Sylar needed to say something. He wanted to say something. He wanted to make this thing developing between them real and he could only do that by speaking it aloud.
He was scared – more than he'd ever been while driven on by his ability. He was nervous – mouth dry, palms sweating. He could barely choke down the really quite good omelet Peter had made them.
He blushed, he stammered, and at first Peter looked puzzled. That had stopped. Now he looked pleased. Sylar felt mortified.
"Something you need to say?" Peter asked slyly.
He couldn't speak. Shame turned to anger.
Peter had been angrier in his life, but at the moment he couldn't recall. He wanted nothing more than to go back and slug Sylar right in his jerk-faced kisser. Peter was limping and his face hurt, both from where he'd been slammed into the doorframe after stopping and trying to argue with his abruptly belligerent companion.
Things had been going so well – past tense.
Fine. If that was how Sylar wanted to play it, Peter would just stay away from him. That would hurt Sylar a lot more than any punch he could throw. See how he likes that!