Sleeping Beauty, Chapter 2: Second Realization
It had been a long day. Too long, Peter admitted, and Sylar was simply not up to it. It had started with inviting Sylar to work out with him, then escalated to going to the grocery store, then since that had gone well, they started a journey across town to the music store in search of new sheet music. It wasn't that Sylar's muscles couldn't take it - they were fine. It was that his damaged brain could only process so much in a day and every bit of tension, exercise, and stimulus used up that precious resource. He'd been running on fumes most of the way back, becoming clumsy enough that Peter had to support him for the last few blocks. With the way Peter's back ached, it felt like he'd half-carried him. Sylar had clung. Sometimes he shut his eyes. Occasionally he muttered. He'd had his irritable phases early on, along with a few outbursts Peter hadn't taken personally. Those were the ones that made Peter abort the trip only a few blocks short of their goal and head back. Finally, they'd made it to Sylar's apartment.
Peter lowered Sylar into the man's narrow bed, then moved to his feet to take off his shoes.
"You're making me helpless," Sylar murmured, eyes shut. "Weak. Easy prey. That's what he told me. But you're doing the same thing. How can that be right?"
Peter supposed the words made sense to Sylar even if they didn't to him. He tucked Sylar's feet under the blanket and pulled the other end up over his chest. He was still clothed, but Peter didn't want to subject him to the hassle, and more importantly, the probable stresses involved with Peter stripping and redressing him in pajamas. More important than comfortable rest was that he got rest at all, and quickly.
Peter started to move by, but Sylar grabbed his shirtsleeve. "I need a family!"
Peter paused. Sylar's words might be disjointed, but his desire was clear. He wanted Peter to stay, made even clearer when Sylar tried to guide him back to the bed. Peter conceded, sitting on the edge like he had one time before, when they'd both been drunk and he'd put Sylar to bed. With Peter safely settled, Sylar relaxed and released him. He smiled up at Peter, calm and happy now that he was getting his way, his face easing and smoothing right in front of Peter's eyes. His color improved almost like he was regenerating. Sylar shut his eyes for a long beat, reopening them to gaze up adoringly, ridiculously happy Peter had granted the simple privilege of sitting with him.
Peter couldn't help but smile back as warmth kindled inside his heart. His brother's murderer - he wasn't thinking that way. He was seeing Sylar as an overtaxed patient who had generously and somewhat foolishly pledged to keep Peter company, probably knowing better than Peter that it was going to be too much for him. But he'd done it anyway. Uncomplaining, Sylar was. Peter's smile was soft. Sylar was also loyal in a way that Peter really had no experience with. No one had ever followed him, stayed with him, or wanted to be with him like this. Even if Sylar didn't have any other choices in people, he always had the choice of being alone. Maybe Peter was deluding himself, but he wanted to think Sylar thought he was special. It was new, to have someone be interested in him like this. Peter didn't think he was worthy of it. (That Peter was not worthy of Sylar, that is. Peter knew himself and his faults. While he might have done much the same to big brother Nathan, tagging along and hero-worshipping him, Peter didn't think he'd done anything to deserve the treatment himself.)
He tugged up the blanket and straightened it, smoothing out the wrinkles across Sylar's front. It prompted another slow blink and deeper, contented breaths from Sylar. Peter went so far as to tuck it in like Nathan had done for him, not sure about the shoes he was stepping into. Did he want to fill them? Did he want to be like an older brother to Sylar? Did it matter what he wanted, because Sylar was going to follow him anyway? 'I need a family', Peter thought, considering Sylar's last statement. He'd been quiet since saying that.
They passed a few moments more in comfortable silence; Sylar's lids were drooping, erratically snapping open to look at Peter, checking on him. Thinking that perhaps his presence was keeping the man from resting, Peter looked over towards the door and considered leaving. He was weighing how Sylar had urged him to sit next to him with how he wasn't sleeping now, when Sylar put an anxious hand on his leg, gripping and pressing as if to keep him there. Peter looked back to him. Sylar's expression had shifted to serious and worried and pleading. Sylar pressed a little harder.
That decided Peter. "It's okay," he murmured, putting his hand on Sylar's forearm. "I'll stay." He stroked it slowly, gently, and the pressure of Sylar's grip lessoned. The anxiety left his face. His eyes slid shut as Peter kept petting him. He started near the elbow and rubbed palm-down to the wrist, lifting his palm towards the end and drawing his fingers in together. Fingers together, nails curled down enough to scratch very lightly, he stroked back up the forearm to the elbow to repeat the pattern. After a few repetitions, Peter let his spine relax and he slumped inward against Sylar's hip. He changed to stroke along the blade of Sylar's forearm, then more slowly and delicately along the inside of his arm. Sylar moaned, lips parting as his breaths turned to light panting. His lids fluttered and he turned his arm upward, giving Peter better access to the softer, more sensitive side.
Peter smiled, amused by how sensual Sylar could make … this. He worried that maybe it was too much stimulation, but if anything, it seemed to be knocking Sylar out. Peter slowed his motions even more, a light, gradual skimming over the inside of Sylar's forearm. Fluttering lids stilled. Panting turned into the deep, even breathing of slumber. Peter stopped, letting his hand rest in place as he regarded the sleeping beauty in front of him. Sylar trusted him, utterly, he thought. He rubbed a little more, but there was no reaction. Lifting his hand away, he sat and waited for a few more patient minutes, making sure Sylar was thoroughly asleep. Peter finally stood, letting Sylar's hand slide off his knee. He didn't stir. Peter let himself out.
XXX
"Why are you acting like this?" Peter asked the next night, frustrated by the sudden onset of Sylar's sarcasm and biting attitude.
"You always leave!"
"I have my own apartment, Sylar."
Sylar looked down sulkily, his shoulders drawing inward and his hands clasping loosely in front of himself. He gave no answer. This had all played out before and Peter always left. Peter sighed. No matter his promises about not leaving the mind-prison without Sylar, no matter his promises of returning each morning, Sylar still became anxious every evening when the time came for Peter to leave. Each and every time.
"I'll go with you to the music store tomorrow," Sylar said, making a statement, but Peter knew it was an offering. They'd failed to complete their trip the day before and Peter hadn't even mentioned going again, not wanting Sylar to overexert himself.
"Sylar, me going back to my apartment at night doesn't have anything to do with you going with me to the music store. Or anywhere." Peter's lips pressed together, his brows knit. His insistent tone didn't help anything. Sylar fidgeted now, casting his eyes over the work table in search of something, anything, to use to delay Peter's departure. Peter knew the game. I know all of this. I know what he's doing. It's the same thing as his offer to go to the store with me. It's the same thing I … the same thing I do with people I like. Peter's expression softened. And it's working about as well for him as it usually did for me with everyone except for Nathan, and sometimes even with him. Without stopping to think it through, he said, "Get in bed and I'll sit with you like I did last night. You liked that, right?" Sylar stared at him long enough for Peter to scratch at his temple in embarrassment and add, "I'm sorry. Maybe that was too ..."
Sylar shook his head quickly and said, "No. I liked it. Just let me change." The man grabbed the soft cotton set of pajamas off the hook on the bathroom door, shooting Peter a lingering, uncertain look as he held the edge of the door. Clearly, he was concerned Peter might leave while he was inside the bathroom.
"Change," Peter said with a dip of his head. Sylar nodded. Peter waited right where he was for the very brief time it took Sylar to get ready for bed. After the man had settled himself under the covers, Peter walked over to join him, hiking up one leg to sit on the edge like he'd done before. Sylar scooted over and Peter took the offered space, putting his hand on Sylar's abdomen as he moved over. It was a casual touch but they both stopped breathing for a moment. Peter could feel that tingling sensation return briefly, dancing over his fingertips and letting him know how much Sylar thirsted for human comfort. He rubbed them back and forth on the blanket, slowly letting go of his tension. Although he suspected Sylar would welcome more or even something sexual from him, more was not required or expected. Sylar just wanted to be cared for. This was safe; a safe, quiet harbor in this strange and lifeless world they found themselves in.
Peter looked up at Sylar to see the man's eyes large and staring, hopeful and afraid, strangely innocent and child-like with his lips slightly parted and a subtle flush on his cheeks. A faint smile touched Peter's lips and he looked back down. Sylar's bare forearms were crossed over his lower chest. Peter reached up to move the pads of his fingers over the mussed hairs, feeling them uneven and slightly wiry under his touch. He brushed them into place, letting his mind zone out as he engaged in this little bit of grooming, a level of closeness he didn't always achieve even with lovers. Peter liked caring for people. But he had to be careful - in normal life there were boundaries to be observed. As much as people wanted to be loved, they were selective in who they allowed it from. Sylar, it seemed, had selected him. Peter smiled softly. Sylar relaxed under his touch, one of his deepening breaths escaping as a quiet moan. His elbows settled to his sides, making the cross of his forearms loose. His hands folded over one another now. Reaching them, Peter touched over his knuckles, caressing them as he thought about how many times Sylar had used these hands to take life … and which ones.
Peter had begun to wonder if his purpose here involved more than saving the lives of Emma and the others at the carnival. There was Sylar's life as well, but Peter's thoughts went even further than that: himself. Not that he'd been in any imminent mortal peril, but coming here to Sylar's empty world was a respite from how oppressive and frustrated he was with the normal world. Peter felt relief every day he was here. Sylar ached when his only companion left him, but Peter gloried at how they were all alone. His life before had been falling apart: he'd lost his ability, his empathy, his desire to be with other people; he'd alienated his coworkers and left his partner feeling like a chauffeur; he'd intruded in Emma's life and destroyed her cello when he knew it was music that made her smile; he'd failed Hiro and Noah; he'd lost the best single ability he'd ever had, to heal people; he'd lost his brother and been so detached he hadn't even realized it; he'd killed his father; then there was his mother, who was stilllying to him, even after everything. He sighed, letting his head hang as he clasped Sylar's hand for a moment. Tingling warmth flowed between them, telling him their wounded souls weren't that different.
What would have happened to Peter if he hadn't come here, to the strange shelter of Sylar's mind? Peter had been hiding out in his partly-furnished apartment, crouching next to the police scanner and pulling doubles at work when he wasn't being shot in the chest by angry office workers. He'd never considered suicide, but Peter could see the pattern now that he wasn't part of it anymore - he'd been looking for his chance, his moment, his morally correct way out. And so when he dreamed it was Sylar who would save the carnival, Peter didn't flinch. Sure, it was Sylar - murderous, psychopathic, and vengeful towards the whole Petrelli clan, fully powered and antagonistic as far as Peter had known, last seen talking about how he wanted to literally crucify Peter in Times Square - yep, that guy. Peter headed straight to where he was, weaponless, defenseless, and with no plan at all. Finding him stuck in Parkman's prison, he didn't bother to find out how to get him out, he just dove straight in, heedless of Matt's warnings because Peter's life didn't matter to him anymore.
Or … it hadn't. Now maybe … his life mattered to Sylar. That was so fragile and fantastic and strange that the man he'd expected to kill him now wanted … him. He looked up at Sylar's droopy lids, the sleepy eyes lazily following Peter's movements. Deep, steady breaths came to the other man. Peter might have lost the supernatural ability to heal, but his mere touch was doing something deep and magical here. Spiritual, even. He stroked Sylar's arm from shoulder to elbow, then elbow to wrist, time after time while varying from top to side so he wasn't irritating by petting the same part over and over. Peter was thrilled and deeply satisfied to help someone like this, with something so basic and raw as mere touch - no special powers, just being human. Sylar made a puffing noise of air escaping from between slack lips. His eyes were fully closed now. Peter straightened and smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket over Sylar's stomach. This was healing him, too. He felt so good inside - warm, happy, his heart fluttered a little and he found the corners of his eyes wet.
"Good night," he whispered, carefully rising and taking his leave.
XXX
Peter couldn't walk out with Sylar crying. He just couldn't. No matter the many lacerating words they'd just exchanged, the anger that still seethed inside of him, or the vengeance that some small part of him insisted Sylar was due, Peter couldn't leave someone hurting like this. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he opened them so he could shut the door instead. He'd opened it intending to leave, but his feet had stuck to the floor at the sound of a stifled sob. Sylar looked mortified and surprised at the noise himself. When he saw Peter had looked back at him, he'd jerked his face to the side and held his breath, waiting for Peter to finish leaving. The click of the door brought his head around again, but there Peter was, still where he'd been before.
Drawing in air, Peter walked to the couch with a slow tread. Sylar pulled back and stared at him as though expecting to be slugged. Given the tone of their argument, that wasn't an unreasonable fear, but the look left Peter feeling even smaller than the sob had. Sylar jerked when Peter sat down beside him, twitching like he wanted to launch himself from the seat. But he didn't. Peter knew what he needed. He put his arm around the man's shoulders. Soothingly, he said, "It's alright. It's okay." He squeezed with his arm, pulling Sylar's side against his own. It was gentle, yet firm, long and slow before Peter released for a few moments, rubbing briefly before repeating it.
It was the second time when Sylar's breath expelled and caught, ragged and uneven. The taller man bent to rest his head awkwardly against Peter's shoulder. Peter straightened and shifted to make it easier. Sylar leaned into him like his life depended on it. "This doesn't mean anything, does it?" Sylar said, voice incongruously calm.
"It means I'm sorry you're sad."
"I'm not sad," Sylar said, tensing a little, but otherwise staying with his forehead snugged against Peter's neck, dampness from his still-flowing tears infiltrating the shoulder of Peter's shirt to make itself known against his skin.
The ridiculous defiance warmed and melted Peter. He gave him a stronger squeeze across the shoulders and dipped his cheek to press against Sylar's hair for a moment. "It means something," he said simply, and Sylar made a tiny nod, seeming satisfied by that.
XXX
Sylar knew this wasn't going to work. He had won the fight (such as it was), but Peter was even more angry at him now than he was before and an angry Peter was rarely fun to be around. Among other things, he'd almost certainly skip the nightly tucking-in ritual Sylar was enjoying so much. He looked forward to it all day long. Any break in that routine was to be avoided at all costs. Sylar stood, rooted to his spot on the pavement, watching as Peter sat on the curb holding his nose to stop the bleeding. He suspected the only reason he'd 'won' was that Peter had stopped fighting as soon as he got poked in the middle of the face. Peter could have kept fighting - he had done so before, but the level of violence between them had dropped precipitously lately. Did this reluctance signify anything? Was it related to the fleeting intimacies Peter was now willing to share with him? Did it mean Peter really felt something for him and wasn't just humoring him?
The last time they'd fought (argued, really, although even that dignified it too much; mostly they'd just insulted each other until so much ugly truth was on the table that it seemed they couldn't stand each other anymore), things had ended strangely well. It had been comforting if not comfortable. Peter had come to him on the couch, put an arm around him, and … acted weird. Very nice, but his motivations were inscrutable. After getting over the initial shock, Sylar had played along. It was harmless. It had felt good (very good). Was that what it meant to fight and make up?
Well … they'd fought now. Was this making up time? Sylar frowned slightly, weighing the risks and rewards involved in approaching a somewhat injured Peter and forcing himself on him the same way Peter had done to him. Unlike Sylar, Peter tended to be rather reactive. But if this was a normal thing Sylar's twisted social background had passed over, then surely Peter would recognize and tolerate it? There was only one way to find out.
He walked over, slow and steady, hands loose and at his sides. Peter looked up at him and drew back. Sylar made his face look kindly. It was enough; Peter didn't leap up or flee, though he leaned away as far as possible, an alarmed expression on his face when Sylar sat down on the curb so close as to be up against him. Sylar put his arm around Peter's shoulders, feeling the guy surge halfway to his feet. Sylar's arm, not even in place yet, slipped down Peter's back. Peter hesitated, then to Sylar's surprise, he sat back down, twisting to eye him. Sylar didn't want to exchange meaningful looks because he didn't think he'd have the right ones. When Peter put him to bed, he always wore the most affectionate, compassionate expressions. Sylar, when he thought of how he looked at all, just tried to look grateful. Being thankful right now didn't seem appropriate. He put his arm over Peter's shoulders and put an end to the twisting/looking thing by pulling him close, just like Peter had done to him.
Peter huffed, then made a disgusting nasal noise, which was followed by him abruptly grabbing his nose with his already-bloody hand. He tilted his head back to resume the squeeze and wait method of stopping a bloody nose. He did this without getting a safe distance from Sylar, without any additional checking glance, and without throwing off the arm on him. He just sat right there where he was and let Sylar be with him.
Sylar inhaled long and slow, letting it out just as gradually. He felt better suddenly. He felt better to touch this way than to slam his fist into Peter's face. This was nice, just as it had been before. This … meant something, just as Peter had said, and Sylar was starting to sense what that something was - letting defenses down, trusting, being there for each other - it was no small thing. He'd never had anyone give him something as special as this. He gave Peter a squeeze. It was so gratifying that Peter let him, relaxing into it now like Sylar imagined friends might. Or maybe more than friends.