Day 67, February 15, Morning
Sylar was listening carefully for footsteps and/or the door. Soon enough, after the dishes had been emptied of food and were covered in a ruse of soapy water, he heard the door shut behind Peter. What the fuck does he think I'm going to do up here by myself? Why would I stay up here? Sylar groused venomously. He decided to finish the dishes and give Peter a false sense of solitude before interrupting. Even if Peter was making a break for it, he would be able to see where the medic was going in any case.
Sylar grabbed his coat anyway (his book still being downstairs and a perfect excuse) and hustled downstairs, his back much loosened from the medic's hands earlier but his shoulders were as tense as ever once again. He hated even losing sight and sound of Peter for those few moments. The silence and emptiness was terrifying. (Will it ever not be? he wondered). A peek into the small gym confirmed Peter's words and location at least; the relief felt arguably better than the massage. He watched for a moment as Peter squatted with a bar across his shoulders. It was hypnotic and graceful, sexy if he allowed himself to think it, but mostly it tempted him to go in and mess with Peter any way he could.
Sylar gathered his book first before opening the gym door and letting it close loudly on its own. "Squats, huh? Is that all you do at the gym?" he followed up with a pointed, appreciative glance at the man's ass before catching his eyes. He'd been up against that ass this morning…
XXX
Squats were the first thing he'd done, following throwing on his workout clothes and doing the minimum of stretching to warm up. He'd just begun to slide into the zone when Sylar came in, snapping him back to unwelcome alertness. He was scowling when he looked up to respond, but then he saw Sylar's face and his line of sight. He's checking me out. Um…cool? Being held, Sylar's 'oh!' during the massage, and the flirting over breakfast all became much more interesting to think about than any irritation at the interruption. Peter flexed more on his next rep than was required. He smiled. "It's preventative," he joked. "I wouldn't want to get noassitol disease."
XXX
He smirked at the still-warm reception. It was like Peter had woken up on the right side of the bed today. Finally. And with it, Peter had decided that not everything was so damn serious but more like 'everything is a game.' How is it that I'm telling him the rules and he was the stick in the mud? When Peter spoke, Sylar just stared blank-faced. What kind of disease requires squatting? Is that a dirty joke? After a few long seconds, he blinked. He didn't think it fair that he should be expected to know what noassitol disease was, big brain and abilities aside.
XXX
Peter said it more slowly, though not to be condescending: "No-ass-at-all. You know when a person doesn't have much development in their glutes? That." It was actually more of a genetic trait than something a person could change with exercise, but Peter found it funny nevertheless (probably because of the pride he took in his own appearance).
XXX
Sylar snorted. None of the Petrellis had that particular problem. I wonder if that's an Italian thing. "Oh. Development, is it?" He didn't think Peter was serious about 'development' or any kind of disease. Are we actually having a conversation about Peter Petrelli's butt?
XXX
Peter chuckled in response, flashing an amused look at his companion. The bar on his shoulders swayed as his balance shifted. It was going to be impossible to work out if he was busy making eyes with Sylar. Despite his enjoyment of the looks and banter, Peter actually wanted to work out. He put his eyes forward and got on with it.
XXX
"What do you do as a warm-down for that?" Sylar asked about squatting, intending the question as innuendo as he walked in much closer, within conversational distance. We are talking about his butt. I'm sure that's weird, but he's not freaking out. The forbidden pleasure was dashed when he realized it was pointless to notice Peter Petrelli's backside. Their eventual arrangement wasn't going to include Peter being bent over.
XXX
A 'warm-down'? What's that? While he was distracted, his form suffered and his knees protested. He hadn't taken any special injury to them the day before, but he'd spent some of the brawl on one knee on the hard floor. "I'm trying to work out here. Leave me alone." He spoke in a mostly normal tone of voice with only a slight edge of irritation to his words. This wasn't the same as trying to hurt Sylar by refusing to talk to him, or to protect himself and avoid conflict through the same. Peter just wanted to be allowed to get through his exercise without Sylar verbally jabbing at him. "We can talk later," he added so as to make clear his intentions.
XXX
From his vantage point, Sylar had a view of Peter's throat, and the curve of his back, too. The teasing was really getting to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had tormented him this way, almost on purpose. He wasn't familiar with being teased sexually (that bothered him for entirely different reasons, like testing his self control and feeling more like a pervert). Peter was the focus of his irritation because he was holding out and pretending to be clueless about everything. They'd had a very unsatisfactory fight only yesterday, which Sylar took into account when it came to how far he could push Peter (especially after unconsciously trying to hump Peter through their clothes). He stepped closer still, holding his book in the hand farthest from Peter; the other hand was buried in his pocket. "I don't want to talk," he growled, his eyes boring into Peter. He wasn't sure what would happen, didn't care too much, and liked the mystery. Peter couldn't just…leave and now, ignore him.
XXX
Peter straightened and lifted the bar over his head. There was no way to keep using it without risking hitting Sylar with it. The man was that close, practically standing over Peter's shoulder. The way he was looking at Peter made him warm. Peter turned to hold Sylar's eyes for a moment, absorbing the desire that was coming off him. His breathing was speeding up. What Sylar wanted was quite clear, but it wasn't what Peter wanted to give. With an overstated roll of his eyes, Peter said, "I thought you didn't like the silent act." He put the bar away and turned to the leg adductor machine, his shoulder brushing Sylar's as he passed. The tension was thick. Peter didn't feel like it should be his job to defuse it.
XXX
Sylar thought…he detected more Petrelli mixed signals. It would be some elaborate torture. He couldn't explain it. It wasn't his fault he if misunderstood Peter's mood swings. Worse yet, he found himself needing Petrelli's attention more, like it was his only reality. Briefly narrowing his eyes at his prey, he trailed after the man over to some leg contraption. His voice still low and frustrated in a leading tone, he replied, gesturing at the world using the book in his hand, "You can make as much noise as you want."
XXX
He's eating this up. He thinks I'm sincere. He looks like he's ready to pounce. On me. God, he's intense. Peter felt a thrill run through him. Although he knew he shouldn't encourage it, he couldn't stop himself from playing more. If Sylar couldn't take a little teasing, then Peter wanted to know that now. And if he could, then Peter wasn't going to pass up the attention. He put on a momentary act of looking like he was seriously thinking over Sylar's suggestion. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we don't have any neighbors."
XXX
Is he implying that he's loud? Or that I'd make him scream? That he'd enjoy it?! Sylar felt his dick twitch at the very (perverted) idea. Down, boy. He couldn't deny he had ideas to make Peter…loud, not all of them intended for enjoyment. Boldly, he stepped between Peter's spread legs now literally interfering with the workout. It put his hips suggestively between Peter's legs, scandalously close to the man's junk as he looked down on him for a moment with some innocence. Changing his expression to inviting, he bent at the waist and brushed his free hand through Peter's hair before resting it on the seat back. It put their faces within a foot's distance or less, exchanging heated looks. He was close enough to see the muted green in Peter's irises, close enough to smell him. "No need to go upstairs to bother them."
XXX
Peter's eyes flitted to the touch and he inhaled deeply. A prickle of excitement ran along his skin. Sylar was…reciprocating: Peter had brushed his shoulder earlier, so Sylar was returning the light contact and escalating the intimacy. It was a dance. Peter liked to dance – especially this one, even if he didn't intend to get past the opening steps with this particular partner. He leaned back against the chair, simultaneously looking relaxed and chill, while getting an extra half inch back to better see his looming companion. Matching Sylar's tone, he said, "We could bother them from here, is that what you're saying?"
XXX
Peter did nothing about the very personal touch in his beloved hair. It was an unmistakable green light. The satisfaction of a successful manipulation (and several, more physical things) were making him high. Without moving his eyes, head, or body, Sylar dropped his book to the floor (usually a sin in itself but it was important). They both continued staring into the other's eyes like animals, challenging, not backing down. Someone who would meet him at that animal level was a turn on. History and instinct told him Peter had it in him; it was part of his appeal. Reaching down he traced his left hand up the inside of Peter's thigh until he grasped at the man's dick, groping him. "Exactly," he rumbled.
XXX
As Peter stared back, he felt the heat building inside him. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to take the next steps in their gypsy stare down. But he couldn't. It was all off-limits. What had begun as playful flirting was turning too serious, too fast. He was frankly relieved when Sylar seized him. The light fingers along his thigh had been a line of tingling fire he couldn't resist or even bring himself to protest, but the direct contact at the end was enough to break the paralyzing stalemate between what he wanted to do and what he knew he should do. Sylar had broken the choreographed dance, escalating things past where Peter could let him go. "Hey!" he barked, grabbing hurriedly at Sylar's intrusive hand. He shoved the offending appendage away. "Fuck off!" He had to assert better boundaries, for both of them. He squeezed his legs together and banged the guards of the adductor machine into Sylar's knees. Peter sat forward and shoved at the man a half-second later.
XXX
For an instant, he felt Peter's penis through the thin shorts. No underwear, of course. He detected a slight fullness in his grip. Sylar had no opinion of the dick in his hand, though he enjoyed getting a reaction. And of course, the reaction was swift rejection. Petrelli slapped him away, painfully banged his knees with the metal plates of the machine, then shoved him. Sylar's hand caught on the back of the other's neck as he initially fell away. He grunted loudly about his knees, pulling himself up onto Peter, nearly falling on him, pressing against him between his conveniently opened legs. The control felt good. Without some tenuous, twisted connection Sylar felt his reality slipping. He needed something from Peter to accomplish it. He was sick of more than just talking; he was sick of being denied – a lifelong problem it seemed, and Peter was intentionally adding to it. "I thought you said you'd done this before?" he rasped in Peter's ear, enjoying the proximity while it lasted, grinding on him a little as he was able; his other hand around the man's waist keeping them tight together. "Maybe you want me in the chair, huh?"
XXX
This was not a good place to fight. Peter had the machine set to a full, normal lifting weight, which meant although he could close his legs, there was a constant pressure dragging them open. Plus, with the padded guards in the way, he couldn't immediately get his legs out of it. He struggled under Sylar, trying to climb upward and out with the man on top of him, embracing him. They moved against each other in ways that were inconveniently thrilling and unmistakably erotic. It pissed him off – both at himself for enjoying it and more at Sylar for causing it. Asshole! "I wouldn't mind," he grunted, twisting a knee between them. At the moment, any reversal of their positions would not be to Sylar's favor. Peter was rapidly getting angry. His hand caught on Sylar's collar and he yanked, trying to dislodge the man. The cloth tore, but Sylar went over anyway, helped along by Peter's other hand and his knee.
XXX
Sylar sneered at Peter for tearing his shirt. Gracefully righting himself from where he'd allowed himself to be thrown, he found himself laughing. Nothing made sense anyway. "You Petrellis are all the same." It wasn't amusing. It was utterly depressing. He was frustrated enough to swing on Peter. "What is your problem? You didn't mind it before."
XXX
Peter finally managed to extricate himself from the exercise equipment, scrambling away so he stood a few feet from it. He was in the walkway with the machines to his left and the free weights against the wall to his right. "You don't get to do that!" he snarled about the groping. "You are my problem!" He pointed sharply. "You won't help, you fuck with me, you start fights, and you won't leave me alone! I can't," Peter hesitated, making a vague gesture between them, "do any of this." And then the reasons came out: "Who else are you going to kill next time you see them? How long am I going to last?" The off-balance, conflicted feelings he'd been having faded as he continued, getting hotter under the collar as he went. "I am not going to be how you get revenge on all of 'you Petrellis', like how you held my mom down at Thanksgiving and kissed her just seconds before you tried to cut the top of her head off!" By the end, he was flushed with anger and sweating with the intensity of his emotion. His teeth were bared. He wanted to fight. He wanted to put Sylar in that chair (or any chair, anywhere) and beat the crap out of him like how Peter had been beaten senseless in Cork. That scene of Sylar molesting Peter's mother right in front of him, forcing him to watch powerlessly, lit him up inside like he was on fire. In a lower voice, he growled, "Let's see how well you do without your abilities to save you this time, asshole."
XXX
Sylar squared off, thinking Peter would stop ranting at the end of each sentence. Or even at the end of each topic of mortal, patriarchal injustice. He was confused (that was probably the intention), as once again the main thrust appeared to be something from the past, not anything from now. It just seemed so inappropriate, not to mention disorganized. It didn't answer his question in so many (many) words. Sylar had nothing to say to such babble and no real defense that would suit if the argument had been worth it. "Such a martyr for the unasked-for cause. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he smirked, standing taller to intimidate this crazed little man. "Being the first Petrelli to get to third base. But I forget, does masturbating when I'm shape-shifted into members of your family count?"
XXX
He wants a fight. (Peter saw no other reasonable explanation for the crude insult to his family.) I'll give him a fight! They were close enough he didn't have to lunge or even step forward. It threw his wind-up off, but he was pissed enough to try to hit Sylar with a roundhouse anyway. It was a powerful blow; if it connected, the fight would be over right then and there.
XXX
Of the two of them, Sylar wasn't angry per se. So Peter came at him like an idiot. Sylar aimed and swatted him down like a fly with a swift, satisfying left hook across the face before the other man's punch landed.
XXX
Obviously, the fight was not going to be over right away. It's never that easy. Peter staggered from Sylar's punch, managing to avoid most of the momentum of the blow by turning away from it. He caught himself on the wall, took a half second to shake off the effects and think. Strategy, or I'm going to get pulped again. That fast, he had one. Pushing off, he ducked under Sylar's next swing (or grab – he didn't pause to find out what it was) and came up with his right fist across the front of Sylar's face. He was watching the blow and aiming as carefully as possible. In the middle of a fight, it was very difficult to coordinate – hit solidly enough to count and on the right spot, yet not so solidly as to hurt either the bones of Peter's still-tender right hand or aggravate Sylar's concussion. But for once, it seemed he got what he wanted. He felt the satisfying pop as his fist hit the target of Sylar's large nose.
XXX
He was too focused with grabbing onto Peter with his right hand to pay much attention to the other man's incoming fist. That turned out to be a mistake – apparently Petrelli's hand was sufficiently healed, though that hadn't stopped him from using it in fights before. Sylar immediately tasted blood and felt it hot running from the impact to his nose. It startled him more than anything else.
XXX
A punch to the nose caused a variety of involuntary physical responses – watering eyes, blurred vision or stars, and a second or two of distraction even in a life or death situation. Not that it was life or death. Peter didn't want to kill him. He just wanted to hurt him and he'd gotten the impression that was...acceptable for Sylar. Maybe even desired with the way he kept egging Peter on to do it.
Peter took his instant of advantage to slug Sylar in the ribs with his left, then crowd in close for more blows to the gut, chest, anywhere he could reach. Head down, he worked to stay inside Sylar's range, clutching him as needed to keep the man from pushing him away enough to fight back effectively. Peter hit him hard, so gratified to hear the air rush out of Sylar's lungs. He grunted and redoubled his efforts, with no intention of stopping until Sylar was down and staying there.
XXX
This was the fight he'd craved yesterday. Peter was ferocious, doing what had worked so well in the past, attacking his torso and abdomen, pummeling soft, already-bruised tissue and areas required for breathing. At first, he had space to hit back, punching at the man's back and shoulders using full force (because he wasn't stupid enough to punch his head or neck even if it might end the fight). Sylar could withstand it with his superior pain tolerance, with Peter's kindly support to stay upright, but he was given no time to recover. The Italian wasn't taking enough damage and Sylar's attacks didn't hinder him. Peter had the better leverage and angles. Each blow took his breath away and clenched his body inwards.
XXX
Peter backed Sylar up several paces, with Sylar finally falling in front of the closed door. Snarling, Peter climbed on top of him. He put his knees into Sylar's armpits and his weight squarely on Sylar's chest. He'd make his enemy work for every bit of oxygen he got. He batted away the flailing arms, bracing himself against the nearby wall for any bucking or twisting Sylar might do, but the punches to the man's mid-section seemed to have taken a lot of the strength out of him. It was either that, or the suffocation. He knocked Sylar's arm aside to grab his chin, fingers tightening on either side.
XXX
He'd been optimistic because he hadn't been backed into a wall. That quickly changed when Peter stopped hugging on him in such a violently supportive way. There wasn't any time to breathe or recover after he fell. Sylar barely saw the other man coming after him and then it got worse when Peter sat directly on his chest. His eyes went wide when he felt the hand on his chin as he immediately understood the tactic. He wasn't worried about dying, or even mockery. The vital concern was Peter touching his head or face in any way, being turned into…someone else. It struck a very real chord of panic in his already struggling chest; likely sapping away what air he had left. Sylar writhed and pushed with all his failing might but Peter had every advantage and he could feel his chances of survival plummeting with every desperate gasp. He had no time to truly think. It was frighteningly familiar.
XXX
When he felt Sylar begin to weaken, Peter knew he had him. It was a heady rush of vindication to be so close to him, on top of him even, and feel Sylar struggling, faltering, and losing under him. If it was a game, Peter was winning. "Is this what you did to me a couple weeks ago?" he said, voice rough from the intensity and exertion. He knocked Sylar's arm aside to grab his chin, fingers tightening on either side. Still holding Sylar's face with his right hand, he cocked back his left fist like he was going to let Sylar have it. With an amused tilt of his head and a bitter smile, he asked, "Got me down and beat the crap out of me? And you saying you had to scrape me off the floor after?" The black humor on his face vanished. "You put me there, Sylar! I didn't run into a fucking door fifteen times. Your fault. Your mess!" His right hand tensed, as did all the muscles in his left arm. But instead of swinging, he shoved Sylar's head to the side and dismounted. I'm better than him. I am. Peter crouched to the side, half leaned against the wall and not even a full arm's length away. He watched and listened to Sylar's breathing attentively. No matter the brutality or his rage, he had no intention of letting Sylar die on him. I should probably watch him for signs of pneumonia. If all those gut shots limit his breathing, then he's going to have a problem.
XXX
Left staring up at his attacker, Sylar tried to calm down and couldn't. He could breathe, but just barely. It wasn't anywhere near enough to maintain a life-or-death struggle, not the way his heart was pounding. He needed to think and even seeing that Peter's other, raised hand was in the form of a fist (not some other, worse assault) wasn't helping. There wasn't time to feel betrayal, since he'd laid down the law about his head not being touched and this was twice that Peter had threatened with it. His vision was very fuzzy, limbs like clumsy lead because he didn't stop squirming and pushing, trying to get a hold of one of Peter's hands to free himself or at least protect himself – he didn't care how it looked. And then Peter was up, the weight lifted off his lungs. Sylar gasped and panted, turning on his side and pushing off against the floor to inch away. In doing so, he felt his foot push against something human – of course, Peter was still close; he wasn't finished yet; he hadn't finished the job. He groaned in terror and kicked the other man while he could.
XXX
Peter's brows pulled together at the kick. It was off-script. That's weird. We're done fighting, right? He studied Sylar. There was something going on beyond mere lack of oxygen, but Sylar had his hands over his face enough that Peter couldn't get a good look at him. When Sylar didn't kick him again, just rolled to his side in an appropriate recovery position, Peter moved on to checking himself (while making a note that Sylar needed attention as soon as he was sure he was stable enough to give it).
So many spots on Peter's upper back and shoulders were stinging or even throbbing that it was tough to tell how many times he'd been hit. He suspected it was more than he'd hit Sylar. He thought he was fine until running his hands through his hair returned a smear of blood. He didn't feel anything – he could have sworn Sylar hadn't hit him there. Was that on purpose? I bet it was. He ran his hand through his hair again to confirm he didn't have any unfelt injury. His fingers sported another smear of blood before he realized it was Sylar's, not his. He reached for the most expendable piece of clothing he had in the untidy stack next to the door and wiped his hand off on his t-shirt. His blood on my hands. Peter was half-ashamed to admit he knew how hurting others reflected on him as a person. It was a dilemma – honor his family and punish the one who had hurt, killed, and molested them, or be a better person and turn the other cheek. I just wish Sylar would quit making me choose. That's not who he is, though. Even he said he expects better of me. Done with his inspection and having recovered somewhat from the exertion, Peter turned to Sylar.
XXX
Croaking as he was able, Sylar rasped, "I put you on the ground to stop you…You came at me, threatening me with…" he shook his head against the floor and couldn't say it. He felt like vomiting. Yes, he could see Peter somewhat seated, still too near, between him and the door. He didn't know why that fight was mentioned (and so vehemently), he couldn't guess at the actual argument, and he didn't know what was going on. Failing to understand and defend himself when he felt he was being blamed for something that wasn't his fault (at least, in regards to the other fight). What he wanted was to curl up and be left alone because that was safest. When he looked down along his body, he saw Peter wiping blood of his hands and didn't know what to make of that, either – the nurse who didn't clean up unless he was finished. Sylar hurt everywhere, tangible and intangible.
XXX
Peter's brows knit again. He tilted his head slightly, listening, looking, and seeing something that had been there since he'd climbed on top of Sylar that he'd only now noticed. He's afraid. This wasn't just a fight. I fucked him up. Shit. Peter felt mortified in a way that was incongruous for someone who had just gleefully beat the crap out of another person, but he'd thought the fight was…consensual. Looking back on it, he still thought it was, but somewhere in there he'd done something wrong. Or Sylar had had something wrong happen to him. Peter wasn't sure who was to blame, if anyone. The two of them had so much baggage it could be anything. He folded the shirt so the dirty part was inward, and shuffled the half-step over to Sylar. He touched him lightly on the shoulder with his right hand, extending and raising the shirt in his left.
XXX
Sylar smacked away the incoming hand, knowing he was obviously paranoid and acting like a freak. Quickly, he sat up and shoved himself away to put much-needed distance between them even though it hurt badly to do it. He felt…used, and not in the usual good ways; he felt deceived. Why would I ever trust him enough to sleep next to him or let him care for me? He's a Petrelli. The blurry vision from earlier originated from his eyes. He can't understand. "Don't fucking touch me!" he snapped, glaring his weakened, undermined best at Petrelli. He had every intention of fighting over simple contact, too. His chest, gut, back, and nose pained him worst as he stood himself up, all the while keeping both eyes on the threat. You said he could do whatever he wanted to you. (I didn't promise I could handle it. I don't come with a lot of rules, but he's broken them).
XXX
Peter froze for a second, then carefully eased back, leaning away without actually moving from where he half-sat, half-crouched on the floor with one knee down and the other up. He's crying. I'm so sorry. What did I do? No, not me. What happened? What did he say? He said I threatened him, then he couldn't talk. (Because he was choking? Or was he choking on the words because the idea upset him so much? Probably that.) What did I threaten him with last fight? …getting Nathan back. Mind-wiping him. And then this time I got on top of him and grabbed his face. He must have thought… Peter nodded slowly to himself. It made sense now. More than anything else, he wanted to give Sylar a hug, to touch him, to apologize and achieve forgiveness through Sylar accepting the comfort. But that's not what he wants. This isn't about me. Peter took a deep, slow breath, frowned briefly, and palpated the knuckles of his right hand. They were throbbing, but he didn't think they were any worse than they'd been before the fight started.
"Okay," he said quietly. He got to his feet a few seconds after Sylar stood. He dropped the t-shirt onto the pile and waited, hands empty and at his sides. "It's your ballgame. Your rules." He waited a moment while Sylar processed that, then added, "What do you need from me right now?"
XXX
Sylar couldn't move. He was incredibly tense even as he ignored the pain from his injuries. Peter stood now, still blocked the door. He stared the man down. He hadn't really been listening, too busy evaluating the threat. When Peter didn't make a move, Sylar decided to make an escape attempt – obviously Peter was trying to keep him here for something. Approaching his captor directly, he raised both hands to plant them on Peter's chest, pushing him away from himself and the door. Sylar shifted sideways to keep Peter in view as he darted for the exit. Because he watched, he saw Peter coming after him. Of course, he'd chase me. It made his gut go cold. Peter didn't appear bloodthirsty, but that was all part of the Petrelli charm.
XXX
Oh fuck, Peter thought as Sylar approached him, hands out. Sylar's directive of 'Don't fucking touch me' darted through his mind along with his own request 'what do you need from me'. It left him wondering if what Sylar needed was to get hold of him and hurt him, bad. Two things countered that impression – Sylar's face read more of fear than rage, and his hands landed flat on Peter's chest. He wasn't grabbing, he was pushing. Stiffly and awkwardly, Peter let himself be manhandled out of the way, only belatedly realizing Sylar was bodily moving him away from the door. He could have asked! After Sylar slipped by, Peter caught the door and followed, asking, "Sylar?" I don't like where this is going. He seems lost in his own head.
XXX
He didn't register what Peter was or wasn't in that moment. "Go fuck yourself, Petrelli!" he immediately barked with a cracking voice, amazed that he held it together long enough to not fall apart then and there. Pointing intentionally at the man, then at the vast expanse of world Peter should inhabit, he wanted to spook the Italian away by any means necessary. He waited. He had to; blood rushing through him so hard he could barely see.
XXX
Peter stopped, putting his hands up halfway in surrender. He winced when Sylar pointed at him. It seemed like such an unnecessary attack. He'd be cutting me if he could. But he wasn't cut. Peter let his hands fall, uneasily watching Sylar, who looked as wound up and near the edge as Peter had ever seen him. He's running away, just like he did before. I chased him into that police station then and trapped him, stopped him. Should I do that now? That's what I did when I first came here, too, ending up in his apartment. It's what the Company did to him for years. Maybe it's time to let him run. Peter backed up a few steps and when Sylar didn't do anything else, Peter turned and wandered over to the elevators with a lot of looks back at the other man. He reached towards the button to open the elevator doors, but didn't actually push it. Sylar was already on his way out the door.
XXX
For a few seconds that took forever, Peter didn't…do anything; he just stood there. Sylar nearly sagged after those few seconds when Peter got the fucking message and moved away, elsewhere, anywhere. The trip back to his building was full of anxiety about being so damn obvious with his major weakness. It wasn't as if it was a surprise that Peter would do it, or that Sylar hadn't explicitly warned him about it either. What was there to be done about it, especially if Peter hadn't…backed down? He remembered how he'd threatened to kill Petrelli if he did it – tried it? – again. Killing his only companion was catapulted back to the top three of the list of options, though as a last resort. He didn't have an abundance of hope that Peter wouldn't push murder into first place.
He didn't go to his apartment, the place he considered 'home.' Peter knew about it and had forced his way in several times before. Instead, Sylar went to his building and picked a floor at random, hastening into a random apartment and locking the door. He curled up on the couch, desperately needing the security of the back cushions. He stared dead ahead at the door and tried to piece his mind back together because he was terrified and pathetic.
That night, when he had the space of hours to finally calm his racing heart and brain, he kicked himself for provoking someone with so much hell to unleash, someone who was notorious for being unshakeable. I have to convince him that Nathan's really gone. It was the only way. That assumed that Peter would be safe enough to be around to explain and debate it. He did it twice. Three times, if I count Mercy. Once more, he adjusted his plans. Sex, sleeping together, having company, being special, they all paled in comparison to the very real chance of being turned into someone else, or just being held down and tortured until he snapped. If anything could break him, it would be that.
Sylar didn't want to sleep. He didn't care for any injuries besides looking for a towel and tissues to clean his nose and face of blood and applying some ice. His body forced him to sleep. The nightmares consisted of not waking up as himself, in his own form, of being in another body but being invisible, ignored, not special or welcome until…he screwed up, then he was hunted until he found a new person to inhabit.
XXX
Peter cautiously went to the front doors of the Pegasus, looking out the glass sideways to see what direction Sylar went. It looked like it was to Sylar's apartment building, but he couldn't be certain without opening a door and sticking his head out. That seemed likely to draw attention and besides, Sylar could look back at any time. Peter didn't push his luck. Instead, he went back inside, into the rec room, and flopped on the couch to decompress from the second knock-down brawl in two days. Eventually, he rolled over and looked at the scattered Monopoly pieces. Shortly after that, he picked them up, pleased to find nothing too broken. He put the game away with the others, reflecting on how rough he and Sylar were on the world, as well as on each other. Irony, considering how our careers before abilities were about helping people and restoring broken things.
He moved on. He changed clothes and spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon at the Y, then went grocery shopping. He experimented with cooking for the evening, trying to grill or dry cook some mushrooms in the skillet. It didn't work out – they stuck and burned, but he added butter fast enough that he managed to salvage them as a sauté. Shredded Swiss cheese on top of them to try to make stuffed mushrooms that weren't stuffed also didn't work, but the cheese-covered 'shrooms were still tasty. He ate them on a few pieces of bread coated liberally with either mayonnaise or hummus. It filled his belly and the otherwise empty time. He'd been expecting Sylar to come back. At any time. He went to bed alone.
Day 68, February 16
The next day, Sylar did not return. After his usual routine, Peter fetched his guitar and then searched through apartments until he found the one where they'd discovered the instrument. Among the various craft supplies, he found what he was looking for – wood stain, varnish, sponges, and brushes for application. He was no more skilled at what he was going to try than he was at tuning a piano or repairing windows, so he brought down several pieces of extra wood to use as test cases. When he'd found the guitar, he'd noticed right away the delicate traceries of a decorative pattern carved into the wood, needing only stain to make them more apparent and varnish to lock it in. Now that his hand was better, he wanted to pick out tunes and he wanted the guitar done.
XXX
He woke up in a strange, quiet apartment. For while, Sylar couldn't place it or how he'd come to be there as he lay on the couch. Then he worried about déjà vu and rushed to check his face, his body in the mirror – it appeared his own face. There was the mole on his ribs. He had all his teeth. His eyes were their normal color. The stress and movement brought his injuries roaring back to life: his back, ribs, gut, and nose ached abominably like the ice the night before had been for nothing. He cleaned himself more thoroughly today with a shower, not that he would be seeing company (he didn't think Peter was smart enough for that though he was apparently motived enough to try); tending to his wounds as best he could with more ice. There wasn't any ben-gay. He wondered if he'd hurt the other man. Nothing comforted him as he whiled away the hours going through every object in the place for amusement's sake, too paranoid to make much noise or leave. There were no real clocks, and anyway, he had no tools, but there were a few books – mostly gardening (in fucking New York) and watercolor painting. While he read and faded in and out of sleep in the afternoon, he would start awake at every imagined sound, jumping at shadows. Sylar didn't walk too near the windows, either. Cheerios, a sandwich, and soup for one were his lazy meals. It felt too much like being all alone again, abandoned or imprisoned and tortured. He doubted his sanity and couldn't make sense of the world.