[log] i'm bleeding in spite of my love for you; it battered and bruised my will
Who: Peter and Sylar.
What: Sylar is recreating the Stanton. Kind of.
When: Pre-finale shit.
Where:In a hotel. Sylar was really creative with this one.
So maybe it was a little cliche, he mulled to himself. It certainly wasn't anything he hadn't done before. He went over it a million times in his mind, potential scenarios and the possibility of their success. It was sad that scheming was necessary to contact Peter now. A phone call or a letter couldn't suffice. He needed to get him close and alone, get him to listen.
Everything was doomed, going to hell, and the only thing on Sylar's mind lately was just how much he missed Peter in his life. They had... what, a week? Days, maybe? Immortality didn't matter anymore. You had to take what you wanted, when you wanted it. Moreso than usual, because any morning now you could wake up and it'd all be fucking gone.
This was Sylar's idea of getting hitched before the impending apocalypse. Not that he expected that much out of Peter, hell, he never expected that much when they were together. He could see it now, him blanching at the very idea. Yelling, maybe. Sure, he could be a hopeless romantic when any pretty thing wearing a skirt was around, but when it was Sylar...
He drew in a deep sigh, staring down at the prepaid phone in his hands. His resolve solidified. He could do this. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, trying to get comfortable. It was a hotel room of middling price range, not quite the Stanton, but he wasn't quite Nathan Petrelli anymore, either. It was better than the grungy motel rooms he had been stowing himself away in, anyway. Peter should have appreciated it. He couldn't say he never did anything nice for him.
Slowly, Sylar punched in the digits for Peter's number, digits he knew by memory, only to pause on the green call button. He knew he had to do this, knew it, knew it was the only way, but he still had his apprehensions. The time to get them all out was now, before Peter could be made aware of them.
He pushed the button.
"Peter?" His voice jumped several octaves, to match Claire's. "Peter, I need your help." He lowered the voice to a begrudging hiss. "You we're right about Sylar, he's-- you have to come."