More Between Us Chapter 65/? "Humiliations"
More Between Us, Chapter 65/? "Humiliations"
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Afternoon
Sylar couldn’t help but smile a little, without teeth. Peter caught on marvelously quickly to his plan. That was practically delicious. He’d been discovered and the man still participated; it was very much like playing together now. “This won’t be fair - I still have my liver function, Petrelli.” Ha! See, I can talk smack, too. It was fair game because Peter himself had been the first to mention or admit to a familial (if rather obvious) alcoholism problem. Presumably things would be even if they both drank the same amount - they would at least be even on a battlefield if it came to that. Sylar hefted his literally untouched bottle, pushing aside memories of drinking Matt Parkman under the table, saluting his companion and assuming the position. It didn’t go down as smoothly as Peter made it look. It was the aftertaste that came after every large, palate-washing mouthful. Sylar muffled his coughing, more determined than he was comfortable because no way in hell would he let Peter outman him at anything. Eckgh, he thought on finishing. The dregs were a weight in his belly now, his throat coated with the stuff, soon his head would begin to feel lighter than before. //Reality shifted and he remembered multitudes of endless nights worth of parties, wasting valuable study time just to blow off steam from the pressures of life and college...//Swiping at his mouth, he proudly placed the bottle on the desk. And now…it’s a drinking game.
“Ugh…” Sylar cleared his throat then burped, not particularly loudly. He did not apologize for that basic human function, so unlike his former self who would have tripped over himself to gain favor and acceptance. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter set his empty on the corner of the table, leaning forward to begin the process of disassembling his Battleship board. He'd gotten what he wanted in regards to the game; the board didn't need to be on display any more. He was buoyed way more than he thought he should have been that Sylar's concession had been both difficult for him to muster and relatively well-done. “Truth.”
XXX
“What was the best lay you ever had on New Year’s?” He knew Petrelli had at least a few to choose from - the little slut.
XXX
Peter snorted immediately, because that was really private and it smacked of a crudity Peter didn’t attach to intimacy. That is not fucking fair! What about the people I'd be talking about? He shot Sylar an unhappy, narrow-eyed glare over the top of his Battleship board, but it was short-lived. He went back to pulling white pegs from the various misses and thought about Sylar's wording. He didn't like picking and choosing words, but maybe there was a compromise. (And what does he mean by 'what' was my best lay, anyway?) “I'm not going to tell you names.” Flat. Final. No compromise. But ... “Are you saying you want a description?”
XXX
Sylar made his ‘whatever’ face before he thought it through. “Wait…unless it’s someone I know…” Unlikely. Shit, what if Nathan knows her? Or…him? Something about the timeline he was asking about seemed important. Christmas…New Year’s…“It’s not Elle, is it?” he asked warningly. There was no amount of alcohol or drugs in the world to make it okay to hear about…that.
XXX
Peter opened his mouth briefly, leaving it that way as he tried to think of who they both knew, other than Elle, whom he had or might have been with on or around New Year's. “No, it's not Elle.” He cares about her. Good to know. With a slight shake of his head, Peter moved to pull the red pegs from the ships, thinking back a lot further than Elle.
“Okay.” Peter sighed, hands slowing as he pulled red pegs from the ships, thinking back. “This isn't real easy. I don't remember things by dates. I was never one of those 'notebook guys' who kept a file of who and when, what position it was, and a stupid rating.” He gave a quick roll of his eyes in disgust at the concept as he tossed the now-restored submarine into the ship compartment and picked up the patrol boat. “I remember people. People, and how I felt about them, sometimes more than what we actually did.” The patrol boat was done, so he moved on to the destroyer. “Nothing in the last four years. At least not on New Years.” The aircraft carrier was next. “Before that ...”
He finished and shut the game, setting the hard, plastic, red box to the side on top of Sylar's blue one. Once he had his thoughts together, he had to decide how he wanted to tell this. He wants a story, like one of those paramedic stories, but … with sex. And me. Peter smiled and looked down at the desk. Sylar wanted to know … about him. He leaned forward, putting both elbows on the edge of the desk, raising his eyes to meet Sylar's. His smile deepened charmingly (and he knew it did). He reached up and pushed his bangs out of his face with relaxed ease, using the lures to better pull Sylar into the story.
“Here’s one I remember really well. I didn’t have a date, wasn’t even really looking for one. New Year’s Eve isn’t what I consider a good time to hook up - a lot of people are sloshed and a lot of the time, I was, too. Too much alcohol and getting laid doesn’t go well together. But I hadn’t had very much when I saw this girl sitting by herself. She looked sad - looking down a lot, shoulders slumped, like she was a million miles away. I went over to her. She told me she didn’t want to talk and was just there because she wanted to be around people. I told her I was the same way and asked if she minded if I sat next to her so people wouldn't think I was by myself, too. I wasn't trying to put moves on her or anything. I think she got that. We sat together, not talking, through the next song on the stereo. I don’t remember the song, but the one after that was Clocks by Coldplay. It was a big hit that year.” His smile brightened and he chuckled, waving at the various timepieces around the room. Maybe that was why this particular story had come to mind.
XXX
Sylar remembered the song. It had been hard to avoid it was so popular. It had a nice beat that was clock-like, bell-like, very catchy but the lyrics had nothing to do with clocks, that he could remember and so it was a little disappointing.
XXX
“She thought the lyrics had a lot to do with her life, which was depressing. We talked about why, which led to talking about music in general and what it meant to people. Turns out she was majoring in it, violin, but she wasn’t doing well. She'd been upset all semester, trying to keep a long distance relationship with her fiancé, who had broken up with her right before finals. Instead of spending the winter break with him, she'd been hanging around campus. Alone. She asked me to take her back to her apartment, so I did. Once we were there ...” Peter raised his brows and tilted his head, allowing Sylar to entertain the obvious, but incorrect, assumption.
“That’s not when I got laid.” He smirked at the shift in Sylar’s expression.
XXX
Sylar frowned. But she said…
XXX
“We made some coffee and sat out on the fire escape in the cold, while she told me all about her ex, how her parents adored him so much they’d already made arrangements for the wedding in the spring, how her music instructor had implied he was going to give her seat to someone else, and how she was starting to wonder if she had anything left worth living for. I told her about how I’d felt when I thought I was going to have to be a lawyer, and how much that crushed me until I found a way to do things on my own terms. I asked her what she thought a life worth living should have in it. She said she wanted other people to stop making the important decisions about her life and for her to make them instead. I told her she was right and that’s what it all came down to. We watched the sun come up together. I asked her what decisions she wanted to make. She told me she’d decided she wanted to go to bed with me.” He smiled warmly, waggling his brows as he waited, again, for Sylar to come to the wrong conclusion.
“I didn’t get laid then, either. We just slept.” Peter had another warm smile, this time in memory of tired cuddling and her surprise that he was happy to be with her on her terms.
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows went up. Again? Did you get some at all? Then why are you telling me this story? Was it a relief that even the high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli misread the signs of women and had struck out?
XXX
“When I woke up, I showered. Came out to get dressed ...” Peter gave Sylar another teasing, maybe flirting look before continuing, “and that’s when I got laid. She pulled me in bed, pushed me down, climbed on top, and fucked me so hard it felt like the room was spinning. She was all over me.” He smiled a little smugly at how enthusiastic she’d been. “I saw her again that night … and yeah, got laid again. And the next morning … again.” Peter’s grin widened. “She told off her ex, told off her music instructor, broke the news to her parents, and changed majors from music to social work.” He chuckled, glad that he could be the catalyst for such a change in someone’s life.
XXX
That was a bad question. Sylar regretted his choice thoroughly. He made a firm mental note never to ask Peter Petrelli about his good memories - because the spoiled brat had plenty. And now Sylar had to remember that one. I don’t want to picture that. I don’t want to remember that. I didn’t want to hear that. That wasn’t…what I wanted…Why can’t he just…?
XXX
There was a long pause before the inevitable ‘what happened next’ of the story. “I never hooked up with her again. She moved on.” Peter shrugged, eyes darting to the side at that distant sting. Bitterness tugged down the corners of his mouth, dispelling his previously pleased expression. If he did his job right in helping people, then they didn’t need him anymore - but that wasn’t very soothing when he returned to an empty apartment or tried to explain to someone why he got dumped so often. He got to his feet, heading to the kitchen so Sylar wasn’t looking at the emotions he knew were showing on his face. “I’m going to get another round. Pick Truth or Dare,” he said, voice gruffer than it needed to be.
XXX
I hate him. Every reaction he knew stampeded through Sylar’s body, settling on rage and murder. Everything the man said was…wrong, too much, out of line, sickening…Peter stole the task Sylar would have otherwise taken, “You do that,” he sniped. He hadn’t desired to break Peter’s button nose using his own desk so badly since the nurse arrived. The man who’d premeditated raping his mind had a memory like that? What was worse, Sylar couldn’t envision what that kind of event would be like. He refused to admit the idea was both arousing and terrifying. ‘Hooking up’ he called it. You…get them to talk then you wait for them to jump you? He felt jealousy, envy, in ways he couldn’t explain. Maybe that was Nathan’s reaction; he could hope that’s what it was. Sylar stood, pacing around while Peter was absent. Things don’t happen like that. I bet he stole that from a soap opera or a porno. That’s it: he lied. He made that up. He did that on purpose. It had worked. That decided, his rage eased back from the tense, homicidal flood.
“Dare,” he sneered, sitting after the medic. Make it a good one; ideally involving my memory cortex and a wood chipper as a professional courtesy.
XXX
Peter returned, dropping off the beers and getting out his pocket tool to open them. He noted Sylar was in a bad mood now. Something that caused outright humiliation didn’t seem like a good dare at the moment, despite how edifying he’d found the congratulations. I’ll have to come back to that and make him do the chicken dance or something else embarrassing. Hm. Can he dance? Peter leaned back in his seat, putting away the utility tool as his eyes became merry at the mental image of Sylar clumsily gyrating on a dance floor, not that the guy was clumsy normally (aside from concussions). Hard to do that without music. I wonder if he can sing? “I dare you to sing me a song - a full one, not just a ditty or a jingle. Whatever you know all the words to.”
XXX
Sylar’s face was blank. Was that supposed to be embarrassing or…what? His eyes narrowed with suspicion briefly. That wasn’t the kind of dare he wanted - what did that prove? “I’d…have to think.” A whole song? There went ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars’, not that he could remember it. “Um…okay.” It was a long time since his choir-boy days and his voice had long-since broken, deepening to his satisfaction. Sylar wasn’t shy about his voice (but he wasn’t sure how it would sound after two beers), though he didn’t advertise it. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer…had a very shiny nose…And if you ever saw him, you would even say it glows…All of the other reindeer…used to laugh and call him names…They would never let poor Rudolph…play in any reindeer games…” He forgot the exact wording for the next verse, but rallied for the rest. It was one of those annoyingly memorable songs, impossible to forget especially when he’d watched the movie growing up, viewing it so much it drove Mom to forbidding it.
XXX
Hm. Okay. Not what I expected, but it's okay. He's easy to listen to. Sylar had a deep voice that resonated and carried nicely, getting better as he went, warming to the task. It was untrained, as far as Peter could tell, but it had a good timbre and an intensity that projected even in such a simple song. Peter liked it; it was satisfying, somehow, to know this otherwise irrelevant detail about his companion. He wasn't thinking about why he wanted to know the quality of Sylar's singing voice. If he had, it would have been something vague about the piano or guitar and wanting the occasional accompaniment. “We could go carol the empty city,” he suggested rhetorically, taking a pull from his beer.
XXX
“Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter licked his lips, then reached up to wipe at them, catching a nascent dribble on the left side. He looked at the moisture on his thumb and frowned at it. Fuck. Maybe I should stop drinking. He set down the beer, concerned he was getting drunk enough to be less than his normally meticulous self about the side of his mouth. I guess I could do a dare. He just did one. I don't really want to tell another story. No telling what he'd ask. “Dare.”
XXX
“Let me touch your hair.” Sylar smirked shamelessly.
XXX
“Eh ...” Peter blinked repeatedly, then did it again. O-kay. No telling what he'd ask, all right. “My …?” He reached up and ran his hand along the surface of his hair on the left side. It didn't seem out of place. Why? Just … because? He looked at that expression on Sylar's face, remembering something weird about how the guy had handled his head when trying to show him how to do a physical exam. Oh my fucking God, he's not … this doesn't tie in with cutting people's heads open, does it? Peter swallowed and recoiled from the desk, hands going to his lap, his gaze on Sylar sharpening to an alert stare.
XXX
Sylar stared right back, calm and collected. He didn’t think Peter would wuss out (Sylar wasn’t asking for anything perverted or wrong…as far as Peter knew), but the nurse might place restrictions on the act - this was all about pushing the guy’s comfort zone, seeing where his boundaries were.
XXX
All he asked for was to touch my hair. Calm down. That's all he asked for. Peter's eyes went to his beer, trying to calculate if it was better or worse to be more inebriated for whatever was about to happen. Since he didn't know, he left the alcohol where it was at. “Okay,” he said, voice a little shaky.
XXX
Standing, he made his way around the desk to stand behind Peter and the roller chair.
XXX
Peter remained sitting, hands in lap. He tilted his head up to give Sylar a wary, but also curious, expression - eyes narrowed, brows drawn together, face intent. He had to suppress his urge to pull away when Sylar reached for him; it manifested anyway as a twitch, but otherwise, Peter held still for it - for all of it.
XXX
Sylar smiled a little at that extra look, but he didn’t say anything. Let Peter freak out about it. Lifting his hands, he paused before making contact. Peter kept quiet, not taking those last seconds to put rules in place. Thatta boy. Sylar began with petting over the top of Peter’s head, down around towards the back of his neck, just to get a feel for the texture of his hair. It was quite soft, thick, but not heavy for all the volume the guy managed. “Hm,” Sylar’s hum of acknowledgement and slight surprise was brief. He rubbed the ends of Peter’s hair between his fingers; maybe a little dry, in need of a haircut. Perfect. Behind the nurse, Sylar smirked to himself. This was completely forbidden, touching someone’s hair, yet here he was, with permission, doing it, one of those boundary-crossing things he rarely got to do. It was…personal, really personal: hair, touching it, allowing it.
XXX
Okay, that's … that's okay. I think. Without being able to see what Sylar was doing, Peter was left imagining based on the sensations. The stroking he could follow easily enough and then Sylar was doing something different, maybe picking up a few individual locks of hair and … what? What was he doing? This wasn't the matter-of-fact handling of a stylist or the intimate caress of a lover. Far as Peter could tell, Sylar's breathing was still normal so if he was getting off on it, he was slow to show it. Aside from however Sylar felt, Peter didn't find the experience as upsetting as it could have been. Instead, it felt nice. Weird though the whole thing was, he felt the tension easing out of his shoulders. Touch had a tendency to do that. His hands were no longer held so properly on top of his thighs, because as he relaxed, his elbows went back, upper arms more perpendicular with the floor, and hands ended up more towards the outside of his legs than poised on top.
XXX
Peter wore this little haircut around probably just to make people want to touch it - the hair certainly seemed to cry out for it. Sylar’s next touch was with combined fingers to different parts of hair - temple, back of head, the part - testing for variations in texture (and reactions therein, if that happened). Cursory exploration satisfied, Sylar slid his fingertips from the man’s forehead into his hair, as if he were giving him a scalp massage. Yes, this is what he wanted. That’s right, just checking on that…hematoma you had. This way, his fingers embedded and intertwined, he could clench his hands, make fists and control and demand, if he so chose. Sliding his fingers through Peter’s lovely dark hair several times, slowly with no reaction, Sylar decided to try grabbing it. His loose ‘grip’ of sorts, tightened, squeezing the hair with space between scalp and fingers. Do you like that? Will you allow it? Hmmm…
XXX
A little more odd touching of different spots made Peter move his legs restlessly, but he had no other response. Fingers stroking into his hair led him to shut his eyes and let out a deep breath despite how inappropriate all of this was. Maybe Sylar got off on this, or maybe it was some harkening back to cutting people's heads open - either way, Peter was buzzed enough from alcohol to find it easy to not care. He cared that it felt good and that was what mattered. It was a dare and he was just being … generous in not stopping Sylar. Right. He felt warm and tingly, letting his mind wander to the last time someone had done something like this …
\\He remembered a beautiful woman, tattooed, passionately running her hands into the hair at the base of his neck. He couldn't place her, or the situation, which seemed charged with an energy he couldn't identify any more than the person. He'd felt … betrayed?\\ “Hm?” Who is she? Digging further, Peter recalled the carnival with a familiarity to the scene that didn't fit; he'd never been there. \\Samuel had introduced him to her: ‘Lydia, come meet our new friend. Show him around a bit, will you?’ His own name wasn't spoken, the significance of which he hadn't grasped at the time-\\
Then a grip in his hair, both hands on either side of his scalp, changed everything. The daydream was obliterated by a different memory that Peter identified as his own much more readily, one of being jerked around by his hair, manhandled in a way that layered intimacy, violence, and coercion. He hunched defensively, drawing his body downward at the same time that he reached up with his left. “Nnn ...” His fingertips went to the side of Sylar's left hand and moved there in a mute hand-signal of concern, reaching across to probe restlessly at the right hand as well. “Let go,” he said softly, his tone not so much a command but more like a question. Stiff fingers pushed against Sylar's wrists, urging him away, encouraging a release without demanding it. Tension spiraled through him, seeking an outlet.
XXX
Peter was surprisingly polite about getting Sylar’s hands off him, not smacking at his hands or using language. Behind Peter, he made a face but slowly unclenched his grip, moving around to sit in his own seat again, across from his companion. He looked over the man’s countenance to gauge just how upset Peter was about it. It didn’t matter too much - Sylar had gotten to touch, with permission, Peter’s tempting mane.
XXX
Peter leaned forward and away from Sylar, stroking his hair rapidly to self-sooth and chase away the feeling of being held in place. Memories he didn't want to have were safely locked back in their respective mental boxes. He gave Sylar a wary, hyper-alert look while holding his body as far away from the other man as possible. “You touched my hair. That was the deal. You’re done.” Weirdo. As Sylar moved away, Peter straightened, pulling his comb from his pocket and carding it through his hair, scraping it across his entire scalp. It felt odd where Sylar had brushed against him - a not uncommon occurrence and so Peter ignored it, trying to overlay the sensation with that of the comb, not that it worked very well. Not sure what he was supposed to do in response to hair-fondling-gone-bad or what could have only been a trip down Sylar's memory lane, Peter changed the subject. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
The grabbing wasn’t the best idea, not because it had failed quickly, but because he hadn’t done it with much valid purpose. There was little to gain from grabbing Peter’s hair. Now Sylar wondered how long he would have been allowed to touch if he hadn’t grabbed. He felt strangely territorial about the re-combing. The insinuation that Peter wanted to erase Sylar’s touch was pretty clear. Maybe he just envied the comb - he stared at the grooming tool as it passed through Peter’s hair where his fingers had been seconds ago. Or maybe they just had a bad history with combs. For now, Sylar still had another human being on his hands - faint oil, scent, heat. He wanted to smell his hands. His fingers felt awakened, tingling with the sensation of phantom hairs still passing by and his hands wanted nothing more than to be back against any part of that warmth. His head was light, headache diminished; buzzing happily whether he wanted it to or not, from beer or physical contact he wasn’t sure. “Dare.”
XXX
Peter relaxed a little as the power shifted back to him. He remained unsettled by Sylar getting grabby; more unsettled that he still responded badly to that after all these years. He’d had girlfriends grab his hair, even pull on it. Given the right context, it didn’t bother him (and was sometimes really sexy). The context with Sylar was unclear - standing over him, motives unknown, touching him intimately - it was the same emotional feel that he'd sensed in Sylar's memory that he'd inadvertently tapped. The experience left him irritable. There might have been a little vengeance in his choice for Sylar’s Dare, or maybe it was an insecure attempt to assert dominance. He put away his comb and gave Sylar a half-hearted smirk he was putting on for show. “I dare you to sing and act, or dance, the little teapot song, three times in a row.”
XXX
Sylar lasered Peter with a glare. For one thing, that dare wasn’t funny; the amount was overkill, and for another, it was obvious why he was being given that dare - punishment. He didn’t make any rules about it, vindictive little snot. “Hardly a dare. I thought playing this with a Petrelli would involve two beers and juggling chainsaws, you know, something interesting,” he sneered, putting Peter’s annoyingly effective dare into proper perspective as he stood decisively. Once upright however, with Peter’s eyes on him, the dare was immediately placed back into the utterly humiliating category it truly was. Sylar hesitated, ignoring how the pause might make him look. He did not want to get started, everything about his pride was rebelling. I kill people and this is what he wants me to do? Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know what I can do to him? His ‘big bad’ image was already smarting. This was much more difficult than the consolation congratulations dare earlier and beyond simply singing.
Clearing his throat, Sylar glared again at the cause of his humiliation. I’m never going to live this down. Maybe if I hit him on the head, he’ll forget? Drunks forget things, too, right? Not bothering to sing, Sylar spoke the words to the tune in an uninspired tone of voice, half-assing the gestures. It wasn’t like he knew the action parts real well, having only seen it a few times as a child. He’d never done it himself and doing it now felt awkward.
XXX
“Hey, it's interesting to me,” Peter said with affected nonchalance. Next time I'm afraid you're going to kill me, I'm going to think of this. Of course, this might be why you're going to kill me. He watched Sylar's first pass through the short routine with a mostly blank face, still shaking off his irritation from the hair-grabbing. For the second and third, he loosened up. Sylar looked so ridiculously stiff and put-upon. Plus he was coloring up in tandem with Peter's smile, even if Sylar was refusing to look directly at him. Peter mostly controlled his snickering. Oh yeah, the horribly scary Sylar-as-a-little-teapot. Next time he points that finger at me I ought to say something about his 'spout'.
XXX
Once that was through (hoping his face wasn’t flushed red), Sylar quickly sat and pretended he wasn’t completely embarrassed by staring through Peter’s face and sprawling as casually as he could, instead of slouching, avoiding eye contact and squirming in place trying to be invisible. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
“Beer.” Peter pointed at Sylar's so-far untouched bottle, and took a deep swig out of his own. He strongly suspected Sylar needed some alcohol to wash that incident down. “My dare earlier was that you'd keep up with me. Not just that bottle - all night.” That was stretching it and he wouldn't fight much if Sylar refused, but Peter would certainly and pointedly end his drinking if Sylar wouldn't honor it. After waiting a beat for reaction, he said, “Truth,” hoping to avoid having to make a similar spectacle of himself.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed for a few seconds. That was slightly dangerous because Peter could drink more than he could - the odds of Sylar getting drunker faster (and getting sicker) were greater. Does he want to get me drunk? He tilted his head in acquiescence, taking a few drinks. “Tell me your most embarrassing moment.”
XXX
Peter stared for a moment, eyes large with a deer-in-the-headlights look as Sylar did him one better. Then he burst into laughter, his belly shaking as he leaned back and let loose. “Oh my God, that's good! I totally deserve that!” He sat upright in the chair to stab a finger in Sylar's direction. “Props for a perfect revenge.” He had the feeling this was a real game, more than he'd managed with any of the many other board and card games they'd gone through in the preceding days, more than he often managed with anyone. This - this was give and take, and Sylar, to Peter's shock, was not shirking (well, he could have done the teapot thing with a lot more spirit, but Peter had picked it because he knew it would offend the hell out of the guy). He shook his head as the chuckling wound down and he started giving some actual thought to what he'd just been asked to tell.
He sighed and leaned back in the chair again, studying the ceiling. Random moments from childhood flashed through his mind - forgetting to get his parent's permission slip for a fifth grade trip to the museum and the teacher calling him out in class for being empty-headed, then having to go to the office and beg his mother come down to school in person, immediately, or else he would have had to spend all day doing nothing while the other kids saw all the cool stuff. It had mattered so much at the time. Or when Harry Belvidere caught him jerking off in the shower before sophomore year swim class, part of Peter's plan not to be caught with a hard-on (again) in the tight trunks everyone had to wear. Or when he realized his dad had gotten him fired from that fast food job he'd tried to work in college, and he had to pretend he'd fucked it up himself.
Peter slouched forward, putting his elbows on the desk and his face into his hands. He rubbed at his eyes and let all his air out. “You know,” he said slowly, face still hidden, “the hard part is picking out which is worst.” He lifted his face, cupping one hand within the other and resting them against his upper lip. “Most embarrassing thing that happened to me recently … Nathan … knew what happened, but I don't think he ever got what it meant to me.” And now he never will. Not that I think he would have, even if he was still alive. I don't think it was in him to care - not that way, not about me.
Peter looked away, frowning. “I'd … just, just told Simone that I'd loved her from the first moment I'd laid eyes on her. I wanted to be with her. I'd watched her with her father, and I thought she was kind, fun, thoughtful, intelligent ...” He smiled softly at the memory, making a slight wave of one hand.
XXX
Love at first sight? Really, Peter? Sylar thought dubiously and humorously. He probably just wanted to sleep with her. All that stuff he likes is so general…
XXX
“I'd just told her that when Nathan got everyone's attention at the campaign fundraiser we were at, one he'd roped me into attending that I didn't even want to go to. I went because,” Peter rolled his eyes, “he pulled the 'family' card on me. So there I was, when he announced to everyone - reporters, my parent's friends, the parents of some of my friends, Nathan's campaign workers, Simone ...” Peter exhaled heavily, “he announced that I'd been trying to kill myself. The powers, the being different, special, everything I'd been trying to talk to him about, what we'd proven, he was dismissing and framing up as a cry for attention, some sort of messed up, fake, family fault. And he knew it.” Peter bit his lower lip, baring his teeth in the process, nose wrinkling in half a snarl. “He knew it was fake. He didn't care. Humiliate me in front of everybody - that's okay, right?” Peter shook his head. “Because that's my role: make him look bigger, better.” Peter took another drink. “Make sure I knew my place in the family hierarchy. Make sure everyone else knew it, too. That was embarrassing.”
And angering. There was a bite to his voice as he said, “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows twitched upwards. Nathan had been blissfully ignorant of that but it definitely explained getting his jaw realigned by Peter’s fist after that dinner. It was just Peter’s feelings on the line, right? All the same, Sylar thought it was rather sadistic of Nathan to purposefully invite the unwilling Peter out just to scapegoat him (even if Peter had a hand in digging those holes - jumping off rooftops and professing love in public places - himself). Yeah…that would…That just sucks. He didn’t want to contemplate how much utter shame that would have caused because he could picture it happening to him all to clearly. Sylar recalled what Nathan knew of Simone - stunning, a little too opinionated for Nathan, a little too mixed up in ideology and Peter, and now, she was quite dead because of Peter. It was still a bit sad, maybe a double blow to Peter because of her death.
“Truth.”
XXX
“Tell me about the people you consider to be your family - or who used to be.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes steady on Sylar. Peter was hard pressed to think of anything more critical than family, the people he would cut out his heart for. He wanted to know who was important in Sylar's life, who had ever filled those roles for him - if they had. And he wanted to know where, if at all, the Petrellis fit into that - although that was probably deeper than Sylar would be willing to answer.
XXX
“Nuh-uh. It has to be a question, Peter.”
XXX
Peter snorted and pointed at Sylar. “Hey, don't you rules-lawyer me, buddy. I was trained by the best of 'em.”
XXX
"If you’d learned anything, then you'd know better and phrase it properly,” Sylar snarked his retort, “Because I’m no lawyer.”
XXX
Peter frowned. “Your last one wasn't a question, either, and it's not like I answered it with 'October, 2006.' I tried to explain it.” And it was so gratifying to actually have someone listen to that explanation. Just that, by itself, made Peter feel so much better. He looked to the side, trying to think of how to word it so he'd get the information he wanted. If Sylar was going to be a complete asshole, he'd have declared that Peter lost his turn by not using the right format. He hadn't done that. Hopefully, he'd answer Peter's intent, and not simply give him a list of names. “Here it is: When people are talking about family, present or former, who are the people you think of in those roles for you and your past?”
XXX
He sure has a fetish for my family. “I assume you’re excluding any parent with a trust fund,” Sylar stipulated, referring to the Petrellis. “My mom was a secretary, she raised me. My dad is…the guy with the Hunger and cancer. If you include former…there….was…” my mother, he tried to say but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth. If he said it, then Peter would ask about her and he just couldn’t talk about her. There wasn’t much to say, nothing to interest Peter or anyone else. He frowned deeply, inhaling to cover the silence and regroup. “My uncle, he restored timepieces.” That part he finished definitively. As far as he was concerned, that was his family in their politically correct, politely conversational, rehearsed nutshell.
“Why are you asking? Are you trying to find some kind of hereditary insanity mental defect or something…?” Sylar paused or trailed off, thinking about his own question before muttering, “Probably a good place to look,” before he took another pull of beer.
XXX
Peter didn’t understand the ‘with a trust fund’ thing right away, but he figured it out and frowned. Actually, he’d been very interested in how Sylar placed the Petrellis in relation to himself. Then Peter blinked. ‘… any parent with a trust fund.’ He still thinks they’re his parents? But Sylar had moved on and Peter didn’t want to interrupt. He just skipped someone, Peter thought about Sylar’s long pause before speaking of his uncle.
He smiled thinly in response to Sylar’s questions. “No. It’d be a way different question if I was. I want to know about the people important to you.” He assumed the topic was closed with Sylar’s frustratingly vague and obviously incomplete answer, but he tried asking for more anyway. The worst Sylar could do was clam up. “Can you tell me more about your mom?”
XXX
“What do you want, her social security number and favorite color? She’s my mother, it’s my business to know, not yours.” He realized his voice was defensive and he quieted. When Peter didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him, Sylar caved, to get it over with. “Fine. Fine. She was short, thin, dark hair, brown eyes. I thought she was pretty, I guess. She was…” And then he hit the problem he always did when trying to describe his mother. Tell the truth, the partial truth or nothin’ about the truth? Which did he want to tell? Which was appropriate, which was being asked after? Which was safe to say, which was he allowed to say? And I’m half-way to drunk. Should I be talking? “Very devout. Socially conscious. Strict. Particular. Emotional.” Sylar shook his head, shrugging. He realized he’d had to reference her more than he’d had to describe her all his life. Am I talking too much? He glanced at his bottle, lifting it to try to read the label. Just his luck he’d get ‘not marked for individual sale.’ “Where did you find these, anyway? What’s in ‘em?”
XXX
Wow. He’s talking! Peter could hardly stifle his surprise at getting an answer, a series of cooperative utterances, and even if they weren’t exactly what Peter wanted, they were close. He’d hit a vein, definitely. Ignoring the question about the beer (he hadn’t really looked when he’d picked them up from the liquor store, although he remembered the brand from years before; they were strong and not legally ‘beer’). “Tell me more about your uncle. Is he your mom’s brother or your dad’s?”
XXX
Sylar snorted. “Him. He was my father’s brother. Never liked me at all, never pretended to, either. He knew I wasn’t his kid and he didn’t bother to treat me like I was. He got me into a lot of trouble, just because. He was….the one who taught me how to fix timepieces.” Sylar shrugged. “It was a relief when he left but…he left…problems for me to deal with.”
XXX
“And your dad?”
XXX
“You mean the few hours I spent with him? I should have asked him more questions when I had him but being threatened to get carved up like a taxidermy animal kind of ruined our bonding,” Sylar allowed, sarcastically. “He looked like a hobo, completely filthy, bearded, dirt on him. Taller than my uncle. He looked…old, like he was old enough to be my grandfather but he wasn’t that old. I could…see a resemblance, I looked like the younger, taller, darker version of him maybe. It’s so stupid, but that’s what sold me - that we looked alike. Coming from…short parents with my features…I never...” Sylar shook his head. “Do you believe that? It’s so…shallow. He was so pathetic and creepy, just…making the hair on the back of your neck stand up because yo- I knew what he could do but he was creepy before you know he has a power, before you know what he can do. You could just tell he knows…that he can see…things.” Or perhaps that was their mutual power at work, allowing them to see inside things or the desire to. “Then it’s ironic because he plays around with dead animals - father of the year award there,” he took another drink.
XXX
Peter cocked his head, finding it immensely intriguing that Sylar’s primary given reasons for disliking the guy were … yeah, shallow. What he looked like, what he did for a living (or maybe a hobby, Peter wasn’t sure), his age. But he trusted Sylar’s instincts, odd a statement as that was. He’d been there, met the guy. He had the Hunger. Maybe there’s something about the ability that makes a person creepy? He leaned forward even more, even more interested, because that might explain part of why Sylar wasn’t as off-putting here, in this world, as he had been in reality.
XXX
“He understood…our ability but I think it drove him crazy. Or he was just a monster to begin with, I don’t know. He’s everything I thought he’d be but it was like looking at your own headstone.” Sylar closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to Hiro’s similar prophecy. It was like looking into an aged mirror alright and it still terrified him even as he practically lived that nightmare or prophecy now - isolated, forgotten, suffering forever until he died alone. “He gave me some advice even though he didn’t really intend it that way, I don’t think. I think he made the rest of it up,” he admitted. “He didn’t lie once…My dad…didn’t lie once.” Sylar looked at Peter, eyes narrowed with suspicion that wasn’t aimed at the nurse, “That was the whole point of talking to him and I think he got around my ability somehow. I don’t know how, I didn’t even know you could do that. But I know he lied because he said he wasn’t interested in more powers and he attacked me for one. Some of the other things he said didn’t make a lot of sense, either, but he was the right amount of vague.” After a pause to conclude, he asked “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
“Truth.” He didn’t even think about it. Peter wanted the dialogue to continue. He remained leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, very intent on Sylar. He’d been given so much more than he’d expected. He wasn’t about to push it by digging further - one follow-up question per person and Peter had a lot to think about now.
XXX
Continued...
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Afternoon
Sylar couldn’t help but smile a little, without teeth. Peter caught on marvelously quickly to his plan. That was practically delicious. He’d been discovered and the man still participated; it was very much like playing together now. “This won’t be fair - I still have my liver function, Petrelli.” Ha! See, I can talk smack, too. It was fair game because Peter himself had been the first to mention or admit to a familial (if rather obvious) alcoholism problem. Presumably things would be even if they both drank the same amount - they would at least be even on a battlefield if it came to that. Sylar hefted his literally untouched bottle, pushing aside memories of drinking Matt Parkman under the table, saluting his companion and assuming the position. It didn’t go down as smoothly as Peter made it look. It was the aftertaste that came after every large, palate-washing mouthful. Sylar muffled his coughing, more determined than he was comfortable because no way in hell would he let Peter outman him at anything. Eckgh, he thought on finishing. The dregs were a weight in his belly now, his throat coated with the stuff, soon his head would begin to feel lighter than before. //Reality shifted and he remembered multitudes of endless nights worth of parties, wasting valuable study time just to blow off steam from the pressures of life and college...//Swiping at his mouth, he proudly placed the bottle on the desk. And now…it’s a drinking game.
“Ugh…” Sylar cleared his throat then burped, not particularly loudly. He did not apologize for that basic human function, so unlike his former self who would have tripped over himself to gain favor and acceptance. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter set his empty on the corner of the table, leaning forward to begin the process of disassembling his Battleship board. He'd gotten what he wanted in regards to the game; the board didn't need to be on display any more. He was buoyed way more than he thought he should have been that Sylar's concession had been both difficult for him to muster and relatively well-done. “Truth.”
XXX
“What was the best lay you ever had on New Year’s?” He knew Petrelli had at least a few to choose from - the little slut.
XXX
Peter snorted immediately, because that was really private and it smacked of a crudity Peter didn’t attach to intimacy. That is not fucking fair! What about the people I'd be talking about? He shot Sylar an unhappy, narrow-eyed glare over the top of his Battleship board, but it was short-lived. He went back to pulling white pegs from the various misses and thought about Sylar's wording. He didn't like picking and choosing words, but maybe there was a compromise. (And what does he mean by 'what' was my best lay, anyway?) “I'm not going to tell you names.” Flat. Final. No compromise. But ... “Are you saying you want a description?”
XXX
Sylar made his ‘whatever’ face before he thought it through. “Wait…unless it’s someone I know…” Unlikely. Shit, what if Nathan knows her? Or…him? Something about the timeline he was asking about seemed important. Christmas…New Year’s…“It’s not Elle, is it?” he asked warningly. There was no amount of alcohol or drugs in the world to make it okay to hear about…that.
XXX
Peter opened his mouth briefly, leaving it that way as he tried to think of who they both knew, other than Elle, whom he had or might have been with on or around New Year's. “No, it's not Elle.” He cares about her. Good to know. With a slight shake of his head, Peter moved to pull the red pegs from the ships, thinking back a lot further than Elle.
“Okay.” Peter sighed, hands slowing as he pulled red pegs from the ships, thinking back. “This isn't real easy. I don't remember things by dates. I was never one of those 'notebook guys' who kept a file of who and when, what position it was, and a stupid rating.” He gave a quick roll of his eyes in disgust at the concept as he tossed the now-restored submarine into the ship compartment and picked up the patrol boat. “I remember people. People, and how I felt about them, sometimes more than what we actually did.” The patrol boat was done, so he moved on to the destroyer. “Nothing in the last four years. At least not on New Years.” The aircraft carrier was next. “Before that ...”
He finished and shut the game, setting the hard, plastic, red box to the side on top of Sylar's blue one. Once he had his thoughts together, he had to decide how he wanted to tell this. He wants a story, like one of those paramedic stories, but … with sex. And me. Peter smiled and looked down at the desk. Sylar wanted to know … about him. He leaned forward, putting both elbows on the edge of the desk, raising his eyes to meet Sylar's. His smile deepened charmingly (and he knew it did). He reached up and pushed his bangs out of his face with relaxed ease, using the lures to better pull Sylar into the story.
“Here’s one I remember really well. I didn’t have a date, wasn’t even really looking for one. New Year’s Eve isn’t what I consider a good time to hook up - a lot of people are sloshed and a lot of the time, I was, too. Too much alcohol and getting laid doesn’t go well together. But I hadn’t had very much when I saw this girl sitting by herself. She looked sad - looking down a lot, shoulders slumped, like she was a million miles away. I went over to her. She told me she didn’t want to talk and was just there because she wanted to be around people. I told her I was the same way and asked if she minded if I sat next to her so people wouldn't think I was by myself, too. I wasn't trying to put moves on her or anything. I think she got that. We sat together, not talking, through the next song on the stereo. I don’t remember the song, but the one after that was Clocks by Coldplay. It was a big hit that year.” His smile brightened and he chuckled, waving at the various timepieces around the room. Maybe that was why this particular story had come to mind.
XXX
Sylar remembered the song. It had been hard to avoid it was so popular. It had a nice beat that was clock-like, bell-like, very catchy but the lyrics had nothing to do with clocks, that he could remember and so it was a little disappointing.
XXX
“She thought the lyrics had a lot to do with her life, which was depressing. We talked about why, which led to talking about music in general and what it meant to people. Turns out she was majoring in it, violin, but she wasn’t doing well. She'd been upset all semester, trying to keep a long distance relationship with her fiancé, who had broken up with her right before finals. Instead of spending the winter break with him, she'd been hanging around campus. Alone. She asked me to take her back to her apartment, so I did. Once we were there ...” Peter raised his brows and tilted his head, allowing Sylar to entertain the obvious, but incorrect, assumption.
“That’s not when I got laid.” He smirked at the shift in Sylar’s expression.
XXX
Sylar frowned. But she said…
XXX
“We made some coffee and sat out on the fire escape in the cold, while she told me all about her ex, how her parents adored him so much they’d already made arrangements for the wedding in the spring, how her music instructor had implied he was going to give her seat to someone else, and how she was starting to wonder if she had anything left worth living for. I told her about how I’d felt when I thought I was going to have to be a lawyer, and how much that crushed me until I found a way to do things on my own terms. I asked her what she thought a life worth living should have in it. She said she wanted other people to stop making the important decisions about her life and for her to make them instead. I told her she was right and that’s what it all came down to. We watched the sun come up together. I asked her what decisions she wanted to make. She told me she’d decided she wanted to go to bed with me.” He smiled warmly, waggling his brows as he waited, again, for Sylar to come to the wrong conclusion.
“I didn’t get laid then, either. We just slept.” Peter had another warm smile, this time in memory of tired cuddling and her surprise that he was happy to be with her on her terms.
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows went up. Again? Did you get some at all? Then why are you telling me this story? Was it a relief that even the high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli misread the signs of women and had struck out?
XXX
“When I woke up, I showered. Came out to get dressed ...” Peter gave Sylar another teasing, maybe flirting look before continuing, “and that’s when I got laid. She pulled me in bed, pushed me down, climbed on top, and fucked me so hard it felt like the room was spinning. She was all over me.” He smiled a little smugly at how enthusiastic she’d been. “I saw her again that night … and yeah, got laid again. And the next morning … again.” Peter’s grin widened. “She told off her ex, told off her music instructor, broke the news to her parents, and changed majors from music to social work.” He chuckled, glad that he could be the catalyst for such a change in someone’s life.
XXX
That was a bad question. Sylar regretted his choice thoroughly. He made a firm mental note never to ask Peter Petrelli about his good memories - because the spoiled brat had plenty. And now Sylar had to remember that one. I don’t want to picture that. I don’t want to remember that. I didn’t want to hear that. That wasn’t…what I wanted…Why can’t he just…?
XXX
There was a long pause before the inevitable ‘what happened next’ of the story. “I never hooked up with her again. She moved on.” Peter shrugged, eyes darting to the side at that distant sting. Bitterness tugged down the corners of his mouth, dispelling his previously pleased expression. If he did his job right in helping people, then they didn’t need him anymore - but that wasn’t very soothing when he returned to an empty apartment or tried to explain to someone why he got dumped so often. He got to his feet, heading to the kitchen so Sylar wasn’t looking at the emotions he knew were showing on his face. “I’m going to get another round. Pick Truth or Dare,” he said, voice gruffer than it needed to be.
XXX
I hate him. Every reaction he knew stampeded through Sylar’s body, settling on rage and murder. Everything the man said was…wrong, too much, out of line, sickening…Peter stole the task Sylar would have otherwise taken, “You do that,” he sniped. He hadn’t desired to break Peter’s button nose using his own desk so badly since the nurse arrived. The man who’d premeditated raping his mind had a memory like that? What was worse, Sylar couldn’t envision what that kind of event would be like. He refused to admit the idea was both arousing and terrifying. ‘Hooking up’ he called it. You…get them to talk then you wait for them to jump you? He felt jealousy, envy, in ways he couldn’t explain. Maybe that was Nathan’s reaction; he could hope that’s what it was. Sylar stood, pacing around while Peter was absent. Things don’t happen like that. I bet he stole that from a soap opera or a porno. That’s it: he lied. He made that up. He did that on purpose. It had worked. That decided, his rage eased back from the tense, homicidal flood.
“Dare,” he sneered, sitting after the medic. Make it a good one; ideally involving my memory cortex and a wood chipper as a professional courtesy.
XXX
Peter returned, dropping off the beers and getting out his pocket tool to open them. He noted Sylar was in a bad mood now. Something that caused outright humiliation didn’t seem like a good dare at the moment, despite how edifying he’d found the congratulations. I’ll have to come back to that and make him do the chicken dance or something else embarrassing. Hm. Can he dance? Peter leaned back in his seat, putting away the utility tool as his eyes became merry at the mental image of Sylar clumsily gyrating on a dance floor, not that the guy was clumsy normally (aside from concussions). Hard to do that without music. I wonder if he can sing? “I dare you to sing me a song - a full one, not just a ditty or a jingle. Whatever you know all the words to.”
XXX
Sylar’s face was blank. Was that supposed to be embarrassing or…what? His eyes narrowed with suspicion briefly. That wasn’t the kind of dare he wanted - what did that prove? “I’d…have to think.” A whole song? There went ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars’, not that he could remember it. “Um…okay.” It was a long time since his choir-boy days and his voice had long-since broken, deepening to his satisfaction. Sylar wasn’t shy about his voice (but he wasn’t sure how it would sound after two beers), though he didn’t advertise it. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer…had a very shiny nose…And if you ever saw him, you would even say it glows…All of the other reindeer…used to laugh and call him names…They would never let poor Rudolph…play in any reindeer games…” He forgot the exact wording for the next verse, but rallied for the rest. It was one of those annoyingly memorable songs, impossible to forget especially when he’d watched the movie growing up, viewing it so much it drove Mom to forbidding it.
XXX
Hm. Okay. Not what I expected, but it's okay. He's easy to listen to. Sylar had a deep voice that resonated and carried nicely, getting better as he went, warming to the task. It was untrained, as far as Peter could tell, but it had a good timbre and an intensity that projected even in such a simple song. Peter liked it; it was satisfying, somehow, to know this otherwise irrelevant detail about his companion. He wasn't thinking about why he wanted to know the quality of Sylar's singing voice. If he had, it would have been something vague about the piano or guitar and wanting the occasional accompaniment. “We could go carol the empty city,” he suggested rhetorically, taking a pull from his beer.
XXX
“Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter licked his lips, then reached up to wipe at them, catching a nascent dribble on the left side. He looked at the moisture on his thumb and frowned at it. Fuck. Maybe I should stop drinking. He set down the beer, concerned he was getting drunk enough to be less than his normally meticulous self about the side of his mouth. I guess I could do a dare. He just did one. I don't really want to tell another story. No telling what he'd ask. “Dare.”
XXX
“Let me touch your hair.” Sylar smirked shamelessly.
XXX
“Eh ...” Peter blinked repeatedly, then did it again. O-kay. No telling what he'd ask, all right. “My …?” He reached up and ran his hand along the surface of his hair on the left side. It didn't seem out of place. Why? Just … because? He looked at that expression on Sylar's face, remembering something weird about how the guy had handled his head when trying to show him how to do a physical exam. Oh my fucking God, he's not … this doesn't tie in with cutting people's heads open, does it? Peter swallowed and recoiled from the desk, hands going to his lap, his gaze on Sylar sharpening to an alert stare.
XXX
Sylar stared right back, calm and collected. He didn’t think Peter would wuss out (Sylar wasn’t asking for anything perverted or wrong…as far as Peter knew), but the nurse might place restrictions on the act - this was all about pushing the guy’s comfort zone, seeing where his boundaries were.
XXX
All he asked for was to touch my hair. Calm down. That's all he asked for. Peter's eyes went to his beer, trying to calculate if it was better or worse to be more inebriated for whatever was about to happen. Since he didn't know, he left the alcohol where it was at. “Okay,” he said, voice a little shaky.
XXX
Standing, he made his way around the desk to stand behind Peter and the roller chair.
XXX
Peter remained sitting, hands in lap. He tilted his head up to give Sylar a wary, but also curious, expression - eyes narrowed, brows drawn together, face intent. He had to suppress his urge to pull away when Sylar reached for him; it manifested anyway as a twitch, but otherwise, Peter held still for it - for all of it.
XXX
Sylar smiled a little at that extra look, but he didn’t say anything. Let Peter freak out about it. Lifting his hands, he paused before making contact. Peter kept quiet, not taking those last seconds to put rules in place. Thatta boy. Sylar began with petting over the top of Peter’s head, down around towards the back of his neck, just to get a feel for the texture of his hair. It was quite soft, thick, but not heavy for all the volume the guy managed. “Hm,” Sylar’s hum of acknowledgement and slight surprise was brief. He rubbed the ends of Peter’s hair between his fingers; maybe a little dry, in need of a haircut. Perfect. Behind the nurse, Sylar smirked to himself. This was completely forbidden, touching someone’s hair, yet here he was, with permission, doing it, one of those boundary-crossing things he rarely got to do. It was…personal, really personal: hair, touching it, allowing it.
XXX
Okay, that's … that's okay. I think. Without being able to see what Sylar was doing, Peter was left imagining based on the sensations. The stroking he could follow easily enough and then Sylar was doing something different, maybe picking up a few individual locks of hair and … what? What was he doing? This wasn't the matter-of-fact handling of a stylist or the intimate caress of a lover. Far as Peter could tell, Sylar's breathing was still normal so if he was getting off on it, he was slow to show it. Aside from however Sylar felt, Peter didn't find the experience as upsetting as it could have been. Instead, it felt nice. Weird though the whole thing was, he felt the tension easing out of his shoulders. Touch had a tendency to do that. His hands were no longer held so properly on top of his thighs, because as he relaxed, his elbows went back, upper arms more perpendicular with the floor, and hands ended up more towards the outside of his legs than poised on top.
XXX
Peter wore this little haircut around probably just to make people want to touch it - the hair certainly seemed to cry out for it. Sylar’s next touch was with combined fingers to different parts of hair - temple, back of head, the part - testing for variations in texture (and reactions therein, if that happened). Cursory exploration satisfied, Sylar slid his fingertips from the man’s forehead into his hair, as if he were giving him a scalp massage. Yes, this is what he wanted. That’s right, just checking on that…hematoma you had. This way, his fingers embedded and intertwined, he could clench his hands, make fists and control and demand, if he so chose. Sliding his fingers through Peter’s lovely dark hair several times, slowly with no reaction, Sylar decided to try grabbing it. His loose ‘grip’ of sorts, tightened, squeezing the hair with space between scalp and fingers. Do you like that? Will you allow it? Hmmm…
XXX
A little more odd touching of different spots made Peter move his legs restlessly, but he had no other response. Fingers stroking into his hair led him to shut his eyes and let out a deep breath despite how inappropriate all of this was. Maybe Sylar got off on this, or maybe it was some harkening back to cutting people's heads open - either way, Peter was buzzed enough from alcohol to find it easy to not care. He cared that it felt good and that was what mattered. It was a dare and he was just being … generous in not stopping Sylar. Right. He felt warm and tingly, letting his mind wander to the last time someone had done something like this …
\\He remembered a beautiful woman, tattooed, passionately running her hands into the hair at the base of his neck. He couldn't place her, or the situation, which seemed charged with an energy he couldn't identify any more than the person. He'd felt … betrayed?\\ “Hm?” Who is she? Digging further, Peter recalled the carnival with a familiarity to the scene that didn't fit; he'd never been there. \\Samuel had introduced him to her: ‘Lydia, come meet our new friend. Show him around a bit, will you?’ His own name wasn't spoken, the significance of which he hadn't grasped at the time-\\
Then a grip in his hair, both hands on either side of his scalp, changed everything. The daydream was obliterated by a different memory that Peter identified as his own much more readily, one of being jerked around by his hair, manhandled in a way that layered intimacy, violence, and coercion. He hunched defensively, drawing his body downward at the same time that he reached up with his left. “Nnn ...” His fingertips went to the side of Sylar's left hand and moved there in a mute hand-signal of concern, reaching across to probe restlessly at the right hand as well. “Let go,” he said softly, his tone not so much a command but more like a question. Stiff fingers pushed against Sylar's wrists, urging him away, encouraging a release without demanding it. Tension spiraled through him, seeking an outlet.
XXX
Peter was surprisingly polite about getting Sylar’s hands off him, not smacking at his hands or using language. Behind Peter, he made a face but slowly unclenched his grip, moving around to sit in his own seat again, across from his companion. He looked over the man’s countenance to gauge just how upset Peter was about it. It didn’t matter too much - Sylar had gotten to touch, with permission, Peter’s tempting mane.
XXX
Peter leaned forward and away from Sylar, stroking his hair rapidly to self-sooth and chase away the feeling of being held in place. Memories he didn't want to have were safely locked back in their respective mental boxes. He gave Sylar a wary, hyper-alert look while holding his body as far away from the other man as possible. “You touched my hair. That was the deal. You’re done.” Weirdo. As Sylar moved away, Peter straightened, pulling his comb from his pocket and carding it through his hair, scraping it across his entire scalp. It felt odd where Sylar had brushed against him - a not uncommon occurrence and so Peter ignored it, trying to overlay the sensation with that of the comb, not that it worked very well. Not sure what he was supposed to do in response to hair-fondling-gone-bad or what could have only been a trip down Sylar's memory lane, Peter changed the subject. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
The grabbing wasn’t the best idea, not because it had failed quickly, but because he hadn’t done it with much valid purpose. There was little to gain from grabbing Peter’s hair. Now Sylar wondered how long he would have been allowed to touch if he hadn’t grabbed. He felt strangely territorial about the re-combing. The insinuation that Peter wanted to erase Sylar’s touch was pretty clear. Maybe he just envied the comb - he stared at the grooming tool as it passed through Peter’s hair where his fingers had been seconds ago. Or maybe they just had a bad history with combs. For now, Sylar still had another human being on his hands - faint oil, scent, heat. He wanted to smell his hands. His fingers felt awakened, tingling with the sensation of phantom hairs still passing by and his hands wanted nothing more than to be back against any part of that warmth. His head was light, headache diminished; buzzing happily whether he wanted it to or not, from beer or physical contact he wasn’t sure. “Dare.”
XXX
Peter relaxed a little as the power shifted back to him. He remained unsettled by Sylar getting grabby; more unsettled that he still responded badly to that after all these years. He’d had girlfriends grab his hair, even pull on it. Given the right context, it didn’t bother him (and was sometimes really sexy). The context with Sylar was unclear - standing over him, motives unknown, touching him intimately - it was the same emotional feel that he'd sensed in Sylar's memory that he'd inadvertently tapped. The experience left him irritable. There might have been a little vengeance in his choice for Sylar’s Dare, or maybe it was an insecure attempt to assert dominance. He put away his comb and gave Sylar a half-hearted smirk he was putting on for show. “I dare you to sing and act, or dance, the little teapot song, three times in a row.”
XXX
Sylar lasered Peter with a glare. For one thing, that dare wasn’t funny; the amount was overkill, and for another, it was obvious why he was being given that dare - punishment. He didn’t make any rules about it, vindictive little snot. “Hardly a dare. I thought playing this with a Petrelli would involve two beers and juggling chainsaws, you know, something interesting,” he sneered, putting Peter’s annoyingly effective dare into proper perspective as he stood decisively. Once upright however, with Peter’s eyes on him, the dare was immediately placed back into the utterly humiliating category it truly was. Sylar hesitated, ignoring how the pause might make him look. He did not want to get started, everything about his pride was rebelling. I kill people and this is what he wants me to do? Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know what I can do to him? His ‘big bad’ image was already smarting. This was much more difficult than the consolation congratulations dare earlier and beyond simply singing.
Clearing his throat, Sylar glared again at the cause of his humiliation. I’m never going to live this down. Maybe if I hit him on the head, he’ll forget? Drunks forget things, too, right? Not bothering to sing, Sylar spoke the words to the tune in an uninspired tone of voice, half-assing the gestures. It wasn’t like he knew the action parts real well, having only seen it a few times as a child. He’d never done it himself and doing it now felt awkward.
XXX
“Hey, it's interesting to me,” Peter said with affected nonchalance. Next time I'm afraid you're going to kill me, I'm going to think of this. Of course, this might be why you're going to kill me. He watched Sylar's first pass through the short routine with a mostly blank face, still shaking off his irritation from the hair-grabbing. For the second and third, he loosened up. Sylar looked so ridiculously stiff and put-upon. Plus he was coloring up in tandem with Peter's smile, even if Sylar was refusing to look directly at him. Peter mostly controlled his snickering. Oh yeah, the horribly scary Sylar-as-a-little-teapot. Next time he points that finger at me I ought to say something about his 'spout'.
XXX
Once that was through (hoping his face wasn’t flushed red), Sylar quickly sat and pretended he wasn’t completely embarrassed by staring through Peter’s face and sprawling as casually as he could, instead of slouching, avoiding eye contact and squirming in place trying to be invisible. “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
“Beer.” Peter pointed at Sylar's so-far untouched bottle, and took a deep swig out of his own. He strongly suspected Sylar needed some alcohol to wash that incident down. “My dare earlier was that you'd keep up with me. Not just that bottle - all night.” That was stretching it and he wouldn't fight much if Sylar refused, but Peter would certainly and pointedly end his drinking if Sylar wouldn't honor it. After waiting a beat for reaction, he said, “Truth,” hoping to avoid having to make a similar spectacle of himself.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed for a few seconds. That was slightly dangerous because Peter could drink more than he could - the odds of Sylar getting drunker faster (and getting sicker) were greater. Does he want to get me drunk? He tilted his head in acquiescence, taking a few drinks. “Tell me your most embarrassing moment.”
XXX
Peter stared for a moment, eyes large with a deer-in-the-headlights look as Sylar did him one better. Then he burst into laughter, his belly shaking as he leaned back and let loose. “Oh my God, that's good! I totally deserve that!” He sat upright in the chair to stab a finger in Sylar's direction. “Props for a perfect revenge.” He had the feeling this was a real game, more than he'd managed with any of the many other board and card games they'd gone through in the preceding days, more than he often managed with anyone. This - this was give and take, and Sylar, to Peter's shock, was not shirking (well, he could have done the teapot thing with a lot more spirit, but Peter had picked it because he knew it would offend the hell out of the guy). He shook his head as the chuckling wound down and he started giving some actual thought to what he'd just been asked to tell.
He sighed and leaned back in the chair again, studying the ceiling. Random moments from childhood flashed through his mind - forgetting to get his parent's permission slip for a fifth grade trip to the museum and the teacher calling him out in class for being empty-headed, then having to go to the office and beg his mother come down to school in person, immediately, or else he would have had to spend all day doing nothing while the other kids saw all the cool stuff. It had mattered so much at the time. Or when Harry Belvidere caught him jerking off in the shower before sophomore year swim class, part of Peter's plan not to be caught with a hard-on (again) in the tight trunks everyone had to wear. Or when he realized his dad had gotten him fired from that fast food job he'd tried to work in college, and he had to pretend he'd fucked it up himself.
Peter slouched forward, putting his elbows on the desk and his face into his hands. He rubbed at his eyes and let all his air out. “You know,” he said slowly, face still hidden, “the hard part is picking out which is worst.” He lifted his face, cupping one hand within the other and resting them against his upper lip. “Most embarrassing thing that happened to me recently … Nathan … knew what happened, but I don't think he ever got what it meant to me.” And now he never will. Not that I think he would have, even if he was still alive. I don't think it was in him to care - not that way, not about me.
Peter looked away, frowning. “I'd … just, just told Simone that I'd loved her from the first moment I'd laid eyes on her. I wanted to be with her. I'd watched her with her father, and I thought she was kind, fun, thoughtful, intelligent ...” He smiled softly at the memory, making a slight wave of one hand.
XXX
Love at first sight? Really, Peter? Sylar thought dubiously and humorously. He probably just wanted to sleep with her. All that stuff he likes is so general…
XXX
“I'd just told her that when Nathan got everyone's attention at the campaign fundraiser we were at, one he'd roped me into attending that I didn't even want to go to. I went because,” Peter rolled his eyes, “he pulled the 'family' card on me. So there I was, when he announced to everyone - reporters, my parent's friends, the parents of some of my friends, Nathan's campaign workers, Simone ...” Peter exhaled heavily, “he announced that I'd been trying to kill myself. The powers, the being different, special, everything I'd been trying to talk to him about, what we'd proven, he was dismissing and framing up as a cry for attention, some sort of messed up, fake, family fault. And he knew it.” Peter bit his lower lip, baring his teeth in the process, nose wrinkling in half a snarl. “He knew it was fake. He didn't care. Humiliate me in front of everybody - that's okay, right?” Peter shook his head. “Because that's my role: make him look bigger, better.” Peter took another drink. “Make sure I knew my place in the family hierarchy. Make sure everyone else knew it, too. That was embarrassing.”
And angering. There was a bite to his voice as he said, “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows twitched upwards. Nathan had been blissfully ignorant of that but it definitely explained getting his jaw realigned by Peter’s fist after that dinner. It was just Peter’s feelings on the line, right? All the same, Sylar thought it was rather sadistic of Nathan to purposefully invite the unwilling Peter out just to scapegoat him (even if Peter had a hand in digging those holes - jumping off rooftops and professing love in public places - himself). Yeah…that would…That just sucks. He didn’t want to contemplate how much utter shame that would have caused because he could picture it happening to him all to clearly. Sylar recalled what Nathan knew of Simone - stunning, a little too opinionated for Nathan, a little too mixed up in ideology and Peter, and now, she was quite dead because of Peter. It was still a bit sad, maybe a double blow to Peter because of her death.
“Truth.”
XXX
“Tell me about the people you consider to be your family - or who used to be.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes steady on Sylar. Peter was hard pressed to think of anything more critical than family, the people he would cut out his heart for. He wanted to know who was important in Sylar's life, who had ever filled those roles for him - if they had. And he wanted to know where, if at all, the Petrellis fit into that - although that was probably deeper than Sylar would be willing to answer.
XXX
“Nuh-uh. It has to be a question, Peter.”
XXX
Peter snorted and pointed at Sylar. “Hey, don't you rules-lawyer me, buddy. I was trained by the best of 'em.”
XXX
"If you’d learned anything, then you'd know better and phrase it properly,” Sylar snarked his retort, “Because I’m no lawyer.”
XXX
Peter frowned. “Your last one wasn't a question, either, and it's not like I answered it with 'October, 2006.' I tried to explain it.” And it was so gratifying to actually have someone listen to that explanation. Just that, by itself, made Peter feel so much better. He looked to the side, trying to think of how to word it so he'd get the information he wanted. If Sylar was going to be a complete asshole, he'd have declared that Peter lost his turn by not using the right format. He hadn't done that. Hopefully, he'd answer Peter's intent, and not simply give him a list of names. “Here it is: When people are talking about family, present or former, who are the people you think of in those roles for you and your past?”
XXX
He sure has a fetish for my family. “I assume you’re excluding any parent with a trust fund,” Sylar stipulated, referring to the Petrellis. “My mom was a secretary, she raised me. My dad is…the guy with the Hunger and cancer. If you include former…there….was…” my mother, he tried to say but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth. If he said it, then Peter would ask about her and he just couldn’t talk about her. There wasn’t much to say, nothing to interest Peter or anyone else. He frowned deeply, inhaling to cover the silence and regroup. “My uncle, he restored timepieces.” That part he finished definitively. As far as he was concerned, that was his family in their politically correct, politely conversational, rehearsed nutshell.
“Why are you asking? Are you trying to find some kind of hereditary insanity mental defect or something…?” Sylar paused or trailed off, thinking about his own question before muttering, “Probably a good place to look,” before he took another pull of beer.
XXX
Peter didn’t understand the ‘with a trust fund’ thing right away, but he figured it out and frowned. Actually, he’d been very interested in how Sylar placed the Petrellis in relation to himself. Then Peter blinked. ‘… any parent with a trust fund.’ He still thinks they’re his parents? But Sylar had moved on and Peter didn’t want to interrupt. He just skipped someone, Peter thought about Sylar’s long pause before speaking of his uncle.
He smiled thinly in response to Sylar’s questions. “No. It’d be a way different question if I was. I want to know about the people important to you.” He assumed the topic was closed with Sylar’s frustratingly vague and obviously incomplete answer, but he tried asking for more anyway. The worst Sylar could do was clam up. “Can you tell me more about your mom?”
XXX
“What do you want, her social security number and favorite color? She’s my mother, it’s my business to know, not yours.” He realized his voice was defensive and he quieted. When Peter didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him, Sylar caved, to get it over with. “Fine. Fine. She was short, thin, dark hair, brown eyes. I thought she was pretty, I guess. She was…” And then he hit the problem he always did when trying to describe his mother. Tell the truth, the partial truth or nothin’ about the truth? Which did he want to tell? Which was appropriate, which was being asked after? Which was safe to say, which was he allowed to say? And I’m half-way to drunk. Should I be talking? “Very devout. Socially conscious. Strict. Particular. Emotional.” Sylar shook his head, shrugging. He realized he’d had to reference her more than he’d had to describe her all his life. Am I talking too much? He glanced at his bottle, lifting it to try to read the label. Just his luck he’d get ‘not marked for individual sale.’ “Where did you find these, anyway? What’s in ‘em?”
XXX
Wow. He’s talking! Peter could hardly stifle his surprise at getting an answer, a series of cooperative utterances, and even if they weren’t exactly what Peter wanted, they were close. He’d hit a vein, definitely. Ignoring the question about the beer (he hadn’t really looked when he’d picked them up from the liquor store, although he remembered the brand from years before; they were strong and not legally ‘beer’). “Tell me more about your uncle. Is he your mom’s brother or your dad’s?”
XXX
Sylar snorted. “Him. He was my father’s brother. Never liked me at all, never pretended to, either. He knew I wasn’t his kid and he didn’t bother to treat me like I was. He got me into a lot of trouble, just because. He was….the one who taught me how to fix timepieces.” Sylar shrugged. “It was a relief when he left but…he left…problems for me to deal with.”
XXX
“And your dad?”
XXX
“You mean the few hours I spent with him? I should have asked him more questions when I had him but being threatened to get carved up like a taxidermy animal kind of ruined our bonding,” Sylar allowed, sarcastically. “He looked like a hobo, completely filthy, bearded, dirt on him. Taller than my uncle. He looked…old, like he was old enough to be my grandfather but he wasn’t that old. I could…see a resemblance, I looked like the younger, taller, darker version of him maybe. It’s so stupid, but that’s what sold me - that we looked alike. Coming from…short parents with my features…I never...” Sylar shook his head. “Do you believe that? It’s so…shallow. He was so pathetic and creepy, just…making the hair on the back of your neck stand up because yo- I knew what he could do but he was creepy before you know he has a power, before you know what he can do. You could just tell he knows…that he can see…things.” Or perhaps that was their mutual power at work, allowing them to see inside things or the desire to. “Then it’s ironic because he plays around with dead animals - father of the year award there,” he took another drink.
XXX
Peter cocked his head, finding it immensely intriguing that Sylar’s primary given reasons for disliking the guy were … yeah, shallow. What he looked like, what he did for a living (or maybe a hobby, Peter wasn’t sure), his age. But he trusted Sylar’s instincts, odd a statement as that was. He’d been there, met the guy. He had the Hunger. Maybe there’s something about the ability that makes a person creepy? He leaned forward even more, even more interested, because that might explain part of why Sylar wasn’t as off-putting here, in this world, as he had been in reality.
XXX
“He understood…our ability but I think it drove him crazy. Or he was just a monster to begin with, I don’t know. He’s everything I thought he’d be but it was like looking at your own headstone.” Sylar closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to Hiro’s similar prophecy. It was like looking into an aged mirror alright and it still terrified him even as he practically lived that nightmare or prophecy now - isolated, forgotten, suffering forever until he died alone. “He gave me some advice even though he didn’t really intend it that way, I don’t think. I think he made the rest of it up,” he admitted. “He didn’t lie once…My dad…didn’t lie once.” Sylar looked at Peter, eyes narrowed with suspicion that wasn’t aimed at the nurse, “That was the whole point of talking to him and I think he got around my ability somehow. I don’t know how, I didn’t even know you could do that. But I know he lied because he said he wasn’t interested in more powers and he attacked me for one. Some of the other things he said didn’t make a lot of sense, either, but he was the right amount of vague.” After a pause to conclude, he asked “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
“Truth.” He didn’t even think about it. Peter wanted the dialogue to continue. He remained leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, very intent on Sylar. He’d been given so much more than he’d expected. He wasn’t about to push it by digging further - one follow-up question per person and Peter had a lot to think about now.
XXX
Continued...