Day 70, February 18, Evening
Sylar inhaled, holding that breath for a moment before letting it go. This was the third time Peter had touched on his lower back in a slow, deliberate manner that could only mean one thing. He flushed with heat but didn't think it extended to a visible blush. He wasn't sure what to make of that gesture. It was sensitive, sexy, almost ticklish. Sylar stretched out once more with a squirm, pushing his face further into the sheet. It took effort not to move his lower body. He was still waiting for Peter to do something more overt, grind against him or- Is he masturbating back there? But there was no motion to suggest it. After everything, he nearly missed the words. What would he say if I said 'no', I wonder. As if I could. As far as Peter knew, Sylar offered up what he could, what Peter would be interested in, which was far from his full potential, his full self. "I'm giving you what you want," he murmured. With that, he began to slowly roll over onto his back. Part of that was his desire to force Peter to deal with him, face-to-face. Taking some control and getting a glimpse of Peter riding him with his shirt off were involved, too. I kissed him, touched his hair today, and now this.
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Peter didn't know what to touch or do as Sylar twisted under him. He lifted his hands and his center of gravity, coming up on his knees as Sylar turned. As a knee-jerk reaction, he wanted to argue what Sylar had said. I don't want him like that! His face hardened. He sunk back down with his hands on his thighs, unwilling to let the alteration of position run him off. He was, after all, still hoping and testing if he was in control here. I didn't ask him a fair question. He's opening himself to me completely and I'm questioning it, so how is he supposed to answer that? He's giving me what he thinks I want. He's giving me the only thing he has to give. He looked down at Sylar's bare, hairy chest and angular, expressive face. Sylar was curiously non-threatening like this. He was just a guy, a guy trying to salvage his pride in the wake of Peter's insistence that he verbally surrender himself even more explicitly than he already had. Peter's expression softened and he gave Sylar back that respect, acknowledging, "You." He hadn't spoken as a question and he wasn't waiting for an answer. He dismounted, getting off the man and moving to the other side of the bed to give Sylar space. Sylar's hands stroked over his legs as he moved, expressing a quiet desire for him to stay, and a willingness to tolerate Peter's touch and company. That gesture, more than anything more overt Sylar had done, tugged at Peter's heart. He's the only one here for me and he's telling me he is here for me. "You're right," he said, reaching over to jostle the other man in a friendly manner. "I do want you." Want to kick your ass, want to make you pay, want to hear you scream ... yeah, but they're all things I want from you.He tried not to think of the other things he might want from Sylar - the less violent, more pleasant, and entirely off-limits things. Peter snagged his book and slid it over, propping himself up on the pillows as he prepared to read.
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Sylar kept a leering smirk off his face for a while. He was luring Peter down the increasingly slippery slope to sin. He didn't think he needed to apply himself to it anymore because Peter was doing so much on his own. If you make this easy for me, Petrelli, I will destroy you. That was how badly he wanted to play. It was probably an exaggeration, but he would think of something to do if Petrelli was an easy lay. Letting Peter look his fill cost him nothing. He reveled in the view of Peter shirtless and straddling him, quite taken with the experience. I've touched him – the surprisingly soft, humanly warm skin of Peter's back. His fingers itched to grab at Peter because he'd dared to climb onto him. He was strongly considering making some kind of move when Peter left, rolling away. Immediately, Sylar missed the weight and heat from the other's body. It's completely sick to do anything with him. He wasn't looking forward to the fallout when Peter remembered the same. He didn't move after, but stayed where he was, even through the playful nudge. "Tell me something I don't know," Sylar rumbled at the ceiling. He did smirk when Peter made no move to put his shirt on. "So which comes first, fucking me or hitting me?" Absently, he rubbed at three-quarters of an erection.
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Peter split the book, flipping towards the back where he hadn't read yet. He'd been reading random sections as struck his whim. He glanced over the top, noticing Sylar was…stimulating himself right in front of him. Coolly, Peter said, "Hitting you." He looked back to the book, opening to a chapter titled, 'Money'. "I'm not going to fuck you." His eyes still on the text, he asked, "Are you going to get off on me hitting you?" He always had such a weird expression when I'd hit him in the fights we had before getting trapped here.
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Sylar turned to glance at cock-teasing his bed partner. He felt wound way too tight – like Peter usually was. The rest of his body was dancing on a dangerous edge. Peter said nothing about his inappropriate hand placement despite the fact that they were still in bed together, so he continued caressing over his jeans, keeping his touch light. "Maybe," Sylar teased back, his tone leading with 'What are you going to do about it?' I have…mixed feelings. "I didn't think that was the point of the exercise." But that hasn't stopped me before…"It might be nice to relieve some of this tension." Of course, that was a bit pointed towards Peter because he wasn't putting out.
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Having looked up to see Sylar's face as the other man spoke, Peter couldn't ignore the repetitive motions Sylar was making. "I'm looking forward to relieving some tension, too. Just not the sexual kind." Probably more than you if you keep acting this way. "Don't do that in front of me." His tone was no non-sense. He looked pointedly at where Sylar was stroking himself. "Go in the bathroom or the guest room." He looked back at his book, staring fixedly at letters his eyes wouldn't focus on.
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Sylar paused, more to reply than to obey. "Why not? It's nothing you haven't seen before." Such a prude now.
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Peter frowned heavily and snapped with exasperation, "We're not going to fuck; we're not going to have sex at all. And you doing that in front of me means I'm having a kind of sex with you. You quit, you leave, or I leave - your choice."
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Eyes narrowed, Sylar had to consider what that meant and how it made sense in Peter's head. By touching myself I'm making him party to it, to my…sexual pleasure, which is basically sex. But he can't see anything! No 'kinds' of sex at all? He groaned in exasperation, sighing, "You're impossible!" He was still wound up, frustrated despite the advances of the day. Fighting back may not have been allowed, but throwing his pillow at his partner was fair game. Whipping it towards Peter's torso (though the man's hands, arms, and book interfered) as he stood and made for the bathroom, he sassed, "Enjoy having blue balls just to keep your precious morals, Petrelli."
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The pillow took him by surprise, trying as he was to not look at his companion. Expanses of skin and tufts of hair that Peter had not viewed in a sexual light while giving the massage were inexorably being re-coded in his head as something arousing now that Sylar was masturbating in front of him. Peter grabbed the pillow reflexively, bouncing up to a full sitting position in alert readiness to fight or flee depending on Sylar's follow-up. But Sylar was walking away, snarking. Peter scowled as the adrenaline washed through him and his heart rate slowed again, then he smiled when Sylar left the room. "Yeah, I will," he said with a chuckle. Blue balls are not even the start of a reason to do something immoral, you jerk. Mostly mentally, he laughed it off, chucking the pillow back to the other side of the bed and sorting out his book.
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Once there, Sylar leaned his hands on the sink, grasping for self-control. He was not appreciative of how Peter was able to wind him up and twist him around like this. He didn't enjoy the process of being toyed with (and it was obvious that Peter was enjoying himself). He was torn between jerking off out of spite or…abstaining to prove Peter couldn't control him. Sylar also knew his…neediness didn't stem as much from sexual dissatisfaction as it did from other things. He decided to make Peter suffer for it. Standing with his back against the wall, he unzipped his jeans and removed his somewhat-faded erection. As he began stroking, he entertained himself – and tortured Petrelli – with increasingly loud grunts and continuous moans, "Uh, oh, uh, uh, ooh!" They were mostly simulated and exaggerated too, but his imagination supplied him with visions of Peter's reaction to hearing him. His dick hardened again until it was engorged and sensitive in his grasp. When that happened, his noises came easier and his breathing harder. His mental image of Peter's expression sharpened. The idea of Peter touching himself to the noises out there (the little exhibitionist pervert) was doing it for him. The unrefined fantasy of Peter not stopping during that massage was doing it for him. The warmth of all that flesh, most of it bared for his touch, but some of Peter's body had remained hidden, teasing. That part was even hotter. Those touches to his lower back were torture, significant towards Peter's interest in him. React to me! You're helpless. He said he wants me.
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Peter rolled his eyes and flopped backwards against his pile of pillows, closing the book on his lap. He gave a aggravated groan at Sylar's overdramatic noises, obviously being generated to annoy and frustrate Peter. I did tell him to go do it in the bathroom. He's doing what I told him to, and twisting it. Asshole. Peter set aside the book, sitting forward and wiping his hands over his face. As long as the sounds were fake, they were irritating, but it didn't get under Peter's skin. It was more, I can't believe he's doing that. That's so childish. But then the sounds changed. It would be hard to tell exactly what the difference was, but some part of Peter heard it and every part perked up in response. Wait, that's…he's really…oh. Whoa. A memory of listening in while a dorm neighbor got it on with a girlfriend came to mind, quickly followed by that of overhearing the breathing shifts and furtive movements of one of his apartment mates, who was jerking off under a blanket on the day bed while the rest of them watched a movie and pretended not to know.
Peter swallowed, mouth dry. It was unbearably sexy, because this time, he was sure Sylar wanted him to know. Sylar was doing this because he wanted Peter involved. Peter was wanted. In a few seconds, he was off the bed and pacing, shirt in his hand. I can't stay here and listen to that. I told him I wouldn't be part of this. It's one thing when he's faking to be an asshole, but this is… He listened. The crotch of his pants was too constraining. He adjusted himself against the folds of cloth. He's doing that while he's thinking of me. Peter looked at the door out of the apartment. Leaving was the obvious action to take, but he lingered a minute more, too tempted to go right away.
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He even left me some lotion. After leaning forward to pump a few squirts of lotion so conveniently placed on the sink, Sylar leaned his head back and applied the slickness to his throbbing organ. The lotion felt cold at first, but the contrast worked and within seconds he was rapidly making a mess of his groin and the floor where the lotion slipped off his dick and now both his engaged hands. "Uhmm!" He gripped harder and thrust languidly into it. His release had been building for what felt like hours, as early as before trip to the library. Sylar panted as his pleasure mounted, muscles clenched as he spilled onto the floor – I think he'd rather I come on him, he thought as his dick pulsed. He left his eyes closed, hands holding his penis for a moment, savoring his obscene act.
It only lasted a moment before his habit of at least attempting to clean up kicked in. Sylar wiped and washed himself clean before cleaning the floor, though he knew it would be even kinkier to leave his ejaculate there for Peter to deal with. Finally, he thoroughly soaped his hands and the faucet handle.
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Downstairs was quiet, lonely, and devoid of arousing, confusing temptations. After putting his shirt on, Peter busied himself in a restless cycle between the piano, the pool table, and even the foosball table (although it was near-pointless to mess with the game without an opponent). It was only after at least a half hour had passed that he settled down, deciding that Sylar wasn't going to make a sudden appearance and upset the quiet. Then, more relaxed, he hit up the speed bag with light, strumming blows and played the piano more slowly and thoughtfully.
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The bed was empty except for Peter's book. There was no sign of his shoes but his coat was present. Sylar sighed, once again feeling a growing familiarity with a variety of emotions, disappointment being foremost, cutting into his post-orgasmic relaxation. I should have seen that coming. He got the message, though. It was not about his needs or even his wants if they didn't fit into Peter's idea of things and that he was alienating his companion. Sylar felt the shame more clearly for Peter's absence. To soothe himself, he laid down on the bed after donning his shirt, taking up one of his mystery books that had never left the suite and pretended to himself that Peter was still beside him. It didn't work particularly well, though he was able to focus on the text, story, and details. Perhaps Peter would come back tonight.
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It was maybe an hour later that Peter rose with the intention of heading up, but found himself tarrying in the lobby instead. Thoughts of going up brought thoughts of Sylar, and with them thoughts of what had been going on when Peter had left. It was something he'd tried very hard not to think of for the whole time he was downstairs, and had largely been successful at it. But if he was going back up, he couldn't ignore it – the noises, the looks, Sylar palming himself through his pants right in front of Peter, the feeling of the man between his thighs with Sylar looking up at him, the caress of lingering hands pulling gently at Peter as he dismounted and moved away. Yes, Sylar wanted him. He adjusted himself in his pants for the second time today.
He sighed and retreated to the bathroom, going into a stall so he'd have some warning if Sylar entered in some combination of the man's impeccable timing and Peter's lousy luck. He shoved his pants down to just above his knees and got to work. Even with the fodder of Sylar masturbating for Peter's listening pleasure, and everything else that had happened, he found release denied to him. He gave it up eventually, packed himself away, and washed his hands. I tried. There was nothing for it. He resigned himself to his blue balls and whatever testy behavior came with it.
Peter knocked when he got to the penthouse suite door. Sylar might be there or might not, but Peter had decided to spend the night here either way. He waited a few beats for a reply, then opened the door and entered. "Hey."
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Before the second rap of knuckles on the door, Sylar had his book shut in his lap and was sitting up. He hadn't expected Peter back so soon, if at all. Maybe he only came back for his coat… "Hey," he answered, poised to…intervene if Peter made to leave again and he didn't care if his need showed. Otherwise, he was waiting to see what would happen. Peter had his shirt on now. Still no punishment, I bet. He wants it on his terms. Me jerking off didn't qualify, but he left me alone. (Maybe he'll stay the night).That was what he wanted from his companion – the opportunity to hold him in the morning, testing Petrelli's word and his tolerance.
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Peter piddled around in the room, making his way to the bed gradually. He noticed they'd swapped sides again, back to the usual setup where Peter's side was close to the wall and Sylar's on the side open to the rest of the room. It meant Peter circled the bed to get in on his side, taking off his shoes, picking up his book, and settling in like normal. This is what he likes, right? The reading? That and me being near. A glance to the side confirmed Sylar's tense posture was only now beginning to relax. Peter pretended to take no notice of it. He flipped back to the chapter he'd started on earlier, 'Money', and quickly became engrossed in the betrayals and tribulations that Ali faced as a result of success. After a half hour or so, Peter gestured at a page of print, saying, "Don King was a real son of a bitch. I'd heard that about him, but this…" He shook his head and glanced over at Sylar to see if he wanted to talk.
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That is so weird, Sylar thought when Peter returned to the bed, apparently set on reading just like they'd been about to earlier. Just like that, like nothing happened. Except he wanted a massage at random. He sat on me, let me roll over, and didn't get up. He doesn't think that makes…sexual tension? What did he expect me to do?I'm not going to act like a trained animal if he won't punish me. Sylar himself laid back and cracked open his book, reading it a few moments after that because it took him a few moments more to pull his mind from the gutter where it was lingering (even after his release). I wonder if he got off, too. I bet that's exactly where he went; he didn't want to risk me walking in on him! That pleased him immensely. Of course, if the opposite was true so much the better – blue balls, just as he'd predicted. His eyes snaked to the side to view his bed partner. "Hmm?" He wondered if there was some analogy being made. Doubtful. Why does he think I want to talk about Don King then? Another rousing discussion about morality?
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"Ali made a lot of money. A lot of people took advantage of that – they had their hand out. But King wasn't happy with that. He wanted to drain Ali dry. Use him up and take everything he could get." Peter shook his head. "It's just too much." He thought about the people in his life, and probably in Sylar's, who had hollowed them out in different ways. "Some people…don't seem to have a sense of where they should stop taking. Or maybe they know, but just don't care – the Company, my parents." He left Nathan off the list for now, given Sylar's role in his death. Peter didn't want to discuss anything that made it sound like Nathan had deserved his fate.
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Sylar continued with the side-eye, now more suspicious. Back to 'I'm a selfish jerk who doesn't know when to stop?' Just like Nathan. He was still listening but didn't feel he had enough to go on to respond just yet. At the same time, he noticed how cautious Peter was when he 'took' here. It wasn't reluctance or desperation (not purely) because Peter lusted.
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"Ali would always forgive the people who used him. He was lucky to have some real friends around who looked out for him. Even if, according to this," Peter lofted the book with a finger tucked in to mark his page, "they didn't do a very good job, they at least kept the worst people, like Don King, off his back." He gave a bitter chuckle. "For people like me and you…we kind of miss out on that, without anyone there who has our back." 'You came back for me', 'That's what brothers do', and 'I wasn't going to leave you here', ran through Peter's mind. "Aside from Claire, you're the only one who ever came back for me." Peter dipped his head to the side, reluctantly adding, "And sort of Nathan, but he always had his own reasons, too." He couldn't leave out the moments when Nathan had come through for him, but he wasn't going to let his brother off the hook, either, and pretend Nathan didn't have other motivations more important than looking out for his little brother. Selfish even in his selflessness. He hoped Sylar left the subject alone, or else he'd have to jump to the defense of the deceased.
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Now we're drawing analogies between Ali and…us. But specials don't…have friends? Keep them? Ali wasn't normal. He thought back to when he'd manifested, when he'd killed Brian Davis. He'd thought specials would be rare (even with the knowledge he had from Chandra), never grouped like the Company or the Carnival. He'd even overlooked the part where the List was a government project. Elle's kind emergence had thrilled and touched him before it went sour.
Sylar frowned as he considered Nathan. People in general failed to make sense to him. It was so easy for them to betray their own next of kin, sell them out, murder them, twist their mind and emotions into an unforgivable tangle. Maybe we hang onto more false ideas, like love. I bet Peter hangs onto that pretty hard. It doesn't matter if it's real. "/You were always in trouble, Peter. You disappeared a lot; you were…dead a lot./" Clever Peter, going off the grid so successfully as to make Nathan, the Company, and the government nervous. There were several times that Nathan had genuinely intervened in spite of and also sometimes in aid of other, bigger things than just family. Confessing his ability on that rooftop had been the start because he'd known Peter wouldn't stop there. Kirby had been literal and political suicide; flying a gunshot Peter away from Danko; not to mention the last time at Stanton…but his back was usually in a corner. Mine wasn't, not when I came for him. "I didn't expect a support group when I got my powers."
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Peter gave him an annoyed look for what sounded suspiciously like something Nathan would say. But maybe also Sylar. He couldn't place the quote well enough to call Sylar on it, so he merely huffed about it and responded about the support group, "It would help if abilities came with one." He ran his thumb restlessly over the ends of the closed pages of the book. "I know…I came here asking you to do something. That's not what this is about anymore. That's not part of it." He didn't expect Sylar's help and didn't even particularly want it at this stage. It came with too many complications. Peter assumed he'd seen the dream wrong, or misinterpreted it somehow. It seemed like something that had happened months ago – the details fuzzing with the passage of time. He remembered himself remembering it now more than he remembered the actual dream itself.
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Now Sylar was looking at him fully, not looking away. He didn't believe a word of it and his face showed as much. Besides that was way too much to hope for. As if Peter would set aside the future to…to what? "What is it about now?"
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"Just," Peter shrugged, having not thought that far ahead conversationally, "getting along, I guess. Getting…okay…with you. You're the only one here, so I'd better. It's not like I'd rather be alone all the time. Alone with my hate – pretty crappy way to spend my life." He wasn't sure what else there was to say, so he opened the book again and wriggled the pillows into a more comfortable nest. He gave Sylar a considering look before going back to reading.
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You know how to 'get okay' with me. It sucks that it has to be your choice because I can't be okay with you. Ever. Is he implying that he'll set his hate aside? That was too good to believe. The timing of it struck him as extremely convenient for this confession. He's going to manage his hate by hurting me in the day and pretending everything is fine at night. Sylar supposed that was to be expected. It fit the pattern. It was laughable, Peter Petrelli would turn away from his mission simply because Sylar declined. "I don't believe you, Petrelli, but whatever you need to tell yourself," he replied calmly. "Before you 'get okay' with me, you should know you can hit me in the head or the face. Don't think I haven't noticed you avoiding it."
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Peter gave him a frown for his disbelief, but otherwise didn't address it. At least he's not calling me a liar. He can believe what he wants, after all. The other statement, though, got his attention in a more wide-eyed, intent manner before Peter scaled it back to being less emotive about it. He's noticed? Does that mean he believes me that I can…play by his rules and won't hurt him too bad? (Stupid rules. Stupid game. We shouldn't be hitting each other at all.) "Really?" Peter sat up a little and leaned over, fist extended in a slow, thoroughly telegraphed motion to lightly chuck Sylar on the chin. He watched for Sylar's reaction.
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Sylar kept very still, eyes once again slanted to the side to watch. He was genuinely unsure how to take that – sexy, playful, threatening, or passive-aggressive. He was certain Peter was interested in punching his face because he'd said as much before, seemed to enjoy doing it in the past, and now was quickly testing the waters. "Really," he rumbled. I think I want you to.
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Peter settled back, considering that. Sylar's stillness was tough to read, but his tone of voice resonated with sex. Peter smiled faintly, then asked for safety's sake, "When's the last time you had a headache?" He must really want to get beat up. Guilt. All those murders. He said he knew it was wrong. But it doesn't matter how much he wants it. Making his concussion worse isn't worth it. And then there's my hand to worry about. I broke it on his thick skull to start with. It's only now healed up. I'm not doing that again.
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Sylar snorted. All this careful, tip-toeing about was too polite for something as dark and perverted as this discussion. Why are we even discussing it? "I don't know. You're always a pain in the neck," he deflected with a motion of an eyebrow.
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"That's funny, but I need to know. You had a pretty bad concussion. I don't want you back in that state again if I can help it." He eyed the man. "How long has it been, Sylar?"
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Peter's desire to avoid babysitting was logical. "A week or so maybe." Sylar realized he'd had other things on his mind (such as the safety of his literal mind around Petrelli); even the pain in his back wasn't any kind of active awareness.
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"Okay." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, over his teeth. "Head shots aren't what I was planning to do anyway. If you don't have a preference, then I was going to start with something safe, on your back – something like flogging." Again, he was watching Sylar closely for a reaction, struggling to navigate unfamiliar waters without any landmarks. Sylar's 'directions' amounted to 'just sail anywhere you like', but Peter knew that would get him into trouble.
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Sylar shot a quick glance at his companion, making somewhat unintentional eye contact. It was enough to see that he was being closely watched. "If I don't have a preference?" he asked softly, hesitantly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. Flogging. Safe. I'd rather not be scarred but…
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"Yes." Peter nodded, still trying to figure out where he stood with Sylar on all of this.
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"It doesn't have to be on a schedule, you know. It's not as much of an agreement as you're making it."
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Peter made a small, exasperated exhalation. I'm not going to let you derail this. He repeated his question. "What would you prefer?"
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"Just-!" Sylar began in frustration. "Hit me! When I piss you off and you want to hit me, just fucking do it! If I really piss you off and you can't stand it, then just…do whatever. Like I said, kick me, strangle me, fuck me, pull my hair. It's not some religious, torture, bondage thing unless that's what you want. You've done it before," he added reproachfully.
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'You've done it before' – Peter didn't know what that meant. I've beat him up before? Or I've done bondage before? In any case, he felt challenged. Sylar was inviting him to act, so he acted. He reached over, grabbed Sylar's shoulder, and shoved him down and to the side. Peter came up on his knees, looming over Sylar, one hand still on his shoulder to make sure he stayed down. The other was loose in case he needed to do something. "It's not going to happen on your schedule either! I don't want to beat you up today. I said I'd do it tomorrow and I meant it!" He glared at Sylar, but there wasn't a lot of heat in it. The whole situation was comical in a way – Sylar asking him to beat him up and Peter declining.
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Sylar snarled up at him, regardless of what Peter said. You didn't say anything about beating me tomorrow! You mentioned it! Of course it will be on my schedule – who is the one making you react? I could make you do it right- Another thought intervened. What about the bed being a fucking safe zone? Is this him respecting that or…not? The idea that the safe zone was voided because of this haphazard agreement was also disappointing but somewhat expected. Further frustration ironically stayed him from kicking (strongly nudging) Peter.
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"Read your book and leave me alone. I've had enough of you!" With that, he pushed on Sylar's still-flat-to-the-bed shoulder, and then went back to his own side to gather up his book. But his feelings on the matter, which were clear enough in his tone and behavior, weren't rage, but more exasperation mixed with a hint of mischief or playfulness. It was funny. Peter wasn't sure if he should find this funny, or if it was safe to find it funny, but that was how he saw it anyway.
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"And fuck your mother, too," Sylar muttered treacherously under his breath. Peter was busy shifting around in the bedding and wouldn't hear it. He'd had enough of…being had enough of, with no resolution immediately available unless he wanted to sleep alone. I can't have both.
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Peter flipped past the chapter he'd been on to start the next one. "Oh...wow, just-" He shook his head and rolled his eyes. He opened the book in Sylar's direction so the man could see the chapter title. "The name of the next chapter. Jeez. If that's not the universe trying to tell me something..." He repeated the head shake and eye roll.
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Sylar was grumpily arranging himself to read again, having lost his page when Peter thrust his own book at him. Without seeing too much of the motion, he tensed, paused, and leaned away for a second before comprehending the gesture – clearly an indicator for him to view something within Petrelli's book. Still, he didn't get too close. He didn't have to when the font of the chapter was large and loud. It read 'The Beating.' Sylar's eyes went past the book to meet Peter's eyes, not amused. The fucking universe is telling you to beat me? A book is telling you? But you're not listening. It has to wait until tomorrow. "Yeah, it's full of irony," he responded about the book and the universe of late, voice dripping with sarcastic resignation. I would love to beat the shit out of you with a pillow.
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Peter scoffed about the title, then settled down to read what the chapter had to say. Maybe it will give me some hints on how to handle this weird asshole I'm stuck with. He wasn't angry about that, either. He thought Sylar was giving him control. That meant he wasn't threatened, wasn't afraid. And therefore, it was safe to be amused by things. He felt better than he had in a while. With Sylar next to him, Peter read.
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Frustrations simmered down through dinner and taking turns in the bathroom. The reading helped once he let go of Petrelli's stupidity and stubborn self-righteousness, at least temporarily. Peter stayed, eventually getting in bed beside him, facing away. Sylar, being tired of so many things, felt a pathetic wave of gratitude for the simple presence and even for the rough agreement of tomorrow, which was sick of him – of them both, possibly. He reached out, sniffling, to briefly touch the man's back with a few fingers and the barest hint of a palm. He still felt needy and knew there was no cure, only poor coping mechanisms, like tomorrow.
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He was hot. He was uncomfortable. Too much so to stay asleep. Peter tried to move to a cooler spot, but there was someone wrapped around him. It took him a long, sleepy moment to distinguish blanket from human, then realize there were two layers of blankets on top of them. He threw back one of them. He settled back against Sylar, arranging his arms around the man before his conscious mind caught up with his sleepy/subconscious one. Wait, what am I doing? He drew in a deep breath, trying to think clearly. It felt nice, especially now that he'd cooled them both by ridding them of the blanket. But...I'm not supposed to sleep like this. Not with him. He lay there for a few more breaths, feeling held and wanted and very reluctant to change that. How did I end up like this? Was this him or me? Then, Is he awake? What if I just...go back to sleep like this and pretend I didn't wake up? (That would be lying. And he might be awake anyway.) Peter huffed, whined, and extracted himself from Sylar's embrace.
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Sylar awoke, dragging himself from sleep from all the wiggling. He was aware enough to watch Peter's delicious hesitation in the dark. Without considering it, perhaps wanting to cajole Peter into returning, he remembered similarly pleasant times, /"I remember you used to love sneaking in to sleep with me. You used to do it all the time."/ He gave Peter's side a familiar, brotherly set of pats.
XXX
Peter's face hardened. He was already unhappy to be moving, unhappy that he had to make this decision in any case. Whether he'd started the closeness or Sylar had, it was caused at its core by Sylar's insecurities and Peter's unwise attempt to address them by sharing the bed despite knowing his own sleep issues. Obviously, Sylar knew them as well. The comment dredged out of Nathan's memories confirmed it. Angry now, Peter put a hand flat on Sylar's chest and pushed him away, saying emphatically, "You're not Nathan! You're not my brother. What I remember is that you killed him. That means we don't do this!" With that, he got out of bed entirely, grabbing around for the extra blanket and a pillow. He retreated to the discomfort of the couch.
XXX
Having been pleasantly half-asleep, the shove was unnecessary. He was already down, not pursuing Peter. The words were insult to injury. Sylar retorted immediately, sounding drowsy but meaning it, "You wouldn't sleep with me if he was alive, either. Don't pretend it's all about him." It was fucked up to be jealous of the attention the guy's dead brother still demanded. Growling, he rolled over into Peter's spot, warm and smelling of him. It was a poor recreation for the man himself. He didn't want me for a brother even when I was a Petrelli. What makes Nathan so great?
XXX
Peter threw his pillow into the corner of the couch. "No, you're right," he said crankily. "It's not about him. It's about you. Those aren't your memories. This is like the third time tonight you've used what he knew, and you're starting to use it to try to manipulate me. I don't like it! I want you to cut it out." He glared in Sylar's direction, which was pointless because he couldn't see the man's response. He could see Sylar's shape on the bed and a few contours lit by the hallway/bathroom light they always left on as a nightlight, but Sylar's face itself was lost in shadow. Peter was much better lit, getting both the light from the hallway and the combination of starlight and moonlight from the huge windows to his left. He scoffed and got on the couch, throwing the blanket over himself.
Day 71, February 19, Morning
Peter was in a sour mood when he rose. He'd slept badly, both from the uncomfortableness of the couch and his certainty of the comfort he'd given up in the bed. He was angry at himself for wanting what he shouldn't have and angry at Sylar for continually offering up the temptation. He said nothing during their normal routines and when he did look at Sylar, his expression was irritated. As he waited impatiently for the coffee to finish percolating, Peter made his first statement of the morning. "I'm going to beat the crap out of you today. Don't eat anything heavy." He went back to scowling at the innocent, but too slow for his liking, coffee pot.
XXX
Sylar was in the middle of pouring himself a glass of juice when he heard that. He stopped and turned to look at Peter, his face serious and a bit disbelieving. It was a little surprising (he'd thought Peter was full of typical Petrelli hot air yesterday), quite bold, and very threatening. (Why does what I eat matter?) If he's going to be kicking me in the guts, I'll be puking. (Oh. He is serious, then. Good? He didn't say when or where, or even how. So…do I finish breakfast or what?) "Okay," he acknowledged without any particular inflection. Without further directions, he returned to pouring his drink. While he might wish he could accomplish his goals without this kind of event, this kind of pain, he knew it was inevitable (and earned) to some degree. It would do him no good to dread, or avoid, or stall. Sylar decided on ironic Life cereal, going about retrieving bowl, spoon, milk quietly and staying out of Peter's way and keeping one eye on him because he knew the kitchen was a very nasty place for a fight. Digging into the cereal to try to get something on his stomach, he thought, But it's not a fight. There were so many questions; Peter was bound to misunderstand something or take it easy on him and further complicate things beyond what Sylar wanted to fix. No matter how many times I tell him, he doesn't understand. Telling him again won't help.
XXX
Peter's breakfast was light as well – crunchy peanut butter on toast, three slices, washed down with coffee that was much darker and stronger than he usually took it. Once consumed, he went over to the medical bag to rifle through it, pulling out a few things and bagging them separately. I don't think I'll need much. He's afraid of medical stuff anyway. Fear isn't what I want. He looked over to see where Sylar was in his breakfast.
XXX
Sylar was returning his dishes to the sink when he saw or heard Peter rustling around in his medical bag. Do you really think you're going to need any of that? He paused to give Peter a lingering glance about it, though he couldn't see what was selected. Probably not Batman band-aids. With a longer exhale, he moved on, adding water to the bowl and glass. (Should I brush my teeth?) I'll brush after. He's impatient and he thinks he's going to make me puke. Sylar didn't bother with his coat as he followed Petrelli into the hall, partly because he doubted Peter had planned far enough to have a specific location in mind, at least, a location that would require a coat.
XXX
Once inside the elevator, Peter pushed the button for the lobby, psyching himself up for this. Sylar stood next to him. That was where Peter's thoughts were, as well as his attention even though he wasn't looking at the man. He thought about the elevator in Mercy Heights; how he'd stood there with a red canvas bag very much like this one, Nurse Hammer next to him; how she'd morphed into Sylar and assaulted him – no threats, no announcement, just an ambush – an ambush Sylar later said was meant to end with Peter's literal crucifixion, probably to be followed by a similar attack on Peter's mother. It was too easy to visualize what those threats meant. Peter had seen Sylar's work and although he'd never run across the work of such a psychopath as an EMT, he'd seen plenty of blood and injuries. If he, or his mother, survived, it would be so they could remember Sylar's power over them. He took a deep, controlled breath, and let it out slowly. He turned his head just enough to give Sylar a long, aggressive look of direct eye contact. The expression on Peter's face was clearly trouble. He looked away casually as the door dinged open, gesturing for Sylar to go first. As Sylar started to leave, Peter slugged him in the gut.
XXX
Sylar had since begun to doubt that Peter would do anything remotely terrible. It was all hype. Then came that expression from Petrelli. It made him reconsider. The Petrellis were a slippery bunch. He felt himself tense just thinking about Mercy, in the elevator. This was also a bad location for a fight – a small, confined, hard box. He didn't think Peter was that stupid, or keyed up, or desperate. Because of that, Sylar looked away to see where he would be walking through the doors once they opened. Half a step later he didn't even see the punch coming. His air was gone so quickly he was left gasping for more, his gut was cramped, and instinctively doubled over. One hand caught himself, sort of, sliding down the wall leading to the door. So that's how it's going to be. Payback for Mercy. He gave Petrelli a fierce stare from beneath his brows and through a curtain of his hair before he straightened up. Not being much of a fighter, with this man and their complex history, he felt and fought the urge to rush Petrelli and plaster him flat into the elevator wall.