More Between Us Chapter 64/? "Truth or Dare"
More Between Us, Chapter 64/? "Truth or Dare"
Day 17, December 27, Morning
Peter pursed his lips, straightening and stepping closer. He reached out and with the heel of his left hand, jogged Sylar on the right shoulder. “I'm real, asshole.” He glared at the man for a moment, then turned away, shaking his head. He didn't like the disrespect implicit in being reduced to a figment of Sylar's imagination. It robbed him of his agency, made him meaningless in Sylar's eyes. It was twisted that Peter thought the world they were in was fake and Sylar was real; Sylar thought the world was real but Peter fake. Great. Just great. I can't think of how to prove I'm not, either. With a huff, he gathered his bowl and spoon from the table, putting them on the counter next to the sink where Sylar could get them and go through the same rinsing and perhaps washing. Then he turned to lean against the counter an arm's length away, facing the opposite way of Sylar who was at the sink. He gave a little sigh and crossed his arms loosely, looking over at him. “Go ahead. Explain it to me.”
XXX
Sylar jerked aside from the contact he hadn’t seen coming. When nothing followed and Peter turned away, he relaxed - it had been a simple, unexplained shove. Why the attitude? Don’t like being part of my mind? Join the club. Only the wording was unique to Peter, a point towards proving that Peter was…real. I wouldn’t say that to myself, not in those words anyway. Is Nathan that…lively that he’d make up a Peter hallucination? The prickly nurse remained close and the proximity was vaguely threatening; Sylar kept half an eye on him as he rinsed the other man’s dishes, too. “I just did.”
XXX
Peter snorted, frowning and tightening his arms across his chest. “No, you didn't.” What were we even talking about? Powers? “Did your powers ...” Peter's voice softened abruptly, his expression changing from frustrated to concerned, “'tear you apart'?” He cocked his head suddenly in curiosity, not unleavened by empathy. “Is that why you think I'm not real? Has this happened before?” He turned a little towards Sylar, his hands dropping to the counter behind him as he blinked and moved his lips together a few times as if on the cusp of speaking. He didn't know what to say, though. His mind was full of the knowledge of power-induced identity disorders and his own experiences of losing his memories and later losing his body, stuffed bizarrely into a pseudo-possession of an ill-fated stranger. Imagining or being forced to imagine someone who wasn't really there seemed pedestrian enough by comparison. Peter knew of a half dozen abilities that could do it, without even thinking about it much.
XXX
Sylar heaved a sigh and swatted the faucet off. Yes, I did! The implication that he had mental problems, seeing things or wanting to see them, that his sense of reality was completely fucked with no way of knowing up from down, really bothered him. He was further mystified as to who or what this apparition was. “Why the hell are you asking me that? If you’re Peter, you hate me and it doesn’t matter. If you’re me then you already know the answer. This- you-” Sylar scraped a hand through his hair, frustration, paranoia and panic beginning to overflow. An extension of himself would behave one way, Peter (real or not) would act another way; it was important to know for that reason. And knowing if he was having yet another mental break would at the least be entertaining, alone for the rest of eternity. Not that he enjoyed looking like an unstable, paranoid nut job, even to himself. But why Peter of all people?
“Prove you’re him.”
XXX
“Prove I'm what? Who, me?” Peter snorted and turned sideways to the counter, fully facing Sylar. Lips pursed tightly for a moment, he regarded Sylar with narrowed eyes. It was precisely the question Peter had been entertaining himself, but he saw how he could turn this to maybe get the information he needed to answer it. Very seriously, he asked, “What could I do to prove that to you?”
XXX
Sylar stared at Peter for a moment as if trying to see through him. Then he cast around for suitable evidence. His eyes lit on the knife block. Not only would the test answer the question, it would potentially serve a dual purpose. Sylar pushed away from the sink, passing Peter to palm the largest knife. He turned and extended it along his forearm, handle out, towards his enigmatic companion. “Use that, however you want. Then I’ll know.” Not using it was not an option.
XXX
Peter looked at the weapon. The thumb and index finger of his right hand twitched, betraying his desire to reach for it. His face relaxed slowly as Sylar waited for Peter to accept the offer. “We already tried this, last night. I put it back.” Though it wasn't the big one - I had the paring knife. Peter dipped his head in the direction of the knife block, not trusting his hands to make any gestures between them.
XXX
“And I get the feeling we’re going to try it again and again until you run out of patience.” Sylar pointed out, watching the man’s face. “C’mon. You hate me, right? You’ve been trying to do this since you got here. Now’s your chance.”
XXX
Peter looked at the blade, feeling the same temptation and mental static he’d felt when he found the gun in the nightstand of that apartment they’d explored. I didn’t come here to kill him! But it hardly mattered. His mind flashed to Nathan dead in that storage unit, the weight of his body when Noah helped Peter lug him into the airplane, the distant roar of the jets that had flown overhead at the funeral … He took the knife. He told himself it was just to get it out of the hands of the unbalanced guy who wasn't even sure Peter was real. He looked it only briefly, having no great interest in a standard eight inch cook's knife. He held it point downwards between them, eyes locking onto Sylar’s as his voice dropped to a growl.
“I’ve been trying to do one thing since I got here - one very difficult thing that you don’t seem to give a damn about.” He lifted the knife, knuckles whitening as his muscles tensed for the strike. “And you know what’s going to happen to you if I don’t get what I want?” He waited a beat, eyes boring fearlessly into those of the taller man. “Nothing,” he hissed, turning to stab the knife solidly into the counter, the steel tip biting through the Formica and into the plywood backing. He left it there. Peter turned and stalked out, frustrated and tense, tired already of trying to validate his own existence to someone whose only interest in him was how to use him.
XXX
Sylar was motionless, gazing sightlessly at the knife. I’m so crazy…Why would he leave me alone with a weapon? Doesn’t he know I’m crazy? He was supposed to… “No!” he cried out, finally finding his footing, his voice. He felt…betrayed and dismissed. Stalking into the living room, he stood across from Peter, the desk between them. “You’re going to quit stringing me around! You’ve already done that enough and you’re not honest about it. The knife, that knife,” Sylar pointed back to the kitchen, speaking quickly, animated and agitated, “that’s the only way you can prove this. I’ve got me in my head; I’ve got your brother - he knows you! - and if you tell me something Peter knows that I don’t know, if you’re him…then…it’s just something I made up. Do you have a better idea? Because I’m crazy, remember?” Give me something, whoever you are.
XXX
He watched the other man's agitation, Peter being annoyed at first with narrowed eyes and tensed posture. But as Sylar went on, Peter softened. It sucked, the bind Sylar was in, the tenuous grip on reality. He had to know, on some level, that the world he was in was fake. At the very least, it was so radically different from the real world that Sylar, an intelligent, rational man in a lot of other ways, probably had to imagine some pretty bizarre circumstances to explain it, if he found it explicable at all. The whole issue of where trash went, for example. It had been a brief conversation where Sylar had seemed aware of the unreality of the place. It had to take a lot of effort and determination to create the mental world Sylar found himself in. Peter wondered how anomalous his presence must be, simultaneously difficult to deal with due to difference and yet impossible to differentiate from the rest of the wonky world. He had sympathy for that.
XXX
"You say and ask all these things. It's...twisted and you lie and appear out of nowhere then you take care of me and leave me alive? You're not making any sense. And..." Sylar sighed again, sagging into the open chair, "that makes sense, too, because no one makes sense but...If you're Peter, just...be Peter. Okay?" His voice wound down until he couldn't talk anymore.
XXX
“I'm Peter,” he said kindly, his voice softer and his posture having relaxed as Sylar came to the end of his rope. “I'm not you. I'm not something you imagined. I'm not,” he waved vaguely at the rest of the world, “part of all of this. At least, no more than you are. We're different people. I have a history and I know it - a family, a childhood, people I've known, things I've done - the whole life story of Peter Petrelli. It wasn't about you. You weren't in most of it. You are a very small part of my life, Sylar. Who I am doesn't depend on you, wasn't shaped by you. It's my life, not yours.” It occurred to him that a confusion about boundaries might have tons to do with why Sylar had it in himself to kill people. They weren't him … and if they weren't him, then he didn't know what to do with them. Maybe they didn't count to him or were all frightening, unpredictable strangers who didn't make sense, just as he'd implied.
XXX
Sylar listened, allowing his face to emote what vulnerability it would for the moment. He tried to absorb what Peter was saying, trying to remember that Peter said he was straightforward. Few questions or inconsistencies sprang from the empath’s words, so by and large, Sylar was comforted and what’s more, he…accepted that this was Peter and Peter was real. For the most part. Of course, he wanted Peter to be real, as odd and masochistic as it was. It was almost like having Peter, possessing him but it was also the simple knowledge that he wasn’t alone. I’m not ‘part of this,’ whatever that means. Being a small part of Peter’s life was a strangely frightening idea, but perhaps that was because of the implied minimization of himself in general. Since he didn’t agree with it, Sylar ignored it (and the flash of panic it inspired). Peter made sense, finally, insisting on his own history and his own identity interwoven with that history. Sylar suspected that Nathan would put a more Nathan-like slant if he were to conjure up a Peter apparition and this sounded…well, very Peter. If Sylar were to imagine the younger Petrelli things would certainly be different. It came down to Peter’s own behavioral inconsistencies - nursing him to health, staying with him, playing with him (somewhat), and letting him live without abusing the abundant weapons around them.
XXX
Peter leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms and some of his weight on the edge of the desk. “I'm not going to cut you up. Not unless we're already in a fight and there's …” He rolled his eyes quickly and shook his head, knowing himself well enough to know he'd make some very dumb decisions in the heat of combat. “That would be really stupid of me, but my point is that I'm not going to take that kitchen knife and hurt you with it, any more than I'm going to take that hammer to you.” He waved to his right, at the stack of tools in easy reach. “If you don't understand why, that's because you don't understand me. If I was something you'd thought up, then you'd know why I did things without having to ask me, or guess.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly. “Do you get it?”
XXX
Sylar frowned more towards the floor. Why should I care if you do cut me up? Why would you think I care about that? he wondered. The burden of proof was on Sylar’s plate - it was his task to understand things. It was assumed he knew the mundane, apparently commonplace facts of life like all humans came equipped with it and he was born wrong without it or that all humans were taught and he hadn’t learned for some reason. Sylar had been struggling to understand everything for as long as he could remember. It was like a damn disability, retardation. He felt like a freak, five steps behind what even an average person could easily grasp and he had to fight and manipulate his target to gain knowledge because it would not be freely given. When he couldn’t understand, he had no one to blame but himself. I do too know him. I do…I know him…It sounded weak even to himself. If the Petrellis lacked understanding of their own son and brother - what chance did Sylar have when he barely knew who and where he was? The expectations were steep and taxing. (Just…try harder). I’m always trying harder. Sylar nodded to everything Peter had said, even though he was still upset about the knife not being used. His head felt like it was being split down the middle, worse than before, and since he had nothing better to say, he grouched, reaching for a puzzle piece, “My head still hurts.” It always hurts, doesn’t it?
XXX
“That's probably because of the stress. If you're okay with it, how about we just sit here and work the puzzle and try not to aggravate each other too much, okay?” Peter smiled gently at Sylar, reaching out to get a piece of his own. He glanced briefly at it, mostly watching Sylar and making sure things were okay between them for the moment. I have a feeling these standoffs, confrontations, whatever I want to call them, are only going to get more common as he gets to feeling better. Peter looked down at where he might place the little cardboard piece in his hand. Need to make sure we can … back down from it. Talk each other down. Trust each other. He mused on their situation as they completed the puzzle bit by bit.
XXX
“Yeah,” Sylar breathed, “Okay.” He nodded, still frowning but for different reasons now. He couldn’t remember who’d aggravated whom and communication was…a blur; too many topics at once. Orienting on the puzzle, he thought it over slowly.
XXX
Peter noticed as Sylar wound down and seemed to space out, the puzzle piece eventually falling from limp fingers. The man's breathing deepened and face relaxed. Peter leaned back in the chair, watching voyeuristically as his bristly companion made adorable sleepy sighs through slightly parted, pouting lips. He has nice lips. Peter smiled shyly and looked away, coloring a little and being glad Sylar wasn't watching him. Of course, had Sylar been awake, Peter would have had something much closer to his game-face on, more serious and alert. He could relax like this and enjoy what he saw. Bewilderingly (to Peter), his mind seemed to think this was the perfect time to review Sylar's good points, the moments when he'd said things that were clever or tried to be helpful, and the flashes of compassion or vulnerability that he'd shown. Peter let his thoughts go where they would. There seemed to be no reason to feed his hate.
When Sylar's head started dipping, Peter eased himself out of his chair and circled the desk. “Sylar?” he said in a normal tone, wanting to wake him and give a warning of his impending touch. He repeated softer, “Sylar,” as he stepped behind and put his hands on either of the man's shoulders. “Come on, buddy.” His hands slid down Sylar's arms to squeeze a little over his biceps, trying to urge Sylar up. “Come on. Let me get you to where you can lie down. Bed or couch? I promise I won't finish the puzzle without you.”
XXX
Sylar was snatched from sleep by contact to his shoulders. He started with a jolt, too disoriented to focus on where it was coming from, where he should defend himself. A quiet voice spoke to him and the contact - hands - soothed down his arms, giving him a choice. Instinctively he moved towards his bed, desiring the comfort it offered more than the need to question. He didn’t bother to wake up much, either.
XXX
Peter used Sylar's downtime to go to the grocery store. The snow was melting rapidly, but there was enough of it still there, and his leg and knee still hurting enough that he didn't indulge his restless desire to explore the immediate few blocks around their apartments. Instead he returned to Sylar's place, stocked the fridge, made lunch, and occupied himself reading the book about the Incas. The puzzle had been nearly done when Sylar conked out, so Peter left it with one piece unset, laying the last piece to the side so Sylar could put it in and maintain the fiction that they'd worked it together.
XXX
The rest of Sylar’s day was low-key and restful. He finally groomed when he woke from his nap and was required to do little else. Peter slept with him again that night. Well, not slept with him; Peter crashed on the couch.
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Afternoon
Peter waited, poised breathlessly as Sylar stared bitterly at his game board like it had betrayed him. Finally, he muttered the words. Peter couldn't make out exactly what was said, but it certainly wasn't, 'you missed'. Peter erupted into laughter and whoops of victory. "I got it?" Mouth agape, Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's surly visage, making sure it wasn't a joke or feint, but Sylar looked too pissed for that. "Oh my God, I got it! I sank your last freaking battleship, man! Ha, ha, ha!" He put his left hand out asking for a high five. Sylar looked like he might grab it and break it if it stayed out there any longer, so Peter pulled it back swiftly. Instead, he swiveled his game board carefully, showing it off to his defeated opponent. "Look! Look at this! You had me, man! You almost had me! One more turn and you'd have called it and I'd have been dead."
Grinning widely, Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching exultantly. "You know what? I am never playing Battleship with you again." Peter stabbed a finger once at Sylar. "Cuz, look at that," he said, turning his motion into a wave at the game board. "What are you doing, stepping off a fucking grid? How is that any fun, Sylar? It's like I'm not even playing against a human being, just an algorithm." Peter's busily gesturing hand picked up his beer so he could take a deep draw off from it, emptying the bottle. "I can play that way, too, you know." He set the bottle down. "And then the game would be pointless - all a matter of who won the coin toss to go first. We could just have the coin toss, then whoever gets it right could gloat about what they did to make it happen, which is nothing. You're missing the fun part, Sylar!" Peter leaned forward sharply. "And you know what's really fun? That you did all that methodical bullshit and I still beat your ass!"
XXX
Sylar angrily yanked the pegs from their holders on the board, shaking his head in disbelief, growling, “You won by pure chance. That’s all.” He paused with a handful of pegs to glare at his partner. Peter Petrelli liked to trash talk, especially a few beers in. Obviously Sylar wasn’t thrilled to have his defeat rubbed in his face, but Peter was attacking his playing style, too. “Even computers can’t foresee random Hail Mary’s,” he denounced, putting Peter’s final (winning) move in the perspective light of desperation. The nurse had an educated guess to go on, sure. Regardless of the game, Peter played randomly, perhaps that made Sylar overly confident. He didn’t point out how often computers won, that made him look worse still. “One more move and I’d have won with certainty.” Being called a computer, more or less, was bothersome and slightly flattering. I did things! I thought it through, I made a plan! I can, too, have fun! Or is he saying that like I’m not supposed to have fun? That slowed his otherwise urgent, jerky yanks at the pegs. But I’m not supposed to lose, at least, not every time. And I haven’t…Is he threatening not to play unless he wins? “I’m not changing how I play, Petrelli,” he asserted, watching his companion to see how that was received. He was remembering how he’d been called out as a child whenever his strategies of ‘fun’ weren’t making the grade. No, playing to win was important; fun was just… just that: a blank spot. Maybe it was a luxury or something he couldn’t understand, which was very likely. I’m not having fun correctly. People who murder other people for fun aren’t right. “Maybe playing against a computer will raise your game. Have another beer,” he snarked, unsure of what or whom he was angry at now. He has no idea who he’s dealing with, does he? Makes me want to break him in. It’s so tempting sometimes…
XXX
Peter snorted and picked up his bottle. “Yeah, that's a good idea. Me drinking more would probably help you win, wouldn't it?” He swung the dead soldier back and forth as he waggled his brows.
He got to his feet, leaving his game board set up so he could admire it a little more, or to make Sylar be the one to have to disassemble it. Either way, he took Sylar's suggestion that he get another drink and headed to the kitchen. As he passed, he reached down and gave a friendly couple of pats to Sylar's shoulder, taking care to telegraph the motion. At one point he'd thought Sylar would get used to friendly touch and stop twitching from the contact, but it hadn't happened. So Peter had changed and gone to giving more warning. He was glad that seemed to work, as the alternative was no contact at all, something Peter shied away from. That would have complicated things like this current, non-verbal attempt to soothe Sylar's ruffled feathers.
XXX
Sylar ceased his plucking when he felt the patting. It wasn’t as unheard-of as it had been in the past - Mister Touch/No-Touch offering up physical contact of any sort. He questioned it now because of Peter’s win. Is that a literal put-down, rubbing it in? A half-glare followed Peter as he left, albeit to get more beer (for once being an obedient boy). Peter seemed happy and friendly, though. Maybe even…pliable. Hmm…
XXX
The bottle went in the trash and Peter stuck his head in the refrigerator. A few days before, he'd taken one of the grocery store shopping carts and stocked up on stuff, including beverages. Since the champagne had gone over fine and Peter had largely gotten over his fear of being impaired around Sylar, he'd added a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine to other stuff in the cart. He snagged two bottles, because like even if he was mostly over it, he certainly wasn't going to drink alone.
Peter returned, setting the drinks down in front of their respective seats. “You don't have to change how you play, Sylar. My dad and Nathan never did and I still don't like chess.” He sat, looking across the table at the other man, a 'so there you go' expression on his face - one brow up and a brief tilt of his head. He added, “Since Battleship and chess aren't options, what else would you like to play?”
XXX
“Then maybe you should change the way you play, Petrelli,” Sylar sassed. His lips thinned at the reinforcement that he’d…somehow screwed up and lost a game to play with Peter; it felt like deprivation or punishment even. But I do have to change or you won’t play Battleship with me, apparently. That it had to be mentioned more than once made it sound like Peter was at least trying to be serious about not playing it ever again (at least until Sylar mended his ways). As Peter got more chatty with drink, Sylar was drawn into talking himself; he gazed up at Peter from underneath his eyebrows. Do you really want to know what I wanna play? (Should I say it?) What else could we play with our clothes on? “How about…” What’s a good party game? Nathan’s memories from high school and college came to the forefront. Girls, smoke, booze, cards and more. Sylar smirked, “Truth or Dare.”
XXX
Peter raised his brows without answering right away. Instead, he pulled out his utility tool, selected the bottle opener, and popped the lid off his beer. He passed the device towards Sylar as he considered the proposal. It had been a long day filled with the playing of one board game after another. Over the previous few days, Peter had won some of their games, lost others, and observed that Sylar was impatient and short when explaining rules. It meant Peter quit asking. Truth or Dare was simple. It also didn't obligate them to a specific length, and given that the evening had worn into early night, Peter wasn't keen to get sucked into an all-night game of Risk or something like it. Plus, he wondered what Sylar wanted to know (or see him do). His curiosity was what cinched it for him. “Okay.”
XXX
“Which do you pick?”
XXX
“Truth.” He collected the utility tool from Sylar and restored it to his pocket.
XXX
“What was the first New Year’s you drank alcohol?” Sylar imagined it was pretty young - Nathan had surely noticed (if Angela or Arthur hadn’t), but he didn’t remember what year or age Peter was. He started with something light and easy. For now.
XXX
“New Year's? Is this New Year's? I hadn't been keeping track of the days … Huh.” Peter shrugged, bemused, and focused on the question instead of the impact of having been here for three full weeks with no Matt, no way out, nothing and nobody but his brother's cranky killer to spend time with. “You know, we weren't one of those families that believed kids shouldn't touch the stuff until they were twenty-one.” 'We'. The Petrellis. How does he take that, anyway? Does he think I'm including him? … Am I? Hm. Well, back to the question. “So I'm sure I tasted alcohol back when I was five or six or whatever. Just the tiniest sip of champagne for the New Year's toast, if I was awake. It was traditional. But I think what you're really asking is the first time I got drunk.” He looked at Sylar for a moment for confirmation.
“When I was thirteen, Nathan had come home for Christmas and my birthday, but he had to leave before New Year's. I ...” He looked at Sylar, having another of those unsettling flashes that this man's face was probably the last thing Nathan had seen. Peter grimaced as his face reflected an echo of grief and unresolved rage. He set it aside, looking down at the table, toying with his beer by rotating it in circles. “I was pretty down after he left. Bob Bishop came to the New Year's Eve party and he got me off to the side in the kitchen early on.” Peter's mouth twisted down in an ugly fashion. He didn't like Bob's idea of a joke and he'd seen Bob's idea of good parenting in Elle. He chewed his upper lip briefly. He'd been lonely and upset enough about Nathan's departure to be suckered in by Bob's false offer of friendship. “He gave me a bottle of some kind of cherry liqueur and said it was a gift for me, a late Christmas present. It was really sweet. Tasted a lot like maraschino cherries, which, you know,” Peter shrugged and waved his bottle around a little, “I liked it at that point. And they're okay now, but not my favorite and it took a while for me to get over it.” He took a short drink. “Anyway, long story shorter, I drank it. Started puking hours before midnight and kept it up all evening. I was so miserable. I saw his face once, at the beginning when I was telling my mom I was feeling sick. He looked so ...” Peter tilted the bottle sideways, along with his head, “smug.”
Peter tapped the fingers of his right hand, where they weren't bound by the brace, restlessly against the arm of the office chair. “So what about you? Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Sylar didn’t hesitate. “Dare.” Truth was uninteresting (usually painful) and what ‘truth’ did Sylar have to share anyway?
XXX
Peter leaned back a little further, enjoying the surprising rush of power too much for the comfort of his own conscience. I could ask him to do anything … His mind blanked out for a moment as what he wanted most wasn't something that could be forced or compelled - and he didn't want to hear Sylar's apologies or confessions anyway. But there were other things where Peter wasn't as picky about motivations. What I really want is to take him down a peg. Pegs. He looked at the Battleship board - his still open, facing him, on display. Sylar's was neatly disassembled and folded shut off to the side. Cocking his head to one side and smiling with false sweetness, Peter said, “Tell me, with as much sincerity as you can manage, congratulations for beating you at Battleship. I dare you to concede gracefully.”
XXX
Sylar’s mouth went thin and flat, teeth clenching. So that’s how it’s going to be. That peppy smile on Peter’s face made it clear what was going on. “Sincerity, huh?” His left eyebrow raised with disdain. He could easily give Peter a lie, a con, that would have almost more sincerity than if he tried to apply the actual emotion. The muscles around his mouth moved as he stared pointedly away from Peter, staring holes into the wall, working himself up to and into the correct frame of mind (if it was possible). Rules were rules - if the Dare specified sincerity, then it was required. Congratulate him for winning by chance? That’s…kind of hollow. But so’s his mind sometimes, I suppose. After a few moments for which Sylar did not apologize for using, he turned to back to Peter. After licking his lips, “Congratulations,” he intoned with barest hints of ‘this is forced and I don’t like it,’ “For…” the eyebrow went up again as he gestured, “beating me at Battleship.” Honestly, the worst part was the last sentence; a simple conciliatory word wasn’t too difficult to cough up.
Will he do something similar the next time I do Dare? “Truth or Dare?” Sylar asked to move on.
XXX
“Dare.” What would Sylar would ask him to do, given that power? Of course it was only so much power as either of them was willing to grant the other, but that by itself was part of the appeal of the game - how far would they let the other go?
XXX
“Why don’t you finish off that beer in one go?” Sylar’s smirk remained. Get you nice and drunk. Plus, I wanna see if you can do it; I think you can. As a bonus, Peter’s long neck would be exposed.
XXX
Sylar's Truth question had seemed like a strange thing for Sylar to want to know, but now Peter saw it in a different light. A frisson of fear, or maybe just concern, passed over him similar to the feelings he'd had when he first came here, not sure what Sylar was capable of. Is he trying to get me wasted? Peter looked at the bottle - he'd hardly drank any of it yet. He raised it nearly to his lips, looking past the colored glass to Sylar. “I never trusted Bob again after that thing at New Year's.” And I won't trust you if you show me I can't.
XXX
“You don’t have to but you’ll be the guy who wimped out of a perfectly good Dare. You’re an adult now and are you really trying to make a connection between me and Bob Bishop?”
XXX
Peter hesitated a moment more, adding, “You're right. You're better company than he would be.” He took a deep breath, tipped the bottle, and put it away in one, easy, prolonged swallow. In a way, he was giving Sylar a chance to show what he was made of.
“Your turn.”
XXX
Peter’s throat’s gulping motions were hypnotizing. It was such a simple function, really. It was a human function. It involved soft skin and muscles, the need to ingest nutrition for survival…moisture and a tongue…Sylar blinked once to remove the image of the phallic neck of the beer bottle doing…Okay…I didn’t mean for it to do that… “Dare,” Sylar said again.
XXX
Peter wiped his mouth, making sure he hadn't dribbled from the numb area of his lip. The way Sylar had been staring made him wonder. “Keep up with me - that’s the dare.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 17, December 27, Morning
Peter pursed his lips, straightening and stepping closer. He reached out and with the heel of his left hand, jogged Sylar on the right shoulder. “I'm real, asshole.” He glared at the man for a moment, then turned away, shaking his head. He didn't like the disrespect implicit in being reduced to a figment of Sylar's imagination. It robbed him of his agency, made him meaningless in Sylar's eyes. It was twisted that Peter thought the world they were in was fake and Sylar was real; Sylar thought the world was real but Peter fake. Great. Just great. I can't think of how to prove I'm not, either. With a huff, he gathered his bowl and spoon from the table, putting them on the counter next to the sink where Sylar could get them and go through the same rinsing and perhaps washing. Then he turned to lean against the counter an arm's length away, facing the opposite way of Sylar who was at the sink. He gave a little sigh and crossed his arms loosely, looking over at him. “Go ahead. Explain it to me.”
XXX
Sylar jerked aside from the contact he hadn’t seen coming. When nothing followed and Peter turned away, he relaxed - it had been a simple, unexplained shove. Why the attitude? Don’t like being part of my mind? Join the club. Only the wording was unique to Peter, a point towards proving that Peter was…real. I wouldn’t say that to myself, not in those words anyway. Is Nathan that…lively that he’d make up a Peter hallucination? The prickly nurse remained close and the proximity was vaguely threatening; Sylar kept half an eye on him as he rinsed the other man’s dishes, too. “I just did.”
XXX
Peter snorted, frowning and tightening his arms across his chest. “No, you didn't.” What were we even talking about? Powers? “Did your powers ...” Peter's voice softened abruptly, his expression changing from frustrated to concerned, “'tear you apart'?” He cocked his head suddenly in curiosity, not unleavened by empathy. “Is that why you think I'm not real? Has this happened before?” He turned a little towards Sylar, his hands dropping to the counter behind him as he blinked and moved his lips together a few times as if on the cusp of speaking. He didn't know what to say, though. His mind was full of the knowledge of power-induced identity disorders and his own experiences of losing his memories and later losing his body, stuffed bizarrely into a pseudo-possession of an ill-fated stranger. Imagining or being forced to imagine someone who wasn't really there seemed pedestrian enough by comparison. Peter knew of a half dozen abilities that could do it, without even thinking about it much.
XXX
Sylar heaved a sigh and swatted the faucet off. Yes, I did! The implication that he had mental problems, seeing things or wanting to see them, that his sense of reality was completely fucked with no way of knowing up from down, really bothered him. He was further mystified as to who or what this apparition was. “Why the hell are you asking me that? If you’re Peter, you hate me and it doesn’t matter. If you’re me then you already know the answer. This- you-” Sylar scraped a hand through his hair, frustration, paranoia and panic beginning to overflow. An extension of himself would behave one way, Peter (real or not) would act another way; it was important to know for that reason. And knowing if he was having yet another mental break would at the least be entertaining, alone for the rest of eternity. Not that he enjoyed looking like an unstable, paranoid nut job, even to himself. But why Peter of all people?
“Prove you’re him.”
XXX
“Prove I'm what? Who, me?” Peter snorted and turned sideways to the counter, fully facing Sylar. Lips pursed tightly for a moment, he regarded Sylar with narrowed eyes. It was precisely the question Peter had been entertaining himself, but he saw how he could turn this to maybe get the information he needed to answer it. Very seriously, he asked, “What could I do to prove that to you?”
XXX
Sylar stared at Peter for a moment as if trying to see through him. Then he cast around for suitable evidence. His eyes lit on the knife block. Not only would the test answer the question, it would potentially serve a dual purpose. Sylar pushed away from the sink, passing Peter to palm the largest knife. He turned and extended it along his forearm, handle out, towards his enigmatic companion. “Use that, however you want. Then I’ll know.” Not using it was not an option.
XXX
Peter looked at the weapon. The thumb and index finger of his right hand twitched, betraying his desire to reach for it. His face relaxed slowly as Sylar waited for Peter to accept the offer. “We already tried this, last night. I put it back.” Though it wasn't the big one - I had the paring knife. Peter dipped his head in the direction of the knife block, not trusting his hands to make any gestures between them.
XXX
“And I get the feeling we’re going to try it again and again until you run out of patience.” Sylar pointed out, watching the man’s face. “C’mon. You hate me, right? You’ve been trying to do this since you got here. Now’s your chance.”
XXX
Peter looked at the blade, feeling the same temptation and mental static he’d felt when he found the gun in the nightstand of that apartment they’d explored. I didn’t come here to kill him! But it hardly mattered. His mind flashed to Nathan dead in that storage unit, the weight of his body when Noah helped Peter lug him into the airplane, the distant roar of the jets that had flown overhead at the funeral … He took the knife. He told himself it was just to get it out of the hands of the unbalanced guy who wasn't even sure Peter was real. He looked it only briefly, having no great interest in a standard eight inch cook's knife. He held it point downwards between them, eyes locking onto Sylar’s as his voice dropped to a growl.
“I’ve been trying to do one thing since I got here - one very difficult thing that you don’t seem to give a damn about.” He lifted the knife, knuckles whitening as his muscles tensed for the strike. “And you know what’s going to happen to you if I don’t get what I want?” He waited a beat, eyes boring fearlessly into those of the taller man. “Nothing,” he hissed, turning to stab the knife solidly into the counter, the steel tip biting through the Formica and into the plywood backing. He left it there. Peter turned and stalked out, frustrated and tense, tired already of trying to validate his own existence to someone whose only interest in him was how to use him.
XXX
Sylar was motionless, gazing sightlessly at the knife. I’m so crazy…Why would he leave me alone with a weapon? Doesn’t he know I’m crazy? He was supposed to… “No!” he cried out, finally finding his footing, his voice. He felt…betrayed and dismissed. Stalking into the living room, he stood across from Peter, the desk between them. “You’re going to quit stringing me around! You’ve already done that enough and you’re not honest about it. The knife, that knife,” Sylar pointed back to the kitchen, speaking quickly, animated and agitated, “that’s the only way you can prove this. I’ve got me in my head; I’ve got your brother - he knows you! - and if you tell me something Peter knows that I don’t know, if you’re him…then…it’s just something I made up. Do you have a better idea? Because I’m crazy, remember?” Give me something, whoever you are.
XXX
He watched the other man's agitation, Peter being annoyed at first with narrowed eyes and tensed posture. But as Sylar went on, Peter softened. It sucked, the bind Sylar was in, the tenuous grip on reality. He had to know, on some level, that the world he was in was fake. At the very least, it was so radically different from the real world that Sylar, an intelligent, rational man in a lot of other ways, probably had to imagine some pretty bizarre circumstances to explain it, if he found it explicable at all. The whole issue of where trash went, for example. It had been a brief conversation where Sylar had seemed aware of the unreality of the place. It had to take a lot of effort and determination to create the mental world Sylar found himself in. Peter wondered how anomalous his presence must be, simultaneously difficult to deal with due to difference and yet impossible to differentiate from the rest of the wonky world. He had sympathy for that.
XXX
"You say and ask all these things. It's...twisted and you lie and appear out of nowhere then you take care of me and leave me alive? You're not making any sense. And..." Sylar sighed again, sagging into the open chair, "that makes sense, too, because no one makes sense but...If you're Peter, just...be Peter. Okay?" His voice wound down until he couldn't talk anymore.
XXX
“I'm Peter,” he said kindly, his voice softer and his posture having relaxed as Sylar came to the end of his rope. “I'm not you. I'm not something you imagined. I'm not,” he waved vaguely at the rest of the world, “part of all of this. At least, no more than you are. We're different people. I have a history and I know it - a family, a childhood, people I've known, things I've done - the whole life story of Peter Petrelli. It wasn't about you. You weren't in most of it. You are a very small part of my life, Sylar. Who I am doesn't depend on you, wasn't shaped by you. It's my life, not yours.” It occurred to him that a confusion about boundaries might have tons to do with why Sylar had it in himself to kill people. They weren't him … and if they weren't him, then he didn't know what to do with them. Maybe they didn't count to him or were all frightening, unpredictable strangers who didn't make sense, just as he'd implied.
XXX
Sylar listened, allowing his face to emote what vulnerability it would for the moment. He tried to absorb what Peter was saying, trying to remember that Peter said he was straightforward. Few questions or inconsistencies sprang from the empath’s words, so by and large, Sylar was comforted and what’s more, he…accepted that this was Peter and Peter was real. For the most part. Of course, he wanted Peter to be real, as odd and masochistic as it was. It was almost like having Peter, possessing him but it was also the simple knowledge that he wasn’t alone. I’m not ‘part of this,’ whatever that means. Being a small part of Peter’s life was a strangely frightening idea, but perhaps that was because of the implied minimization of himself in general. Since he didn’t agree with it, Sylar ignored it (and the flash of panic it inspired). Peter made sense, finally, insisting on his own history and his own identity interwoven with that history. Sylar suspected that Nathan would put a more Nathan-like slant if he were to conjure up a Peter apparition and this sounded…well, very Peter. If Sylar were to imagine the younger Petrelli things would certainly be different. It came down to Peter’s own behavioral inconsistencies - nursing him to health, staying with him, playing with him (somewhat), and letting him live without abusing the abundant weapons around them.
XXX
Peter leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms and some of his weight on the edge of the desk. “I'm not going to cut you up. Not unless we're already in a fight and there's …” He rolled his eyes quickly and shook his head, knowing himself well enough to know he'd make some very dumb decisions in the heat of combat. “That would be really stupid of me, but my point is that I'm not going to take that kitchen knife and hurt you with it, any more than I'm going to take that hammer to you.” He waved to his right, at the stack of tools in easy reach. “If you don't understand why, that's because you don't understand me. If I was something you'd thought up, then you'd know why I did things without having to ask me, or guess.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly. “Do you get it?”
XXX
Sylar frowned more towards the floor. Why should I care if you do cut me up? Why would you think I care about that? he wondered. The burden of proof was on Sylar’s plate - it was his task to understand things. It was assumed he knew the mundane, apparently commonplace facts of life like all humans came equipped with it and he was born wrong without it or that all humans were taught and he hadn’t learned for some reason. Sylar had been struggling to understand everything for as long as he could remember. It was like a damn disability, retardation. He felt like a freak, five steps behind what even an average person could easily grasp and he had to fight and manipulate his target to gain knowledge because it would not be freely given. When he couldn’t understand, he had no one to blame but himself. I do too know him. I do…I know him…It sounded weak even to himself. If the Petrellis lacked understanding of their own son and brother - what chance did Sylar have when he barely knew who and where he was? The expectations were steep and taxing. (Just…try harder). I’m always trying harder. Sylar nodded to everything Peter had said, even though he was still upset about the knife not being used. His head felt like it was being split down the middle, worse than before, and since he had nothing better to say, he grouched, reaching for a puzzle piece, “My head still hurts.” It always hurts, doesn’t it?
XXX
“That's probably because of the stress. If you're okay with it, how about we just sit here and work the puzzle and try not to aggravate each other too much, okay?” Peter smiled gently at Sylar, reaching out to get a piece of his own. He glanced briefly at it, mostly watching Sylar and making sure things were okay between them for the moment. I have a feeling these standoffs, confrontations, whatever I want to call them, are only going to get more common as he gets to feeling better. Peter looked down at where he might place the little cardboard piece in his hand. Need to make sure we can … back down from it. Talk each other down. Trust each other. He mused on their situation as they completed the puzzle bit by bit.
XXX
“Yeah,” Sylar breathed, “Okay.” He nodded, still frowning but for different reasons now. He couldn’t remember who’d aggravated whom and communication was…a blur; too many topics at once. Orienting on the puzzle, he thought it over slowly.
XXX
Peter noticed as Sylar wound down and seemed to space out, the puzzle piece eventually falling from limp fingers. The man's breathing deepened and face relaxed. Peter leaned back in the chair, watching voyeuristically as his bristly companion made adorable sleepy sighs through slightly parted, pouting lips. He has nice lips. Peter smiled shyly and looked away, coloring a little and being glad Sylar wasn't watching him. Of course, had Sylar been awake, Peter would have had something much closer to his game-face on, more serious and alert. He could relax like this and enjoy what he saw. Bewilderingly (to Peter), his mind seemed to think this was the perfect time to review Sylar's good points, the moments when he'd said things that were clever or tried to be helpful, and the flashes of compassion or vulnerability that he'd shown. Peter let his thoughts go where they would. There seemed to be no reason to feed his hate.
When Sylar's head started dipping, Peter eased himself out of his chair and circled the desk. “Sylar?” he said in a normal tone, wanting to wake him and give a warning of his impending touch. He repeated softer, “Sylar,” as he stepped behind and put his hands on either of the man's shoulders. “Come on, buddy.” His hands slid down Sylar's arms to squeeze a little over his biceps, trying to urge Sylar up. “Come on. Let me get you to where you can lie down. Bed or couch? I promise I won't finish the puzzle without you.”
XXX
Sylar was snatched from sleep by contact to his shoulders. He started with a jolt, too disoriented to focus on where it was coming from, where he should defend himself. A quiet voice spoke to him and the contact - hands - soothed down his arms, giving him a choice. Instinctively he moved towards his bed, desiring the comfort it offered more than the need to question. He didn’t bother to wake up much, either.
XXX
Peter used Sylar's downtime to go to the grocery store. The snow was melting rapidly, but there was enough of it still there, and his leg and knee still hurting enough that he didn't indulge his restless desire to explore the immediate few blocks around their apartments. Instead he returned to Sylar's place, stocked the fridge, made lunch, and occupied himself reading the book about the Incas. The puzzle had been nearly done when Sylar conked out, so Peter left it with one piece unset, laying the last piece to the side so Sylar could put it in and maintain the fiction that they'd worked it together.
XXX
The rest of Sylar’s day was low-key and restful. He finally groomed when he woke from his nap and was required to do little else. Peter slept with him again that night. Well, not slept with him; Peter crashed on the couch.
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Afternoon
Peter waited, poised breathlessly as Sylar stared bitterly at his game board like it had betrayed him. Finally, he muttered the words. Peter couldn't make out exactly what was said, but it certainly wasn't, 'you missed'. Peter erupted into laughter and whoops of victory. "I got it?" Mouth agape, Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's surly visage, making sure it wasn't a joke or feint, but Sylar looked too pissed for that. "Oh my God, I got it! I sank your last freaking battleship, man! Ha, ha, ha!" He put his left hand out asking for a high five. Sylar looked like he might grab it and break it if it stayed out there any longer, so Peter pulled it back swiftly. Instead, he swiveled his game board carefully, showing it off to his defeated opponent. "Look! Look at this! You had me, man! You almost had me! One more turn and you'd have called it and I'd have been dead."
Grinning widely, Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching exultantly. "You know what? I am never playing Battleship with you again." Peter stabbed a finger once at Sylar. "Cuz, look at that," he said, turning his motion into a wave at the game board. "What are you doing, stepping off a fucking grid? How is that any fun, Sylar? It's like I'm not even playing against a human being, just an algorithm." Peter's busily gesturing hand picked up his beer so he could take a deep draw off from it, emptying the bottle. "I can play that way, too, you know." He set the bottle down. "And then the game would be pointless - all a matter of who won the coin toss to go first. We could just have the coin toss, then whoever gets it right could gloat about what they did to make it happen, which is nothing. You're missing the fun part, Sylar!" Peter leaned forward sharply. "And you know what's really fun? That you did all that methodical bullshit and I still beat your ass!"
XXX
Sylar angrily yanked the pegs from their holders on the board, shaking his head in disbelief, growling, “You won by pure chance. That’s all.” He paused with a handful of pegs to glare at his partner. Peter Petrelli liked to trash talk, especially a few beers in. Obviously Sylar wasn’t thrilled to have his defeat rubbed in his face, but Peter was attacking his playing style, too. “Even computers can’t foresee random Hail Mary’s,” he denounced, putting Peter’s final (winning) move in the perspective light of desperation. The nurse had an educated guess to go on, sure. Regardless of the game, Peter played randomly, perhaps that made Sylar overly confident. He didn’t point out how often computers won, that made him look worse still. “One more move and I’d have won with certainty.” Being called a computer, more or less, was bothersome and slightly flattering. I did things! I thought it through, I made a plan! I can, too, have fun! Or is he saying that like I’m not supposed to have fun? That slowed his otherwise urgent, jerky yanks at the pegs. But I’m not supposed to lose, at least, not every time. And I haven’t…Is he threatening not to play unless he wins? “I’m not changing how I play, Petrelli,” he asserted, watching his companion to see how that was received. He was remembering how he’d been called out as a child whenever his strategies of ‘fun’ weren’t making the grade. No, playing to win was important; fun was just… just that: a blank spot. Maybe it was a luxury or something he couldn’t understand, which was very likely. I’m not having fun correctly. People who murder other people for fun aren’t right. “Maybe playing against a computer will raise your game. Have another beer,” he snarked, unsure of what or whom he was angry at now. He has no idea who he’s dealing with, does he? Makes me want to break him in. It’s so tempting sometimes…
XXX
Peter snorted and picked up his bottle. “Yeah, that's a good idea. Me drinking more would probably help you win, wouldn't it?” He swung the dead soldier back and forth as he waggled his brows.
He got to his feet, leaving his game board set up so he could admire it a little more, or to make Sylar be the one to have to disassemble it. Either way, he took Sylar's suggestion that he get another drink and headed to the kitchen. As he passed, he reached down and gave a friendly couple of pats to Sylar's shoulder, taking care to telegraph the motion. At one point he'd thought Sylar would get used to friendly touch and stop twitching from the contact, but it hadn't happened. So Peter had changed and gone to giving more warning. He was glad that seemed to work, as the alternative was no contact at all, something Peter shied away from. That would have complicated things like this current, non-verbal attempt to soothe Sylar's ruffled feathers.
XXX
Sylar ceased his plucking when he felt the patting. It wasn’t as unheard-of as it had been in the past - Mister Touch/No-Touch offering up physical contact of any sort. He questioned it now because of Peter’s win. Is that a literal put-down, rubbing it in? A half-glare followed Peter as he left, albeit to get more beer (for once being an obedient boy). Peter seemed happy and friendly, though. Maybe even…pliable. Hmm…
XXX
The bottle went in the trash and Peter stuck his head in the refrigerator. A few days before, he'd taken one of the grocery store shopping carts and stocked up on stuff, including beverages. Since the champagne had gone over fine and Peter had largely gotten over his fear of being impaired around Sylar, he'd added a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine to other stuff in the cart. He snagged two bottles, because like even if he was mostly over it, he certainly wasn't going to drink alone.
Peter returned, setting the drinks down in front of their respective seats. “You don't have to change how you play, Sylar. My dad and Nathan never did and I still don't like chess.” He sat, looking across the table at the other man, a 'so there you go' expression on his face - one brow up and a brief tilt of his head. He added, “Since Battleship and chess aren't options, what else would you like to play?”
XXX
“Then maybe you should change the way you play, Petrelli,” Sylar sassed. His lips thinned at the reinforcement that he’d…somehow screwed up and lost a game to play with Peter; it felt like deprivation or punishment even. But I do have to change or you won’t play Battleship with me, apparently. That it had to be mentioned more than once made it sound like Peter was at least trying to be serious about not playing it ever again (at least until Sylar mended his ways). As Peter got more chatty with drink, Sylar was drawn into talking himself; he gazed up at Peter from underneath his eyebrows. Do you really want to know what I wanna play? (Should I say it?) What else could we play with our clothes on? “How about…” What’s a good party game? Nathan’s memories from high school and college came to the forefront. Girls, smoke, booze, cards and more. Sylar smirked, “Truth or Dare.”
XXX
Peter raised his brows without answering right away. Instead, he pulled out his utility tool, selected the bottle opener, and popped the lid off his beer. He passed the device towards Sylar as he considered the proposal. It had been a long day filled with the playing of one board game after another. Over the previous few days, Peter had won some of their games, lost others, and observed that Sylar was impatient and short when explaining rules. It meant Peter quit asking. Truth or Dare was simple. It also didn't obligate them to a specific length, and given that the evening had worn into early night, Peter wasn't keen to get sucked into an all-night game of Risk or something like it. Plus, he wondered what Sylar wanted to know (or see him do). His curiosity was what cinched it for him. “Okay.”
XXX
“Which do you pick?”
XXX
“Truth.” He collected the utility tool from Sylar and restored it to his pocket.
XXX
“What was the first New Year’s you drank alcohol?” Sylar imagined it was pretty young - Nathan had surely noticed (if Angela or Arthur hadn’t), but he didn’t remember what year or age Peter was. He started with something light and easy. For now.
XXX
“New Year's? Is this New Year's? I hadn't been keeping track of the days … Huh.” Peter shrugged, bemused, and focused on the question instead of the impact of having been here for three full weeks with no Matt, no way out, nothing and nobody but his brother's cranky killer to spend time with. “You know, we weren't one of those families that believed kids shouldn't touch the stuff until they were twenty-one.” 'We'. The Petrellis. How does he take that, anyway? Does he think I'm including him? … Am I? Hm. Well, back to the question. “So I'm sure I tasted alcohol back when I was five or six or whatever. Just the tiniest sip of champagne for the New Year's toast, if I was awake. It was traditional. But I think what you're really asking is the first time I got drunk.” He looked at Sylar for a moment for confirmation.
“When I was thirteen, Nathan had come home for Christmas and my birthday, but he had to leave before New Year's. I ...” He looked at Sylar, having another of those unsettling flashes that this man's face was probably the last thing Nathan had seen. Peter grimaced as his face reflected an echo of grief and unresolved rage. He set it aside, looking down at the table, toying with his beer by rotating it in circles. “I was pretty down after he left. Bob Bishop came to the New Year's Eve party and he got me off to the side in the kitchen early on.” Peter's mouth twisted down in an ugly fashion. He didn't like Bob's idea of a joke and he'd seen Bob's idea of good parenting in Elle. He chewed his upper lip briefly. He'd been lonely and upset enough about Nathan's departure to be suckered in by Bob's false offer of friendship. “He gave me a bottle of some kind of cherry liqueur and said it was a gift for me, a late Christmas present. It was really sweet. Tasted a lot like maraschino cherries, which, you know,” Peter shrugged and waved his bottle around a little, “I liked it at that point. And they're okay now, but not my favorite and it took a while for me to get over it.” He took a short drink. “Anyway, long story shorter, I drank it. Started puking hours before midnight and kept it up all evening. I was so miserable. I saw his face once, at the beginning when I was telling my mom I was feeling sick. He looked so ...” Peter tilted the bottle sideways, along with his head, “smug.”
Peter tapped the fingers of his right hand, where they weren't bound by the brace, restlessly against the arm of the office chair. “So what about you? Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Sylar didn’t hesitate. “Dare.” Truth was uninteresting (usually painful) and what ‘truth’ did Sylar have to share anyway?
XXX
Peter leaned back a little further, enjoying the surprising rush of power too much for the comfort of his own conscience. I could ask him to do anything … His mind blanked out for a moment as what he wanted most wasn't something that could be forced or compelled - and he didn't want to hear Sylar's apologies or confessions anyway. But there were other things where Peter wasn't as picky about motivations. What I really want is to take him down a peg. Pegs. He looked at the Battleship board - his still open, facing him, on display. Sylar's was neatly disassembled and folded shut off to the side. Cocking his head to one side and smiling with false sweetness, Peter said, “Tell me, with as much sincerity as you can manage, congratulations for beating you at Battleship. I dare you to concede gracefully.”
XXX
Sylar’s mouth went thin and flat, teeth clenching. So that’s how it’s going to be. That peppy smile on Peter’s face made it clear what was going on. “Sincerity, huh?” His left eyebrow raised with disdain. He could easily give Peter a lie, a con, that would have almost more sincerity than if he tried to apply the actual emotion. The muscles around his mouth moved as he stared pointedly away from Peter, staring holes into the wall, working himself up to and into the correct frame of mind (if it was possible). Rules were rules - if the Dare specified sincerity, then it was required. Congratulate him for winning by chance? That’s…kind of hollow. But so’s his mind sometimes, I suppose. After a few moments for which Sylar did not apologize for using, he turned to back to Peter. After licking his lips, “Congratulations,” he intoned with barest hints of ‘this is forced and I don’t like it,’ “For…” the eyebrow went up again as he gestured, “beating me at Battleship.” Honestly, the worst part was the last sentence; a simple conciliatory word wasn’t too difficult to cough up.
Will he do something similar the next time I do Dare? “Truth or Dare?” Sylar asked to move on.
XXX
“Dare.” What would Sylar would ask him to do, given that power? Of course it was only so much power as either of them was willing to grant the other, but that by itself was part of the appeal of the game - how far would they let the other go?
XXX
“Why don’t you finish off that beer in one go?” Sylar’s smirk remained. Get you nice and drunk. Plus, I wanna see if you can do it; I think you can. As a bonus, Peter’s long neck would be exposed.
XXX
Sylar's Truth question had seemed like a strange thing for Sylar to want to know, but now Peter saw it in a different light. A frisson of fear, or maybe just concern, passed over him similar to the feelings he'd had when he first came here, not sure what Sylar was capable of. Is he trying to get me wasted? Peter looked at the bottle - he'd hardly drank any of it yet. He raised it nearly to his lips, looking past the colored glass to Sylar. “I never trusted Bob again after that thing at New Year's.” And I won't trust you if you show me I can't.
XXX
“You don’t have to but you’ll be the guy who wimped out of a perfectly good Dare. You’re an adult now and are you really trying to make a connection between me and Bob Bishop?”
XXX
Peter hesitated a moment more, adding, “You're right. You're better company than he would be.” He took a deep breath, tipped the bottle, and put it away in one, easy, prolonged swallow. In a way, he was giving Sylar a chance to show what he was made of.
“Your turn.”
XXX
Peter’s throat’s gulping motions were hypnotizing. It was such a simple function, really. It was a human function. It involved soft skin and muscles, the need to ingest nutrition for survival…moisture and a tongue…Sylar blinked once to remove the image of the phallic neck of the beer bottle doing…Okay…I didn’t mean for it to do that… “Dare,” Sylar said again.
XXX
Peter wiped his mouth, making sure he hadn't dribbled from the numb area of his lip. The way Sylar had been staring made him wonder. “Keep up with me - that’s the dare.”
XXX
Continued...