Day 70, February 18, Morning
The next morning saw Peter at his usual routine and breakfast at the diner down the street. On the way back, he stopped in front of Sylar's apartment and set up shop on the curb across the street. He skimmed the book on Muhammad Ali as he whiled away the time, thinking Sylar would probably come out at some point.
XXX
After a reviving shower, toast, eggs, and an apple, Sylar brought his book down to the lobby with the intention of latching onto Peter. He found with amused pleasure that Peter was already waiting for him. (He's not too angry. At least, I don't think he would bring his book to a fight. Yesterday, he didn't…lead me on, either – didn't make me afraid of the possibility that he was just messing with me). Sylar approached and sat next to the man, a comfortable distance. "I didn't expect to see you here. You're out early. Did you finish the guitar?" Conversation, right? This is what normal people do. With the whole world between them apparently suddenly opened up, he wanted to take advantage of it.
XXX
Peter closed the book, not bothering to mark the place with his finger. It wasn't the sort of book that required sequential reading. He smiled a little at Sylar's greeting and more at being joined on the sidewalk, even if the cold concrete wasn't the most comfortable hanging out spot. "No, not quite," he said of the guitar question. He took a moment to consider what danger Sylar continued to pose to the instrument. Wasn't there something about how if you're ever taken hostage, you should tell your attacker all about you so they see you as a human being and won't hurt you? Would the same apply to the guitar?
"It's turning out really nice. Beautiful. With the etching, it's kind of just paint-by-numbers, which is good because I don't think I could manage anything really complex. I went through a lot of masking tape and a bunch of different shades of spray paint." He gave Sylar a twisted smile. "You wouldn't expect a little experience tagging would come in handy, would you?" He'd been chased off from graffiti bombing runs a few times as a teen, but he didn't think word had ever reached his parents (much less the mostly-absent Nathan) about Peter's illegal extracurriculars while being a skate rat. "I was doing brush work for touch-up. The design is a phoenix. And fire, of course. I think all I have to do now is apply a clear topcoat. At least, that's what I gathered from reading the back of the different cans of paint and stuff in the crafter's apartment where we found it. I left it to dry overnight." He dipped his head towards Sylar. "Do you know anything about painting stuff?"
XXX
Sylar nodded before it seemed clear that Peter wanted him describe his knowledge – of course. "It depends how it was treated before you painted, you know, sanding, priming, that kind of thing, and how you finish it."
XXX
"Oh?" The guitar had already been prepped, so Peter didn't have any influence over that. Also, the answer was so vague as to be useless, but Peter thanked him anyway for responding. "Okay, thanks." Maybe he'll have more to say about it when he sees it next. (I'm not sure I want him close enough to it to see it.) He stood up, stretching his legs, which turned into stretching most of the rest of him, too. "You want to walk somewhere? I've eaten, but have you?"
XXX
A brief pause denoted Sylar's reaction and thoughts. Why is he thanking me? What I told him is useless now that he's nearly done. He looked around after he stood. It was a fairly clear day, with only a few light gray clouds on the horizon. "Sure. Yeah, I ate." I guess I usually wait for him, to see if he's eaten. Only after he agreed, did he think about their destination and purpose.
XXX
After they'd walked for a block, Peter asked, "I've been thinking about what happened the other day and some of the things you said. It would help me to know what else is off-limits for you. Between the two of us, I mean, like conversational topics or things I shouldn't do. Other than your head and your mom. I got those." He took another stride before adding, "And, uh, mental stability. Or, at least, I need to be real careful about when talking about that."
XXX
And so it started. They'd only just begun this mysterious walk, only just met up for the day, and after the goings-on of rest of the week… It sent him into irritated and helpless faster than it should have. Once you know what to look for, you Petrellis sure layer it on thick, he thought with an edge. Why else would he want me so comfortable? Rather than answer, he said what needed to be said and no more. "How would I know? You can hit me and hold me down and do whatever you want. I'm not…picky." After a few steps, he snorted, "Besides, nothing that you've done is new. I've had worse." That was arguable, but Peter needed to feel challenged rather than…pitying.
XXX
He says he's not picky like he's saying he's not fragile. Or weak. But wait, isn't this the opposite of what we argued about yesterday – that I can't do whatever I want? Peter frowned, but decided to change the subject rather than pursue it. There was another thing Sylar had said yesterday he wanted to know more about. "You said I wasn't the first person you'd tortured for information. Tell me about that." He didn't regard Sylar threatening the guitar as 'torture', but that was how Sylar had labeled it, so Peter used the same word. Did he mean he'd extorted other people like with the guitar, or did he mean he'd done the more typical description of torture – inflicting pain just to inflict it? "Does that have anything to do with the Hunger or was that just … you?"
XXX
The pressure grated on him like sandpaper. Why can't we ever talk about anything normal?! (Because I don't have anything normal to talk about and he'd rather talk about the freak so he can feel 'safe'). Why can't we ever just not talk? (Because I'm not his brother). "It was no different than some of the things you've done for friends and family. It has nothing to do with you. I'm tired of talking about me," he declared, throwing it down like a glove. His nose hurt like a bitch.
XXX
Two strikes in a row. He assumed the sniping about 'friends and family' was about the incident with Sylar at Mercy Hospital. He didn't think Sylar knew about the thing with Noah. "Sounds like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he grumbled, not interested in addressing his own failings. Peter gave Sylar a thorough look. Did he really eat, or was he just saying that? We're going to the diner next. It's just a block over. "We don't have to talk about you. Or anything, if you'd rather. I like the company, even if it's just you being there." Peter did not like being alone, especially here, and as long as Sylar wasn't being deliberately antagonistic, threatening, insulting, or disrespectful (which, Peter would admit, Sylar was one or more of those most of the time), then he made good company. Or he could make good company. Or...well, actually, he was just the only company available. Resigned to this situation, Peter put the best face he could on it and tried to play nice. A third strike will put me out of the game. With a gentle tone, Peter said, "I was at the penthouse last night." He was trying to say, to hint, that he'd waited for Sylar, that Sylar might have slept better if he'd gone there, that Peter wanted and had wanted to be something other than apart last night, especially if he was going to pay for it today in the form of an irritable, easily-moved-to-violence Sylar. He turned at the end of the block, steering them towards the diner.
XXX
Sylar knew his irritation was due to his lack of compliance with being manipulated. He didn't want to accept any supposed 'help' from this man (ever, if he could help it) and never if it meant owing Peter something or being viewed as pathetic. The idea of Peter Petrelli seeing him as a person or a human was laughable and so was the empath's attempt to manipulate him that way. It was…clumsy. So Peter tried guilt. Sylar felt the twinge. I'm still the fucking bad guy, that's all he's trying to say. It made him want to give up on trying to be decent companionship. It's always my fault, isn't it? Peter was just minding his own business (so he says!) before I came along and ruined everything. For everyone I'm sure. Peter's words and probably a host of unvoiced feelings served to remind him that Peter had other, less pleasant options. He was waiting for me?...Why? After threatening and insulting, the idea that they would sleep together hadn't crossed his mind.Sylar hadn't slept at the penthouse because he hadn't wanted to. Was he implying that Sylar had some kind of responsibility to sleep with him now? Or…Sylar sighed aloud, He just thinks I'd have 'slept on a better side of the bed' there. Since it was allowed, he took a few deep breaths to fix his tone and some of his attitude. "Yeah? I was reading a murder mystery - big shock."
XXX
"Yeah? Was it good?" Peter inquired politely. If Sylar had gotten the hint (which Peter was disposed to think he had), then this was Sylar's way of telling him to go fuck himself.
XXX
Sylar nodded. It had been easier to sink into the fantasy of a book than attempt to corral his wild thoughts about his own life, flipping upside down and back again every day it seemed. It had calmed him, having the space, much needed because he'd felt ready to fall apart yesterday. He wasn't sure how much he was supposed to detail about his read (or his sleep). He then saw they were nearing the diner and Peter intended to go in though it wasn't lunch time. "Are you hungry?"
XXX
Peter shrugged indifferently. "I want to pick up some biscuits to eat while we walk." He was sort-of lying. They weren't for him. He was hoping some food might lead to a better mood in his companion.
XXX
You didn't answer my question…"You weren't paying attention, but I said I already ate," his annoyed tone was back.
XXX
Peter gave the most exasperated huff, rolling his eyes skyward in frustration. Now I'm caught between lying or telling him I'm trying to manipulate him into feeling better. "I pay attention just fine!" he snapped. "You need something you're not getting right now and I'm trying to figure out what I can do for you." He held up fingers and ticked them off insultingly, like Sylar was dense. "Maybe it's rest? Food? Water? Exercise? I don't know, Sylar! I'm trying to help. If you don't want any fucking biscuits, then you don't have to eat any fucking biscuits." We're going to have another fight. I know it! I wish he'd stop this! (I wish I'd stop it.) Why do we keep doing this?!
XXX
Sylar stopped outside the door, too surprised from all quarters to react properly. Like I'm his pet? I am no-…I suppose I am his pet. Or his prisoner. Or maybe he thinks I'm a child because I clearly can't take care of myself! It bothered him further that Peter thought his 'needs' were so simple as to be reduced to food/water, rest, and walking. He began to boil again on the inside but kept a lid on it for the moment. As a backhanded way of telling Peter just how vexing he was, he calmly stated, "I thought you said mental comfort was more important than the physical."
XXX
Peter almost stumbled he stopped so fast. His mouth was open while he mentally recalibrated. We're fighting because all I'm taking care of is the physical. I keep checking his injuries and making sure he eats and sleeps enough (or at least I try to) and that's not what he needs. That's NEVER what my patients need. Or at least not all they need. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he found himself asking How could I be so stupid? "Oh. Uh." He shut his mouth. "Um, that's...why you went back to your clocks and books yesterday, isn't it?" He was thinking out loud rather than really asking Sylar. "Okay. Do you want to walk to the library or just go read today?" He was sincere (if rattled) and tried to convey that in his tone.
XXX
Sylar huffed, putting hands in pockets and looking about down the road in no particular direction. "Yes, Peter. I'd rather go to the library." He pushed past Peter, brushing against the man to walk into the diner, "But first, I want a 'fucking' biscuit. Sounds like you need one, too. Maybe it will improve my chances of getting a massage or getting laid." He hadn't forgotten that Peter had technically agreed to massages after fights.
XXX
That worked! Peter watched Sylar's body language change from simmering anger to merely put out over the course of a few seconds – there would be no fight if Sylar's hands were in his pockets and he was looking around rather than straight at his target. It was enough of a surprise that Peter managed to quip, "Letting me help you would imp-" before cutting himself off mid-word. No. Giving him tips is not cool. (But, hey, is he offering me a massage?)
XXX
Sylar turned around and cocked his head. "Is that what this is all about? You have to change me before you can fuck me?"
XXX
Peter was feeling needy. He was lonely and worried. He'd had multiple fights with Sylar in the last week, and had both his life and interests threatened the day before. But the moment he thought he'd figured something out to make things between them better, it soured. Why is this about sex? If sex would get Sylar off Peter's case, then it was sorely tempting. But it's just another extortion. He's going to be an asshole until he gets laid, books and clocks be damned. (He'll probably be an asshole after, too. And during?) With deep insecurity, he wondered, (Does he think I'm worthless unless I'm putting out?) He knew his mouth was writing checks he wasn't sure he wanted to see cashed, but he said it anyway with brimming offense: "I'm sure as hell not fucking you the way you are!" He stalked inside the diner after Sylar, waving his arms out to the sides to demonstrate how done he wanted to be with all of this.
XXX
So much for not talking about me or not talking when I don't want to. Sylar sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and coping a bit of an attitude. See, this is what I don't want to talk about. How evil and wrong and horrible I am. Or how normal I should have been. "I'm sure I've heard it before, but what do you mean, 'the way I am'?" Temporarily at least, he didn't remind Peter of what he'd said mere minutes ago (both about mental comfort and talking when/about what he pleased), ceasing his search for the biscuits as well.
XXX
Peter continued emphasizing his points with both arms. "Because you're an asshole! Unrepentant from what I can tell." He hesitated, calming somewhat, his face softening as he considered how difficult Sylar might find it to repent of having done so much. With a sigh, he continued, "I don't know if the blood washes off or not, but you have to at least admit it's there." He paused again. "Maybe not to everyone, but at least to the people you've effected. Otherwise, it's like you're denying you did anything wrong." Peter's voice had turned very earnest. The conversation had (at least as far as he was concerned) taken a turn for meaningful.
XXX
Sylar's face pinched then blanked. He felt – sensed? – that his words were being quoted back at him and that's how he understood it. No. I don't have to admit to anything. I'm- I was powerful. I could change myself into anyone and do anything I wanted. Being covered in blood…stains me, he thought with difficulty. Besides, who the hell would I admit anything to? Granted, a precious few like Luke, Micah, Claire (unwillingly), Elle, Danko, and Dr. Gibson had…tried to listen. More important than mere conversation was that when he'd sought help from nearly everyone he knew (anyone he could reach), he'd been systematically turned away with varying degrees of insult and violence. The last time he tried: I ended up here. Despite the impossibility, he acknowledged the point, logically, for what it was. "Why would I do that? It only puts me permanently in the hot seat and doesn't solve anything for you. Besides, you have a ridiculously high tolerance for assholes who won't admit to anything and who won't help you."
XXX
Peter looked at him levelly. "It would make me feel better. If you don't admit to it, then I want to keep digging at it. It's unresolved. I want to make you admit it wasn't right." He ignored the dig at his tolerance or lack thereof. He sat at the counter, one elbow on it, his hand supporting the side of his face. "I am so tired of fighting with you, Sylar. I don't want to. If you don't want this to be...us tearing at each other all the time, then something has to change."
XXX
Then make me! He instinctively longed to spit back. What Peter said did fit with his…singularly determined attention on nearly everything Sylar wanted to avoid. The idea of giving Peter what he wanted to…stop the nonsense took on a new light. It sounded far too good to be true. He took a moment to think it over and spot all the loopholes that would screw him over. The biggest being that Peter's word was garbage and he routinely went back on the things he'd said in casual conversation. Giving Peter answers or- Sylar mentally corrected himself – information would not end there. "Out of curiosity," he hedged, noncommittal, "What did you have in mind?"
XXX
"You've hurt a lot of people. You don't seem to care about it. That has to change! You've hurt me and you don't seem to care. You want sex, but," he sat straighter to make an elaborate shrug of exasperation, "why would I be with someone who didn't care if they hurt me?"
XXX
He gave a roll of his eyes at the demand. Change, change, change, and more change. That's all anyone ever wanted and look what I am now. If he had half a brain-cell, he'd figure out that maybe yet another operation won't make Frankenstein into a nice guy – it will probably make him worse. I don't want sex- I mean, I do, but that's not what I'm asking for. I just want you to fuck me He didn't want to talk about sex, or how he was never going to get that opportunity. "I took care of you. I'm not stupid enough to hurt you every time I want to."
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a long, steady look, thinking over the care Sylar had given him. He wasn't sure how much of it was real or concussion-induced imaginings, but no matter where the line of reality was drawn, he'd been allowed to heal, been given time and attention throughout, and not abused or taken advantage of. That was the indisputable minimum Sylar had done for him and it was more than Peter required or, frankly, had expected. He had not forgotten how he should not take for granted Sylar not killing him. Even if he had, the subtext of 'I'm not stupid enough to hurt you every time I want to' was clear enough. But the reality of how Sylar had acted when Peter had been in genuine need, if his memory was to be trusted, was that Sylar had stuck with him, helped, not picked any fights, and even provided comfort. Peter knew he'd been cranky and not the best patient. He remembered clearly his apprehension that he might push Sylar too far, which was something he wouldn't have feared unless he was being difficult.
"Yes, you did take care of me," Peter said finally. "Now think about how you'd have felt if I wouldn't admit that? What if I said I didn't believe you would have helped me, so my memory must be wrong and since I was concussed, I can't be sure what really happened. That...frustration...is how I feel about you saying you had your 'reasons' for all those people you killed – like that makes it okay somehow."
XXX
His only reaction was a slow blink. "I do have reasons. What could I possibly say to make killing someone 'okay' in your mind? I did it in self-defense? To save someone else? For science? Because my ability made me do it? Because I was angry? Because I could? Because I can't tell right from wrong? What?! There's nothing I can say to make it 'okay' for you and you wouldn't believe it and you certainly won't leave me alone. I don't bother to justify myself to anyone and no one is stupid enough to ask - they just…act." Sylar turned away to get their would-be peacekeeping snacks from the kitchen. It's too late for that, I think. I can't…give him anything he wants. I don't have my abilities.
XXX
Peter watched him go, frowning at Sylar's back and thinking. What do I want him to say? What is there he can say? 'Sorry' wouldn't cut it. I mean, it would be a start, but…he's right. I wouldn't be satisfied with that. He stewed on that, imagining various scenarios where Sylar confessed and what he (Peter) might or might not do in response.
XXX
Returning with a pair of biscuits, sans any condiments, he added in a softer tone as he idly looked at the food in his hands, "I've heard it all before, Petrelli. For…years," he paused to consider how long he'd been hearing blame and complaints and horrified questions, "anything you could think to ask or scream at me – I've heard before. I've been with so many people – the Bennets, Claire, your parents, the Sureshs, Company agents, government agents, other specials, targets and their families, sometimes even normal people. I get that it comes with the territory – I mean, I did think it would be different, but it isn't. It…it gets old," he admitted, looking up at Peter and handing him his snack. "Talking doesn't do me any good. It just makes more trouble," he concluded sadly.
XXX
Peter listened quietly. "I suppose I'm not saying anything new," he responded in a resigned tone that matched Sylar's. "Here." He took the biscuits. "Let's pop these in the warmer and put some honey on them. They're better that way. Like little cakes with the icing on the inside." He carried out his plan, getting the honey while the biscuits sat under the infrared heater. He leaned on the counter while the heat cycle continued. "I haven't been looking at your memories. Would it make things easier for you if I did?" He looked over at Sylar at the end of the question, watching for his reaction.
XXX
He simply watched as Petrelli snatched away what he'd thought were their mutual snacks. He let them go rather than end up with a handful of useless crumbs, but he was confused. The grabbiness was explained shortly after and Peter moved on to another 'solution.' He went still, sucking in a breath and holding it, staring directly into Peter's eyes at the very thought. (Would it be easier? I wouldn't have to say any-) Please! With him? I'd have to explain. And he probably can't control it so who knows what he would see? Grimly, he shook his head once and croaked, "No." Is this the next threat I need to prevent?
XXX
Peter nodded and went back to watching the biscuits, aware that Sylar had not taken the question well. "Just asking," he said quietly. "I thought maybe that way I wouldn't be going over things you've already had enough of from other people." He sighed and moved forward, removing the biscuits. "I don't mean to make you trouble, Sylar. At least I don't anymore. I'm trying to get through this." He sliced one of the rolls in half and liberally applied butter to one side and honey to the other. "How do you like yours? Or do you want to do it?" He gestured to indicate the preparation.
XXX
Of course he kept his eyes on Peter, both because of the question and the food preparation. "Butter and honey is fine; like yours." Since his companion was offering, Sylar was content to let him – the food was safe if he watched Peter handling it. When both were completed to Peter's satisfaction, he took up his designated biscuit.
XXX
"Sometimes I forget how long you've been dealing with this." Peter sat at the bar, taking a bite out of his biscuit and enjoying the warm, sweet, buttery goodness. "These are delicious, by the way. Don't miss out. Eat it now while it's hot," he encouraged. After another bite and a contented sigh, he resumed the main part of the conversation. "I've been dealing with the crap about as long. It's frustrating. I keep feeling like there's something more out there, some meaning or plan, if I could just figure it out." He frowned, picking up a fallen crumb and tossing it in his mouth. "And I'm not crazy or stupid or just…daydreaming. Because Hiro did come from the future. There was a plan – to blow up New York, the Pinehearst stuff, the Company, all of that. There is more. I know it! I keep asking…and no one will tell me. Sometimes I think they know and won't tell me, but most of the time I think they don't and we're all trying to figure it out on our own. It just seems like we might do a lot better at it if we'd work together." He put the last of the biscuit in his mouth and got up to slosh a quarter cup of coffee into a mug, along with a nearly matching amount of cream. He washed down the biscuit without bothering to add sugar to the coffee. He had enough honey on the bun that he didn't need extra sweet.
XXX
Sitting beside Peter a moment later, he obeyed to keep the peace, nibbling on the biscuit at first. It was delicious with the honey perking up his taste buds and it made him wonder if Peter had prepared this before. Perhaps Peter would drop- But no, he just kept talking. Always with the talking. At least it wasn't a sensitive subject (for the moment). All too well Sylar understood that frustration. What a concept – working together. He kept his mouth full after that to avoid having to answer.
XXX
Peter cleaned up his spot at the counter, wiping away crumbs and a stray drop of honey. He rinsed his coffee cup and set it to drain next to the sink. "Library now?" As they left, he said, "I asked my mom…if we could finally talk to each other about things after everything with…" He made a slight gesture at Sylar, then looked away. His nose burned. He scrunched it up a few times and sniffed. He felt betrayed and rejected by her response. "She wouldn't. Not even now."
XXX
Sylar looked anywhere but Peter. When he'd 'been' Nathan, he'd gotten a little more out of Angela – nothing important, just 'fast cars and women' and 'don't go upsetting Millie' (which led to…well, a cover-up that had been formative in his- Nathan's life). He had more understanding about mothers who refused to divulge and simply…say what needed to be said. He choked down the last of the biscuit and robotically placed his plate in the sink and followed Peter I don't know how much more of this I can handle.
XXX
Peter straightened up, lifting his head and looking around. He was pretty sure they were moving in the direction of the library. "So here I am. Came to get you." He reached over and gave Sylar a little nudge. "Fucking suicide mission. Now I can't get back, but," he shrugged, looking away again, "that's not all bad. At least I'm only having to deal with one person not talking to me." He laughed hollowly, having noticed that Sylar hadn't had much to say for quite a while.
XXX
Sylar stiffly allowed the contact. He wanted to blurt, 'What do you want me to say?!' in order to stop this subtle pressure, this interrogation, but he already knew what was desired. He wanted to snap a response a number of things as well. What does he expect from me, then? Gratitude? And I'm not pretending because…? (He makes me so angry!) "You will have to try a hell of a lot harder if you want to guilt trip me, Petrelli. I was raised by the best."
XXX
"What am I guilt-tripping you about? Not talking to me? Please." Peter rolled his eyes. "You'll talk when you want to talk. Maybe it's not something that makes you feel better, because it hasn't worked out in the past." With that, Peter fell silent. Or maybe he's not saying anything because I'm running my mouth too much? It's nice that he's listening, at least. He's probably still upset that I asked about the memories. That connects right back to the thing at Mercy Hospital. I need to focus on what his emotional needs are, not what I know will set him off.
XXX
Glancing at the pavement below, then up and around at the passing storefronts, he muttered, "I knew what to do when you acted like…yourself. Like a Petrelli." He was somewhat certain he intended to be overheard, so he looked at Peter's face for a moment. "I prefer your…passion." Another flick of eyes across Peter's form, "I've always enjoyed it." Not this…lukewarm friendliness that came and went too quickly. Sylar didn't mind being the center of that violent passion, either. This was his way of giving hints or communication tips to the man who clearly thought Sylar could be handled like everyone else, like a nobody.
XXX
Peter opened his mouth and shut it. He tilted his head in puzzlement and then gave the same once-over Sylar had given him, but Peter's eyes took a little longer to do it. Passion? 'I've always enjoyed it' – past tense. I don't think he means sex. He must mean...anger. Or...determination? His eyes narrowed at Sylar, then he turned back to watch where he was going. He's getting at something. "What did you like the most about it?" His voice was a little softer, a mix of curious and intimate.
XXX
Sylar was silent for a few seconds. Framing what amounted to an emotional response took time. He stopped walking and waited until Peter did the same. They were standing in the cool shadow of the building beside them, just feet away was the warmer sunlight. It was fitting and ironic – he felt like he was luring Peter in so willingly. Sylar placed a hand in the middle of Peter's chest like a gentle gesture to 'halt' or perhaps gesturing his sincerest interest, as he looked right at him.
"What I liked most is that I knew where I stood with you. I'm a killer. You're right – there's blood on my hands. Do the reasons really matter when someone you loved that much is dead? I like knowing you hate me. You feel something for me that way. No one else will ever matter to you the way I do. You said you wanted to maim me and make me admit what I've done was wrong. Do it! Push me. Break me. Make me pay. Make me sorry for killing – Nathan, someone, any of them. No one ever has, Petrelli. They've tried. They've failed. Show me what you can do." With that, his previously flat hand tightened on the man's shirt, adding shock value to his challenge as well as keeping Peter in place to watch that precious reaction close up.
XXX
Oh! Peter was aware of the touch without taking his eyes off Sylar's face. It was such a rare thing for Sylar to deliberately touch him that the motion captured his attention even more than usual. And then there was what he said! Something settled and finalized and resolved inside Peter, a nagging irregularity that finally smoothed out with Sylar's calm and unqualified admission of things they both knew to be true – he'd killed, Peter hated him for it, and there was no way to make up for it. But that was the challenge – 'Make me sorry' – Peter wanted to do that more than anything, but he didn't know how. Physical torture, psychological, removing himself from the situation and leaving Sylar in his personal hell? It was complicated. Not to mention the moral angle of intentionally hurting someone, but Sylar was giving him an out for that and not merely a convenient one. This wasn't some spontaneous utterance to be disregarded in the course of a fight or during emotional duress. Sylar was serious. Peter's eyes widened, but it wasn't in fear; more like heightened alertness. He didn't react outwardly to the grip on his shirt, but it gave him a thrill and his heart beat faster. "Do you know what you're asking for?"
XXX
In that moment, Sylar was quite certain he knew what he was doing and that was the very definition of insanity (doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results) in communicating with someone who routinely misunderstood his words. In that moment, he was committed, confident, even, that he still had something of the upper hand involved in getting what he – what they both – wanted. "Yes," he rasped, still not breaking the stare.
XXX
Peter reached up and wrapped his left hand around Sylar's hand, holding it against his chest. He locked eyes with Sylar, his brow twitching slightly in invitation. You want to go? Sylar seeing that expression and recognizing it was all Peter was waiting for. He lashed out with his right hand in a heel punch to Sylar's undefended sternum. In the moment while Sylar was staggered from the blow, Peter twisted Sylar's hand free from himself and used the captured arm to shove him towards the ground. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Have me beat the crap out of you a few times, you say you're sorry, and everything's all better! It DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY, Sylar!" He shoved him the rest of the way down, as flat on the ground and subordinate in position as Peter could get him. "STAY DOWN!" he shouted.
XXX
Sylar cursed himself for not thinking through all the potential stupidity of Peter Petrelli. Of course Peter would think he meant 'Let's go. Yes. Right now!' and act accordingly. He was not expecting…that. He took a shot to the chest and found himself on the way to the ground. The fall was jarring to his nose, back, and every tender bruise from only the day before fucking yesterday. The feelings passed through him, first surprise, humiliation, and pain as a quick one two three; then anger, then the disappointment, which had nothing to do with Peter's fury. Why is he angry? Apparently, I'm offering him something he wants. He's been the one depriving himself of it this whole time! I told him-! Sylar began to get his feet underneath him before he was nearly flattened. Sylar blinked once with growing anger, but he bit it back for now and got comfortable on the sidewalk, awaiting some lecture to help Peter cycle through his emotions.
XXX
Peter glared down at him. "This isn't a game where you kill some people, sit in the penalty box for a while, and then it's all okay. I can make you sorry, but it doesn't mean anything!" In a sing-song voice, Peter mocked, "'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry' – it doesn't bring my brother back. Or any of them!"
He went to a knee next to Sylar on the ground, getting in his face. "You're going to let me hurt you, though? Sure. I'm your man. I don't care what you get out of it. It won't change the past, but I'll be happy to hear you howl. Anything I do to hurt you will be because you're letting me do it. You're asking for it. This isn't blood on my hands. You don't get to make it my fault or my problem. That's the deal – another fucking, one-sided deal from Peter Petrelli," he said mockingly. "You going to take this one?"
XXX
Sylar's face exuded something between a glare and disinterested disdain at the dominant posturing. He had several snotty, counter-thoughts with plenty of logic behind them before Peter got to the end of his little rant. He just…stared for a moment, shocked by the very suggestion, offended at the infraction of the spirit of the game, and oh-so angry at the reprise of that damned one-sided Petrelli deal. He opened his mouth wide and laughed in Peter's face, deep, genuine and a touch bitter, long and loud. Once started, he couldn't stop. His hands clutched at his sides as his ribs painfully expanded and contracted with mocking laughter. He didn't care if Peter kicked him or took offense. "You're serious?" he got out when he forced himself to calm down, breathing hard. To think that I would hand myself over- like that?! It was very amusing, Peter showing his ignorance this way. Sylar paused for some confirming expression or word.
XXX
Peter shoved him twice during the laughter. The first was hard, because this wasn't funny and Sylar didn't get to laugh about it. Peter's feelings didn't make a difference, so his second shove was little more than a push, hardly enough to move Sylar at all. Peter shifted to having both knees on the ground. "That's the deal," he said when Sylar asked. His voice sounded far from certain, however.
XXX
"Oh, God!" Sylar chuckled a wheeze and sat up before standing. "That's pathetic. That is…impressively pathetic." He brushed at his pants, disgusted at the dishevelment, temporarily ignoring Peter for a few seconds. He looked up. "I guess I thought too much of you. You're only interested in covering your ass, pussy-footing around responsibility. You don't understand the game – you never have. It's probably pointless to explain it. I shouldn't challenge maniacs who have no control," Sylar sneered down at Peter with plenty of frustration.
XXX
All of that stung. Deeply. Peter contracted slightly, shoulders falling and his face turning petulant. He remained kneeling, looking up at Sylar towering so far above him. Peter being in charge was apparently not in the cards. I must have misread things. Badly. "I know you believe what you just said," he said with an attempt at calmness, despite Sylar's insults, disregard, and completely shutting Peter down, "that I don't understand your game." He was thinking of game now not so much as a contest, but Sylar's mode of operation. "You can either not play, or you can show me the rules. Those are your choices, Sylar. You know I don't understand it, so stop beating me up over not understanding it!" He gestured at the ground where Sylar had been a few moments earlier. "I am trying to give you what you want," he said earnestly.
XXX
Not play? Peter said that like 'the game' was a choice. I guess it is in a way. Peter stayed down, on his knees and he stayed calm, both of which, whether intentionally or not, had the effect of making Sylar feel like he'd been the one to make a wrong move somewhere. At least, it confused him. Sylar raised his eyebrows and dropped them with fatalistic recognition. It was a fair assessment. He's not listening, though. There is a chance he's not great at listening and applying. Historically speaking that may explain his family issues, the rebellion. And that might mean I'm not horrible at communicating. He's trying to force that deal on me – what a surprise. "Oh, you think I want another one-sided deal? Then what was all of that?" He frowned and echoed the gesture Peter had just made towards the sidewalk.
XXX
Peter sighed, his fingers gripping his knees. "I thought you wanted penance," he said sullenly. "It's a Catholic thing. You said you were Catholic. You said you'd locked yourself in a closet for days and prayed for help." He looked away. "In your place, I'd want penance. After all the things you've done. After all the things we've done," Peter's voice turned hollow. "People with abilities. I've been trying to…," he trailed off. "There's so much make up for." He was silent for a moment. "You said you wanted me to make you feel sorry. You said I should break you, maim you. I'm not a maniac if you're asking me to do it." With a tone of outrage, he added, "And I'm not shirking my responsibility, either! I want to kick your ass, yeah, and I want to help." He huffed a bitter, bleak laugh that was anything but amused, "The chance to combine those? Yeah, I'm there. Now you're telling me that's not it?" He shook his head. "Okay," he said, when it was anything but.
XXX
Sylar exhaled, then grunted, pursing his lips and crossing his arms as he straightened up. Penance and the Church really rubbed him the wrong way, as did mention of his past and it being used to make a point. Peter was judging him, too. Yes, that's…helping but why does he think that would help? And why would he be so excited to hurt me and still want to 'help'? (I didn't want him to beat me up right now!) When Peter phrased it that way…it made sense – they both got what they wanted from that, right? He's a maniac because he has no control. I'm fine with dying but I'm not going to sign away my body and die stupidly. I'd like to avoid being maimed. Wait, why does he care what I want? Why is he asking me? That was my point before.
XXX
I just made a complete idiot of myself, knocking him down like that. He got to his feet finally, brushing the dirt off his knees. Quietly, he muttered, "You make me feel two inches tall, just like Claude did. And just like him, you're too busy standing around laughing at me for not already knowing the things I'm asking you for, to help me, when people's lives are on the line." He started to walk without thinking about where he was going, pulling to a halt after only two or three steps. He'd been instinctively heading 'home' – his apartment or the Pegasus, somewhere that he felt marginally safer and more comfortable than out here. He turned himself around, reorienting. "No," he said to himself. To Sylar, he said, "We're still going to the library, right?" he began to head in that direction, ready, though, to change if Sylar told him to go take a hike, fuck off, or otherwise get lost.