[Closed RP: Sylar and Peter] Five Days Later
((OOC: Any and all details about Sylar have been cleared with the mun first!))
( In your own blaze of hate you've spawn a fear in many lives/ You've taken action thinking it was all said on the signs./ Now I have time to dwell on, self-awareness, dreadful crime./ I saw colors too bright, not knowing that I was blind./ To think you are right/ To make sure it won't fly/ Is a making of a hate crime. )
( In your own blaze of hate you've spawn a fear in many lives/ You've taken action thinking it was all said on the signs./ Now I have time to dwell on, self-awareness, dreadful crime./ I saw colors too bright, not knowing that I was blind./ To think you are right/ To make sure it won't fly/ Is a making of a hate crime. )
Or... at least, that would be a cool claim to make. That evil never slept or something like that. Even though Sylar wasn't trying to use 'evil' in a description of himself, other people did, and he'd been identifying with it lately because of them. Or something. Maybe he was just going insane from being trapped in the same room as Peter Petrelli for... God, he couldn't even tell how long now. His only indication was the rhythmic tick tick tick of Peter's watch, marking every second on the nose.
Marking every second a split second late, at least. The watch was running slow. Just that tiny bit. Sounded like Peter'd had it for a while, and was probably too idiotic to even think twice about getting the thing oiled. The gears were going to... So, okay, maybe his not sleeping wasn't so off base. Peter's breathing was just as distracting. His heart rate. Somebody with a hangover bent over a toilet way over in some other part of the castle. When you could hear it all, when your half-fast kidnapper hadn't seemed to have heard of a little thing called an iPod, sleep was kind of out of the question.
Damn Peter, he was drifting off just fiiiine. Look at him. Shutting his eyes and letting them flare open with that sharp intake of breath, as if he was at all convincing. Five days bound to the same chair for pretty much all of his day, he'd lost a lot of resolve. He couldn't even muster up the want to glare at the guy, at this juncture. God.
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A quick glance at the IV line determined that there were still a few hours to go before he had to change it - and Sylar wasn't looking too full of fight, either. That, at least, was reassuring. Not reassuring enough to convince Peter that falling asleep in the same room and the guy would be anything approaching a good idea.
Blearily, he checked his watch. And wondered how he was going to keep this up for any longer, if he was already in this state.
"Don't you ever sleep?" Peter asked, completely out of the blue. If Sylar slept then maybe Peter could too. Just half an hour, that's all he wanted. Otherwise he was just going to ruin this whole plan by passing out and letting Sylar walk free.
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"Should be asking you the same question," he griped back in a bit of a croaking voice - in which he meant that, no, he didn't, not without Dr. Dre blaring out the rest of the world - blinking once at the floor, a bit stupidly. Because, really. Five days and Peter hadn't slept either? Unfair. No opportunity for Sylar to just slip by. Unnoticed. It was all he needed, just that five minute window, Goddammit.
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Still laughing, Peter rested his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. In the five days, he'd never really looked at the ceiling, and it was fascinating, when he really took the time to study it. Slowly, the laughter trailed off, and Peter rubbed at his eyes again.
And he hadn't even had coffee in five days. No wonder he was going round the bend.
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Okay, fairly enough, yes, five days. No sleep. No caffeine. It was going to do hell on somebody's mind. Brains were something he just knew. Temporal lobe goes haywire, led to slurred speech and nonsensical words. The parietal lobe makes up new objects, new forms, things that aren't there. Psychosis. Nystagmus. Decreased immunity. Hand tremors, ADHD-like symptoms, herniating in some bad cases... Yes. He'd spent a long time reading about sleep deprivation, once he learned he'd probably be experiencing a lot of it.
Essentially, it was a similar effect to being drunk. Which Peter was a prime example of at the moment.
Sylar only shot Peter a bemused sort of half-smirk, eyebrow quirked in light of the man's newfound giddiness. "Looks like the sponge is all dried up," he commented lightly, staring up at him for a moment through hooded eyes before he let his gaze fall back to the floor, almost defeated. If only Peter would give into that. Or, as an alternative, he could just go absolutely nuts in general, hallucinate so many layers of false imagery that Sylar could just walk right out without Peter's being any the wiser. Come on, come on.
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He thought about looking at the IV line, but that require actually lifting his head, so Peter decided against the effort. It would be fine. His memory wasn't great at the moment, but he thought he'd checked it recently. And if he hadn't done anything then, it should... God, he was tried. Too tired to be thinking properly.
It was hardly the most comfortable of positions, but when Peter felt himself drifting off, he let it happen. Just half an hour, just a few minutes would be good. Sylar could... take care of himself for a bit, right? And for once, the thought of Sylar didn't immediately send Peter jolting awake again - instead, he just let sleep take over, hoping that some internal alarm would wake him later.
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Beat...
There it was.
A smile actually crossed Sylar's face as Peter's breathing pattern slipped into that slow, steady rhythm synonymous with someone who'd just fallen asleep. "Nighty night," he cooed under his breath, and glanced over to the IV line that he'd pinched shut a good few hours or so ago. Peter had been off his rocker going on the last day now - it wasn't hard to get anything past him, at this juncture.
The tube jerked free of his arm, falling to the floor as the straps immediately followed suit, and God, standing felt so good after so long. Five days in here, wasn't it? It had to be, about. He'd lost count around three hundred thousand seconds and that was a good few hours into the first day as it was. God, it was insulting for him to have been tied up so long, under Peter's watch.
He even loomed over Peter for a good, few, long seconds, as if he were debating just what to do with the boy.
No, he decided. Peter wasn't all too important enough to deal with anything right now. Peter would get his later. When Sylar could stand without his legs threatening to give out underneath him. Peter could consider himself lucky that Sylar didn't care all that much what happened to him, at least at the moment.
Besides. He was taking the watch. Peter didn't deserve it.
...Sylar could fix it.
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A slight sound - not consistent with his dream - spun the dream out of control and made Peter's eyes snap open.
Shit.
Scrambling away from Sylar's looming shadow, Peter stared with wide eyes at him, then at the IV, and back at Sylar, everything taking a little too long to process. A pressure at his back alerted him to the fact that he'd just effectively cornered himself. "How the hell did you get free?" He blurted, standing as quickly as he could, more scared than he should be considering.
He tried to gather his thoughts, to focus enough to use telekinesis and give Sylar a good push into the wall, but his thoughts were too scrambled. Too caught up in 'you shouldn't have fallen asleep' and 'you've just failed'. Nothing was working.
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With a simple flick of his fingers, the chair went automatically diving for Peter, but for once Sylar wasn't focused on whatever could kill Peter. He just wanted the damn guy out of his way. The legs of the chair slammed up against the stones, on either side of the man, restricting his arms and pinning him to the wall in all the needed places. Sylar tilted his head for a moment, almost as if he was listening for something. Pounding heart rate. Bingo.
"Don't make this harder on yourself, Pete," he replied in a slow, almost soothing tone, eyebrow arching upward at the male. "Make or break time right now." And just how permanently damaged did he want to leave this room?
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Claude. He had to think of Claude, had to get out of this. But invisibility wasn't going to do much good when he was pinned, was it? He needed -- the blonde woman, strength, he needed that. But that wasn't going to do much good when he couldn't use his arms, either.
Telekinesis - Sylar, or whoever Sylar had murdered to get it - that could work, especially when his 'benefactor' was right here. Clenching his jaw, not replying to Sylar's smug words, Peter tried to push back, push up. As soon as wood grated on stone, enough so that Peter could duck down and free himself - leaving the chair still on the wall - he launched forward, a wildly thrown fist aiming at Sylar's jaw.
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Clever boy. He could almost be considered something approaching intelligence at this point.
Nevertheless, he lunged towards Sylar, and he raised a simple hand to stop it, narrowing his eyes at the Petrelli as Peter's fist met what had to feel the rough equivalent of a brick wall against his knuckles. He just loved it when Peter used his own powers against him. There was some kind of sick poetry to it. "Ouch. That's gotta hurt," he hissed, and gave Peter's hand a good, sharp twist with invisible fingers, arm send punching towards the floor and probably sending the boy entirely off-kilter - if not dislocating his shoulder completely.
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But he couldn't, he had to stop Sylar, and goddamn, why wasn't the pain stopping? He had to think of Claire, of her ability, but a stable thought was almost impossible right now.
So Peter, desperate to end this, grabbed the closest thing on hand. The IV pole, with everything still connected. His good arm still wasn't co-operating too well, so he used his left, swinging wide and going for Sylar's knees. If the bastard couldn't walk, he couldn't get out of here.
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"This is getting kind of old," he automatically prompted in return, eyes needling towards Peter before they rolled over in his sockets. This was just... sad. He was swinging around like a madman with no country to his name. Of course, it was just sad now. And Sylar didn't want to test just when Peter was going to come to his senses enough to use that handy power of persuasion on him again. "It's going to end. Now."
The IV pole swung back around, sharply, going right back to Peter's own shins and fully intent on taking him down before Sylar was.
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He just wanted this to be over. Not just this fight, but... this whole thing. Sylar was stronger than he was, than he'd ever be, but people couldn't die here and that knowledge reduced Peter's plan to uselessness. He just wanted to lie on his couch and watch awful soap operas, and leave it to somebody better than him to be a hero. It wasn't a death wish, he was just too goddamn tired.
"So finish it," Peter snapped. Just put something through my head so I can have an excuse not to try be a hero anymore. But he wasn't going to let Sylar just walk out of here, that would be too much failure for him to cope with. He didn't get up, but a thought sent the chair flying towards Sylar.
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Oh. And there he went. Of course it couldn't.
The chair was discarded with a simple step to the side, as he watched the thing soar past him with an arched brow, something resembling amusement crossing his features. Right. This was just getting insulting, by this point in time. That had kept him tied up for almost a week? He was slipping. Sylar took a few long seconds to stand there, looming in all of his height and his creepiness over the boy with an odd sort of pity.
"You're pathetic, Peter Petrelli," Sylar crooned with a frown, crossing an arm across his chest and tapping his free fingers against his chin, as though he were an art critic in a moment of scrutinizing a piece of work. "I couldn't do you the favor, sorry. But feel free to do so on your own part. I wouldn't stop you."
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A tingling in his hands made him look down, and panic tore through him. "Shit, shit, this can't be happening," Peter cursed, wide-eyed. It was faint, but he could almost see the bones in his hands, the radioactive power lighting up from the inside. This was all Sylar's goddamn fault, getting him worked up.
He didn't even hear Sylar's mocking words, too caught up in staring at his own hands. Maybe he could use this. A punch backed up with radioactive skin probably hurt - and telekinesis was working so well for him right now. Thinking quickly, Peter pushed himself up and aimed a fist at Sylar's stomach, ignoring the twinges from his still-healing shoulder.
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