Day 66, February 14, Afternoon
Sylar lay there, hardly moving. He waited for Peter to finish him off or leave. He was in several kinds of serious pain, Peter's words and opinions and the physical hurts, including being smacked into the floor, though he wasn't genuinely injured. So he there he lay, face screwed up, squirming slightly to ease his back, ribs, and skull, hoping to breathe and recover his wits. If a few tears leaked from the sides of his eyes as his chest heaved, he couldn't be held responsible, as he would blame the contact with the floor.
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Peter lowered his hands from where he'd still been holding them defensively in front of himself, like a boxer interrupted mid-bout. "Are you okay? Sylar?" His body language changed completely – shoulders relaxing, posture straightening, chin lifting, face and voice softening. He moved closer, circling to come in on Sylar's side rather than walk up next to the man's legs. He might be thinking of how to help Sylar rather than hurt him, but that didn't mean he'd lost his caution. He went to one knee. "Let me see."
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A groan was his only answer. He couldn't think of anything biting enough that wouldn't get him instantly punched again and Peter didn't deserve much more than that anyway. Seeing Peter approaching (out of range of being kicked), he cringed a little. There was nothing to do but wait for whatever Peter was going to do.
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No verbal response. Great, he thought with sarcasm. You go around concussing all your patients, Peter? Peter put one hand on Sylar's shoulder and moved the other along the man's scalp, fingers stroking through the hair as he checked for laceration. "Here. Just stay right there for a moment. Let me check."
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He went still, feeling so helpless and keeping a wary eye on the incoming hands. They were gentle and well meaning, which almost made everything worse because he couldn't reconcile that with the man who said such truthful, cutting things and who had taken his mind away in the past. He was past caring if Peter attacked his mind in any way right now – perhaps not remembering, being someone else would be a boon.. He needs me; but he doesn't. I can't fix anything for him anyway; but he still needs me to do it? Saving people- when I save people, it's selfish; but when he does it it's heroic? I fix things…That's all I've ever done…What does he know about anything? Why the hell is he touching me? He's not my brother and he wasn't particularly nice to Nathan, either. So he clutched at Peter's wrist and forearm, telling himself it was to stop the touch, any further hurt, or even the help, whatever it was Peter was offering. He was not above playing possum, especially if it helped muddle through his pain and confusion.
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"Easy," Peter said softly, letting Sylar pull his hand away from the back of Sylar's head. He hadn't felt anything – maybe a hot spot where a contusion was forming, but certainly no blood – and he feared having set off Sylar's well-founded phobia about having his head touched. "It's okay. You're not bleeding. That's all I wanted to see." He focused on Sylar's eyes, confirming what he thought he'd seen earlier – tear tracks. Those aren't because I was hitting him. It must have been something I said. He assumed the cause was the comment about watching loved ones die, because out of all his trash-talk, that would have been the thing that upset Peter the most. The pupils were both the same size, though, which was the immediate issue. Sylar's grip on his arm loosened somewhat, but he didn't let go. Peter nodded to himself at the good sign. He started to slip his hand under Sylar's shoulder. "Do you think you're ready to sit up?" He considered the possibility that Sylar might have broken a rib or injured his back in some manner that prohibited the motion. It seemed unlikely. More important was that he wanted to get Sylar somewhat upright and see if he was responsive or oriented. Once he knew that, then he could ask questions about specific injuries.
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Peter apparently moving on from the fight made him feel even more insane on the inside. He knew he was supposed to 'let go' of nearly everything but it was never easy or sometimes successful. Bitterly, he said, "There's no point in saving your friends, is there?" and continued to lie there, laughing for a moment because nothing was amusing.
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Peter sighed. He didn't know how much of Sylar's behavior was genuine or because he'd hit his head. He supposed it didn't matter. "I don't know what's going to happen with my friends," he said with resignation. "I can't do anything for them right now. But you're here. And I'm here. Let's focus on that." Still holding onto Sylar, he turned to face him more directly. "How are you feeling? Are you hurt?"
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With his pride wounded, he resented every helpful behavior from Peter – Peter, who should be beating him senseless. I can't get him to fight me properly. What the hell kind of failure is that? I'm sure it's selfish and useless. "I'm fine. Whatever," he snapped and began to raise himself partially upright without a plan for what came after that.
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Peter nodded. Almost less important than the answer itself was the fact that Sylar had answered at all and showed an understanding of the question. "Let's stay on the floor for a few minutes. Come over here. We'll lean against the couch." He tried to guide Sylar over, watching how the man navigated to see if his balance was off. He was increasingly getting the impression that Sylar was basically okay, aside from being bruised and battered. Peter settled in next to him, close enough that they touched shoulders. The proximity was intentional, but he couldn't admit to himself that it was because he was still insecure about Sylar's rejection of him for discovering he'd killed Nathan.
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Sylar glared and told himself he didn't care if Peter saw it, but he followed. The dissonance came from wanting to feel better, or possibly wanting comfort, and being unable to get it – or when he received it, it was for the wrong reasons, being something that was not allowed. Sylar partially folded his legs and wrapped his elbows around his knees, back against the couch. He could feel Peter's heat through their clothing. He was worried he'd been too obvious since Peter had guessed a number of hidden things all at once. How does he know those things? Has he been…looking in my memories or has he always known somehow…? Most of those things Sylar thought were obvious (or within deduction) but he'd always done a decent job of hiding them so it was rare for them to be used to manipulate him. What is he going to do now he knows? This is why I don't talk to him; I knew he'd figure it out eventually. As he sat, in silence, unsure if he was waiting for some additional lecture, he began to feel the individual points of impact from the fight, aching and painful. It was some kind of normal anchor, much needed. He also knew he could easily sucker Peter into taking care of him at this point or perhaps he already had.
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They sat together quietly, which was an improvement over yelling insults at one another. Peter could feel his heart rate slowing and with it, the fade of adrenaline. He touched his fingers lightly then gripped his knees. They were shaking some and it irritated him. It looked like weakness even if he knew it was completely normal. His face ached from where Sylar had tagged him hardest. At some point he'd scuffed the knuckles on his left hand pretty badly – most likely from hitting Sylar in the ribs or back, getting what amounted to a bad friction burn. He had no serious injuries, though. The only thing worth worrying about was if Sylar's concussion had been made worse. "How's your head?"
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"It hurts, how do you think it feels? That was the idea, wasn't it?" It felt strange to argue side by side when they weren't looking at one another. I'm sure I'm the one being argumentative. Sylar made to rub at the back of his head and neck to complete the illusion of injury. It didn't hurt like a concussion like Peter worried it was, but he had been smacked against the floor and unable to catch himself. He wondered how intentional that was. Yanking on the Petrelli's sense of guilt (rightly so), Sylar slumped a little against his shoulder.
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Peter pressed his lips together, looking away. He savored Sylar leaning into him; he worried about it. But at the same time as both of those warm feelings, he also felt the rising heat of stifling rage at Sylar's words. He started it! 'That was the idea'? Like it was my idea? Like I wanted to hurt him? (I didn't then, but I do now!) Then he remembered Sylar's words that had started this, about how he'd made a mockery of Peter tolerating him, how before that, he'd sneered at Peter's wounded silence and created the injury in the first place by slapping him away when he'd reached towards Sylar for comfort. And now for Sylar to imply this was all part of some grand scheme of Peter's from the start? It was ridiculous and infuriating.
He tried to get a handle on his surging emotions, feeling his pulse rate racing upwards again. With difficulty, through set teeth, he said, "I don't like the way you're treating me. This-" There had to be a reasonable, mature way to say what was wrong between them, but words failed him. He couldn't even figure out where to start, except that he knew the problem lay with Sylar. Shaking his head, he got to his feet by using the couch to push his sore body upwards. I don't have to figure out where to start. It's not my problem. It's his. Firmly, he said, "I'm going over to the Y. Stay away if all you're going to do is pick fights with me." He started to leave, stepping around the mess of fake dollars and scattered game pieces, then looked over his shoulder with an intent, focused glare of his own. "And clean this up," he said without bothering to indicate the Monopoly game. Sylar knew what he meant and if he didn't, he'd soon find out. Peter gathered up his coat and walked out.
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"What? Peter!" He lurched to his feet to follow, grabbing his own coat, donning it hastily. This was the most cruel trick of all – now fighting to feel worse in order to feel better in order to get comfort wasn't working with reliable Peter? Sylar was aware that Peter didn't like the method, or his behavior, but… With a little venom, he said of being commanded to pick up, "For a guy who hates being told what to do, you sure enjoy telling other people what to do."
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Peter ignored him. He rarely told people what to do. Telling Sylar would be a lot more enjoyable if Sylar would actually do it. Maybe I'm channeling my dad. I guess he's good for something. He rolled his eyes slightly at the thought and kept walking, letting the doors swing behind him as he left the Pegasus and hoping the timing was right so they'd smack Sylar in the nose. Well, not really. It was an amusing thought, though.
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No answer. That wasn't good. I do more than pick fights. He knows that, too. He's exaggerating. Something is bothering him. "You're the one who tripped me…" he protested logically. "I'm…How am I treating you?" It was better to get to Peter's side of things than play the other 'lonely waiting' game the empath was so fond of. He knew he was being trained and resented it even as it (sometimes) got the desired results.
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Despite his desire to subject Sylar to the quiet act again, that seemed like a genuine question. Peter still couldn't decide if Sylar was playing dumb or, well, seriously didn't understand what he was doing, but he answered anyway, with heat and exasperation in his voice. "Like it's my fault, and it's not!" I'm not discussing this. Rudely, he snapped, "Shut up." No, that's...don't sink to his level. "Just … please," he said, trying to recover some civility. "Don't talk to me." He kept walking, taking a bearing for the Y. He was put out by Sylar accompanying him, but he didn't do anything to prevent it. Since Sylar obeyed his order for silence, Peter calmed a little. He didn't even walk faster or swerve to get further away.
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Sylar sighed loudly but stayed with Peter, who had only deigned to speak with him less than an hour earlier after days of being apart. It was humiliating. Yet he had needs. He didn't know how long he could hover and linger without it becoming painfully clear what was going on and that he wasn't welcome to do even that. He kept his thoughts to himself this time, aware that he was credited with the blame for ruining the afternoon (and possibly the next few days).
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Peter did not approve of Sylar going with him all the way to the Y. I came here to relax and get away from him. How can I do that with him dogging me? Changing his mind and doing something else was out of the question. Peter had a mission, so he stuck with it despite Sylar's unwelcome presence. He grabbed a handful of towels off the rack beside the locker room and went inside one of the stalls to change. He had a moment of doubt as he stood there naked, looking down at his pile of clothes on the bench. I could wear my boxer briefs to the hot tub...but no, that would make it look like I was a prude. And I'll look even worse if I go out naked like I always do when I'm alone. He ended up wrapping one towel around his waist and holding it securely, while putting two others under his arm. Sylar wasn't out there when he came out. Peter breathed a tense sigh, wondering what the hell that meant. Did he leave? Is he lurking around here watching me? Is he changing clothes like he's going to join me? Fuck, I can't go look, that would be completely weird if he caught me looking in the stalls for him. Shaking his head, he continued to the hot tub, dropping the extra towels a few feet away and then squatting next to the small pool to tinker with the controls.
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Sylar sat at one of the benches in the locker room, waiting to see what Peter was doing first – changing most likely, and it wasn't like Peter could escape from one of the stalls. Quietly, he followed suit, stripping and wearing a towel out to the hot tub area. That's hostile, isn't it? He's going to freak out and think I'm going to try something. That's why he's upset – I keep…scaring him.
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There he is. Damn it. He was glad he hadn't dropped the towel. He blinked at seeing Sylar the same way. He can't possibly think he's getting in there with me. He wasn't sure where he wanted to fight over this, but the best thing seemed to be claiming the hot tub for himself as quickly as possible. Shifting, he put one hand on the lip of it and swung into a sitting position with his feet in it. Still holding the towel around himself, he pushed off to slide into the water. Once under the concealment of the churning water, he pulled the sopping towel over his shoulders and hung onto the ends of it in case he needed it as an impromptu weapon. Bracing himself on the floor, he stood as tall as he could. Chest out, he said sharply to Sylar's approach, "Fuck off!"
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He noted the body language immediately, carefully looking it over in fact. Well, what else am I supposed to wear? It isn't like he thought this out any better and brought swim trunks. "You said if I was only going to start fights. I'm not going to. Or do anything weird," he pronounced with a slight roll of his eyes, pausing before jumping in literally speaking. "But if I bump feet with you on accident, it's because I'm tall." I can't help that unfortunately. I could. When I had shapeshifting, he thought longingly. Keeping his towel on and struggling to keep covered with the bubbles and floating, heavy fabric of wet towel and doing a much less graceful job than Peter, he slid into the tub well across from the man.
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Oh. Peter wilted marginally. I'm the one starting a fight now. (No, he is, because he's coming over here intruding when he has the whole rest of the world to be in!) "You're still not taking responsibility for anything, Sylar! If you bump feet with me, it's because you bumped me." Sylar was lowering himself into the water as Peter spoke. Peter backed off as far away as he could get, which wasn't nearly far enough for his liking. If either one of them tried to stretch out and relax, they would be touching and that was way more intimacy than Peter was willing to handle at the moment. His hands shifted their grip uneasily on the ends of the towel and he glanced to the sides, brief thoughts of escape running through his mind. Now that he'd made it to his goal (the hot tub), he wasn't sure how committed he should be to remaining in it.
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Sylar's mouth quirked at an unamused smirk as he affirmed, serious and facetiousness, "Right." No accidents and intent doesn't matter. After a few moments of wincing at the initial additional assault, the sting on bruises, and the gooseflesh from the temperature extremes, he said with half a question, "I thought you were supposed to ice after injuries. That's…what you always did before with me."
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"Yeah, I should," Peter said, still looking distracted and jumpy. He was also still standing, passing up the opportunity to sit deeper in the water like he was supposed to. He glared daggers at Sylar for a long, angry, tense moment, before looking away, bristling all over again, and finally convincing himself that sitting down was safe enough to do. He kept his feet drawn up tight next to the underwater bench on his side just in case.
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"Hmm." Sylar, for his part, did his best to be unobtrusive. He kept his eyes closed and all his limbs accounted for. It was clear Peter still felt threatened even though it was his idea to go more-or-less naked and he wasn't usually shy of this kind of thing. He hasn't been this weird after the other fights. Sylar pondered how to get around both needs for safety and being respected through fear.
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Peter stayed tensely on guard for what felt like minutes. He felt very vulnerable with nothing other than bubbling water between himself and Sylar. What if he starts another fight? What if he just starts insulting my family? I can't do anything about it here! He looked around longingly at the exits again. They were there, available, ready, should Peter need them. But Sylar was keeping to his place. Slowly, very slowly, Peter calmed down. He wants to be with me. That's normal, right? (Well, here. And for him. Because we're here.) I'll take what I can get. He breathed out heavily and finally looked at Sylar with a less than overtly hostile gaze.
Swallowing, he said, "Yeah, ice. We...should. But I come here to relax. It makes me feel better. I'd rather have the mental comfort than the physical." And since so many of Peter's other avenues to coping with stress were cut off (no people, no one he could help except Sylar, no work to throw himself into, and working out after a fight wouldn't work either), he was particularly sensitive to having Sylar here, threatening this one.
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Sylar opened his eyes to gaze at his companion. He wondered if that was common or more common with specials. "I agree with that", he intoned to everything the man said. After that, he looked around the rest of the pool complex, feeling flushed from the heat and steam. It had been a long time since he'd been in a hot tub. He tried not to think about getting an erection, here, naked, with Peter, when he was trying to calm the little man. The whole day was weird.
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Peter nodded, glad he was understood without further explanation. It was Sylar being here, in Peter's space, which was so unsettling. The circumstances themselves were…manageable, so since Sylar seemed content not to intrude further, Peter got to managing them. He turned sideways on his side of the tub, backing into a corner and putting his legs up so he could stretch them out with a relieved sigh and no danger of 'bumping' anyone. He let the heat sink into his body, the constant jets of water soothing, stimulating, and focusing. It was like fingers touching him all over, like not being alone. After savoring that for a while, he asked his companion, "What do you usually do after a fight to...you know, wind down?" Fighting wasn't something Peter simply did. It always had context and the less purpose it had, the more upset he was about it. Regaining his stability after some pointless skirmish was an exercise in self-care. He didn't think the struggle with Sylar had been pointless, but that didn't mean he knew what it was about.
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Am I supposed to be talking to him now? He looked at Peter as he thought. Peter being keyed up made things…tense for him, though the trick was acting like he wasn't tense. "It depends on the fight. Sometimes I get what I want out of it, other times…it's just more frustration, trying to sort things out," he pointed to his head to indicate the mess that was (or had always been) his mind. "Anger can give me focus and time allows me to plan. I just try to get back to normal – you know, my version of it," Sylar shrugged but didn't feel like waiting to see how Peter handled his response. "What do you need to calm down?" That was the point of all this (almost all of it) and Peter might divulge something applicable to the here and now.
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"Arguments I can cope with by working out and exhausting myself." Or losing myself in someone else. (Not an option, he warned himself.) "Fights…it's harder to turn off once I've flipped that switch. Understanding what it was all about helps," Peter said slowly, keeping an eye on Sylar but not demanding an explanation about this latest tiff by looking at him directly. "Is that what you mean about trying to sort things out?"
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Sylar raised an eyebrow briefly as if to say, 'oh, you'd like that, would you?' He was not inclined to explain his feelings and needs from before the fight – obviously – and now after Peter had been hurtful in several ways and didn't care for him didn't make him want to open up. He liked knowing what Peter wanted, though. I guess I didn't mention that I'm always alone for sorting myself out and trying to get back to normal. Yeah, I suppose understanding helps, but how often does anyone actually get it? "Uh…" Sylar considered it. "I guess, in a way…" I guess I'm trying to understand…myself, the other person, the situation, what I can do about it, and what I have to deal with. It still depends on the fight.
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"Time helps," Peter said with an approving nod. "I don't know so much about planning. I tend to stay upset until I can get something resolved." He waited a beat, then said, "Like Mohinder. I got him – his motivations. I didn't agree but I understood his point of view. Or like with Nathan." Peter stopped to swallow, finding it annoying that his throat still struggled at times to pronounce that name. "He was a selfish jerk. Once I accepted that, I could get past it." He shook his head. "Until then, I was so angry at him. I wanted better from him, but it wasn't something he was able to give. My expectations were the problem."
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Resolution? Sylar mentally scoffed at the idea. There were precious few fights he could recall even…addressing whatever the issue was, let alone getting or giving resolution. The one useful Nathan-related thing caught his attention. He said I was selfish and I know he thinks I'm a jerk. So if I say I'm nothing but a selfish jerk, he'll…accept it and leave me alone? But I'm nothing like Nathan and I don't want to remind him of Nathan in any way. He…should expect better from me. Is that what he's trying to say? It required more thought.
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He pulled in a deep breath, thinking this sounded a lot like an underhanded attempt to get Sylar to explain himself. While Peter certainly wouldn't mind such a disclosure, he didn't even want an explanation at the moment. He was sure it would be full of blame-shifting and evasions that would leave him angrier than before. Best just to leave it be and try to calm down by other ways. "Talking to you like this helps." He looked over at Sylar with curiosity. "Why are you in the hot tub with me?" Of all the places he could be right now, why did he follow me here?
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That sounds flirty. Are you flirting with me, Peter Petrelli? But he knew saying that, no matter how much he wanted to, would result in Peter's immediate absence. Peter meant no such thing anyway, his tone and body language were clear on it. It felt like an obvious answer or a question that didn't need to be asked, partly because Sylar didn't want to answer it but he knew it was important. "Because you're in the hot tub." He couldn't keep out the tone of 'duh' and simultaneous, hesitant question as he said it.
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Peter studied Sylar's face and as he did, the expression on his own softened. A smile curled his lips on one side of his mouth. He looked away, charmed and embarrassed. He wants to be with me. Even after the punching. And the yelling. And the things I said. His gut gave an odd tingle he normally associated with emotions much warmer than those he thought he should be feeling towards Sylar. Trying to put on a serious face, he looked back to ask with concern, "Is your head really okay? I mean, is your headache worse?"
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Sylar answered with a verbal shrug, "You said it was okay. So I imagine I'll live." Perhaps there still was a way to get Peter to care for him, medically. As soon as it was out of his mouth, he realized that was exactly what Peter was upset about, being blamed. Sylar changed his tune some, "I'll live," he said more definitively and left it at that.
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Peter nodded, eyes sweeping what he could see of Sylar. There were dark splotches blooming on his right shoulder where Peter had grabbed him in the course of the fight. I wonder how his scalp is? I jerked around on his hair a lot. "I was really trying not to hit you in the face, or hurt you bad." He stopped well short of an apology. Sylar was still the one who'd started it after all, but Peter hoped he was at least playing by whatever nebulous 'rules' Sylar thought were in place between them. His desire to make sure Sylar was okay came to the forefront. Peter tugged the towel off his shoulders and made to arrange it around his hips – a difficult task under swirling water. "You're right, though. We should get some ice. How are your ribs?" Clutching the dripping towel over enough of himself to be polite, Peter got out of the floor-set hot tub in reverse from how he'd gotten in – using the seating ledge to stand on and sitting on the rim, then swinging his feet under him and rising.
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A jerk of his chin upwards was Sylar's acknowledgement. Yes, on the one hand, he knew Peter had taken it very easy on him (and that was part of what angered him so, when he'd wanted more, something real from the other man); on the other, tripping him and practically forcing him hard to the floor wasn't 'easy.' "My ribs are fine. It's my back that hurts." As he anticipated, Peter struggled with his makeshift towel garment, doing a poor enough job of it that he saw a lingering flash of pale, muscular thigh and side of a buttock. Sylar raked his eyes over the man, enjoying the exhibitionism.
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Peter squatted to recover his dry towels, now wondering why he'd brought them out in the first place. He tucked them under the same arm that was holding up the wet towel around his waist, clamping them against his torso. "There's a first aid station in the main office near the entrance. There's also a fridge with ice packs. I can get one of those for you." And one for me. He felt of his face where Sylar had tagged him. It was already swollen, the skin feeling tight. "Come on. Let's dry off." He made a gesture towards the changing room, then stood there waiting, watching as Sylar navigated his own exit of the tub.
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After a momentary pause, Sylar covered himself with his own sopping towel and stood to follow Peter. Right away, he noticed the Italian was unmoving, facing him, and likely watching him keep himself covered, not for his own decency, but for Peter's, the guy who…didn't seem to care if he saw something. Sylar felt his blood pulse hotter than it had when in the hot tub. He took his time getting out of the water, wrapped the towel low about his hips, standing dripping, tall and still for Peter's inspection.
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A part of Peter's brain insisted he was looking for other bruises and signs of pain or difficulty in moving – standard paramedic stuff and exactly what a professional should do when dealing with a patient who couldn't be trusted to accurately report their condition. Another part really wasn't thinking at all - at least not in the manner of so-called 'higher' thought. Peter's eyes took in the peculiar pattern of dark, glossy hairs against Sylar's pale, nearly-nude skin, skin that showed the bruises Peter had put there so clearly. He had put them there and for once, he didn't feel guilty about it. He'd won the fight and yet Sylar still wanted to be near him, had followed him here, and wasn't arguing with him anymore. Peter's gaze moved up and down Sylar's lovely proportions in a manner that was almost rude. He looked back to the man's face – the most appealing, most moving, and most frightening part of him. He had such beautiful eyes, such an expressive mouth – both so evocative of depth of feeling, and Sylar – he felt deeply, of that Peter had no doubt.
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I need to give him more opportunities to look, Sylar thought smugly, living up the attention – finally! Just as good, he couldn't be blamed for being a pervert when the setting and lack of clothing was Peter's idea and the empath was thrilled at being so desired. He's a fucking pervert, too. If he needs to lay a little blame to get his rocks off, that's fine. Sylar held his garment loosely, bunched over his groin, waiting, looking up at his companion with dark, penetrating eyes.
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Eye contact. He's looking right at me. (What am I doing?) I'm staring at him. Wrong. Whoops. Peter twitched and looked away, knowing he'd just been caught dead to rights ogling the guy. He cleared his throat nervously and started towards the locker room, glancing back to see if Sylar was following. He was, and nothing had been said about Peter's complete lapse in propriety. That's a good sign, isn't it? What does he think I was doing? Does he think that meant anything? (Doesn't it?) I shouldn't be looking at him like that. (How can I not look at that?! I'm not a saint!) It doesn't have to mean anything, though. With another unnecessary, embarrassed cough, Peter said, "You seem to be moving fine, so I'd guess your ribs are okay. They might still be bruised, but nothing's broken." It sounded inane even to him, but he had to say something. Otherwise, all there was between them was a couple of flimsy towels, a ton of animosity, and Sylar's hot gaze burning him up from the inside out.
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Peter came out of whatever ogling trance he'd been in and made for the locker room. Sylar walked behind, casually, meeting Peter's eyes at each glance back at him. He didn't hide his expression of knowing and nothing about his face spoke of disinterest. "Maybe you should check my back. It's all knotted up and tight from when I fell on it," he voiced as they entered the locker room. When he had Peter's attention, he grimaced and reached back to gesture at the area, turning slightly to encourage contact. It did hurt like he said, and there was the question of real if minor injury that only Peter could answer and heal. Absent was any blame this time.
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"Okay," Peter said falteringly, because the lure was too perfect to turn down – a need to take care of someone, what small responsibility Peter felt, and the not-to-be-underestimated itch of temptation. He touched at the offered skin. It was surprisingly dry and unsurprisingly warm. There was a faint tingle under his fingertips. It felt like forever since he'd felt that. He could barely think and what he could think was that he wanted more. "Sure," he continued with more enthusiasm than was proper. But he only had one hand, as the other was engaged with making sure his towel stayed in place. "Um, just...sit down. Here." He gestured to one of the benches for Sylar to sit on and went into one of the changing stalls himself. It did not happen to be the one with his clothes, which he realized and was flustered by once he was in there. He dropped the wet towel to the floor and the dry ones to the bench. Hurriedly, he arranged one of the dry ones around his waist, folding it into itself as tightly as he could. It wasn't terribly secure, but it would hold and it freed up his hands. He snagged the other dry towel on his way out.
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At the first contact, Sylar shivered and gooseflesh broke out for a moment. It felt very good, better than the hot tub by far. He then sat as directed, aware that his back would be turned if Peter was inclined to do anything, like touch his head or worse. It wasn't likely, especially with Peter's hasty return. Placing hands on thighs, he kept his head slightly tilted to the side to watch Peter peripherally, pretending to be curious.
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Peter returned and looked at Sylar's back. The most eye-catching thing was the reddened mark in the middle. It was right at the bottom of the thoracic section, or perhaps the top of the lumbar region – he'd have to count to be sure which and it really didn't matter either way. There was an ugly contusion that made prominent the locations of the vertebrae. "Yeah," Peter said faintly. "You got rashed up here pretty good where you hit. I'll bet that stings." He took the dry towel and wiped off a few stray drops of moisture from Sylar's sides, away from the wounded skin. The rest of Sylar's back was beautiful – broad, flat, pale like the rest of him, but generally hairless compared to his front. A few moles decorated the otherwise unblemished surface. He breathed out slowly, appreciating the view. Peter put a hand lightly on Sylar's shoulder. "Is this okay?" (No, of course it's not. What the hell am I doing?) Therapy. I'm doing therapy. He felt calm about that internal assertion. He had the sense that this helped.
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No…Come on! Touch me! It seemed like forever as he waited, back turned, for some medical treatment confused with molestation. Perhaps this wasn't going well. Peter wasn't…jumping on this like he'd expected. The medic was taking note of his pain now, which was part of the plan. "Yeah, of course," he invited.
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Peter's hand tingled faintly as he drew it down the left side of Sylar's spine, just touching. He could feel the texture of the flesh change as he passed over the injury site. It was swelling and hot even several inches away from the abrasion (which he avoided). He went lower, making a slow and probably-too-sensuous sweep across the small of Sylar's back, then leaned to get a better look at the marks on the man's right ribs. It was where most of the damage during the fight had been inflicted, as Peter had done nearly all his punching with his left fist. As before, he didn't see any sign of broken bones – no irregularities in shape and certainly nothing compound. "This will hurt a little," he said quietly. He probed as much as he dared along the intercostal joints and where the ribs joined with the spine. Everything seemed seated firmly, though he had no doubt it would hurt badly for days and be sore for weeks. There was nothing he could do about it except ease pain. He squared himself behind Sylar again, hands resting lightly on his shoulder blades. "Describe where the muscles are tight."
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That hand on his lower back was so good, completely unnecessary, delicious and suggestive. Sylar leaned forward some to accommodate further, lower touching. He couldn't help but moan, breathing harder as he felt his cock twitch and stir. Mouth open for a moment, he murmured roughly, "Between my shoulder blades, down low," my dick hurts, too.
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Peter smirked at the moan, glad to hear Sylar was enjoying it. He rubbed the area indicated, gently at first but then more firmly. Both his hands ached for different reasons – his left because he'd used it as a bludgeon against bony sections of his enemy and his right because the motions of the massage required putting pressure on newly-healed bones. There were motions he couldn't do at all, like setting his fist against the skin and twisting – the skin of his knuckles was torn and chafed. But he applied the pressure he could in small circles and slow glides. His skin where they touched was warm and tingling, like an ability purring softly. Peter assumed that was what it was and left it alone. He wanted to experience this...differently, physically, emotionally, and not through the haze of an ability (even if it were possible to use one now without changing everything and freaking both of them out). He held one shoulder, and with his other hand in the center of Sylar's back, pulled back to stretch him. Then he switched sides. "Stretching will help you. That's something the hot tub is good for: it will loosen you up some." The sexual innuendo was so heavy that even Peter realized how it sounded and what he was trying to get out of this. I am in so fucking deep here. (That's kind of dirty, too.) I can't win. With a sigh, he patted the outside of Sylar's shoulder. "Go get dressed." He turned and escaped to his own stall (this time the one with his clothes in it), hopefully before his half-hard erection could be seen.
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Sylar hummed, long and low with pleasure. He was surprised to be massaged but the more he thought about it, he shouldn't have been. Erections are normal for massages, right? They have to be. It won't be weird…He can't blame me. Fuck. His breath escaped him in a huff at being pushed and bent over; he practically quivered. "Okay," he croaked about the quote-unquote 'stretching.' Peter made to leave as Sylar turned to lust after him with his eyes. Come back here. Take some clothes off. He knew for certain Peter was into this, into him. You love getting your hands on me. The man's departure meant he didn't have to explain his obvious desire for more, but it still left him with nowhere to go but the shower and his own hand.
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