More Between Us Chapter 62/? "Get A Clue"
More Between Us, Chapter 62/? "Get A Clue"
Day 16, afternoon, December 26
“Where’s the laundry room at?” Peter asked again in just as crabby a tone as before, trying to figure out a comfortable way of hauling a tall, narrow hamper in his present condition. It was doable, but awkward - too big to tuck under an arm, too heavy to carry one-handed, so he was left hooking the functional fingers of his right hand under the rim and trying not to actually carry any weight on that hand. Once in the elevator, he set it on the floor and stared up and to the side at a random spot on the wall in the opposite direction from Sylar. I’m tired. He breathed out heavily. Most of what I’ve done is just a lot of sitting around, though. He glanced over Sylar’s way once to show a polite awareness of the guy’s presence, then looked away again before he could be engaged in conversation. What was it Matt yelled at me? ‘If you go in there, you’ll never come out!’ Can’t be true. I won’t let it be true. As the elevator doors dinged open, a new thought occurred to him: What would I need to do to keep it from being true?
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Okay. If that’s the mood we’re in. “Basement. C’mon, I’ll show you.” Sylar led the way. You should really move in. It wouldn’t be that bad. Wouldn’t have to be on my floor even. He could feel ‘cranky’ radiating off Peter and it didn’t bother him much - he knew it was harmless. That said, unless he wanted to piss the guy off, he had to pay attention to Peter and simultaneously not annoy or smother him. The ride down was silent but not tense.
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The new scene distracted him. The elevator doors opened on a dingy, poorly-lit basement that featured exposed piping and miscellaneous equipment Peter imagined was necessary for the successful (if equally imaginary) operation of the building. He’d mostly given up trying to rationalize or understand the world. The only thing here worth understanding was Sylar, who still had so many walls up that it would be no easy task to bring them down. Peter hung back and let Sylar lead the way, thus gaining a little bit of privacy for him to wrestle the hamper into submission.
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Sylar turned left out of the doors, leading away from the lobby. There were two right turns, a door, and a long horror-film hallway. “It’s cleaner than it looks. It’s mostly old,” he informed, entering the last door to his left. The washers were on the right walls, the dryers the left. A tall table was mounted in the middle of the room, for folding. There was one chair and a carpeted step area that led to another hall with more apartments. That was there they would be sitting.
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The laundry room itself was better lit and actually enclosed. Peter didn’t think they had but a single load to wash. He dumped in clothes all together, not sorting for whites or colors. Just about everything they’d worn had been dark anyway. He frowned into the washer tub. “I used to wear colors. I ought to wear something bright tomorrow. What’d’ya think?”
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Standing by, looking for the opportunity to aid the one-handed with the clothes, Sylar turned to him and grinned. Color was good, wasn’t it? Getting Peter out of his mourning garb certainly was. “Sounds good to me.” Uh-oh. “Um…Speaking of…” Anal-retentive much? (Shut up. They’ll last longer this way). Sylar stepped in to sort the colors before Peter added detergent. The other man huffed and moved away - Sylar checked to make sure it was an okay detachment and it seemed to be. “It’s…better for the clothes, this way. It only takes a minute,” he tried to reason anyway, just in case or maybe just because. That done, he added detergent and started the machines.
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Peter rolled his eyes but held his peace, stepping back out of Sylar's way, then further still because he didn't have anything invested in how the laundry was arranged. It was mostly Sylar's clothes and despite how easily irritated Peter felt at the moment, this wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to argue about. He snagged the game box from where he'd set it to the side before unloading the clothes and wandered off to the other side of the room, looking for a place to sit. A single chair meant they were both going to be on the floor and since he didn't want to sit flat if he could help it (due to pain when he'd inevitably have to get himself back up), the stair steps looked like the best option. He sunk down on the middle one carefully, near the half-wall so he could pull himself up when he needed to rise.
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“Clue,” he said, approaching Peter and spying the game. Sylar settled his legs Indian style and dug out the multitude of tiny pieces that went to the game. “Who do you wanna be?” He asked of the character player-slash-color choices, holding them up in his palm.
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Peter tried to remember the details of the game. He knew the pieces corresponded to various personas, but that was about it. He didn’t think which of the brightly colored tokens he chose had any rules-based impact on the game. With nothing else to go on, he picked the red one. He liked red.
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"Ms. Scarlet. Is that red or pink? No, I think it's pink. Why'd you choose pink, Peter?”
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Peter glared at him, passing the piece to his left hand, which curled around it in a fist. He swayed forward slightly, feet tucking back as much as he could on the step as if poising to get up. His bad mood surged to full force. “I picked it because it’s red. What the fuck does it matter to you if it’s pink? You got any other bullshit you want to get off your chest?” Sylar’s comment about him being a ‘male nurse’ came to mind, setting him to wonder if Sylar saw him as effeminate and coded that as ‘bad’. His eyes narrowed slightly in comprehension. “Does this have something to do with why you keep making passes at me?” He rocked back against his seat on the stairs, stretching his legs out and relaxing his grip around the game piece, which nevertheless had already left an imprint against his palm. “I am not less than you because of the gender of those I fall in love with.”
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Sylar frowned. (I was just teasing…) Keep your mouth shut already! He’s not your fucking friend! He was left with confusion, feeling attacked without sufficient cause or reason. He did say he liked red, which is still weird. “I hit on you because you chose a pink- red piece that you just now took?” I hit on you before you took it…Peter’s mental/verbal leaps weren’t traceable to him and he was twelve steps behind trying to piece them together to answer. He blurted “What?” How did we get on love? “Pink is gay is good…?” he asked with trepidation, feeling out if that’s what Peter was talking about. Why does he think I care? (Nathan would care, but I’m not Nathan. Is he labeling me as Nathan or…?) Clue - red piece - female character - bullshit - hitting on him - loving…people; what, if anything, was the connecting factor? “Because you’re gay? I hit on you because you’re not, um…” there was a long pause to word this in vague Sylar-form, “opposed, that way. Not…counting that it’s me.” Is he gonna hit me over this? I don’t even know what I did! He will hit me if that’s not what he’s talking about.
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Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wasn't following most of what Sylar was saying, but the gist seemed to be that Sylar was in the same boat regarding what Peter had said. Is he putting me on? His lips pressed together tightly for a moment and he leaned forward, eyes boring into Sylar. “You don't get it?” Peter asked with a slight sideways motion of his head.
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Sylar’s mouth tensed at the familiarity of that - at Nathan’s familiarity of that phrase. //”You get it right?” “Yeah, I get it.” “Good man.”// came to mind before everything began to fall apart, thinking it many times as Peter ‘didn’t get it’ about being mind fucked. As it was, being spoken to him now, it was almost like being asked if he was stupid. “No, I don’t,” he said, not appreciating the suspicious look he was being given either.
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Peter leaned back, face relaxing as he accepted that Sylar didn't understand the context for the outburst. But before he addressed it, he needed to say something about another thing Sylar had brought up. “I'm not gay. I'm bisexual. It's two different things, but you're right that it means I'm not 'opposed' to being with men sexually.” He skipped the mention of Sylar in particular.
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Eh-hu-uh…Whatever excuse you need to get off, Peter. Sylar made a ‘there you have it’ face. Just that sentence, ‘being with men sexually’, so casual. How does that even happen?
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And now, the 'getting it' part. He rubbed his heel on the floor speculatively, looking down at it and pulling his arms in closer to make himself smaller. “You know, my dad didn't like … a lot of things about me. The last thing he didn't like, before he died the first time, was me becoming a nurse. I'll spare you all his bullshit about it being beneath a Petrelli and move on to the part about how he didn't think that was a job for a man. If I was going to do it, then to him, it meant I wasn't a man. That maybe I needed to wear women's shoes like Nathan got me for graduation, or that I was wearing my hair long because I wanted people to confuse me for a girl.” Peter snorted at the stupidity of that. “As if anyone would, who actually took a look at me. God forbid my dad had ever found out I wasn't actually straight.” He rolled his eyes and looked away. He knew Arthur had had reason to suspect. It just seemed swallowed up by Peter's general inadequacy to Arthur, or maybe his father saw it as too depraved to even mention. It was a ridiculous point of view to have in 21st century New York, but his father took Peter's stubbornness to absurd lengths.
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Peter’s point was a very obvious one, a good one, too, if he dared say so. Sylar should have thought of that, taken it into consideration. Nathan had been very familiar with the argument as the go-between father and brother. Arthur - the foundation for all of Peter’s rebelliousness. Arthur who wanted his son to be…normal? So he could…dismiss or handle him more easily? That was the exact opposite of little Gabriel’s upbringing. Peter wants to be special, his dad wanted him to be normal; I wanted to be normal, my mom wanted me to be special. Yeah, I’d have been a good fit for the Petrellis. But that means Peter just…doesn’t belong anywhere? That can’t be right. Nobody turns him away. And on top of that, he’s worried about being manly. So he works out a lot. Sylar would know better than to assume that didn’t affect Peter, even before this little outburst. But why does he wear his hair long then, if not to piss of Arthur and Nathan?
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Peter gave Sylar a long, level look. “There's nothing funny about jokes that there's something wrong with me or anyone else for being other than my dad's stupid idea of a man's man.”
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I wasn’t referring to you dad’s stupid idea of a man’s man. (I was referring to my dad’s stupid idea of it, not that I’d have ever been stupid enough to pick a pink or purple piece) Of course, I didn’t mean for you to get this upset about it. How often had Peter played with dolls or dressed up in dresses, put on make-up or stated a preference for ‘girl’ colors that this was such an issue? Sylar really had no idea what to say. He had his own opinion, Nathan’s, Peter’s, Martin’s, Virginia’s, and Arthur’s opinion in the mix. The problem was he could understand everyone else’s opinion - but Peter just did what Peter wanted to do, no matter the rhyme or reason, and he was good enough to rationalize it with whatever he wanted and make it sound passable. There was safety in numbers, being accepted by the herd but…the empath’s side had sense, too. Peter was girly, he was rebellious, he was an outsider there was no denying it. Sylar was even pretty sure Peter knew that. Sylar didn’t know where he fell into this whole mess - he’d been forced into obedience but driven to shine when he wanted normalcy. He still hadn’t figured any of it out, mostly he left it alone because it was just so damn tangled.
For now, because Peter was staring at him, demanding agreement, Sylar nodded noncommittally. If pressed, he’d say he was acknowledging Peter’s point of view, his grievance. Distantly, he was torqued that Peter wanted everything both ways (no puns intended): know him, but don’t know him using Nathan’s memories. “Why do you wear your hair long, then? The secret hope that you’ll join a rock band? Not that it’s a bad look or anything, it’s just…” Pointless?
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Peter let another long beat slide by, weighing Sylar's bland but curious tone, like Sylar hadn't just been insulting and Peter hadn't snapped at him in response. Absent was any recognition from Sylar that he'd said anything wrong - that nod didn't count. It looked like an acknowledgment that Peter had said something, not an indication they felt the same way on it. Peter sighed voluminously and let it go, reaching up to rake his mentioned hair back. “I was in a band, briefly. But no, that's not it. I like my hair long. A lot of other people like it that way. I had it short for a while; didn't like it as much. My father doesn't get to decide what I do with my life or my hair.” Or didn't, rather. Whatever. His eyes cut off to the side in annoyance, then back. He pulled over the game box to distract himself, getting out the board and unfolding it.
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Part of Peter’s statement was bothering him. Sylar looked away for a moment, thinking abstractly, trying to connect it to what he knew. He wanted to see if he could explain some of that famously crazed Peter behavior. He didn’t know that he cared particularly for the trauma involved (assuming there was any), but he would definitely point the finger at idiot-Nathan for not knowing or caring. That was just being a bad brother. “Peter, did…did some guy make you do things? Is that why you…?” He finished with a ‘you know…’ gesture to indicate those perverted fetishes Peter had.
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Peter found himself in a dilemma. If he set the board on the lowest level next to Sylar, then Peter would have to lean down uncomfortably for it or ask Sylar to do his moves for him. If it put it on the highest level, above the short quarter-flight of stairs, then Sylar would have to move to that level, where he'd tower above Peter to an absurd and unacceptable degree. He frowned, glancing up and down the stairs at the two options. He set it next to where Sylar was sitting and scooted himself down to sit on the same level. It would be tougher to get up, but he figured he'd make it somehow.
He furrowed his brow at Sylar's questions and gesture. “Uh, it was Elle who cut my hair, not a guy.” At Sylar's expression, Peter shrugged. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
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Sylar tilted his chin down, giving Peter a more meaningful look, enunciating more. "Around high school maybe. Did a guy ever make you do anything for him, to him?"
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“Oh!” Now Peter got it, and his face showed it with a bob up and down of his brows and a few rapid blinks. It was followed by a smile that was somewhere between a wince and bared teeth as he processed what Sylar was implying. Just to be sure, he asked, “You're suggesting … I'm bisexual because I was raped, or molested. Is that right?”
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"Hmm," Sylar nodded again, waiting. Those were the common labels for such events, whether or not he thought they applied. He didn’t know if Peter would answer this one in so many words.
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Peter gave Sylar another long, searching look, one of many he'd given him so far during this conversation. Sylar seemed serious as could be and more importantly, he was listening. Not just 'hearing what Peter was saying' listening, but actually seemed to be trying to understand. Peter's left hand found his right, tracing the edge of the brace and scratching idly while he thought about what that meant for Sylar. He calmed and moved back so his butt was against the riser for the bottom stair step.
“No. That's not the case.” He spoke simply and plainly, relating the facts in a manner he hoped was educational. “I wasn't raped in high school and it didn't have anything to do with my preferences. I've been attracted to both since the earliest sexual fantasies I can remember. That's how it is for most people: what you want, what you dream about, that's what you're attracted to, at least as far as general trends. It doesn't have anything to do with being abused, except that I've talked to a few people who … once they were mistreated by a certain type of person, they might stay away from that type after that and sometimes that's broad enough that they stay away from an entire gender, or just get turned off from sex altogether. Sometimes people don't get past it. Different people cope differently.”
His voice had softened a bit towards the end, eyeing Sylar with a slightly furrowed brow. It was a thoughtful look. He said liking each other didn't have anything to do with sex. Has anything ever happened to him? Is that why he's asking? Peter dug into the box for the cards, setting them out unshuffled on the board as he tried to feel his way through what little he knew for sure of Sylar's past. Oddly, the thing that came front and center to his mind was the whole Nathan identity fiasco, how Peter had tried to repeat it, and how upset Sylar had been about that earlier. His expression faded to melancholy. Is that why he could never like me?
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There goes that theory. I guess that’s good he wasn’t raped or anything. He doesn’t understand it. Sylar couldn’t imagine that kind of thing, done willingly, being natural or pleasurable. He stared intently at Peter throughout his speech. Wait, wait, wait! If I don’t dream about guys, I’m not gay? They were wrong! I have nightmares, though…does that count? I don’t really dream about that stuff so what does that mean? It’s so complicated. Sylar caught Peter looking at him and hastily fixed his face before looking away to think. Some people don’t get a choice. Oh well. It doesn’t matter. He sniffed and straightened, taking the yellow Colonel Mustard piece after all that.
“Did you ever see the movie, Clue? All the multiple endings?” He shuffled the cards since Peter couldn’t or shouldn’t, passing them out then taking the three secret cards and putting them into the envelope. Idly, he checked out his own cards while Peter handled the pencils and check-lists. “I liked all of them except Mrs. Peacock’s. It didn’t seem…probable. She didn’t seem capable, I guess.”
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Peter gave a small frown as he moved his cards to the side and pulled the other supplies from the box. Quietly and slowly, eyes mostly on what he was doing, he said, “You know, it's really hard for me to relate to you, to understand you, when you don't give me any feedback. It's okay; you don’t have to at all. But if you want to sometime, talk to me about stuff, okay?”
He picked up the box lid, spying the rules printed on the inside of it. In a more normal voice, he said, “Now hang on a moment while I figure out how to play.” Peter had played the game a few times years ago, but the refresher didn't hurt and his main purpose was to direct his attention entirely elsewhere, giving Sylar a few moments of privacy to think over his offer. Not that he expected a response right away, but maybe eventually. Would probably go better if I wasn't getting angry and raging at him every five minutes.
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And what do I have to talk about? What does he want to hear? What does he need to understand? Why would he want to understand me? Sylar was reminded of Gabriel’s trips to the school nurse. She’d invited him to talk. He never did. He was still touched by the offers but the reality of disclosure was complicated and dangerous. Because of that, he had to ignore it. Most of what’s happened to me didn’t really happen anyway. “Okay,” he intoned, voice polite and lighter, less sarcastic than he felt, responding because it was required.
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Getting the gist of the rules, Peter set the lid aside and picked up his cards, sitting up straighter and glancing over at Sylar a few times. “No, I never saw the movie, but I remember seeing the trailers for it. I wouldn’t think my mo- um.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve seen a lot of people I didn’t think were capable of what they did.” The second try wasn’t much better. Um, I kind of fall into that category, too … Peter sniffed, looking anywhere but at Sylar - the game board, his cards, the box lid, were all good things to check on for the moment. His voice brightened with a new topic. “Unless maybe you’re talking physically? Then yeah, I can see that. Especially with, you know, a candlestick, those pliers or whatever.” He gestured at the wrench, not sure what that thing was called, but knowing one used it to loosen nuts and bolts. “So what happened in the movie?” he asked, desperate to get away from the subject he’d inadvertently brought up.
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Sylar’s jaw ticked but Peter moved on quickly enough, even so the comment didn’t seem intended to encompass him at all. “I guess both. It was mostly her story that wasn’t as strong as the others.” Sylar shrugged. “It starts out like the game,” he gestured, “all the characters get blackmailed into coming to Mr. Body’s house and the movie unfolds, Mr. Body is killed, the maid is killed, some other people who come to the house get whacked. They set it up that everyone has motive or has killed someone in the past. There’s a storm and they can’t leave the house until the solve the murders because everyone knows everyone’s secrets and the blackmailer is still at large in the house, the police have been called to arrive in a few hours. So they travel through the house and find secret passages, suspecting everyone else the whole time. Then at the end, there’s a series of multiple endings, kind of like chose your own adventure. One is where the butler is the killer, he’s the real Mr. Body and the dead guy is really the butler. One is Miss Scarlet blackmailing everyone through Colonel Mustard or something like that. Another is Mr. Green pretending- uh…well, he turns out to be an FBI agent. Ms. Peacock’s was that her husband was some government guy and she knew all the secrets,” he waved that off. “I dunno, I watched it several times and they all seem plausible, you know? If someone was off killing, then they weren’t in the group scene, or they shouldn’t be.”
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“Which ending was the real ending? Was it the first one they showed, or the last?” Peter fidgeted, instinctively disliking the ambiguity without focusing on why it bothered him. That sort of thing had never bothered him before, but he hadn't thought about movies and literary devices for years.
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“Uh…I think the ‘real ending’ was the butler. They showed it first, I think.” Sylar frowned, trying to wrack his memory. “Any of the endings could work, though, like I said.”
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“That's not the way things work,” Peter said, trying to be reasonable and instead sounding defensive. His voice was tight and his grip on his cards too firm, curling the ones on the end. “I mean, maybe in a movie, yeah, but in real life, like if you have time travel, there's only one ending. You don't get to pick which one you get. You just … get the one you get. You don't get to pick!” He stopped, because his voice was pitching up in alarm as he repeated himself. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, and inappropriate. Lips pursed, he ducked his head and stared sightlessly at his cards. He wanted to go lie down, be alone, be away from this guy who kept stirring up all these unresolved problems inside of him.
Even so, he knew Sylar was not to blame for his sudden agitation. He tried not to think of various futures he wished had never happened, even if now, they never would. Regardless, they'd happened to him - murdered Nathan, stranded Caitlyn, killed 97% of the population, shot Nathan - or, wait, those last two weren't him. Or at least not really him. Did it matter if he were the only one who knew about it? (But then where's Caitlyn? And where did future-me come from if it doesn't happen after all?) He pulled into himself even further, shoulders hunching up as he put the cards face down and pinched his nose with thumb and forefinger. And in one of those maybe-places, Sylar was a good guy.
Clearing his throat and still looking down, he said quietly, “I'm sorry. I'm … I don't understand time travel. I don't like the futures I've seen. They all … They're all awful, except for you.” He picked up his cards and reached for the dice, since Miss Scarlet went first. He rolled them, a three and a one, woodenly moving his piece the four squares indicated. It left his piece in a hallway next to the lounge. He looked up at Sylar with a bland expression. “Did you like the movie?”
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“Oh…” Sylar voiced because Peter wanted ‘feedback.’ “I didn’t think about time travel. I never had that one.” Not much of an excuse, he supposed, depending on where one stood on a lot of things. “They’re all awful except for my future or all the futures are awful except the ones I’m in?” He dared to ask. Either seemed like a really good answer but…the future was the future and not set in stone. A good future was unlikely to happen now anyway. He lusted after the idea that Peter might be interested in a future that was nice because he was in it.
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“The futures I've seen were awful, including the one you were in, but the bigger problem for me was that I didn't run into anyone worth knowing except for you. And maybe N- hrm.” He breathed out and looked down, trying to recall what Nathan had said to him in the morgue or wherever it was Peter had woke up next to a dead version of himself. Nathan hadn't seem bothered at all by the dead body of his 'real' brother. That was disturbing and Peter had been unable to stop himself from trying to get to the bottom of that. Snapping his eyes back to Sylar, he asked, “You were going to tell me what you thought about the movie?”
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Before he answered the direct question, Sylar wanted to clear something up, “It’s just a movie, Peter. The same people- the characters ended up dead, in the same way, no matter who killed them. Maybe it is like a…a…choose your own adventure ending but it’s the same as solving a crime, like the game. You obviously don’t have a problem playing the game, even with-“ a murderer. Yeah, definitely keep quiet. Sylar cleared his throat, ashamed. “I liked the movie. It was clever and funny and kept you guessing and even then there’s no clear, real answer so it’s…kind of realistic, in a way. What’s that saying you heroes like, ‘morally grey’? It’s not a black-and-white ending.” He shrugged and rolled his turn, five, with his piece between lounge and dining room, closer to the latter. He was absurdly pleased to have gotten a higher, ‘better’, score than Peter, knowing dice was a game of chance notwithstanding.
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Peter was still responding to Sylar's near statement of 'even with me', or at least that was how Peter was completing it in his head. He heard the rest, but it was less important. “Sylar,” he said softly, “I don't have a problem playing a board game with you. This place,” he gestured at the world in general, “is not good for me. I know it's even worse for you, but hey, you've got me here now.” He smiled weakly, thinking his presence was the difference between a hell of sensory deprivation and feeling intermittent pain - an improvement, but not much of one. “Things will get better for both of us.”
He rolled, getting a three and a four, enough to let him go to the Lounge or the Dining Room. He counted off the squares, noticing he'd be one move from getting into the Hall, too. He picked up the box lid to figure out if there was any reason to wait on going in a room. There didn't seem to be, so he moved to the Lounge as it was closer. "Hm, one accusation per game. But I can suggest ... hm. I can see the advantage to calling a player into a room, at least to the player you're calling because next turn they're in the room and can make their own suggestion. But I don't see what I'd get out of that. Or why we move whatever murder weapon I suggest into the room with me. What does it matter where the pieces are?"
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He did it again; that was what Sylar registered subconsciously. Soft voice, admission of his suffering, a hint of connection or friendliness…Then that stupid/cute combination of reading the rules aloud or speaking his strategy, asking a question, whatever that was. “While we’re on the subject of ‘feedback,’ how was the kiss?” He asked it casually, checking off the cards he had off the checklist.
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Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, putting down the box lid. “I didn't want it; don't do it again.” After a moment of threatening glaring, he dropped his gaze from Sylar's and thought about what feedback he wanted to give. I just wanted to sit on the couch … with him. But we're stuck here and … and that's a point Sylar's been making for a while now … Lonely. Still haven't jerked off in forever. And there he is, offering. Human touch. That's what I was talking about right before he did it. Is that why? “I was talking about … the value of human contact right before you did that. What were you trying to do?”
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Sylar only glanced up to catch the full-force glare, double-taking because he’d asked civilly enough. Why is he so threatened by that? It’s just a kiss. He’d be the first to agree, a kiss is the lightest thing I’m capable of. I’m not his bitch boy (He just wants to know he’s safe. Even you can understand that). I’m still not his tame bitch; he doesn’t get to order me around. Glare acknowledged, he went back to arranging his cards in order - a task of vital importance all of a sudden, now he wanted to avoid the conversation he’d begun. Mockingly, in his head he mimicked Peter’s voice, ‘If you want to, you can talk to me about stuff, okay?’ “Which answer do you want?” Sylar thought to cut to the chase, no more falling into verbal traps.
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“Give me both.” Peter's eyes stayed on him intently, refusing to pander to the dodge.
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The older man sighed. “I wanted to kiss you or I want things from you,” Sylar stated it in a no-nonsense tone, his face somewhat defiant.
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“Which is it?” He assumed both, but wanted to see if Sylar would choose one over the other.
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Sylar pinned his companion with a stare over the top of his cards. Damn these steps for being too small to sit Indian style. “You decide. You’re going to either way. Pick which one suits your needs and that’s the truth. It doesn’t matter anyway. Are you going to make a guess?” he indicated the board game, leaving off the ‘Miss Scarlett’ jab he could have made. Two can play this game, Petrelli.
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“Matters to me.” Peter eased back, ignoring the prompt about Clue just as he breezed by the glare. “I know you want … things from me, kissing probably among them. I don't want to give you that - intimacy, sex, you know?” He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck in unease. Telling someone he wouldn't be loving towards them went against a lot of core parts of Peter's being, but Sylar - he'd tried to murder the guy and still didn't feel sorry about it (sorry he'd fallen so low, yes; sorry he'd done it … that was debatable). Even if he knew very well how the feelings of hate and love weren't incompatible, he didn't want to soften his heart towards Sylar. That it was happening anyway in a dozen mundane ways frustrated him.
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Hearing it was so much different than knowing it, and here Peter said it aloud. It was that extra reminder of his worthlessness. “I know,” Sylar stated simply, giving feedback just so Peter didn’t get any wrong impressions of his expectations. (But he wants me to like him…?)
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That hurt and Peter knew it - hurt Sylar to be shut down, hurt Peter to know he was shutting him down. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them as he huffed and indicated the game. “But I'm playing a board game with you.” He waved at the washing machines. “We're doing laundry together. Earlier we were sitting on the couch having a conversation. There's a lot of things I'm okay with.” He dipped his head, trying to catch Sylar's gaze as he decided to get this out in the open rather than hinted at. With a steady, lower-pitched voice, he asked, “I was intending to sleep on your couch tonight because you wanted me there. Am I going to wake up with you on top of me or something?”
XXX
Sylar’s head dropped for a moment. That was his cue to be grateful - and to swallow any and all unpleasantness his situation held. It was a tough mouthful; it usually was. He knew he should be grateful (and he was); he just wasn’t the type to rest on his laurels because if he ever did, he’d be accused of sloth. And it was hard to turn away from a challenge with an outcome he viewed as attainable, to have his idealism smacked away. Since when was being tolerated a joyous state of being? It wasn’t, but it was much, much better than the alternatives. He wouldn’t lie, the idea of being atop Peter, even a sleeping Peter, sounded like a gamble; it sounded like danger incarnate and that was the attraction. His first instinct was to take that as an invitation, a dare, a warning, all of the above. Knowing Peter as he did thusfar (and knowing him better after testing him with a half-planned, admittedly stupid kiss) the nurse meant it in the most boring way possible. Sylar looked up to see Peter feeding him a question - this one had a right and wrong answer (such a relief Peter showed that hint sometimes).
To cover his flayed and bleeding ego, he managed to say smoothly and pointedly enough, “If you ask nicely, and only if I can bring my concussion.” He sniffed and made an impatient motion at the board game Peter was so obviously avoiding, “Use it or lose it, Petrelli.”
XXX
It wasn't a 'no, you're not going to wake up with me assaulting you'. And the guy wonders why I'm not on board with getting close to him? Even if Rene showed up and stripped all my memories (again), being with Sylar - just trying to be with him - would be a fucking minefield! This is important to me. Why can't he tell me 'no, you're safe, it's good'? He sighed. Because he can't. Because he's the kind of guy I even have to ask the stupid question. What he said is pretty much a 'you're safe', so … fine. Incongruously, Peter moved back to the game. “Miss Peacock, in the lounge, with the revolver.” He looked to Sylar expectantly.
XXX
Finally. No wonder Peter was difficult to handle - poor kid couldn’t focus. Sylar had all three of the cards, once he shuffled them around so he could see. Big hands came in handy but with blazing lights and bad seating and a homicidal headache, his cognition or perception wasn’t one-hundred percent. The question was, which was the best card to show? There were nine rooms, six characters, and six weapons but the rooms took the longest to get to and the cards were divided in half…What the hell. Sylar showed his partner in crime the character card, Miss Peacock.
That done, Sylar rolled himself into the dining room and surveyed his cards. He lacked the room, conveniently. “Ms. White, in the dining room with the…rope.”
XXX
Laundry was migrated to the dryers and the game, simplistic with only two players, was concluded in Sylar's favor. Peter thought about explaining himself and how he'd only figured out the reasons behind some of the rules, and how they impacted strategy and choice in the game, right at the end, but he skipped it. Instead, “I think you've been holding out on me on the MMSE's I've been doing. You're pretty good at this.” Peter helped put away the game, then got himself to his feet. He stretched, hands over head and shirt riding up, then rubbed his elbow as he limped over to the dryer to check the time left on the cycle. He rubbed his lower lip with his index finger. “Almost done. How about we pull them out and take them upstairs to fold?”
XXX
Sylar agreed. That was the next logical step, though he usually folded here in the laundry room. After forking the clothes into the hamper, Sylar pointedly hefted it - because watching Peter try to carry it one handed again would just annoy him. He left Peter to carry the board game, much more suited to his capacity at the moment. Back in his apartment, he seated himself on the couch. His knees became his table of sorts for folding, reaching in to snag an item of clothing to fold, doing so, setting it aside, before repeating the process. Sylar came across Peter’s underwear and while he wasn’t totally disgusted (they were clean, after all), he wasn’t sure what he should do with them, socially speaking. Would Peter throw a fit and call him a pervert if he folded them? Just holding them now was risky in that regard. Was it rude to hold them like they might scald him? Or would Peter even notice…? Luckily as he watched, Peter came across some of Sylar’s underwear, handling and folding them without a thought it seemed. Okay…Now Sylar didn’t know what to feel about that. It’s just clothing, right? He didn’t do anything weird so it must not be weird. He spotted Peter mishandling a shirt, though, “No, no. Arms together, folded in the middle…Like this,” he demonstrated folding the shirt in half vertically, the armholes together before turning the sleeves to one side, then beginning the compression folds horizontally across the middle. After that, Sylar kept half an eye on Peter’s folding process, curious about it. Didn’t I say something about folding clothes eventually? And he disagreed with me? That made him grin to himself.
Folding the laundry didn’t take long with two of them (even if one man was one-handed). Sylar handled putting them away and Peter went about making soup for dinner.
XXX
Continued...
Day 16, afternoon, December 26
“Where’s the laundry room at?” Peter asked again in just as crabby a tone as before, trying to figure out a comfortable way of hauling a tall, narrow hamper in his present condition. It was doable, but awkward - too big to tuck under an arm, too heavy to carry one-handed, so he was left hooking the functional fingers of his right hand under the rim and trying not to actually carry any weight on that hand. Once in the elevator, he set it on the floor and stared up and to the side at a random spot on the wall in the opposite direction from Sylar. I’m tired. He breathed out heavily. Most of what I’ve done is just a lot of sitting around, though. He glanced over Sylar’s way once to show a polite awareness of the guy’s presence, then looked away again before he could be engaged in conversation. What was it Matt yelled at me? ‘If you go in there, you’ll never come out!’ Can’t be true. I won’t let it be true. As the elevator doors dinged open, a new thought occurred to him: What would I need to do to keep it from being true?
XXX
Okay. If that’s the mood we’re in. “Basement. C’mon, I’ll show you.” Sylar led the way. You should really move in. It wouldn’t be that bad. Wouldn’t have to be on my floor even. He could feel ‘cranky’ radiating off Peter and it didn’t bother him much - he knew it was harmless. That said, unless he wanted to piss the guy off, he had to pay attention to Peter and simultaneously not annoy or smother him. The ride down was silent but not tense.
XXX
The new scene distracted him. The elevator doors opened on a dingy, poorly-lit basement that featured exposed piping and miscellaneous equipment Peter imagined was necessary for the successful (if equally imaginary) operation of the building. He’d mostly given up trying to rationalize or understand the world. The only thing here worth understanding was Sylar, who still had so many walls up that it would be no easy task to bring them down. Peter hung back and let Sylar lead the way, thus gaining a little bit of privacy for him to wrestle the hamper into submission.
XXX
Sylar turned left out of the doors, leading away from the lobby. There were two right turns, a door, and a long horror-film hallway. “It’s cleaner than it looks. It’s mostly old,” he informed, entering the last door to his left. The washers were on the right walls, the dryers the left. A tall table was mounted in the middle of the room, for folding. There was one chair and a carpeted step area that led to another hall with more apartments. That was there they would be sitting.
XXX
The laundry room itself was better lit and actually enclosed. Peter didn’t think they had but a single load to wash. He dumped in clothes all together, not sorting for whites or colors. Just about everything they’d worn had been dark anyway. He frowned into the washer tub. “I used to wear colors. I ought to wear something bright tomorrow. What’d’ya think?”
XXX
Standing by, looking for the opportunity to aid the one-handed with the clothes, Sylar turned to him and grinned. Color was good, wasn’t it? Getting Peter out of his mourning garb certainly was. “Sounds good to me.” Uh-oh. “Um…Speaking of…” Anal-retentive much? (Shut up. They’ll last longer this way). Sylar stepped in to sort the colors before Peter added detergent. The other man huffed and moved away - Sylar checked to make sure it was an okay detachment and it seemed to be. “It’s…better for the clothes, this way. It only takes a minute,” he tried to reason anyway, just in case or maybe just because. That done, he added detergent and started the machines.
XXX
Peter rolled his eyes but held his peace, stepping back out of Sylar's way, then further still because he didn't have anything invested in how the laundry was arranged. It was mostly Sylar's clothes and despite how easily irritated Peter felt at the moment, this wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to argue about. He snagged the game box from where he'd set it to the side before unloading the clothes and wandered off to the other side of the room, looking for a place to sit. A single chair meant they were both going to be on the floor and since he didn't want to sit flat if he could help it (due to pain when he'd inevitably have to get himself back up), the stair steps looked like the best option. He sunk down on the middle one carefully, near the half-wall so he could pull himself up when he needed to rise.
XXX
“Clue,” he said, approaching Peter and spying the game. Sylar settled his legs Indian style and dug out the multitude of tiny pieces that went to the game. “Who do you wanna be?” He asked of the character player-slash-color choices, holding them up in his palm.
XXX
Peter tried to remember the details of the game. He knew the pieces corresponded to various personas, but that was about it. He didn’t think which of the brightly colored tokens he chose had any rules-based impact on the game. With nothing else to go on, he picked the red one. He liked red.
XXX
"Ms. Scarlet. Is that red or pink? No, I think it's pink. Why'd you choose pink, Peter?”
XXX
Peter glared at him, passing the piece to his left hand, which curled around it in a fist. He swayed forward slightly, feet tucking back as much as he could on the step as if poising to get up. His bad mood surged to full force. “I picked it because it’s red. What the fuck does it matter to you if it’s pink? You got any other bullshit you want to get off your chest?” Sylar’s comment about him being a ‘male nurse’ came to mind, setting him to wonder if Sylar saw him as effeminate and coded that as ‘bad’. His eyes narrowed slightly in comprehension. “Does this have something to do with why you keep making passes at me?” He rocked back against his seat on the stairs, stretching his legs out and relaxing his grip around the game piece, which nevertheless had already left an imprint against his palm. “I am not less than you because of the gender of those I fall in love with.”
XXX
Sylar frowned. (I was just teasing…) Keep your mouth shut already! He’s not your fucking friend! He was left with confusion, feeling attacked without sufficient cause or reason. He did say he liked red, which is still weird. “I hit on you because you chose a pink- red piece that you just now took?” I hit on you before you took it…Peter’s mental/verbal leaps weren’t traceable to him and he was twelve steps behind trying to piece them together to answer. He blurted “What?” How did we get on love? “Pink is gay is good…?” he asked with trepidation, feeling out if that’s what Peter was talking about. Why does he think I care? (Nathan would care, but I’m not Nathan. Is he labeling me as Nathan or…?) Clue - red piece - female character - bullshit - hitting on him - loving…people; what, if anything, was the connecting factor? “Because you’re gay? I hit on you because you’re not, um…” there was a long pause to word this in vague Sylar-form, “opposed, that way. Not…counting that it’s me.” Is he gonna hit me over this? I don’t even know what I did! He will hit me if that’s not what he’s talking about.
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wasn't following most of what Sylar was saying, but the gist seemed to be that Sylar was in the same boat regarding what Peter had said. Is he putting me on? His lips pressed together tightly for a moment and he leaned forward, eyes boring into Sylar. “You don't get it?” Peter asked with a slight sideways motion of his head.
XXX
Sylar’s mouth tensed at the familiarity of that - at Nathan’s familiarity of that phrase. //”You get it right?” “Yeah, I get it.” “Good man.”// came to mind before everything began to fall apart, thinking it many times as Peter ‘didn’t get it’ about being mind fucked. As it was, being spoken to him now, it was almost like being asked if he was stupid. “No, I don’t,” he said, not appreciating the suspicious look he was being given either.
XXX
Peter leaned back, face relaxing as he accepted that Sylar didn't understand the context for the outburst. But before he addressed it, he needed to say something about another thing Sylar had brought up. “I'm not gay. I'm bisexual. It's two different things, but you're right that it means I'm not 'opposed' to being with men sexually.” He skipped the mention of Sylar in particular.
XXX
Eh-hu-uh…Whatever excuse you need to get off, Peter. Sylar made a ‘there you have it’ face. Just that sentence, ‘being with men sexually’, so casual. How does that even happen?
XXX
And now, the 'getting it' part. He rubbed his heel on the floor speculatively, looking down at it and pulling his arms in closer to make himself smaller. “You know, my dad didn't like … a lot of things about me. The last thing he didn't like, before he died the first time, was me becoming a nurse. I'll spare you all his bullshit about it being beneath a Petrelli and move on to the part about how he didn't think that was a job for a man. If I was going to do it, then to him, it meant I wasn't a man. That maybe I needed to wear women's shoes like Nathan got me for graduation, or that I was wearing my hair long because I wanted people to confuse me for a girl.” Peter snorted at the stupidity of that. “As if anyone would, who actually took a look at me. God forbid my dad had ever found out I wasn't actually straight.” He rolled his eyes and looked away. He knew Arthur had had reason to suspect. It just seemed swallowed up by Peter's general inadequacy to Arthur, or maybe his father saw it as too depraved to even mention. It was a ridiculous point of view to have in 21st century New York, but his father took Peter's stubbornness to absurd lengths.
XXX
Peter’s point was a very obvious one, a good one, too, if he dared say so. Sylar should have thought of that, taken it into consideration. Nathan had been very familiar with the argument as the go-between father and brother. Arthur - the foundation for all of Peter’s rebelliousness. Arthur who wanted his son to be…normal? So he could…dismiss or handle him more easily? That was the exact opposite of little Gabriel’s upbringing. Peter wants to be special, his dad wanted him to be normal; I wanted to be normal, my mom wanted me to be special. Yeah, I’d have been a good fit for the Petrellis. But that means Peter just…doesn’t belong anywhere? That can’t be right. Nobody turns him away. And on top of that, he’s worried about being manly. So he works out a lot. Sylar would know better than to assume that didn’t affect Peter, even before this little outburst. But why does he wear his hair long then, if not to piss of Arthur and Nathan?
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a long, level look. “There's nothing funny about jokes that there's something wrong with me or anyone else for being other than my dad's stupid idea of a man's man.”
XXX
I wasn’t referring to you dad’s stupid idea of a man’s man. (I was referring to my dad’s stupid idea of it, not that I’d have ever been stupid enough to pick a pink or purple piece) Of course, I didn’t mean for you to get this upset about it. How often had Peter played with dolls or dressed up in dresses, put on make-up or stated a preference for ‘girl’ colors that this was such an issue? Sylar really had no idea what to say. He had his own opinion, Nathan’s, Peter’s, Martin’s, Virginia’s, and Arthur’s opinion in the mix. The problem was he could understand everyone else’s opinion - but Peter just did what Peter wanted to do, no matter the rhyme or reason, and he was good enough to rationalize it with whatever he wanted and make it sound passable. There was safety in numbers, being accepted by the herd but…the empath’s side had sense, too. Peter was girly, he was rebellious, he was an outsider there was no denying it. Sylar was even pretty sure Peter knew that. Sylar didn’t know where he fell into this whole mess - he’d been forced into obedience but driven to shine when he wanted normalcy. He still hadn’t figured any of it out, mostly he left it alone because it was just so damn tangled.
For now, because Peter was staring at him, demanding agreement, Sylar nodded noncommittally. If pressed, he’d say he was acknowledging Peter’s point of view, his grievance. Distantly, he was torqued that Peter wanted everything both ways (no puns intended): know him, but don’t know him using Nathan’s memories. “Why do you wear your hair long, then? The secret hope that you’ll join a rock band? Not that it’s a bad look or anything, it’s just…” Pointless?
XXX
Peter let another long beat slide by, weighing Sylar's bland but curious tone, like Sylar hadn't just been insulting and Peter hadn't snapped at him in response. Absent was any recognition from Sylar that he'd said anything wrong - that nod didn't count. It looked like an acknowledgment that Peter had said something, not an indication they felt the same way on it. Peter sighed voluminously and let it go, reaching up to rake his mentioned hair back. “I was in a band, briefly. But no, that's not it. I like my hair long. A lot of other people like it that way. I had it short for a while; didn't like it as much. My father doesn't get to decide what I do with my life or my hair.” Or didn't, rather. Whatever. His eyes cut off to the side in annoyance, then back. He pulled over the game box to distract himself, getting out the board and unfolding it.
XXX
Part of Peter’s statement was bothering him. Sylar looked away for a moment, thinking abstractly, trying to connect it to what he knew. He wanted to see if he could explain some of that famously crazed Peter behavior. He didn’t know that he cared particularly for the trauma involved (assuming there was any), but he would definitely point the finger at idiot-Nathan for not knowing or caring. That was just being a bad brother. “Peter, did…did some guy make you do things? Is that why you…?” He finished with a ‘you know…’ gesture to indicate those perverted fetishes Peter had.
XXX
Peter found himself in a dilemma. If he set the board on the lowest level next to Sylar, then Peter would have to lean down uncomfortably for it or ask Sylar to do his moves for him. If it put it on the highest level, above the short quarter-flight of stairs, then Sylar would have to move to that level, where he'd tower above Peter to an absurd and unacceptable degree. He frowned, glancing up and down the stairs at the two options. He set it next to where Sylar was sitting and scooted himself down to sit on the same level. It would be tougher to get up, but he figured he'd make it somehow.
He furrowed his brow at Sylar's questions and gesture. “Uh, it was Elle who cut my hair, not a guy.” At Sylar's expression, Peter shrugged. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
XXX
Sylar tilted his chin down, giving Peter a more meaningful look, enunciating more. "Around high school maybe. Did a guy ever make you do anything for him, to him?"
XXX
“Oh!” Now Peter got it, and his face showed it with a bob up and down of his brows and a few rapid blinks. It was followed by a smile that was somewhere between a wince and bared teeth as he processed what Sylar was implying. Just to be sure, he asked, “You're suggesting … I'm bisexual because I was raped, or molested. Is that right?”
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar nodded again, waiting. Those were the common labels for such events, whether or not he thought they applied. He didn’t know if Peter would answer this one in so many words.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar another long, searching look, one of many he'd given him so far during this conversation. Sylar seemed serious as could be and more importantly, he was listening. Not just 'hearing what Peter was saying' listening, but actually seemed to be trying to understand. Peter's left hand found his right, tracing the edge of the brace and scratching idly while he thought about what that meant for Sylar. He calmed and moved back so his butt was against the riser for the bottom stair step.
“No. That's not the case.” He spoke simply and plainly, relating the facts in a manner he hoped was educational. “I wasn't raped in high school and it didn't have anything to do with my preferences. I've been attracted to both since the earliest sexual fantasies I can remember. That's how it is for most people: what you want, what you dream about, that's what you're attracted to, at least as far as general trends. It doesn't have anything to do with being abused, except that I've talked to a few people who … once they were mistreated by a certain type of person, they might stay away from that type after that and sometimes that's broad enough that they stay away from an entire gender, or just get turned off from sex altogether. Sometimes people don't get past it. Different people cope differently.”
His voice had softened a bit towards the end, eyeing Sylar with a slightly furrowed brow. It was a thoughtful look. He said liking each other didn't have anything to do with sex. Has anything ever happened to him? Is that why he's asking? Peter dug into the box for the cards, setting them out unshuffled on the board as he tried to feel his way through what little he knew for sure of Sylar's past. Oddly, the thing that came front and center to his mind was the whole Nathan identity fiasco, how Peter had tried to repeat it, and how upset Sylar had been about that earlier. His expression faded to melancholy. Is that why he could never like me?
XXX
There goes that theory. I guess that’s good he wasn’t raped or anything. He doesn’t understand it. Sylar couldn’t imagine that kind of thing, done willingly, being natural or pleasurable. He stared intently at Peter throughout his speech. Wait, wait, wait! If I don’t dream about guys, I’m not gay? They were wrong! I have nightmares, though…does that count? I don’t really dream about that stuff so what does that mean? It’s so complicated. Sylar caught Peter looking at him and hastily fixed his face before looking away to think. Some people don’t get a choice. Oh well. It doesn’t matter. He sniffed and straightened, taking the yellow Colonel Mustard piece after all that.
“Did you ever see the movie, Clue? All the multiple endings?” He shuffled the cards since Peter couldn’t or shouldn’t, passing them out then taking the three secret cards and putting them into the envelope. Idly, he checked out his own cards while Peter handled the pencils and check-lists. “I liked all of them except Mrs. Peacock’s. It didn’t seem…probable. She didn’t seem capable, I guess.”
XXX
Peter gave a small frown as he moved his cards to the side and pulled the other supplies from the box. Quietly and slowly, eyes mostly on what he was doing, he said, “You know, it's really hard for me to relate to you, to understand you, when you don't give me any feedback. It's okay; you don’t have to at all. But if you want to sometime, talk to me about stuff, okay?”
He picked up the box lid, spying the rules printed on the inside of it. In a more normal voice, he said, “Now hang on a moment while I figure out how to play.” Peter had played the game a few times years ago, but the refresher didn't hurt and his main purpose was to direct his attention entirely elsewhere, giving Sylar a few moments of privacy to think over his offer. Not that he expected a response right away, but maybe eventually. Would probably go better if I wasn't getting angry and raging at him every five minutes.
XXX
And what do I have to talk about? What does he want to hear? What does he need to understand? Why would he want to understand me? Sylar was reminded of Gabriel’s trips to the school nurse. She’d invited him to talk. He never did. He was still touched by the offers but the reality of disclosure was complicated and dangerous. Because of that, he had to ignore it. Most of what’s happened to me didn’t really happen anyway. “Okay,” he intoned, voice polite and lighter, less sarcastic than he felt, responding because it was required.
XXX
Getting the gist of the rules, Peter set the lid aside and picked up his cards, sitting up straighter and glancing over at Sylar a few times. “No, I never saw the movie, but I remember seeing the trailers for it. I wouldn’t think my mo- um.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve seen a lot of people I didn’t think were capable of what they did.” The second try wasn’t much better. Um, I kind of fall into that category, too … Peter sniffed, looking anywhere but at Sylar - the game board, his cards, the box lid, were all good things to check on for the moment. His voice brightened with a new topic. “Unless maybe you’re talking physically? Then yeah, I can see that. Especially with, you know, a candlestick, those pliers or whatever.” He gestured at the wrench, not sure what that thing was called, but knowing one used it to loosen nuts and bolts. “So what happened in the movie?” he asked, desperate to get away from the subject he’d inadvertently brought up.
XXX
Sylar’s jaw ticked but Peter moved on quickly enough, even so the comment didn’t seem intended to encompass him at all. “I guess both. It was mostly her story that wasn’t as strong as the others.” Sylar shrugged. “It starts out like the game,” he gestured, “all the characters get blackmailed into coming to Mr. Body’s house and the movie unfolds, Mr. Body is killed, the maid is killed, some other people who come to the house get whacked. They set it up that everyone has motive or has killed someone in the past. There’s a storm and they can’t leave the house until the solve the murders because everyone knows everyone’s secrets and the blackmailer is still at large in the house, the police have been called to arrive in a few hours. So they travel through the house and find secret passages, suspecting everyone else the whole time. Then at the end, there’s a series of multiple endings, kind of like chose your own adventure. One is where the butler is the killer, he’s the real Mr. Body and the dead guy is really the butler. One is Miss Scarlet blackmailing everyone through Colonel Mustard or something like that. Another is Mr. Green pretending- uh…well, he turns out to be an FBI agent. Ms. Peacock’s was that her husband was some government guy and she knew all the secrets,” he waved that off. “I dunno, I watched it several times and they all seem plausible, you know? If someone was off killing, then they weren’t in the group scene, or they shouldn’t be.”
XXX
“Which ending was the real ending? Was it the first one they showed, or the last?” Peter fidgeted, instinctively disliking the ambiguity without focusing on why it bothered him. That sort of thing had never bothered him before, but he hadn't thought about movies and literary devices for years.
XXX
“Uh…I think the ‘real ending’ was the butler. They showed it first, I think.” Sylar frowned, trying to wrack his memory. “Any of the endings could work, though, like I said.”
XXX
“That's not the way things work,” Peter said, trying to be reasonable and instead sounding defensive. His voice was tight and his grip on his cards too firm, curling the ones on the end. “I mean, maybe in a movie, yeah, but in real life, like if you have time travel, there's only one ending. You don't get to pick which one you get. You just … get the one you get. You don't get to pick!” He stopped, because his voice was pitching up in alarm as he repeated himself. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, and inappropriate. Lips pursed, he ducked his head and stared sightlessly at his cards. He wanted to go lie down, be alone, be away from this guy who kept stirring up all these unresolved problems inside of him.
Even so, he knew Sylar was not to blame for his sudden agitation. He tried not to think of various futures he wished had never happened, even if now, they never would. Regardless, they'd happened to him - murdered Nathan, stranded Caitlyn, killed 97% of the population, shot Nathan - or, wait, those last two weren't him. Or at least not really him. Did it matter if he were the only one who knew about it? (But then where's Caitlyn? And where did future-me come from if it doesn't happen after all?) He pulled into himself even further, shoulders hunching up as he put the cards face down and pinched his nose with thumb and forefinger. And in one of those maybe-places, Sylar was a good guy.
Clearing his throat and still looking down, he said quietly, “I'm sorry. I'm … I don't understand time travel. I don't like the futures I've seen. They all … They're all awful, except for you.” He picked up his cards and reached for the dice, since Miss Scarlet went first. He rolled them, a three and a one, woodenly moving his piece the four squares indicated. It left his piece in a hallway next to the lounge. He looked up at Sylar with a bland expression. “Did you like the movie?”
XXX
“Oh…” Sylar voiced because Peter wanted ‘feedback.’ “I didn’t think about time travel. I never had that one.” Not much of an excuse, he supposed, depending on where one stood on a lot of things. “They’re all awful except for my future or all the futures are awful except the ones I’m in?” He dared to ask. Either seemed like a really good answer but…the future was the future and not set in stone. A good future was unlikely to happen now anyway. He lusted after the idea that Peter might be interested in a future that was nice because he was in it.
XXX
“The futures I've seen were awful, including the one you were in, but the bigger problem for me was that I didn't run into anyone worth knowing except for you. And maybe N- hrm.” He breathed out and looked down, trying to recall what Nathan had said to him in the morgue or wherever it was Peter had woke up next to a dead version of himself. Nathan hadn't seem bothered at all by the dead body of his 'real' brother. That was disturbing and Peter had been unable to stop himself from trying to get to the bottom of that. Snapping his eyes back to Sylar, he asked, “You were going to tell me what you thought about the movie?”
XXX
Before he answered the direct question, Sylar wanted to clear something up, “It’s just a movie, Peter. The same people- the characters ended up dead, in the same way, no matter who killed them. Maybe it is like a…a…choose your own adventure ending but it’s the same as solving a crime, like the game. You obviously don’t have a problem playing the game, even with-“ a murderer. Yeah, definitely keep quiet. Sylar cleared his throat, ashamed. “I liked the movie. It was clever and funny and kept you guessing and even then there’s no clear, real answer so it’s…kind of realistic, in a way. What’s that saying you heroes like, ‘morally grey’? It’s not a black-and-white ending.” He shrugged and rolled his turn, five, with his piece between lounge and dining room, closer to the latter. He was absurdly pleased to have gotten a higher, ‘better’, score than Peter, knowing dice was a game of chance notwithstanding.
XXX
Peter was still responding to Sylar's near statement of 'even with me', or at least that was how Peter was completing it in his head. He heard the rest, but it was less important. “Sylar,” he said softly, “I don't have a problem playing a board game with you. This place,” he gestured at the world in general, “is not good for me. I know it's even worse for you, but hey, you've got me here now.” He smiled weakly, thinking his presence was the difference between a hell of sensory deprivation and feeling intermittent pain - an improvement, but not much of one. “Things will get better for both of us.”
He rolled, getting a three and a four, enough to let him go to the Lounge or the Dining Room. He counted off the squares, noticing he'd be one move from getting into the Hall, too. He picked up the box lid to figure out if there was any reason to wait on going in a room. There didn't seem to be, so he moved to the Lounge as it was closer. "Hm, one accusation per game. But I can suggest ... hm. I can see the advantage to calling a player into a room, at least to the player you're calling because next turn they're in the room and can make their own suggestion. But I don't see what I'd get out of that. Or why we move whatever murder weapon I suggest into the room with me. What does it matter where the pieces are?"
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He did it again; that was what Sylar registered subconsciously. Soft voice, admission of his suffering, a hint of connection or friendliness…Then that stupid/cute combination of reading the rules aloud or speaking his strategy, asking a question, whatever that was. “While we’re on the subject of ‘feedback,’ how was the kiss?” He asked it casually, checking off the cards he had off the checklist.
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Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, putting down the box lid. “I didn't want it; don't do it again.” After a moment of threatening glaring, he dropped his gaze from Sylar's and thought about what feedback he wanted to give. I just wanted to sit on the couch … with him. But we're stuck here and … and that's a point Sylar's been making for a while now … Lonely. Still haven't jerked off in forever. And there he is, offering. Human touch. That's what I was talking about right before he did it. Is that why? “I was talking about … the value of human contact right before you did that. What were you trying to do?”
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Sylar only glanced up to catch the full-force glare, double-taking because he’d asked civilly enough. Why is he so threatened by that? It’s just a kiss. He’d be the first to agree, a kiss is the lightest thing I’m capable of. I’m not his bitch boy (He just wants to know he’s safe. Even you can understand that). I’m still not his tame bitch; he doesn’t get to order me around. Glare acknowledged, he went back to arranging his cards in order - a task of vital importance all of a sudden, now he wanted to avoid the conversation he’d begun. Mockingly, in his head he mimicked Peter’s voice, ‘If you want to, you can talk to me about stuff, okay?’ “Which answer do you want?” Sylar thought to cut to the chase, no more falling into verbal traps.
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“Give me both.” Peter's eyes stayed on him intently, refusing to pander to the dodge.
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The older man sighed. “I wanted to kiss you or I want things from you,” Sylar stated it in a no-nonsense tone, his face somewhat defiant.
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“Which is it?” He assumed both, but wanted to see if Sylar would choose one over the other.
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Sylar pinned his companion with a stare over the top of his cards. Damn these steps for being too small to sit Indian style. “You decide. You’re going to either way. Pick which one suits your needs and that’s the truth. It doesn’t matter anyway. Are you going to make a guess?” he indicated the board game, leaving off the ‘Miss Scarlett’ jab he could have made. Two can play this game, Petrelli.
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“Matters to me.” Peter eased back, ignoring the prompt about Clue just as he breezed by the glare. “I know you want … things from me, kissing probably among them. I don't want to give you that - intimacy, sex, you know?” He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck in unease. Telling someone he wouldn't be loving towards them went against a lot of core parts of Peter's being, but Sylar - he'd tried to murder the guy and still didn't feel sorry about it (sorry he'd fallen so low, yes; sorry he'd done it … that was debatable). Even if he knew very well how the feelings of hate and love weren't incompatible, he didn't want to soften his heart towards Sylar. That it was happening anyway in a dozen mundane ways frustrated him.
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Hearing it was so much different than knowing it, and here Peter said it aloud. It was that extra reminder of his worthlessness. “I know,” Sylar stated simply, giving feedback just so Peter didn’t get any wrong impressions of his expectations. (But he wants me to like him…?)
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That hurt and Peter knew it - hurt Sylar to be shut down, hurt Peter to know he was shutting him down. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them as he huffed and indicated the game. “But I'm playing a board game with you.” He waved at the washing machines. “We're doing laundry together. Earlier we were sitting on the couch having a conversation. There's a lot of things I'm okay with.” He dipped his head, trying to catch Sylar's gaze as he decided to get this out in the open rather than hinted at. With a steady, lower-pitched voice, he asked, “I was intending to sleep on your couch tonight because you wanted me there. Am I going to wake up with you on top of me or something?”
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Sylar’s head dropped for a moment. That was his cue to be grateful - and to swallow any and all unpleasantness his situation held. It was a tough mouthful; it usually was. He knew he should be grateful (and he was); he just wasn’t the type to rest on his laurels because if he ever did, he’d be accused of sloth. And it was hard to turn away from a challenge with an outcome he viewed as attainable, to have his idealism smacked away. Since when was being tolerated a joyous state of being? It wasn’t, but it was much, much better than the alternatives. He wouldn’t lie, the idea of being atop Peter, even a sleeping Peter, sounded like a gamble; it sounded like danger incarnate and that was the attraction. His first instinct was to take that as an invitation, a dare, a warning, all of the above. Knowing Peter as he did thusfar (and knowing him better after testing him with a half-planned, admittedly stupid kiss) the nurse meant it in the most boring way possible. Sylar looked up to see Peter feeding him a question - this one had a right and wrong answer (such a relief Peter showed that hint sometimes).
To cover his flayed and bleeding ego, he managed to say smoothly and pointedly enough, “If you ask nicely, and only if I can bring my concussion.” He sniffed and made an impatient motion at the board game Peter was so obviously avoiding, “Use it or lose it, Petrelli.”
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It wasn't a 'no, you're not going to wake up with me assaulting you'. And the guy wonders why I'm not on board with getting close to him? Even if Rene showed up and stripped all my memories (again), being with Sylar - just trying to be with him - would be a fucking minefield! This is important to me. Why can't he tell me 'no, you're safe, it's good'? He sighed. Because he can't. Because he's the kind of guy I even have to ask the stupid question. What he said is pretty much a 'you're safe', so … fine. Incongruously, Peter moved back to the game. “Miss Peacock, in the lounge, with the revolver.” He looked to Sylar expectantly.
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Finally. No wonder Peter was difficult to handle - poor kid couldn’t focus. Sylar had all three of the cards, once he shuffled them around so he could see. Big hands came in handy but with blazing lights and bad seating and a homicidal headache, his cognition or perception wasn’t one-hundred percent. The question was, which was the best card to show? There were nine rooms, six characters, and six weapons but the rooms took the longest to get to and the cards were divided in half…What the hell. Sylar showed his partner in crime the character card, Miss Peacock.
That done, Sylar rolled himself into the dining room and surveyed his cards. He lacked the room, conveniently. “Ms. White, in the dining room with the…rope.”
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Laundry was migrated to the dryers and the game, simplistic with only two players, was concluded in Sylar's favor. Peter thought about explaining himself and how he'd only figured out the reasons behind some of the rules, and how they impacted strategy and choice in the game, right at the end, but he skipped it. Instead, “I think you've been holding out on me on the MMSE's I've been doing. You're pretty good at this.” Peter helped put away the game, then got himself to his feet. He stretched, hands over head and shirt riding up, then rubbed his elbow as he limped over to the dryer to check the time left on the cycle. He rubbed his lower lip with his index finger. “Almost done. How about we pull them out and take them upstairs to fold?”
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Sylar agreed. That was the next logical step, though he usually folded here in the laundry room. After forking the clothes into the hamper, Sylar pointedly hefted it - because watching Peter try to carry it one handed again would just annoy him. He left Peter to carry the board game, much more suited to his capacity at the moment. Back in his apartment, he seated himself on the couch. His knees became his table of sorts for folding, reaching in to snag an item of clothing to fold, doing so, setting it aside, before repeating the process. Sylar came across Peter’s underwear and while he wasn’t totally disgusted (they were clean, after all), he wasn’t sure what he should do with them, socially speaking. Would Peter throw a fit and call him a pervert if he folded them? Just holding them now was risky in that regard. Was it rude to hold them like they might scald him? Or would Peter even notice…? Luckily as he watched, Peter came across some of Sylar’s underwear, handling and folding them without a thought it seemed. Okay…Now Sylar didn’t know what to feel about that. It’s just clothing, right? He didn’t do anything weird so it must not be weird. He spotted Peter mishandling a shirt, though, “No, no. Arms together, folded in the middle…Like this,” he demonstrated folding the shirt in half vertically, the armholes together before turning the sleeves to one side, then beginning the compression folds horizontally across the middle. After that, Sylar kept half an eye on Peter’s folding process, curious about it. Didn’t I say something about folding clothes eventually? And he disagreed with me? That made him grin to himself.
Folding the laundry didn’t take long with two of them (even if one man was one-handed). Sylar handled putting them away and Peter went about making soup for dinner.
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Continued...