More Between Us Chapter 53/? "Unpacked Cargo"
More Between Us, Chapter 53/? "Unpacked Cargo"
Day 13, December 23, Night
The hand on Peter's shoulder surprised the crap out of him, like it came out of another dimension. It was still Sylar, though - the voice and the silhouette matched the nightmare. He was to Peter's left and Peter grabbed at his arm, fingers latching on above the elbow. Just like that, he had an ability - he could fly. Or something, because he was able to sit up, muscles finally obeying his desires. “Sylar!” he coughed out, hanging onto the guy and looking around wildly for a moment. Arthur was gone. It was dark, dim … safe maybe? Peter hugged Sylar to him without thinking, heart pounding and breath coming fast with a near-sob of relief. “I don wanna go back there,” he slurred into Sylar's shirt, still seeing him as the guy who had saved him from being sent back to that hell of privation.
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Sylar jumped at being grabbed but Peter’s tone now sounded conscious. He found himself dragged forward until his arms were full of a half-naked Peter. That stunned him some more. The contact was wonderful and he reacted to it almost instantly, holding Peter to him with arms around his warm, slightly sweaty shoulders. “It’s okay. We won’t go back there,” he promised. I have no idea what you’re talking about. It must have been a dream. He’s mentioned them before. While the younger man calmed, so did Sylar. He barely resisted the urge to make some purr or hum, maybe a moan of contentment at holding and being held. It was platonic and wonderful. Though he supposed he was twisted for deriving so much pleasure from Peter’s upset, he didn’t pay that much attention. His cheek was pressed against Peter’s face, his nostrils filled with that familiar sibling smell of Peter and his hair products and that was totally relaxing. He rubbed Peter’s back and shoulders, brisk but slow, strangely enjoying the opportunity to give comfort. While not unheard of, it wasn’t a role he often got to play.
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Moments passed. The sense of the dream faded fast, replaced by the reality that the guy he was holding was not the fictional 'it's okay if he pretends to be Nathan' guy who had saved him from something (except apparently from having a bad dream). All those times Sylar had twitched and moaned in his sleep and Peter had ignored him paraded by his mind's eye, leaving him with a sense of guilt that he hadn't done for Sylar what Sylar, the horrible killer, had the sense of common decency to do for him. Peter backed up, putting four or five inches between their bodies and leaning his forehead on Sylar's upper chest, reluctant to pull away quite yet.
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He sighed. Peter had separated them; cooler air rushing between where they’d been warm just seconds before, but placed his head against Sylar’s chest. Sylar wished he’d removed his shirt for sleeping, too, just to feel the touch of another’s skin. He could almost feel it regardless. It was intimate because of Peter’s need right now. He wound up blissfully cradling the man’s head and neck to him. “It’s okay,” he whispered again, desiring not to break this fragile moment with any interfering communication.
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Peter had the strangest feelings going on. He wanted the comfort, but definitely didn't want it from this particular person. Sylar smelt like sleep. It was a weirdly powerful association for Peter - not sleep and Sylar, but rather sleep and comfort … trust … and intimacy. When he was with someone and they smelled like this, it was almost universally a good association. But this was Sylar. Sylar who had … done all the things Sylar had done, which Peter didn't even want to think about in his current position of accepting support from him. Sylar who had been making passes at him. What the hell was he doing checking me out while I was asleep, anyway?
Peter pulled back further, bringing his head up and giving Sylar a couple prods to let him know he was done with the holding. “I'm fine.” Peter cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his lap, left hand feeling over the brace as he wondered why it was hurting. “It was just a weird dream. You can go on.” He directed his eyes away and to the side, ducking his face. His hair fell across it, screening him off with the most flimsy of walls. The corners of his eyes were wet. He resisted the urge to wipe them, feeling that he must look ridiculously weak and not wanting to make it any worse.
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The empath fed him a few lines of obvious bullshit, even in the dark and tired, Sylar knew that. Somehow. He let Peter have some space, but not all of it - he left an arm around Peter’s shoulders, barely rubbing there. He ignored the dialogue, too (though it answered the safety-and-health question). “You okay? You were…calling me.” So it must have been a weird dream. He called ME, not Nathan! Was it…was it another one of his prophetic dreams? Or the same one? Part of him wondered if he was in danger if it was a prophetic dream, another part pondered the likelihood of Peter lying all along about what this all-important dream was about. I’m too tired for this. Sylar had the natural urge to climb in bed with Peter to ensure the nightmares stayed away.
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“I-” I was not calling for you. Well, okay, it was sort of you, but not you you. “It was a dream, that's all. You were in it.”
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A nightmare, you mean. If I was in it…But that doesn’t explain him calling for me.
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He hesitated for a moment, canting his head a bit to look at Sylar's hand on his shoulder, where it was rubbing slightly across bare skin. This was way off the normal social script for this sort of thing. The most he'd expect from a relative stranger like Sylar was along the lines of 'Hey dude, you're having a bad dream. Wake up!' along with maybe a nudge or a shake, then them keeping their distance, because you just didn't go getting all cozy like this with someone you didn't know very well. Peter knew that was the script and while he might go around breaking it all the time himself, that didn't mean he didn't recognize how strange it was to have Sylar acting like this. Sylar, the guy who misses being able to kill people with the raw power of his mind, or something like that.
Another thing setting off mild warning bells was the tingling Sylar's hand imparted where it touched him and the positive yearning Peter felt about that. It was like a craving or some unmet need and he didn't know what to think about it at all. I've felt that before here. Is it … an ability thing? Is he doing something to me? Or am I just that hard up, that even someone like Sylar makes me horny? I don't … I don't feel horny. That's not it. (Thank God.) Maybe it's just something about Matt's world here.
He leaned back and shuffled to the side a couple inches, politely dislodging Sylar's arm in the process. “I'm fine. Really. I didn't mean to wake you up.” And at that, Peter gave Sylar an assessing look. He had woke Sylar, right? He hadn't been out there for other reasons, had he?
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“You didn’t. Was it that same dream again, the one you’ve been telling me about?” That would explain him calling for me. (Wish his dumb girlfriend wasn’t in the picture. But it was a dream and she isn’t here). Peter moving away only made room for Sylar to pretzel comfortably beside and before him, hands in his lap. He was curious now and this was his chance to pin Peter down on the specifics of the dream. So much for not talking about abilities, it happened to be one of Sylar’s favorite subjects when the conversation didn’t veer onto his modus operandi. Besides, with his headache raging and being disturbed from lonely sleep, talking with Peter and being near him sounded much better. “I thought you said you didn’t have any powers.” Even in the near-dark, his eyes narrowed a little, not that Peter could see him very well. How are you still having future-dreams? He has Matt’s power anyway, or so he says. It just…none of this makes a lot of sense.
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Peter looked at Sylar's use of the space he'd opened up - Sylar was ensconcing himself firmly by sitting cross-legged on the bed like he'd been invited. Peter felt confused by the whole thing. Sylar was being comforting and friendly, more than friendly in fact, and yet it was Sylar. It reminded Peter of that long, companionable conversation they'd had while walking around the city - a conversation that had eventually gotten under Peter's skin exactly because Sylar was being so chummy with it. At what point, precisely, had he decided Peter was a great friend? Would that be before or after he'd decided to 'crucify' Peter in Times Square?
But getting on Sylar's case about the overly-buddy-buddy talk had only ended up with a stupid confrontation with a sword. Now, in bed, half-dressed, sleepy, and still rattled by a nightmare bad enough to leave him calling out for help wasn't the best time to have another throw-down about the reasons behind Sylar's oh-so-conditional kindness. Peter surrendered instead and did so by flopping back on the bed, scooting over a couple more inches in the process because he didn't want to be that close to the guy. He tugged up the covers to mid-abdomen.
“I don't have any powers,” he huffed, reaching up to rub at his face and wipe away the damn tear tracks, hopefully with some level of discretion. I'm sleepy. It's normal to wipe eyes when you're sleepy. “It's not the same dream, not the ability dream, future-dream, whatever. It's just … one I've had before. Different versions of it.”
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“What were you trying to avoid, in the dream?” Sylar probed at the more painful part That much wasn’t about his girlfriend. It was about him.
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“Avoid?” Peter eyed Sylar. In the dimness and lying down, all he was getting was a shadow. Creepily, he was reminded of the almost unrelieved darkness of the cargo container. “Turn on the light, would you?” He gestured at the nightstand. There had been a little art deco style lamp there, he recalled. It would help.
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Sylar had little desire to illuminate anything, not with his headache raging on. But it was a signal that Peter wanted to talk, so he complied, shielding and shutting his eyes at first.
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Peter rubbed his eyes again in the light, letting them adjust. “I was trying to avoid being ...” He shrugged, frowning as he realized no short and simple explanation would cut it. He'd never told Nathan; he didn't think Sylar knew. Nothing would explain why he found it frightening without giving the context. He put a hand over his eyes briefly before putting it aside and staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't that hard to talk about because he tried not to feel anything about it.
“After I blew up over New York … eventually I found a way to heal Nathan. On my way out of the hospital, they jumped me. Wiped my memories - all of them, didn't even know my name.” He swallowed. He hadn't even had a false identity to cling to and a 'normal' life to go about, however horrible Sylar's situation had been. “And they …” another tense swallow and he looked away now, “handcuffed me to the inside of an empty cargo container. Shut the door. Left me there.” He finally hazarded a glance at Sylar. “It was, uh, couple weeks, in February, on the North Atlantic. I didn't know I had abilities. I didn't understand why I wouldn't die. Or … well, why I wouldn't stay dead.” He looked down, fussing with the covers. “The, uh, dream … they were putting me back in there.” He shook his head. “It's just a bad dream.”
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Retinas eventually adjusting, though not as much as he would have liked, Sylar gazed down at Peter, listening intently. Nathan didn’t know much about this and Sylar had been…in Mexico. Ugh. His eyes widened. You- he had his memory wiped, too? Completely? A pang of understanding, sympathy even, at having shared such a horrible trauma, shuddered through him. Peter’s experience with it was decidedly worse and Sylar could picture that torture all too easily. Not just a bad dream - a bad memory. He had no idea what to say to express his feelings of understanding - nightmares, no memories, answers or knowledge; dealing with abandonment and torture… Peter hardly had to hint how much it affected him because Sylar already knew, had already lived it himself. Sadly, he knew why things like that happened, even to Peter, but…He felt strangely close (or closer) to Peter in bonding over ‘what they did to me’ stories, possibly the most violating one, too. Uncertain how to comfort, he tried to follow the empath’s lead and focus on the here and now, “Why was I in the dream?”
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“My father was there. He was trying to push me inside, drain my powers first, though, so I'd never get out. You were using telekinesis to keep him from being able to push me in.” Peter's voice dropped to very quiet, not quite a whisper. “I was …” begging, “asking you to help me … more than what you were doing.”
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“That’s a good reason,” Sylar concluded lamely, equally quiet for a moment. He was glad to be of use and comfort, glad Peter had someone to get help from. Arthur Petrelli was kind of scary like that, and the threat of that kind of imprisonment…well. Thoughts became words as he mused aloud, a little introverted and slow, “Weird how… they can drain even the memory of your powers.” Matt, Rene, Arthur and that Damien guy were all suspect. “You’d think you’d remember at least some of that. But nothing’s really…safe,” he sighed and looked up at Peter from where his eye line had fallen away. “When I…’woke up’ I was buried alive, in some grave. After that they…the cop….threatened to, um….put me back there and started ‘interrogating’ me after he rubbed my face in a few things…He thought he could force a confession,” he let out a dry breath that lacked humor, yeah right. “I wound up literally running from the dogs. Getting shot and tazed doesn’t really make a difference, neither would dogs mauling me…powers going haywire…” he shook his head.
“Yours sounds a lot worse.” He didn’t have to become someone else and deal with that whole nightmare though. Attempting to lighten the mood a little, he flashed a micro-grin, “For once.” If he can survive that without a peep…For someone as emotionally volatile and needy as Peter, that Peter - an admittedly tough SOB - could handle it better than Sylar had demanded some respect. It also meant Sylar had to up his own game and quit whining even if the effects of the mindfuck were still present, much more a reality than a memory.
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Peter gave a faint smile. It's not a contest, he thought, but didn't argue it. Sylar's demeanor was enough to show he knew. Peter had still half-expected mockery. Sarcastically he mused, I suppose it's nice to know my torture and betrayal by my family is up to snuff. “Want to know what's really weird? I was stuck in that container for the worst part of three weeks, chained to the wall the whole time.” He blew air out, retucking the blanket around himself and reaching up to rub his cheek with the back of his left hand. “A few hours after I got out, I was tied to a chair and managed to phase out of the ropes. The whole fucking time I could have ...” He shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. Escape had been in his grasp the entire trip. “I suppose I just didn't have the right trigger.” He swallowed, grimacing and looking away. He hadn't been able to use the majority of his powers until someone showed him kindness: Caitlyn.
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“Heh.” Powers, control, was funny like that sometimes. Sylar’s abilities were far more…instinctive. They seemed to appear when he needed to defend himself mostly, other times they were like an extension of his emotions or…reactions to a name.
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“So,” he said a little louder and more strongly, directing himself away from that bleeding wound in his soul, “tell me about when you 'woke up'. What were you waking up from?” He turned his eyes intently on Sylar for a moment, before shifting his attention away to pick at the brace on his hand instead of skewering the guy with his gaze.
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Sylar went still, now paranoid about their proximity, Peter’s nightmare and tendency to hit things. Being thrown back into defense mode was that much more jarring after, apparently, relaxing. It was strange he didn’t notice it, the relaxing. He was only slightly relieved when Peter looked away. “Uh…” he was about to say some vague line like ‘nothing you want to hear’ but what came out was, “Being someone else, I think. I don’t know.” Fuck, don’t hit me. I didn’t mean…You asked…Sylar involuntarily leaned away a little, fighting down the urge to squirm. ”I-I found the Carnival after that.” Ran right into Samuel. He cleared his throat, the awkwardness only now dawning on him. Peter was…at least half-naked, cuddled into his blankets not six inches away and something told him that should be weird, though he didn’t know why it should be weird. (Maybe because he’s gay?) He sure smells good…
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Sylar's tension was palpable. For a moment, Peter couldn't place the cause, then Sylar answered and all was clear. Oh. Nathan. Peter exhaled slowly, having tensed up only a few seconds after Sylar did. “It's okay,” Peter said softly, maybe unnecessarily because Sylar's reaction was pretty subdued. Peter petted the blanket a few times. “I think I understand.” But he asked no more questions in that direction, not wanting to disturb whatever peace they had going at the moment.
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What does that mean? While it sounded straightforward, it also sounded too kind and forgiving for the topic. It sounded too good to be true. Sylar still had no reply to it so he moved on from the confusion. “What happened after that - the phasing and the chair?” Sylar tried to bring the focus back to Peter. He knew there was a lot even Nathan was missing from that part of Peter’s life. While that might have been okay for Nathan, not caring and all, the gap wasn’t acceptable for Sylar’s mental notes. Peter hadn’t been chatty about it either, quite short with his answers. The younger man had disappeared - to Scotland? Ireland? - and then shown up ready to release the virus with a madman. Something had happened along the way.
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Peter's thoughts went to the events after the chair - they were kind of a mess, since his most frequent thought about that period in his life was trying not to think of it. He squirmed visibly, nose wrinkling slightly in either discomfort or disgust. He looked away to the side silently, saying nothing at all and trying to fight down the overwhelming urge to cry.
Finally, he said roughly, “I'd rather be locked in that container again than what happened after.” He'd fallen in love like it was the first time, and then lost her forever. It had hardened him inside, though not the kind of hardness that bespoke of strength. He struggled with himself, torn between telling Sylar to leave and let him be alone for that cry, or keeping the guy there precisely to keep himself from breaking down. He realized he was breathing too fast and had tensed again. Peter relaxed himself purposefully, reaching up to touch at his eyes and brow, then forehead. Let it go. Let it go. It was a long time ago. I don't have to deal with it now.
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Uh-oh, Sylar thought. That bad? Crap. I’m supposed to be calming him down, not winding him up again. He reached out and patted Peter’s leg in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “Do you think you can sleep again?” he inserted into the wounded silence, trying to distract once more.
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Peter jumped solidly at the touch, head snapping around with a momentarily murderous expression that faded fast to a mix of sullen and confused as he realized that a soothing pat was something he shouldn't freak out about. He moved his leg away, scooting a few inches further towards the other side of the bed to avoid that happening again. So Sylar was going to leave. Peter was both relieved and disappointed. “Yeah,” he said weakly, lying back down and facing away, thoughts going back to the desperate feeling of loss and betrayal he'd experienced in the dream as his father was pushing him into the container. Maybe I should just … let myself feel it. If he's leaving ...
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Wordlessly, Sylar leaned forward, flicking off the lamp to consume the room in near-total darkness. That done, he rose and lumbered to turn out the bathroom light. He wasn’t happy about Peter’s wary twitchiness. Something was better than nothing and he supposed he couldn’t ask for much more.
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Peter curled up on his side, pulling the covers up to his armpits and slowly letting go of the restraints he'd put on himself, beginning to permit himself to wallow in depression and regret. He sniffed slightly, thinking he should wait until Sylar was well settled elsewhere before getting some tissues in case he did break down and cry. The bathroom light clicked off, plunging all in darkness. Peter stared at the slightly lighter areas visible of the windows, waiting for Sylar to go off to his bedroom and give him some privacy. In a true, living city, the night sky would be much lighter from all the streetlamps and nightlife illumination. Here it was almost nothing and with the storm clouds outside, not even the moon was out to relieve the blackness.
He heard Sylar pad back into the area, but literally thought nothing of it. Then the mattress dipped and Peter tensed all over for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. What the hell? Frozen in place, he waited. Unmistakably, Sylar settled down on the far side of the bed, the one he'd been sitting on earlier and that Peter's repeated scootings had left empty. Peter cleared his throat, sniffed loudly, and shifted his limbs around where he was to make his presence absolutely clear. The social cue went ignored.
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“Night, Peter.”
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He didn't answer. Do I get up and move? Get up and leave? Get up and kick him out? Or just get up and get a drink and decide what I want to do? Peter breathed out slowly, tension draining away as Sylar did nothing else - lying on the bed seemed like the extent of his invasion. Peter felt tired. And sleepy. He'd been tense too much, sleeping fitfully before out of fear of Sylar and now the man was right here in bed with him. Perversely, it made him much less scary. How does he know I won't smother him in his sleep? Maybe I'm the scary one. He trusts me? Another wave of relaxation flowed through him. Lids drooped. Peter snuggled into his pillow.
What would it mean anyway if I got up and made a scene? Peter mused sleepily. He stuck his right foot out behind him so that if Sylar did try to get on his side of the bed, hopefully he'd feel him first. Focus, Peter! Him in his bedroom, him here, hardly matters. Wait … no, really focus … I'm in Parkman's basement. Or at least I hope I'm there. We're not even here in bed together. This is all … symbolic or something. Like, metaphorical. Maybe … maybe we're just sharing memories and feeling close, so we seem close here. Share much more and we'll be fucking. Ha. Hmmm … Peter's thoughts spiraled off into deep slumber faster than he would have thought possible, sore muscles and emotional exhaustion leading to soft snores in record time.
Day 14, December 24, Morning
Sylar was slow to wake up. He was alone, he could tell. Of course he was alone. Why he had to realize that after so many years alone puzzled him. His head hurt before he’d even rolled over to face the lit window, but he did anyway, looking around at the strange apartment. Understanding came to him when he saw a pair of jeans and boxer-briefs, both black, that were not his. Sylar blinked at that. Peter. Is walking around in just a shirt? He couldn’t help but snort at that, I think you forgot something, Pete. That was definitely a new feeling, turning to see another inhabitant’s clothes, indicating Peter had slept with him. Just slept. Sylar was still dressed, nothing out of place so no funny business had gone on. He could still smell Peter on the sheets. He grinned a little. Despite his aching head, he’d slept…well, that had probably been the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. Not a nightmare in sight. Company makes all the difference. We should get rained in more often.
Peering out into the living room and what little he could see of the kitchen, he was alone in the apartment. Maybe he went out for breakfast. Didn’t he say he liked that diner? He tossed around the idea that he’d been abandoned, the proximity proving too much for the Petrelli. The nurse probably wasn’t coming back for a while. He didn’t like those thoughts. Morning wood grew uncomfortable in his jeans and thus he was motivated to the bathroom. Standing made him dizzy, made his head burn and pound but he made it to the bathroom. Dick in hand, he idly stood, leaned against the counter for support, easily stroking himself, eyes closed. He was quiet, as usual, only exhaled breaths and soft sighs breaking the silence as his stroking turned to pulling and tugging on his increasingly rigid organ. Sylar panted as he got into it, fairly content even as his skull pained him with every beat of his heart, and as such his imagination supplied fantasies of being used. It was pretty mindless, instinctive. He pumped himself faster, rougher. It didn’t take long for that to carry him over. His eyes opened as he eagerly spilled into the sink, quickly washing away the evidence. He only allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the aftermath of pulsing hormones below his headache.
He then considered his options with the shower/bath dilemma. Growling to himself, he activated the bath faucet. Damned un-masculine, girly, flowery bullshit…As he let the tub fill up, he had the foresight to grab shampoo or what passed for it - the former resident was apparently pre-pubescent, if his hair products were anything to go by - a bottle of bright green Pert was it. Sylar was increasingly grateful for Peter’s absence. There was no way he’d ever live down the bath or the shampoo. With a frustrated sigh, he stripped and got into the sufficiently filled tub, shutting off the water. Oh, that felt good. The surrounding heat made for a powerful muscle relaxer. Stupid shampoo will be perfect for Peter, I bet. Something kids his age use. Sylar purposefully ignored that thought, why he’d projected such an age difference between him and Peter. The rest of his bath was uneventful, shampooing successfully if grudgingly, until he realized he’d forgotten a towel. Remember the shampoo but not the towel? So he unplugged the tub and heaved himself out to snag one from the far wall, scrubbing himself dry and wrapping it around himself in short order.
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Peter was feeling pretty good as the elevator brought him back to the top floor. He attributed it to the workout more than anything else, though if pressed, he would have agreed he'd slept uncommonly well. It had been awfully strange to wake up next to Sylar, the sort of thing that should have been the stuff of nightmares but had instead, when he woke, struck him with how mundane it was. Sylar was just a guy: human. Just as Peter had been in the middle of the night, upset about a past he couldn't change. That Sylar had honored that and given it respect and empathy was something Peter was still chewing over in his mind.
The elevator doors opened. Had he been thinking when he'd slipped stealthily out of bed that morning, he would have taken more than shoes, socks, and shirt. As it was, workout complete, he wanted a shower. Any apartment in the building would have served, but this one was where he'd left his pants and underwear. Although he'd done the workout shirtless (not unusual for him), he wanted out of the now-true-to-their-name sweat pants. He turned the doorknob quietly, so that in case Sylar was still asleep he wouldn't wake him.
He could hear noises from the bathroom and see the bed was empty, so Peter stopped trying to be quiet and strode in directly. As he walked across the living area towards what he supposed was the open-plan master bedroom, he glanced to his right at motion and light in the open bathroom doorway: Sylar, in a towel, and only a towel. Peter stumbled on his own feet.
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Movement flashed across his vision. There was no sound accompanying it and the shape was human sized. Sylar jolted hard. Suddenly there was someone here with him and he wasn’t dressed or prepared. He exhaled harshly when he saw it was just Peter. Because who else would it be? Despite the rough start, he was happy of the companionship once more, the apartment felt more comfortable, snug and alive with him here. He didn’t care why Peter had come back, just that he had returned. The domestic aspect of it disgusted him with himself. Working at calming himself, his headache sharp once more, heart rate elevated (probably with more than one cause), he saw something weird going on with Peter’s feet as he left Sylar’s field of vision. Frowning, he walked into the hall, partly to be out of the bathroom and to see what Peter was up to. He was hovering at a distance now his wandering cornerstone had returned. Was he spying on me? Why would he try to sneak up on me? He wasn’t headed in my direction…He’s dressed - sweat pants. “Where were you?” he demanded, paraphrasing several questions at once: why’d you leave? What were you doing? Are you (we) okay? Did you eat?
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Peter got his balance again, having nearly, but not quite, fell into the bed. A quick glance back showed nothing he could blame his clumsiness on. A quick glance at Sylar reminded him of the actual reason. He focused on Sylar's face and the question. “I was downstairs,” he said before taking a moment to consider that Sylar had no right to his whereabouts. He squashed the knee-jerk defiance that reared its head. Sylar … had attachment issues and if he was Peter's patient, it was probably unwise (or at least unkind) to aggravate those. “I was working out, getting some exercise. Are you done with the shower?” He moved over to where his pants and underwear lay, gathering them up with care not to lose the contents of his pockets across the floor. Not that he really had much need of his wallet here, but the utility tool was useful. “If you're not, I can go across the hall.” I probably should have suggested that first.
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“Oh.” That made perfect sense, in fact, Sylar knew he should have thought of it. Damn concussion. Peter even mentioned he works out so he doesn’t have nightmares. So he’s…not happy about…last night. I guess I should feel lucky he didn’t use me for his punching bag this morning. He was disappointed, though. “Yeah, I’ll- um…” he hastened back to the bathroom, bundling up his clothes and snagging a hairbrush. I’ll just change…in the guest room.
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Peter made his way into the bathroom, locking the door. Not because he was afraid of assault - and that was an odd, refreshing feeling that he mused over for a moment - but simply because he'd begun to wonder if Sylar might wander in to join him much like he had in the bed. Attachment issues. Might be something else going on there? Co-dependent? Or maybe just dependent, because I don't know that I'm … Co-dependent means I'm dependent on him, too, right? I don't think I am. Other than the obvious, that we're here together, but that's just human nature. But is there something concussion-related going on? Head injuries cause … can cause personality shifts. Is that part of the problem? Or issue? Not a huge problem, really. I … well, not happy about him being in my bed. But if I can get him back to his apartment, I can go off to mine. Hm. First day I was here, he wanted me to move in across the hall to him. Maybe it's not a concussion thing. Why the fuck does some serial killer want me living next door to him? Maybe it's a Nathan thing? Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't know what to do about that. It took a lot of the blame away from Sylar and he was uncomfortable doing that. It was Sylar's responsibility to act like Sylar, not Nathan. It was something he wanted to address, but right now was not the best time for it.
After a quick shower without shampoo (after he was done, he found it next to the tub, not that it was a brand he would have used anyway), he dried off, rinsed his mouth, and dressed in the bathroom, exiting fully clothed.
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Sylar heard the lock click as he sat on the guest bed and got dressed from there, taking it slow, pouting a little. Really, Peter? I slept with you last night! You’re unharmed and you’re still…? That was frustrating. He ran the brush through his hair with more force than necessary after toweling it but the treatment couldn’t make it stay out of his face, not without some gel. He was pretty sure it was a fluffy mess with that stupid shampoo. With no sound but water in the pipes and no immediate, accessible company, he got nervy and fussy, so he turned to making the beds just because. Leaning over wasn’t a treat. Worried about my hair and clothes, haven’t shaved. Worried about your appearance when it doesn’t matter - Peter doesn’t care. Much.
Peter didn’t linger in the shower. That didn’t sooth his nerves any because Peter would come back out and say…what? What was Peter going to do? Probably demand that they go home, separate. Or…was Peter still in nurse-mode? Even if he wasn’t, Sylar had stated he didn’t need assistance (yet here Peter was, having offered - forced it on him, rather) and he wanted something of a snack. Maybe he’ll join me before he leaves.
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Sylar was in the kitchen when Peter came out, which reminded Peter that he was kind of hungry. Or a lot hungry, maybe, which turned his thoughts to the goal of getting Sylar to eat more. Isn’t he to the point yet where he can manage that himself? It’s not like I’m being all that successful, anyway. Maybe if I just make sure he has food and keep him on a schedule that would be enough? Getting kind of tired of hand-holding. Especially if Sylar was getting in bed with him, but Peter wasn’t thinking about his motivations. That action of Sylar’s had caused a subtle shift in Peter’s behavior, making him more prone to holding Sylar at metaphorical arm's length.
“Can you pour me a glass?” Peter asked to Sylar already having the milk out.
XXX
“Hmm? Yeah, as soon as I can find the….glasses…” he murmured, mostly to himself. Does he really need to ask? That was a bit weird since Sylar had already assumed it would be ‘milk for two.’ Peter’s presence assured and increased Sylar’s social anxiety and his head did not appreciate it. He had to be conscious of a lot more now, how he looked, how he sounded, what he said…The usual. It was stressful. If it kept up (either the stress or the headache; both seemed likely to) he was going to bury his head in the freezer. His companion indicated the correct cabinet and he got their drinks poured. Milk wasn’t a meal, though. “Did you have breakfast yet?” Probably should have asked that first.
XXX
“No. Thought we’d eat here,” Peter said kind of brusquely. Mostly, his tone was due to distraction as he moved on to open the fridge. After a moment of consideration, he fished out the eggs and cottage cheese. Getting tired of eggs, too. One of these days I ought to do pancakes or biscuits … hm, I could pick up one of those tubes of biscuits at the store next time I’m there. Or pre-mixed pancake batter like they have in restaurants. Do they sell pre-mixed pancake batter in grocery stores? Hm, not that it matters - I could just steal it from the restaurants. Heh.
He searched for a pan, finding a very nice, Teflon-coated one perfect for his needs. “I need a little butter or something, margarine maybe.” Much as he didn’t like margarine, he figured it was okay to use a little to grease the pan. He'd been told too many times that it was unhealthy, even if he wasn’t sure what the bad part was about it. He had yet to clue in to the fact that he didn't need it at all when using a non-stick skillet. “If you’ll find that, I’ll get the eggs going.” Five eggs and a healthy dollop of cottage cheese, along with some salt and pepper, were whisked together left-handedly. He was definitely getting better at that.
XXX
Sylar twitched a curious brow at the man’s demanding intro. Peter got around to more-or-less asking for butter. Oh, I bet you do want butter. Butter-fiend. Butterfingers. Ha. I wish. He moved to the fridge and located margarine in fairly short order, passing it over. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what that product was for. A frown peeked over Peter’s shoulder to see him coating the pan with the stuff. “What d-….?” He cut himself off, shaking his head. He is so weird. It’s nice to know Nathan didn’t really understand his…ways. He practically raised him. After watching the apparently senseless butter-play - the cottage cheese sending him over the relative cliff of sanity - he occupied his mind (and, secondarily, his hands) with locating utensils. “Why did you lock the door?”
XXX
“What door?” Peter asked as he turned on the stove, letting it warm up.
XXX
“The door to the bathroom.” You’ve been locking other doors I don’t know about?
XXX
“Why do you care if I lock the bathroom door while I’m in there?” Peter asked, glancing briefly at Sylar out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he'd looked directly at the other man since entering the kitchen, and to call the momentary look 'direct' was a stretch.
XXX
Peter’s eyes would light on an affronted expression. “It’s just a question. We slept together and no one got ‘smothered’ so why lock the door?” You get to ask random questions about me all the time so play fair, Petrelli. Why so fussy about it?
XXX
Peter blew out air. “We need to talk about boundaries, Sylar.” Peter poured the egg mix into the pan, setting aside the bowl and getting an appropriate spatula from an implement jar next to the stove top. Thus armed, he turned to face the man he was talking to since it would be a little while before he needed to stir anything. He crossed his arms loosely, spatula poking upward like a weapon, and looked Sylar right in the eye. “Don’t get in bed with me unless I invite you. If I, or you, want to lock the bathroom door or whatever, that’s fine. Unless you think I’m dying in there - fell on my toothbrush somehow or slipped in the shower and hit my head - stay out.”
He looked down, chewing his lip briefly as the spatula dipped to a less erect and confrontational angle. In a much lower tone, he said, “If I’m having a nightmare and you want to wake me, that’s okay.” In a tone of light chiding, he added, “And if we’re in the same apartment together, or likely to be, you know, shut the bathroom door, okay?” He smiled and gave a slight roll of his eyes because damn, Sylar had looked good. The bruises were largely faded and he had no idea how much the 'wet and fresh out of the shower' thing totally did it for Peter.
XXX
Sylar mimicked Peter’s body language unintentionally, his face dismissive. Oh, we do, do we? Slipped on your toothbrush how…? “Peter,” he addressed the other man slowly at first, but uncooperative and rather sarcastic overall, “not everything needs to turn into a discussion. God, I forgot how much you like to talk about crap.” He shook his head lightly, remembering scores of times when Peter had tried to draw him, Nathan, into emotional minefield talks. Nathan had wanted none of it even if he’d appreciated the thought behind it. Peter just didn’t understand the difference in their worlds where emotional subjectivity and ‘do-what-you-want’-ness didn’t really factor in.
“And I’ll shut the door when and if I want to, not before.” You most definitely can’t make me. “There’s nothing there you haven’t seen before - you’re a nurse.” My nurse, at that. A gay one, too. “Unless you see something you like…?” Sylar lilted seductively, amused and smirking about it; because Peter had to be referring to seeing him in nothing but a towel. The empath’s expression gave him a little hope.
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, December 23, Night
The hand on Peter's shoulder surprised the crap out of him, like it came out of another dimension. It was still Sylar, though - the voice and the silhouette matched the nightmare. He was to Peter's left and Peter grabbed at his arm, fingers latching on above the elbow. Just like that, he had an ability - he could fly. Or something, because he was able to sit up, muscles finally obeying his desires. “Sylar!” he coughed out, hanging onto the guy and looking around wildly for a moment. Arthur was gone. It was dark, dim … safe maybe? Peter hugged Sylar to him without thinking, heart pounding and breath coming fast with a near-sob of relief. “I don wanna go back there,” he slurred into Sylar's shirt, still seeing him as the guy who had saved him from being sent back to that hell of privation.
XXX
Sylar jumped at being grabbed but Peter’s tone now sounded conscious. He found himself dragged forward until his arms were full of a half-naked Peter. That stunned him some more. The contact was wonderful and he reacted to it almost instantly, holding Peter to him with arms around his warm, slightly sweaty shoulders. “It’s okay. We won’t go back there,” he promised. I have no idea what you’re talking about. It must have been a dream. He’s mentioned them before. While the younger man calmed, so did Sylar. He barely resisted the urge to make some purr or hum, maybe a moan of contentment at holding and being held. It was platonic and wonderful. Though he supposed he was twisted for deriving so much pleasure from Peter’s upset, he didn’t pay that much attention. His cheek was pressed against Peter’s face, his nostrils filled with that familiar sibling smell of Peter and his hair products and that was totally relaxing. He rubbed Peter’s back and shoulders, brisk but slow, strangely enjoying the opportunity to give comfort. While not unheard of, it wasn’t a role he often got to play.
XXX
Moments passed. The sense of the dream faded fast, replaced by the reality that the guy he was holding was not the fictional 'it's okay if he pretends to be Nathan' guy who had saved him from something (except apparently from having a bad dream). All those times Sylar had twitched and moaned in his sleep and Peter had ignored him paraded by his mind's eye, leaving him with a sense of guilt that he hadn't done for Sylar what Sylar, the horrible killer, had the sense of common decency to do for him. Peter backed up, putting four or five inches between their bodies and leaning his forehead on Sylar's upper chest, reluctant to pull away quite yet.
XXX
He sighed. Peter had separated them; cooler air rushing between where they’d been warm just seconds before, but placed his head against Sylar’s chest. Sylar wished he’d removed his shirt for sleeping, too, just to feel the touch of another’s skin. He could almost feel it regardless. It was intimate because of Peter’s need right now. He wound up blissfully cradling the man’s head and neck to him. “It’s okay,” he whispered again, desiring not to break this fragile moment with any interfering communication.
XXX
Peter had the strangest feelings going on. He wanted the comfort, but definitely didn't want it from this particular person. Sylar smelt like sleep. It was a weirdly powerful association for Peter - not sleep and Sylar, but rather sleep and comfort … trust … and intimacy. When he was with someone and they smelled like this, it was almost universally a good association. But this was Sylar. Sylar who had … done all the things Sylar had done, which Peter didn't even want to think about in his current position of accepting support from him. Sylar who had been making passes at him. What the hell was he doing checking me out while I was asleep, anyway?
Peter pulled back further, bringing his head up and giving Sylar a couple prods to let him know he was done with the holding. “I'm fine.” Peter cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his lap, left hand feeling over the brace as he wondered why it was hurting. “It was just a weird dream. You can go on.” He directed his eyes away and to the side, ducking his face. His hair fell across it, screening him off with the most flimsy of walls. The corners of his eyes were wet. He resisted the urge to wipe them, feeling that he must look ridiculously weak and not wanting to make it any worse.
XXX
The empath fed him a few lines of obvious bullshit, even in the dark and tired, Sylar knew that. Somehow. He let Peter have some space, but not all of it - he left an arm around Peter’s shoulders, barely rubbing there. He ignored the dialogue, too (though it answered the safety-and-health question). “You okay? You were…calling me.” So it must have been a weird dream. He called ME, not Nathan! Was it…was it another one of his prophetic dreams? Or the same one? Part of him wondered if he was in danger if it was a prophetic dream, another part pondered the likelihood of Peter lying all along about what this all-important dream was about. I’m too tired for this. Sylar had the natural urge to climb in bed with Peter to ensure the nightmares stayed away.
XXX
“I-” I was not calling for you. Well, okay, it was sort of you, but not you you. “It was a dream, that's all. You were in it.”
XXX
A nightmare, you mean. If I was in it…But that doesn’t explain him calling for me.
XXX
He hesitated for a moment, canting his head a bit to look at Sylar's hand on his shoulder, where it was rubbing slightly across bare skin. This was way off the normal social script for this sort of thing. The most he'd expect from a relative stranger like Sylar was along the lines of 'Hey dude, you're having a bad dream. Wake up!' along with maybe a nudge or a shake, then them keeping their distance, because you just didn't go getting all cozy like this with someone you didn't know very well. Peter knew that was the script and while he might go around breaking it all the time himself, that didn't mean he didn't recognize how strange it was to have Sylar acting like this. Sylar, the guy who misses being able to kill people with the raw power of his mind, or something like that.
Another thing setting off mild warning bells was the tingling Sylar's hand imparted where it touched him and the positive yearning Peter felt about that. It was like a craving or some unmet need and he didn't know what to think about it at all. I've felt that before here. Is it … an ability thing? Is he doing something to me? Or am I just that hard up, that even someone like Sylar makes me horny? I don't … I don't feel horny. That's not it. (Thank God.) Maybe it's just something about Matt's world here.
He leaned back and shuffled to the side a couple inches, politely dislodging Sylar's arm in the process. “I'm fine. Really. I didn't mean to wake you up.” And at that, Peter gave Sylar an assessing look. He had woke Sylar, right? He hadn't been out there for other reasons, had he?
XXX
“You didn’t. Was it that same dream again, the one you’ve been telling me about?” That would explain him calling for me. (Wish his dumb girlfriend wasn’t in the picture. But it was a dream and she isn’t here). Peter moving away only made room for Sylar to pretzel comfortably beside and before him, hands in his lap. He was curious now and this was his chance to pin Peter down on the specifics of the dream. So much for not talking about abilities, it happened to be one of Sylar’s favorite subjects when the conversation didn’t veer onto his modus operandi. Besides, with his headache raging and being disturbed from lonely sleep, talking with Peter and being near him sounded much better. “I thought you said you didn’t have any powers.” Even in the near-dark, his eyes narrowed a little, not that Peter could see him very well. How are you still having future-dreams? He has Matt’s power anyway, or so he says. It just…none of this makes a lot of sense.
XXX
Peter looked at Sylar's use of the space he'd opened up - Sylar was ensconcing himself firmly by sitting cross-legged on the bed like he'd been invited. Peter felt confused by the whole thing. Sylar was being comforting and friendly, more than friendly in fact, and yet it was Sylar. It reminded Peter of that long, companionable conversation they'd had while walking around the city - a conversation that had eventually gotten under Peter's skin exactly because Sylar was being so chummy with it. At what point, precisely, had he decided Peter was a great friend? Would that be before or after he'd decided to 'crucify' Peter in Times Square?
But getting on Sylar's case about the overly-buddy-buddy talk had only ended up with a stupid confrontation with a sword. Now, in bed, half-dressed, sleepy, and still rattled by a nightmare bad enough to leave him calling out for help wasn't the best time to have another throw-down about the reasons behind Sylar's oh-so-conditional kindness. Peter surrendered instead and did so by flopping back on the bed, scooting over a couple more inches in the process because he didn't want to be that close to the guy. He tugged up the covers to mid-abdomen.
“I don't have any powers,” he huffed, reaching up to rub at his face and wipe away the damn tear tracks, hopefully with some level of discretion. I'm sleepy. It's normal to wipe eyes when you're sleepy. “It's not the same dream, not the ability dream, future-dream, whatever. It's just … one I've had before. Different versions of it.”
XXX
“What were you trying to avoid, in the dream?” Sylar probed at the more painful part That much wasn’t about his girlfriend. It was about him.
XXX
“Avoid?” Peter eyed Sylar. In the dimness and lying down, all he was getting was a shadow. Creepily, he was reminded of the almost unrelieved darkness of the cargo container. “Turn on the light, would you?” He gestured at the nightstand. There had been a little art deco style lamp there, he recalled. It would help.
XXX
Sylar had little desire to illuminate anything, not with his headache raging on. But it was a signal that Peter wanted to talk, so he complied, shielding and shutting his eyes at first.
XXX
Peter rubbed his eyes again in the light, letting them adjust. “I was trying to avoid being ...” He shrugged, frowning as he realized no short and simple explanation would cut it. He'd never told Nathan; he didn't think Sylar knew. Nothing would explain why he found it frightening without giving the context. He put a hand over his eyes briefly before putting it aside and staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't that hard to talk about because he tried not to feel anything about it.
“After I blew up over New York … eventually I found a way to heal Nathan. On my way out of the hospital, they jumped me. Wiped my memories - all of them, didn't even know my name.” He swallowed. He hadn't even had a false identity to cling to and a 'normal' life to go about, however horrible Sylar's situation had been. “And they …” another tense swallow and he looked away now, “handcuffed me to the inside of an empty cargo container. Shut the door. Left me there.” He finally hazarded a glance at Sylar. “It was, uh, couple weeks, in February, on the North Atlantic. I didn't know I had abilities. I didn't understand why I wouldn't die. Or … well, why I wouldn't stay dead.” He looked down, fussing with the covers. “The, uh, dream … they were putting me back in there.” He shook his head. “It's just a bad dream.”
XXX
Retinas eventually adjusting, though not as much as he would have liked, Sylar gazed down at Peter, listening intently. Nathan didn’t know much about this and Sylar had been…in Mexico. Ugh. His eyes widened. You- he had his memory wiped, too? Completely? A pang of understanding, sympathy even, at having shared such a horrible trauma, shuddered through him. Peter’s experience with it was decidedly worse and Sylar could picture that torture all too easily. Not just a bad dream - a bad memory. He had no idea what to say to express his feelings of understanding - nightmares, no memories, answers or knowledge; dealing with abandonment and torture… Peter hardly had to hint how much it affected him because Sylar already knew, had already lived it himself. Sadly, he knew why things like that happened, even to Peter, but…He felt strangely close (or closer) to Peter in bonding over ‘what they did to me’ stories, possibly the most violating one, too. Uncertain how to comfort, he tried to follow the empath’s lead and focus on the here and now, “Why was I in the dream?”
XXX
“My father was there. He was trying to push me inside, drain my powers first, though, so I'd never get out. You were using telekinesis to keep him from being able to push me in.” Peter's voice dropped to very quiet, not quite a whisper. “I was …” begging, “asking you to help me … more than what you were doing.”
XXX
“That’s a good reason,” Sylar concluded lamely, equally quiet for a moment. He was glad to be of use and comfort, glad Peter had someone to get help from. Arthur Petrelli was kind of scary like that, and the threat of that kind of imprisonment…well. Thoughts became words as he mused aloud, a little introverted and slow, “Weird how… they can drain even the memory of your powers.” Matt, Rene, Arthur and that Damien guy were all suspect. “You’d think you’d remember at least some of that. But nothing’s really…safe,” he sighed and looked up at Peter from where his eye line had fallen away. “When I…’woke up’ I was buried alive, in some grave. After that they…the cop….threatened to, um….put me back there and started ‘interrogating’ me after he rubbed my face in a few things…He thought he could force a confession,” he let out a dry breath that lacked humor, yeah right. “I wound up literally running from the dogs. Getting shot and tazed doesn’t really make a difference, neither would dogs mauling me…powers going haywire…” he shook his head.
“Yours sounds a lot worse.” He didn’t have to become someone else and deal with that whole nightmare though. Attempting to lighten the mood a little, he flashed a micro-grin, “For once.” If he can survive that without a peep…For someone as emotionally volatile and needy as Peter, that Peter - an admittedly tough SOB - could handle it better than Sylar had demanded some respect. It also meant Sylar had to up his own game and quit whining even if the effects of the mindfuck were still present, much more a reality than a memory.
XXX
Peter gave a faint smile. It's not a contest, he thought, but didn't argue it. Sylar's demeanor was enough to show he knew. Peter had still half-expected mockery. Sarcastically he mused, I suppose it's nice to know my torture and betrayal by my family is up to snuff. “Want to know what's really weird? I was stuck in that container for the worst part of three weeks, chained to the wall the whole time.” He blew air out, retucking the blanket around himself and reaching up to rub his cheek with the back of his left hand. “A few hours after I got out, I was tied to a chair and managed to phase out of the ropes. The whole fucking time I could have ...” He shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. Escape had been in his grasp the entire trip. “I suppose I just didn't have the right trigger.” He swallowed, grimacing and looking away. He hadn't been able to use the majority of his powers until someone showed him kindness: Caitlyn.
XXX
“Heh.” Powers, control, was funny like that sometimes. Sylar’s abilities were far more…instinctive. They seemed to appear when he needed to defend himself mostly, other times they were like an extension of his emotions or…reactions to a name.
XXX
“So,” he said a little louder and more strongly, directing himself away from that bleeding wound in his soul, “tell me about when you 'woke up'. What were you waking up from?” He turned his eyes intently on Sylar for a moment, before shifting his attention away to pick at the brace on his hand instead of skewering the guy with his gaze.
XXX
Sylar went still, now paranoid about their proximity, Peter’s nightmare and tendency to hit things. Being thrown back into defense mode was that much more jarring after, apparently, relaxing. It was strange he didn’t notice it, the relaxing. He was only slightly relieved when Peter looked away. “Uh…” he was about to say some vague line like ‘nothing you want to hear’ but what came out was, “Being someone else, I think. I don’t know.” Fuck, don’t hit me. I didn’t mean…You asked…Sylar involuntarily leaned away a little, fighting down the urge to squirm. ”I-I found the Carnival after that.” Ran right into Samuel. He cleared his throat, the awkwardness only now dawning on him. Peter was…at least half-naked, cuddled into his blankets not six inches away and something told him that should be weird, though he didn’t know why it should be weird. (Maybe because he’s gay?) He sure smells good…
XXX
Sylar's tension was palpable. For a moment, Peter couldn't place the cause, then Sylar answered and all was clear. Oh. Nathan. Peter exhaled slowly, having tensed up only a few seconds after Sylar did. “It's okay,” Peter said softly, maybe unnecessarily because Sylar's reaction was pretty subdued. Peter petted the blanket a few times. “I think I understand.” But he asked no more questions in that direction, not wanting to disturb whatever peace they had going at the moment.
XXX
What does that mean? While it sounded straightforward, it also sounded too kind and forgiving for the topic. It sounded too good to be true. Sylar still had no reply to it so he moved on from the confusion. “What happened after that - the phasing and the chair?” Sylar tried to bring the focus back to Peter. He knew there was a lot even Nathan was missing from that part of Peter’s life. While that might have been okay for Nathan, not caring and all, the gap wasn’t acceptable for Sylar’s mental notes. Peter hadn’t been chatty about it either, quite short with his answers. The younger man had disappeared - to Scotland? Ireland? - and then shown up ready to release the virus with a madman. Something had happened along the way.
XXX
Peter's thoughts went to the events after the chair - they were kind of a mess, since his most frequent thought about that period in his life was trying not to think of it. He squirmed visibly, nose wrinkling slightly in either discomfort or disgust. He looked away to the side silently, saying nothing at all and trying to fight down the overwhelming urge to cry.
Finally, he said roughly, “I'd rather be locked in that container again than what happened after.” He'd fallen in love like it was the first time, and then lost her forever. It had hardened him inside, though not the kind of hardness that bespoke of strength. He struggled with himself, torn between telling Sylar to leave and let him be alone for that cry, or keeping the guy there precisely to keep himself from breaking down. He realized he was breathing too fast and had tensed again. Peter relaxed himself purposefully, reaching up to touch at his eyes and brow, then forehead. Let it go. Let it go. It was a long time ago. I don't have to deal with it now.
XXX
Uh-oh, Sylar thought. That bad? Crap. I’m supposed to be calming him down, not winding him up again. He reached out and patted Peter’s leg in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “Do you think you can sleep again?” he inserted into the wounded silence, trying to distract once more.
XXX
Peter jumped solidly at the touch, head snapping around with a momentarily murderous expression that faded fast to a mix of sullen and confused as he realized that a soothing pat was something he shouldn't freak out about. He moved his leg away, scooting a few inches further towards the other side of the bed to avoid that happening again. So Sylar was going to leave. Peter was both relieved and disappointed. “Yeah,” he said weakly, lying back down and facing away, thoughts going back to the desperate feeling of loss and betrayal he'd experienced in the dream as his father was pushing him into the container. Maybe I should just … let myself feel it. If he's leaving ...
XXX
Wordlessly, Sylar leaned forward, flicking off the lamp to consume the room in near-total darkness. That done, he rose and lumbered to turn out the bathroom light. He wasn’t happy about Peter’s wary twitchiness. Something was better than nothing and he supposed he couldn’t ask for much more.
XXX
Peter curled up on his side, pulling the covers up to his armpits and slowly letting go of the restraints he'd put on himself, beginning to permit himself to wallow in depression and regret. He sniffed slightly, thinking he should wait until Sylar was well settled elsewhere before getting some tissues in case he did break down and cry. The bathroom light clicked off, plunging all in darkness. Peter stared at the slightly lighter areas visible of the windows, waiting for Sylar to go off to his bedroom and give him some privacy. In a true, living city, the night sky would be much lighter from all the streetlamps and nightlife illumination. Here it was almost nothing and with the storm clouds outside, not even the moon was out to relieve the blackness.
He heard Sylar pad back into the area, but literally thought nothing of it. Then the mattress dipped and Peter tensed all over for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. What the hell? Frozen in place, he waited. Unmistakably, Sylar settled down on the far side of the bed, the one he'd been sitting on earlier and that Peter's repeated scootings had left empty. Peter cleared his throat, sniffed loudly, and shifted his limbs around where he was to make his presence absolutely clear. The social cue went ignored.
XXX
“Night, Peter.”
XXX
He didn't answer. Do I get up and move? Get up and leave? Get up and kick him out? Or just get up and get a drink and decide what I want to do? Peter breathed out slowly, tension draining away as Sylar did nothing else - lying on the bed seemed like the extent of his invasion. Peter felt tired. And sleepy. He'd been tense too much, sleeping fitfully before out of fear of Sylar and now the man was right here in bed with him. Perversely, it made him much less scary. How does he know I won't smother him in his sleep? Maybe I'm the scary one. He trusts me? Another wave of relaxation flowed through him. Lids drooped. Peter snuggled into his pillow.
What would it mean anyway if I got up and made a scene? Peter mused sleepily. He stuck his right foot out behind him so that if Sylar did try to get on his side of the bed, hopefully he'd feel him first. Focus, Peter! Him in his bedroom, him here, hardly matters. Wait … no, really focus … I'm in Parkman's basement. Or at least I hope I'm there. We're not even here in bed together. This is all … symbolic or something. Like, metaphorical. Maybe … maybe we're just sharing memories and feeling close, so we seem close here. Share much more and we'll be fucking. Ha. Hmmm … Peter's thoughts spiraled off into deep slumber faster than he would have thought possible, sore muscles and emotional exhaustion leading to soft snores in record time.
Day 14, December 24, Morning
Sylar was slow to wake up. He was alone, he could tell. Of course he was alone. Why he had to realize that after so many years alone puzzled him. His head hurt before he’d even rolled over to face the lit window, but he did anyway, looking around at the strange apartment. Understanding came to him when he saw a pair of jeans and boxer-briefs, both black, that were not his. Sylar blinked at that. Peter. Is walking around in just a shirt? He couldn’t help but snort at that, I think you forgot something, Pete. That was definitely a new feeling, turning to see another inhabitant’s clothes, indicating Peter had slept with him. Just slept. Sylar was still dressed, nothing out of place so no funny business had gone on. He could still smell Peter on the sheets. He grinned a little. Despite his aching head, he’d slept…well, that had probably been the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. Not a nightmare in sight. Company makes all the difference. We should get rained in more often.
Peering out into the living room and what little he could see of the kitchen, he was alone in the apartment. Maybe he went out for breakfast. Didn’t he say he liked that diner? He tossed around the idea that he’d been abandoned, the proximity proving too much for the Petrelli. The nurse probably wasn’t coming back for a while. He didn’t like those thoughts. Morning wood grew uncomfortable in his jeans and thus he was motivated to the bathroom. Standing made him dizzy, made his head burn and pound but he made it to the bathroom. Dick in hand, he idly stood, leaned against the counter for support, easily stroking himself, eyes closed. He was quiet, as usual, only exhaled breaths and soft sighs breaking the silence as his stroking turned to pulling and tugging on his increasingly rigid organ. Sylar panted as he got into it, fairly content even as his skull pained him with every beat of his heart, and as such his imagination supplied fantasies of being used. It was pretty mindless, instinctive. He pumped himself faster, rougher. It didn’t take long for that to carry him over. His eyes opened as he eagerly spilled into the sink, quickly washing away the evidence. He only allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the aftermath of pulsing hormones below his headache.
He then considered his options with the shower/bath dilemma. Growling to himself, he activated the bath faucet. Damned un-masculine, girly, flowery bullshit…As he let the tub fill up, he had the foresight to grab shampoo or what passed for it - the former resident was apparently pre-pubescent, if his hair products were anything to go by - a bottle of bright green Pert was it. Sylar was increasingly grateful for Peter’s absence. There was no way he’d ever live down the bath or the shampoo. With a frustrated sigh, he stripped and got into the sufficiently filled tub, shutting off the water. Oh, that felt good. The surrounding heat made for a powerful muscle relaxer. Stupid shampoo will be perfect for Peter, I bet. Something kids his age use. Sylar purposefully ignored that thought, why he’d projected such an age difference between him and Peter. The rest of his bath was uneventful, shampooing successfully if grudgingly, until he realized he’d forgotten a towel. Remember the shampoo but not the towel? So he unplugged the tub and heaved himself out to snag one from the far wall, scrubbing himself dry and wrapping it around himself in short order.
XXX
Peter was feeling pretty good as the elevator brought him back to the top floor. He attributed it to the workout more than anything else, though if pressed, he would have agreed he'd slept uncommonly well. It had been awfully strange to wake up next to Sylar, the sort of thing that should have been the stuff of nightmares but had instead, when he woke, struck him with how mundane it was. Sylar was just a guy: human. Just as Peter had been in the middle of the night, upset about a past he couldn't change. That Sylar had honored that and given it respect and empathy was something Peter was still chewing over in his mind.
The elevator doors opened. Had he been thinking when he'd slipped stealthily out of bed that morning, he would have taken more than shoes, socks, and shirt. As it was, workout complete, he wanted a shower. Any apartment in the building would have served, but this one was where he'd left his pants and underwear. Although he'd done the workout shirtless (not unusual for him), he wanted out of the now-true-to-their-name sweat pants. He turned the doorknob quietly, so that in case Sylar was still asleep he wouldn't wake him.
He could hear noises from the bathroom and see the bed was empty, so Peter stopped trying to be quiet and strode in directly. As he walked across the living area towards what he supposed was the open-plan master bedroom, he glanced to his right at motion and light in the open bathroom doorway: Sylar, in a towel, and only a towel. Peter stumbled on his own feet.
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Movement flashed across his vision. There was no sound accompanying it and the shape was human sized. Sylar jolted hard. Suddenly there was someone here with him and he wasn’t dressed or prepared. He exhaled harshly when he saw it was just Peter. Because who else would it be? Despite the rough start, he was happy of the companionship once more, the apartment felt more comfortable, snug and alive with him here. He didn’t care why Peter had come back, just that he had returned. The domestic aspect of it disgusted him with himself. Working at calming himself, his headache sharp once more, heart rate elevated (probably with more than one cause), he saw something weird going on with Peter’s feet as he left Sylar’s field of vision. Frowning, he walked into the hall, partly to be out of the bathroom and to see what Peter was up to. He was hovering at a distance now his wandering cornerstone had returned. Was he spying on me? Why would he try to sneak up on me? He wasn’t headed in my direction…He’s dressed - sweat pants. “Where were you?” he demanded, paraphrasing several questions at once: why’d you leave? What were you doing? Are you (we) okay? Did you eat?
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Peter got his balance again, having nearly, but not quite, fell into the bed. A quick glance back showed nothing he could blame his clumsiness on. A quick glance at Sylar reminded him of the actual reason. He focused on Sylar's face and the question. “I was downstairs,” he said before taking a moment to consider that Sylar had no right to his whereabouts. He squashed the knee-jerk defiance that reared its head. Sylar … had attachment issues and if he was Peter's patient, it was probably unwise (or at least unkind) to aggravate those. “I was working out, getting some exercise. Are you done with the shower?” He moved over to where his pants and underwear lay, gathering them up with care not to lose the contents of his pockets across the floor. Not that he really had much need of his wallet here, but the utility tool was useful. “If you're not, I can go across the hall.” I probably should have suggested that first.
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“Oh.” That made perfect sense, in fact, Sylar knew he should have thought of it. Damn concussion. Peter even mentioned he works out so he doesn’t have nightmares. So he’s…not happy about…last night. I guess I should feel lucky he didn’t use me for his punching bag this morning. He was disappointed, though. “Yeah, I’ll- um…” he hastened back to the bathroom, bundling up his clothes and snagging a hairbrush. I’ll just change…in the guest room.
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Peter made his way into the bathroom, locking the door. Not because he was afraid of assault - and that was an odd, refreshing feeling that he mused over for a moment - but simply because he'd begun to wonder if Sylar might wander in to join him much like he had in the bed. Attachment issues. Might be something else going on there? Co-dependent? Or maybe just dependent, because I don't know that I'm … Co-dependent means I'm dependent on him, too, right? I don't think I am. Other than the obvious, that we're here together, but that's just human nature. But is there something concussion-related going on? Head injuries cause … can cause personality shifts. Is that part of the problem? Or issue? Not a huge problem, really. I … well, not happy about him being in my bed. But if I can get him back to his apartment, I can go off to mine. Hm. First day I was here, he wanted me to move in across the hall to him. Maybe it's not a concussion thing. Why the fuck does some serial killer want me living next door to him? Maybe it's a Nathan thing? Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't know what to do about that. It took a lot of the blame away from Sylar and he was uncomfortable doing that. It was Sylar's responsibility to act like Sylar, not Nathan. It was something he wanted to address, but right now was not the best time for it.
After a quick shower without shampoo (after he was done, he found it next to the tub, not that it was a brand he would have used anyway), he dried off, rinsed his mouth, and dressed in the bathroom, exiting fully clothed.
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Sylar heard the lock click as he sat on the guest bed and got dressed from there, taking it slow, pouting a little. Really, Peter? I slept with you last night! You’re unharmed and you’re still…? That was frustrating. He ran the brush through his hair with more force than necessary after toweling it but the treatment couldn’t make it stay out of his face, not without some gel. He was pretty sure it was a fluffy mess with that stupid shampoo. With no sound but water in the pipes and no immediate, accessible company, he got nervy and fussy, so he turned to making the beds just because. Leaning over wasn’t a treat. Worried about my hair and clothes, haven’t shaved. Worried about your appearance when it doesn’t matter - Peter doesn’t care. Much.
Peter didn’t linger in the shower. That didn’t sooth his nerves any because Peter would come back out and say…what? What was Peter going to do? Probably demand that they go home, separate. Or…was Peter still in nurse-mode? Even if he wasn’t, Sylar had stated he didn’t need assistance (yet here Peter was, having offered - forced it on him, rather) and he wanted something of a snack. Maybe he’ll join me before he leaves.
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Sylar was in the kitchen when Peter came out, which reminded Peter that he was kind of hungry. Or a lot hungry, maybe, which turned his thoughts to the goal of getting Sylar to eat more. Isn’t he to the point yet where he can manage that himself? It’s not like I’m being all that successful, anyway. Maybe if I just make sure he has food and keep him on a schedule that would be enough? Getting kind of tired of hand-holding. Especially if Sylar was getting in bed with him, but Peter wasn’t thinking about his motivations. That action of Sylar’s had caused a subtle shift in Peter’s behavior, making him more prone to holding Sylar at metaphorical arm's length.
“Can you pour me a glass?” Peter asked to Sylar already having the milk out.
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“Hmm? Yeah, as soon as I can find the….glasses…” he murmured, mostly to himself. Does he really need to ask? That was a bit weird since Sylar had already assumed it would be ‘milk for two.’ Peter’s presence assured and increased Sylar’s social anxiety and his head did not appreciate it. He had to be conscious of a lot more now, how he looked, how he sounded, what he said…The usual. It was stressful. If it kept up (either the stress or the headache; both seemed likely to) he was going to bury his head in the freezer. His companion indicated the correct cabinet and he got their drinks poured. Milk wasn’t a meal, though. “Did you have breakfast yet?” Probably should have asked that first.
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“No. Thought we’d eat here,” Peter said kind of brusquely. Mostly, his tone was due to distraction as he moved on to open the fridge. After a moment of consideration, he fished out the eggs and cottage cheese. Getting tired of eggs, too. One of these days I ought to do pancakes or biscuits … hm, I could pick up one of those tubes of biscuits at the store next time I’m there. Or pre-mixed pancake batter like they have in restaurants. Do they sell pre-mixed pancake batter in grocery stores? Hm, not that it matters - I could just steal it from the restaurants. Heh.
He searched for a pan, finding a very nice, Teflon-coated one perfect for his needs. “I need a little butter or something, margarine maybe.” Much as he didn’t like margarine, he figured it was okay to use a little to grease the pan. He'd been told too many times that it was unhealthy, even if he wasn’t sure what the bad part was about it. He had yet to clue in to the fact that he didn't need it at all when using a non-stick skillet. “If you’ll find that, I’ll get the eggs going.” Five eggs and a healthy dollop of cottage cheese, along with some salt and pepper, were whisked together left-handedly. He was definitely getting better at that.
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Sylar twitched a curious brow at the man’s demanding intro. Peter got around to more-or-less asking for butter. Oh, I bet you do want butter. Butter-fiend. Butterfingers. Ha. I wish. He moved to the fridge and located margarine in fairly short order, passing it over. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what that product was for. A frown peeked over Peter’s shoulder to see him coating the pan with the stuff. “What d-….?” He cut himself off, shaking his head. He is so weird. It’s nice to know Nathan didn’t really understand his…ways. He practically raised him. After watching the apparently senseless butter-play - the cottage cheese sending him over the relative cliff of sanity - he occupied his mind (and, secondarily, his hands) with locating utensils. “Why did you lock the door?”
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“What door?” Peter asked as he turned on the stove, letting it warm up.
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“The door to the bathroom.” You’ve been locking other doors I don’t know about?
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“Why do you care if I lock the bathroom door while I’m in there?” Peter asked, glancing briefly at Sylar out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he'd looked directly at the other man since entering the kitchen, and to call the momentary look 'direct' was a stretch.
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Peter’s eyes would light on an affronted expression. “It’s just a question. We slept together and no one got ‘smothered’ so why lock the door?” You get to ask random questions about me all the time so play fair, Petrelli. Why so fussy about it?
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Peter blew out air. “We need to talk about boundaries, Sylar.” Peter poured the egg mix into the pan, setting aside the bowl and getting an appropriate spatula from an implement jar next to the stove top. Thus armed, he turned to face the man he was talking to since it would be a little while before he needed to stir anything. He crossed his arms loosely, spatula poking upward like a weapon, and looked Sylar right in the eye. “Don’t get in bed with me unless I invite you. If I, or you, want to lock the bathroom door or whatever, that’s fine. Unless you think I’m dying in there - fell on my toothbrush somehow or slipped in the shower and hit my head - stay out.”
He looked down, chewing his lip briefly as the spatula dipped to a less erect and confrontational angle. In a much lower tone, he said, “If I’m having a nightmare and you want to wake me, that’s okay.” In a tone of light chiding, he added, “And if we’re in the same apartment together, or likely to be, you know, shut the bathroom door, okay?” He smiled and gave a slight roll of his eyes because damn, Sylar had looked good. The bruises were largely faded and he had no idea how much the 'wet and fresh out of the shower' thing totally did it for Peter.
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Sylar mimicked Peter’s body language unintentionally, his face dismissive. Oh, we do, do we? Slipped on your toothbrush how…? “Peter,” he addressed the other man slowly at first, but uncooperative and rather sarcastic overall, “not everything needs to turn into a discussion. God, I forgot how much you like to talk about crap.” He shook his head lightly, remembering scores of times when Peter had tried to draw him, Nathan, into emotional minefield talks. Nathan had wanted none of it even if he’d appreciated the thought behind it. Peter just didn’t understand the difference in their worlds where emotional subjectivity and ‘do-what-you-want’-ness didn’t really factor in.
“And I’ll shut the door when and if I want to, not before.” You most definitely can’t make me. “There’s nothing there you haven’t seen before - you’re a nurse.” My nurse, at that. A gay one, too. “Unless you see something you like…?” Sylar lilted seductively, amused and smirking about it; because Peter had to be referring to seeing him in nothing but a towel. The empath’s expression gave him a little hope.
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Continued...