "Still upset I see. That's normal." When that didn't get a response, he pressed harder, "Why did you kill him? Was it my ability or just…being Petrelli?" Sylar knew that was a bit much. He was curious and he didn't care if it started a fight (because that would at least be something). He slunk closer, watching Peter more steadily now.

XXX

Peter stared off straight ahead as he pulled down and then eased up, keeping good form throughout. The questions and their insulting tone stung, but he didn't feel any interest in answering. Counting his reps slowly and steadily was more engaging. He wondered idly if Sylar would hit him if he kept his silence. He wasn't sure what he'd do if that happened.

XXX

Raising his voice to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of the machines, he asked with curiosity evident in his tone, "Why would you tell me?" Sylar couldn't help but understand the damned internal emotional hurricanes after…killing someone, a loved one at that, and the almost compulsive urges to confess and receive comfort or absolution if it was possible. That hadn't happened for him. It was one of his best kept secrets, though he was sure some heroes were aware of it; they'd never commented on it to him. Peter might even want to compare and…see if he was normal, perhaps. It damned him the same as it did Sylar. It felt like a betrayal, a disappointment. So what made Peter share it? It was important to know, almost more so than anything else.

XXX

Because you asked. Because I didn't want to hide it anymore. Because I hated the way I felt keeping it inside. Peter made one sideways, half-shake of his head and shifted to secure the pulldown bar on its hook. Staying on the same machine, he switched to chest presses. Sylar still wasn't saying anything that he wanted to respond to.

XXX

"The silent treatment? Really?" he snapped. Sylar was leaning against the machine next to Peter now. "That's really mature. All that sharing is fun until you're the one who has to tell something nasty and personal."

XXX

Peter almost started to smile at how immature he was being, but then Sylar was mean about it. The nascent smile faded before it was anything more than a twitch of his lips. His face went sullen and then blank. Four...five...six...seven... he counted out reps in his head. The silent treatment it was.

XXX

Sylar was not about to have a fit of anger to get the man's attention. Yet. Such a display would be undignified and counter-productive. Besides, Peter wants everything to be about him. And the empath had established that he liked his space in the gym. Maybe that's all it is. Fine. Rolling his eyes with a huff, he muttered clearly as he walked out, "I've got other things to do." He would return later.

XXX

Good. Go do them and leave me alone. Peter continued on with his workout without interruption. When he was done, he went back to his apartment to change clothes and clean up (a brisk and freezing walk to take in sweaty shorts and a t-shirt, but it was merely across the street). Refreshed, he ate a light, early lunch, packed a couple sandwiches and pieces of fruit, and returned to the Pegasus, this time dressed normally for the weather. He had a date with the piano, which was long overdue for tuning.

XXX

While he waited, Sylar admitted to himself that he was pleased Peter was out doing things, able to be found and waylaid. It meant the little Petrelli wasn't completely shutting down, but making attempts to do normal activities. It also allowed Sylar to avoid the panic at the idea of losing his mind or Peter. He went home for about an hour. He read some and thought about how to approach Peter when he was doing something more…approachable. What would bring Peter out of this funk, this shell? Reluctantly, he considered Nathan and his methods (such as they were). Peter had responded to those behaviors from Sylar before. With Nathan, Peter would give that initially fake grin, nod, agree, ask for a hug without words, be patted on the shoulder or the cheek and sent on his way – or rather, abandoned by Nathan. For round two, he entered the Pegasus rec room to find Peter on the piano. As before, he allowed the door to announce his presence as he strolled in. He listened for several minutes, standing a handful of feet away, simply watching.

Feeling it was time to make his move and break the ice, he walked up behind and a little beside Peter, his lower half in casual, familiar contact with the other's upper half, clapping both hands on the man's shoulders. "I was thinking–"

XXX

Interrupted in the middle of playing after his first round of adjusting the piano, Peter ducked forward and away from the unwelcome touch a half-second after it started. He turned to give Sylar a scathingly unappreciative look, then stood with a snarl and edged to the side, away from the man. He wanted no part of being touched out of the blue. He gave Sylar a sweeping look from feet to head and back again, then pivoted and left the room, grabbing his jacket along the way. It was high time to go back to his apartment and stay there for the rest of the day. If he's starting this shit, then it's only going to get worse if I stay where he can get to me. Maybe I can whip up a milkshake in my apartment. I definitely don't have to be out here anymore. He could finish tuning the piano tomorrow.

XXX

"Pete- Peter," Sylar admonished with a pleading undertone. "What is the matter with you?" he demanded, beginning to feel this was personal. "Is this about the other night? Everything I said was the truth!" he protested, trailing after Peter at a fair distance this time. "Running away isn't going to help. Just accept that it sucks and move on," one arm gestured around them, encompassing the possibilities even as he tried not to sound like he was whining.

XXX

Peter snorted as he headed off, responding to Sylar's words with a raised middle finger off to the side. He shoved open the door and popped his collar as he crossed the street to his own apartment. He hit the stairs instead of creating the opportunity for Sylar to nag at him while he waited for the elevator. And anyway, the exercise would do him good if he was going to stay in for the rest of the day.

XXX

Sylar quit walking after him as soon as he saw the bird being flipped at him, which meant he stood on the sidewalk at the Pegasus. "Like I said, real mature. Yeah, go fuck yourself, too." He didn't put any volume into his words but they might have carried. There was no point in chasing after Peter as he was surely going to hide himself away until tomorrow. At least. In a masochistic moment, he wondered at the irony that Peter could make him bend over (metaphorically) so easily whenever he felt like it and Sylar felt unable to do the same. It's the little things, isn't it? It must be what we both want. Mostly he hated these methods of enforced behavior modification. He returned home, brooding over his apparently missed opportunity.