Day 71, February 19, Morning
Peter held his ground, fists held about halfway up in front of him – low for a fight, but this wasn't supposed to be a 'fight'. He scanned Sylar vigilantly for confirmation of that, testing the bounds of the agreement. When no counter-attack seemed forthcoming, he said, "You wanted me to feel things for you?" Peter raised his brows. "I'm feeling them." His gut was clenched. His heart was racing. Adrenaline flooded him, but he backed away. Confident Sylar would follow him one way or the other, Peter caught the elevator door as it started to close and walked out into the lobby. He went to the exercise room and pulled out a thick charcoal-colored resistance band. Turning, he faced Sylar. "Rec room." He gestured for Sylar to precede him. Peter was struggling with emotions both for and against what he was doing. The rational part of his mind was present only to nudge him towards more sensible options than knocking Sylar down and raining blows on him until Peter broke both his hands on Sylar's face, and who knew what damage to Sylar. He wanted to dish out payback – even a small serving, and the possible opportunity to do so was making him high.
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"Oh, goodie," Sylar replied with attitude. He was angry, on edge, thinking through any loopholes or ambushes (obviously) yet not overthinking his reactions and the meaning of all this. I know he slept with me all night, which eliminated any serious surprises. Standing as tall as possible to intimidate, he walked calmly after Peter. The idea of making Peter afraid when Peter was supposed to beat him senseless was a welcome challenge and an amusing thought. He watched Peter's eyes nearly the entire time it took him to enter the rec room door, going first in the aftermath of the sucker punch because he didn't fear another. Then he immediately scanned the room to see nothing amiss.
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"Shirt off." Peter looked around the room: couch, piano, metal stack chairs, foosball table, folded up ping pong table, pool table, long punching bag, speed bag, floor, walls. He tried to decide where he wanted Sylar to be. He dropped the medical bag next to the couch. Then he turned, running a hand over the resistance band, gathering up the handles at one end to leave a yard-long loop of tubing. What kind of injuries do these things leave? Just bruising and welts, right? It's a start. He's probably going to make fun of me for not doing anything worse. I think I'll just pop him in the face if he does that. That should shut him up. Peter snorted softly and waved his hand at the pool table. It was the heaviest and most stable piece of furniture in the room. "Lean against that, facing it."
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Sylar scoffed, "Yeah, I'm sure." Since he'd already been dressed before he knew the order of the day, he began unhurriedly unbuttoning his long-sleeved dress shirt, staring at Peter as he did it. He took long enough so Peter was forced to check on him, then shucked his undershirt up over his head and set both aside on the row of metal chairs. He was left with his tight, low-rise jeans and shoes. I wonder if he'll ruin my clothes. Now he was curious and a bit worried. He can touch my head from there, or stab me with something…He brought something from his medicine bag…Strangulation or whipping were possible with the elastic tubing, both were acceptable (though the whipping was considerably more pathetic). "You're going to whip me with an exercise band?" he sneered with a judging look at the band.
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Peter gave a lop-sided grin and chuckled, unfazed by the expected criticism. He was a little far away to hit Sylar in the face for the disrespect and he certainly wasn't going to rush over insecurely to mete out punishment. Instead, he said easily, as though amused by the other man's doubts, "I could fuck you up with a glass of water, Sylar." Let the psychological games begin, he thought wryly. "This is where I start." In no hurry, he moved closer. It gave him more options if Sylar continued to mouth off. Peter looked at him expectantly, not gesturing at the pool table or anything else to indicate what he needed Sylar to do. He'd said it once. If the game really was played by the rules Sylar had laid out, then he shouldn't have to say it again.
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Sylar stared at that reaction. It was much more typical of the 'old' Peter. He noticed the use of the word 'start' – this was the beginning of more, as if that wasn't terribly obvious by the threat of…Sylar's head came up and canted to the side. Is he going to fuck with my food? Or is he going to start putting drugs in my water? He knows I hate that. That element was more worrisome, guaranteed to increase his paranoia. It was not lost on him that Peter was taking to the game very well, better than expected in fact. After a moment, he pulled himself away from ruminating, remember what his role was and what was going on; it helped that Peter was clearly waiting for him. Sylar turned, attempting to time it right so he wasn't over-eager or lazy (which might come across as arrogance). He set his hands against the edge of the pool table without a word.
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Peter sighed softly, taking a moment to admire that lovely back. It would be a shame to mar it. He resisted the impulse to touch Sylar up one last time before getting started. He didn't feel he had the right, not with what he was about to do. 'Kick me, strangle me, fuck me, pull my hair' – there it is again, sex right in the middle of talk of punishment. Why is that? His brows knit. He shook out his right arm, shaking the resistance band with it and working out how he would hold it. Peter put his wrist through the handles and hooked his fingers into the round metal links at the top of the tubing. He left Sylar waiting while he took his time getting used to the grip. He made a few practice swings through the air, catching the tubes with his left hand. It made a nice swooshing sound – inoffensive by itself; but that he intended to use it to hurt someone made it unsettling. He squeezed the tubes between thumb and forefinger, staring at them blankly for a moment. Am I going to be able to do this?
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Sylar did glance back at being made to wait longer than he expected. He saw Peter probably overthinking (for once) or reconsidering for some stupid reason. This is ridiculous. The threatening sounds didn't bother him, but otherwise Peter was more or less standing there.
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Peter saw the motion of Sylar's head. It snapped him out of his indecisive fugue. I need to get going on this. He directed his thoughts to why he most wanted to hurt Sylar: Nathan. Peter had doted on his brother and looked up to him. Nathan had been the dashing hero Peter wanted to be – fighting for right in the military and then for justice in the courts. If he ended up doing wrong from time to time, it had been easy to think that a fault of a corrupt system and not of Nathan himself. Peter had taken it on himself to fix that system so people like Nathan could do what they needed to do to make everything right. Peter knew he'd been naïve…and might still be. But in any case, Sylar was the asshole who had stepped in and taken Nathan, and all his options, from him. Nathan had been erased from Peter's future, knocking out the only shaky support left in Peter's life, putting him in free fall. This asshole. He'd done it. Intentionally. Deliberately. And would do it again if the opportunity arose.
Sylar knew what Nathan had meant in Peter's life, possibly more than anyone other than Peter himself. He'd either mocked it or acted like it didn't matter. Peter's pain was inconvenient to Sylar's wants and needs, and so, it was ignored. Like I don't count. An afterthought. A second-rate copy of someone worthwhile. He treats the most important thing that's happened to me like it was nothing. He knows what it meant to me. He's not that dense or stupid. He knows. Everything he's done to me, he's done to others – dozens of families, maybe hundreds of people. Not like an accidental bomb blowing up part of the city, but one by one, on purpose, with his own hands channeling the power.
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And still the inactivity dragged on. Sylar rolled his eyes, impatient and fed up. "Quit stalling," he called over his shoulder without moving much.
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Peter snarled at him, balled up his left fist, and slammed it into Sylar's side in a kidney strike. I hope he pisses blood for a few days from that. Sufficiently worked up, he shifted to the lash, bring it down as hard as he could. The sudden, unaccustomed swing wrenched his shoulder right off. The tubing didn't even land where he'd wanted, ending up right where Peter had just hit and wrapping around Sylar's far side to score his flank as well. Peter wrinkled his nose and grimaced, rolling his shoulder as he adjusted his position and stance. He aimed more carefully for the upper back where ribs and scapulae would shield any important organs from taking too much damage, though he wasn't sure how much 'damage' his swings would transmit through flexible rubber. It wasn't like a cane that had a narrow leading edge and a lot of snap to it, nor like a leather belt or whip that had heft. So he simply swung it as hard as he could muster, keeping it up through the formation of welts and finally the appearance of spots of blood.
As he looked down at Sylar's back, now crisscrossed with angry weals, he thought, I did that. Peter didn't feel proud, or happy, or satisfied. In fact, he felt profoundly dissatisfied. It wasn't enough. It didn't help him or Nathan or anyone else. He wasn't even sure it helped Sylar. He felt angry that Sylar wanted Peter to be the instrument of his … whatever this was. Outlet. Experience. Sylar had said it wasn't penance despite that being the only reasonable thing Peter knew to equate it to. He stepped close and put his hand on the heated flesh, feeling the stripes he'd raised there. In a moment of angry spite, he dug in the nails of his left hand and slashed sideways, from Sylar's shoulder blade to his floating ribs, tearing at the sensitized skin. He knew that even his short, nubby nails would hurt worse than another blow.
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Sylar sucked in air at the punch he hadn't seen coming for the second time that day. He arched his back and one knee weakened but his arms managed to keep him upright by holding the table. When the first few initial throbs of deep pain passed, he exhaled a noise of severe discomfort. Oh, God, he thought. He knew Peter wasn't playing anymore; why else would he inflict lethal blows to vital parts of Sylar's body – the kidney, the unprotected gut earlier? After that, Sylar was gasping and panting, straightening quickly enough into the whipping. That part was wild, poorly-aimed at first, the rubber thin enough that it snapped and stung, surely leaving marks. He allowed himself to wince and grimace but didn't make noise. Peter kept at it for a good while, strong enough and now angry enough to do it as long as he liked. "Ah," Sylar hissed during the break at the feeling of the man's sweaty, hot palm on what felt like the open lacerations of his back. He didn't turn or attempt to understand that contact and soon enough the unasked question was answered. Raking, stinging, dragging pain came from that hand, scraping into the marks from the band. Sylar straightened further, exhaling forcefully, and tilting his head away, "Uhn!" He kept a tight hold of the pool table. Somehow this intimate pain was more satisfying. The cruelty, thought-out, this time, was strangely welcome.
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Peter grabbed Sylar's hair with his right hand, tangling hair with the handles of the resistance bands. He pulled Sylar's head around to see his face. "Why do you want this? What do you get out of it?"
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Sylar released his breath, feeling a bit shaky (or shocky), but still very present. The grip in his hair was different, reminiscent of other things and other reactions. It got his attention immediately. He would have preferred that Peter grab his hair and pull straight back, instead the fist in his hair directed him to face the man. "I'm a monster. I'm sick. I get off on it. Is that enough for you?"
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"You said before that you didn't get off on it?" Peter challenged. Sylar wasn't acting aroused. He has to be lying.
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Oh, I'm so glad you were paying attention. It pleased him immensely to have a clever opponent. At times. When said opponent decided to be clever. Sylar didn't care for such a weak grip on authority as it applied to him. He fired back, "You said you didn't care, so get on with it and quit being such an unimaginative pussy."
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He's definitely lying. "Your face is the last thing my brother saw. Is that a memory you have, too?" Peter punched him in the mouth with his left hand, pressing him back, using Sylar's hair to keep him at an awkward angle of half-leaning on the pool table and being unable to stand up completely. "You remember everything about how he died, don't you? Last thoughts, intentions, everything - none of that belongs to you!" He hit him a second time. Like the first, it was intended to hurt, jar, and startle more than actually deck Sylar. Serious damage was not his goal. "Is that where you got the idea for what you said to me on top of Mercy Heights?" He didn't wait for a response this time, either. He just punched Sylar again. He winced when he felt a stab of pain on one of his knuckles. "You lying son of a bitch. This doesn't let you off the hook for anything with me!"
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That garnered still more of a reaction, an attempt at a blank expression before Peter's closed fist crashed into it. Sylar tasted blood though the blow was hardly Peter's best effort. His face, his own face, or even whoever's face he wore, was…a touchy subject. It reminded him of a loss of control and his inability to figure out how to be special so he could wear his own face and be welcome, see smiles, hear laughter. He'd wondered several times up until now how Peter could stand it here, seeing the face of the man who had been and who had murdered Nathan. I didn't ask for it! I took his form and threw it away! He snarled at Peter, keeping a hand in contact with the table for balance and reference as his trapped hair held him in place. He wondered distantly if Peter would bend him over such a flat surface. I wanted-! Another pop to the face rattled him. What? Mercy? He had nothing to do- A third impact had him confused. It wasn't damaging or especially painful, yet Peter was holding him here with the occasional hit just to rant and vent. To get some kind of response in, Sylar spat the small amount of blood he could gather, aimed at Peter, and after, gave a wide, bloody, smug smile.
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With an expression of disgust, Peter shoved Sylar down and away from him. He flung aside the exercise band, then wiped the spittle from his face and flexed his left hand to test it. Whatever he'd done to it didn't seem serious, so he reengaged with Sylar before the man could get to his feet. He crowded Sylar, looming over him. There was no opportunity to kick him without risking Sylar's hands; the man had them in the way as though to block Peter's feet. Instead, Peter went to one knee and grabbed Sylar's throat with his right hand. Snarling, he said, "Fight me, then!" He squeezed, not bothering to be precise in his grip. He expected Sylar to knock his hand away immediately.
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Sylar went down, stumbling, onto one knee and sat poised there. Peter probably wasn't able to handle much more aggravating stimulus with normality – it was amusing to watch the spit anger him. Sylar was smirking when he saw Peter wasn't going to walk away in a snit, the hand on his throat had him grinning madly and he chuckled into it as best he could, completely allowing it, even stretching his head back. "Fuck me, then!" he croaked and swung quick and hard, connecting with Peter's face. He fell backwards, holding Petrelli's wrist to bring him along for the ride. When Peter struggled with being off balance, Sylar wrapped his legs around him and hauled him to the side to sit atop him.
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Peter oriented in the new position, having gone to pure defense (tucking his chin, curling his spine, and keeping his free hand between them) when he lost balance and was dragged to the floor. Surprisingly, Sylar didn't swing at him beyond the once. Peter did a quick glance around them. They were midway between the pool table and couch, with nothing within reach except his medical bag, and that was only if he stretched. That was the direction he was going to take them, even though there was nothing in the bag that would help. The muscle relaxant he'd brought on a whim wasn't even in a syringe. He rotated the arm Sylar had hold of to wrap it around Sylar's matching limb. "You'd like that?" he snarled. Holding the arm tight, he bridged up and to the side, rolling them both over again to flip their positions – putting Sylar on his back and Peter on his knees, still between Sylar's legs. He put both hands on Sylar's thighs, leering down pointedly at their position. "I think you'd like that a lot." He snaked his hands to the back of Sylar's legs, as though he intended to cup his ass. He looked back up at Sylar with a smile that was more a baring of teeth than anything else. He growled, "Not happening."
Peter lifted and shoved with hips and hands, forcing all of Sylar's weight onto his back and then across a few inches of carpet.
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Sylar was…listening, watching Peter in the middle of a fight. It was foolish, hanging on every look and the adrenaline. When Peter flipped them again, Sylar was busy grabbing at his shirt – for what, he wasn't sure yet – but Peter had the advantage of height, gravity, and leverage. The hold on Petrelli's shirt or the supportive elbow he pushed against the floor with did nothing to help or save him from being rashed across the short, crappy carpet, tearing into his back. It was so clever of Peter. Sylar's eyes went wide in surprise and pain, before he hissed loudly then began to cackle like a maniac; like he had at fucking Mercy. There seemed nothing else to be done in that moment of helpless pain. It felt like he was being fucked across the floor, purposefully adding to the damage, the whipping done to his back. As soon as that came over him, he was aroused, just like he'd said (when he hadn't thought Peter could actually arouse him). Peter wanted a fight and Sylar was completely involved now, that not-so-old desire to fuck up his enemy and be the one to walk away filling his awareness like a drug. After a brief moment of arching to alleviate the sting of carpet continually burning his lacerated flesh, he slapped Peter flat-handed across the face, gripped the man's waist tight with his long legs, dragging Peter's neck down with a hair-hold and sunk his teeth in, hard.
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Peter had let his center of gravity fall too far forward. Sylar had pulled on his shirt as Peter had shoved the man into the carpet. What it meant was that he wasn't braced to resist getting yanked down. He didn't mind that; it was part of the fight and he was winning. Then Sylar bit him. "Fuck!" he called out loudly at the sudden pain. This was no love bite like before. It felt like the man was trying to take a chunk out. Peter panicked at the thought (Have I pushed him too far?) and scrabbled at the side of Sylar's face. His fingers touched temple and eye, but Peter passed those by despite their obvious deterrent factor. Nose and then mouth, tight against his skin. He jammed a finger inside Sylar's cheek and pulled, fish-hooking him to get him off of him.
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Sylar growled about being dislodged but it was pointless to hold onto Peter and stay in place when Peter had a less painful-than-expected grip on his mouth and was actively pushing him down and away. He still had his legs around Peter. It was time to see if that could be useful again.
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Pulling himself upright, Peter immediately swung at Sylar's face. He tagged him, but he was overextended and didn't hit hard. Sylar's torso was long and given the position, Peter could either keep himself upright and barely hit, or lean forward, off-balance, and hit more solidly. Not wanting Sylar's teeth on him again, he opted for another punch from where he was, turning his shoulders to counteract Sylar's dodge, but he could tell this wasn't going to work.
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What is with the love-taps? Sylar wondered even as he saw Petrelli's dilemma. A quick tilt of his hips pushed Peter further back and out of range. He began smacking at Peter's incoming fists more to confuse things and hit back than any manner of self-defense. It dragged his skin across the floor for the dozenth time.
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Peter whiffed one more failed punch, this time not hitting at all. Frustrated at the sort of pin Sylar had on him, he slammed his fist into something easier to get to – Sylar's stomach.
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A grunt flew out of him as his body contracted around that punch. The instinct was to roll to his side or at least pull his knees up to comfort his gut – and for a moment, he did the latter before pushing Peter back again and actively applying himself to blocking. Sylar grabbed the incoming hands to completely foil their attack. Suddenly, he let go of one hand while Peter was pushing at him. His free hand went into Peter's hair once more, yanking it down.
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Peter bared his teeth in a snarl. He hated having his hair yanked on. You'll pay for that! He let Sylar pull him down, going willingly into the motion. He used the momentum and his own weight to drop an elbow into Sylar's midsection. If he could hit the liver, he would.
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Sylar had time to be surprised (and suspicious) of how easily Peter was being led before he felt an even sharper, deeper pain in his stomach. It felt much heavier and did not abate or bounce off like Petrelli's fist had. His arms and legs relaxed considerably in the face of that leverage as he focused on breathing around the pointy obstruction.
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Peter wrenched free from Sylar's loosened grasp. He still lost some hair, but more important was that he finally got out from between Sylar's legs. He had to deal with Sylar kicking at him on the way, so the man wasn't entirely incapacitated. Peter got to his feet and hurriedly moved out of range. He touched his neck, coming away with blood on his fingers. Sylar hadn't managed to bite anything off, but he'd left a lot more than a mark. Peter scowled at Sylar, noting the flushed (and bloody) face, hair in disarray, sprawled on the floor, still shirtless. Aside from the blood, Sylar looked incredibly sexy – and clearly, this was sexy to Sylar. An erection filled the man's pants, and an answering thrill ran through Peter, even though Peter thought he should be seething. Angrily, he said, "I told you not to break the skin." He looked at Sylar's crotch openly before looking him in the face to finish, "Asshole." He wasn't sure what to do with his arousal – the situation was completely inappropriate, almost a non-sequitur if it weren't for how Sylar was responding to it. "We're done," Peter snapped. He backed off further, glaring and pacing as he mulled things over. Hopefully Sylar would either stay down, or accept that the fight was over, or both.
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Angered enough, and whether he could continue the fight now notwithstanding, Sylar kicked out and connected with the side of Peter's calf and shin. It rubbed his back against the carpet again, but it was worth it to see Peter scramble. Sylar panted, staring at Peter, mostly to keep eyes on him and determine if this was merely a break in the action. He raised an eyebrow at the mild tirade and prolonged look at what must be a visible erection he hadn't intended at all, then rolled his eyes and scoffed. "And I told you to make it hurt," he sassed back. "See if your job's done now, Petrelli." With that, he began levering himself up on elbows, then to a sitting position. He ached and his back throbbed and still stung, his breath seemed slow to come back but he wanted more. He wanted to be hurt so badly that Peter would leave him alone or…perhaps, even take care of him. It was a confused desire.
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Peter turned his head to the side, still watching Sylar. Subconsciously, his body followed the movement, blading himself relative to Sylar. But he abandoned the defensiveness a moment later when it was clear Sylar was remaining on the floor. "If it doesn't hurt now, it will later," he said as he walked closer and then around Sylar, putting out an open hand, palm-down, with the intention of signaling Sylar to stay where he was. Moving slowly, he looked at Sylar's back. It was more savagely striped than he'd intended, but if Sylar was spouting off about it being insufficient, then maybe it was a good thing he'd done more than expected. He bent and touched Sylar's shoulder with one hand as a warning of the following contact he made with the other hand, fingers skating upwards along one shoulder blade. It was marked with both carpet rash and a minor, but open, laceration. He could feel the swollen areas and the heat from the angry tissues. There's no way that doesn't hurt. "This is only step one, anyway."
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Sylar watched the approach warily. The comment about wounds and the healing process (especially if it wasn't properly handled) was obvious and therefor suspicious. He obeyed the gestures all the same and stayed where he was, very uncertain about what was going to happen next. He allowed the proximity, more tense than he had been when Peter was several feet away. Sylar inhaled and stiffened as the man's sweaty, textured palm slid over his tenderized flesh. He planned more than one step? He didn't know whether to be impressed or concerned. Was the fight part of his plan or did I push him into it? It was difficult not to run his mouth automatically, as was waiting to see what his tormentor had in mind.
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Peter went to a knee and snagged the medical bag. He fished around in it for the can of benzocaine. His shoulder hurt, but he ignored it for now. He pivoted and showed the aerosol can to Sylar. "I can spray this on your back and it should numb everything for a while. It'll be cold at first." He paused there, having a brief internal debate. Does he want this? (Maybe he likes it hurting?) He's going to be a grouch if I don't use this. (Maybe he wants to go to the bathroom and get off and then have it numbed?) He looked to Sylar's expression to figure out what to do. His eyes were drawn to the smears of blood around Sylar's mouth. Did I split his lip? The blood came from somewhere. Maybe just a cut on the inside of his mouth.
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He looked quickly between the can and Peter's face before his own expression went blank for a number of reasons. Sylar simply, really, hadn't been expecting that. While, yes, he'd believed Peter about their agreement, first pain, then caretaking, he still hadn't thought much beyond…the pain part. Now he wasn't sure if they were going to continue and this was part of the plan he needed to accept, or if there were some other subtle reason why he should refuse treatment.
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No, that's no good. Peter shifted his weight back, reaching to find the medical bag behind him and drag it around to his side. "I don't have to use this at all, if you don't want it." He set the can down, unattended between them, and looked into the bag as he dug out a packet of gauze. He tore it open and folded the loose cloth on itself twice. "If you want to work on your face, I'll go get some water. We'll get you cleaned up."
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After rubbernecking to see what his companion was reaching for inside the bag, mostly blocked by the other man's body yielded nothing, Sylar was able to relax a bit more. "Is…is that what you would do? Use the…?" He indicated the spray can. His thoughts ran towards Peter being a medic and what 'normal' procedures were. Would Peter offer that to another patient or was the spray part of Step Two, for better or worse? This was Peter's plan after all and he'd probably foreseen the need to use this spray. That's why he brought it. It felt strangely confusing now that he had some of what he – they – both wanted, the punishment and pain and now…Step Two is taking care of me? He doesn't clean up unless he's done fighting. Sylar was unsure of his place if he were to be actually taken care of, in less pain than he deserved and in less pain than was intended. That was the most confusing element of all: why intentionally hurt someone only to lessen their pain after? But he knew the answer. It was a greater mind-fuck to wash-rinse-repeat the pain and pretend with the comfort after. Recognizing the pattern made it easier to swallow. Maybe that means he'll sleep with me tonight, to keep an eye on my 'condition.' That thrilled him and it overwhelmed his suspicion because he craved more contact.
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Peter followed Sylar's gesture at the can, seeing the uncertainty and wariness on Sylar's face. Do I explain what it is and what it does? He wouldn't believe me anyway. "Yes. It's safe." Does 'safe' even mean anything to him? "It won't hurt you." He didn't think Sylar would believe that, either, but Peter waited patiently in any case.
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Sylar nodded, slowly at first, then more assuredly. He would allow Peter to sooth him in this way. Once again, Peter had no idea what was really going on and that suited Sylar just fine for now.
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Peter nodded in response. He picked up the can and rose to stand behind Sylar. He swept the man's hair off his neck and held it out of the way for a second as he adjusted his finger on the button. Pressing down, he started on the neck and proceeded down, making overlapping horizontal bands of medication to the bottom of the lashed area. He went down on a knee again and reached out to unnecessarily check with his hand what his eyes had already told him – he hadn't hit Sylar below the top of the lumbar region, leaving the small of his back untouched by the tubing. There was still a red splotch over the left kidney where Peter had punched him. He touched over it, too, then stopped, putting his other knee down and both hands on knees. He looked at the visual reckoning of misery he'd inflicted on another human being. I still don't know if this is right or wrong. He switched back from a full kneel to half and leaned to the side to catch Sylar's eyes. They were brown, dark, and so expressive. Peter took a few seconds to simply look.
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The only outward reaction he gave was to inhale, first at the cold, then at the increasing absence of pain. Sylar tilted his head to move with the other man's touch on the back of his neck. It tickled his scalp and almost caused a shiver. His eyes were closed but his lips parted when he felt a hand on the small of his back. He didn't strike there. He likes that spot for some reason. Sylar smirked briefly, to himself. Dozens of ways to tempt Peter to touch him there sprung up in his head in an instant. He did it before, too. I just didn't notice. Lazily, he opened his eyes, staring at the floor, at nothing. The uncertainty from before merged into contentment because he had Peter exactly where he wanted him. In a way, it excited him all over again. He detected an intent look when Peter's face entered his peripheral again, so he turned to look, expecting no more than a glance to pass between them but it held. He couldn't guess what Peter was looking for (probably guilt) with that…open, searching expression.
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They're so human, Peter thought of Sylar's eyes. Nothing the man had done in the past marred the simple beauty of his eyes, the windows to his soul. There was neither pain nor rage nor fear in them at the moment. There was just...attention, without judgment or intention. Peter stood, touching Sylar again – this time a tap to the shoulder – "I'm going to go get some water so we can clean your face."
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The instinct to keep his companion present surged without warning. Sylar eyed Peter with a bit more hunger. It would be easy to trip or tackle him to the floor and then…then…Something about the unnecessary gesture, the selfless action, the care involved of cleaning his face of blood so he could pretend he was clean and human again made him feel strange. The tap on the shoulder only added to it. I can walk, you know, he thought with distant amusement, knowing full well why Peter was kindly bringing the water to him not the other way around. As Peter stood, Sylar reached out to touch his outer thigh, just a few fingers tracing down the leg through the man's jeans. He didn't know what that meant, either. He glanced up to see if it had been noticed.
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Peter noticed. Despite his earlier absorption by Sylar's gaze and the engagement of looking after his injuries, Peter hadn't lost track of the danger the man could pose, or of the unpredictability of things between them. He didn't flinch from the touch, but he stopped for it. He looked at Sylar's hand, then at his face. There were so many emotions there, less guarded than normal as if the pain had stripped away a layer of defenses. If he were to try to describe the expression, Peter would say it looked like Sylar was checking in on how things were between them – the same explanation for more than half of Peter's more-frequent touching of people. "We're okay," he said, then added to reassure, "I'll come back." With that, he stepped away.
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He blinked after Peter. We're okay? Instead of immediately dismissing that, he considered it. How could we be? He just said- That's not what I really wanted to hear…Sylar gave up and focused on what he'd wanted. He'll come back. With Peter's back turned, so to speak, Sylar took advantage of the presented opportunity to look through the medical bag. If Peter had planned this out, what else had he planned? The bag contained little of note – there were no loaded syringes and only two vials of liquid drugs. Zofran (harmless and familiar) and Diazepam, which worked on the brain's central nervous system as a muscle relaxant. It was frighteningly similar to curare.
XXX
Peter went to the vending machine, pressing a button for a bottle of water and smiling a little at how he didn't have to put in coins to make the machine operate. This place is crazy. He hit the button a second time to get a bottle for himself while he was at it. When he walked back in the room, Sylar was as he'd left him – sitting on the floor, knees slightly drawn up before him, waiting and watching. Peter offered one of the bottles to Sylar. "Drink up." He sat next to Sylar's right side and plucked the previously opened and folded gauze off the floor. I didn't put this there. He must have been in the bag. Not that it matters. Peter dropped the gauze and dug for a new one even though the first probably wasn't 'dirty' in a world with nonexistent germs. He opened the packet, folded the gauze, and wet it after unscrewing the other bottle of water. He offered it to Sylar.
XXX
Sylar took up the water and drank. He'd lost some blood and more sweat. He was the following directions of his nurse. He saw the wet gauze held out to him and pretended not to see it. After all, he was obediently drinking.
XXX
"Your face…" Peter said uncertainly, gesturing at the area he had been told not to touch, although an exemption had been given for hitting.
XXX
He scoffed, bringing his knees in, Indian style. The balance that was so easy for the other heroes, even Petrelli kin, clearly did not come naturally (if at all) to Peter. It was forever too much or too little, sometimes too late. It was ironic. Canting his head back a little and to the side, Sylar intoned seriously, "You know, one reason why I don't tell you things is because you…do this. You treat me like I'm glass." I have to…be careful what you know. Can he grasp that?
XXX
He thinks that after what I've done to him today? Peter tilted his head. The trust Sylar was showing him overrode any need to take offense or be defensive. "You're the toughest man I know, Sylar. I'm not likely to forget that. Now how are your teeth? I know I hit you in the face a few times."
XXX
I'm the toughest man you know and you were playing nice, how do you think my teeth are? Peter's overestimation of his efforts was amusing because Sylar…was tired and he wanted to be done, at least for now. That feeling prevented him from starting up again; he chose to see it as amusing. His excitement was waning, too. He checked his teeth with his tongue because Peter wanted it. "My teeth are fine." Am I the toughest man you know because your father and brother are dead? He knew how Peter's perception of the order of life must have been.
XXX
"I just want to be sure I'm not going to hurt you more by trying to clean you up," Peter said quietly, taking Sylar's chin in one hand to stabilize him as the other began to lightly swab at the blood, letting the water do most of the work of removing it, rather than scrubbing. Sylar seemed comfortable, head-touching or not, and Peter was alert for any signs of anxiety. He was getting the opposite. Sylar's eyes were on him constantly and not warily. The gaze on Peter was more open, relaxed, and watching, just like earlier but this time Peter suspected it was intentional and perhaps calculated. He didn't mind. He wiped gently. Sylar's mouth moved easily, lips twitching this way and that with the light pressure Peter was using. By necessity, Peter spent most of his time looking at what he was doing rather than meeting Sylar's eyes. The man had lovely lips, perfectly shaped when not bruised and swollen from blows. They were ample without being overdone – wide, capable, and emotive. It was, as he had noticed before, a supremely kissable mouth. Peter's eyes lingered on it. His thumb, where he held Sylar's chin, shifted slightly over the smooth skin that had been shaved less than an hour before. "Did I split your lip?" Peter asked softly, brows drawing together slightly. "I don't see where the blood came from."