More Between Us Chapter 57/? "Christmas Spirit"
More Between Us, Chapter 57/? "Christmas Spirit"
Day 15, morning, December 25
Peter looked up at the word Sylar had spoken. It sounded like he was complimenting the clock, or maybe in an indirect way complimenting Peter for bringing it here? Because that's what Peter wanted and he felt like a spoiled, ungrateful child for wanting it. He wanted thanks or a good word or some form of approval, and considering his only source here was Sylar, was … well, pretty fucked up. Getting Sylar's approval would be as screwed up as getting his father's. It was a no-win proposition because at least with his dad, there was no way to get appreciation for doing something on your own - only blind obedience was rewarded. It's probably the same with Sylar. The only thing he'd thank me for doing is sucking up to him.
Peter's eyes fell and went back to his notepad, a sad and sullen expression on his face. I've been here alone too long. Or at least, alone other than him. I shouldn't care what he thinks. It shouldn't matter. He's a murderer and no telling what else. He isn't anyone I should care about! … But he's the only one here.
XXX
Since he’d only been partially trying to get Peter to engage, he wasn’t shocked when he didn’t get any response. Strangely the snow falling outside was making his high-up world seem dizzy so he took a small step back and sat on the bed. He felt something of Peter’s against his back - it was nice, but he didn’t do anything about it. Instead, he continued his inspection of the clock, itching to get at its insides.
XXX
For a very long moment, Peter allowed the touch. Easily long enough for Sylar to notice they'd bumped accidentally and course correct. He's going to get in bed with me again. He knew it, fatalistically certain that this was Sylar's version of making a play. For a guy with a concussion, he sure seems able to stay focused on getting laid. But, well, if there's something to get fixated on, that one's pretty damn common. With a tired huff, Peter gave Sylar a little shove with his knee and then scooted himself away a few inches. He stared sightlessly at the notepad, thinking that stabbing the guy with the pen if he touched him again was way too big an overreaction, regardless of how satisfying it would be. Also, Peter didn't think it would help.
I was just trying to help you! That's all. Peter frowned, unhappy about the whining he was doing inside his head. 'You liked the clock?' he nearly asked, wanting desperately to fish for a compliment. He struggled again with his stupid desire for a kind word. Staring straight forward, Peter decided he had to say something or else he was going to blurt out something ridiculously transparent and embarrassing. Maybe if he asked about something else, it would get his mind out of the insecure rut it had fallen into. He focused on the page. “What's a tour-billion? And why was that the first sentence that came to mind?”
XXX
Sylar had both no knowledge of how much time had passed and the knowledge of every second that passed while he lost himself (almost) inside the clock. The shove came out of nowhere. He heard the noises of Peter moving around behind him, which didn’t bode well. Sylar stood abruptly, shakily. All he could picture was Peter’s fist swinging towards his head again. He only glanced behind him enough to see that the other man wasn’t advancing. He felt confused and a little hurt; after all, he’d only been sitting, hands occupied with a clock, how threatening was that? I…No sitting? No sitting near him, specifically. Gingerly, keeping his peripheral on his companion, Sylar replaced the clock on the nightstand and took his time retrieving his book from the table. He wasn’t deterred by Peter’s behavior, one way or other he’d get a clear answer. If everything harmless was pissing Peter off, well…they might have a problem. Obviously, that is the case. Every breath I take is an insult to him already. Sylar returned to the bedroom, going to the same side he’d slept on the night before. He’ll move or not; I’m not making him do anything. He was daring Peter to shove him again, or find fault in reading together in the same bed.
Laid flat, snug, his head propped on his folded forearm behind his head, as Peter had all the pillows, his book was set on his chest. The position (apart from the pillow shortage) would be perfect to fall asl- Not a moment after he’d settled, Peter spoke. Huh. Sylar turned to look upwards at him as Peter was sitting, back against the headboard. “A tourbillion is a rotating cage used in older style watches. It doesn’t actually have any purpose, but they used to think it kept more accurate time for being a wristwatch - the motion,” his hand made an ‘iffy/wavy/unstable’ gesture. “Now its just an expensive show-piece, literally. I don’t know why it came to mind. It was either that or ‘Peter Petrelli is a male nurse.’” Sylar shrugged.
XXX
“I am not a male nurse; I'm a nurse,” Peter said huffily, repeating a line that he’d had cause to repeat many times. It remained annoying to him that no one doubted his masculinity when he was introduced as a paramedic, even though it took far more training to be a licensed nurse. But Sylar probably meant nothing by it and wasn't trying to rub his nose in how he'd chosen a less-than-virile profession. He Peter set the notepad down and scrunched himself forward by way of apology for being snappish. “Here, take your pillow.” In what was probably an attempt to assert conversational dominance and/or balance out surrendering the pillow, Peter added, “Oh, and if the day before yesterday was my birthday, then this is December twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth.”
XXX
You’re a male nurse, Peter. Sylar dismissed the fuss and the thought (Nathan would have made a dig). He was definitely going to have to take a nap now; he had a pillow. “Thanks,” he took it and lifted his head to place it when Peter mentioned the date. Sylar paused mid-motion, neck muscles craned upwards as he stared at his bedmate. So not only did I get it wrong…it’s also Christmas. Some part of him immediately felt saddened. Peter was here, alone and hurt, with him. He obviously didn’t want to be here. The rest of him was very glad Peter had appeared; it meant he got at least a small connection. “Then we definitely need better food,” he announced simply, moving the pillow behind his head. He was mourning his lack of capability to cook which struck him as incredibly Martha Stewart and that was an unsettling thought all its own. Either he wanted to repay Peter or he wanted something to do or, worst of all, he actually cared about the damn holiday. It’s also a sucky Christmas. Too bad I’m not ‘well’ or it might literally be a sucky Christmas.
When nothing more was said, Sylar considered something he’d been wondering about since Peter appeared. “How do you sleep knowing I’m still alive?” Surely the short walk between bedrooms or apartments, the distance between them in bed or even when Peter slept in a chair must drive him insane. Sylar couldn’t imagine letting a murderer live, not one who’d slain a loved one; but maybe that was the problem - the loved one part. Peter’s hands weren’t clean either; he’d killed Sylar and drugged him, too. Somewhere there was a difference between their morals. Or maybe I’m not anyone’s loved one so it’s…okay? Unlike the nurse, Sylar didn’t take death as personally anymore, not when there were worse things to actually fear. It might sound like a refrain of ‘why haven’t you killed me (yet)?’ but he was asking it in regards to Peter this time. Maybe that has something to do with the nightmares.
XXX
Peter gave him a long, steady look. That was a heavy question and not one that had the same answer now than it would have had Sylar asked it a few days after Peter had arrived here, what with Peter's initial barricades on his door to alert him to what seemed like a highly probable assault. No assault had come - at least none that didn't involve Peter being fully awake and ambulatory. He let the notepad rest on his lap and spoke slowly, almost introspectively as if he thought he were disclosing something very private. “I … trust you. Not to do anything to me.” He gave a small nod-tilt, half-shrug. “I'm trusting you to be a decent person about it. We both have to sleep.”
XXX
Sylar raised an eyebrow at that. Peter was saying that outright instead of hinting at it or hoping for it or negotiating for it. Decent person. He knew that wasn’t the same thing as being a decent person; just acting like one. It was, however, an improvement, the capacity for being decent even if he was faking it. It felt good regardless.
XXX
Peter looked away for a moment, then made another half-shrug. “I know you've got your reasons to kill me. Maybe a lot of them.” He glanced at Sylar uneasily, too aware that they were within reach of one another. A lot of violent things could happen fast at this range. His breathing shortened, blood pressure spiking. “But I'm hoping the ones not to outweigh them.” His eyes made another cautious sweep of his companion, alert for the slightest untoward movement. Peter's right hand ached and he quit trying to semi-consciously clench it. Realizing how wound up he was getting, he took a deeper breath, trying to relax. “It's just the two of us here. You've been alone for a long time. I know I'm a pain in the ass, but … I just tell myself I'm worth more to you alive than dead.” He swallowed tensely. “And I hope you not getting to fuck me doesn't have anything to do with that - with my lifespan here.”
XXX
That was not the answer to the question he’d asked, ‘how do you sleep knowing I’m alive and I killed Nathan?’ Sylar then said as much, ignoring all the glances his way, instead focused in the general area of the kitchen, “That’s not what I meant.” Yes, you are a pain in the ass - in mine and Nathan’s and //Dad’s and Ma’s.// And people call me trouble? He’s cute and a do-gooder so he gets a pass?
Nastily, Sylar immediately weighed the pros and cons of his answer. Will it increase my odds if I say yes? Yes to ‘sex affects your lifespan’. (That’s threatening. That will work if he enjoys being raped. Which he won’t - he’ll hate you forever, assuming he lets you live). So the answer was no. Sylar sighed, admitting grudgingly, “Unfortunately, no. It won’t affect your lifespan. Obviously.” I’m worried what my lifespan will be if…that doesn’t…happen. He was not in a good place, hadn’t been for… a very long time, but events had compounded a lot of damage and he felt he was barely hanging on - sometimes he wasn’t managing even that, stuck in a void or free-fall. Desperation described his nearly life-long quest for a connection. Peter hadn’t volunteered, he’d just drawn the short-straw.
XXX
That's not what you meant? What did you mean, then? But for the moment, Peter made a slow nod of concession and said, "Good to know. That ... wasn't obvious to me."
XXX
Hang on. “What do you mean, ‘not getting to fuck you’?” Doubt slithered back in. Peter was obviously barring him from sex because of some non-physical reason, one of those emotional/social/moral things Sylar had so much difficulty with. One of those things he couldn’t fix, despite his attempts. In his experience, the physical, the urge or desire to do harm (for revenge, punishment or amusement) always superseded anything else. The confusion came from Peter’s insistence on good health and that one halting, unpersuasive answer which had sounded enough like an agreement.
XXX
Peter bristled, getting an annoyed expression on his face. You don't 'get' to fuck me like it's some sort of a prize for good behavior! But … wait, didn't I use that phrase first? Better not say that, then. He made a frustrated sigh and ditched the option of ignoring Sylar's question and jumping back to the issue of finding out what Sylar had meant to start with. His question first; mine later.
“I said there were two big reasons.” He held up two fingers on his left hand. “One is that I just told you I'm concerned about you murdering me and you're wondering why that has anything to do with us hooking up. The other was that you probably don't remember what the two reasons were.” He looked at Sylar intently, almost a glare. “You asked me earlier if the beard didn't do it for me. You want to know what really doesn't do it for me? Not caring about other people!”
XXX
How many reasons do you have? How many excuses do you need? Sylar concluded he was being toyed with because he was quite sure Peter was changing his ‘requirements’ every time the subject came up. You trust me but you’re worried I’m going to murder you - which is it? He frowned at the Peter’s pissy appearance and felt anger roil a moment later. I do so care! I asked you what you wanted! He took a deep breath to get over that one, waiting until he was sure he could speak. I should just shove him down and give him what he wants. (A fuck or a beating? Both?) His comeback was glib. Peter was offering it up for discussion. ”So the beard doesn’t do it for you. Then what does do it for you?”
XXX
Peter made a frustrated growl, all the more frustrating because he felt safe enough with the guy to hang out and even let some of defenses down. But Sylar seemed to have a huge freaking blind spot when it came to basic empathy - not the special ability or some fringe benefit of an ability or even just being a good person - no, he seemed to have a problem with one of the basic features of being human. At least in this arena. Which probably has a lot to do with explaining the murders. And molesting Mister Bear. Poor teddy bear.
“Okay, listen,” Peter said, turning to look fully at Sylar. “Let's try a visualization exercise. You know how you keep making these passes at me? Let's imagine that instead of me, you were cooped up here with Matt Parkman, or anyone else who was, you know, your worst enemy. And Matt keeps making passes at you.” Peter smiled lewdly for a moment. Sylar had expressed his disdain and disgust of Matt, so hopefully this would work. “Passes you don't want. He keeps telling you how he can change this nightmare into a wet dream if only you'll … you know.” Peter gave Sylar a pointed look. “You tell him you're not interested, but that doesn't seem to matter much to him.” He waited a beat, scanning Sylar's face, hoping he understood or at least tried to. “That's where I'm at here, Sylar. And the fact that you don't seem to get that is what makes sex out of the question.”
XXX
Sylar turned his head to the pillow to watch his companion lecture (it was that telling tone of voice, which would be cute if it wasn’t so damn righteous and annoying); his book was closed, resting on his stomach. The disgusting part was, he had little difficulty picturing that scenario, not that Matt would ever, ever make a pass at him, but the whole ‘worst enemy/someone who hates you/someone you hate’ doing so, absolutely. Sylar’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed to mildly express his utter revulsion. It made his skin want to crawl away. He bluffed his way through the speech with his patented blank face. He ‘got’ it all right, more of a ‘been there, done that’ kind of thing, actually.
Sylar knew the kind of sex Nathan had, he could guess at the kinds the Petrelli parents had (though he didn’t enjoy the thought, because gross, those were kind of like his parents); he could make a less accurate guess about Peter’s love life, too. I don’t know what kind of sex he thinks I’ve had, then. Peter’s sex life was probably…“Wait, wait. Are you holding out because you want me to like you before we fuck? Ha!” Sylar barked a laugh. “That’s so grade school. Since when do you need to like someone for sex?” Seriously? When? “That has nothing to do with it - you’re not my first choice and I’m not yours.” Duh! “Liking you or you liking me isn’t going to happen; do I really need to explain that to you?” He lifted a hand, palm outwards, rolling his eyes, “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to, Bleeding Heart Petrelli.”
XXX
Peter stared at Sylar, dumbfounded by those statements. He had opened his mouth to say something in the middle of it, but when Sylar laughed, Peter shut up and kept listening, face caught between confused and disbelieving. The individual words Sylar was saying made sense, but strung together, it was like Sylar was spouting gibberish. The certainty with which he was speaking was … well, stunning. Peter had no idea what to say in response, but his mind was slowly wrapping itself around the idea that Sylar was so damaged that perhaps he didn't see any value or use to people having positive feelings for one another. It certainly explained the murders.
XXX
Sylar faced forward again, beginning to pick up his book before aborting the motion, turning back, “Seeing as how you’re the only one here and you’re you, that does make you my worst enemy.” Even though Peter wasn’t really in the top five of that list. “If Parkman tried to make moves on me, I’d make him paaa-…“ pay…Just too late he stopped himself, when most of the word ‘pay’ left his lips, the drawn-out intonation leaving little doubt as to what he’d said. As soon as he did, he knew he’d screwed himself over and his face showed it. He closed his eyes as defeat, sadness, and mostly self-directed anger passed through him. I get it. So that’s what he’s doing. Clever. Unoriginal, but clever that he figured that out so soon. I know he did because he didn’t list Nathan as a reason not to fuck. It was punishment, no matter what Peter tried to call it. Sylar felt like he’d been tricked into making an admission (really, he was just stating something he wished didn’t exist but that something was also perfectly obvious). It implied Peter was more in control of Sylar’s life than he was comfortable with. He looked away quickly, cracking open his book, hoping they both forgot his slip.
XXX
Peter tilted his head slightly. “I'm not turning you down as payback for killing Nathan. I'm turning you down because you kill people.” Nathan included. “And because I'm not about to be with someone who doesn't like me. If you can't understand something that basic, then … it's not going to work out.” Sylar was getting up. Peter fell silent for the moment, going quiet and watchful as his tension spiked up again and he worried that pissing off a brutal killer wasn't a good life-choice. Not that such had ever stopped Peter in the past - standing up to bullies, lipping off to his father, rejecting Nathan's idiotic plan - yeah, telling off people who were in a position of power over him was something of a bad habit. Calling him a bleeding heart had certainly brought several of those people to mind and the fear/tension from Sylar's sudden activity shifted Peter's demeanor to aggressive.
“Hey, I still have a functioning hand, here,” he quipped as Sylar rounded the bed, feeling a perverse need to irritate the dangerous man as much as possible. He waved said appendage at Sylar to gloat. “It's not like I don't have options!” Shit, what if he breaks my other hand? Well, I suppose I could always rub myself against things.
XXX
He stopped short. Slowly, he turned around to give Peter the look of death - it was very much a warning. It slid into something more manic. If I cut some things off, you’ll still be useful to me, Petrelli. Don’t mess with me alone here. His second idea was to gather up every bottle and tube of lubricant so Peter wouldn’t have any. If he were able, he’d be over at Peter’s apartment doing just that. The little shit was going out of his way to be a regressive, vindictive, rude asshole. Sylar had to wrestle with and temper his reactions; Peter threw out a challenge and it took the last shreds of his already frayed control not to take a butcher knife to Peter. The plan was clear, his emotions...less so.
He doesn’t know anything, does he? You don’t know what I understand! Part of him still recognized Peter as his brother. The whole subject of ‘liking,’ it was a joke; it had to be. It could only work one way; everything else was a disaster in the making. His intelligence was assumed, generalized, and degraded. He was a monster so those things were beyond him. Peter was the one being stupid, not grasping the obvious, necessary concept that had always eluded him. The empath came from vastly different standings than anyone else and he used his higher morals to avoid learning that lesson, despite having his face repeatedly shoved in it by father and brother. He thinks he’s better than me, the little prick.
Taking a passage from Nathan’s book once more, Sylar took his book and left the apartment without another word, leaving Peter by himself. He knew how much that move could sting. He wanted Peter to worry and wonder where he was, what he was doing; and in his experience, the whole no-response part often served to rattle others even though it seemed like he was calmly taking whatever shit they were trying to dump on him. That was another lesson he’d learned, another bone he’d had to let go of, ‘let them think what they want.’
Sylar fumed as he limped down the hallway. He didn’t intend to come back. Instead he would find his own holiday feast and perhaps drown his woes. He would piss Peter off by at least trying to enjoy himself. Hopefully it freaked Peter out. His patient was not going to heel. Sylar went down a few floors via the elevator, heaving a deep breath before entering the first apartment he saw. The apartment was still big, being part of the more expensive upper-level floors that supposedly had a view (this one didn’t, since it was in the middle of the building). It was a white-and-dull-blue color scheme, complete with amenities but Sylar was focused on the kitchen. The former owner must have been a complete hippy because nothing in the fridge was edible. He moved on to the next apartment; this one had a window and had a yellow-and-green theme. Most of its food was frozen, fried or canned. His head was worse, his body ached, his hip started to throb where he’d been kicked; walking and bending was taking more out of him than it should have.
A third apartment was purple and orange - the female owner had foolishly taken the liberty of adding pink to the décor and it was overkill. But this woman liked real food. At least she had proteins and some carbs as a general order. He wouldn’t go without nutrition. Stealing some pre-cut pepperoni slices, he snagged a beer, an apple and M&Ms. As an afterthought; he got a glass of water so he didn’t dehydrate because that would interfere with Operation piss-off-Petrelli. He settled into the cushy dark leather chair with his finds and his book. Admittedly, his head hurt much worse without Peter, the drugs or the IV. He longed for a television set that worked. Christmas Day, camped out, not exactly hiding; alone again; he tried to avoid thinking about Peter and how they weren’t having sex.
The reason why was absurd. So as soon as I become a non-murderer and kiss his ass, I can get laid. Why do I doubt it’s that simple? The part about not liking Peter was something of a lie, again, the whole brother thing. That didn't change Peter's past abuses but of course, Peter was going to ignore his own blame. Sylar didn't appreciate being the one to carry the cross alone; he was always the one who had to change. And worse still, he couldn't understand how or why Peter got to make conditions about being liked where Sylar couldn't. If I had the power to say that, I would. I...don't think anyone would listen. And I'd still be alone because no one would like me. Selling himself short never got easier, but it was a choice of something versus nothing. Sylar took a vicious bite of apple to make himself feel better.
XXX
Peter waited as time passed after Sylar left, weighing his concern about the menacing look Sylar had given him against his continuing desire to antagonize the guy. They were both stupid and the wisest thing either of them had done was Sylar simply leaving. He looked at the notepad and sighed. He’ll probably be fine, whatever it is he’s doing. He started filling in the edges on the left side of the flames drawn on the paper. He’s probably out looking for food, or just cooling off. It’s not like we were really communicating anyway. I wonder if Sylar’s ever really communicated with anyone? Really? No siblings, right? Didn’t he say it was just him? I think he did. And his mom. Not many friends from what he said. From that dream I had, working in a watch shop looked slow and lonely. Nothing like working with a partner all day and a dozen different patients and their families. Or having a brother and a dad, even if I didn’t like him, we talked. Sort of. He talked at me, at least and I talked back. Never had a good conversation with him, but even so I had something. What if Sylar’s problem is he hasn’t had that and his only way of dealing with disagreement is … Peter looked over at the door … walking out?
Anything I should do about that? Rehabilitating Sylar is not my job. His thoughts held up there for a moment, considering that. But … on the other hand, things would work a lot better here if we worked together better. Or could at least tolerate each other’s company. Okay … so how do I make him worthwhile to be around? At that, Peter was stumped. I can’t really make him do anything. I’m not a psychologist or whatever, a therapist. I can talk to him … I was talking to him. It didn’t work out. But maybe that’s what it takes? Patience and letting it not work out while he figures out this isn’t something he can run from or a problem he can solve by killing someone? Of course, he might be out there looking for a way to solve it by killing me. Peter mulled that over, thinking about Sylar’s body language as he’d left and when he’d become angry at the table this morning. Nah, he’s not going to kill me. No more likely than any other time, that is.
Eventually, Peter gave up doodling and thinking about Sylar. It didn't occur to him to try to chase Sylar down or look for him. Instead, he got up, stretched, and searched the apartment from one end to the other, being neater about it than he had when they’d searched places before. He assumed he was going to sleep here tonight, because his hip hurt badly enough that the prospect of sharing an apartment with Sylar for another night was better than braving the ice between apartment buildings. He felt safe enough here, although as the morning disappeared and afternoon wore on, he started to wonder if he’d have the place to himself after all.
He’d found a cheese slicer in his thorough search, putting it to good use on what was left of the cheese and bread. He wasn’t very happy with how soggy the bread was in the middle after microwaving to melt the cheese. Peter spent long minutes considering the oven before putting the next slices in the microwave. Sogginess be damned - he didn’t want to set off the fire alarm or whatever bad consequence might happen if he tried to do cheese toast in the oven. He wasn’t feeling adventurous at the moment. His biggest adventure of the day was leaving the apartment to search all the other top floor places. He wasn’t looking for Sylar or for food, but for a hot tub or some other amenity that might make his back and groin/thigh muscles quit hurting. He didn’t find any, which set off a spate of mental cursing about the nature of the world. He returned and took another long, hot bath. At least water heaters worked.
By dinnertime, he was depressed, cranky, and restless. After eating an ice cream sandwich and snagging the rest of the champagne, he made his way to the ground floor where he worked out a tiny amount (arm reps, mostly), played a couple sets of billiards (very badly, but so what?), and played some music (which made him smile, although by that point he was also quite tipsy). Grinning happily to himself for the first time in ages it seemed, he rode the elevator back up when his internal clock judged it be to 'bedtime', humming the 'Ode to Joy' which he'd found mixed in with the hymns in the sheet music in the piano seat. He wasn't sloshed, but he was drunk enough to have relaxed, which had more to do with overcoming the pain than any dulling quality of the alcohol. He rapped twice at the apartment door, not expecting it to be locked and not waiting more than a second or two between knocking and trying the knob.
No one was there. Not just 'no one answered', but 'no one was in the apartment'. Peter stood in the middle of the living room after searching the place, smile gone. A lack of Sylar was worrying. For the first time today, he began to seriously consider what sort of trouble Sylar might get himself into. He put the rest of the champagne in the fridge and got a tall glass of water as he tried to clear his head. A bread sandwich followed.
He's not so messed up that he can't take care of himself for hours or even maybe days. He might be fine. Or he might not be. He was unconscious yesterday, which isn't a good sign. What's the most likely place he would go, if he wasn't here? His apartment. Shit. What if he fell? That stuff is really slick under the ice and he might be impaired enough to try it. What if he hit his head? He might die. Totally healthy people die from that shit every now and then; people who already have a head injury are way worse off.
He picked up what was left of his bread, retrieved the heavy coat he'd used on the previous day's expedition, and put it on in the elevator. He stood outside of the front doors, feet just touching the snow. You didn't have to be an Eagle Scout to see that there weren't any tracks. Peter's from the day before had been filled in overnight, but it hadn't snowed much today. Peter had had plenty of time alone in the penthouse apartment today to stare out the window. There'd been a few flurries in the morning, but nothing after Sylar left. There's probably a back door, too. A few moments later, he looked in the stairwells just to be sure, but no sign of Sylar anywhere. It relaxed him. He's probably just holed up in another apartment. He can sleep whole days away without a problem. Hopefully that's what he's been doing. I still want to check in on him, though.
He took the elevator up, one floor at a time, looking down hallways. No open doors, no sign of Sylar. He tried yelling down one. Besides being undignified, it made his jaw ache. I don't want to limp down every hallway and check every single apartment in the building. My leg's already killing me. What else worked to call him out? Beating on the street with that metal pipe. Could I do that here? What would I use? A cue stick? No, not solid enough. What else is around here that makes a lot of noise? A whistle? No, let's stick with something I can beat out a steady pattern with. What about that kid's baseball bat? Didn't I kick that under the bed? It'll be rough getting on my knees for it, but I'll bet I could make a racket with it.
A half hour later, he was most of the way through visiting each floor, beating the closed doors of the elevator with the baseball bat. He wasn't whaling on them or swinging all that hard. His first choice of hitting the floor was too muffled by the carpet, but if he hit the metal doors right in the join in the middle, they reverberated really nicely - a noise that carried without sounding like he was trying to bash anything down.
XXX
Sylar spent the rest of the day, reading, sipping and dozing in and out of consciousness. It was quiet and he didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. He mostly worked over his dilemma. He could ‘like’ Peter and open himself up to humiliation and rejection; he could play the man’s game. Or he could stick to his guns and give Peter a life-lesson on how the world worked for non-Petrellis; he could make Peter play his game (and in doing so, probably not get laid). But goddamnit, that last sass about masturbating really got to him because there was nothing he could (productively) do about it. Jealous of the guy’s right hand? Why should I care what he does with his dick? It’s not like I’m interested in it for its own sake. It was evening when he was jarred out of his fugue by a low, echoing, metallic sound, rhythmic in nature. What the hell? Did he find a drum set or something? (I thought he preferred beating my face in for stress relief?) The sound grew closer and it was coming from the direction of the elevator. He was curious enough about the source of the noise that he slowly rose and stuck his head out, hanging onto the doorjamb to check the hall.
XXX
Seeing movement, Peter stopped immediately and leaned the bat against the wall before turning back. Hands up in front of his chest for a few seconds, palms out in an indication of harmlessness, he limped down the hall towards his only other companion. “Hey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I needed to check on you before I turned in. How do you feel?”
XXX
Shit. He’d been found, lured right out by the simplest trick in the book. Discovery interfered with his childish solution of revenging himself on Peter for that masturbation comment, even though he wanted to be around the man and was happy someone had looked for him. There Peter stood, looking a little too mafia for his comfort. Sylar braced himself, ready to disappear into the room again and slam the door in Peter’s face and look for escape or weapon while the man battered the door down. But Peter set the bat aside and made to approach. Disturbing me? You almost…With a bat? You’re not sorry! “Do you answer all your house calls with a bat?” he groused, pissy at being disturbed and startled with a show of force via blunt instrument. “I’m alright.” The room service here sucks, he thought by way of being lonely.
XXX
Peter gave a tilt of his head and mild shrug, dropping his hands and coming closer. He gave Sylar a quick once-over to double-check his words, seeing nothing amiss.
XXX
He came back to check on me? Or did he come back for me? Do I want to go with him? Does he want me to? Hang on…Sylar draped himself alluringly in the doorway, purring in a deep voice, ”Is that really what you came to check on? My… health?” God, he flushed warm at the very idea - Peter showing up, worried, possibly interested, at his door. He raked a glance over his companion. He was tired, hurt (because beer just wasn’t cutting it as a headache painkiller), and overly-desirous of human contact.
XXX
“Well, uh … yeah.” Peter stopped there, eyes doing another circuit of Sylar's body language. His brain only now put together what this could look like to Sylar - hunting him down at bedtime for some vague, possibly spurious reason. Er … what do I do about this? He stood there uncertain and more than a little put-off that Sylar could construe the most innocent of motives as lewd.
XXX
“Is this the part where I invite you up for a nightcap? I’ve got beer.” Peter began to respond and it looked like rejection. Frustrated, lonely, angry, Sylar slid out of the doorway. He moved quickly until he stood utterly in Peter’s space, toe-to-toe, which slotted their groins perfectly, he laid hold on the man’s shoulder before he could escape. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Petrelli?” he rasped manipulatively, desperately, positioning his face nearer to Peter’s, flying high on the thrill of closeness and (from what he detected) sensuality between them that was probably the result of the beer. It probably dulled his survival instincts because this was a good way to get hit again. He ceased his advance there, trying to gaze through and into Peter. It was completely cliché, the apartment building suddenly took on a familiar hotel-hall feel, the sleepover, post-date aspect was huge.
XXX
Peter stiffened, straightened, and wished like hell he was taller than Sylar. In an interesting development, his right hand did not hurt; he wasn't trying to clench it. Nothing triggered inside of him to fight or flee, so he stood his ground exactly where he was and met Sylar's gaze steadily, lifting his chin enough to make their faces parallel. It would be very easy to kiss. Sylar's thumb rubbed tantalizingly across his shoulder while Peter tried to ignore how deep the guy's eyes were - really tough to do while staring him down and feeling his breath puff lightly against his face. “I've been taking you at your word, Sylar. Now take me at mine: no.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 15, morning, December 25
Peter looked up at the word Sylar had spoken. It sounded like he was complimenting the clock, or maybe in an indirect way complimenting Peter for bringing it here? Because that's what Peter wanted and he felt like a spoiled, ungrateful child for wanting it. He wanted thanks or a good word or some form of approval, and considering his only source here was Sylar, was … well, pretty fucked up. Getting Sylar's approval would be as screwed up as getting his father's. It was a no-win proposition because at least with his dad, there was no way to get appreciation for doing something on your own - only blind obedience was rewarded. It's probably the same with Sylar. The only thing he'd thank me for doing is sucking up to him.
Peter's eyes fell and went back to his notepad, a sad and sullen expression on his face. I've been here alone too long. Or at least, alone other than him. I shouldn't care what he thinks. It shouldn't matter. He's a murderer and no telling what else. He isn't anyone I should care about! … But he's the only one here.
XXX
Since he’d only been partially trying to get Peter to engage, he wasn’t shocked when he didn’t get any response. Strangely the snow falling outside was making his high-up world seem dizzy so he took a small step back and sat on the bed. He felt something of Peter’s against his back - it was nice, but he didn’t do anything about it. Instead, he continued his inspection of the clock, itching to get at its insides.
XXX
For a very long moment, Peter allowed the touch. Easily long enough for Sylar to notice they'd bumped accidentally and course correct. He's going to get in bed with me again. He knew it, fatalistically certain that this was Sylar's version of making a play. For a guy with a concussion, he sure seems able to stay focused on getting laid. But, well, if there's something to get fixated on, that one's pretty damn common. With a tired huff, Peter gave Sylar a little shove with his knee and then scooted himself away a few inches. He stared sightlessly at the notepad, thinking that stabbing the guy with the pen if he touched him again was way too big an overreaction, regardless of how satisfying it would be. Also, Peter didn't think it would help.
I was just trying to help you! That's all. Peter frowned, unhappy about the whining he was doing inside his head. 'You liked the clock?' he nearly asked, wanting desperately to fish for a compliment. He struggled again with his stupid desire for a kind word. Staring straight forward, Peter decided he had to say something or else he was going to blurt out something ridiculously transparent and embarrassing. Maybe if he asked about something else, it would get his mind out of the insecure rut it had fallen into. He focused on the page. “What's a tour-billion? And why was that the first sentence that came to mind?”
XXX
Sylar had both no knowledge of how much time had passed and the knowledge of every second that passed while he lost himself (almost) inside the clock. The shove came out of nowhere. He heard the noises of Peter moving around behind him, which didn’t bode well. Sylar stood abruptly, shakily. All he could picture was Peter’s fist swinging towards his head again. He only glanced behind him enough to see that the other man wasn’t advancing. He felt confused and a little hurt; after all, he’d only been sitting, hands occupied with a clock, how threatening was that? I…No sitting? No sitting near him, specifically. Gingerly, keeping his peripheral on his companion, Sylar replaced the clock on the nightstand and took his time retrieving his book from the table. He wasn’t deterred by Peter’s behavior, one way or other he’d get a clear answer. If everything harmless was pissing Peter off, well…they might have a problem. Obviously, that is the case. Every breath I take is an insult to him already. Sylar returned to the bedroom, going to the same side he’d slept on the night before. He’ll move or not; I’m not making him do anything. He was daring Peter to shove him again, or find fault in reading together in the same bed.
Laid flat, snug, his head propped on his folded forearm behind his head, as Peter had all the pillows, his book was set on his chest. The position (apart from the pillow shortage) would be perfect to fall asl- Not a moment after he’d settled, Peter spoke. Huh. Sylar turned to look upwards at him as Peter was sitting, back against the headboard. “A tourbillion is a rotating cage used in older style watches. It doesn’t actually have any purpose, but they used to think it kept more accurate time for being a wristwatch - the motion,” his hand made an ‘iffy/wavy/unstable’ gesture. “Now its just an expensive show-piece, literally. I don’t know why it came to mind. It was either that or ‘Peter Petrelli is a male nurse.’” Sylar shrugged.
XXX
“I am not a male nurse; I'm a nurse,” Peter said huffily, repeating a line that he’d had cause to repeat many times. It remained annoying to him that no one doubted his masculinity when he was introduced as a paramedic, even though it took far more training to be a licensed nurse. But Sylar probably meant nothing by it and wasn't trying to rub his nose in how he'd chosen a less-than-virile profession. He Peter set the notepad down and scrunched himself forward by way of apology for being snappish. “Here, take your pillow.” In what was probably an attempt to assert conversational dominance and/or balance out surrendering the pillow, Peter added, “Oh, and if the day before yesterday was my birthday, then this is December twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth.”
XXX
You’re a male nurse, Peter. Sylar dismissed the fuss and the thought (Nathan would have made a dig). He was definitely going to have to take a nap now; he had a pillow. “Thanks,” he took it and lifted his head to place it when Peter mentioned the date. Sylar paused mid-motion, neck muscles craned upwards as he stared at his bedmate. So not only did I get it wrong…it’s also Christmas. Some part of him immediately felt saddened. Peter was here, alone and hurt, with him. He obviously didn’t want to be here. The rest of him was very glad Peter had appeared; it meant he got at least a small connection. “Then we definitely need better food,” he announced simply, moving the pillow behind his head. He was mourning his lack of capability to cook which struck him as incredibly Martha Stewart and that was an unsettling thought all its own. Either he wanted to repay Peter or he wanted something to do or, worst of all, he actually cared about the damn holiday. It’s also a sucky Christmas. Too bad I’m not ‘well’ or it might literally be a sucky Christmas.
When nothing more was said, Sylar considered something he’d been wondering about since Peter appeared. “How do you sleep knowing I’m still alive?” Surely the short walk between bedrooms or apartments, the distance between them in bed or even when Peter slept in a chair must drive him insane. Sylar couldn’t imagine letting a murderer live, not one who’d slain a loved one; but maybe that was the problem - the loved one part. Peter’s hands weren’t clean either; he’d killed Sylar and drugged him, too. Somewhere there was a difference between their morals. Or maybe I’m not anyone’s loved one so it’s…okay? Unlike the nurse, Sylar didn’t take death as personally anymore, not when there were worse things to actually fear. It might sound like a refrain of ‘why haven’t you killed me (yet)?’ but he was asking it in regards to Peter this time. Maybe that has something to do with the nightmares.
XXX
Peter gave him a long, steady look. That was a heavy question and not one that had the same answer now than it would have had Sylar asked it a few days after Peter had arrived here, what with Peter's initial barricades on his door to alert him to what seemed like a highly probable assault. No assault had come - at least none that didn't involve Peter being fully awake and ambulatory. He let the notepad rest on his lap and spoke slowly, almost introspectively as if he thought he were disclosing something very private. “I … trust you. Not to do anything to me.” He gave a small nod-tilt, half-shrug. “I'm trusting you to be a decent person about it. We both have to sleep.”
XXX
Sylar raised an eyebrow at that. Peter was saying that outright instead of hinting at it or hoping for it or negotiating for it. Decent person. He knew that wasn’t the same thing as being a decent person; just acting like one. It was, however, an improvement, the capacity for being decent even if he was faking it. It felt good regardless.
XXX
Peter looked away for a moment, then made another half-shrug. “I know you've got your reasons to kill me. Maybe a lot of them.” He glanced at Sylar uneasily, too aware that they were within reach of one another. A lot of violent things could happen fast at this range. His breathing shortened, blood pressure spiking. “But I'm hoping the ones not to outweigh them.” His eyes made another cautious sweep of his companion, alert for the slightest untoward movement. Peter's right hand ached and he quit trying to semi-consciously clench it. Realizing how wound up he was getting, he took a deeper breath, trying to relax. “It's just the two of us here. You've been alone for a long time. I know I'm a pain in the ass, but … I just tell myself I'm worth more to you alive than dead.” He swallowed tensely. “And I hope you not getting to fuck me doesn't have anything to do with that - with my lifespan here.”
XXX
That was not the answer to the question he’d asked, ‘how do you sleep knowing I’m alive and I killed Nathan?’ Sylar then said as much, ignoring all the glances his way, instead focused in the general area of the kitchen, “That’s not what I meant.” Yes, you are a pain in the ass - in mine and Nathan’s and //Dad’s and Ma’s.// And people call me trouble? He’s cute and a do-gooder so he gets a pass?
Nastily, Sylar immediately weighed the pros and cons of his answer. Will it increase my odds if I say yes? Yes to ‘sex affects your lifespan’. (That’s threatening. That will work if he enjoys being raped. Which he won’t - he’ll hate you forever, assuming he lets you live). So the answer was no. Sylar sighed, admitting grudgingly, “Unfortunately, no. It won’t affect your lifespan. Obviously.” I’m worried what my lifespan will be if…that doesn’t…happen. He was not in a good place, hadn’t been for… a very long time, but events had compounded a lot of damage and he felt he was barely hanging on - sometimes he wasn’t managing even that, stuck in a void or free-fall. Desperation described his nearly life-long quest for a connection. Peter hadn’t volunteered, he’d just drawn the short-straw.
XXX
That's not what you meant? What did you mean, then? But for the moment, Peter made a slow nod of concession and said, "Good to know. That ... wasn't obvious to me."
XXX
Hang on. “What do you mean, ‘not getting to fuck you’?” Doubt slithered back in. Peter was obviously barring him from sex because of some non-physical reason, one of those emotional/social/moral things Sylar had so much difficulty with. One of those things he couldn’t fix, despite his attempts. In his experience, the physical, the urge or desire to do harm (for revenge, punishment or amusement) always superseded anything else. The confusion came from Peter’s insistence on good health and that one halting, unpersuasive answer which had sounded enough like an agreement.
XXX
Peter bristled, getting an annoyed expression on his face. You don't 'get' to fuck me like it's some sort of a prize for good behavior! But … wait, didn't I use that phrase first? Better not say that, then. He made a frustrated sigh and ditched the option of ignoring Sylar's question and jumping back to the issue of finding out what Sylar had meant to start with. His question first; mine later.
“I said there were two big reasons.” He held up two fingers on his left hand. “One is that I just told you I'm concerned about you murdering me and you're wondering why that has anything to do with us hooking up. The other was that you probably don't remember what the two reasons were.” He looked at Sylar intently, almost a glare. “You asked me earlier if the beard didn't do it for me. You want to know what really doesn't do it for me? Not caring about other people!”
XXX
How many reasons do you have? How many excuses do you need? Sylar concluded he was being toyed with because he was quite sure Peter was changing his ‘requirements’ every time the subject came up. You trust me but you’re worried I’m going to murder you - which is it? He frowned at the Peter’s pissy appearance and felt anger roil a moment later. I do so care! I asked you what you wanted! He took a deep breath to get over that one, waiting until he was sure he could speak. I should just shove him down and give him what he wants. (A fuck or a beating? Both?) His comeback was glib. Peter was offering it up for discussion. ”So the beard doesn’t do it for you. Then what does do it for you?”
XXX
Peter made a frustrated growl, all the more frustrating because he felt safe enough with the guy to hang out and even let some of defenses down. But Sylar seemed to have a huge freaking blind spot when it came to basic empathy - not the special ability or some fringe benefit of an ability or even just being a good person - no, he seemed to have a problem with one of the basic features of being human. At least in this arena. Which probably has a lot to do with explaining the murders. And molesting Mister Bear. Poor teddy bear.
“Okay, listen,” Peter said, turning to look fully at Sylar. “Let's try a visualization exercise. You know how you keep making these passes at me? Let's imagine that instead of me, you were cooped up here with Matt Parkman, or anyone else who was, you know, your worst enemy. And Matt keeps making passes at you.” Peter smiled lewdly for a moment. Sylar had expressed his disdain and disgust of Matt, so hopefully this would work. “Passes you don't want. He keeps telling you how he can change this nightmare into a wet dream if only you'll … you know.” Peter gave Sylar a pointed look. “You tell him you're not interested, but that doesn't seem to matter much to him.” He waited a beat, scanning Sylar's face, hoping he understood or at least tried to. “That's where I'm at here, Sylar. And the fact that you don't seem to get that is what makes sex out of the question.”
XXX
Sylar turned his head to the pillow to watch his companion lecture (it was that telling tone of voice, which would be cute if it wasn’t so damn righteous and annoying); his book was closed, resting on his stomach. The disgusting part was, he had little difficulty picturing that scenario, not that Matt would ever, ever make a pass at him, but the whole ‘worst enemy/someone who hates you/someone you hate’ doing so, absolutely. Sylar’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed to mildly express his utter revulsion. It made his skin want to crawl away. He bluffed his way through the speech with his patented blank face. He ‘got’ it all right, more of a ‘been there, done that’ kind of thing, actually.
Sylar knew the kind of sex Nathan had, he could guess at the kinds the Petrelli parents had (though he didn’t enjoy the thought, because gross, those were kind of like his parents); he could make a less accurate guess about Peter’s love life, too. I don’t know what kind of sex he thinks I’ve had, then. Peter’s sex life was probably…“Wait, wait. Are you holding out because you want me to like you before we fuck? Ha!” Sylar barked a laugh. “That’s so grade school. Since when do you need to like someone for sex?” Seriously? When? “That has nothing to do with it - you’re not my first choice and I’m not yours.” Duh! “Liking you or you liking me isn’t going to happen; do I really need to explain that to you?” He lifted a hand, palm outwards, rolling his eyes, “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to, Bleeding Heart Petrelli.”
XXX
Peter stared at Sylar, dumbfounded by those statements. He had opened his mouth to say something in the middle of it, but when Sylar laughed, Peter shut up and kept listening, face caught between confused and disbelieving. The individual words Sylar was saying made sense, but strung together, it was like Sylar was spouting gibberish. The certainty with which he was speaking was … well, stunning. Peter had no idea what to say in response, but his mind was slowly wrapping itself around the idea that Sylar was so damaged that perhaps he didn't see any value or use to people having positive feelings for one another. It certainly explained the murders.
XXX
Sylar faced forward again, beginning to pick up his book before aborting the motion, turning back, “Seeing as how you’re the only one here and you’re you, that does make you my worst enemy.” Even though Peter wasn’t really in the top five of that list. “If Parkman tried to make moves on me, I’d make him paaa-…“ pay…Just too late he stopped himself, when most of the word ‘pay’ left his lips, the drawn-out intonation leaving little doubt as to what he’d said. As soon as he did, he knew he’d screwed himself over and his face showed it. He closed his eyes as defeat, sadness, and mostly self-directed anger passed through him. I get it. So that’s what he’s doing. Clever. Unoriginal, but clever that he figured that out so soon. I know he did because he didn’t list Nathan as a reason not to fuck. It was punishment, no matter what Peter tried to call it. Sylar felt like he’d been tricked into making an admission (really, he was just stating something he wished didn’t exist but that something was also perfectly obvious). It implied Peter was more in control of Sylar’s life than he was comfortable with. He looked away quickly, cracking open his book, hoping they both forgot his slip.
XXX
Peter tilted his head slightly. “I'm not turning you down as payback for killing Nathan. I'm turning you down because you kill people.” Nathan included. “And because I'm not about to be with someone who doesn't like me. If you can't understand something that basic, then … it's not going to work out.” Sylar was getting up. Peter fell silent for the moment, going quiet and watchful as his tension spiked up again and he worried that pissing off a brutal killer wasn't a good life-choice. Not that such had ever stopped Peter in the past - standing up to bullies, lipping off to his father, rejecting Nathan's idiotic plan - yeah, telling off people who were in a position of power over him was something of a bad habit. Calling him a bleeding heart had certainly brought several of those people to mind and the fear/tension from Sylar's sudden activity shifted Peter's demeanor to aggressive.
“Hey, I still have a functioning hand, here,” he quipped as Sylar rounded the bed, feeling a perverse need to irritate the dangerous man as much as possible. He waved said appendage at Sylar to gloat. “It's not like I don't have options!” Shit, what if he breaks my other hand? Well, I suppose I could always rub myself against things.
XXX
He stopped short. Slowly, he turned around to give Peter the look of death - it was very much a warning. It slid into something more manic. If I cut some things off, you’ll still be useful to me, Petrelli. Don’t mess with me alone here. His second idea was to gather up every bottle and tube of lubricant so Peter wouldn’t have any. If he were able, he’d be over at Peter’s apartment doing just that. The little shit was going out of his way to be a regressive, vindictive, rude asshole. Sylar had to wrestle with and temper his reactions; Peter threw out a challenge and it took the last shreds of his already frayed control not to take a butcher knife to Peter. The plan was clear, his emotions...less so.
He doesn’t know anything, does he? You don’t know what I understand! Part of him still recognized Peter as his brother. The whole subject of ‘liking,’ it was a joke; it had to be. It could only work one way; everything else was a disaster in the making. His intelligence was assumed, generalized, and degraded. He was a monster so those things were beyond him. Peter was the one being stupid, not grasping the obvious, necessary concept that had always eluded him. The empath came from vastly different standings than anyone else and he used his higher morals to avoid learning that lesson, despite having his face repeatedly shoved in it by father and brother. He thinks he’s better than me, the little prick.
Taking a passage from Nathan’s book once more, Sylar took his book and left the apartment without another word, leaving Peter by himself. He knew how much that move could sting. He wanted Peter to worry and wonder where he was, what he was doing; and in his experience, the whole no-response part often served to rattle others even though it seemed like he was calmly taking whatever shit they were trying to dump on him. That was another lesson he’d learned, another bone he’d had to let go of, ‘let them think what they want.’
Sylar fumed as he limped down the hallway. He didn’t intend to come back. Instead he would find his own holiday feast and perhaps drown his woes. He would piss Peter off by at least trying to enjoy himself. Hopefully it freaked Peter out. His patient was not going to heel. Sylar went down a few floors via the elevator, heaving a deep breath before entering the first apartment he saw. The apartment was still big, being part of the more expensive upper-level floors that supposedly had a view (this one didn’t, since it was in the middle of the building). It was a white-and-dull-blue color scheme, complete with amenities but Sylar was focused on the kitchen. The former owner must have been a complete hippy because nothing in the fridge was edible. He moved on to the next apartment; this one had a window and had a yellow-and-green theme. Most of its food was frozen, fried or canned. His head was worse, his body ached, his hip started to throb where he’d been kicked; walking and bending was taking more out of him than it should have.
A third apartment was purple and orange - the female owner had foolishly taken the liberty of adding pink to the décor and it was overkill. But this woman liked real food. At least she had proteins and some carbs as a general order. He wouldn’t go without nutrition. Stealing some pre-cut pepperoni slices, he snagged a beer, an apple and M&Ms. As an afterthought; he got a glass of water so he didn’t dehydrate because that would interfere with Operation piss-off-Petrelli. He settled into the cushy dark leather chair with his finds and his book. Admittedly, his head hurt much worse without Peter, the drugs or the IV. He longed for a television set that worked. Christmas Day, camped out, not exactly hiding; alone again; he tried to avoid thinking about Peter and how they weren’t having sex.
The reason why was absurd. So as soon as I become a non-murderer and kiss his ass, I can get laid. Why do I doubt it’s that simple? The part about not liking Peter was something of a lie, again, the whole brother thing. That didn't change Peter's past abuses but of course, Peter was going to ignore his own blame. Sylar didn't appreciate being the one to carry the cross alone; he was always the one who had to change. And worse still, he couldn't understand how or why Peter got to make conditions about being liked where Sylar couldn't. If I had the power to say that, I would. I...don't think anyone would listen. And I'd still be alone because no one would like me. Selling himself short never got easier, but it was a choice of something versus nothing. Sylar took a vicious bite of apple to make himself feel better.
XXX
Peter waited as time passed after Sylar left, weighing his concern about the menacing look Sylar had given him against his continuing desire to antagonize the guy. They were both stupid and the wisest thing either of them had done was Sylar simply leaving. He looked at the notepad and sighed. He’ll probably be fine, whatever it is he’s doing. He started filling in the edges on the left side of the flames drawn on the paper. He’s probably out looking for food, or just cooling off. It’s not like we were really communicating anyway. I wonder if Sylar’s ever really communicated with anyone? Really? No siblings, right? Didn’t he say it was just him? I think he did. And his mom. Not many friends from what he said. From that dream I had, working in a watch shop looked slow and lonely. Nothing like working with a partner all day and a dozen different patients and their families. Or having a brother and a dad, even if I didn’t like him, we talked. Sort of. He talked at me, at least and I talked back. Never had a good conversation with him, but even so I had something. What if Sylar’s problem is he hasn’t had that and his only way of dealing with disagreement is … Peter looked over at the door … walking out?
Anything I should do about that? Rehabilitating Sylar is not my job. His thoughts held up there for a moment, considering that. But … on the other hand, things would work a lot better here if we worked together better. Or could at least tolerate each other’s company. Okay … so how do I make him worthwhile to be around? At that, Peter was stumped. I can’t really make him do anything. I’m not a psychologist or whatever, a therapist. I can talk to him … I was talking to him. It didn’t work out. But maybe that’s what it takes? Patience and letting it not work out while he figures out this isn’t something he can run from or a problem he can solve by killing someone? Of course, he might be out there looking for a way to solve it by killing me. Peter mulled that over, thinking about Sylar’s body language as he’d left and when he’d become angry at the table this morning. Nah, he’s not going to kill me. No more likely than any other time, that is.
Eventually, Peter gave up doodling and thinking about Sylar. It didn't occur to him to try to chase Sylar down or look for him. Instead, he got up, stretched, and searched the apartment from one end to the other, being neater about it than he had when they’d searched places before. He assumed he was going to sleep here tonight, because his hip hurt badly enough that the prospect of sharing an apartment with Sylar for another night was better than braving the ice between apartment buildings. He felt safe enough here, although as the morning disappeared and afternoon wore on, he started to wonder if he’d have the place to himself after all.
He’d found a cheese slicer in his thorough search, putting it to good use on what was left of the cheese and bread. He wasn’t very happy with how soggy the bread was in the middle after microwaving to melt the cheese. Peter spent long minutes considering the oven before putting the next slices in the microwave. Sogginess be damned - he didn’t want to set off the fire alarm or whatever bad consequence might happen if he tried to do cheese toast in the oven. He wasn’t feeling adventurous at the moment. His biggest adventure of the day was leaving the apartment to search all the other top floor places. He wasn’t looking for Sylar or for food, but for a hot tub or some other amenity that might make his back and groin/thigh muscles quit hurting. He didn’t find any, which set off a spate of mental cursing about the nature of the world. He returned and took another long, hot bath. At least water heaters worked.
By dinnertime, he was depressed, cranky, and restless. After eating an ice cream sandwich and snagging the rest of the champagne, he made his way to the ground floor where he worked out a tiny amount (arm reps, mostly), played a couple sets of billiards (very badly, but so what?), and played some music (which made him smile, although by that point he was also quite tipsy). Grinning happily to himself for the first time in ages it seemed, he rode the elevator back up when his internal clock judged it be to 'bedtime', humming the 'Ode to Joy' which he'd found mixed in with the hymns in the sheet music in the piano seat. He wasn't sloshed, but he was drunk enough to have relaxed, which had more to do with overcoming the pain than any dulling quality of the alcohol. He rapped twice at the apartment door, not expecting it to be locked and not waiting more than a second or two between knocking and trying the knob.
No one was there. Not just 'no one answered', but 'no one was in the apartment'. Peter stood in the middle of the living room after searching the place, smile gone. A lack of Sylar was worrying. For the first time today, he began to seriously consider what sort of trouble Sylar might get himself into. He put the rest of the champagne in the fridge and got a tall glass of water as he tried to clear his head. A bread sandwich followed.
He's not so messed up that he can't take care of himself for hours or even maybe days. He might be fine. Or he might not be. He was unconscious yesterday, which isn't a good sign. What's the most likely place he would go, if he wasn't here? His apartment. Shit. What if he fell? That stuff is really slick under the ice and he might be impaired enough to try it. What if he hit his head? He might die. Totally healthy people die from that shit every now and then; people who already have a head injury are way worse off.
He picked up what was left of his bread, retrieved the heavy coat he'd used on the previous day's expedition, and put it on in the elevator. He stood outside of the front doors, feet just touching the snow. You didn't have to be an Eagle Scout to see that there weren't any tracks. Peter's from the day before had been filled in overnight, but it hadn't snowed much today. Peter had had plenty of time alone in the penthouse apartment today to stare out the window. There'd been a few flurries in the morning, but nothing after Sylar left. There's probably a back door, too. A few moments later, he looked in the stairwells just to be sure, but no sign of Sylar anywhere. It relaxed him. He's probably just holed up in another apartment. He can sleep whole days away without a problem. Hopefully that's what he's been doing. I still want to check in on him, though.
He took the elevator up, one floor at a time, looking down hallways. No open doors, no sign of Sylar. He tried yelling down one. Besides being undignified, it made his jaw ache. I don't want to limp down every hallway and check every single apartment in the building. My leg's already killing me. What else worked to call him out? Beating on the street with that metal pipe. Could I do that here? What would I use? A cue stick? No, not solid enough. What else is around here that makes a lot of noise? A whistle? No, let's stick with something I can beat out a steady pattern with. What about that kid's baseball bat? Didn't I kick that under the bed? It'll be rough getting on my knees for it, but I'll bet I could make a racket with it.
A half hour later, he was most of the way through visiting each floor, beating the closed doors of the elevator with the baseball bat. He wasn't whaling on them or swinging all that hard. His first choice of hitting the floor was too muffled by the carpet, but if he hit the metal doors right in the join in the middle, they reverberated really nicely - a noise that carried without sounding like he was trying to bash anything down.
XXX
Sylar spent the rest of the day, reading, sipping and dozing in and out of consciousness. It was quiet and he didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. He mostly worked over his dilemma. He could ‘like’ Peter and open himself up to humiliation and rejection; he could play the man’s game. Or he could stick to his guns and give Peter a life-lesson on how the world worked for non-Petrellis; he could make Peter play his game (and in doing so, probably not get laid). But goddamnit, that last sass about masturbating really got to him because there was nothing he could (productively) do about it. Jealous of the guy’s right hand? Why should I care what he does with his dick? It’s not like I’m interested in it for its own sake. It was evening when he was jarred out of his fugue by a low, echoing, metallic sound, rhythmic in nature. What the hell? Did he find a drum set or something? (I thought he preferred beating my face in for stress relief?) The sound grew closer and it was coming from the direction of the elevator. He was curious enough about the source of the noise that he slowly rose and stuck his head out, hanging onto the doorjamb to check the hall.
XXX
Seeing movement, Peter stopped immediately and leaned the bat against the wall before turning back. Hands up in front of his chest for a few seconds, palms out in an indication of harmlessness, he limped down the hall towards his only other companion. “Hey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I needed to check on you before I turned in. How do you feel?”
XXX
Shit. He’d been found, lured right out by the simplest trick in the book. Discovery interfered with his childish solution of revenging himself on Peter for that masturbation comment, even though he wanted to be around the man and was happy someone had looked for him. There Peter stood, looking a little too mafia for his comfort. Sylar braced himself, ready to disappear into the room again and slam the door in Peter’s face and look for escape or weapon while the man battered the door down. But Peter set the bat aside and made to approach. Disturbing me? You almost…With a bat? You’re not sorry! “Do you answer all your house calls with a bat?” he groused, pissy at being disturbed and startled with a show of force via blunt instrument. “I’m alright.” The room service here sucks, he thought by way of being lonely.
XXX
Peter gave a tilt of his head and mild shrug, dropping his hands and coming closer. He gave Sylar a quick once-over to double-check his words, seeing nothing amiss.
XXX
He came back to check on me? Or did he come back for me? Do I want to go with him? Does he want me to? Hang on…Sylar draped himself alluringly in the doorway, purring in a deep voice, ”Is that really what you came to check on? My… health?” God, he flushed warm at the very idea - Peter showing up, worried, possibly interested, at his door. He raked a glance over his companion. He was tired, hurt (because beer just wasn’t cutting it as a headache painkiller), and overly-desirous of human contact.
XXX
“Well, uh … yeah.” Peter stopped there, eyes doing another circuit of Sylar's body language. His brain only now put together what this could look like to Sylar - hunting him down at bedtime for some vague, possibly spurious reason. Er … what do I do about this? He stood there uncertain and more than a little put-off that Sylar could construe the most innocent of motives as lewd.
XXX
“Is this the part where I invite you up for a nightcap? I’ve got beer.” Peter began to respond and it looked like rejection. Frustrated, lonely, angry, Sylar slid out of the doorway. He moved quickly until he stood utterly in Peter’s space, toe-to-toe, which slotted their groins perfectly, he laid hold on the man’s shoulder before he could escape. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Petrelli?” he rasped manipulatively, desperately, positioning his face nearer to Peter’s, flying high on the thrill of closeness and (from what he detected) sensuality between them that was probably the result of the beer. It probably dulled his survival instincts because this was a good way to get hit again. He ceased his advance there, trying to gaze through and into Peter. It was completely cliché, the apartment building suddenly took on a familiar hotel-hall feel, the sleepover, post-date aspect was huge.
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Peter stiffened, straightened, and wished like hell he was taller than Sylar. In an interesting development, his right hand did not hurt; he wasn't trying to clench it. Nothing triggered inside of him to fight or flee, so he stood his ground exactly where he was and met Sylar's gaze steadily, lifting his chin enough to make their faces parallel. It would be very easy to kiss. Sylar's thumb rubbed tantalizingly across his shoulder while Peter tried to ignore how deep the guy's eyes were - really tough to do while staring him down and feeling his breath puff lightly against his face. “I've been taking you at your word, Sylar. Now take me at mine: no.”
XXX
Continued...