Day 69, February 17, Morning
Peter was still sleeping in the penthouse apartment, although he reconsidered his choice of abode as he went through his morning routine of working out, cleaning up, and then going down the street to the diner to make a hearty breakfast of eggs, hashbrowns, and gravy. He returned to the Pegasus, thinking that if Sylar made no appearance today, then he'd move his personal items back to his own apartment. It was more defensible. He was beginning to wonder if that might be important.
Without Sylar there to ask questions of, it was hard to tell what he needed to worry about and what he shouldn't; what was his fault and what wasn't. Suspicions aside, Peter didn't know what had set Sylar off or why he'd left. He had ruled out things like, 'I won the fight and he didn't like that', 'he's phobic of being suffocated', and 'it was the final straw of rejection after him waking up horny'. The only thing that stuck was 'he thought I was going to mind-wipe him', which didn't fit with what Peter had been doing, but it did fit with Sylar's reaction to it after. Only that had consistently broken Sylar. Maybe me sitting on him was kind of like the nails in his hands at Mercy? Or like being strapped down on one of those gurneys the Company used? He was pondering the fine points of situational claustrophobia as he cradled the guitar, doing touch-up on the staining job he'd done the evening before. It had turned out really nicely, which he didn't credit to himself. All he'd done was make the beauty that was already there more evident.
XXX
That morning, everything was boring, silent, and just like every other morning. Sylar caught himself contemplating if he'd…dreamed it all; that was how unreal it seemed. He didn't want to imagine something like that had truly happened, again, but it didn't explain his pains from the fight. Just as he finished breakfast, he felt anger building. Why did he have to live so alone and feel fear like this – fear of something so absurd and impossible, so targeted that no one else, it seemed, had to worry about it? It was purposefully being inflicted on him. He wanted to smash the bowl against the kitchen wall and scream and rage and vent about….about… Answers. I need answers. He owes me that. The only way to do that was to find that bastard Peter Petrelli.
Sylar went to the most likely place and found him, this tiny, stupid, painful boy who made him so dependent.
XXX
Peter looked up. He wasn't surprised, because he'd heard the doors even though Sylar had been quiet. He waited until Sylar was visible at the rec room door before he put the guitar aside on the couch and stood, swiping his hair out of his still-bruised face. "Hey." His voice was uncertain, but it wasn't a question. He studied Sylar, wondering how this was going to go.
XXX
There were no immediate weapons around Peter. He seemed to be working on the guitar. "What do you want?" Sylar sneered. If questioned, he would say he was here to retrieve his books.
XXX
That was not a satisfying or calming response. Peter shifted his weight uneasily and shrugged in answer. "Are you still angry?" The fight's over, right? Please let the fight be over. What about that kick? Maybe he doesn't think this is settled.
XXX
Staring the man down, Sylar magnanimously replied, "I'm never angry." He wasn't sure exactly why he was still stood nearly in the doorway even having half a conversation. There were things Peter could say (and do) to make this better, but those things weren't likely to be said and he didn't know if he could believe them if they were voiced. His eyes kept going to back to the guitar when he spared a second away from watching Petrelli. The instrument was just as much a target as Peter.
XXX
Peter sighed and rolled his eyes, finding a section of the couch a foot to the side where it was safe to flop down dramatically without perturbing any of his supplies. "That was a serious question, Sylar," he said with irritation. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. That approach isn't going to work. He's not making any sense. More gently, he said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I get that you're upset. It would help me to understand what happened. Tell me what you're angry about."
XXX
"I never said I was angry." This time he practically snarled it, tensing up and ready to throw down because that's where this was going – that's where everything led to, just more fighting. It's not about him and his fucking understanding! He knows exactly what he did! Now he's trying to play innocent.
XXX
Peter sat up straighter, face losing expression. His eyes went over Sylar and the change in the man's body language, taking it in even as he mirrored it himself. "Okay," he said slowly. Continuing the slow delivery, he said, "Tell me what's going on here."
XXX
With the repeated hammering on the internal wound, and it all spilled out, fast, loud, and very angry, "Where the fuck do you get off trying to do that? Again?! I told you I'd kill you if you tried it. I warned you and you never listen! You gamble too much and I never bluff about killing people." Sylar was circling closer, pointing fiercely at Petrelli and actively contemplating said murder, still strangely not wanting to commit to it and endure loneliness again.
XXX
Peter got to his feet in a slow rise. He cocked his head slightly. It's the mind-wipe. What the hell did I do? Did he black out and imagine it and I just didn't notice? (I was looking right at him the whole time!) He told me he didn't always remember things right... Very firmly, he voiced, "I didn't do shit to you. I have nothing to apologize for." His eyes narrowed at the pointed finger, his lip curling slightly. "You, on the other hand…?" It wasn't a gamble if Peter didn't care what the result was. If he pushed Sylar over the edge, then so be it.
XXX
That was possibly the worst tone of voice to use – ever, but certainly right now. The idiocy of this Petrelli, pushing for his own murder, and insulting while he did it. "How do you figure? You're the biggest liar of the bunch then – you said you didn't want me to pretend to be that asshole brother of yours." They began to circle but Sylar stopped next to the end of the couch where Peter had been seated.
XXX
"Oh yeah? Then let's go," Peter invited. He wanted this settled. He didn't want to live in fear of what Sylar might or might not misunderstand. If he couldn't be taken on his word after weeks of being together, then he might as well check out.
XXX
Sylar wasn't about to throw down or murder his companion when there was another viable option to get what he wanted, though he was certainly angry enough to do either. His face blanked and he leaned over and wrapped a hand around the neck of the guitar, bringing the butt to his other hand. He didn't look at Peter, instead he studied the instrument. The threat was obvious.
XXX
Peter's eyes widened. His mouth went dry and his fists loosened when Sylar picked up the guitar. It was odd how an object meant more to him than his body, but it did. It was something he'd worked on and invested in. It hadn't hurt Sylar. He'd never used it to hurt Sylar. It was completely inoffensive. I didn't even play insulting songs on it!
"That's low, man," Peter said, voice tight. "That has no part in this." There was still a chance, however small, that Sylar might put the instrument down and move on to the part where Peter kicked his ass again. He took a few small steps away from the couch, trying to edge closer without looking like he was getting closer. That was impossible, so mostly he just looked very unsettled.
XXX
It was soothing his rage to see Peter so visibly distressed. It was fitting and karmic after his own suffering which Peter seemed intent on ignoring. That was the difference between other people and him – they had tangible objects, such easy targets, possessions and family that could be threatened. He raised the guitar still further to savor Peter's discomfort. He said nothing, torturing the other man with each waiting second.
XXX
Peter's entire demeanor changed as he abandoned the fight. Sylar's intention was clear. Peter didn't resist letting it get to him – they could always fight later, but he only had one guitar that meant anything to him. Everything about the situation had turned sideways, fast. He doesn't bluff. (What do I do if he breaks it? I can't put that back together!) Then I kick his ass and find out what it takes to get me out of here. "No- Wait!" Peter hastened to put himself into the path of Sylar's most likely direction to swing the guitar. Not that it would help much if Sylar wanted to finish it. There was too much floor, the couch was right there, and Peter couldn't block any but a small sliver of it. If the obvious occurred, Peter had no intention of holding back. "Wait, please!" He didn't want that to happen though – he didn't want any of this to happen: the fighting, the arguing, Sylar angry and accusatory, the guitar damaged – any of it. He was tired suddenly, tired of being anxious and never certain and always on alert around this perpetually angry man. He held up his hands at shoulder level, palms upraised. He tried to see if Sylar would give him a chance to talk him down.
XXX
It's kind of pathetic that it has to come to this. Pathetic for him. His estimation of the Petrelli only worsened. His questions, his needs had been reasonable. Sylar paused, if only because of the quick proximity Peter put between them. He hadn't raised the guitar but a few inches higher before, and now he clutched it closer to himself in the event Peter tried to snatch away what was apparently his only leverage.
XXX
I need to explain. Just denying things isn't persuasive. "I was trying to do what I thought you wanted – with the fighting. Nothing you wouldn't recover from…quick, a few minutes, maybe a week for the bruises. If it seemed like I had something else in mind," Peter shook his head vehemently, because there had been nothing calculating or manipulative in his conduct, despite what Sylar believed, "that was all it was, Sylar. That was all." He looked at the still-imperiled guitar, the carefully-wrought, fiery red design on it still intact and unblemished. "I don't know how to explain things better. I don't have an offer or a plan or anything and I'm not going to come up with one just because you break my stuff. Please." He extended one hand partway between them, asking for the object. "Don't take this from me." Too, hung in the air, but he didn't say it. He was close enough to begging as it was. Sylar had already taken so much from him and so much more important. That he might take this small, inoffensive pleasure as well seemed too much. It was the pettiness of it, that he might reach out and smash anything Peter enjoyed, and not even as retaliation for anything Peter had done intentionally. The guitar had turned out unexpectedly pretty. He had been so mistaken as to foolishly think about showing it off to Sylar, seeing some parallel between it and the noisy clocks his companion cherished. Now the only parallel he saw was the despicable way he'd treated Emma's beautiful cello. He wanted to hide the guitar away and protect it from this monster who threatened to do the same to it in some twisted karmic justice for what he'd done to her. His eyes burned as he remembered how upset she'd been – how upset he had made her with his thoughtlessness and desperation.
XXX
Now he looked at Peter, searching his eyes. He was disgusted that he was, of course, the bad guy here. Peter could explain himself better (plan better or even have an offer) but perhaps that would come after the return of the guitar. "I still want answers, Petrelli," he warned as he extended the guitar out to Peter, thinking he had made his point and made the man vulnerable enough to fucking answer.
XXX
Peter took the instrument from Sylar's hands, slow and careful, hoping this wasn't an even crueler trick to offer and then snatch it away. But the guitar was given to him safe and sound. Peter drew it to himself and immediately retreated to the far corner of the couch, pausing only to move the paintbrush and a lid from the arm of the couch to the safety of a nearby chair. He curled up and held the guitar to him. "I'm not going to thank you for giving it back." He looked up at Sylar, eyes angry and shining. "You shouldn't be treating me like this anyway. It's wrong."
XXX
"Tell me something new," Sylar rejoined rhetorically with a shrug. "It's hardly the first time I've tortured someone for answers. You are the one who decides right and wrong here." He began to pace restlessly, scraping a hand through his hair and finding it sweaty from confronting his attacker, still prepared to kill him. He felt distracted and stuck, seemingly unable to ask what he needed to. It was making his gut churn and he felt sick.
XXX
"Then I say it's wrong!" Peter exclaimed, but he stayed where he was on the couch, hugging the guitar like it was the teddy bear Sylar had violated. Antagonizing him isn't going to help. But he was still too upset to be smooth about it. He vented instead. "What is it you want, anyway? You think I tried to mind-wipe you? I didn't! We've been over this! It doesn't matter what ability I have!" Peter held up his left hand, extending fingers as he spoke. "One, it's dumb. Two, it won't work. Three, I don't know how and like hell I'm going to 'practice' that. And four..." he waved generally up and down Sylar's body, "you're you and you stay you." He waited a beat, then said testily, "They're all the same fucking reason, Sylar. I'm not getting Nathan back that way." He waved his hand with energy and frustration as he went on, "Maybe time travel or something else, but it doesn't have to do with changing you."
Peter huffed, staying literally curled around the guitar in the corner of the couch. He felt threatened and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do about Sylar's issues. He wasn't even sure what he'd done to set the guy off. He frowned and asked in a slightly calmer tone, "Why do you think I tried? What happened that made you think I was doing that to you?"
XXX
Sylar couldn't initially respond. When Peter got to his reasons, he listened with increasing interest, his laser focus directed at the man. It was well-thought and the reasoning was very good – it was practically everything he needed to hear, but the man speaking was far from rational and that hadn't stopped him from making moves before. He found himself staring at Peter, eyes narrowing, frowning as if that would reveal truth and trust. He'd just pulled away a little, answering immediately in disbelief, "I told you not to touch my head!" There was more to it, but that was the main issue.
XXX
Peter was silent for a long moment as he mentally replayed the fight. "Punching you in the nose, holding your chin, or offering you the t-shirt?"
XXX
Again, he tried to stare into Peter. Was it even possible Peter hadn't connected the two? Could something like that be an accident? "My chin." Sylar said that with distinct enunciation, almost offended by the man's apparent density.
XXX
"I'm an empath, not a mind-reader," Peter grumbled. "Though technically, I suppose I'm both at the moment, but I can't use Matt's ability here. It doesn't work." He moved on to trying to figure things out between himself and Sylar. "I've touched you like that...before. Was it that I was holding you down, or that we were fighting, or...something else?"
XXX
Yeah, but- Sylar began to reason. It made sense. Even if Peter's ability worked here, the empath would surely choose not to feel Sylar's emotions or fail to react to them on purpose, assuming the emotions were real, normal, or identifiable. He really didn't know…? Never for a moment had he factored in Peter's ability – now he had to factor it out specifically, and account for the man's historical mental slowness. So rarely did actual accidents, mistakes happen to him because most harm that was done to him was intentional. That he could believe or prove that this time was quite unbelievable. He was back to looking at Peter with more belief and less suspicion, but his expression was more offended (both for being wrong and Peter for being so, so stupid). I made it so obvious, he thought of his weakness. Why even talk about it when he's just going to do it again to drive me insane? Now he was backpedaling, worried, and looking for anything to salvage and patch over his mistake. "You're not much of an empath at that!" he growled with bravado. "If you didn't want to torture me or make a joke of it, why the hell wouldn't you say it was a fucking accident when I first asked?"
XXX
Now Peter was the one looking at Sylar as though he were dumb. A little outrage colored his features as well. "You asked- No, you accused me of doing something to you and I told you I didn't. I said I didn't do anything. That's what I told you. You're the one who followed up by calling me a liar!" He didn't sit quite so folded up on himself anymore. This seemed like 'talking' now. Or maybe arguing, but it wasn't the razor edge of violence and destruction that they'd been on nearly from when Sylar walked in the room. He could tell Sylar's anger was starting to ebb compared to his fear, but knowing the emotions didn't mean he knew what was causing them or how to defuse them.
XXX
Sylar wasn't done, getting the order of explaining, interrogating, and commanding mixed up and having a none-too-gentle delivery with it. "You have a death wish. That guitar saved your life just now!" He was…yes, angry at Petrelli for endangering them with his lack of listening skills and planning. The piano would have substituted for a valuable hostage if the guitar hadn't been available, but Peter had been that close to dying. It didn't matter if Sylar lost the fight and was allowed to live and leave – he would have schemed and hunted the treacherous Petrelli down and won to protect himself. "I didn't know I had to give you instructions on 'don't touch my head!' Why would you hold me down like that and think that I wouldn't…? That's exactly what it looked like! What kind of idiot starts a fight when he could just answer a few questions? You don't de-escalate at all, Petrelli!" So much of this was Peter's fault. "How could you be so stupid? Don't fuck around with that ever!"
XXX
Peter scowled at Sylar. "Fuck you!" he shot at him for all the familiar insults. The only thing Sylar hadn't thrown in there was Peter's general worthlessness and the supposed weakness of being softer-hearted than his father and brother had wished of him. "I didn't start that fight, you did!" He set the guitar partly aside and sat up to defend himself more vigorously with body language and gestures. "What was it you said?" Peter's face scrunched up in disgust. "Something about using shape-shifting to masturbate as one of my family?" He waved his hands in a 'duh!' shrug. "That is starting a fight, Sylar! I'm not going to let you insult my family like that. Who threw the first punch hardly matters if your goal is to piss me off until I do."
He fumed for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and regarded Sylar. "You keep saying I need to answer your questions. I don't remember you asking me anything before the fight started." He grimaced as he remembered what they had been doing. "We were…flirting…before that. What is it you need to know from me?"
XXX
Sylar spent his time simultaneously staring at Peter and not listening to whatever off-topic blather he felt was so important. I can't explain! (I shouldn't have to…) "I know that!" he burst out, only just waiting until Peter finished. The relevant question at the end relieved and stymied him. "I need…" It felt strange to phrase it that way, so explicit, and by then, Sylar knew what he needed. "Don't touch my head. Any part of it. I don't…" Now he was back to being frustrated, both at having to think through the steps and having to give the instructions. "I don't care about my neck or my hair, but my hair is part of my head." He licked his lips, bit the lower one, then sighed as his pacing took on a less frantic speed, looking to and from Peter now. "Not even when I'm asleep or unconscious or injured – just don't." A stare marked the end of his needs. He felt incredibly vulnerable still. Because I told him a weakness. It's weak. "I shouldn't have to remind you that I will kill you if you touch my head."
XXX
Peter listened with a serious, intent expression on his face. "Okay." He thought back over what Sylar was asking for – what the whole argument seemed to be about. Solemnly, he said, "I won't touch any part of your head, or hold you down and…threaten to do it." He frowned, looking away with knit brows. Not being able to hit his head in a fight sucks. What if things are going bad and I need to win? How can I keep things from going bad in the first place? "I need to understand this fighting thing we're doing. I was trying to…" Peter glanced back to Sylar and made an open-handed, palm-up motion of offering, "play fair. To follow whatever rules you keep mentioning and not…beat you to a pulp the way you did to me last time." He considered his words, wondering what he could ask for and what Sylar would grant. Was there some middle ground between them? "I didn't like that. I got hurt too bad." He was quiet a moment before asking, "That was because I came at you saying I was going to turn you into Nathan again? Or use you to get Nathan back – however I put it?"
XXX
Sylar's head canted to the side at that. He doesn't understand fighting at all. That much was made very clear to him. He's not operating with all his powers, his empathy and it doesn't work on me anyway. "Yes," Sylar pronounced slowly, oozing 'duh!' in tone and limited in his facial expression. He thinks I'm that unstable?
XXX
Peter nodded slowly. How could I be so stupid? It was obvious, really, and especially in retrospect when he had the right information. "I don't recall what I was thinking before you," he gestured at the floor of the rec room, "plastered me here, but during the fight in the exercise room I didn't have any intention of setting you off like this." It was said apologetically. "That's not a way I want to hurt you." He shrugged. "Or anyone. Ever. Not like that."
XXX
"Right," Sylar scoffed. "You didn't have any intention of losing that fight, Petrelli." If Peter had won, he wouldn't have 'set Sylar off,' instead, in Peter's mind, he would have his precious brother back. It would have simply resulted in this fight today happening sooner, it seemed. After all, Peter had nearly ambushed him out of a dead sleep. The winner of a fight where the Haitian's power was used wouldn't have to apologize or explain himself because the loser would be…putty, dead, or be another person entirely. It was even more annoying that Peter couldn't stick to a subject, let alone an event. Sylar followed this current detour out of rebuilding irritation. "You didn't care. Besides, we've established that I'm not like everyone else. So 'hurting me like that' at Mercy was just…what? Ends justifying your means?"
XXX
Peter grimaced and winced. That was...different. Why can't he see that? Patiently and somewhat apologetically, he tried to explain, "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I was trying to get Nathan back. I offered you a…deal." He rolled his eyes and looked uncomfortable. "I know it was one-sided. Yeah. I get that. You murdered my brother, Sylar. That I wasn't killing you immediately, that I was trying to talk to you – that should mean something. I had those drugs so I could…try to work something out. I thought, if you didn't have abilities and I could sedate you enough, maybe there was something…" He shook his head. "I didn't have more of a plan than that. I didn't know what was possible or not, where Nathan…was, if he was in you somehow and I could…you know, pull him out like that future version of me did with me from Jesse. I didn't know. The drugs and taking away your powers was so I could have a chance to find out." He shook his head again. "But then things…yeah, escalated. You threw me out of the elevator before…anything." He started that one, too!
XXX
Sylar just frowned painfully at him. Even thinking about Mercy made him nauseous. Talking about it...well. He hated the very word, 'Mercy,' it was so painfully ironic. His voice was a cracking, husky whisper. "It wasn't a deal, Petrelli. You forced me into a shitty choice using torture where death was the alternative. You weren't going to simply let me go if I chose Door Number Three. It wasn't really even a choice because I was completely powerless. You are no different than the Company." He was panting when he stopped because it took all of his willpower to stay in the same room with Peter Petrelli, let alone talk or hear about Mercy. It was almost too much to say what he had; his eyes felt warm.
XXX
Well...yeah. That hurt to admit even inside and it threw Peter's mind into chaos about his feelings towards his mother, Noah, Matt, and what they'd done. He couldn't make sense of it. Feeling himself losing focus, he put his attention back on what had happened at the hospital that night and why. He started diplomatically, but his tone didn't stay that way. "I see you're upset. You have a right to be. That whole thing sucked for both of us, but especially you because things didn't go how you wanted them to. Didn't you show up there to kill my mother, change your mind that you'd rather crucify me instead first, and this was after you'd killed my brother and tried to take over the government by assassinating the president?" He cocked his head and asked with a mix of seriousness and sarcasm. "Did I miss something there?" He made an open-handed gesture to the side, sitting forward on the couch. "It sounds to me like you showed up thinking I would be the one powerless, intending to torture me to death." He gave a dip of his head for emphasis, "And then my mom, too."
XXX
He'd forgotten his agreement with himself not to talk about Mercy, or any crimes of Peter's for just this reason. He suckered me in and I fell for it. I'm evil; I deserve it, so it's not 'wrong.' Sylar didn't attempt to argue the part about how his plans, including murdering his targets, was far less cruel than torture and mind-erasing in terms of pain. Peter was the cruel one in keeping Sylar alive each time. His heart sank and his face fell bitterly. It was a battle (or a series of them), which he knew he needed to win on many levels and yet he knew he could never win them. Instead of continuing along the beaten track, he took a deep, wavering breath to refocus on the real issue at hand. Petrelli was unapologetic yet acknowledged the supposed, wish-washy 'wrong' he'd done; promising never to so much as threaten Sylar or hurt a feeling and repeatedly fucking that up with dubious degrees of intention. "At least I'm honest about it and I own up to it," was all he said in his own defense because he didn't recall sugarcoating any of his deeds. It's not about what I did - it's about him! Here was Peter, once again changing the subject to throw blame like it was a valid reason back onto Sylar. "So why should I trust you this time, Petrelli?" He said the name like it was synonymous with 'liar.'
XXX
"Yeah, you're honest," Peter said bitterly. But he appreciated that in its own twisted way. He raked a hand through his hair. "Trust is earned." His voice strained over that, because Sylar wouldn't be asking the question unless Peter had failed to earn it. That knowledge hit him hard. "I can't prove myself to you, persuade you to like me, or manipulate you into trusting me. Or," he glanced off to the side and made a sardonic roll of his eyes, "if I can, I'm not going to." He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've been honest, too," he said soberly. "I'm not perfect. I'm not even," he swallowed and huffed out a tense breath, "very good. I try to be. But…" he shook his head, "it's like Claude said – someday I'll die and they'll put that on my tombstone: 'Here lies Peter Petrelli. He tried.'" He frowned and shook his head again, feeling his eyes burn with moisture. "That's all I've got, Sylar. I'm trying. I want you to trust me. I want to be someone you can trust." He sniffed and ran both hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor and the faint outline of a since-cleaned pool of blood staining the carpet. He didn't even know which one of them it had originated from. It was a sad comment on the state of affairs between them. Peter looked up at Sylar. "What can I do to earn your trust? You know what would work for you. Tell me. Tell me what to do."
XXX
I told him I'd never trust him. It's not possible. But we had something. It was better than nothing. Sylar knew he was being very hard on Peter, hurting him, frightening him, and making him feel small. Applying the intentional stress came from desperation. At the same time, it was such a simple, small, and obvious thing. I don't deal with shit like this. I just kill people. His frustration shifted toward the solution he'd presented to Peter. Sylar's long-dulled survival instinct wouldn't shake even as he balked at the kill stroke. Peter, by himself, was a decent man – someone Sylar, or Gabriel, would have liked if things had been different. Nathan knew him differently, with love and familial history. He was trying to look past the evidence before him. Letting his companion live would be more pleasant by far, and more difficult. (I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to). He knows it's serious now. I don't know what he can do to fix it. If only I could tell him what to do. Sylar stood still as Peter spoke, torn by indecision so badly he couldn't walk around, lean against the pool table, or even sit next to Peter on the available couch cushion. "I don't need to trust you, Petrelli." Even that implied weakness he couldn't allow - he regretted using the word now. "At least- Not everything is…This is…" He couldn't explain how this was different than almost any other issue and eventually he gave up, still frustrated and confused.
XXX
Peter waited for Sylar to go on, but that seemed as far as the other man would go for the moment. He sighed. You do need to trust me! That's what this is all about. At least we're talking. What have I done that might weigh in my favor here? "I haven't ambushed you or killed you. I've taken care of you when you were hurt. I'm trying…" he shrugged, "to give you space when you need it. When you're angry at me and leave to just…let you leave and don't follow. Sylar, I fucking sleep with you! And that's not for my peace of mind. It's for yours even if I'm okay with it." He was silent for a moment before continuing, "Yeah, there's ways I'd like to hurt you and see you suffer, but I wouldn't be human if I didn't feel that way after what you've done." He waved at Sylar. "Just because I've thought about them doesn't mean I'm going to do them, ever. I'm trying to follow your rules. It would help if you were a little clearer about what they are, but without that, I'm going to stumble around in the dark some. Maybe I threaten to hit you in the face and I don't know that's going to set you off. I know you came in here wanting to kill me for making that mistake. I didn't do it on purpose. I won't do it again. You know me. You know me better than anyone, ever, probably. Because my parents…" He rolled his eyes and shook his head. His mother loved him, but she'd been busy a lot and especially as he grew older, she didn't take the time to really know him. "And Nathan…you know everything he knows. Plus a lot. Because you've actually listened to me the last however long we've been here. If you know all that and you still can't work something out with me…" Peter shrugged helplessly, because 'take it or leave it' wasn't an option when Sylar had made it clear he was to the point of seriously considering getting rid of Peter if they couldn't build some rapport between them. "Then let's talk about what I can do to be someone you can deal with." After a beat he added, "And fucking you isn't part of the equation."
XXX
It felt like Peter was playing dirty with the reminders of all the good things he'd done. There were many yet Sylar remembered them all and had appreciated them (or perhaps taken them for granted) too deeply to be able to express his gratitude. Some of the things were necessary for him to function and Peter did them automatically without question – and he was consistent with them (for the most part). Sylar couldn't help but yearn for more. Peter was an incredibly irritating balm against time and solitude and insanity. What I want versus what I need. I…I need both, don't I? I need him alive and I need to…be able to keep my mind.
Sylar snorted a rough, single chuckle with a half roll of his eyes. Of course, Peter would throw in how sex wasn't going to happen even if it was laughably disinteresting right now. It broke much of the tension and it felt like he could finally breathe. Added to it, Sylar had…decided or deduced that Peter Petrelli did not have abilities here. If he did, he wouldn't be here; the fights would be different, because he can't control himself. He said that before. "You really don't have abilities here, do you?"
XXX
Peter frowned slightly. It was an odd deviation from the topic, but on the other hand, it was better than what they'd been talking about. Maybe it tied in somehow. Maybe he's asking to make sure I can't mind-wipe him? Peter didn't have the most reassuring answer for that, but he wasn't going to lie about it either. "I can feel Matt's ability." He pointed at his head. "It's in there. But it doesn't work. I can't read minds. I can't get us out of here. I can't paint or draw the future. It's like being in a deep cave and trying to see. I know I've got my eyes open, but everything's black." He waved at his head in general. "I've got the ability, but..." Peter shrugged, "nothing works." He didn't want to mention the weird tingling in his hands. He let his hands fall and he looked at them for a while. I don't want to be called a liar later for leaving things out. "I can tell I've still got my own ability, too. But there's nothing to swap for, and mostly it seems to be turned off like with Matt's telepathy. It tingles sometimes, but nothing happens." He left off how it tingled when they touched, and generally only when they were touching in a friendly or more-than-friendly manner. Peter wasn't so dense he hadn't noticed the pattern. He still didn't know what it meant, though, and this was not the time to discuss it. He looked back up at Sylar and said no more of his unruly, inconsistent powers. "What about you?"
XXX
Wistfully, speaking almost to himself, Sylar said by way of explaining apology, "It's my abilities and the things that have…happened," he exhaled then sighed. Opening his mouth once and closing it in a false start, he managed quietly, "Do things still feel real to you? The world, me, the past and everything we knew…How do you tell what's real?" He couldn't phrase it as his own problem because he'd had enough vulnerability to last a long time. Instead, he took Peter up on the offer to talk, in an angled way because his mind was still in upset and he didn't want to question and explain any of the dozens of things Peter had brought up – he didn't want to work through it right now, if he could get away with it. He wanted to lie down and rest, really rest.
XXX
"I think we're trapped in your head here," Peter said gently, holding up a hand to hopefully forestall any objections. Sylar seemed to be struggling, wrestling with himself and his doubts. It reminded Peter of how lost Nathan had seemed after Peter's first death, and how he'd been when he showed up on Peter's doorstep, confused, frightened, and just beginning to suspect he wasn't Nathan at all. Peter worked to build the man up. "But that doesn't mean this isn't real. What's between us, our interaction, that's real. As real as any conversation or…relationship." He swallowed and took a deep breath. He had a relationship with Sylar, no doubt about it and it wasn't just 'enemies' anymore or else he wouldn't care about supporting him like this. "There are obviously things going on around here that don't seem right." Peter waved his hands out to either side. "The people are gone. It's all city. Some things are…disorienting – no faces, the trash disappears, the weather is weird. There's a lot that seems unreal. But you and I are used to a world where we can fly, Sylar." Peter smiled at the mere mention of that. "Where you and I both held the power to level entire cities, to kill or to heal with a wave of our hand or a simple touch. That stuff really happened to us. I know it happened as well as I know myself. It's part of me. It's part of you. We are meant for extraordinary things. So is it any surprise that we don't feel ordinary?"
XXX
Sylar didn't protest Peter's delusion about the world being a dream because as long as Peter believed it was some kind of reality, the empath would react accordingly. He didn't buy into it and it seemed that Peter was aware of that. Several things had potential but his brain didn't snag on them just yet: 'real…relationship,' the inconsistencies of their world, Peter's joy at flying, that both of them were meant for extraordinary things. What's happened is part of me. That includes the good and the bad. He thinks the bad outweighs the good and I can't separate myself from it. Those thoughts zipped through his brain and left him feeling...vindicated at least that Peter knew some things were part of Sylar, bittersweet because he couldn't simply cut out his evil. Is he saying that I don't feel normally or that I am not ordinary? Do specials have abnormal feelings because of their powers? Is my- our trouble caused by our lack of powers this time? It was a relief to be with Peter, the guy who never once doubted his own specialness and his mission, who, if anything, overestimated his capacity. Peter knew what reality was (more or less) and he could apparently…be trusted to figure out those dilemmas that still plagued Sylar's chaotic mind. Either that, or he's manipulating me and lying like he said he wouldn't but I don't care. This lie is more pleasant than whatever truth he could be hiding.
"No," he said, accepting that for what it was. "No, I suppose it isn't." It felt like a very long answer to explain…why he suffered with all the people, possibilities, and realities in his head. (He needs to feel special here, too). There were many thoughts that needed time. He was considerably calmer than he'd been in…well, since he woke up cuddling Peter. "I'm…going to read for a while. With my clocks." He angled away slightly, but waited to see how it was received.
XXX
Peter got to his feet, but that was as far as he went. He had a strong desire to move to Sylar, to touch him, to cup his elbow, grasp his bicep, or clap a hand on his shoulder – anything for contact. Being allowed that touch would be more reassuring than anything Sylar could say. Peter stomped on that desire. He's paranoid right now. He doesn't like me touching him anyway, and most of my abilities work by touch. Just leave it alone. Leave him alone. It was hard, though. "Okay." He shifted his weight insecurely. "Are we good?"
XXX
Peter rose but didn't approach. Sylar was grateful for that, too. His own passive way of showing it (since other gestures were frowned upon) was to answer that important question directly. "Yes. You're safe." With a final lingering glance, he made for his apartment, breathing a deep sigh of lessened tensions. When he was outdoors, he looked up at the clearing sky. There were ominous heavy rainclouds in the distance. He sent up a something like a prayer to Fate that he no longer had to worry about his mind and personality being mutilated. What could it be like to have that kind of safety? Even if it was temporary, it was something undreamed of. The most terrifying threat Peter presented seemed suddenly nullified, a huge oppressive, offensive, crippling weight off his shoulders. He was glad Peter's wits hadn't abandoned him completely, seeing how the man had managed to talk his way out of death, for the benefit of both. In the midst of his relief, Sylar had to ignore any fantasies he had about…what this meant between himself and Peter. If things had been different, he still felt that Peter would mutilate his mind and the lack of action was not a decision on Peter's part. For now, it left their situation far more open with possibilities. The possibility of torture (maiming) was still present, as was being imprisoned and beaten but those were manageable. It left him feeling damn near friendly towards Petrelli just for the reprieve.
Back at his apartment, Sylar applied himself to re-fixing his collection of watches that he'd taken apart and put back together dozens of times. His mind wandered into the future and where he fit in it. A few nightmares still plagued him but he slept deeply, getting much needed rest.
XXX
Peter nodded mutely and took a seat again, watching silently as Sylar left. When he was alone, he heaved a sigh, scrubbed at the non-bruised parts of his face, and raked his hands through his hair, alternating between scratching at his scalp and pulling at his hair. It took him a while to wind down, something the exercise room across the hall helped with. Worn out later, he took a hot bath, got a late lunch, and finally returned to the task of finishing his work on the guitar. That night, he changed his mind from his thoughts of that morning and stayed in the penthouse even though he didn't expect (or receive) company. He felt less alone there than he did at his place – more like he was waiting for someone to join him than living in exile.