Peter felt horrible. He felt filthy. He felt used. He felt soiled. He was terrified. He was cold. He had nothing to clean himself with. He lay curled on the platform, staring at the door. He thought about how if he ever got out of here and ran into a rapist, he would crush that person into a paste. He fantasized about using his abilities against this faceless person. He didn't think about Sylar, because that was too real and too close and too horrifying to think about. He only thought of the safe and distant, hypothetical other.
His ass hurt. So did his nose, and his knees and elbows where he'd bruised them badly, having slammed them against unyielding concrete in his struggles. He'd pulled a lot of muscles. He was exhausted and shaking - full-on shaking, not shivers from being cold, although he was also cold. The sound of distant footsteps made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe. The room seemed to contract. They stopped outside his door and he kept repeating to himself that Sylar's entrance had been silent both of the times he'd arrived. The slot opened and a tray was pushed in.
It was food. The steps went away. He relaxed a little, but the shaking started again. He stared at the tray. All he could think of was the inhumanity that they expected him to get up and eat after what had happened, like there was nothing wrong. Maybe they didn't even know what Sylar had done to him. They probably didn't even know who Peter was. He could die in here and they wouldn't know. There wasn't even a peephole in the door. Some time later, whoever it was came and retrieved the untouched tray. He was glad it was gone. It had seemed like an intruder into his space.
He hoped it would be a long time before Sylar came back, because he was sure the man would be back. Peter did not think he would be so lucky as to avoid a repeat. He started crying again at that thought, tears leaking down his face. He cursed himself for being such a pansy inside despite the tough guy persona he'd cultivated over the last few years. Yes, he'd seen a lot and had to deal with a lot that had hardened him up, but somewhere inside he was still that stupid kid with long bangs and his head in the clouds. One thing about having no witnesses was that there was no one to see him sob. He gave in to it.
Later, a second tray came through the slot and this time, wearily, Peter descended from the platform and went to it. It was vegetable soup and another packet of water. The soup smelled good, but triggered the opposite reaction. He bent to the side and retched violently, throwing up what little liquid he had in his stomach. He snagged the water pouch and retreated to the platform, where he gnawed a hole in the corner of the pouch and sucked at it slowly, so as to not set off his stomach again.
He tried to think of anyone who could help him. There were some, but he didn't know if they would know where he was. Hiro seemed to be his only hope and the Japanese man probably didn't realize he was still alive. It was inconceivable, after all, that Sylar would keep Peter alive if he got his hands on him. Peter tried to use his powers for the nth time, but he had none. He talked to himself in his head, trying to tell himself he'd be okay. He prayed, with no expectation that he was being heard. If there was anyone out there worth praying to, they wouldn't have let this happen to start with, but he prayed anyway.
When the second tray was picked up, the door banged loudly three times, a few moments after the tray was removed. The slot worked up and down. Peter realized he still had the empty plastic pouch next to him. He scurried over to put it outside the slot. It worked again a minute or two later, and the hook slipped inside, snagged the spent container, and pulled it out. He would be allowed to keep nothing - not even a bit of trash.
A third tray was delivered forever later. It contained chili again. His stomach roiled just thinking about it. Once more, all he did was drink the odd, metallic-flavored water. They really needed a better filtration system, he thought. He lay on the platform as time passed. He fell into a stupor, because it wasn't really sleep. His eyes were open, staring at the door.
He didn't know if he was having a nightmare, or if it was real, but time seemed to skip forward and suddenly Sylar was standing before him. He jumped up, fueled by fear. Close on its heels was anger and a white hot rage that knew no bounds. A moment later he threw himself at the specter of his foe in a berserk fury. This was apparently not unexpected, because Sylar caught him easily before he ever got to him. It might be a nightmare, but it was also very real. He was slammed against a wall and left there until he calmed down minutes later.
"Fucking rapist," he fumed. "I hate you. I hate you! You deserve to die. You know what you did was wrong. That's why you couldn't keep it up. You knew it was wrong and you did it anyway. Fucking rapist." Peter glared at him, incensed.
"Well …" Sylar gave a small shrug. "Yes. But that doesn't change what I want from you."
"You going to rape me again? Huh?" Peter challenged.
"No. Not like that, anyway."
Ice ran through Peter's veins. If not like that, then how? His breathing sped up and for a moment, he couldn't sense anything. He must have blacked out. He came to, still held against the wall, but Sylar was much closer to him, looking at him with cocked head and quizzical expression. Peter jerked back against the wall. "Get away from me!" Fear infused his voice.
Sylar obediently took a step back, which made Peter blink in confusion. He began speaking though, saying, "I'm going to give you a choice, Peter."
"A choice?" he burst out hysterically before Sylar could go on. "I don't want you! I made that crystal clear. There's no choice! I didn't want it. No, N-O, NO!"
"Shut up!"
Peter felt an abrupt pressure on his throat and he shut his mouth. The pressure faded without choking him for more than a second. He swallowed convulsively, breathing hard.
"As I was saying, I'm going to give you a choice. We can fuck, and you will let me do it - you'll even pretend to like it and you won't mouth off about rape… or I'll hurt you some other way until I tire of it. Tomorrow I'll come back and make you the same offer - every day, until I get bored. I am a very patient man, so that might take a while. You can let me fuck you, or you can suffer some other way. That's your choice."
"I'm not going to pretend to like it." The very idea made him ill.
"Fine." Sylar moved a hand and lacerations appeared on Peter's chest. They made thin vertical lines that raced down from his collarbone to the end of his ribcage. He screamed. Sylar stepped closer to punch him in the gut, making his stomach seize and he retched again. Sylar slapped him so hard his teeth bit into the inside of his cheeks and he split his lips. He cut his forehead in some mockery of what he'd done years before. Blood ran down Peter's face and into his eyes. Sylar wreathed his hands in blue fire and twined his fingers with Peter's until the flesh began to boil. That was the worst and even after Sylar stopped it, Peter kept screaming from the pain until he lost his voice. He slapped him a few more times, pummeled him idly with telekinesis and sliced up the bottoms of his feet.
Peter collapsed to the floor when Sylar deigned to allow it. It had taken very little time. Peter's body quaked. His mind was full of nothing but the buzz of pain. Sylar bent over him and said, "I suspect that's about as long as I'd have needed to fuck you, had you cooperated. But now I'm going to leave you like this for the next day. None of your injuries are the least bit lethal, but most of them are going to continue to hurt like hell. Think about your choice. You'll get another chance tomorrow."
A wordless surge of hate formed in Peter's head, but he didn't try to articulate it. He told himself he didn't bother. In reality, he didn't dare. Sylar stood and walked away.
Peter didn't rise from the bare concrete, though he considered it many times. Food trays came and went. He didn't partake of any of them - not even the water. He just lay there and shivered, devoid of hope. Sometime after the third tray had been taken away, he realized he must be getting a fever, because he was sweating and chilling now. He was profoundly miserable. On the rare occasion that he could think straight, he was faintly happy that he was too messed up to contemplate his situation too much.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. In a dream, someone was petting his hair and making his ills go away one by one. Each hurt faded and vanished. A familiar voice droned on, saying kind things, telling him it would be okay. The fever had broken and he felt warm and alive for the first time in far too long. He blinked up at the angel aiding him, only to find that his twisted brain had put Sylar's face on the merciful being. A second later, he realized he was awake, and that really was Sylar.
He jerked up and scrambled away as fast as he could, which was pretty damn fast. His hands were no longer blistered. His feet were whole. His gut didn't hurt. Even his asshole felt better. He licked his lips where they'd been split before.
"I healed you," Sylar said unnecessarily.
With the renewed health, came a sudden and vicious surge of hatred. He felt like his abilities were dancing at the edge of his reach, almost accessible. "Fuck you!"
"Is that your choice?" Sylar looked amused.
"I hate you! I am never going to willingly let you-" He was cut off and slammed against the wall again. Sylar approached him, hands alight with fire. As the blue light danced over Peter's skin, the memory of the last twenty-four hours crystallized in his mind. He'd been an idiot. A little fucking was better than suffering for a full day. Surely if he cooperated it wouldn't hurt as much. Lots of people had anal sex because they liked it. He hated himself for breaking so soon, but his self-loathing didn't stand a chance against his fear. He started begging. "Please, no! I'll do it! I'll do you! NO!"
He struggled in vain, again reaching for his abilities. They seemed just right at the tip of his fingertips. If he could only get a grip on any one, the rest would come tumbling after, he was sure. Sylar had stopped though, just inches from him. The killer looked at him with cocked head. "I'm sorry, Peter, but you only get one chance each day. You don't get to change your mind in the middle. Think about your choice. You'll get another chance tomorrow." And he began, putting his flame-shrouded hands against him. Peter's efforts to summon his powers ended as he screamed in agony.
Sylar paused and looked at the angry red hand prints now gracing Peter's chest. They were fading slowly, like he hadn't put as much power into them as before. "Hm. There is one thing you need though, which is liquids. If I get you some water, will you drink it?"
"Yes, yes!" Anything for a respite, even though the pain was dissipating surprisingly quickly.
Sylar dumped him unceremoniously on the floor and left, phasing out through the door. He returned shortly and tossed two pouches of water to him. "You didn't drink anything yesterday, did you?"
Peter shook his head, tearing into the pouch with shaking hands. He was very thirsty. Sylar watched him, one finger to his lips. He waited patiently until Peter had drank both dry. Peter realized, too late, he should have done it more slowly. He looked from the empty pouches to Sylar, trying to decide what he should do - be defiant, beg for mercy, or offer himself. Sylar smashed him against the wall before he made up his mind. He tried begging. It didn't help. His abilities made no further showing either. Whatever condition had made them briefly, though ephemerally, present in his mind had passed.
There were more burns this time and fewer cuts. Sylar didn't punch him in the gut or do anything that would directly inhibit his gastrointestinal tract, but he did electrocute him a few times. After he dumped him to the floor, he said, "Try to drink something today, and better yet, eat. You'll need your strength. There's only so much my healing can do for you."
Peter nodded brokenly. He managed to crawl to the platform and laboriously get himself on it as Sylar left. He felt perversely grateful that the torture hadn't been as bad as the day before. He was beaten though. Every movement hurt, every joint felt like it was on fire from within. His skin was littered with places Sylar had touched him, leaving welts and blistered patches in the shape of hands, possessing him even while Sylar wasn't in the room.
Later, he did eat a little, mechanically, and he drank. He spent his time in something of a stupor, but he had come to realize that the three meals were brought close together and there was a longer gap between them and the next set of three. He used this to mark 'day' and 'night.' It seemed to be the only thing he'd managed to accomplish so far. He clung to that tiny, fragile success as the night stretched on towards morning. 'Morning' as he thought of it now, was when Sylar had arrived the previous two days.