Wall Verse, Chapter 17, More Issues Than The National Geographic
Nine Days After
It was more than a week after the incident when Sylar finally found Peter approachable, if not friendly. He was lounging next to the pool at the YMCA, of all places. He had a stack of National Geographic magazines next to him and had one propped up on his belly. He wasn't dressed in anything but a pair of swimming trunks that came down to mid-thigh. Seeing that much flesh on display gave Sylar an even sharper reaction than normal because he knew just how off-limits it was … and how close he'd gotten to being able to touch anything he wanted just a week before. He wondered if Peter was teasing him. He swam often, so probably not. Sylar wondered if maybe he deserved some teasing, though. Peter still bore a black eye, and his cheek had turned a weird yellow-green color. There wasn't much swelling though.
Sylar had had long hours to consider Peter's absence and try to unravel his motivations. Peter's current, complete disinterest in him belied the idea that he was trying to turn Sylar to his own ends. It was still possible that Peter was playing an even deeper game than Sylar expected, but the odds of that were miniscule. He had to admit that the odds were much better that he'd knocked out the first guy who had (past tense now, obviously) ever been attracted to him - the first and only person who might have genuinely liked him as he was, without powers, just as a human being. And Sylar had punched him in the face and ran away. Regret was consuming him from the inside out. Thinking back, he probably would still handle it similarly, or just as badly, if he could go back or get a re-do. It was just that foreign a concept to him and there was a high chance he would continue to screw it up.
Sylar walked over to Peter, who had not so much as glanced up at him, and squatted next to his chair, prepared to make his apology and beg forgiveness. "Peter, I-" Smack! Sylar fell back on his ass in surprise, because Peter's hand, lightning fast, had whipped out from holding his magazine and backhanded him across the face. It stung, but he hadn't been hit very hard; his nose wasn't even bleeding. Sylar, eyes wide, put a hand to his nose and blinked. Peter was still reading, having never looked at him, and Sylar felt a flash of anger at being dealt with so summarily. It was contemptuous, like he wasn't worth Peter's full attention, like Peter was sure Sylar would do nothing in retaliation. Sylar's lip curled, but he stayed still. Peter's eyes tracked slowly across the magazine.
That's it? That's all he's gonna do? Then does he need to hit me more for him to feel better? Would it shorten the time until we're talking again, if he takes it out on me? The gears in Sylar's mind spun as he tried to think of what Peter needed and how he could meet those needs. He had to give Peter what Peter wanted. He didn't think that … hurting him … was something Peter wanted to do. It was finally getting through Sylar's skull that Peter did not cope that way. He copes … some other way. Sylar blinked a few times. How the hell does he cope with all the shit that's gone down in his life? The mystery of that was something for another day. He shoved it aside for later examination. If I'm wrong, I can always let him beat me up later. He breathed out a long sigh and wrinkled his nose a couple times. He shuffled backwards before rising, staying out of reach.
One thing was for sure, Peter was not trying to hook up with him again. "You know, I was thinking I needed to update my Facebook status so all my little friends would know how things are with us. What do you think would be appropriate here - 'in a relationship', 'single', or 'it's complicated'?" Peter gave no reaction, not that Sylar had expected one. Sylar tried leering at him, "Come on, Peter, don't you want to kiss and make-out? I hear make-up sex is the best." Peter turned the page, as unflappable as ever. Sylar frowned. If he kept it up, then yes, he might eventually get a reaction. He was sure it wouldn't be one he would enjoy.
Sylar grabbed the nearest lounge chair and sat at the end a few feet away and out of reach. He felt low, rejected and resentful, as he'd known he would. He watched the slow movement of the water for a while, before turning his head a little to watch his companion. Peter still hadn't looked at him. He felt the desire to shout or throw things and demand attention, but they'd been through this cycle often enough. Sylar was sad to say he was getting used to it and learning the steps of the cycle, childish though his reactions desired to be.
Sylar sighed and pushed down the desire. He just had to wait. That's all there was to do - wait Peter out. Peter was as lonely here as Sylar was, maybe more so. He might get mad and stomp off and refuse to talk, but ultimately he had always broken down and made himself available one way or another. Eventually. Sylar decided he'd do best to distract himself until Peter was feeling talkative. He reached out slowly so as not to startle, swiping one of the magazines. Peter gave no objection, not that Sylar had expected one.
The silent treatment. Joy. I deserve it though, especially if he wasn't trying to manipulate me. A petulant, immature part of himself wanted to complain, 'How am I to know that he wasn't trying to pull something? Everyone else always has. It doesn't make any sense that he wouldn't be trying to pull something over on me.' He sighed again and read his magazine, eyes skimming vacantly over some article about the tar sands of northern Canada, yet retaining nothing.
Peter eventually put his reading material aside and rose to dive in the water with easy, athletic grace. He began laps, cutting through the water cleanly, his form excellent. Sylar pined after him even more, the rejection aching in his chest with an almost tangible pain. He wished he could get in the water and play like they'd done before, or have the little races they'd done other times, or even just swim in the same pool without feeling like he was intruding. The aura of unwelcomeness was thick and every moment of silence, of Peter refusing to even look at him, enforced it. He knew it would dissipate eventually, but for now it was smothering him.
Sylar tore his eyes from Peter's form and put the magazine back on the stack. He didn't care about it anyway. On the other side of Peter's chair was his shoes, socks and what was probably a t-shirt. He'd brought nothing else. An idea occurred to Sylar and he rose from his chair to hurry off to the locker room, emerging with a towel. Soon enough, he had an opportunity to make a peace offering. It earned him a look at least, even if it was sullen. Peter snatched the towel from him and walked away stiffly, still radiating anger.
"Don't suppose you'd let me dry you off? No?" Sylar gave Peter's back a wan smile, but he didn't push it further than that. Peter dried off, put his shirt, socks and shoes back on, collected up his magazines and walked out without a backwards glance. Sylar was right there shadowing him, as they both knew he would be. Peter strolled down the blocks, in no particular hurry. Sylar's mind kept presenting him with clever or annoying conversation starters. Maybe I should just try talking to myself and see if he joins in? Nah. He'll think I'm even crazier than he already does. So why was he with me at all? How do I recover this? What can I do to fix it if he won't even talk to me?
The weight of guilt and rejection rode heavily on Sylar's shoulders.
Peter detoured into a diner he'd eaten at in the past and Sylar dogged him inside. Peter put his magazines down on a table rather than the bar, which perked Sylar's interest. It created the opportunity to sit across from him and have the illusion of being with Peter, sharing a table, rather than just being another person at the bar. Energized, he scurried to get drinks for both of them and set out a napkin for Peter, though he put his own drink at the bar. Sylar stayed out of the kitchen itself, not wanting to press Peter, or piss him off, or catch a hot spatula across the face (not that he really expected the latter, but you never knew about that sort of thing).
Peter made himself a simple grilled cheese sandwich between thick pieces of Texas toast. Sylar stood at the bar, sipping his drink and acting disinterested as he waited for Peter to commit himself to sitting at the table. Once he did, Sylar walked over and joined him, keeping his eyes down and hoping Peter didn't rise and go elsewhere. He didn't. Sylar mentally cheered. The other man was busy cutting his sandwich in two diagonally, the rich, melted cheese oozing out between the triangles. Sylar didn't realize he was staring at it until Peter wrapped half in his napkin and extended it across the table to him with the barest glance at Sylar's face.
Sylar blinked several times, feeling a weight bounce in his gut as recent memories flashed through his mind. Peter: taking care of him after fights that Sylar had started; making him an omelet; putting his hands over Sylar's and showing him the notes of the song they were playing; asleep with his head on Sylar's lap after that camping trip; the feel of his lips as he let himself be kissed even after Sylar had implied that intimacy between them would be meaningless; and how Peter had patiently come back after Sylar had freaked out the week before. Peter, whom he'd slugged to the floor for no good reason, offering him half of his sandwich even though they weren't on speaking terms. Sylar felt so small. Peter did such a good job, in his kindest gestures, of making Sylar feel like dirt.
Sylar took it, of course, because he wouldn't want Peter to think his offer wasn't appreciated. His voice stumbling and catching, he got out, "Thank you, Peter. You didn't have to do that."
"You can make the next one," Peter growled, looking down at his plate intently and lifting the other half of his meal.
He spoke! Words! He spoke to me! He cheered to himself again. That was faster than Sylar had expected. He'd figured at least another week of getting the cold shoulder. It was possible this was just an aberration and Peter might not speak for another few days, or more if Sylar snarked or smarted off in reply, or made some derisive comment - Sylar had done that before and, hard as the lesson was, he'd learned to watch his words for at least a little while, until Peter's temper cooled entirely. He put his half sandwich in his mouth to help keep his foot out of it and said nothing.
He ate quickly so he could take his turn in the kitchen preparing a sandwich identical to the one Peter had made - three slices of cheese and a little mayonnaise. It came out nicely golden brown and perfect looking. He carried it out, proud that he'd done something right, sliding the plate on top of Peter's now empty one with a small flourish. It earned him a half-smile, the sort Peter gave when he was mildly amused and the muscles in his face pulled only on the 'good' side of his lip. Sylar took his seat, expecting to merely watch his companion eat, but Peter again cut the sandwich in two and handed over the extra plate with the other half.
"Peter, I-" Sylar cut himself off from continuing, 'I'm not really hungry.' Which was true, after a fashion. With the way his stomach was lurching one way and the other, adding a lot of food to it didn't seem like a good idea. But he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to share something with Peter and he absolutely didn't want to squelch Peter's generous gesture towards him.
So he took the plate and stared down at it. "Peter, I'm sorry." He glanced up in time to catch the tail-end of Peter's most baleful glare, which made Sylar shrink back a little until Peter turned his eyes to his food. They ate in silence after that.
Too soon, Sylar thought to himself. Apology too soon. The backhand should have told me that. Just wait. Give him time. I've got all the time in the world here. Patience.
Peter did at least pause after rising to see if Sylar was coming with. Of course Sylar was, but he appreciated that half-second of polite checking. Sylar didn't trail behind quite as much now, but he still lagged by a pace or two, letting Peter choose their path. He seemed to roam the city quite truly at random, just walking and looking up at the buildings like he was out for an afternoon stroll. He finally ended at his apartment building. He gave Sylar a shallow smirk or maybe it was a bitter smile, and a brief wave. He went inside without a word. It had been a good-bye of a sort though. Sylar shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off home. Tomorrow maybe. He'll probably talk to me tomorrow.
Ten Days After
The next day Peter was slow enough to emerge from his apartment that Sylar thought he'd missed him and went off on another canvas of the neighborhood to see if he could figure out where his companion had gotten off to. He didn't find him, but when he swung back by Peter's apartment he poked his head into the building across the street to see if Peter was at the piano. He wasn't, but he was in the weight room, pumping iron.
Sylar stood in the door for a few moments, watching Peter, who glanced at him in acknowledgment and then looked away. Sylar wasn't dressed for a workout, but he climbed on the stair machine anyway and let it put him through his paces. It was something to do while admiring how Peter worked up a sweat. He remembered how Peter had smelled after … what they'd done. The smell of sweat had been heavy in that and every now and then he caught a whiff of Peter now. The memory and the scent turned him on.
He tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere, reminding himself that that was off-limits for now and maybe forever. The latter possibility made him ache inside - the idea of being excluded and rejected forever and not because of anything his ability had driven him to do, but because he was fundamentally broken, damaged goods, bad news. What arousal he'd had wilted in the face of his self-examination.
When Peter was done, he put away his weights and glanced over at Sylar for a moment, who dismounted immediately from the stair machine, prepared to follow wherever necessary. Peter looked down and spoke to the floor, "I'm going to go up, take a shower and lie down for a while."
Lie down in the middle of the day? Okay, whatever, Peter. Sylar just nodded, happy that he'd been addressed and informed, rather than left to wait outside for hours like a dog hoping his master would return. He walked out with Peter, hailing him before he went upstairs, "Hey, do you want to play foosball tonight? Or maybe ping pong?"
Peter paused with his hand on the door, then finally nodded, glancing back. His face was unreadable, his tone emotionless. Coming from Peter, that was scary and Sylar felt uncertainty coil through his gut. "Sure," Peter said, going inside without giving anything away.