Day 66, February 14, Afternoon
After securing the door and stripping off his towel, Peter did not set directly to putting on his clothes. He turned on the shower instead, waiting a few seconds for it to warm. Then he stepped into the spray, shut his eyes, caressed himself, and moved on immediately to rubbing one out. It was easy and fast, but he didn't know if he'd ever wanted so badly to be with someone afterward. More than any injury from the fight, he ached to hold and touch and feel someone else with him. Instead, he wedged himself into the corner of the shower, facing outwards, and put his hands over his face. There was no one for him out there – only the same guy who'd murdered Peter's brother and mocked his feelings for it. Emotions washed over him in nauseating waves – raging desire, loneliness, wrath, grief, self-loathing, and then back to the void of desperate and unmet needs. He squatted and stayed there against the tile, using every shred of self-control he had to simply breathe and try to stop the tremors that had started in his hands after he'd jerked off. He felt sick and despondent, like he'd been dumped and left even though he knew it was him refusing to do anything. Because he wouldn't do anything – not with Sylar, not like this, not when the man hated him and Peter hated him back. He breathed out shaky breaths and let the cascading, still-running shower cover the sound.
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He didn't wait long, not expecting anything really. Showering in a formerly public place was almost a strange concept to him – Nathan had done it, was used to it. Showering after being in a hot tub wasn't necessarily immediately instinctive, but not smelling like chemicals and putting off his companion made sense. Then he slunk into his own stall, throbbing and frustrated about it. His mind kept coming back to the part where inviting himself into Peter's stall would result in loneliness for a lot longer than he'd previously experienced. But he wants it. That's good! That's…enough. I told him I would be patient. This time, his mind also supplied what could be called a 'fantasy' to go along with jerking off: Peter continued petting him, lusting after him, easing his hands down Sylar's back until the towel fell away; Sylar ended up bent over the damn bench, barely able to protect his knees from being skinned on it as Peter fucked him hard from behind, grabbing his shoulders, hair, and still touching down his back with such tenderness…He shouldn't want it, but it worked for him in that heated, if imagined, moment. He gushed and held himself upright using the wall. Still breathing quickly and more flushed from at least three different kinds of heat, he finished washing quickly lest Peter grow suspicious or worse, leave. Peter wasn't ready when Sylar emerged; at least, the shower was still running so he assumed the man was still there…When is it okay for me to check on him? I mean, in possible emergency situations. He waited, assuming, too, that he should wait here.
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Peter dried and dressed himself, finally feeling capable of that much. When he exited the changing stall, it took him a moment to remember what they were supposed to do next. Mumbling to himself, he said, "Oh yeah. Ice packs." He turned and headed off towards the central office, palpating the bruised part of his face more roughly than it deserved and not even looking at Sylar. He felt miserable.
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Peter's body language was all wrong: lack of eye contact, greeting or statement, slumped shoulders, walking away…Is he…ashamed? But nothing happened! I know that better than anyone. Does he think something happened? Does he think I think something happened? Or is he guilty that I liked it? Am I supposed to say anything about it or is this one of those 'we don't talk about it' things? Sylar walked beside and a little behind Peter, watching his face more than he watched where he, they, were walking. If I ask him, he'll probably tell me, but it also probably won't be something I can fix. (Selfish jerk…expectations…Competing with his fucking brother again) I can't ignore it. I was going to ask him how he was in the hot tub, but he kept talking.
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Peter opened the door to the previously-scouted out and explored central office for the Y. There were some uninteresting administrative offices tucked behind this one, but the front reception area had all the main attractions for him. It was equipped to handle any routine medical emergencies that might arise in the course of exercise - sprains and strains foremost among them. For that, they had a full size refrigerator set in the far corner that stocked chilled gel ice packs along with other, less relevant supplies like glucose solutions and electrolyte drinks. He sorted through the options, gladly setting his mind to something other than his current mess of emotions. He pulled out a couple standard rectangular packs in their blue cloth liners.
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Sylar shut the top freezer door with a little more force than was strictly necessary and stood there, mostly blocking Peter's path out of the corner. "How are you? After the fight. You need ice and pain killers the same as me but you're not complaining." On stupid instinct, he reached out to touch near the man's bruise, just brushing the area for a moment. It was the most obvious injury Peter had. "I grabbed your throat, too." It's not weird. This doesn't have to be weird. Why the fuck do I care, that's the real question! He gives me next to nothing, just teasing.
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Peter jumped when Sylar slammed the door next to him. His eyes flew wide and he sucked in breath at the unexpected confrontation. Sylar had his complete attention, but the man's question was just as perplexing as the way he'd shut the freezer door. Peter swallowed, blinked, and processed as Sylar went on and then reached for him. He's concerned. He cares how I am? Would he listen if I complained? Peter's lips parted as he glanced at the hand, then back to Sylar's eyes as he allowed the touch. He wanted it, though maybe not on his face, but he wasn't about to complain about that, either. His shoulders sagged as he relaxed visibly. He looked down, fingers restlessly kneading the ice packs he was holding. "I'm just...tired, Sylar. I'm okay...physically." He pushed an ice pack into Sylar's free hand as he maneuvered around the other man, brushing up against him by necessity, but not in an aggressive, bump-you-out-of-the-way manner. Instead he was familiar, putting the back of the hand holding his ice pack against Sylar's elbow and his other along the man's side as he slid by. Peter opened a cabinet behind them, searching it for supplies. He moved a couple elastic bandages to the front and pulled out a can of Benzocaine spray.
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Sylar could have purred at being touched some more, even after the hot tub, shower, being massaged and masturbating himself. He rotated to keep his eyes on Peter, looking him over when the empath was occupied. Even as he leered, he considered what Peter had said. That means something else is bothering him. Still. I don't know if I can explain myself and if I did, he wouldn't like it. How will that help? "What about the not-physical part?" Sylar pressed, feeling and sounding stupid as he did. It's like asking a girl what she's wants; it's completely pointless. Though he probably likes that crappy relationship stuff; that's what he wanted.
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Peter pulled up a stool and propped himself on it. "I can do something about 'physical'. I know what to do about 'physical'." He examined his knuckles briefly to make sure they were clean, then sprayed them with the can of topical painkiller. "Lift your shirt up and turn around. Let me spray this on your back. It'll take the sting out of it. It's going to be cold, though."
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Even I can do something about physical, and his thoughts derailed from there along similar lines. He was sure Peter had jerked off in the shower as well, just a few yards separating them. He took a long time in there. So he needs mental comfort of some sort; he said as much earlier. Peter confirmed it without giving any other helpful clues. He stared at Peter's face and lingered overly long in lifting his shirt to reveal his clean, hairy torso nearly all the way to his nipples before turning around. Are you sure that was 'lift your shirt' and not 'drop your pants?' Peter?
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Peter barely swallowed the noise he wanted to make at the display – still damp hair and that warm, freshly showered smell of man… He sighed and after Sylar turned, he put his left hand on Sylar's back, approximately over his kidney as though he was holding Sylar still. It was an entirely unnecessary gesture and he knew it. But he'd been allowed to touch and this was a good excuse to do it again. He sprayed down the abraded skin and surrounding area, still leaving his hand there after he was done. He looked up at the back of Sylar's head as he let his fingers slowly, slowly trail downward, hesitating briefly on the waistband of the man's jeans. God I want him. I am so fucked. That is so fucked up. I can't do this. (I can't do him, that is.) He was very aware of how close things were in here. It had never seemed this narrow and crowded before – but before, he'd always been alone. What am I going to do?
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Sylar felt his breathing deepen at first. The spray was indeed cold but numbed the injury quickly, yet the whole purpose was not his focus. Peter was intentionally making him feel good, caring for him like he suspected they both needed. And it got better. At those teasing fingers tickling his nerves, he exhaled as his eyes rolled shut. Oh, yeah. You jerked off to massaging me. Petrelli's desire for sex was now undeniably obvious and Sylar reveled in the fact that he (or his body at least) was desired. He didn't dare move though he had a thousand ideas of what to do to get closer, more sexual. It was so like his fantasy it was almost a frightening déjà vu. His dick, so soon after his release moments before, was desperate to harden again.
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Peter waited a few beats for Sylar to respond, react, demand something of him, and give him an excuse to end this before it went too far. He was not so lucky. His fingertips still rested on the skin immediately above Sylar's waistband. It was soft. Silky. Luscious. He shut his eyes and breathed in heavily. Oh, fuck yes. I can smell him. It was an exciting scent as always – layered with dangerous memories and mixed emotions – 'stimulating' was the best descriptor for it. He couldn't find it within himself to push Sylar away when he was doing nothing at all offensive, so instead he swallowed and offered, "There's some tiger balm in here, too, if you want it. That was the brand you had in your first aid kit, wasn't it?"
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He had to pull his mind from a very dark gutter to focus on what Peter had asked him. He cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah. Yes." Sylar felt himself melting, most of his pain was gone, he was riding high on endorphins and this sexual tension that his partner was clearly getting off to. The worst part was that he couldn't see or touch the man. He stayed where he was, apart from leaning forward to brace himself and hold up his shirt with the other hand. It was intentionally positioning his lower half closer to Peter and his back within better reach.
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Peter twisted to get the tube from the cabinet, his own sore muscles protesting. He ignored them, easy to do with something much more appealing to capture his attention. Sylar's back was still presented to him, and there was more than that. He couldn't imagine Sylar hadn't adopted the position on purpose. His mind flashed to massaging Sylar earlier. It was the same basic setup – Sylar in front, partly nude. Bending over for me. Oh my God. Peter's mouth dropped open. This was even more than the fantasy of Sylar blowing him. His erection hurried back to full force so fast that he had to adjust the ride of his jeans. Before it could seem like he was stalling, he put the camphor-scented lotion on the middle-upper part of Sylar's back, reaching up with his clean hand to push the man's shirt up a little more. He held the fabric there in a loose fist that rested on the base of Sylar's neck. He spread the tiger balm liberally with smooth, up and down strokes of his other hand, firmly pressing with fingertips that buzzed with suppressed energy. He scooted his hips to the edge of the stool without thinking about it. There was still an inch or two of space between them, but otherwise the staging was unmistakable.
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He straightened only slightly, swallowing hard at the feeling of his shirt being made into a sort of collar around his neck – positioned and held tight. When Peter was completely finished, Sylar allowed his shirt to slip down as he straightened, turning to face Peter. "Let me put some on you," he said and pointed to the tiger balm only to get Peter's allowance lest his words give the right idea. When he had the okay, Sylar commanded without completely hiding his interest, "Take your shirt off and tell me where you need it."
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Peter smiled nervously and handed over the ointment. That's...uh… He's going to do it to me? Does he know I have a boner? Is it obvious? Maybe it's not. Peter didn't look down to check, but then again, neither had Sylar. Constant, unremitting eye contact was the order of the day. He wants to help? He's taking care of me? (He wants to fuck me. I should do something about this. About that. I should. Yeah.) "Um, my...neck and left shoulder," he said faintly, gesturing at the areas mentioned. There's nothing wrong with this, right? He took off his shirt and let it fall to his lap where the rumpled cloth would hide anything Sylar didn't need to be seeing. Then he turned sideways on the stool, hesitating there as though unwilling to pantomime the same positioning in reverse. This isn't sex. We're not fucking. We're not even frotting. No one's getting off. He's just putting tiger balm on me. Slowly, only half-convinced, he finished the turn to face away.
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Hmm. It's been a while since I've bitten him. It wouldn't necessarily be possible now, unless he wanted a mouthful of tiger balm once it was applied, but if he bit before it went on…His penis was at least three-quarters stiff and that, as much as his hands, was what he wanted to put on Peter. He took the container and stood close behind the smaller man. He hadn't been this close to someone with the purpose of giving comfort and healing for too long. Peter's back was well-muscled without being overdone, his waist was slim, and of course his ass…Dipping into the cream, he began with Peter's left shoulder, hands on, massaging the other's warm muscles with greedy fingers. Because of the proximity, he was able to inhale of Peter; whose natural scent was somewhat buried under the locker room soaps.
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"Oh!" he said in a quiet exhalation as Sylar's hands began to work him. Peter crossed his forearms on the nearest shelf and put his forehead down on them. It wasn't sex, but it was definitely good. His muscles might have gone limp, but other parts of him were definitely not. He panted, feeling thrills of pleasure go through him. How long has it been? Since I've been with anyone who made me feel good, or even tried? Peter's mind struggled. Caitlin, I guess. Two, three years. Gooseflesh pimpled his skin as he gave an involuntary shiver. Too long.
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He felt so close to dominating Peter Petrelli, owning him, manipulating him using nothing more than the seduction of his body; it was a serious head rush. He applied the stuff liberally to Peter's arm, feeling him up at the same time. Once he'd touched everything more than once, he moved on to the neck and throat. Having Peter from behind, having his hands on the man's throat was getting him off. Enthusiastically, he rubbed the cream into Peter's soft, vulnerable flesh with both hands, once again using the excuse to get closer, breathing on him. Ever one for being bold, he let slip in a rough voice, "How do you like it, Peter?"
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Peter shifted and tensed, reaching up to gently discourage and block Sylar's hands from anything other than the back half of his neck, where the man would be rubbing muscle and tendon instead of his throat. The awareness that Sylar could throttle him like this (and might do so) came on him as soon as Sylar started touching him there. "Not there," he said softly.
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Somewhat disappointed, Sylar allowed his grip to shift to the back of Peter's neck, away from the throat. The message was clear enough, as were the words. Even the back of Peter's neck was appealing – all flesh and muscle to be bitten, grabbed, controlled, and Peter was totally allowing it, melting into it. Sylar thrilled on having this human putty in his hands, so strangely delightful. He was throbbing with heat now, standing inches away. He bent down, tickling his nose in the dark hair, to murmur close to the man's ear, "Tell me how you want it."
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Peter shivered for the second time and drew away, his eyes half-closed in forbidden bliss for a moment. It was all he could allow himself. "We can't," he said quietly, sliding from the stool to his feet. "I won't. This is as far...This is a lot further than this should have gone. Let's...We're stopping here." Despite his difficulty in picking his words, his voice was firm. He shouldered Sylar out of the way as he put his shirt back on, breaking eye contact and looking away. I should be ashamed it went this far at all. That was just as sexual as him humping me during that fight in the lobby. Except this was...reciprocal...reciprocated. I was involved. Intentionally. He looked around for something else to put his eyes on than his looming partner, finally spotting one of the forgotten ice packs. He took it and lifted it to his cheek, glancing over at Sylar with an embarrassed dip of his head. Do I need to worry about how he's going to take a 'no'?
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"We 'can't'. I 'won't,'" Sylar pointed out, not as…frustrated about being teased as he had been in the past. The rejection was softened by interest after all. Peter assuming command had him sniping. "Desperation's a funny thing, Peter," he continued mostly to keep to the script because…what else was there to say? Then he saw the shame in the other man's face and it changed things; it made sense, of course it was there. It turned his stomach to be so disgusting. He didn't need another shower, cold or otherwise now, as his erection fled. It had been so much easier to pretend, perhaps for Peter also, when the reality was twisted and sick and almost entirely helpless. Desperation all around. To regain some attempt as self-respect, he clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, "This was definitely your fault, this time," he jested, taking up his own ice pack as he moved around Peter. Remembering the blame issue, he corrected with lackluster, feeling like his mouth was running away from him, "I mean, never mind." He waited for Peter to react and possibly exit the break room.
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"I know," Peter ground out, his voice infused with the anger and frustration he felt at himself for having virtually pantomimed sex with Sylar (and not a little due to stopping things without any concluding satisfaction). "You start fights; I start...other things." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I'm not sure which is worse." Five years ago, he'd have been certain fighting was worse. The years had coarsened him, wounded him, and worn him down to the point where beating Sylar up seemed morally superior to making love to him. It was confusing and played havoc with Peter's instincts. But Sylar seemed to be as interested in changing the subject as Peter, and dealing well with the quasi-rejection of Peter calling a halt. "I don't want to fight again. Or anything else." He shifted the ice pack against his cheek. "We should take a turn with the ice packs here for fifteen or twenty minutes, then head back to the Pegasus where we can do it again." Thinking about his intentions, he pulled out the liner of the trash can and used it as a bag for the supplies he wanted to take back with him. Then he went to the freezer and pulled out another set of ice packs to switch out later. He waved a hand towards the entrance. "Let's go sit out in the lobby."
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Fucking me is arguably on par with or worse than violence to a pacifist? (Or supposed pacifist). Sylar was consumed with coming to terms with that – if it was a compliment or ambiguous. It was wonderfully confused. He settled for a little of both as he trailed after Peter. One part of him would rather fight; his dick would rather fuck. Yet he gets close to me after we fight.
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Peter picked a seat next to Sylar, though there was a chair arm between them. Wood-topped and metal-framed, Peter thought it made an excellent chaperone for two lonely men who had no business being as into each other as they apparently were, if the previous hour was any indication. Matter-of-factly, he offered, "Let me help you with that," indicating Sylar's ice pack. "I'll hold it up and you can lean back." That would make the application of it to Sylar's back hands-free.
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Sylar didn't know what to think about the medians between them; at least Peter technically sat next to him. He glanced over at the offer, which he wasn't sure was entirely necessary but he wasn't about to turn it down, either. I guess he knows where it hurts. "Ah…Thanks." Once the placement was accomplished, it was much improved.
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Peter leaned back, rolling his left shoulder and stretching his neck through its range of motion. The muscles and tendons were somewhat aggrieved with their treatment, but not too much. He was tired, probably more on an emotional and mental level than physical. He pressed his chilly ice pack to his face and propped his elbow on the back of the chair. Letting the back of his head rest on the tiled wall, his eyes slid shut and he spaced out for the moment, relying on Sylar (or the discomfort from the ice pack) to tell him when it was time to go.
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He glanced at his partner several times. He's not as torn up about this as he wants me to believe. That felt good for him, too, on the inside. I bet he needs that. Sylar felt empty without the empath's attention and after such a glorious event, he wanted to know all about it. "Is the shower the first time you've jerked off here?" Blunt, personal, and stabbing in the dark that Peter had in fact stroked off in the stall.
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Peter rolled his head to the side, still letting it rest on the wall behind him, ice pack still in place. He gave Sylar a low intensity glare, waited a couple beats, then answered, "It's not the first time." It wasn't Sylar's business – not in the least. But at the same time, it was fairly obvious and generally harmless. Peter wasn't going to deny that he had urges or that he, at times, attempted to satisfy them. He was also far more willing to talk of the masturbation than of the emotional mess that had come after it.
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Sylar nodded once. How many times? When did he do it? I know I caught him once, that time in the hall. More importantly, what does he beat his meat to? "Do you always massage your patients like that?" The man's fingers had practically been inside his pants, and the grabbing of his shirt near his neck in a clearly dominant, near-choke hold to position him had been delightful.
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He snorted and rolled back to face forward. "Only you. You're special." After a pause, he turned back to Sylar to rejoin, "Do you always make out with the people whose relatives you kill?" There wasn't much heat to the way he asked it. Sylar being into him, wanting him, was too appealing for him to be truly offended. But he was still angry about the way Sylar had treated Peter's mother on Thanksgiving, right in front of him, while he'd been powerless to stop it.
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"Hmm," Sylar purred assent to his being special. I'm doing something very right; I know it. Peter wouldn't abandon his family, training, and morals to feel up just anyone. Peter jumped ahead in the topic – massaging to making out. With a logical, barely defensive edge, he shot back, "I like to think I would have remembered making out with you – maybe I did and I conveniently don't remember. That tends to happen around Petrellis." He wasn't as angry as all that and continued, "You know, I could get used to a massage after every fight." The word 'massage' was code for more than just that.
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Peter's expression faded to uncertainty at the reminder of what his mother had done to Sylar in the first place. It doesn't justify him molesting her like that, but…he could have done worse. Tried to do worse. Then didn't. He huffed and left it alone. Sylar's last comment had Peter giving him a narrow-eyed look. Entitled asshole if he thinks I'll do that whenever he wants. Then a double-take. Wait, he actually wants that. He liked it. He's asking for it. It was harmless. And Peter had certainly enjoyed it. Maybe if that's all we do, then it's okay? He rolled his eyes and gave a disgusted, "Fine."
The whole topic (and especially having agreed to a repeat of what had passed between them earlier) made Peter antsy. Temptation, good sense, uneasiness all served to ramp up his tension and anxiety. Is that really stupid? Can I take it back? What if I change my mind? What if it goes too far? What have I agreed to? He dropped his ice pack in his seat as he stood, letting off a little energy by pacing a round through the spacious lobby. Now I look dumb just up walking around like I can't calm down. I need a destination… Ah! There. He headed off into the reception area again to review the cabinet contents in case he'd missed anything. He had not, but it gave him something to do.
What if agreeing to that encourages him to pick more fights with me? That was something he needed to settle. Closing the cabinet, he returned empty-handed to briefly point at Sylar. "I don't want to fight you." He gestured with a wave off to the side, his hand curling into a fist at the end of it. He needed to impress on Sylar how unwise it was to provoke violence between them. "What I want to do is hold you down and hurt you until you apologize for everything you've ever done. And even then, that wouldn't help. They'd still be dead!" He snatched up his ice pack and looked away pointedly. He didn't want to see Sylar's face right now. He wanted to smash that smug visage until it was blank-faced and empty. Still looking away, he tried to put aside his wrath. Get away from the anger. Back to the goal. Focus. More quietly he said, "This is not a game we should be playing. It's not a game. It's not fun. It's dangerous."
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Sylar clapped a few times, beaming and laughing with sick amusement. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees. "That's the spirit!" he crowed. Sobering quickly, he said with some bitterness, "Except it is a game. Everything is a game. And everything is dangerous and you already know that doesn't put me off playing."
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Peter pulled back, insulted and confused. But on the other hand, it was all true and Peter knew it. "It shouldn't be," he muttered for lack of anything better to say. Taking up his ice pack, he slumped sullenly in the chair again. A little louder, but still speaking mostly to himself, he grumbled, "I don't know how to deal with how I feel about all of this."
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Sylar eyed him silently for a moment. For someone as wildly emotional as Peter was, whose ability and lack of control all fed off each other, that posed an interesting dilemma/solution. Feeling unmanned to talk about feelings but curious, he inquired casually, "How do you feel about it?"
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Peter ran his free hand (the one not holding the ice pack to his face) through his hair, grabbing at it restlessly and slowly as he tried to work out how he felt. Again, not his business. (Or is it? What's going on with me impacts him just as much as what goes on with him impacts me.) He sighed in resignation to the reality of how intertwined they were. "You killed my brother, Sylar. You've done…horrible things. And I don't know if you understand, if you even comprehend how horrible they are. The people you've hurt… You don't seem to care. You act like it's just…collateral damage, like they were in the wrong place at the wrong time." He shook his head, eyes shut for a moment. "I came here… I didn't know that when I came here. All I knew is there were people who needed help and you were supposed to help them. How I felt didn't matter. How I felt about you didn't matter. I had to get you; I had to get you to the carnival. What you did to Nathan was…" He exhaled heavily. "And to everyone else," very reluctantly he finished the sentence, "was immaterial. My feelings about it were…immaterial, irrelevant. My feelings about you…" Peter hesitated before making such an impolitic announcement to someone he jointly shared the world with. Then he continued, honest and raw, "hate, anger, disappointment? You hurt me. You hurt him. You hurt my mother. You took him away when…" Tears formed as that enveloping, soul-swallowing sense of loss welled up inside him. "We'd made up. After all that, we were back together. Maybe, you know, we could have been okay again. A family?" Peter shook his head. "But no. You killed him. You took that from us." He leaned back in his chair, a stray tear running down his cheek. "And here I am with you, playing games and giving massages, helping you with your ice pack and your sleeping problems." Bleakly he ended with, "And you still don't seem to care."
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Sylar quietly observed the display as his discomfort increased. Admittedly, pathetically, the part about robbing Peter of his 'redeemed' brother and breaking the already fucked-up family group was something he could understand from his very core. On top of that, he'd failed to live in Nathan's life because of course that was the bigger evil than Sylar being forced to do it. It was very difficult for him to have sympathy for Peter's plight when Sylar himself had been misused as a would-be brother before that. He'd thought that his offer to fuck was…a sign of some type of caring…
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Peter scrubbed away the tear and shifted the ice pack so its fabric cover would absorb anything on the other side of his face. "I don't get what I want. I know that's not how the world works." He still had the air of talking to himself, but he knew Sylar was listening. "I remember a sermon about that – about the differences between what a person wants and what God wants." He shook his head slightly. "I remember being really mad about it. I decided that if no one is going to give you what you really want – not God, not your parents, not your brother – then the only way to get it is to work for it yourself and not give up. Not ever." He looked over at Sylar. Fights, massages, whatever. "I'm not giving up on you." You're going to help those people. Somehow. He reached out and gave the man a single pat on his knee. "Come on. Let's get back."
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Once again, he empathized with his companion. At an early age he'd been taught the same lesson – had it drilled in – that he would have to work very hard to achieve anything in life. Becoming special (and maintaining it, being 'enough') was his life, his drive, his reason for living. Sylar hadn't given that up either. He went so far as to admire that quality in Peter, ironically the same stubbornness that was giving him (them?) problems. Staring at the empath, he stood after Peter, brain well occupied with other things. I made Peter cry. (I don't like that). I don't like seeing that, more accurately. He doesn't think I care? I want more of what he's giving me. He sees that as ungrateful because…I can't- I'm not conveying that I appreciate it…in a way that doesn't completely compromise me because he already knows to threaten to take those things away.
On to other things, Sylar addressed part of Peter's complaint/desire. With a surprised and somewhat confused delivery, he asked, "You're more upset about me killing him than you are about me...not being him?" Being Nathan nullified his death as far as Peter was concerned, but that wasn't the Petrelli's largest upset now that he knew the truth. Forcing Sylar to transform was still a viable, horrible option, one that possibly, in a twisted way, righted the wrongs Sylar had done.
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"If you hadn't killed him, then none of the rest would have happened." Peter mulled over Sylar's comparison, trying to make sense of it. Slowly, he asked, "Are you saying I should be upset that you didn't…continue to pretend to be him?" Peter cocked his head. It seemed like a bizarre thing for Sylar to think. "I'm upset that it happened in the first place. Once it did, that you stayed him or not…" He considered how he would have felt about that. "No, I would have been upset if you'd known what you were doing and still chose to be him. That would piss me off." He looked off ahead of them. "Once you knew, you stopped it. That was the right thing to do." He wondered when that ache inside would go away, though.
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"But you tried to turn me back into him!" Sylar burst out, even more confused and hurt and a little angry. "You knew and you still did it!"
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"I thought you already were him – that he was inside you somehow, fighting to get out! Like a second personality or another soul in your body," Peter said earnestly. He wished so much for that to have been true – not only for the possibility of restoring Nathan, but for making Peter's own actions into something other than the botched and vindictive personality surgery it had turned out to be. "It happened to me, you know. I was stuck inside of Jessie's head, body, whatever and that didn't make me not-there or not a person. I didn't know you weren't really him." Emphatically he added, "If I had known, I wouldn't have done it because it wouldn't have been him. I want my brother, not a replica."
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Sylar glared at him, though the other man didn't see it. That explains you trying to do it again, here, not so long ago. It was frighteningly convenient that Peter 'didn't remember' starting that fight. Needless to say, he didn't believe it. If I had a brother, I think I'd want whatever I could get. Especially if it meant torturing his killer.
XXX
After a few tense paces, he asked, "Are you upset at all about killing him?" It seemed like such an obvious 'no', but Peter wanted so badly to hear something else. Even just an awareness of consequences would help.
XXX
"In the traditional, heartless monster sense, no." As soon as he said it, he wondered if he was ripping open the envelope of Peter's tolerance and lack of desire to fight. Well, he asked. He was not about to sugarcoat Nathan's death in any way. "I didn't do it to hurt you. Or Claire. Or the boys- Nathan's boys. Your mother is fair game, though, you should know that." Sylar sighed, opening his mouth a couple of times and spoke before he thought better of it. "It's…weird now, since I've been him." He scuffed his feet, watching the tops of his shoes as they left the building. Probably from the recent relaxation, though he was still repressing a host of things, he blurted, "I care about things. I don't expect you – or anyone else – to understand. I'm not ungrateful." I'm a psychotic killer who shouldn't talk to people – we've fucking covered this already. It doesn't matter what I tell him.
XXX
Peter gave him a lofted eyebrow in warning about Sylar intending harm to Peter's mother, but as Sylar didn't linger on the topic, he said nothing about it. In a quiet tone, he said, "I'm still trying to figure you out, Sylar. You're a complicated guy." He reached over and gave him a friendly bump on the shoulder. "I'm probably wrong about more stuff than right. All these questions are how I fix that. It's how I understand you." Despite not getting the answer he wanted about Sylar's feelings concerning Nathan's death, it had seemed honest enough. Getting it out into the air between them, something said rather than concealed, was progress.
"Why did you do it? You had to have other options." Not that Peter was all that skilled at finding alternatives himself – he tended to bull forward on a mission no matter what – but when a human life was at stake, why did Sylar's preferred means of handling the situation involve murder?
XXX
"I already told you why," Sylar replied, eyes narrowed. He knew that was a part of some psych test, asking the same questions, with different phrasing, with the intent of receiving confusing or contradicting answers. "Yes, I chose to kill him. I had other options. So did you. I don't see you turning away from 'catching the bad guy' or 'killing the bad guy' and things like that."
XXX
Peter frowned some more. The conversation where Sylar had related Nathan's death had not gone well and he didn't want to rehash it. He shook his head. "That's not really what I mean. It doesn't have to be specific. Why do you kill people to get what you want? Why is," he hesitated for a moment, drawing his thoughts together, "what you want so important that you think it's okay to kill people for it? Why aren't you upset about murdering people? I don't get that."
XXX
Sylar's brow furrowed as well. "To understand someone's ability, I have to…see and touch the part of the brain where the ability is. Usually that kills. It's important because that's the only way to understand the ability. You don't…understand because you say you never did it." He huffed, more irritated at having to explain than anything else. "Everything is a game, Peter; even life and death; my life and death, yours, Nathan's. Abilities are the one thing that sets us apart from everyone else. I've…watched people a lot and I don't see many distinguishing traits that make someone worthwhile aside from abilities. Even then, I meet a special and that person is some loser who doesn't want their ability or can't control it or someone who refuses to do anything productive with it. They're pathetic. I'm not pathetic. I have goals. I take what they don't value, what they chose to waste because they don't deserve it. For me, that's productive. I was almost the president of the United States – I can do things and I can change things. It's just evolution of the species. You don't blame the lion for slaughtering the gazelle because the gazelle is meant to be prey. It's not as much of a moral issue as you think it is." In the end, he didn't care too much if Peter 'got it' or not (which was more likely than 'getting it'). Even if he did understand, Peter wasn't going to like it, agree with it, or let it lie.