More Between Us Chapter 40/? "Heavy Breathing"
Chapter 40/? "Heavy Breathing"
See the puzzle here.
Day 11, Afternoon
Sylar’s eyes darkened as he took to the idea Peter was practically laying out the red carpet for him. It hurt his head, but the blood rushing everywhere else was a worthwhile feeling. Getting away with unintentionally spouting off Nathan Petrelli’s memories and not being punished for it, being invited back to the puzzle after that and Peter’s continued niceness was stirring all sorts of things up inside him. Obviously: instincts to play and tease and…experiment; get a dialogue going and learn things. “Hmm,” Sylar hummed as if he understood a word of what Peter said (he didn’t; he was lost on ‘hyperoxygenated’ but he did hear something about clocks and pendulums) but it sounded interesting and it involved a couch.
He flicked his eyes over Peter’s smiling face, probably looking a little hungry; he smiled back slowly and began to raise himself up out of the chair. “Alright,” was his blanket agreement. A few limps to the couch, he sat, turned and began to settle in, doing his best to look inviting. Whatever this game was, it was fun. “Here I am.” As he hadn’t been paying attention, he had no idea what the game actually involved, so he stated his readiness in a low voice, his hands at his sides. This is way better than the puzzle, he thought even as the rest of his consciousness fuzzed out, incapable of even planning an escape if things went bad - and they might. Peter might be suckering him in to pull a switch and flip back into ‘beat your ass into a pulp’ mode for the Nathan thing. At least I’ll be comfortable while he does it. Whatever it is he’s doing.
“You’ll show me how to do it?” Whatever it is. He backed up his request with a similarly tempting look, toned down somewhat from before, reeling Peter in and stretching his body out, miming a position adjustment crudely - his chest puffed out, hips rolled back, spine arched slightly for a moment, spreading his legs a little, lolling his head to face Peter. All the motions were subtle and noticeable enough. Already he was learning some of Peter’s buttons and the guy was easy and Sylar did not mind playing stupid(er) to get some mutual friction going. Here I am, limp and helpless in need of assistance. Save me, hero-boy.
XXX
“Yeah. Um … er.” Words. I know them. Why am I having trouble getting them out of my mouth? The only time he was usually at such a loss was during the throes of sex. Part of his brain realized he was acting like a crush-smitten teen, but he wasn’t connecting that with the current situation. Because that same part of his brain was absolutely certain that Sylar wasn’t a valid target of affection. Unfortunately, the human sexual response was more complicated than just “affection”. Sylar’s motions when laying himself out were replaying in Peter’s head. He wasn’t sure why that seemed important, so he ignored it.
Peter stood and wheeled his chair over in front of the couch, smiling happily at Sylar, who was looking really … Peter couldn’t find words even in his head to work that one out, but he felt warm and cheered and very perked up by things. Mostly he was watching Sylar’s face. “Yeah, okay,” Peter said needlessly, positioning the chair at an angle roughly parallel to Sylar. He took a seat, tilting the chair back and turning his head so he had a good line of sight with his right eye. Sylar was paying attention to him; that was great - necessary of course.
“So, um …” What am I doing here? What am I … oh yeah, deep breathing. Or, abdominal breathing. Yeah. Okay. That’s easy. Whew. “Okay, so here’s how you do it: put one hand on your chest - doesn’t matter which one, and the other one on your stomach. Like this.” He demonstrated. “Now you’re going to take a deep breath, breathe in for,” Five? No, four, “four seconds, hold it for a second, then breathe out. And the important part is that you have to make the hand on your stomach move, not the hand on your chest. Okay? Oh, and exhale for four seconds, too. So, like this,” he concluded, going through one cycle.
I’m acting kind of weird, he thought as he relaxed and the fog in his brain cleared even more. What’s going on here?
XXX
Sitting down, definitely relaxing, wow. Hmm, yes, Peter. The man drew closer, nearly beaming at him and that was so, so nice, he didn’t care why it was happening. It had Sylar smiling back lazily, watching the only other face in the world as it was happy and pleased. Probably shouldn’t be this relaxed for sex. If it happens. Oh well. Peter strangely still sat in his chair, the usual distance between them. Why not come over here?
He followed along, for the most part, as Peter spoke. Sylar glanced down at himself, noting that his shirt was still mostly open from whenever ago. Oh, oops. He didn’t tell me to button up - he must not have minded. He plucked at his shirt a bit, sliding his left hand onto his bare chest, his right hand on his shirted stomach. Then he checked the position against Peter’s demo. And that was where he got confused, genuinely so. “Um…” Hand on the stomach moves, but not the- how does that work? Peter makes it look easy. Frowning, he shifted and took a large breath but that just moved everything. That was frustrating.
Oddly enough, he wanted more of Peter-hands-on (not something he ever really said about most people). The trick was how to get Peter to do it in Sylar’s limited, fuzzy state. He admitted to himself that this was very unconventional for him, feeling this way, relaxed like this, wanting what he did now. In a roundabout way, the solution came to him. “Are my hands right?” he raised them from his person in question, to show where they’d been resting. Overanalyzing it in thinking that hand-placement (namely his own hands) would throw off the results. “How does…?” he trailed off. This is not that hard! Its okay, its okay. Peter will show me. The thought of Peter closer, smiling, possibly with his hands on Sylar’s chest after experiencing Peter’s gentle nursing from before was more than enough to turn him on and make him feel warm all over.
XXX
Peter watched Sylar, who seemed very happy with things. Maybe that’s the deal. He usually doesn’t look happy. He’s usually scowling or plotting. He doesn’t look like he’s plotting anything right now. Peter saw as Sylar’s expression turned confused, raising his hands, questioning, and apparently dissatisfied with the results of trying the exercise. It’s not that difficult, Peter thought, his brows pulling together and lips pinching together briefly. Why can’t he figure it out? Wait, there’s another way he can do it.
“Here. I have an idea.” Peter tilted his chair back upright, waited a beat for his balance to steady, and then stood. He looked down on Sylar for a moment, unable to stop the tiny, charmed smile that crept over his lips. Peter swiped at his hair, making sure his bangs were out of his way. Then he fussed with his hair in general, eyes starting to stray downward from Sylar’s face to his bare chest. He pulled his gaze away quickly. I don’t need to be looking at that. “Okay, um … yeah.” He looked straight ahead now and picked the little blue chemistry book off the shelf. “There’s this other way I was shown. I’m going to put this on your stomach. Maybe this will help.” He braced himself on the shelves behind the couch and leaned a little to put the small book on Sylar’s belly.
XXX
So there Peter stood: over him and smiling (still!). Sylar was starting to wonder if he’d missed something. Or maybe this truly was going somewhere. He was used to not receiving those types of signals, instead making them up to get what he wanted. His eyes tracked to Peter’s hand, combing through his hair in, yes, seductive motions. Is he really playing with his hair? Do that on top of me next time. Sylar saw his companion’s eyes start to wander. Yes! (I think). This was all a very…slow scene; he’d never really encountered ‘slow’ before. Maybe he drugged me, I- this fast even for me. Do I mind, though? Peter leaned bodily over him and that was suggestive of an act that did not turn him on. He tensed, turning his face a few inches away towards the back of the couch, arousal halted in its tracks by a healthy reaction of self-preservation, but Peter wasn’t finished. Face frozen, he inhaled in shock when Peter laid the book on his body. He’s not touching me, he’s not touching me. Now he was nervous and still flushed.
XXX
“Alright.” Peter glanced back at his chair, then decided to forego it, sinking to his knees where he was. Looming over Sylar was bad form and one’s body language while working with patients was a very basic and oft-repeated lesson. His manner softening, he said, “Now, look down your body at the book. Take a breath, nice and slow, and make the book go up and down as you breathe.” Peter gestured helpfully with his right hand. His left was at his side.
XXX
Happy now? He’s close. He wants it now. Sylar cut off his instinct to panic, but his brain completely failed him for making any show of defense, whether verbal or physical (which he’d have no hope of winning anyway). He had nothing, no plan, just blank, red, throbbing pain throughout his head. Sylar found himself wishing it was red, throbbing pain from his heart pumping from arousal, but that seemed unlikely. Peter spoke and his ears snapped to attention even though his eyes stayed focused on the ceiling, his face having oriented back to the straight position. He swallowed quick and rough, clearing his throat briefly thereafter and wetting his lips while he remembered how to breathe first of all. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath since Peter leaned over him. Oh. Let that out. He did, allowing himself a slow blink to center himself, scrunching his neck to be able to look down - a very uncomfortable position. He then inhaled to the count of four, held the breath for a second and released it on the fourth beat, doing his best to even relax again with Peter hawking right next to him - an odd position. The exhale was kind of shaky, but he’d managed it, hoping Peter hadn’t heard it.
XXX
Peter tilted his head a little at all the indications of discomfort Sylar was suddenly giving off - flushed, fidgeting, no eye contact when Sylar had been previously all about that. Must be having another wave of nausea, but people usually pale for that. Maybe it’s from lying down? He’s not breathing right either. “Easy. Try to relax. Breathe in slow over the course of four seconds, hold it for one, then breathe out for four seconds.” He glanced away from Sylar’s face to look at the book, and decided to skip stressing which diaphragmatic muscles Sylar was using in favor of getting the pattern itself down. He looked back, waiting for the end of Sylar’s most recent exhalation. “Breathe in - one, two, three, and four.” He held up his left hand briefly, palm towards Sylar as ‘stop’ for a one second beat, then dropped it. “Breathe out slow - one, two, three, and four. And again. Let yourself relax.”
XXX
“Yeah, okay,” he breathed out, no pun intended. I don’t know if you’re helping or not, Petrelli, staring at me. He followed Peter’s pattern, tensing again when the man raised a hand but only to gesture. This feels weird: ‘Just relax and breathe for me’.
XXX
After a few iterations, Peter indicated the book again. “Look at the book. When you breathe in, make it rise. When you breathe out, let it fall. You’re trying to expand your lungs with your diaphragm, not your short ribs. Breathe deep.” Peter counted off again for one cycle and then sat quietly, watching as Sylar did his thing. His eyes were mainly on the gradual motions of the book. The corner of Peter’s mouth turned up as he noticed his own breathing had synced with Sylar’s, since he was right here next to the guy, paying close attention to it.
XXX
“Diaphragm? Why didn’t you say so?” Sylar let out in a sort of nervous chuckle. And he realized he hadn’t been paying attention to the book on his tummy, more focused on the breathing and Peter. His nurse’s attention left his face for the book (that came with its own set of ‘what is he looking at? What is he seeing?’ problems) but it was better than being stared at, especially at close range. Adjusting himself once more, Sylar breathed in and worked the correct muscles to move the whole of his lungs as opposed to trying to breathe with his stomach, however the hell that was supposed to work. Aha! The book moved and his chest stayed relatively still, lungs filling up better. The victory boosted him and he grinned slightly, trying again to repeat his success. He wanted to ask Peter what or why, rather, this helped with nausea. Sure, breathing helped him avoid throwing up, but he’d never tried this pattern before obviously. That feels totally different. And kind of good. Gabriel had always struggled for air; it resulted in embarrassing mouth-breathing on occasion, but more often panting or heavy-breathing where there was no outside cause. This got him more air without using his mouth.
XXX
Peter settled back fully as Sylar seemed to get the hang of it. He let his right hand drop from the couch where he’d been using it for a little balance, to rest on his thigh. He watched the book go up and down slowly, a bit mesmerizing as his own breathing followed the same course. It made him feel a little fuzzed out and relaxed. In a low voice, he said, “Deep breathing is one of those things we’re taught to direct trauma patients to do. People get shot, assaulted, car accident, whatever. They get stressed, blood pressure goes up, hyperventilate a little, blood oxygen drops - all bad things. People can manage pain better if they can relax, but of course that’s a tough circle … one of those bad circles, cycles. One thing feeds another - get hurt; can’t relax. But if you can break out of that and relax, it won’t hurt so much. And it’s good for nausea.”
Peter snorted softly. “I think I’m starting to ramble. I’m going to go back to the puzzle.” He patted the edge of the couch with his left hand before reached back to draw the chair closer. He used it to steady himself as he got to his feet, then wheeled it over behind the work desk again. He settled himself in, expecting Sylar to drop off or zone out now that he was horizontal and nothing pressing was going on. I wonder if I should take his pillow and blanket over there? Nah. Might freak him out. If he doesn’t want to go to sleep, he’ll force himself up at the reminder. I should just let him alone. If he goes to sleep, I can always … yeah, I could cover him up. Peter weighed the ‘my patient’ vs. ‘Sylar’ considerations and decided that spreading a blanket over the guy wasn’t problematic. He hoped.
XXX
It helps with pain? Cool. But why would he want to give me that information? Isn’t his job to cause me pain? He also seems to think its his job to clean up after causing damage. Sylar grasped most of what Peter was saying and he counted that much as a win. Sylar turned as Peter stated his departure. Why, though? The puzzle is more interesting. That’s it? He watched mournfully after his companion, hypocritically wishing him back to his former position by Sylar’s side. The couch was beginning to swallow him whole now he was here and now Pete was gone so to speak.
An idea slowly materialized. Oh. He probably suggested the breathing thing so I’d be over here and fall asleep like he said I should. That way he can do his puzzle like he wants and I’m calm and quiet. But I was calm before. Not…quiet. Not quiet enough. Fine, quiet time it is. He wants the puzzle to himself….Well, it is his puzzle. I helped, though. What does that make me? In the way, I guess. But he invited me over to it…several times. Or he just wants quiet time with the puzzle and he can’t have that with me in the way, tripping over Nathan. So this is the punishment - time out. I’m here to think about what I’ve done wrong. God, I’ll be here forever. The couch had the effect of making him feel naked or cold, so he crossed his ankles, elevating his busted toes, and crossed his arms. Fine. His body protested thinking with his eyes open so he shut his lids and did his best to annoy Peter by enjoying his punishment: he had a couch after all, it could have been worse.
XXX
Peter bent over the puzzle for long minutes. A lot longer than he expected passed before it sounded like Sylar had dropped off to sleep. That was Peter’s signal to relax. He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, followed a few moments later with a round of stretching. Some of his muscles were starting to pass from that too-sore-to-be-used-without-pain stage to a kind-of-itchy-and-need-to-be-stretched stage. It was a sign of recovery. He was glad to see it; glad to indulge it. But he didn’t feel like stretching in front of a wakeful Sylar.
He rubbed at his neck, then turned and looked around Sylar’s bed for the ben-gay, assuming that it hadn’t gone far. It wasn’t hard to find. He reapplied, debated going through some more ice pack treatment for his eye or wrist and decided against it. He zoned out for a bit, roused by upset noises from Sylar’s quarter. He was breathing uneasily and making a low, strained noise in the back of his throat. Peter sighed and rose, getting the blanket from the bed. He carried it over, spread it carefully, and settled it over the man. Sylar twitched and jerked, thrashing slightly as the cloth came to rest on him. He didn’t wake, though, or if he did, he kept his eyes shut and pretended otherwise.
Peter went back to the desk, feeling pleased with himself for having been helpful. He ate chips quietly and started back to work on the puzzle. He tinkered with it for the remainder of Sylar’s nap, finishing the frame (an accomplishment which made Peter beam stupidly around the room, wishing someone would see his feat and appreciate it) and then moving on to the rain-blurred shops along the sides. He resisted, again, the impulse to do the horses and carriage. He eyed the neatly sorted, differently-shaped pieces, but it seemed like a useless distinction. He tried to work them by shape rather than color, but his brain refused to cooperate.
Sylar did not sleep easily and this was Peter’s first full exposure to that. The man woke eventually, as the evening wore on. His breathing became disjointed like it had many times before, due to nightmares Peter assumed, then dropped to shallow, quiet and light. Well past the point where Peter decided Sylar had just drifted into a different stage of sleep, Sylar started moving more purposefully.
XXX
After what felt like an age of never-ending bad sleep, Sylar woke quietly like some kind of irony against the noise of his nightmares. Shifting his head a little, his eyes opened as his arms began to move, brushing against something foreign. That had his eyes opening faster to see what it was that pressed all over his body, doing his best to jerk away from it until he saw it. A blanket. Peter must’ve…
XXX
“Hey,” Peter said, just loud enough to carry easily and remind Sylar of his presence. He waited while Sylar got oriented. “Wanna come over here and help some more?” It was also his way of hoping Sylar would see he got the border done. That was pretty much all he’d done, aside from a couple pieces at random.
XXX
Is he trying to show me up with niceness? “What time is it?” he grumbled under his breath, flailing with the blanket, the couch and his own balance to bring his watch into view. 6:14. He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair to get it back. He was still fuzzy from sleep, his body having stiffened and somewhat relaxed simultaneously. He nodded his agreement. This is such a strange pattern we have. He sounds chipper enough. What were we doing before I slept?...Oh, yeah. He was raising my blood-pressure in interesting ways. Sylar rolled himself to his feet and managed the chair at the desk. “Oh,” he said in surprise, eyebrows arching slightly. Peter had finished the border. He’s not that concussed, then. He looked up to the man, “Busy bee.” Now how do I get you busy with other things? “Easy puzzle?” he asked, curious how Peter would rate it, picking up a piece to join in. Does it matter? Anything’s going to challenge me right now. He wondered if Peter had slept or snooped at all. With his limited sense of smell, he detected the ben-gay and saw the tube on the desk.
XXX
Peter smiled inside and shrugged about the puzzle. Easy to concentrate when there’s no distractions. But that sounded like he minded the distraction Sylar’s presence provided and he didn’t. “It’s okay,” he said. “After the edge, it’s kind of hard to tell. I’ve been trying to do these shops, but I can’t seem to find anything that matches.” How does Sylar take direction? Can I just tell him what I want him to do here? How did he manage working for people? Like, before abilities? ”You know, if you could tackle the horses, I could do the carriage.” Peter pointed out the areas on the box lid, then watched Sylar for his response. Peter’s mind helpfully observed, His hair’s a mess again. Sylar’s disarray made him much easier for Peter to take. The guy wasn’t nearly as scary or threatening with a full case of bedhead going on.
XXX
Yeah. Dumb question. He’s only done the border. Sylar’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid up to Peter. Why do I have to do the horses? I can’t just do whatever? “Alright,” he intoned slowly, clearly hesitant. He was wary of whatever Peter was implying or pulling, so it wasn’t like Peter was getting one over him. He could, and would, play along.
XXX
Peter started fiddling with the nearest different shape section, rearranging it to put the black pieces together at the bottom of the group. I got black; he got white. Hm. “You ever had a roommate?” he asked semi-randomly, wondering how accustomed or not Sylar was to sharing his living space with someone else. Peter had done it often enough, though he’d also had several years of living alone. Roommates and campus residency were mandatory for the first year in college, unless you lived at home and filed for a special dispensation. He’d seen no reason to fight it, as the less he saw his father, the happier he was.
XXX
“Huh?” was his first reaction to the non-sequitur. “No.” Not counting my parents. A pause in which he felt the silence his almost-non-answer answer created; it prompted him to elaborate, “I’ve traveled with lots of people, shared hotels and stuff.” Sylar shrugged, “That wasn’t what you meant.” To think I asked him to move in basically, ha. Sure seems like he wants to, though. I don’t know. Why live with me when you can break down my door whenever you want. “Why do you ask?”
XXX
Peter shrugged. “Just wondered.” He exhaled slowly. “I’m kind of here, in your space. You didn’t come looking for me.” This time. I came looking for you. “You didn’t ask me to …” he waved his hand around vaguely, “help you after the fight. I was just wondering if being around people …” like me, people you can’t get away from, “was something you’d had to deal with before. It’s kind of different, when you have to live with someone, and get along with them, day in and day out.” He gave a momentary tilt of his head and short smile. “You get real familiar with them.” And I’m thinking we’re going to be stuck together here for a long time. Maybe we ought to set some ground rules or something - like you don’t mention my family and I’ll refrain from beating up buildings?
XXX
Good things come to those who wait, perhaps? I wish, he thought longingly because he knew it didn’t work that way. Sylar snorted a breath, once again mumbling grudgingly under his breath, “Tell me about it,” on the subject of living with someone day-in, day-out whom you had to find a middle ground with. Of course, he was thinking of the Grays, not Peter. In that respect, dealing with Peter lacked appeal because the man was inescapable however much it played to Sylar’s advantage. I’ve dealt with it enough, I know the drill. My ‘parents’ stopped beating me before I reached fatal injury mass, you don’t, Peter. If given time, Sylar knew he himself would become more manageable.
Nathan knew Peter had had roommates, but he hadn’t bothered to meet them or get to know them through Peter. “How about you? Roommates.”
XXX
“Yeah, I had some. First year of college, I was in the dorm with four of us sharing one bathroom. Then next year I was in an apartment the same way - four of us. One was one of the guys from the first year. Then I had some time alone before Kevin moved in with me mid-semester. He stayed for most of the next year. Never had a permanent roommate after that - you know, a rent-paying, staying-for-more-than-a-few-days roommate.” Yeah, that meant pretty much what it sounded like - in his younger years, Peter had people in his bed frequently enough for it to be a condition, even if he was more frequently in their bed. It was, after all, why he had eventually opted for a single apartment, so he could have partners over without negotiating with his roommates. Kevin, the competitive weight lifter, virtually lived in the gym, so he hadn’t been much of an issue.
XXX
Sylar listened, forking idly through puzzle pieces (forgetful of what he was looking for but it gave him something to do), his eyebrows going up mid-story. He wasn’t that surprised. Petrellis had high libidos, big egos, a lot of delusions of grandeur, hedonism, lofty ideals and plots and a serious narcissism problem that showed itself in their self-importance, entitlement, and self-absorption. Sylar would have guessed Peter got around, independently, but he knew from Nathan that Peter was something of (what Sylar would label) a slut. Some alone time. And he filled that with either masturbation or one-night-stands. Neat. Or did you fill it with this ‘Kevin’ individual? Ugh.
He either felt dirty and disgusted at the thought or thrilled at a juicy secret and what it might mean for him. Nathan had turned a blind eye whenever possible. //Rifling around under Peter’s sink to refill the toilet paper dispenser, he’d come across a realistic, rubber dildo. He knew what it was, of course, but why his baby brother would have one in his apartment at all was a half a mystery. He’d brought it out, putting a paper towel between it and his hand, asking, “What’s this?” Peter had poked his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows up before they’d fallen somewhat at the sight of his brother with a (his?) sex toy. “It’s Laura’s, she’s keeping it here,” was the answer Peter gave with the expectancy that Nathan would drop the subject. He did. If it was Peter’s girlfriend’s then he wanted no part of it. Nathan didn’t completely believe Peter, knowing what a free-love-for-all person he was, college-age, but the explanation (or lie) was solid and also none of his business.//
Sylar mainly felt competitive and possessive on instinct for reasons unknown. Competition and possessiveness weren’t new, but he’d never been that way about a man who wasn’t even vaguely a father-type figure or someone he despised and/or hated. He blamed the barren world Fate had saddled him with.
Peter was begging the next question anyway, so Sylar obliged, “How many staying-for-more-than-a-few-days not-paying-rent roommates have you had, then?” He asked this with a tilt of his head and a suggestive eyebrow. Obviously enough that he feels the need to distinguish. Does he even remember? Nathan sure didn’t. He was delighted Peter had stumbled onto this topic. Sylar could use the information. He came across a white piece and it gave him pause until he remembered and picked it up, referencing the box for where, approximately, it belonged. I wonder what else he’s willing to share. Like playing Truth or Truth?
XXX
Peter snorted, trying to cut off that line of inquiry. “Enough.” Jeez, I’m not even sure how many I’ve had. Never kept count. I figure I could count them up if I thought about it. He had an excellent memory for names, faces and situations, but he wasn’t too inclined to share with Sylar and Peter’s memory, just in general, had been a bit fuzzy since the fight. He looked over the man’s expression, at the ‘Oh really? Do tell?’ eyebrow. Peter exhaled sharply through his nose. “That was all in college.” He looked down, messing with the puzzle pieces. Does that make it meaningless? Of course not, but it sort of sounds that way - college lark, sowing wild oats and all.
Peter’s expression darkened a little. I’m the one who brought the subject up. Why did I? He ruminated on that a bit, getting another chip by method of tipping the tube to the side and shaking it a bit. With the chips clustered up at the end and easily accessible, he offered it to Sylar. “Want some?”
XXX
Sylar smirked and ignored the man’s short tone, “Aww, you shy? No need to be shy.” I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. He chuckled. “No thanks. You know I’m not hungry.” You seem to be, but there’s no need to keep offering me food. After that, he mainly gazed at Peter, hoping to unnerve the man into speaking.
XXX
“Shy?” You think you have some right to know how many people I’ve been with? “What do you want, a count? Six? Sixteen? Fifty-two maybe - one for each week of the year? No, more like five-hundred-eighty-three,” Peter threw out challengingly. Probably closer to that than fifty-two. Wait, are we talking partners or sleepovers? He shook his head, trying to stop his own idiot thought process from tracking down the information. At the moment, he didn’t want to know, because if he knew, he might have a tell. “It’s-“ He cut himself off from ‘it’s not your business’, as Peter had, after all, asked the perhaps-too-personal question about roommates to start with. The reason he was getting riled up was because of Sylar’s expressed interest in him, and his agitation about that interest.
“It’s enough that I have plenty of experience with a lot of different kinds of roommates.”
XXX
Well, you sure acted shy. I know you’re not. Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, is that it? Sylar sneered inside his head. There’s no one here! They can’t hear you! He thought somewhat angrily. He didn’t know what he wanted. The larger the number grew, the less he knew and the more things boiled down to an overload of information. He tried to think back to how old Peter was when he hit puberty and shook that thought away. His face grew increasingly disgusted. Fifty-two would have been modest, five-hundred-eighty-three was just…I’m already nauseous. That’s overkill, greedy. That’s…Is this guy even clean?! Ugh. God, I’m sorry I asked. I’m sorry he brought it up.
“I get the point. That’s disgusting.” That’s probably half a college? A couple hospitals? Pre-med. Half the state? Jesus Christ. That’s half a fucking town! Sylar leaned back, exhaling as if trying to get away from the idea, certainly putting distance between himself and the man in question. Of course, for every question that was answered, a dozen more popped up: were they all clean? Were they on Peter’s level of looks? Did he sleep with people for looks? No, obviously not…How the hell did he do that? Petrelli money, charm, what? Should I be impressed? Does he have a sex addiction? That seems excessive. I don’t even wanna know what Arthur was like. How could one man go through that much pussy? How is his dick not broken? I’m assuming it’s unbroken. How many of those….people were women? Gross. Sylar’s interest had either doubled or dropped off a cliff, either way his headache was raging. He massaged at his forehead and temples, feeling the hot skin of his face and scalp.
XXX
“Disgusting?” Peter straightened, because this was getting into territory that drew a strong response from him - to defend, to protect, to stand up for the people he’d been with and to some extent himself. Disgusting that I’ve probably made love to more people than you’ve MURDERED?!? He took a deep breath and decided he could control himself for this. “It’s not dis-gust-ing that I’ve had a good time with a lot of people. I made them happy,” he bit out, pointing at the desk in front of Sylar sharply. “I made me happy.” He pointed to himself. His head hurt from speaking too strongly and he winced, unrelated to his words, but he toned down the volume on his next statements. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You, of all people, do not get to shame me, or them, for that.”
He slouched back in his chair for the moment, rubbing at his jaw with an irritated look on his face, scowling somewhat at Sylar. Moral judgment from the likes of him? Bah! Asshole. Probably one of those idiots who thinks it’s okay to show someone blown apart on TV, but not having sex.
XXX
Sylar didn’t even know where to begin processing all of that. First sign of a problem is denial? He’s definitely got a problem - what was he, a serial cheater, like Nathan? Sex addict. How on earth is that not dis-gust-ing? He assumes he made them ‘happy’ - can he tell a real orgasm from a fake one medically or with his ability? It never reaches the bottom of the barrel with Petrellis, always some new hidden facet. No wonder he turned a blind eye to Nathan’s cheating. I’d have told Heidi. And, yes, Nathan had done his share of covering Peter’s ass when it came to their parents and the law. Yuck. Great. I wind up with some STD sex addicted…what’s that word…man-whore. Its not like I didn’t know I’d be another notch on his belt - number five-hundred and eighty-four? Give or take. Jesus.
Sylar narrowed his eyes right back at Peter, wondering how this was anywhere near his fault. “You’re right. I forgot Peter Petrelli was untouchable to the shame game. It goes both ways. So if I went out and fucked six-hundred women, it would just be making me ‘happy’?” This he really wanted to know, how Peter saw murderers getting laid in context of how human (or monstrous) Sylar was. Not that getting laid had ever helped or cured anything for him - it didn’t make him happy, but it felt good most of the time.
XXX
Peter’s eyes narrowed as he stared across the table at Sylar. He turned his head slightly to the side, trying to figure out what Sylar was getting at. “If you fucked six-hundred women … I … hope you’d be happy, yeah? And them, too, I’d hope.” They might not be. Not every one of them. Six-hundred is a lot of people. A few of them might be unhappy, might be angry, whatever. “Why are you even asking? I don’t care how many times you’ve been laid, how many times you’ve jerked off, or how many times you’ve blinked in your life.”
“We’re the only two people here. All I was asking about the roommate thing for was to try and figure out … how we’d … I don’t know, interact. I’d rather not be getting in fights with you all the time.” Like this one! Argument, rather. Peter leaned back in his chair, being exasperated.
XXX
His companion’s reaction was funny, irksome and relieving. Sylar gave a patient blink. And I thought I was the slow one here. Obviously, you don’t care how much I’ve been laid - it does not seem to be pressing on your concerns, my sex drive. “Do you have ideas?” Short of, you know, cutting my tongue out? The concussion spoke out with, “Or is this going to turn into Saint Peter’s Hospital where you keep me like this and I get stuck under house arrest and you come over during visiting hours?” It made sense at the time. It was, technically, a possibility. Peter would re-injure him, keep him locked up like fucking Rapunzel or something and come talk (argue) and play whenever he grew bored. Although that’s really stupid if he doesn’t expect a jailbreak from me.
XXX
Ideas? He opened his mouth to ask about that, but Sylar was speaking again. He shut it and listened. Saint Peter’s Hospital? What does he mean? Yeah, I’m going to keep coming over until he gets better, but he’s hardly under house arrest. It’s just safer if … is he implying I’d keep beating him up every time he recovered? Well, we probably will get in more fights once he’s on his feet … that’s my point, about the roommates - let’s not get in more fights.
Sylar was talking again, so Peter ditched his internal contemplations to hear him.
XXX
Sylar paused over that then sighed. “I haven’t had to interact with people on a year-round basis like we’re dealing with except with my parents. There’s a reason they don’t let me out to walk and talk much. I don’t play well with the other children, you see. I end up…well, like this.” Fucked. That’s how I end up - fucked. “I don’t ‘do’ people and everyone’s happier that way,” Sylar ended his psycho-babble of a ramble with an inhale just to shut himself up. Pathetic. Five stars. Oscar-worthy. Please shut up.
XXX
“They’re not here - your parents - so you’re going to have to ‘do’ … eh, learn to deal with people. Me, specifically. I have ideas about that, yeah. You’ve gotta quit bringing up my family. You’ve gotta quit trying to make me angry. If you don’t understand what it is that you’re doing, I can tell you, but it won’t matter unless you listen.” Peter grumbled, making an unhappy noise in his throat. He sighed and reached up to rake his hair out of his face. His hand bunched his hair restlessly a few times before letting go. I just don’t want to have fights. Out of the blue, a thought struck him - he was talking about what he needed and wanted, but hadn’t asked the same of Sylar. “What are your ideas?”
Continued...