Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 50: Regret
Title: Regret
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 600
Summary: Sylar feels helpless against the depth of Peter’s hatred and grief.
Sylar was watching with equal parts fascination and revulsion as Peter beat the crap out of the punching bag. Taped hands hammered against the polymer surface, pummeling it mercilessly. Repeated, shocking blows left it creaking and swaying, Peter’s body jerking with the force he was channeling into his fists. Sylar knew Peter was imagining that was him receiving the beat down, Sylar’s face being pulped and left bloody - or maybe worse. His eyes fell and shoulders sagged that someone felt that way about him. Sylar’s hands twisted helplessly at the towel he held. There was no way to bring back Nathan or undo what he’d done. The slamming sounds and guttural grunts continued. Peter hardly ever hit him; never gave him the torture he so thoroughly deserved for all the deaths and misery he’d caused. The few times he had been struck, Sylar had felt a flash of vindication, followed by a sick twist in his gut at how much he wanted to take the easy way out. Living with what he’d done, no way to expiate it, was a worse punishment than enduring any amount of abuse Peter might want to dish out. It left him feeling two inches tall. Even if Peter hurt him worse by leaving Sylar to wallow in his regret, unforgiven and unworthy, it didn’t mean Peter was free of the impulse to tear him apart - an impulse he was still venting on the innocent punching bag.
Peter was finally winding down from his … fit. Rough, sobbing breaths were torn from his throat as he hugged the bag for balance, arms and shoulders shaking. Sylar rose, padding over with deliberate noise to his steps despite how much he wanted to be quiet and go unnoticed, or maybe crawl off under a rock and die there. Peter’s head pulled to the side, expression raw, mouth agape, eyes, nose, and cheeks reddened. Tears and sweat mingled on his face. A faint stamp of fury and disgust stained his features - just to see Sylar brought that look, like he was a bug Peter would gladly step on. Sylar gave a brittle smile and reached up to towel off Peter’s face. Peter pulled away from the touch, putting his forehead against the bag, but he didn’t pull away further than that and for that Sylar was grateful.
He still frowned at being denied that opportunity to give the comfort he wanted to provide. Instead, he wiped down the back of Peter’s neck and over his arms. Peter’s shoulders shook a few more times, but he didn’t try to shake off Sylar’s touch. He finally straightened, turning to stare at Sylar with an anger as deep as the Nathan-shaped hole in his heart. Sylar, who knew how to fix so much, felt useless in the face of this. He’d taken away the man’s brother and by Sylar’s mere identity, he took away even the facsimile Peter might have had. “I’m sorry.” He was sorry for his whole existence.
Peter shook his head, lips pursed, teeth set against one another. “That doesn’t even begin.” Still breathing hard, he walked around Sylar and headed for the showers.
Sylar’s fist closed and opened over and over on the towel as he stood still facing the slightly swinging punching bag. “I know,” he said softly.
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 600
Summary: Sylar feels helpless against the depth of Peter’s hatred and grief.
Sylar was watching with equal parts fascination and revulsion as Peter beat the crap out of the punching bag. Taped hands hammered against the polymer surface, pummeling it mercilessly. Repeated, shocking blows left it creaking and swaying, Peter’s body jerking with the force he was channeling into his fists. Sylar knew Peter was imagining that was him receiving the beat down, Sylar’s face being pulped and left bloody - or maybe worse. His eyes fell and shoulders sagged that someone felt that way about him. Sylar’s hands twisted helplessly at the towel he held. There was no way to bring back Nathan or undo what he’d done. The slamming sounds and guttural grunts continued. Peter hardly ever hit him; never gave him the torture he so thoroughly deserved for all the deaths and misery he’d caused. The few times he had been struck, Sylar had felt a flash of vindication, followed by a sick twist in his gut at how much he wanted to take the easy way out. Living with what he’d done, no way to expiate it, was a worse punishment than enduring any amount of abuse Peter might want to dish out. It left him feeling two inches tall. Even if Peter hurt him worse by leaving Sylar to wallow in his regret, unforgiven and unworthy, it didn’t mean Peter was free of the impulse to tear him apart - an impulse he was still venting on the innocent punching bag.
Peter was finally winding down from his … fit. Rough, sobbing breaths were torn from his throat as he hugged the bag for balance, arms and shoulders shaking. Sylar rose, padding over with deliberate noise to his steps despite how much he wanted to be quiet and go unnoticed, or maybe crawl off under a rock and die there. Peter’s head pulled to the side, expression raw, mouth agape, eyes, nose, and cheeks reddened. Tears and sweat mingled on his face. A faint stamp of fury and disgust stained his features - just to see Sylar brought that look, like he was a bug Peter would gladly step on. Sylar gave a brittle smile and reached up to towel off Peter’s face. Peter pulled away from the touch, putting his forehead against the bag, but he didn’t pull away further than that and for that Sylar was grateful.
He still frowned at being denied that opportunity to give the comfort he wanted to provide. Instead, he wiped down the back of Peter’s neck and over his arms. Peter’s shoulders shook a few more times, but he didn’t try to shake off Sylar’s touch. He finally straightened, turning to stare at Sylar with an anger as deep as the Nathan-shaped hole in his heart. Sylar, who knew how to fix so much, felt useless in the face of this. He’d taken away the man’s brother and by Sylar’s mere identity, he took away even the facsimile Peter might have had. “I’m sorry.” He was sorry for his whole existence.
Peter shook his head, lips pursed, teeth set against one another. “That doesn’t even begin.” Still breathing hard, he walked around Sylar and headed for the showers.
Sylar’s fist closed and opened over and over on the towel as he stood still facing the slightly swinging punching bag. “I know,” he said softly.