More Between Us Chapter 49/? "A Little Off-Key"
Chapter 49/? "A Little Off-Key"
Day 13, Afternoon
“That, um…sounds…rough. You really can’t talk to those people. They don’t…see or hear you.” Sylar attempted to keep his voice on ‘commentary’ mode - neutral by-stander with no experience - even though his eyes lost focus and he slowed his walking pace slightly, his head ducking down briefly before he stood straight as if nothing of interest had been said or felt. I’d considered Alzheimer’s but it doesn’t work like dementia. It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, for him to try to diagnose his own mother. He didn’t want there to be anything wrong with her (or himself) at all, but he dealt with the evidence that the wrongness, the brokenness existed every day. As a child, he remembered being afraid of being like her when he grew older - losing touch with the world and getting weird looks like he was crazy and needed to be on pills or locked away or lobotomized (an odd worry for a child, but now he knew why and it made sense in a sick kind of way), needing to be taken care of and not having his own life, his ability to function stripped from him.
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Peter glanced back at Sylar, gathering that there was an emotional reaction going on back there other than just 'hey, that's an interesting story, what else happened?' He was silent for a few paces as they walked along, thinking back over the topic and Sylar's comment about his mother, his past comments about his father not being present in the house as he grew up, then about Sylar's interest in Jeremy's situation, and Peter's other suspicions of Sylar's past along with the talk of channeling or not his ability. There was definitely a picture coming together here. It might explain things, but that's it. An explanation is not a justification. It's just not. No matter how bad his life was, that doesn't make it right for Sylar to kill and … do everything he did. He ran through possible things to say - asking Sylar about childhood friends who might have been a support against an unstable parent, asking more pointedly about Sylar's mother, and so on. But it wasn't Peter's place to ask. Sylar had not extended that level of trust yet. And anyway, Sylar … well, he was telling his story, Peter realized. In bits and pieces, but he was telling it.
He exhaled heavily. “I hear you,” he said, realizing a beat after saying it that it linked up with what Sylar had last said. He tensed a little, then let it go. It didn't say anything Peter hadn't meant.
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Sylar thought, No you don’t. You just think you understand. You hear what you want to hear no matter what I say. He shifted and didn’t comment. There was too much behind it. That and he didn’t know how to articulate a general feeling of frustration and not-being-understood.
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After waiting a few beats, Peter cleared his throat and changed the subject, asking, “How far away was school from here? Did you walk or ride the bus or what?” They were approaching the next area with a building and overhang, which was to his left. Sylar was on his right. Peter wondered if the man would change sides for the support of the building, or keep hold of Peter, or switch and take up Peter's other arm. Since Sylar hadn't stumbled yet, Peter didn't make any suggestions and waited to see what Sylar would do.
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Sylar frowned briefly, feeling the damp air beginning to invade the bottom of his lungs as they walked. Up the opposite sidewalk they went, continuing down it the same direction as before. But back to the question, which was somewhat confused or confusing. “What? I didn’t live here. New York, yeah, but not this area. I think it was…maybe fifteen blocks? I rode and walked sometimes. School…” he panted as walking and talking and staying upright got to him, his head spinning a bit, pounding harder…Sylar tried to keep it all under control, “School….uh….new policy in junior…high. Got to ride.” It was fun on occasion, getting in a vehicle and getting driven around to see things (almost always the same sights, the same route). If he let himself he could pretend it was an adventure or a road trip. Sometimes he didn’t want to ride the bus with his peers, out of the elements though it was, his peers being too...everything - rude, crude, loud, mean, smelly, close, scary. Sometimes walking cleared his head; he rarely told Mom about those times. It was exercise and being outdoors, but she would say it was dangerous to walk alone even if the bus was a germ farm according to her.
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Ah, 'here' isn't here-here. He moved to New York from somewhere else, which is why the comment about his mother and the Queens hospital … which makes sense now. So if this isn't where he grew up, then why is he here? That's his apartment. Must be where he lived as an adult? Huh. Peter was a little thrown because his own past labeled his parent's house as the only 'home' he had. Everywhere else had just been where he'd been staying at a particular time, sometimes changed semester to semester. They were crash-pads, some more disposable than others, and the Company and Homeland Security had made sure to drive that fact home, as it were.
Is that why my apartment's empty and his isn't? That's his home. Peter gave a head-tilt that probably meant nothing to Sylar, if it was even noticed. A new level of respect for Sylar's things was called for.
Going back to the conversation, Peter asked, “Public school or private?”
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Something toggled and things jumbled, overlapping in Sylar’s mind’s eye as he couldn’t distinguish which life he’d lived; so many memories, so vastly different. Sylar was quiet for a moment, just trying to recover from that and refocus, hell, remember the question while he was at it. “Uh,” he began softly, still attempting to hide his limp and keep pace with Peter but it would soon grow taxing. His head throbbed and he tried to match his thoughts to the beat. “Public. Nothing…special.” Sylar had the feeling that he’d have been eaten alive (more so than in public school, if that was even possible) had he attended a private school like the Petrelli brothers had. No social skills would have made him a target and an outcast even more in that setting. It bothered him to think on it, comparing himself to the Petrellis. It was just as well. He’d learned survival of the fittest on his own in public school. That was something Peter never learned - that Sylar or Nathan knew of, anyway. It just seemed…unlikely. I have something he doesn’t.
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They were approaching the intersection. Peter nodded absently, wondering why Sylar felt like his grade school experience should have been 'special' or different from anyone else's. Something else he noticed as he thought it over was that the way Sylar was holding his sleeve had changed. Not the grip itself - but there was weight being put on it now, pulling down. It wasn't a lot, but it was noticeable. He glanced back. Sylar hadn't changed sides and so was still to Peter's right, his eyes seemingly fixed on the goal of moving forward, to the point that he seemed slow to notice he was being looked at. Peter considered the gaps and pauses. Sylar shouldn't be laboring for breath, but he was.
Pain, stress, and tension leaped to Peter's mind. It certainly didn't seem likely that the conversational topic was too much to bear. “We're almost there. It's that building right across the street that we're going to.” He gestured forward with his right hand, stopping in place abruptly. He reached across himself with his left, trying to take Sylar's left wrist.
“Here, come on,” he said in a low voice. “Let's switch position. It's okay.”
Peter didn't wait for response. He slipped his right behind Sylar's back while dipping his head and pulling Sylar's left arm over his shoulders. He waited several seconds after getting the guy into the position he wanted, having tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, yet not asking permission or even telegraphing what he was going to do. If he was lucky, Sylar might be startled, but would settle into it. If not, the guy might freak out.
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Oh, thank God, Sylar though fervently. The end was in sight. Peter hadn’t lied - it really was close. The building even looked familiar (well, that he’d been inside of recently) and it ought to, it was so close. “Oh, good,” he replied, perking up a little. The headache made him feel heavy and clumsy, along with lingering stiffness all over his body made walking more challenging than it should be. While he was looking to the building, Peter was moving, though Sylar wasn’t paying attention. In fact, he didn’t notice until he’d taken a few steps and by then Peter had ducked, slung Sylar’s arm and practically hugged him. Sylar inhaled, eyes widening, back straightening, but the re-positioning was helpful, not harmful and it was already over. He’s touching me and it’s okay. It’s okay. Why am I trusting him? He wondered at that, ignoring for a moment, the fact that he had no other option. This was Peter Petrelli who was holding him up and helping him walk.
“Um…Okay,” was the belated answer to a completely unvoiced statement. Peter’s hand felt fantastic against his side and back, almost enough feel-good to pump him with more energy. It was definitely intoxicating. After a brief struggle to focus, he recalled the topic. “I’d…ask you about your school years, but I…” he trailed off, hoping that would indicate that he already knew about it and didn’t need to ask without saying it outright. Getting hit was not on his agenda today. He bit down a story about Valentine’s Day that he wished he could remind Peter of - it was Peter’s life after all, Nathan’s memories, too. “Don’t know why we’re talking about it in the first place,” he muttered, expressing his confusion at the topic, especially since it mostly centered around Gabriel’s life. Meanwhile the lunch bag tapped against his ass and thigh as they walked, amusing and annoying him with its presence and location. He almost wished to swat it aside or point out that Peter’s bag was molesting him.
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“Because I'm trying to get to know you, Sylar,” Peter said as barely more than a murmur while they navigated the curb into the final street they needed to cross. “We're here together. You made a point of that this morning and you were right. We're going to be here together for … long enough that I'm … I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you. Be … friendly. Or something.” He ended muttering and grumbling, the starts and stops because he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to express. You know, what I can manage. Polite at least. It was a grudging acceptance of Sylar, but it was an acceptance.
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Friendly with me? Are we sure I didn’t hit him on the head too hard? Poor Peter…one good knock and he’s completely upside down….Suppose the same could be said of me. Truth be told, Sylar didn’t even remember what he’d said this morning that was of such importance, but he was glad something he’d said made an impact for Peter. Then his thoughts arrested on ‘I’m not going to go through this without trying to get to know you.’ At least he stated it outright. A battle for information then. It was confirmed. Sylar wasn’t going to give an inch. “Trying to get to know me? Are you that bored already?” That’s ridiculous!
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Peter made a noise in his throat, something between a snort and a grunt. Otherwise, he didn't grace the question with a response. He adjusted his grip on Sylar's left arm, moving his hand up from the wrist to the forearm, recalling that Sylar had had the wrist wrapped the last time he'd done this. Should I have been wrapping his wrist since the fight? Does it still hurt him? It's not like he's focused enough to take care of it himself, really. Or like he's the sort of person who would point out to me that it hurts. Peter insinuated his right arm a bit further around Sylar's back and snugged up close to him, unconsciously a little protective. More consciously, he thought it made it easier to walk together, falling into stride as they crossed the street.
Still mostly muttering as if talking to himself, Peter said, “I just wanted to talk. When it's quiet, I get to thinking. Don't always like what I have to think about. Don't know you. Might as well.” He shut up though as they came to the opposite curb, feeling a little shut down for Sylar not wanting to talk about school, and wondering if he was pushing Sylar too hard to manage keeping up conversation while walking.
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Sylar bit back the noise he wanted to make at being held closer - unsure himself if it was one of protest or pleasure. It felt nice, but it was awfully close. He has no understanding of personal space, none at all, Sylar realized and remembered. Being connected almost always to Nathan had much to do with that he was sure.
Your thoughts upset you? Wow. Your life must really suck then, Pete, Sylar thought with sharp sarcasm. He’d been alone for years more than Peter, alone with his own highly unpleasant thoughts and nightmares and memories (two sets of them!) And before that, aside from his mother, he considered himself alone for more years before that. What did Peter have to whine about? Sylar made a grumble of his own, thinking about spoiled, rich younger brothers. But it made him wonder as they walked, approaching the door of the building. Peter offered no further conversation, seemingly a little put-out about that, too; Sylar thought to ask, “Do you…have nightmares? Not //Ma’s// kind- your mother’s kind, but just…without abilities? Do you have those?” Or is it just me?
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Peter gave him a displeased look as they parted at the door. He also gave Sylar a quick up-and-down, making sure the guy wasn't teetering. It didn't seem likely - Sylar had recovered at least his mental equilibrium surprisingly quickly once he wasn't having to focus on both walking and talking at the same time. Peter opened the door and waited, not bothering to suppress an annoyed sigh at Sylar's slip of 'Ma'. You get off light because I'm still in a decent mood about getting out to do something fun.
Yet the question itself belied Sylar's dismissiveness about Peter's thoughts bothering him. Sylar had heard him, understood, and was making an observant and perhaps empathetic question. Does Sylar consider his sarcasm friendly, I wonder? Or maybe it's a prelude to him making fun of me? Nah. He's too messed up to be planning ahead that far. And anyway, he has nightmares all the time. Peter let go of the door after Sylar was through and moved on to the next one. “Don't like to sleep. I've been working out a lot. That helps.” Mostly the exercise got him so tired that he couldn't remember his dreams and the persistent shortage of sleep left him unimaginative. Between the two, he could keep his focus on what he absolutely needed to do and avoid thinking about what-ifs.
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Sylar read Peter's avoidance for the confirmation that it was and inquired further, “What do you see in them?” Interesting…exercising helps him? That makes sense, though. He’s certainly been…working out. Because he knew just how long it had taken Peter to not only grow into his frame, but fill it the way he wanted, or rather, Nathan had known. Sylar got to appreciate the results.
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This time Peter did grunt, looking around the foyer of the building as if seeking something else to talk about. He walked out in the middle of it, leaving Sylar to pick between moving along the wall or taking the somewhat more risky route of walking unsupported. The door they were headed towards wasn't far away, to the left. Peter stopped about ten feet from it.
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Sylar looked around himself as Peter moved away from him, clearly intending for Sylar to fend for himself. The way he saw it was follow Peter or follow the support of the wall. Maybe that’s what Peter was doing - scoping out the support…No. Unlikely. But his pause worked in his favor because it got Peter talking again on something the nurse had otherwise been looking to avoid.
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“Different things,” he finally said, brushing his hands back and forth uneasily along his jeans. “My dad, a lot. F-” Peter shook his head. “Falling,” he said quietly, shaking his head against the images of himself … Nathan … even Sylar … falling … and usually hitting. Mere impact didn't wake him. He'd usually continue to lie there, in the dream, feeling himself die slowly or have to suffer through trying to put himself back together with or without regeneration. It often morphed into some of the worst things he'd seen as a paramedic. He counted himself lucky for the nightmares where he was the dying patient, because if he was the medic, then he would be presiding over the death of someone he cared for.
“I don't want to talk about it,” he said quickly, drawing in a breath and making a handful of motions - a shrug, reaching up to scratch his cheek, rubbing his other hand along his jeans, that all served to camouflage what would have otherwise been a shudder. “I don't dream very often anymore. Let's go look at the piano.” He tried to get back the equanimity he'd had just a few minutes earlier, able to dismiss Sylar's faux pas without offense, but bringing to mind the things that haunted him when he couldn't escape was hard to deal with.
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Sylar walked slowly alongside the wall as he listened, trying to make it look casual, knowing he failed at that and was showing vulnerability but it wasn’t like Peter hadn’t picked up on it by now, hadn’t had chances to act on it before now. He just nodded as he brushed the fingertips of his left hand along the pale golden-tan, vaguely sparkly stone of the wall, there only in case a surge of to his equilibrium. Sylar understood not wanting to talk about things; nightmares; their contents, so he let Peter dodge (even though it brought up several more questions). “Okay,” was all he said to the dodge and their destination, aware of what he was doing and concerned at himself for offering mercy like this. Maybe because Peter held all the cards and Sylar had no way to force answers from him. He made it to the door - Peter held it open - and he passed through looking to the right to spot the piano. It was a basic brown-wood wall-piano, only lightly edged in gold. The bench didn’t match, being made of a different wood or maybe that was just the finish. It lacked a cushion but it wasn’t like he was going to be sitting on it. There were collapsible tables; foosball, ping-pong and billiard tables and a dead TV mounted to the wall in the left corner. The chairs lining the opposite wall, left of the piano, had cushions to his relief. They wouldn’t be comfortable forever, but they were much better than other options or the floor.
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“What happens in yours?”
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“Hmn- What?” Sylar turned to assess and address that, stupidly surprised by it. “Oh…I see…” he frowned, trying to even summarize what he experienced in sleep. “I see my life.” Reflected or screened through another’s eyes - Nathan, Taub, Virginia, someone he’d been - at times, but mostly it was his own life, the nightmare that it already was. “Lots of…people, lots of events and…things.” Blood, brains, the rush and the horror, the everyday triviality, being unseen, unspecial; being stuck, being hurt, being left, being sold, tortured, watching himself powerless…Feeling that this was inviting way too much of an opening for righteousness from Peter, he tried to uplift the conversation, “I like the wet dreams, though.” Always liked those even if they were hell to…clean up and…deal with. With any luck, they could talk about wet dreams with less tension and evasion.
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Peter chuckled, accepting Sylar's vague answer about nightmares. It wasn't like Peter's answer had been all that specific, or even comprehensive. There were a couple other categories on the 'recurring theme' scale, but he didn't like thinking of them any more than telling about them. Sylar offered a good distraction. “Yeah, I like those, too. Thank God they don't get mixed up in my nightmares - the sex, that is.” He’d had a few where Caitlin had faded into nothingness in the middle of making out (or more) with her, but they were infrequent. He gave Sylar another brief up-and-down, this time thinking about the subject matter at hand and deciding that he didn’t want to talk about sex with the guy, regardless of how distracting it was.
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Sylar frowned at him over that. Lucky you.
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Peter made a general wave at the chairs to indicate where he expected Sylar to go and walked over to them himself, dropping off the bag of sandwiches. “I guess just have a seat and I’ll try to figure this out,” he said, cutting back over to the instrument. Peter looked at it with a general once-over. It had seen better days, but looked sound. He glanced up at Sylar, who was ambling over towards himself rather than the chairs. Peter was unbothered by that; he liked the attention, if he were honest with himself. He folded up the fall and stroked the keys, the ends of them a bit jagged and unevenly chipped. Peter pulled out the bench and slid onto it, wondering whose memories the device had been plucked from, or maybe it had been fabricated from their joint imaginations. He didn’t know. It was enough that he didn’t recognize it. He made another glance at his companion before turning back.
He depressed a key, which twanged horribly off-key. He smiled. “This is going to take a lot of work.” He arranged both hands over the right octaves, smile fading. “I’m three fingers down.” It would obviously be a while before he was able to play worth a damn. He pressed a few more keys at semi-random, finally finding one he wanted with his right thumb. After a pause, he gave a very poorly tuned, one finger version of the main verse of ‘The Old Grey Mare.’ He chuckled ruefully, “Yeah, a lot of work.”
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Sylar moved to stand beside the piano - that way he could see both keys and player - only slightly wary since Peter was distracted and appeared to be cheerful. His gaze switched between Peter’s face and his fingers as they both were in motion. He agreed, how could he not, that the piano needed serious help - it was old and hadn’t been touched in at least three years. What did Peter expect? “Do you know how to tune a piano?” he asked simply after allowing Peter to chat amicably at him; the dialogue was general and didn’t require response anyway (besides, he had no idea what to say about Peter being short finger besides ‘then don’t hit people next time’). Peter seemed happy enough just to talk at him, which was fine by Sylar.
The piano was badly off and was old enough to have that ringing bell-type sound Sylar would find pleasant in-key. Once tuned or once Peter began to play or otherwise bang on the keys, it had the potential to seriously hurt his ears right now. He wasn’t looking forward to that. He didn’t think Peter knew how to tune the instrument, but Peter had hidden talents. Nathan hadn’t always been around him, their age difference made sure of that. The nurse sure seemed to think he knew how. Sylar wished he did so he could either teach his companion or at least lord it over him and point out mistakes. While he didn’t know specifics, he knew it required training and tools and that last part worried him. Peter would eventually have to go out and look for them. What if he goes to my apartment and…does something? He brought me out here to ditch me? What if he doesn’t come back? He probably won’t like it if I come with because I’m slow and annoying. ‘I’m just going for tools, I’ll be back’ he’ll say, yeah right. He tried to hold back the worry, the same one he’d had earlier, as it returned.
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Peter explored a few more keys up and down the range, pressing them and listening to the tones they produced. Some sounded fine; some were definitely off. “It can't be all that different from a guitar, can it? It's a stringed instrument, after all.”
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Erm, yeah. It can, Sylar was pretty sure. Leave it to Peter to have no craftsman’s frame of reference for how something was built. It worked or it didn’t work for him. Apparently Peter had a Mr. Fix-It urge and Sylar didn’t know what to make of it.
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Peter stood, pushing the bench away with the back of his knees and making to lift the top of the piano. He moved it a little, looking over to make sure Sylar wasn't leaning on it or blocking it, but the man had his weight on his feet, not the piano, so it wasn't an issue. Peter lifted the top and looked in. “There should be a peg with a screw in it attached to the wire, and then you turn that just like the tuning pegs on a guitar.”
Peter peered inside. It was dim, but he could see what looked like hundreds of wires arranged one way and the other, possibly overlapping - hard to tell in the bad lighting and angle. “Looks kind of … complicated.” He looked around at the insufficient overhead lights, then back inside. “I'm not even sure how I'd get to that stuff.” Peter reached inside, over the wooden top and into the bowels of the instrument. He could feel around, but not see what he was doing. Plus, he wasn't tall enough to get his arm in there comfortably. This wasn't going to work at all. He frowned, not with a pouty expression, but more just momentarily stymied and forced to actually think about how to proceed.
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Sylar rolled his eyes. Ya think? He didn’t even bring a flashlight. This is going to drive me nuts, watching him screw this up. No…I’ll let him entertain me with it. I’m not up for helping him or getting tools. He’s a big boy and this is his problem. He’ll figure out that much and I can rub it in after. He looked between Peter’s hands and face.
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“The guy at our house,” Peter said, left arm still all the way in the instrument and his face pointed the same way, “he was working on a grand piano and everything was a lot easier to get to.” He felt along the strings and hammers, plucking one of the strings experimentally. It made generally-pleasing sounding twang. “No, this thing's got to come apart somehow. There's no way a person can work on it like this.”
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Sylar gave him a narrow look. I know you had a grand growing up, //I was there//. Does he think I need reminding? Of course it was fucking easier on a grand. “Maybe not a short person,” he pointed out, noting Peter being on tip-toes, straining to reach inside, buried in the piano up to his shoulder. With Peter talking, it was an amusing picture - his voice didn’t carry so well and Sylar pictured what it would sound like if Peter got his head in there and spoke. He was the one with experience here - a former watchmaker with the height advantage, concussion and all.
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Peter huffed slightly, looking Sylar up and down. Joking. Joking is good. He smiled a little and pulled his arm out to wave briefly at Sylar, just to indicate him. “Look around over there and let's see if there's some way to take it apart.” Peter looked to the end opposite from Sylar, but it was dark and he didn't know what he was looking for.
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The medic then flapped a hand at him, wanting participation; he shifted his weight to look invested but didn’t move just yet. “Um…doesn’t the back come off?” he said like it was obvious. It made sense to him. Something had to come off or lift up, right? Sylar moved around to the side of the instrument as Peter had indicated, frowning slightly. He still thought he was right and Peter wrong - the backing was removable, but he looked anyway. Why does he even want my help? The answer was as baffling as it had been thus far. He debated not helping but he had no reason to.
Sylar felt around lightly along the backing inside the box first - making it look far easier than Peter had - but found nothing to his disappointment. He continued running his hands along the inside walls away from the actual mechanics of the piano. As he came around the front panel his finger stubbed on something metal and he peered inside. He couldn’t see what it was easily and didn’t want to lean over, but he felt a movable part and, with little forethought and a lot of curiosity, he fiddled with what turned out to be a pin, tugging it. He looked up at Peter in surprise and to communicate his find but Peter already heard the releasing sound. “The…there’s a latch…”
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“Yeah?” Peter said eagerly, finding the matching fastener on his side. A moment later he actuated it in tandem with Sylar and the light, thin wooden partition lifted out smoothly. “Oh yeah!” he said with a pleased grin at how accessible that made everything. He didn't know what to do with it, then. Letting go and letting Sylar handle it seemed rude. Hanging onto it and hogging it himself seemed rude as well. “Let's put it down on the other side of the bench,” he suggested as a compromise.
Peter looked back at the piano after putting aside the panel. He was pleased, left fist against his hip and a distracted smile on his face as his eyes roamed over all the strings. “Yeah, it's complicated, all right.” He moved closer, getting a good look now that the top was up and the front panel off. He was faced with a criss-crossing set of wires, more than he'd expected. He depressed a key, looking at the wires, then did it again as he leaned in to see the hammer move. He did it a couple more times, tracing along to the tuning pegs.
“Huh. These don't look easy to turn.” They didn't have the little flanges for tightening by hand that a guitar featured. Nor did they even have a slot for a screwdriver. He felt around the peg, noticing that it had a distinctive shape that didn't match an allen wrench or anything else he was familiar with. “I … think this is going to take specialized tools.” He looked up swiftly at Sylar. “Hey, do you have tools that could turn these?” Peter stepped back, indicating the pegs with a gesture and giving Sylar room to look if he wanted.
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What was he expecting - a walk in the park? Sylar eyed his companion curiously, noting the facial expression plastered there. Peter looked pleased that it wasn’t easy. He likes a challenge then? Sylar felt buoyed, feeling pleasure in knowing the nurse had something in common with him and a strange jealousy that he wasn’t the only one. He was pulled from his reverie when Peter turned on him, starting him a bit. “Huh? No. I think that’s why you would hire a tuning person.” Specialized tools. Does that mean he thinks I have special tools? He shifted his shoulders, mainly by straightening his arms and back when his hands were in his pockets, taking the compliment.
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“Hm. Maybe we should eat and think about it.” Peter headed over to the sack of sandwiches. “You think it might be like a clock where the winding key is kept in the case?” At least, he assumed that was where most people kept the winding key. That was where his mother kept it for the grandfather clock in the hall. The key for the mantel clock in his dad's study was kept under it - the point being to keep it easy to find and handy. “Do you think maybe each piano has a little tool to adjust it and maybe it's clipped to the side?” He got out the sandwiches, distracted by which was which and reluctant to pull one out and open it to find out. He set them down on the chair.
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‘We.’ Such a strange word. He throws it around so easily. He’s used to it. I know all it means and is me and him coexisting as odd as that is, but its still weird to hear. Tagging behind Peter, he was zapped with that strange logic. His instant answer was ‘no’, but his own reasoning took longer to realize. “You could look,” Sylar hedged, standing behind and to the side of Peter. “Usually you need a device to tell if what string you’re tuning is in key. Or…a really good ear.” Me, he thought with pride. Maybe that’s why he brought me! He noticed Peter was getting that pre-jump-off-the-roof jittery energy that didn’t bode well.
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“I'm going to go scavenge for some drinks.” Peter paused, thinking about how Sylar had hung onto him and the 'I won't leave you' thing from breakfast. I didn't promise to stay within arms reach all the time. He handles me going back to my apartment every night, so it's not like he'll freak over this. “I'll be right back,” he said with emphasis.
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Ah, shit. There it is. I knew it! Sylar felt his face droop as his eyes widened. It was an expression of horror and dawning betrayal. He slowly sat, barely missing the sandwiches as he wasn’t paying attention to the landing zone. His mouth opened in a fish-like gape, closing wordlessly seconds later. Why can’t I come? Yet he knew why. Emotion and desire warred with intellect.
He leaves me with food but not drinks? I’ll die from thirst before I die from starvation, that’s the rule of thumb. Course I told him I didn’t need him, a week without food won’t kill me but...“Okay,” he croaked, disbelieving.
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Peter had been watching for Sylar's reaction and there it was, a lot less guarded than he'd expected. “Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch the seated man on the shoulder with his right hand. “I'm just going upstairs. It'll be five minutes, tops.” Peter straightened. In a normal tone of voice, he indicated the food. “If you could sort out which one of those is yours and which is mine, that'd help.” He turned and walked off, saying over his shoulder one last time, “I'll be right back.”
Three years all alone. What does that do to a person? Well, he's got a concussion working on him, too. Peter sighed as he pushed open the door to the stairwell, remembering the longest period of his life that he'd spent alone - a couple weeks in a cargo container in transit to Ireland. He'd had no memories, no understanding of where he was, and no knowledge of when his confinement might end. He didn't know if it would have been worse or better if he'd understood what was going on. As it was, it was utter boredom and sensory deprivation against a constant backdrop of terrifying ignorance and impending death from privation. He usually did his best not to think about that time or the implications of it (who had put him there, on whose orders, and how that meant they knew what he was going to be subjected to...). Realizing he'd slipped into thinking about it now, he shook his head and focused on his more immediate mission.
The first apartment he went to had a six-pack of Seven-Up. It wasn't Peter's favorite by any stretch, but he wasn't going to keep looking if Sylar was downstairs being anxious. He mused on that as he walked back. Huh. I guess I care about Sylar being upset. Kind of hard not to, when we're alone here. I don't think I care about a lot of his other feelings, but … yeah. I don't want him in misery all the time. Just when I want to beat the crap out of him. Peter smiled a little and was wearing that blandly pleased expression when he walked back in the rec room. “Hey. I'm back. Seven-Up good?” He hoisted the six-pack of cans in his left hand. “Got those sandwiches sorted out?”
XXX
Sylar heard him in the hall, looking up in anticipation. I wonder if my mind is capable of making up an illusion like him? It’s…so detailed, though. Aren’t you supposed to know, deep down, if your mind is playing tricks on you? Peter returned and Sylar felt as like he could breathe again - maybe he wasn’t crazy. He definitely wasn’t alone. “Hey,” he said as his shoulders eased. “Yeah, it’s great.” Sylar didn’t really care what Peter brought back so long as he came back, which he had, almost happily, too. “Mmm-hmm!” He’d dutifully peeked inside the sandwich bags to identify them.
XXX
Peter took a seat to Sylar's left, leaving the seat the sack was on between them. He put the sodas on it, removing one and offering it to Sylar, then getting his own and opening it, watching the other man deal with the sandwiches. “This is like a picnic.” He flashed a sudden, amused smile. “Urban picnicking. That's kind of cool.
XXX
Sylar thanked Peter for the drink, handing over the respective butter sandwich. Sylar eyed his meal for a moment, feeling like he’d just eaten breakfast, before taking a small bite. He chuckled, “It kind of is. Like a picnic.” Just with chairs and a piano. He thought back to his most recent picnic with less-than-fond feelings. He’d been with Maya and wine while her brother was busy internet searching his name. Funny, the Mexican had managed the English language just fine to do that. His scenery had somewhat improved since then, concussion and barren streets aside.
XXX
“Uh-huh,” Peter said agreeably. “Better birthday than some I've had.” He gathered his sandwich and took a bite, looking over at the piano, chewing slowly.
XXX
Birthday? Shit! Best behavior then, not like I wasn’t on it before.
XXX
Peter went on, “I think the lousiest was when I was locked up in Level Five. I didn't even know it had passed until Elle brought me dinner on Christmas Day. It was ham.” He frowned, looking over at Sylar. “Dietary preferences didn't rank very high there.” Softening his voice a little because he knew it might be a sensitive subject, Peter asked, “How long were you in there?”
XXX
Dietary…Oh! Sylar lowered his sandwich and stared with some confusion at the one in Peter’s hand containing salmon. Should he be eating that? He won’t get sick, will he? What did he say about that? Fish have…spines? He was lost in thought when Peter asked his question; it took him a moment to realize he was being addressed and only figured it out when he noticed the man looking at him. His eyebrows went up as his eyes met Peter’s. “What?” he gulped, surprised in more ways than one.
XXX
“I asked,” Peter repeated gently, “how long were you in Level Five?”
XXX
Sylar made an unhappy face, lips firming, expression shuttering. Long enough, he thought and almost said as much, but what the hell. “Um…I think I lost three weeks the first time,” he snorted a bitter breath. “First time’s always the worst. You were there for the rest of the second; maybe a week? It…” Sylar looked across the room, sandwich held in his lap, forgotten. “It always seems like longer. But being related to your jail wardens helps,” he gave Peter an apathetic look, then, “Why do you ask?”
XXX
First time? Peter shrugged ambivalently. “I don't know. It's something we have in common. I suppose … a lot of specials do.” He frowned. “I'm not sure that being related to the Petrellis is a help to anyone. Not that Elle's father was a good guy, but Bob's interest in me seemed to start and end with keeping me in my cell and out of touch. I got food, wasn't killing anyone, knew who I was, had a bed, even had Adam to talk to if I wanted.” He took a bite out of his sandwich and shot Sylar a sidelong glance as he swallowed. “That's a hell of a lot better than I was treated when my mom, dad, or brother had me as a prisoner. Every one of them tried to kill me or worse.” He snorted, bristling in anger, making some sharp motions in folding back the baggie that was still surrounding the bottom half of his sandwich. He was exaggerating a tiny bit - whether or not Nathan had intended to kill him was suspect, but certainly he'd intentionally put Peter into situations where he was literally in a sniper's crosshairs or disappearing into a secret gulag.
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, Afternoon
“That, um…sounds…rough. You really can’t talk to those people. They don’t…see or hear you.” Sylar attempted to keep his voice on ‘commentary’ mode - neutral by-stander with no experience - even though his eyes lost focus and he slowed his walking pace slightly, his head ducking down briefly before he stood straight as if nothing of interest had been said or felt. I’d considered Alzheimer’s but it doesn’t work like dementia. It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, for him to try to diagnose his own mother. He didn’t want there to be anything wrong with her (or himself) at all, but he dealt with the evidence that the wrongness, the brokenness existed every day. As a child, he remembered being afraid of being like her when he grew older - losing touch with the world and getting weird looks like he was crazy and needed to be on pills or locked away or lobotomized (an odd worry for a child, but now he knew why and it made sense in a sick kind of way), needing to be taken care of and not having his own life, his ability to function stripped from him.
XXX
Peter glanced back at Sylar, gathering that there was an emotional reaction going on back there other than just 'hey, that's an interesting story, what else happened?' He was silent for a few paces as they walked along, thinking back over the topic and Sylar's comment about his mother, his past comments about his father not being present in the house as he grew up, then about Sylar's interest in Jeremy's situation, and Peter's other suspicions of Sylar's past along with the talk of channeling or not his ability. There was definitely a picture coming together here. It might explain things, but that's it. An explanation is not a justification. It's just not. No matter how bad his life was, that doesn't make it right for Sylar to kill and … do everything he did. He ran through possible things to say - asking Sylar about childhood friends who might have been a support against an unstable parent, asking more pointedly about Sylar's mother, and so on. But it wasn't Peter's place to ask. Sylar had not extended that level of trust yet. And anyway, Sylar … well, he was telling his story, Peter realized. In bits and pieces, but he was telling it.
He exhaled heavily. “I hear you,” he said, realizing a beat after saying it that it linked up with what Sylar had last said. He tensed a little, then let it go. It didn't say anything Peter hadn't meant.
XXX
Sylar thought, No you don’t. You just think you understand. You hear what you want to hear no matter what I say. He shifted and didn’t comment. There was too much behind it. That and he didn’t know how to articulate a general feeling of frustration and not-being-understood.
XXX
After waiting a few beats, Peter cleared his throat and changed the subject, asking, “How far away was school from here? Did you walk or ride the bus or what?” They were approaching the next area with a building and overhang, which was to his left. Sylar was on his right. Peter wondered if the man would change sides for the support of the building, or keep hold of Peter, or switch and take up Peter's other arm. Since Sylar hadn't stumbled yet, Peter didn't make any suggestions and waited to see what Sylar would do.
XXX
Sylar frowned briefly, feeling the damp air beginning to invade the bottom of his lungs as they walked. Up the opposite sidewalk they went, continuing down it the same direction as before. But back to the question, which was somewhat confused or confusing. “What? I didn’t live here. New York, yeah, but not this area. I think it was…maybe fifteen blocks? I rode and walked sometimes. School…” he panted as walking and talking and staying upright got to him, his head spinning a bit, pounding harder…Sylar tried to keep it all under control, “School….uh….new policy in junior…high. Got to ride.” It was fun on occasion, getting in a vehicle and getting driven around to see things (almost always the same sights, the same route). If he let himself he could pretend it was an adventure or a road trip. Sometimes he didn’t want to ride the bus with his peers, out of the elements though it was, his peers being too...everything - rude, crude, loud, mean, smelly, close, scary. Sometimes walking cleared his head; he rarely told Mom about those times. It was exercise and being outdoors, but she would say it was dangerous to walk alone even if the bus was a germ farm according to her.
XXX
Ah, 'here' isn't here-here. He moved to New York from somewhere else, which is why the comment about his mother and the Queens hospital … which makes sense now. So if this isn't where he grew up, then why is he here? That's his apartment. Must be where he lived as an adult? Huh. Peter was a little thrown because his own past labeled his parent's house as the only 'home' he had. Everywhere else had just been where he'd been staying at a particular time, sometimes changed semester to semester. They were crash-pads, some more disposable than others, and the Company and Homeland Security had made sure to drive that fact home, as it were.
Is that why my apartment's empty and his isn't? That's his home. Peter gave a head-tilt that probably meant nothing to Sylar, if it was even noticed. A new level of respect for Sylar's things was called for.
Going back to the conversation, Peter asked, “Public school or private?”
XXX
Something toggled and things jumbled, overlapping in Sylar’s mind’s eye as he couldn’t distinguish which life he’d lived; so many memories, so vastly different. Sylar was quiet for a moment, just trying to recover from that and refocus, hell, remember the question while he was at it. “Uh,” he began softly, still attempting to hide his limp and keep pace with Peter but it would soon grow taxing. His head throbbed and he tried to match his thoughts to the beat. “Public. Nothing…special.” Sylar had the feeling that he’d have been eaten alive (more so than in public school, if that was even possible) had he attended a private school like the Petrelli brothers had. No social skills would have made him a target and an outcast even more in that setting. It bothered him to think on it, comparing himself to the Petrellis. It was just as well. He’d learned survival of the fittest on his own in public school. That was something Peter never learned - that Sylar or Nathan knew of, anyway. It just seemed…unlikely. I have something he doesn’t.
XXX
They were approaching the intersection. Peter nodded absently, wondering why Sylar felt like his grade school experience should have been 'special' or different from anyone else's. Something else he noticed as he thought it over was that the way Sylar was holding his sleeve had changed. Not the grip itself - but there was weight being put on it now, pulling down. It wasn't a lot, but it was noticeable. He glanced back. Sylar hadn't changed sides and so was still to Peter's right, his eyes seemingly fixed on the goal of moving forward, to the point that he seemed slow to notice he was being looked at. Peter considered the gaps and pauses. Sylar shouldn't be laboring for breath, but he was.
Pain, stress, and tension leaped to Peter's mind. It certainly didn't seem likely that the conversational topic was too much to bear. “We're almost there. It's that building right across the street that we're going to.” He gestured forward with his right hand, stopping in place abruptly. He reached across himself with his left, trying to take Sylar's left wrist.
“Here, come on,” he said in a low voice. “Let's switch position. It's okay.”
Peter didn't wait for response. He slipped his right behind Sylar's back while dipping his head and pulling Sylar's left arm over his shoulders. He waited several seconds after getting the guy into the position he wanted, having tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, yet not asking permission or even telegraphing what he was going to do. If he was lucky, Sylar might be startled, but would settle into it. If not, the guy might freak out.
XXX
Oh, thank God, Sylar though fervently. The end was in sight. Peter hadn’t lied - it really was close. The building even looked familiar (well, that he’d been inside of recently) and it ought to, it was so close. “Oh, good,” he replied, perking up a little. The headache made him feel heavy and clumsy, along with lingering stiffness all over his body made walking more challenging than it should be. While he was looking to the building, Peter was moving, though Sylar wasn’t paying attention. In fact, he didn’t notice until he’d taken a few steps and by then Peter had ducked, slung Sylar’s arm and practically hugged him. Sylar inhaled, eyes widening, back straightening, but the re-positioning was helpful, not harmful and it was already over. He’s touching me and it’s okay. It’s okay. Why am I trusting him? He wondered at that, ignoring for a moment, the fact that he had no other option. This was Peter Petrelli who was holding him up and helping him walk.
“Um…Okay,” was the belated answer to a completely unvoiced statement. Peter’s hand felt fantastic against his side and back, almost enough feel-good to pump him with more energy. It was definitely intoxicating. After a brief struggle to focus, he recalled the topic. “I’d…ask you about your school years, but I…” he trailed off, hoping that would indicate that he already knew about it and didn’t need to ask without saying it outright. Getting hit was not on his agenda today. He bit down a story about Valentine’s Day that he wished he could remind Peter of - it was Peter’s life after all, Nathan’s memories, too. “Don’t know why we’re talking about it in the first place,” he muttered, expressing his confusion at the topic, especially since it mostly centered around Gabriel’s life. Meanwhile the lunch bag tapped against his ass and thigh as they walked, amusing and annoying him with its presence and location. He almost wished to swat it aside or point out that Peter’s bag was molesting him.
XXX
“Because I'm trying to get to know you, Sylar,” Peter said as barely more than a murmur while they navigated the curb into the final street they needed to cross. “We're here together. You made a point of that this morning and you were right. We're going to be here together for … long enough that I'm … I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you. Be … friendly. Or something.” He ended muttering and grumbling, the starts and stops because he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to express. You know, what I can manage. Polite at least. It was a grudging acceptance of Sylar, but it was an acceptance.
XXX
Friendly with me? Are we sure I didn’t hit him on the head too hard? Poor Peter…one good knock and he’s completely upside down….Suppose the same could be said of me. Truth be told, Sylar didn’t even remember what he’d said this morning that was of such importance, but he was glad something he’d said made an impact for Peter. Then his thoughts arrested on ‘I’m not going to go through this without trying to get to know you.’ At least he stated it outright. A battle for information then. It was confirmed. Sylar wasn’t going to give an inch. “Trying to get to know me? Are you that bored already?” That’s ridiculous!
XXX
Peter made a noise in his throat, something between a snort and a grunt. Otherwise, he didn't grace the question with a response. He adjusted his grip on Sylar's left arm, moving his hand up from the wrist to the forearm, recalling that Sylar had had the wrist wrapped the last time he'd done this. Should I have been wrapping his wrist since the fight? Does it still hurt him? It's not like he's focused enough to take care of it himself, really. Or like he's the sort of person who would point out to me that it hurts. Peter insinuated his right arm a bit further around Sylar's back and snugged up close to him, unconsciously a little protective. More consciously, he thought it made it easier to walk together, falling into stride as they crossed the street.
Still mostly muttering as if talking to himself, Peter said, “I just wanted to talk. When it's quiet, I get to thinking. Don't always like what I have to think about. Don't know you. Might as well.” He shut up though as they came to the opposite curb, feeling a little shut down for Sylar not wanting to talk about school, and wondering if he was pushing Sylar too hard to manage keeping up conversation while walking.
XXX
Sylar bit back the noise he wanted to make at being held closer - unsure himself if it was one of protest or pleasure. It felt nice, but it was awfully close. He has no understanding of personal space, none at all, Sylar realized and remembered. Being connected almost always to Nathan had much to do with that he was sure.
Your thoughts upset you? Wow. Your life must really suck then, Pete, Sylar thought with sharp sarcasm. He’d been alone for years more than Peter, alone with his own highly unpleasant thoughts and nightmares and memories (two sets of them!) And before that, aside from his mother, he considered himself alone for more years before that. What did Peter have to whine about? Sylar made a grumble of his own, thinking about spoiled, rich younger brothers. But it made him wonder as they walked, approaching the door of the building. Peter offered no further conversation, seemingly a little put-out about that, too; Sylar thought to ask, “Do you…have nightmares? Not //Ma’s// kind- your mother’s kind, but just…without abilities? Do you have those?” Or is it just me?
XXX
Peter gave him a displeased look as they parted at the door. He also gave Sylar a quick up-and-down, making sure the guy wasn't teetering. It didn't seem likely - Sylar had recovered at least his mental equilibrium surprisingly quickly once he wasn't having to focus on both walking and talking at the same time. Peter opened the door and waited, not bothering to suppress an annoyed sigh at Sylar's slip of 'Ma'. You get off light because I'm still in a decent mood about getting out to do something fun.
Yet the question itself belied Sylar's dismissiveness about Peter's thoughts bothering him. Sylar had heard him, understood, and was making an observant and perhaps empathetic question. Does Sylar consider his sarcasm friendly, I wonder? Or maybe it's a prelude to him making fun of me? Nah. He's too messed up to be planning ahead that far. And anyway, he has nightmares all the time. Peter let go of the door after Sylar was through and moved on to the next one. “Don't like to sleep. I've been working out a lot. That helps.” Mostly the exercise got him so tired that he couldn't remember his dreams and the persistent shortage of sleep left him unimaginative. Between the two, he could keep his focus on what he absolutely needed to do and avoid thinking about what-ifs.
XXX
Sylar read Peter's avoidance for the confirmation that it was and inquired further, “What do you see in them?” Interesting…exercising helps him? That makes sense, though. He’s certainly been…working out. Because he knew just how long it had taken Peter to not only grow into his frame, but fill it the way he wanted, or rather, Nathan had known. Sylar got to appreciate the results.
XXX
This time Peter did grunt, looking around the foyer of the building as if seeking something else to talk about. He walked out in the middle of it, leaving Sylar to pick between moving along the wall or taking the somewhat more risky route of walking unsupported. The door they were headed towards wasn't far away, to the left. Peter stopped about ten feet from it.
XXX
Sylar looked around himself as Peter moved away from him, clearly intending for Sylar to fend for himself. The way he saw it was follow Peter or follow the support of the wall. Maybe that’s what Peter was doing - scoping out the support…No. Unlikely. But his pause worked in his favor because it got Peter talking again on something the nurse had otherwise been looking to avoid.
XXX
“Different things,” he finally said, brushing his hands back and forth uneasily along his jeans. “My dad, a lot. F-” Peter shook his head. “Falling,” he said quietly, shaking his head against the images of himself … Nathan … even Sylar … falling … and usually hitting. Mere impact didn't wake him. He'd usually continue to lie there, in the dream, feeling himself die slowly or have to suffer through trying to put himself back together with or without regeneration. It often morphed into some of the worst things he'd seen as a paramedic. He counted himself lucky for the nightmares where he was the dying patient, because if he was the medic, then he would be presiding over the death of someone he cared for.
“I don't want to talk about it,” he said quickly, drawing in a breath and making a handful of motions - a shrug, reaching up to scratch his cheek, rubbing his other hand along his jeans, that all served to camouflage what would have otherwise been a shudder. “I don't dream very often anymore. Let's go look at the piano.” He tried to get back the equanimity he'd had just a few minutes earlier, able to dismiss Sylar's faux pas without offense, but bringing to mind the things that haunted him when he couldn't escape was hard to deal with.
XXX
Sylar walked slowly alongside the wall as he listened, trying to make it look casual, knowing he failed at that and was showing vulnerability but it wasn’t like Peter hadn’t picked up on it by now, hadn’t had chances to act on it before now. He just nodded as he brushed the fingertips of his left hand along the pale golden-tan, vaguely sparkly stone of the wall, there only in case a surge of to his equilibrium. Sylar understood not wanting to talk about things; nightmares; their contents, so he let Peter dodge (even though it brought up several more questions). “Okay,” was all he said to the dodge and their destination, aware of what he was doing and concerned at himself for offering mercy like this. Maybe because Peter held all the cards and Sylar had no way to force answers from him. He made it to the door - Peter held it open - and he passed through looking to the right to spot the piano. It was a basic brown-wood wall-piano, only lightly edged in gold. The bench didn’t match, being made of a different wood or maybe that was just the finish. It lacked a cushion but it wasn’t like he was going to be sitting on it. There were collapsible tables; foosball, ping-pong and billiard tables and a dead TV mounted to the wall in the left corner. The chairs lining the opposite wall, left of the piano, had cushions to his relief. They wouldn’t be comfortable forever, but they were much better than other options or the floor.
XXX
“What happens in yours?”
XXX
“Hmn- What?” Sylar turned to assess and address that, stupidly surprised by it. “Oh…I see…” he frowned, trying to even summarize what he experienced in sleep. “I see my life.” Reflected or screened through another’s eyes - Nathan, Taub, Virginia, someone he’d been - at times, but mostly it was his own life, the nightmare that it already was. “Lots of…people, lots of events and…things.” Blood, brains, the rush and the horror, the everyday triviality, being unseen, unspecial; being stuck, being hurt, being left, being sold, tortured, watching himself powerless…Feeling that this was inviting way too much of an opening for righteousness from Peter, he tried to uplift the conversation, “I like the wet dreams, though.” Always liked those even if they were hell to…clean up and…deal with. With any luck, they could talk about wet dreams with less tension and evasion.
XXX
Peter chuckled, accepting Sylar's vague answer about nightmares. It wasn't like Peter's answer had been all that specific, or even comprehensive. There were a couple other categories on the 'recurring theme' scale, but he didn't like thinking of them any more than telling about them. Sylar offered a good distraction. “Yeah, I like those, too. Thank God they don't get mixed up in my nightmares - the sex, that is.” He’d had a few where Caitlin had faded into nothingness in the middle of making out (or more) with her, but they were infrequent. He gave Sylar another brief up-and-down, this time thinking about the subject matter at hand and deciding that he didn’t want to talk about sex with the guy, regardless of how distracting it was.
XXX
Sylar frowned at him over that. Lucky you.
XXX
Peter made a general wave at the chairs to indicate where he expected Sylar to go and walked over to them himself, dropping off the bag of sandwiches. “I guess just have a seat and I’ll try to figure this out,” he said, cutting back over to the instrument. Peter looked at it with a general once-over. It had seen better days, but looked sound. He glanced up at Sylar, who was ambling over towards himself rather than the chairs. Peter was unbothered by that; he liked the attention, if he were honest with himself. He folded up the fall and stroked the keys, the ends of them a bit jagged and unevenly chipped. Peter pulled out the bench and slid onto it, wondering whose memories the device had been plucked from, or maybe it had been fabricated from their joint imaginations. He didn’t know. It was enough that he didn’t recognize it. He made another glance at his companion before turning back.
He depressed a key, which twanged horribly off-key. He smiled. “This is going to take a lot of work.” He arranged both hands over the right octaves, smile fading. “I’m three fingers down.” It would obviously be a while before he was able to play worth a damn. He pressed a few more keys at semi-random, finally finding one he wanted with his right thumb. After a pause, he gave a very poorly tuned, one finger version of the main verse of ‘The Old Grey Mare.’ He chuckled ruefully, “Yeah, a lot of work.”
XXX
Sylar moved to stand beside the piano - that way he could see both keys and player - only slightly wary since Peter was distracted and appeared to be cheerful. His gaze switched between Peter’s face and his fingers as they both were in motion. He agreed, how could he not, that the piano needed serious help - it was old and hadn’t been touched in at least three years. What did Peter expect? “Do you know how to tune a piano?” he asked simply after allowing Peter to chat amicably at him; the dialogue was general and didn’t require response anyway (besides, he had no idea what to say about Peter being short finger besides ‘then don’t hit people next time’). Peter seemed happy enough just to talk at him, which was fine by Sylar.
The piano was badly off and was old enough to have that ringing bell-type sound Sylar would find pleasant in-key. Once tuned or once Peter began to play or otherwise bang on the keys, it had the potential to seriously hurt his ears right now. He wasn’t looking forward to that. He didn’t think Peter knew how to tune the instrument, but Peter had hidden talents. Nathan hadn’t always been around him, their age difference made sure of that. The nurse sure seemed to think he knew how. Sylar wished he did so he could either teach his companion or at least lord it over him and point out mistakes. While he didn’t know specifics, he knew it required training and tools and that last part worried him. Peter would eventually have to go out and look for them. What if he goes to my apartment and…does something? He brought me out here to ditch me? What if he doesn’t come back? He probably won’t like it if I come with because I’m slow and annoying. ‘I’m just going for tools, I’ll be back’ he’ll say, yeah right. He tried to hold back the worry, the same one he’d had earlier, as it returned.
XXX
Peter explored a few more keys up and down the range, pressing them and listening to the tones they produced. Some sounded fine; some were definitely off. “It can't be all that different from a guitar, can it? It's a stringed instrument, after all.”
XXX
Erm, yeah. It can, Sylar was pretty sure. Leave it to Peter to have no craftsman’s frame of reference for how something was built. It worked or it didn’t work for him. Apparently Peter had a Mr. Fix-It urge and Sylar didn’t know what to make of it.
XXX
Peter stood, pushing the bench away with the back of his knees and making to lift the top of the piano. He moved it a little, looking over to make sure Sylar wasn't leaning on it or blocking it, but the man had his weight on his feet, not the piano, so it wasn't an issue. Peter lifted the top and looked in. “There should be a peg with a screw in it attached to the wire, and then you turn that just like the tuning pegs on a guitar.”
Peter peered inside. It was dim, but he could see what looked like hundreds of wires arranged one way and the other, possibly overlapping - hard to tell in the bad lighting and angle. “Looks kind of … complicated.” He looked around at the insufficient overhead lights, then back inside. “I'm not even sure how I'd get to that stuff.” Peter reached inside, over the wooden top and into the bowels of the instrument. He could feel around, but not see what he was doing. Plus, he wasn't tall enough to get his arm in there comfortably. This wasn't going to work at all. He frowned, not with a pouty expression, but more just momentarily stymied and forced to actually think about how to proceed.
XXX
Sylar rolled his eyes. Ya think? He didn’t even bring a flashlight. This is going to drive me nuts, watching him screw this up. No…I’ll let him entertain me with it. I’m not up for helping him or getting tools. He’s a big boy and this is his problem. He’ll figure out that much and I can rub it in after. He looked between Peter’s hands and face.
XXX
“The guy at our house,” Peter said, left arm still all the way in the instrument and his face pointed the same way, “he was working on a grand piano and everything was a lot easier to get to.” He felt along the strings and hammers, plucking one of the strings experimentally. It made generally-pleasing sounding twang. “No, this thing's got to come apart somehow. There's no way a person can work on it like this.”
XXX
Sylar gave him a narrow look. I know you had a grand growing up, //I was there//. Does he think I need reminding? Of course it was fucking easier on a grand. “Maybe not a short person,” he pointed out, noting Peter being on tip-toes, straining to reach inside, buried in the piano up to his shoulder. With Peter talking, it was an amusing picture - his voice didn’t carry so well and Sylar pictured what it would sound like if Peter got his head in there and spoke. He was the one with experience here - a former watchmaker with the height advantage, concussion and all.
XXX
Peter huffed slightly, looking Sylar up and down. Joking. Joking is good. He smiled a little and pulled his arm out to wave briefly at Sylar, just to indicate him. “Look around over there and let's see if there's some way to take it apart.” Peter looked to the end opposite from Sylar, but it was dark and he didn't know what he was looking for.
XXX
The medic then flapped a hand at him, wanting participation; he shifted his weight to look invested but didn’t move just yet. “Um…doesn’t the back come off?” he said like it was obvious. It made sense to him. Something had to come off or lift up, right? Sylar moved around to the side of the instrument as Peter had indicated, frowning slightly. He still thought he was right and Peter wrong - the backing was removable, but he looked anyway. Why does he even want my help? The answer was as baffling as it had been thus far. He debated not helping but he had no reason to.
Sylar felt around lightly along the backing inside the box first - making it look far easier than Peter had - but found nothing to his disappointment. He continued running his hands along the inside walls away from the actual mechanics of the piano. As he came around the front panel his finger stubbed on something metal and he peered inside. He couldn’t see what it was easily and didn’t want to lean over, but he felt a movable part and, with little forethought and a lot of curiosity, he fiddled with what turned out to be a pin, tugging it. He looked up at Peter in surprise and to communicate his find but Peter already heard the releasing sound. “The…there’s a latch…”
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“Yeah?” Peter said eagerly, finding the matching fastener on his side. A moment later he actuated it in tandem with Sylar and the light, thin wooden partition lifted out smoothly. “Oh yeah!” he said with a pleased grin at how accessible that made everything. He didn't know what to do with it, then. Letting go and letting Sylar handle it seemed rude. Hanging onto it and hogging it himself seemed rude as well. “Let's put it down on the other side of the bench,” he suggested as a compromise.
Peter looked back at the piano after putting aside the panel. He was pleased, left fist against his hip and a distracted smile on his face as his eyes roamed over all the strings. “Yeah, it's complicated, all right.” He moved closer, getting a good look now that the top was up and the front panel off. He was faced with a criss-crossing set of wires, more than he'd expected. He depressed a key, looking at the wires, then did it again as he leaned in to see the hammer move. He did it a couple more times, tracing along to the tuning pegs.
“Huh. These don't look easy to turn.” They didn't have the little flanges for tightening by hand that a guitar featured. Nor did they even have a slot for a screwdriver. He felt around the peg, noticing that it had a distinctive shape that didn't match an allen wrench or anything else he was familiar with. “I … think this is going to take specialized tools.” He looked up swiftly at Sylar. “Hey, do you have tools that could turn these?” Peter stepped back, indicating the pegs with a gesture and giving Sylar room to look if he wanted.
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What was he expecting - a walk in the park? Sylar eyed his companion curiously, noting the facial expression plastered there. Peter looked pleased that it wasn’t easy. He likes a challenge then? Sylar felt buoyed, feeling pleasure in knowing the nurse had something in common with him and a strange jealousy that he wasn’t the only one. He was pulled from his reverie when Peter turned on him, starting him a bit. “Huh? No. I think that’s why you would hire a tuning person.” Specialized tools. Does that mean he thinks I have special tools? He shifted his shoulders, mainly by straightening his arms and back when his hands were in his pockets, taking the compliment.
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“Hm. Maybe we should eat and think about it.” Peter headed over to the sack of sandwiches. “You think it might be like a clock where the winding key is kept in the case?” At least, he assumed that was where most people kept the winding key. That was where his mother kept it for the grandfather clock in the hall. The key for the mantel clock in his dad's study was kept under it - the point being to keep it easy to find and handy. “Do you think maybe each piano has a little tool to adjust it and maybe it's clipped to the side?” He got out the sandwiches, distracted by which was which and reluctant to pull one out and open it to find out. He set them down on the chair.
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‘We.’ Such a strange word. He throws it around so easily. He’s used to it. I know all it means and is me and him coexisting as odd as that is, but its still weird to hear. Tagging behind Peter, he was zapped with that strange logic. His instant answer was ‘no’, but his own reasoning took longer to realize. “You could look,” Sylar hedged, standing behind and to the side of Peter. “Usually you need a device to tell if what string you’re tuning is in key. Or…a really good ear.” Me, he thought with pride. Maybe that’s why he brought me! He noticed Peter was getting that pre-jump-off-the-roof jittery energy that didn’t bode well.
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“I'm going to go scavenge for some drinks.” Peter paused, thinking about how Sylar had hung onto him and the 'I won't leave you' thing from breakfast. I didn't promise to stay within arms reach all the time. He handles me going back to my apartment every night, so it's not like he'll freak over this. “I'll be right back,” he said with emphasis.
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Ah, shit. There it is. I knew it! Sylar felt his face droop as his eyes widened. It was an expression of horror and dawning betrayal. He slowly sat, barely missing the sandwiches as he wasn’t paying attention to the landing zone. His mouth opened in a fish-like gape, closing wordlessly seconds later. Why can’t I come? Yet he knew why. Emotion and desire warred with intellect.
He leaves me with food but not drinks? I’ll die from thirst before I die from starvation, that’s the rule of thumb. Course I told him I didn’t need him, a week without food won’t kill me but...“Okay,” he croaked, disbelieving.
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Peter had been watching for Sylar's reaction and there it was, a lot less guarded than he'd expected. “Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch the seated man on the shoulder with his right hand. “I'm just going upstairs. It'll be five minutes, tops.” Peter straightened. In a normal tone of voice, he indicated the food. “If you could sort out which one of those is yours and which is mine, that'd help.” He turned and walked off, saying over his shoulder one last time, “I'll be right back.”
Three years all alone. What does that do to a person? Well, he's got a concussion working on him, too. Peter sighed as he pushed open the door to the stairwell, remembering the longest period of his life that he'd spent alone - a couple weeks in a cargo container in transit to Ireland. He'd had no memories, no understanding of where he was, and no knowledge of when his confinement might end. He didn't know if it would have been worse or better if he'd understood what was going on. As it was, it was utter boredom and sensory deprivation against a constant backdrop of terrifying ignorance and impending death from privation. He usually did his best not to think about that time or the implications of it (who had put him there, on whose orders, and how that meant they knew what he was going to be subjected to...). Realizing he'd slipped into thinking about it now, he shook his head and focused on his more immediate mission.
The first apartment he went to had a six-pack of Seven-Up. It wasn't Peter's favorite by any stretch, but he wasn't going to keep looking if Sylar was downstairs being anxious. He mused on that as he walked back. Huh. I guess I care about Sylar being upset. Kind of hard not to, when we're alone here. I don't think I care about a lot of his other feelings, but … yeah. I don't want him in misery all the time. Just when I want to beat the crap out of him. Peter smiled a little and was wearing that blandly pleased expression when he walked back in the rec room. “Hey. I'm back. Seven-Up good?” He hoisted the six-pack of cans in his left hand. “Got those sandwiches sorted out?”
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Sylar heard him in the hall, looking up in anticipation. I wonder if my mind is capable of making up an illusion like him? It’s…so detailed, though. Aren’t you supposed to know, deep down, if your mind is playing tricks on you? Peter returned and Sylar felt as like he could breathe again - maybe he wasn’t crazy. He definitely wasn’t alone. “Hey,” he said as his shoulders eased. “Yeah, it’s great.” Sylar didn’t really care what Peter brought back so long as he came back, which he had, almost happily, too. “Mmm-hmm!” He’d dutifully peeked inside the sandwich bags to identify them.
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Peter took a seat to Sylar's left, leaving the seat the sack was on between them. He put the sodas on it, removing one and offering it to Sylar, then getting his own and opening it, watching the other man deal with the sandwiches. “This is like a picnic.” He flashed a sudden, amused smile. “Urban picnicking. That's kind of cool.
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Sylar thanked Peter for the drink, handing over the respective butter sandwich. Sylar eyed his meal for a moment, feeling like he’d just eaten breakfast, before taking a small bite. He chuckled, “It kind of is. Like a picnic.” Just with chairs and a piano. He thought back to his most recent picnic with less-than-fond feelings. He’d been with Maya and wine while her brother was busy internet searching his name. Funny, the Mexican had managed the English language just fine to do that. His scenery had somewhat improved since then, concussion and barren streets aside.
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“Uh-huh,” Peter said agreeably. “Better birthday than some I've had.” He gathered his sandwich and took a bite, looking over at the piano, chewing slowly.
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Birthday? Shit! Best behavior then, not like I wasn’t on it before.
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Peter went on, “I think the lousiest was when I was locked up in Level Five. I didn't even know it had passed until Elle brought me dinner on Christmas Day. It was ham.” He frowned, looking over at Sylar. “Dietary preferences didn't rank very high there.” Softening his voice a little because he knew it might be a sensitive subject, Peter asked, “How long were you in there?”
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Dietary…Oh! Sylar lowered his sandwich and stared with some confusion at the one in Peter’s hand containing salmon. Should he be eating that? He won’t get sick, will he? What did he say about that? Fish have…spines? He was lost in thought when Peter asked his question; it took him a moment to realize he was being addressed and only figured it out when he noticed the man looking at him. His eyebrows went up as his eyes met Peter’s. “What?” he gulped, surprised in more ways than one.
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“I asked,” Peter repeated gently, “how long were you in Level Five?”
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Sylar made an unhappy face, lips firming, expression shuttering. Long enough, he thought and almost said as much, but what the hell. “Um…I think I lost three weeks the first time,” he snorted a bitter breath. “First time’s always the worst. You were there for the rest of the second; maybe a week? It…” Sylar looked across the room, sandwich held in his lap, forgotten. “It always seems like longer. But being related to your jail wardens helps,” he gave Peter an apathetic look, then, “Why do you ask?”
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First time? Peter shrugged ambivalently. “I don't know. It's something we have in common. I suppose … a lot of specials do.” He frowned. “I'm not sure that being related to the Petrellis is a help to anyone. Not that Elle's father was a good guy, but Bob's interest in me seemed to start and end with keeping me in my cell and out of touch. I got food, wasn't killing anyone, knew who I was, had a bed, even had Adam to talk to if I wanted.” He took a bite out of his sandwich and shot Sylar a sidelong glance as he swallowed. “That's a hell of a lot better than I was treated when my mom, dad, or brother had me as a prisoner. Every one of them tried to kill me or worse.” He snorted, bristling in anger, making some sharp motions in folding back the baggie that was still surrounding the bottom half of his sandwich. He was exaggerating a tiny bit - whether or not Nathan had intended to kill him was suspect, but certainly he'd intentionally put Peter into situations where he was literally in a sniper's crosshairs or disappearing into a secret gulag.
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Continued...