More Between Us Chapter 39/? "Piece Offering"
Chapter 39/? "Piece Offering"
See the puzzle here.
Day 11, Afternoon
He watched Sylar finally connect one piece to another - the first he’d done as far as Peter had noticed. Before the man moved on, Peter pointed at the corner closest to him, where the bottom third of the signature was visible on the linked pieces. “Hey, look around for the rest of this signature, will you? There should be two more pieces with writing on them.” He started to add how easy they should be to find, but some intuition about Sylar’s ego stopped his tongue. And on second thought, he wasn’t sure at all how Sylar would take direction at all, but he’d already spoken. Nothing for it but to find out.
XXX
Finally! Sylar purposefully did not consider how many pieces Peter had connected since the start. He huffed as Peter addressed him, or the puzzle. Don’t catch me telling you how to connect your pieces, do you? But Peter had phrased it nicely enough that he didn’t snap. It was actually…kind of friendly. Its one of those things friends do. Or brothers. Ehem. Right? Does that make us…friendly? “I thought you were working on the signature, Peter?” He inquired, teasingly innocent and somewhat serious. You know, that whole bein’ important thing you’ve got going on? Or does he think I just magically know where all the pieces are? Sylar made a ‘whatever’ face and went back to eyeing the puzzle. Another question struck him, “Did that future Peter have a scar and scare you shitless?” It would be interesting to see how Peter answered that one and what he thought of it.
XXX
“I’m working on the border. You have …” Peter waved his hand generally over the other 90% or more of the puzzle. “I’m still trying to figure out why you sorted them like that earlier. But if you want to clue me in, then I’ll help out when I get the frame done.”
XXX
Oh, I do, do I? I have all that? Sylar chuckled internally. “I told you earlier,” Or I think I did, “They’re sorted by shape,” he explained without much lip, making it more of a simple statement.
XXX
“That future Peter had a scar, yeah. I didn’t like him.” He shook his head, tucking his chin closer to his neck and shaking his head in refusal. “I didn’t know how to take him. It’s a sort of … I don’t know, something existential? To be faced with a, huh,” Peter grinned briefly, chuckling and gesturing, “a future version of yourself who’s trying to tell you not to make the mistakes he did?” I don’t know. I had the feeling I was a loser in the future. People thought he was a terrorist, the bad guy. “I figured he wouldn’t kill me, but … His idea of leaving me somewhere safe was ridiculous. He shot Nathan. And …” Peter shook his head and shrugged, because even though Nathan had been brought back, the whole situation was just sort of unforgivable. And he was telling this to Sylar. Um … yeah, bad move. “He didn’t explain himself very well.”
Peter leaned forward suddenly, saying, "You know that kinda creepy feeling you get when you hear your voice on a recording and you think you sound weird? Or you see a video of yourself and you think you look, you know, awkward?" Like a dork. Like a complete dork. And really stupid? "Seeing another version of myself was kind of like that." A huge disappointment, too.
A thought struck Peter out of the blue as he pulled back. “Wait, where did you meet him?” Peter cocked his head, not able to work that one out at the moment.
XXX
“Ah,” was Sylar’s reply, thinking that over - existentialism, mistakes, Peter’s lack of clear communication and then memories of hearing his own voice on the phone’s message machine (he’d never seen himself on tape, but Nathan had many times) and thinking he sounded like an absolutely deep-voiced ghoul. Uh-oh. Peter had dinged him on it. “I didn’t meet him.” Sylar placed slight enunciation on ‘I’, but no more. Then he wondered if he should explain, if that was in any way ‘in bounds’ or if the mere mention would get him killed.
XXX
“What?” Peter said dumbly. What does he mean? Then how did he know he had a scar? Wait, maybe he saw him on tape, like video from the Company or something? He started to ask about that, eyebrows raising in question, and then shut his mouth with a snap. Nathan. “Oh.” That made so much more sense, explaining also the small shift in emphasis that he’d initially discounted. Peter pulled in a deep breath, looking up at Sylar’s careful scrutiny. Peter looked away immediately, the image coming to mind of Sylar from only the day before, cowering at the corner of the couch. He’s waiting to see if I flip out and attack him.
Peter looked down, picking up one of the pieces and trying it fruitlessly. He tried another - also failure. He started through the straights with simple determination, thinking of nothing except the need to try every single one until he got his match. That was so much easier than thinking about whether he should accept Sylar using Nathan’s memories for casual conversation - a casual conversation Peter had been enjoying.
XXX
Peter went back to the puzzle. The lack of reaction made Sylar exhale in relief and appreciation. Not so much as a pointed look or a sound made to express disgust or anger or pain. Sylar might have slumped a little, too. He almost wanted to ask ‘that’s it?’ Swallowing, he poked around in the available pieces applying himself the same as Peter. The memories were boiling up inside him and he clamped his mouth shut, head down to keep them in with no luck. //”You weren’t around after I got shot and it was that other Peter, with the scar. You were in that inmate…Jesse. He said he came back and shot me to stop a future where people like us were being used, then asked for my forgiveness. He said he didn’t think he’d changed anything.”//
XXX
Peter wasn’t listening at first. He was trying one puzzle piece after another, trying to pretend Sylar wasn’t sitting across the table from him. So when the other man started talking, he heard him, but he didn’t really process the words. It wasn’t until the bit about Jesse that Peter’s brain starting lighting up with incongruent phrases: ‘I got shot’, ‘that other Peter’, ‘I didn’t meet him’, ‘people like us’, ‘asked for my forgiveness.’ It was wording that Sylar didn’t use, but Nathan sure did.
Peter surged up, partly out of the chair, his left hand balling into a fist, knuckles hard against the wood of the table as he used it to rise. His right hand ached as the muscles tried to obey a similar command. The pain from that, and an uncertainty on what he wanted to do, paused him with his butt a good foot off the seat, not quite standing up. He wanted to lunge across the table and hit Sylar, smash his face in, but he knew he shouldn’t. He isn’t trying to pick a fight, right? What the fuck is he doing? Why does he keep doing this shit? Half of Peter’s mind was saturated with the idea of grabbing Sylar by his badly combed hair and … he couldn’t finish the thought. Sylar was concussed and his patient. It short-circuited Peter’s head.
XXX
Sylar’s body tensed as he tried to react to the shifting threat and failing. He hoped the fade-to-black was quick. He was trapped in some kind of memory jello - unable to move to defend himself yet bogged down. His voice grew strained, //“He said my future was changed and I was…on the path to becoming the brother he’d always looked up to. You- you missed a lot of strange things, Pete.”// Like Tracy and Linderman and that ‘sent by God’ routine. Sylar inhaled quickly, coming back to his own reality, his own life. Memory Lane is one bitchy neighborhood, he mentally groused, cringing a bit, hoping again not to get punched. Shit, this isn’t going well. It was going well and now it isn’t.
XXX
He doesn’t even sound like Sylar. ‘My future’, ‘I was’, ‘the brother he’d always looked up to’, ‘Pete’. What the fuck? He’s talking as Nathan! Peter’s eyes flew over Sylar’s face, over and over. It wasn’t a taunt. It wasn’t mockery. If anything, Sylar looked … troubled, freaked out, struggling maybe. And cowering again. Peter backed off, sinking down a few inches as if to say, ‘okay, I see you cringing; I wasn’t going to attack you anyway.’
XXX
Sylar cleared his throat, desperate to recover, to distract, weasel his way out of this situation. The nearest thing was the puzzle. Adrenaline was rushing through him painfully, his head feeling swelled and useless even though he was freed from the memory haze. “Uh…” He spied a useful piece and snatched it up, extending it towards Peter and that section to lay it near the man. Perhaps a peace offering of sorts. Or a piece offering. He withdrew his hand and hunched over the table somewhat, keeping his distance from Peter. He didn’t want to die over something he couldn’t help and that something was only half his fault.
XXX
Peter stiffened at the motion, his eyes, which had begun to widen, narrowing sharply again. Had he not been relying on his left hand for balance at that moment, he might have batted reflexively at Sylar, but instead he just jerked a little. He glanced briefly at the piece, then at Sylar. No threat from Sylar, whose head was down, chin tucked defensively even as he kept enough of his head up to keep a wary eye on Peter. Peter looked back at the puzzle piece, then at Sylar.
Sylar wasn’t doing anything, so Peter took a longer look at the piece. It had half the signature on it. He picked it up with his right hand, looking at it more closely. Yep, that’s one of the pieces I asked him for. He exhaled slowly and moved it into place, fitting it on top of the others. He glared up at Sylar, who watched the process, but wasn’t meeting his eyes.
The small of Peter’s back was killing him from the posture. It was not normally a big deal to hold such a position for a few minutes, but the strained muscles were in play, limiting his ability to stand this way, even supported by his arm, to only a few seconds. He had a choice between standing confrontationally or sitting. He sat.
He exhaled slowly and shut his eyes for a long beat. Sylar was not a threat; he was not being threatening. He didn’t look snarky or even in possession of all his faculties. He’s scared. This is Sylar scared. Peter opened his eyes and looked across. Sylar avoided his eyes again. Yeah. He doesn’t show it like normal people do. Peter filed that away for future use, but in the meantime, his head was starting to hurt and the same confusion he’d had the night before was beginning to settle in. The wind-down from provocation scrambled his thoughts, but this time he was at least cognizant of it. “I need to … take a minute.” He reached up with his left hand and rubbed his brow, covering and then shutting his eyes, feeling safe enough in Sylar’s presence to do that. He suspected he should be offering the guy some reassurance - ‘no, I’m not going to kick your ass for that’ or ‘I’m not going to kill you later’ or even the generic, ‘it’s okay’. It was hard to wrap his mind around the implication of the words at the moment, so he said nothing.
XXX
Nausea kicked in. Peter was angry, desiring to hurt him, possibly kill him by intent or convenient accident, it didn’t matter. Peter was poised and tense, half risen and bent over the table. Sylar hadn’t moved because there was no point. What could he do? Crawl away at high speeds and hope not to incur fatal blows on his way to falling head-first down the stairs? If there was going to be another beating, he’d take it like a man. Maybe half a man the way my brain’s working lately…
Peter sat and spoke, which was relieving, but it was ambivalent about potential violence. So Sylar waited, not moving a muscle beyond his eyes, his fingers laid atop the table, unoccupied with their project. He slowly traced his eyes upwards over Peter’s body for a moment, his gaze cautious before returning to the table while thinking. I wonder if throwing up would make me feel better. Purged, maybe, of a ghost? His insides, those nuisance emotions, were a mess. Gratitude, fear, anger, disgust, relief, frustration, sadness, strangely grief, paranoia, apology, helplessness were all on his Wheel of Fortune: Emotions Category, but the indicator arrow was still spinning. Sylar had no idea what to say, what Peter would hear or wanted to hear, and what would sink him. He knew the window of punishment opportunity was still wide open. Peter surely wanted to get his balance again, plot his revenge, walk around the desk to enact a proper discipline. I suppose that’s the end of talking. I hate this!! He was talking to me! Why’d he- why’d he have to go ruin it? No one wants to hear what he has to say - he’s dead! Look, Peter doesn’t even care what precious Nathan has to say...He was talking to me, his mind circled back to that pitifully. He told me things.
XXX
More than a minute passed. Peter wasn’t sure how long, but the silence of the place started bringing him out of it. He opened his eyes, looking over at Sylar, who was sitting exactly as he’d been before. The guy was hardly even breathing. He looked ill. Is he … terrified? Of me? Peter put his hand down and swiveled the chair to the side, made nervous and uneasy by that quiet indictment. Of course, I beat the crap out of him for this last time and yesterday we were all talking about me and my bad anger management. And a few seconds ago I was about to … yeah.
XXX
Peter swiveled around, the motion a precursor towards standing and walking around. Sylar just sighed in resignation. The fun had to end sometime. But Peter wasn’t moving and he certainly wasn’t aggressing…Sylar was clueless as to what was going on. Why the delayed reaction? Is he going to rub my face in things first? He was so close, he wanted to do it, why pull back? His body was still one giant ache; he knew he wasn’t healed or functional; the thought of incurring more damaging blows already hurt.
XXX
Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, raising both hands a little, palms outward. “I got this. I’m fine.” Then he grumbled, “Better, at least.”
XXX
Yeah, I’ve heard that before, was Sylar’s sole thought.
XXX
What the hell was that? Why does he keep doing that? He knows it sets me off, but he genuinely doesn’t seem to be able to stop doing it. Is that why he’s a killer? What is it in him that’s causing this shit that he can’t control? Is he … one of those multiple personality people? Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment, then looked at the puzzle blankly. What do I do if he is? He doesn’t want me to treat him like he’s crazy … but what if he really is crazy? What am I supposed to do then? He felt helpless, frustrated, and still angry, even if that last was ebbing.
He sighed and turned the chair to the side, telegraphing his motion so it wasn’t abrupt. “I’m going to get some chips from the kitchen,” he said, an unnecessary line under normal circumstances, but he had the feeling he needed to tread lightly with Sylar at the moment. For one thing, if Sylar jumped wrong, Peter’s upset was still lingering under the surface. One quick motion might set him off again. For another, Sylar was still reading as so totally defensive that Peter wanted to sooth him, even in the face of his anger.
XXX
Chips? Sylar’s mind and any reaction he may have had arrested at that. His next thoughts were directed towards his own movement - whether to stay still or mobilize to keep Peter in his sights. He went so far as to move his hands into his lap after Peter had passed, doing nothing, deciding that any more than that would just bring his attacker down on him. Why do I have to deal with this? It’s not my fault, he thought miserably. His back was to the kitchen. Die alone, after all. Hoping for a quick blow to the back of the head? Just fade to black? That was fairly accurate. Chips. Anger makes him…hungry? Or he just likes to snack before beatings. Probably wants to rub the food in my face, too. Typical bully.
XXX
Peter walked to the kitchen, finding what he was looking for easily enough, over on the counter where he’d put the stuff down earlier. He racked his brain for what to do about mental issues, but all he really had was a rundown of what physical conditions might cause ‘altered mental state’ and what to do about them as a paramedic. When the EMTs got called for a ‘violent psych’, it was just a ‘violent psych’ - there was no psychological diagnosis or treatment. His job was just to get them to a psych ward where they’d handle whatever the problem was. They didn’t have those calls very often. There’d been once when it was a kid throwing a tantrum. Another time was a late teen/young man with autism. Then there was the guy with carbon monoxide poisoning and there had been a demented elderly woman in a nursing home that Peter had managed to talk down. He’d just talked to her in a low, calm voice, navigating through her misunderstandings and delusions until she stopped being threatening and did what the staff wanted her to. He remembered Hesam complimenting him on his patience. He tried to summon that patience up to help him now.
XXX
Peter returned with a tube of Original Flavor Pringles (so presumptuous), seating himself and offered him some by extending the tube with a questioning face, and a “Want some?” Sylar shook his head after a glance at the tube. Why would I want Pringles? Why would I want any chips or any food? Am I supposed to want food right now? Is that code? He’s the nurse, does he know something I don’t? Why would you offer? Like, final supper in prison or something? Fattening the prize pig? Is that what all this is? What is this? Sylar exhaled queasily with a small sound of distaste as Peter opened the can and began to crunch down on the chips - the smell permeating the air enough to set off his stomach. Yes, I think vomiting will be dignified. The sandwich digesting in him suddenly felt unwelcome, so he turned his face away a few inches so he wasn’t presented with the large visage of Peter chowing down.
He did this the last time he concussed me. He had….crackers. Does that mean something? Does he….get off on this? Sylar wouldn’t be surprised, or particularly bothered now he saw the pattern. It wasn’t far removed from how he’d grown up, the only difference was they weren’t actually related, Peter had more legitimate reasons to hurt him and those reasons were different from Martin’s from the past. Not bothered by the situation, maybe, the pattern, but that didn’t mean he liked it. It was familiar enough that he knew his role and there was some security in knowing that. Maybe he doesn’t…want me here? Should I go lay down? Does he want me to go away now, like, ‘go to your corner’? Could be worse…
XXX
Peter ate a couple chips slowly, not in any hurry. Mostly he looked at the chips themselves, and the container, mulling over how Sylar still hadn’t spoken, still hadn’t moved, and was still watching him whenever he thought Peter wasn’t looking, like now. Peter took several slow, deep breaths, looking around the apartment and trying to think of what it meant for Sylar to speak as Peter’s brother. This place is all his head, in his head. This is how he thinks of himself? Or maybe what he thinks is normal. Books, clocks, little bed, little apartment. His neck hurt from twisting it to continue his evaluation of the other side of the room. Nothing here says Nathan. Not in the least. This isn’t Nathan’s apartment. He looked at Sylar himself, giving him brief study, easier because Sylar wouldn’t look at him. He doesn’t look like Nathan. He could. Here. He could look like whoever he saw himself as, right? Wouldn’t he look like whoever he really was?
Peter sighed and looked down at the puzzle, momentarily distracted by a piece that looked like part of a horse’s head. The carriage in the middle of the picture was the next easiest to piece together, or so he imagined. He felt the urge to look for the related pieces. No, leave that for him to do. I’ll do the harder parts. Why didn’t he sort by color? Then the white horses would be together in one spot and the black carriage pieces would be together somewhere else. Peter turned his head, brow slightly furrowed. I don’t know him very well, or why he does the things he does. If I can’t figure out the puzzle pieces, then how am I going to figure out this identity thing?
“Sylar?” Peter glanced up briefly, then away politely. His voice was even and normal, maybe a little tired. “There’s something I need to know. Do you think … you’re Nathan Petrelli?” Peter’s tone wasn’t accusing. He was genuinely asking, without judgment, because the honest answer, if he could get it, mattered a lot to him. He didn’t stare at Sylar, but looked to his face several times, then away, trying not to be challenging. He came to me for help, when he was Nathan. He came to me because he thought I would help.
XXX
Sylar was left to wait - agonizingly. He detected the disrespect as it was intended: Peter was making him wait and watch the man eat. There was nothing he could say or do, Peter would pummel him into a quick submission. Besides, Peter’s justification, the Nathan moment, would be valid. Will he break a leg? Snap my fingers as double payback? Or just punch everywhere non-vital? The thoughts gave him pause. Won’t that mean more recovery time? He doesn’t want that, surely. Will he be guilty, and hungry, after that, too? His head was under pressure with his raised heart rate, his stomach still turning, his nerves pinging, the chair, the setting, was uncomfortable.
Peter spoke and Sylar’s attention snapped back to him, gaze going to Peter’s, head coming up, the only thought in his head was What? What now? The nurse’s phrasing meant the question wouldn’t be pleasant, obviously. He was rather stunned by the question; he’d expected it…earlier and…with different delivery. Peter, now, was calm (near as he could tell) and polite, unbothered, his voice…it was bizarre. Sylar would have expected this question mid-punishment, but no, here it was now like he was…well, a host of things he wasn’t: an equal, a good guy, an acquaintance human, maybe. Things like that didn’t happen to him, he was not treated that way. For some reason Peter hadn’t gotten the memo.
The question itself had his chin rising slightly while he watched Peter. What happens if I say yes? What happens then? Is this a ‘tell the truth’ or ‘lie my ass off’ moment? “No.” He intoned first. “Well, the-…um…” he scratched his hair back even though it wasn’t falling in his face to the point where he needed to adjust it. His eyes shifted away from Peter’s face as he spoke, “It…started when you got here,” he blurted. “I’m not him, but…sometimes I…forget?” Sylar’s voice tipped lower at the last word, hesitant.
XXX
Peter thought about those words and the uncertainty in Sylar’s tone. When I got here? Do I remind him of Nathan? Of him being Nathan? Does Nathan have some last message for me? No, he said good-bye. He got to say good-bye. Peter tilted his head slightly and reached up to rub at his eyes. They itched a little at the memory. And here, sitting across from me, is the guy who dropped him. Well, actually I dropped him. He made me drop him. What made him throw himself over the edge anyway?
I can’t think about this. My head hurts. “When I got here,” he repeated unnecessarily, pulling his thoughts away from the troubling memories. “So when you forget, do you think you’re Nathan then?” Or not? Is this like when Sylar was trying to break through on the rooftop at Mercy Heights? “Do you feel like you’re having to fight to … stay you?” Is it like Nathan’s trying to break through? Or is it Sylar-acting-like-Nathan trying to break through … a personality of Sylar’s that he’s called Nathan? I think the real Nathan’s dead. (He’s dead, right? There’s no hope there … right?)
Was he Nathan before for all those weeks? When I thought he was Nathan and he thought he was Nathan, pretending to be him? When he came to me for help? He couldn’t have been. Nathan died at Stanton. Then who the hell was that on top of Mercy Heights? Why would he pretend then? Why would he pretend now? But I asked him to, then. I asked him, told him to be Nathan, and to throw away everything that was Sylar. A shadow of the enormity of what Peter had demanded of Sylar crept over his mind, making him tense up and try desperately not to continue his thoughts down that path. Instead, he looked for Sylar’s answers to the questions he’d asked.
XXX
This was starting to hurt Sylar. Strangely, it was hurting him because he knew Peter and he knew, he could see that this was upsetting the other man: Let’s talk about your dead brother, shall we? He hated that feeling and liked it at the same time. The more Peter talked and the less Sylar pissed him off, maybe he’d get out of more bruises. “I don’t know!” Frustration at the unknown that was inside him was sliding out, he blurted it before he could censor or think about it. I’m probably supposed to know all this, know how it all works and know everything that goes on inside my head. Forcefully, he toned himself down with great difficulty. As if I didn’t have enough problems with people seeing me for who I am, now I’m stuck here with Peter who thinks I’m his brother. Great.
“I don’t know what it is, Peter,” he added the man’s name as some sort of entreaty. Please understand this. I can’t… “Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can’t….” Sylar sighed. Can’t do anything about it, but you won’t believe me. Can’t move when it happens, I’m helpless, you almost hit me. It was also hard to accept that the inside of his mind was now a legitimate topic for discussion - his personality was now a commonplace subject; this literally was Peter’s business. “I’m not your brother. I’m Sylar.” Nathan’s dead. It might be nice to be your brother, though. You’d have to put up with me somewhat. Make sex next to impossible. You’re fucked, stop thinking about that. Do any of these questions or answers matter? He’ll believe what he wants at the end of the day.
XXX
“Okay,” Peter said evenly, his left hand rising a few inches, palm facing Sylar as Peter leaned back in the chair. Giving Sylar space. Distancing himself from the conversation and the pain he could hear in Sylar’s voice. Not sure what to do about that pain, but the part inside of him that always wanted to help people fidgeted, wanting to be there for … Sylar of all people. Especially given the topic of conversation (Sylar’s possible identity issue as Peter’s murdered brother), Peter put the brakes on that part of himself. However, his head hurt from trying to figure this out and Sylar was getting upset. Pushing it wasn’t going to get them anywhere good.
XXX
What does ‘okay’ mean? Peter still failed to sound or give any other indications that he was upset. Sylar tried to ignore him, but his eyes were drawn even more towards Peter, trying to understand the strange behavior.
XXX
“Okay,” he repeated, putting his hand down. I don’t need to know right now. Slowly and quietly, Peter said, “I don’t understand the half of what’s happened to m-“ He paused, drawing out the ‘m’ sound before continuing, "us … over these years. We can talk about it later.” He made a concessionary dip of his head as he leaned forward again, mostly looking at the puzzle. “We’ll have plenty of time.” Peter sounded distant. He was disappointed - that the matter was unsettled, that he had so much time and nothing to do but wait. But that was how things were. Something clicked over inside as he accepted that and moved on.
XXX
Nice of you to include me in that. That’s certainly not a necessary gesture. Why would he do that? Doesn’t he think I was always a monster who deserved everything I got and then some? Then Peter floored him. Sylar looked up at the man’s face. He cut me a break? When’s later? What is this, I’m so confused! “You’re not-“ was out of his mouth, straight from his brain, lacking censor. Going to push it, force me, beat me into submission until you get the answer you want, whether or not its true? He shut his mouth over the question, deciding not to aggravate his keeper.
XXX
Peter shifted the chair closer, making a vague, but inviting gesture towards the other man, trying to draw his attention back to the puzzle pieces. “The other piece of the signature should be around here somewhere. I’m going to keep working on this edge here. Maybe you could tell me why you grouped up the pieces like you did. You said earlier something about groups of six?” Peter glanced up at him, hoping the firm detour of the conversation would take, steering it out of the dangerous waters it had been in.
XXX
But when Peter only kept up the odd responses, completely deviating from anything Sylar knew, he was forced to ask questions. “That’s it? We just go back to the puzzle?” Not that he objected, hardly. Anyone else would have strapped him down and tortured him silly until he answered, never mind the pain he incurred during ‘questioning’ (Nazi-style interrogation). This was unexpected reprieve, niceness.
XXX
Peter glanced up at him and then back down. “Yeah, that’s it.” He gestured at his head. “My head hurts. I can’t think.” You’ve done this twice now. Three times maybe with that collapse here in the apartment the first day. (That was the first day here, right?) It’s going to come up again. We’ll deal with it then. “Right now …” He sighed. “I’d just rather leave it alone and do something easier.”
XXX
Sylar shook his head briefly and sighed, grasping the part where he wasn’t going to be beaten or even excluded from talking or the puzzle. He still felt horrible, his nausea spiking along with his head. And all he wants to know about is the puzzle. I said something about groups of six? I don’t remember that. Hope it wasn’t important. I am pretty sure “I told you. Some people color-code them; some people organize them by shape. These,” he indicated the table and in doing so, moved closer a bit unintentionally, “are by shape.” Duh, he managed to keep that one to himself for self-preservation purposes. “You’re so confusing,” he couldn’t help but mutter.
XXX
Peter grinned suddenly and warmly at that, chuckling. You, too, man. You, too. I don’t understand him; he doesn’t understand me. We are such a pair. He’d caught the condescension, too, but ignored it. “Shapes, huh? I see that now.” He looked over them, abruptly seeing the pattern where before there had just been confusion. The smile faded to an expression of simple concentration. That explains why he left the straight edges together.
XXX
Peter was engrossed in the puzzle and that made it unlikely he’d be leaping up to do violence. Sylar blinked at the puzzle a moment, thinking about it being offered up to him again. It’s Peter’s project, yet he’s inviting me back to it even after what I said? He slowly eased closer to the table, inching his hands closer to the splayed puzzle pieces, taking his time in picking one up at random, his eyes focused on Peter as he did so. No yelling or otherwise negative reaction. Only then did he examine the piece. The whole painting/puzzle was a fairly muddy pallet so when he drew a muddy-colored piece…See, this is why I don’t do puzzles by color. I doubt Peter can see the differences.
Clearing his throat, Sylar asked, “So…you said nausea was normal for this?” pointing to his temple so Peter understood. Hopefully he doesn’t think I was scared so my stomach went crazy. It’s because of his food, right. Food. It’s not like I know anything about medicine. Maybe he’ll tell me another paramedic story.
XXX
“Hm?” Peter looked up, having honestly moved on and zoned out a little. “Nausea? Yeah. So’s headache, memory problems, trouble concentrating … bunch of other stuff I’d probably remember better if I hadn’t had my ticket punched so firmly.” He was matter of fact about that, looking back at what he was doing. He found a piece to hook up and checked to see if he had the bottom of the frame done yet. Nope, corner won’t mesh. Need at least two more pieces then … “Hm, sleep problems, too,” he added, still looking down. It was something of a luxury, not having to watch his conversational partner constantly - frankly, not caring as much as he did with other people how Sylar took his words. “That was why I got the puzzle, initially. I thought it’d be something for me to do while you dozed, but this is fine.” Peter waved between the two of them as he glanced up again. “Great, actually,” he said, voice softening a little. He looked at the picture on the puzzle box, but there was no help there. Back to brute force. He started trying one piece after another.
XXX
Flatterer, Sylar thought of Peter while being proud to have ‘punched his ticket so firmly’. I’d rather hit something else of his not his face. Strange, he really seems over my...problem, there. No, its not a problem - its not my fault. Sylar was eyeing the puzzle box to try and see where his toneless piece went when Peter brought up sleeping problems, faltering and giving the man wary, surprised look. How does he know that? Has he been drugging me? Peter failed to notice, which might have been a good thing. Sylar felt like his energy was dropping off a cliff after being keyed up moments ago, it dulled his paranoia and he hoped he wouldn’t need either - energy or paranoia - for later. Unwinding sounded good about then. I’m supposed to sleep, he thought at first about Peter’s comments, the feeling of ‘I’m even more unwanted here’ starting. “Oh.” Its fine? Fine meaning…? Great. I’m- this is great? Sylar blinked and his face brightened. Peter’s really into that turn-the-other-cheek stuff. He likes doing puzzles with m- with someone. He grinned to himself and set the puzzle piece where he thought it would go eventually with more pieces. He really likes puzzles then. I thought he said something about not doing them much growing up, though.
XXX
He worked quietly for a while, letting his brain go on autopilot while his hands stayed busy. Finally, he came out of it, eyes beginning to drift up in between prospective pieces to look at Sylar’s hands and what he was doing with them. Then glances up at his face. It felt weird to be working cooperatively with the man on anything - anything at all, even something as meaningless as a puzzle. Peter pulled in a deeper breath, rolling his shoulders a little as they relaxed. He exhaled slowly and quietly, repeating the process a few times. His head felt better as he reached the last stage of calming himself down after a spike in tension.
Nauseous. Normal side effect of tension. “If you’re still feeling nauseous, you might try some breathing exercises. It’s one of the things they teach in nursing school - abdominal breathing. It’s simple.” He looked over Sylar’s face for some sign of recognition or lack thereof, something to tell him if talking Sylar through the process would be welcomed or redundant. “I could talk you through it?”
XXX
Gathering up another piece, surprisingly calm and unafraid now, Sylar compared it to the box picture. He seemed to be moving very slowly compared to Peter- his attention was called back to his companion as he spoke. Peter was having that effect; Sylar didn’t know if it was annoying or impressive or enviable. Breathing exercises, huh? He decided to take a chance. “Like CPR?” Sylar deadpanned, curious and attentive, putting on the same wide-and-innocent eyes that had worked before on Peter. Practicing our heavy breathing, why do it alone when you can do it together?
XXX
Sylar raised his face, eyes wide, vulnerable, and looking so far from a killer that Peter’s mind stumbled, possibly straight into the gutter. “Uh … nnn,” Peter said unhelpfully, losing track of what he’d been about to say, somewhere between his brain and vocal cords. “Huh?” He tried to recall what Sylar had just said. “CPR? Uh … nnno. No. Huh-uh. It’s just … It’s just abdominal breathing. It’s pretty straight forward.”
XXX
Sylar chuckled. God, he’s so easy. That’s kinda hot, actually. I can’t wait to play with him. (I think we already played with him and are in this predicament because of that). “Oh, okay,” he replied when he’d gotten over most of his amusement to be able to answer. He had no idea what the distinction was or really, whatever it was Peter had just said.
XXX
Peter pushed back from the desk, giving his head a little shake to rid it of whatever momentary fogginess seemed to have infected it. Whatever that was. He wasn't self-aware enough at the moment to figure out that his libido had been awoken. Otherwise, his rational mind would have automatically vetoed what he did next. He began speaking with the semi-instinctive intention to impress. “The trick is, you’re hyperoxygenating your blood and that naturally calms a person down. If your chair’s comfortable, you can do it there if you lean back, but it works a lot better if you lie down.” He gestured widely at the couch. “You need to get comfortable, where you can relax and focus on your breathing for a few minutes.” He glanced around the place. “It’s like resetting one of your clocks. You’ve got to get the pendulum swinging right, otherwise you’ll always be running a few seconds too fast.” He smiled a little, pleased at having managed that analogy. Big words, give directions, say something clever, look proud of yourself. Yep, he'd filled the script. He still felt kind of confused, though.
Continued...