Day 66, February 14, Morning
Peter's workout came at the usual time, whenever that was. Peter didn't know, given the strictly ornamental nature of his watch, but it was shortly after dawn. He went through his routine, returned to his apartment to shower, then went down to the diner for a breakfast of fried potatoes (he'd found some he could microwave) and scrambled eggs. His attempt at a milkshake the night before had ended up being more like melted ice cream with Oreo cookies in it, but it was delicious all the same. Breakfast was just as good.
Fortified, he returned to the Pegasus and set about the second round of tinkering with the piano. He knew he'd definitely improved it the day before, but he'd need to go through it a few more times, adjusting each key in succession and comparing the tones to the tuning forks he'd picked up weeks earlier. It was a project that would probably take up the whole morning.
XXX
Sylar knew his presence was annoying, so inflicting it was his plan. Peter obviously didn't want to listen or talk, but a kind of passive resistance might get on his nerves or loosen his tongue (or a fist perhaps). It was morning when he invited himself into the rec room, unsurprised to find Peter here. I did tell him to get hobbies and the storefront is finished. Sylar thought on that wistfully, still touched by it and disturbed at their current disagreement in comparison. He brought only his book – a possibly necessary prop, should he be so fortunate as to need it. After making eye contact with Peter and successfully not saying a word, he walked directly towards the couch, removing his coat to show permanence and sitting there like any other day. He cracked the pseudo-historical mystery novel with only a few glances at Peter, who…remained in the room. Small victories.
XXX
Peter looked over at Sylar when the man entered the room, trying to get a read on him and an idea of what he was in for. His plan, such as it was, was to exit at the first sign that Sylar was going to make trouble. The eye contact was unintentional – Peter looked away immediately, turning back to his task and trying to pretend Sylar wasn't there. It seemed to go well enough. Sylar's presence on the couch gradually soothed him – he had an audience now and Sylar wasn't pushing him to talk, nor making aggravating remarks. The quiet companionship was a big improvement on loneliness.
XXX
He noticed the tuning forks soon after he came in but Peter didn't know about that little incident and they were harmless to him now. Sylar cleared his throat, wanting some kind of dialogue after several days of hearing only his own voice. "Morning. How did you sleep?" And then he waited, checking Peter occasionally for any attention directed his way. The dialogue was completely off-topic and inoffensive, inviting even.
XXX
So much for quiet companionship. He made a very soft grunt to himself. Is that question about how I'm sleeping a dig at how we're supposed to be sharing a bed for his mental health? He's probably not sleeping well, if at all. Peter turned over the consequences of that in his head as he continued with checking keys for the best sound.
XXX
Sylar inhaled and exhaled a disappointed sigh, not concealing it. He didn't like the rest of his options (starting a fight, playing dumb, expressing his feelings, or apologizing for things he didn't feel he should apologize for). The little rock was determined to wait him out. I just hate waiting. That doesn't mean I'm not good at it. Used to it, even. I wonder if he thinks he's humiliating me? Sometimes it feels humiliating, he thought after contemplation. After less than a half hour of listening to Peter pitifully pluck and tune at the piano strings, Sylar could take no more. Waiting him out doesn't include audio torture or worse, watching and listening to someone fixing something the wrong way. "A little more for that string," he inserted his voice into the otherwise quiet. Sound, or the lack of it, what was allowed was literally a communication all its own, a thing forgotten when he had been by himself.
XXX
Peter heard the suggestion and half-turned his face in Sylar's direction, raising a brow briefly to indicate he'd heard. He picked up the adjustment tool again and gave it a tiny extra turn, maybe an eighth of a rotation. He struck the key a couple times, then the ones above and below it. It sounded better. He looked over at Sylar more fully this time to see his response. He knew this was a way of talking even if he wasn't answering Sylar in words. But Sylar's comment wasn't rude, intrusive, or insulting. It was even helpful. Peter wanted him to enjoy the sound of the instrument and he'd enjoy it more if he'd felt his input on the tuning was valued.
XXX
When Peter followed his directions, he continued, "Hmm, a little more. There." Sylar grinned a little, pleased at getting Peter to do something that he wanted, something useful, an interaction. For him, it broke the otherwise gray, uncomfortable, looming cloud between them.
XXX
Peter gave a shadow of a smile in return along with a single nod. Wordlessly, he went back to his job. He has a nice voice, when he's not using it to say mean things, he reflected.
XXX
He was hungry and Peter likely was, too. I bet he misses actual meals. God knows what nonsense he eats. A casually as he could, Sylar left the rec room to Ralph's nearby. He only needed bread, specifically hoagie buns. The rest of the ingredients were readily available at his apartment (free of Peter licking the utensils). He returned with a pair of salmon and mayo/butter subs wrapped in napkins because he'd paid enough attention to the other man's moral objections to non-fish meat. Peter's was delivered with intentional awareness and no sudden moves, set on the piano bench before he slipped back to his spot on the couch. We used to eat together. I'm not going far out of my way to make another sandwich. I'll have to figure out some kind of…salad-on-bread that he would like.
XXX
Peter looked at the unasked-for gift, eyes going from it to Sylar. He blinked and thought, Why would he bring me something? (Because of Nathan's memories?) No, Nathan wouldn't. He never did. This is Sylar – what Sylar thinks is a...resolution. Peter turned to see Sylar where the other man had settled on the couch. "Thank you," he said quietly but clearly, very willing to break silence for a genuine peace offering. He didn't think of it as an apology or a bribe, but rather a gesture of acknowledgement of Peter's feelings – a recognition that had often been sorely lacking in Peter's life.
XXX
Sylar's head snapped up to stare. He quickly quit staring to act casual. This was his opportunity to open a dialogue obviously. "Yeah. I have to watch you. I know you don't eat well. I have to make sure you eat," he intoned conversationally, giving half a shrug.
XXX
That was...enough. You're going to take care of me? Peter smiled to himself at the thought, knowing Sylar had done a passable job of it so far. That's something else Nathan would never do. I mean, yeah, the occasional heroic gesture and he tried to always come through for me, but actually spend the time to do it right? That wasn't him. He picked up the sandwich, examined it briefly and approvingly (it smelled fantastic), and took a hearty bite. "Mm. This is good." He turned to straddle the piano bench, turning down the key guard and resting his elbow on it as he ate. It let him face Sylar, more or less – a body language that opened things between them even if he didn't have anything else to say at the moment.
XXX
Sylar unconsciously shifted to face Peter more as well, hefting his own meal. He hadn't done so before because he'd thought Peter would ignore the food, eat it elsewhere, or consume it without turning around. This was eating together or close to it. With words. It relaxed him just to have an end to being ignored even though conversation might not go well.
XXX
"How's your book?" he said, making the foray into small talk.
XXX
Sylar kept his eyes on his sandwich to avoid showing his surprise. Just like that? Things are back to normal? There were several reasons for the sudden acceptance and he would ponder them carefully later. It would come in handy to know how to break Petrelli's stubbornness in future. "It's good. One of the better ones, you know, the kind that gives you theories but keeps you guessing." He was cautious and brief because he wasn't sure if Peter was asking for 'small talk' to break the ice or if the restraint of minimal words still held.
XXX
"Have you ever read anything by Agatha Christi? I read one of her books," only part of it, actually, "when I was in high school. It was one of mom's. She wrote characters really well." He wasn't a fan of mysteries, though. They annoyed him with the false leads and myriad little details out of which he was supposed to pluck the solution before the protagonist drew it together at the end. What he'd done with the Christi book was what he did with most mysteries – he'd read the first few chapters, then skipped to the last quarter of the book to see how it turned out, thus neatly avoiding all the tedious, frustrating stuff in the middle. Adventure books, dramas, or even biographies were much more his speed with the frequent challenges and conflicts for the main character(s) to overcome. He didn't think Sylar would appreciate a denigration of his chosen genre, though, so Peter tried to keep the conversation away from his own preferences. There was also, stinging in the back of his mind, how Sylar had cast Peter's tastes as juvenile and immature the first time they'd visited the library. "What do you like best about them – mysteries, that is?"
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"I think so. It was probably in high school, too." Sylar spared a single blink. Now he's asking about what I like? After ignoring me for two days? Maybe he's avoiding…the issue (whatever that is). It didn't bother him because the subject was far from deep but he did notice the oddity or timing. It was somewhat necessary to please Peter at this point. "I like…fixing things. A mystery being solved. It's like taking it out of cold case. I want to see if I can deduce the mystery before the big reveal. I wanted to see if I was smart enough to figure it out. I don't know," he looked down at the book in hand, "When I was a kid, I would pretend I was in the book, the whole…fantasy angle, using my imagination. If I could be in any book, I guess I'd rather be in a mystery. Now, I like mystery that isn't my life." He shrugged, feeling like his mouth had run away with itself.
XXX
Peter nodded, finishing the sandwich and liking it well enough to pick up and eat all the stray bits of crusty bread and fish flakes that had fallen on the napkin he'd left in his lap. "I'm almost done here." He motioned at the piano. "You got any plans for the afternoon?" He jerked his head at the short stack of board games. "We could play one of those games." He wadded his napkin and rose, waiting for Sylar's response before heading out to throw away his trash and wash his hands. "Maybe Monopoly?"
XXX
"Just, um…getting you to," pull your head out of your ass, "talk. Monopoly's great," Sylar agreed easily. Peter's quick capitulation to the food, conversation, and now a game showed that his moody fit was nothing more than an (uncomfortably long) moody fit. Sylar stood and waited for Peter to finish in the restroom. I hope he washed his hands, he tried to see if Peter's hands appeared moist as they passed in the hall – Sylar certainly wanted to wash his hands.
XXX
Peter returned from the bathroom and made a few final passes up and down the range of keys on the piano, making sure he was happy with the sound. Satisfied, he replaced the covers and stacked his tools in the middle on the top. He didn't celebrate with a last song – his right hand was sore. He needed to rest it. A board game seemed perfect.
XXX
While Peter puttered with the piano, Sylar took up the board game and looked around as to where to set it up. There's the floor. Or I could put the board on a chair while we sit on the couch. Is that too close for him? I don't care. So that's what he did, taking one of the chairs from the wall to support the board by the middle of the couch between them. He waited until Peter joined him and the cards properly placed, the initial money and pieces were decided (Sylar took the top hat, Peter the little terrier). Curiosity was eating him alive. "Why did you tell me?" He didn't specify further.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a look that was momentarily blank, then hardened as he realized what was being asked. He looked off to the side pointedly for a moment, collecting his thoughts and sorting his emotions, which were threatening to be turbulent again with the reminder of Sylar's rant. "You asked," he said quietly, turning his eyes to the board. "And we have...or at least I think we have...a deal here between us that we tell each other the truth as much as possible. When we're able to talk about things – if we're able to talk about them." Much more quietly, he added, "I've never talked to anyone else about that." He moved his tiny metal dog, needlessly adjusting its position in the starting square. It reminded him of Sassy, a terrier mix he'd had through middle and high school.
XXX
Sylar rolled the dice, then pushed them over to Peter. His answer made too much sense. It's not fair. Why does he get to talk about it and I can't? He said I couldn't. How does that even work?! He breathed through the anger, not letting it show in his body language. "Why did you ignore me for two days?" There were several ways Peter could answer that and Sylar wished to know which it was, ideally a helpful response instead of outright blame or silly emotions. Sylar's turn was first and he moved his piece accordingly.
XXX
Peter's head came up and his eyes narrowed. At this rate, it would be a short game. The only thing holding him from blowing up about the questions was Sylar's tone – soft and normal, making an outburst on Peter's part seem inappropriate in comparison. "Because you were an asshole for two days!" Peter answered heatedly despite how it sounded, but after that, he found it difficult to find the right words. "Because I- when I told you that, you were...hateful. I...I don't want to be around that. I'm not going to put up with it. I'm not going to talk to you if that's how you talk to me when I tell you things."
XXX
Sylar tilted his head in a half-nod, half-dodging shrug motion. It seemed a fair enough assessment, and a good enough reason. I wasn't that much of an asshole; he defended himself without voicing it, referring to the two days of distance not the incident itself. Trying to talk to him makes me an asshole? (I wasn't exactly gentle). The only 'asshole' thing I said was the crack about Petrellis being killers. And that makes me an asshole. Apparently. Sylar grit his teeth, eyeing the dice because Peter hadn't touched them for his turn. "Everything I said was the truth and you needed to hear it."
XXX
Peter snapped, "I don't care about the truth!" Almost immediately, he pursed his lips and shook his head. "I know how…dumb that sounds because of what I just said." He paused and tried to think, touching the bridge of his nose and rubbing it briefly. "Here's the thing – I don't think you weren't trying to be honest. I think you were trying to be hurtful. If you have to justify it to yourself to make it okay to say something, then it's bullshit. It's no more 'true' than any of the other crap my dad tried to push on me. Or Nathan. Maybe you have a lot of memories of that, but you should also have a lot of memories of how that didn't fly well with me. And you're not either one of them, so I'm not going to take it from you. My feelings matter." For once in my life, I want them to matter!
XXX
That had Sylar blinking and frowning simultaneously. Justifying. Is that what that is? But it isn't justification. It's the truth. It applies to everyone, or it's supposed to. I…he…we just wish it wasn't. That's a delusion. Hope. Another realization came to him. This is his first time talking about it, dealing with any of it. I had…Elle; he gets me. Hardly an equal experience. He was smart – smarter – not to talk about it before now. He didn't care for being cast in the role of power-tripping, asshole Petrelli overlords Arthur or Nathan. He, and his intentions, were vastly different than both bastards. "Yes, they do," Sylar murmured about Peter's feelings, hiding his resentment about that in general. Voice quiet and somewhat strained, he intoned, "You've been breaking the rules. Rule Number One was no talking about abilities or killing people." After opening and closing his mouth a few times, with a shake of his head, he gave up trying to say more about how he was the voice of experience about keeping the worst secrets, how Peter was fortunate that no one knew his terrible deeds, and how talking about deep, horrible things only made it worse, regardless of anyone's 'feelings.'
XXX
Peter calmed so fast and thoroughly from Sylar's admission about the importance of his feelings that he rocked back against the couch. The air went out of him. The game was as good as forgotten. Sylar was the complete focus of his attention. He looked confused for a moment about the rule-breaking, then snorted a rude laugh at how Sylar was trying to shift the conversation from his own bad behavior to some imagined misstep of Peter's. He went with it, though. "That was revoked!"
XXX
It was Sylar's turn to straighten up, away from the game – his own version of leaning back. He rolled his eyes and oozed sarcasm, "Right." He recalled Peter half-heartedly trying to change his mind but it had to be one of those 'whenever I feel like it' things.
XXX
"It was!" Peter said vehemently, responding to Sylar's obvious disbelief. "I told you that you could talk about anything you wanted and me...trying to limit what you could talk about was cruel." Peter leaned forward now, intent, with compassion in his voice. "There are things you have to- or at least, you might want to talk about. You can." He waited a beat, hoping Sylar believed him, before continuing, "That's...part of why I told you what I did. I've never-" done anything like that before. He looked off to the side, not wanting to get into his many sins or a pointless discussion of their comparative worth, then back to Sylar. "I don't want that to be a secret. I don't want to have to keep track of what I've said and what I haven't. I don't want to always be worried that I'll slip and you'll figure something out. It's better if I'm the one telling you, because then, I've told you and I own it." He emphasized by pointing at his chest.
XXX
Sylar stared at Peter with as blank a face as he could manage. There was the invitation again. It was an obvious manipulation, the acting overdone but he was aware of it at least. He was aware of feeling envy that Peter could live with such freedom, not having to worry and keep track of what he'd said, to safely speak what he felt and wanted. Sylar ignored it all, partly because he was caught between thinking that he should go along with whatever Peter wanted or feeling angry about just that. "I don't think your mother would be very surprised. She usually knows more than anyone else – you could always go to her, since she already knows you tried to kill her. /You told me about Simone, when Isaac shot her. You came to me. When you needed to know what to do…And I came to you after the Carnival and about Kelly/." Sylar smiled wistfully at the strangely happier memories of connection, then snapped out of it, back to himself, grunting and lifting his head up and to the side with a wince. It didn't stop the warm feeling at having Peter's confidence, of knowing Peter's intimate secrets. "It's impossible to know what the truth is anymore, Peter," he admitted with considerable frustration, gripping at his hair for a moment. "I believe you, about killing him and…thank you," he blurted, "for not…keeping secrets."
XXX
Peter frowned as severely as he could in response to Sylar reciting Nathan's memories. But that was the extent of his reaction. Sylar had obviously recognized the slip and wasn't treating it lightly, so Peter relaxed to merely looking sullen. He nodded slowly. "I don't know what the truth is either," he said quietly. "I know what I've been through, or at least the way I've understood and remembered it. But I know how easily that can all be changed, or fabricated." Like you thinking you were Nathan. Like me...thinking you were, too. Still unhappy, he said, "I don't want to go to Ma about anything like that. Maybe she already knows – I don't care. I don't want her dealing with any more of my life than I have to."
He took a deep breath, let it out, and took his turn. He pushed the dice over to Sylar. "You asked another question before, when I wasn't talking. Do you still want it answered?"
XXX
Sylar looked at him blankly for a moment until he remembered, surprised that he'd forgotten and that Peter offered the answer now. "Oh, um. Yes." Even though I was an asshole when I asked it? He likes the politeness. He remembers and he…wants to talk about it. He wants me to talk about it so he doesn't have to interrogate me so he can manipulate me to save his girlfriend. It's very clever. Sylar plucked up the dice but didn't roll them yet.
XXX
Peter nodded. "I wanted to know if I could trust him. I wanted to know what he was trying to accomplish. I wanted to understand...him. And for once, I felt like I could. If I just..." Peter shrugged. He looked down and brushed his fingers along his brow, unconsciously indicating exactly what he'd 'just' have to do to truly understand Nathan. "Then when he fell, I realized what had happened, what I'd done. And I thought I'd..." He shook his head. "I don't know," he said softly, putting his hand to his irregularly heaving chest now and looking away. The panic attack that he'd had before when he tried to talk about this in the rec room threatened to recur. It's the not knowing that's setting me off. Just relax. I'll know. I'll find out. It'll work out. I don't even have to know. Calm. Focus. He tried to breathe deliberately and evenly. "I went back to your cell. To you...and Mom."
XXX
(He describes it so well. That wasn't supposed to happen to him. Everyone…failed him). Sylar felt the part of himself that held his abilities stir from the description and shared motive. If he'd been able, he knew he would have felt Hungry…or perhaps something else. Peter needed to be fixed, or eliminated as competition. Right now, the empath was powerless so he wasn't competition in the fullest sense. He saw Peter beginning to hunch and curl inwards, clutching his chest and taking panicked breaths like he had once before. "Relax, Peter," he said, intending command but his voice came out softer than that. Without thinking (over-thinking), he reached out and several fingers latched onto the top of Peter's nearer shoulder, holding and patting at the same time. He knew he had to wait; there was no sense pushing Peter right now. Sylar focused on this…situation, this fixable problem rather than remember his mother falling to the ground, bloody, gone so quickly, staring at him in surprise, and the realizations that came with it.
XXX
Peter leaned into Sylar's unexpected touch, shutting his eyes and breathing deeper and more regularly. He reached up and put his hand over Sylar's, holding him there, as he regained some equilibrium. He straightened once he felt he didn't need the contact, murmuring, "Thank you," as he did.
XXX
When Peter was recovered and breathing normally, Sylar tried for a wry partial grin. "You're not like me." The little Petrelli's reaction told so much of his story, explaining his humanity even as it stood directly opposed to some of his other actions. It was a relief (Peter wasn't broken) and a disappointment (Sylar was alone because Peter didn't understand).
XXX
"How?" Peter asked. "What do you mean?"
XXX
"I don't…You kill but you're not a killer." He remembered saying that as he killed Arthur. For Peter. Sparing him because his stupid little brother (at the time) had come back for him, unasked for, and how sparing him had led to a world of trouble and hurt for everyone. And then how Peter had technically, unintentionally spared him by failing to kill him. "You're…different." Special. Fuck him. This was too much of fond feelings, from his pathetically desperate self or from Nathan, towards someone Sylar deeply hated for wronging him. "How do you do that? No one knows you kill, sometimes the exact same way I kill, and even the people who do know don't care, don't hold it against you. Either you're so smart that you've figured it out or…fortune favors you or…" he shook his head, arms crossed now, dice clenched in a fist, feeling that melting pot of emotions he could never hope to sort out. Why did he never help me?
XXX
Peter shook his head slowly. "Why do I have powers, but not someone smarter or older or better equipped to handle them? Why did Claire have regeneration to survive you but none of the others did? Why is one person killed in an automobile accident, but not another?" He gave a slow, confounded shrug, his face twisting in sadness. "I don't know. We ask ourselves in the medical profession all the time – why this person and not that one? We want to trade one person's health for another's survival, but we can't. We have people ask us if they can donate organs to save their children or their parents only to find they aren't a match. I don't know." He looked Sylar dead in the eye. "I don't know why you and I have abilities that are so similar, but turned out so different. Nathan saved me twice. You, from what I gather, didn't have anyone. Maybe that's the difference. But I don't have anyone anymore either." His voice was harsh, very aware that he was looking at the reason why he had no brother, no safety net, no backup, no one to go to. Reality had reduced him to confiding his deepest secrets to Sylar because there was no one else – Sylar, and abilities, had taken everyone else from him.
XXX
The empath's answer was at least a little comforting – it wasn't a problem or occurrence specific to Sylar, however, it was a problem he shared with ordinary people it would seem. I'm above that. (Or I should be). He doesn't know either. Now that Peter replied, and didn't just brush him off the way Claire had years ago, he now saw the similarity in asking Peter the same thing though he hadn't really intended to. It was a little embarrassing but Peter was unaware. All that passed through him quickly as Peter hit what must be the crux of the matter, that of having/not having connections. They were so important to everyone else yet Sylar had still doubted Lydia's (and Claire's) advice, especially alone for three years.
Sylar's smirking, wide grin was completely sardonic. "Oh, there it is. It's all my fault, isn't it? Cry me a river, Petrelli. It's so sad that you're all alone." Shaking his head, he pretended to focus on the game. "You're all talk," he said with dismissive assurance.
XXX
The offensiveness was so unexpected that Peter was taken aback. "What did you say?" The words weren't actually in doubt, just the intention behind them. Did we really just go from talking about how destiny set us on different tracks to him making fun of me for it? Is he trying to start a fight?
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"I said," Sylar lifted his head to make eye contact, enunciating, "You're all talk. What are you going to do about it? I killed your brother and here you are, playing games and sleeping with me. What's your big plan – talking me to death?" He leaned closer to Peter, sticking his face into the man's space with casual disregard to safety. "What are you gonna do about it, Pete?"
XXX
Yeah, he's starting a fight. There was no 'trying' about it. Even though he knew Sylar was deliberately pushing his buttons, Peter didn't see any reason not to let it happen. They were already sitting closer than they needed to; Sylar had made that arrangement and Peter had gone along with it. Now it meant the guy was right in his face - in easy range. Without any warning (though really, how did Sylar expect him to react?), Peter punched the man directly in the center of the chest with his left fist. His right followed an instant later, reaching for the back of Sylar's neck to pull him facedown and double him up. The hand ended up on the back of his head instead. That was just as good. He grabbed a fistful of plentiful hair, yanking down and forward to put Sylar off-balance and get him even closer where he couldn't fight back.
XXX
A quick one-two later, Sylar found his chest hurting and his hair in Peter's grasp. Coughing, he scrambled to avoid face planting into the couch (or worse, Peter's lap). There wasn't anywhere he could go except getting off the couch and then landing a few blind punches to force Peter to release his hair. Sylar hit something and tripped over it – the chair and the board game, which scattered over the floor. He growled in general frustration. His next move would be to punch at Peter's lower half, possibly even the man's groin because Peter wasn't shy about that area being an allowed target between them. "You're pathetic!" He spat venomously, waiting for Peter to stand or get within range.
XXX
Never liked Monopoly anyway, Peter thought. The rest of his attention went to dealing with Sylar. "You son of a bitch!" he told him, trying to revive his wrestling skills from more than a decade earlier. This was not his preferred method of fighting, but punches might screw either of them up. Instead, he tried to scramble around to Sylar's back, driving Sylar's head to the floor with his right hand still entwined in his hair and using his left to shove the man's body while he climbed over him.
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He was powerless unless he could manage to tear the hair from his head to make it a worthless handle. With his face being shoved towards the ground, Sylar could only grab at the hand that held him and slow his descent. On hand and knees, he held onto Peter's wrist and yanked it to allow enough space to pivot his head and body so he wasn't facedown. He had partial success, more or less rolling to his right side where, long arms or not, he couldn't hit anything of Peter's with significant force. This was not how he wanted any fight to go; it served only to enrage him further. He's not even hitting me! Not even a kick! That was almost more insulting than the rest of anything so far. "You're weak without him! Quick dicking around and fucking fight me!" Sylar had the leverage of gravity. He then yanked on Peter's arm to bring Peter down to his level where he might be able to do more than bite at his calves like some small, yappy dog. He wanted pain and contact for both of them!
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The yank had Peter stumbling. He let go of Sylar's hair to catch his balance by shifting his grip to Sylar's shoulder, then used the stance to slam a knee into the man's side. "Is that the best you've got, Sylar?" he snarled, trading a few punches to Sylar's back and ribs with Sylar kicking him in the leg and hip. Both of them were trying to maneuver to a better position, but it was awkward to do partly on the floor. Peter wasn't giving Sylar any room, either, staying crowded up close to the man. "I know he's dead!" he spat. "You told me you watched him die!" One of Sylar's kicks finally managed to connect with the nerve cluster on Peter's lower outside thigh. He fell back almost literally, catching himself on the arm of the couch. It gave Sylar the chance to regain his feet. For a few seconds there would be nothing Peter could do about that. So he fought with words, taking a few wild swings in the dark. "How many people have you done that to - taken their life and watched them leave?" Brows lifted, he tilted his head in exaggerated concern. "Anyone you've cared about? Is that what all of this is about?" He knew there was something there, some parallel to Sylar's own past that was fueling the violence. Either that, or it was Nathan's ghost trying to get revenge for the confession. Peter was betting on Sylar.
XXX
The blows were not enough to stop Sylar from rising to his feet, momentarily towering over Peter. His reaction to the truthful accusation was a tortured pause lasting a fraction of a second that felt like moments in the midst of a fight. He had no words to describe any of the hurt, betrayal, anger at himself and everyone else – none of it could be healed. Winding back, he put everything he had into his left hook, aimed at Peter's face.
XXX
Shit! Peter saw it coming; he dodged, having gained enough time for his leg to hold his weight and respond properly. That hit a nerve. So much for playing nice. He'd been pulling his punches, or at least being careful with his targeting, up to now. Not that he had any skin in putting a serious hurt on Sylar, but it was becoming clear he needed to if he wanted to win this. Peter had no desire to be 'scraped off the floor' again with the following week consisting of helpless recuperation. Answering Sylar's earlier comments, he bit out, "I'm not the only one here with a death wish, but I'm not going to help you out. What you've done is not going away, I'm not forgetting about it, and I'm not giving up!" He tucked his head and rammed his right shoulder into Sylar, his left fist hooking up for body blows while he kept his right close to his chest.
XXX
Peter got into his space but didn't hold him there, intending to strike at his core until he fell. Sylar wanted the pain, wanted to hurt, and wanted more. He reacted to the blows, curling inwards on them, but caught Peter by the back of the hair and slammed a fist into his face. "No, you need me to fix everything for you!" He quit hitting the man and grasped his throat in a long-fingered grip. It was a sign of desperation and frustration to do something that usually ended in the other person dying. Sylar lifted and threw him away by the throat, aiming him at the couch out of anger. He wanted to see Peter slam into it, fall over it, and otherwise stay down and away, knowing he'd been beaten into submission and silence.
XXX
Peter sprawled in the corner of the couch, the room spinning from the hit to the face, not able to process what had happened after that. He flailed for a moment as he tried desperately to get his bearings on Sylar through the mental haze. When he saw Sylar wasn't taking advantage of the moment, Peter rolled over the arm of the furniture. With it between him and Sylar, he could cough and gag his way past the abuse his neck had just taken. It was enough of a breather to regain his footing and wits.
XXX
With Peter seemingly unable to speak, it left Sylar an opening. "You hate me because you're just like me! A killer; monster! Give up on the denial, Petrelli!" Sylar did his best to yell and recover from the hits he'd taken without appearing like he needed the break.
XXX
Peter circled out from behind his momentary cover, preparing to re-engage. "Oh yeah?" he said in heated response to Sylar's taunt. His voice was rough. "Who's in denial here? I've been the one fixing things while you stand around and heckle me!" With a curled lip, he continued, "Have you ever really made anything better, Sylar? Have you even tried to make anyone other than yourself happy?" Without waiting for a reply, he launched into a serious offensive of jabs and hooks, risking his right hand (mostly the forearm) to block and grab while his left took on the heavier-duty job of impact. When he seemed to have Sylar staggered, he tried a leg sweep coupled with a shove at the nearer shoulder.
XXX
Sylar was stupidly stunned at the cruel contradiction. For a moment, he thought Peter would continue to verbally abuse him and that gave him barely time to consider the words. I thought he thanked me for saving him and Claire and Angela…That was selfish? It was all selfish? He hadn't yet made it to the conclusion that Peter claimed he'd never fixed anything properly, unselfishly in his life. He had time to frown before Peter was on him in a flurry of attack. Peter grabbed hold of his left hand and dragged it across his body, keeping it out of the way as Sylar tried to push the man away with his right though it did him no good. Petrelli pummeled his long torso when Sylar left it open – chest, gut, sides, and groin. Many of the blows took the air and unformed words out of him so he slumped forward into Peter only to be tripped and shoved hard, straight back to the floor. He was badly rattled from the heavy impact and couldn't immediately move.
XXX
Yes! Peter thought with savage glee about his victory. He knew it wasn't necessarily permanent, though. Sylar might just get back up and majorly kick his ass – the guy had shown extraordinary resilience in the past. But … he wasn't getting up. Sylar was just lying there, making shallow, stuttering breaths and looking unfocused. Oh shit. The pleasure of winning evaporated. Fuck, did he hit his head? Sylar had gone down hard and unprepared, with Peter still tying up the man's hands enough so he hadn't even managed to break his fall. A third concussion, even a mild one, within such a short period of time was incredibly dangerous. I was so careful not to hit him in the head this time! I didn't want this … I shouldn't have tripped him. It's my fault. "Sylar?" he asked with concern in his voice, staying where he was and trying to assess. He still might get up and kick my ass, you know.