More Between Us Chapter 68/? "Hungover"
More Between Us, Chapter 68/? "Hungover"
Day 22, New Year’s Day, Morning
Oh … ow. That was an understatement. Peter didn't happen to know any words to describe how he felt, not even the vulgar ones would do. There was a crushing pressure in his head, a roiling sensation in his bowels, and the thing that had woke him from the fitful, distressed sleep he'd been suffering through - an urgent need to relieve himself. NOW. “Uff!” He was up and off the couch in record time, bare feet getting him to the bathroom while his sphincter made one last argument with his brain. Why the fuck am I still wearing my jeans? He never slept in his pants, because doing so left him exactly as he was now - sweaty, clammy, and having to peel himself out of them. He struggled through it, weathering another surge of 'I have to go NOW' from his body. But he made it. That was all that mattered. A few moments later, he had the presence of mind to reach out a foot and nudge the bathroom door shut. Thankfully, Sylar hadn't made a peep.
Much later, literally drained, Peter washed up and then stumbled into the kitchen to rehydrate. Water and painkillers went down the hatch, prompting another hurried visit to the bathroom. After round two and Sylar still hadn't stirred, he went over to look the guy over. He was pale, definitely breathing, and smelled … sour. That's reassuring somehow. I was starting to worry that he smelled good to me all the time. I think I'm just … really getting used to being around him. Peter fetched a glass for Sylar along with a batch of pills, then retired to the couch with the feeling that his energy reserves had been completely depleted by the small tasks. He laid there in his underwear, the sheet flipped over him, vaguely considering past hangovers and the events of the previous night during the periods when his body deigned to allow him enough brain power to think.
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A sense of throbbing pain invaded Sylar's sleep, increasing in awareness to the point where he could slumber no longer. With a gasp and a groan, Sylar felt himself enter the land of the living - supposedly. “Oh, God…” he moaned without thought, thinking he was alone, because surely Peter had left after…Oh, God, but the world was too bright and his creature comfort clocks were too loud; his head was too heavy and hurting, his gut and bladder…I’mgoingto-! Followed by wordless images and sensations of what unpleasant, embarrassing bodily functions, plural, his body was going to perform with or without a bathroom. Yanking himself out of bed sent his brain once again sliding around in his skull. If he could have cried out or fussed in some way at that moment, he would have. As it was, he made the mad dash to the toilet to puke. This time it was worse, half-digested and stale (or maybe that’s how he currently felt). He spat copiously to rid himself of everything about it - the idea, the memories, the taste, the impression it made on his senses.
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Peter waited while the worst of the vomit noises passed. Where the fuck are my jeans? I woke up in them earlier. … Shit. They must be in the bathroom. He better not be puking on them. He got up, feeling seriously underdressed to be performing nurse duties. This is like one of those weird dreams nightmares where I show up to work naked. Oh well. He went in the bathroom anyway, the door still hanging open, and got down the hand towel to wet it. His jeans were on the other side of Sylar, wedged between him and the tub. He gave a resigned sigh to the situation and was thankful this hadn't been one of those days when he went commando, which was more often than not.
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“Ah, fuck. You,” Sylar’s voice was so rough he made a drag down a gravel road sound inviting. This was Peter’s fault. Dumb idiot had gotten him very drunk on top of the head trauma he was also accountable for. “What were you thinking,” he croaked, “making us drink like that?”
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“Right. 'Us'. Made us both do it.” Peter squatted down and made to wipe Sylar's face like he had last night. The guy had to be feeling worse than warmed-over crap not to have taken the opportunity to remark on Peter's state of undress. But he was still complaining. As they said in EMT training, the louder the patient was, the less you needed to worry about their health. “I was just evening the score. You were the one trying to get me drunk, the way I figure it.”
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Sylar lifted his head away indignantly, very much like an infant refusing baby food on the spoon, but Peter followed with the cloth, wiping his face anyway. Shit, go easy. My head feels like…Just go easy. He clutched at Peter’s arms as he worked, panting a little from waking up and standing up too quickly for distressing purposes and the tenderness of his head and eyes. His function may have improved, but his headache symptoms from the concussion weeks ago was still very present below his apparently self-induced issues. Peter went for his forehead and Sylar growled at him, tugging the man’s hands away. What was with that continued pressure to touch his damn forehead? Did he think Sylar was that stupid? Right now he couldn’t remember who was at fault for the resulting hangover (Peter was most definitely responsible for all concussion problems); were they both at fault? Did it matter right now? Right now Sylar badly wanted to blame Peter for his pain, blame him for anything, really. “Of course I did,” he sneered bitter and sarcastic. Blame the psychopath. Funny how I’m the one hunched over the toilet, puking up a lung, no matter who’s fault it is.
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Peter let Sylar's grip on his arms be his guide. Hanging onto him was fine and told him that the contortions of Sylar's face at the touch of the towel weren't anything to be worried about. When the grip tightened and pushed him back, though, Peter desisted. Forehead. His mind went back to the first head-to-toe exam he'd done on Sylar and how he'd been prickly about it then, too. Wasn't last night, but he was drunk then. Peter pulled away and stood to rinse out the towel, leaving Sylar to collect himself.
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It was then, when Peter moved away, that Sylar noticed his state of undress. Uuuh…his mind provided helpfully as he stared. The only other time he’d seen this much of Peter was during their medical exam, a week or so ago. Not that I’m complaining, but didn’t I leave him with his pants on? Did I…? What the hell happened last night? “You better not have pissed my couch, Petrelli. Where are your pants?”
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“You wouldn't give me my shirt back last night and now you've got my pants.” He gestured at the garment with his right hand while his left half-heartedly tried to wring out the towel by itself. He gave up with it still sodden and wiped his own face with it, forehead included. “I hope you're not married to that toilet, because I'm going to need it myself after a while.” A trickle of water ran down his chest and his gut churned at the unexpected sensation. That one cold line down his front was too much to process with everything else - the smell, Sylar's proximity, his head, his stomach, the chill sweeping over his skin. He left the bathroom, needing the distance. “I'm going to borrow your pajamas.”
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I have your…? Oh. There they are. Why are they here and why do I have them? I’m sitting on his pants so he can’t get them, ha. He still didn’t tell me why he’s not wearing pants. Is this another showing-off thing? When we’re sick and it makes no sense…Sylar gave him a weak glare about being married to the toilet. “Whatever,” he muttered about his clothes being appropriated without permission. Truth be told, Sylar wasn’t sure watching Peter prance around in only underwear was helping him feel better anyway. He stood, bracing through the wave of nausea and head-pains to do it, and kicked the door shut but not closed. It blocked the view and that was all Peter could bitch about, or not, while Sylar relieved himself. It was amazing how swollen one’s bladder could get in one night, one of those freaky human body things of nature.
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Peter adopted the new clothes - pjs with legs too long for him, a t-shirt that fit him okay - and sat on the couch. The thought of breakfast revolted him enough so that after Sylar vacated the bathroom, he used it again. On his way out, tired and wrung out, he offered the water and pills to Sylar. Painkillers on an empty stomach weren't a good idea, but his brain was too fogged to think of anything better. “You need to drink as much as you can keep down. Sip it slowly. Your stomach will handle it better that way. Take the pills. I know you must feel like shit. I do, too.” With that, he laid on the couch with his forearm over his eyes, bare feet buried in the tangled sheet, and went back to letting his brain fuzz out.
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“Thanks,” Sylar managed when he was once again horizontal, sloppily spread over his cot with an eye towards Peter…if he chose to open it and do so. Only time would take away the roughness in his throat so his voice was still a croak. The water helped and he downed the pills without comment even though the drink caused his guts to roil. Unfortunately, he stayed mostly awake and his thoughts mostly avoided the previous night. If I don’t think about it, I don’t have to…I don’t know, expend energy and when Peter asks about it (which I know he will), I can answer honestly that I don’t really know. I don’t want to worry about it right now. It actually worked in his favor that Peter felt just as bad. Sylar wondered if he should feel guilt for supposedly causing Peter’s pain. It sucked to have his nurse and roommate out of commission (even though Peter was handling it better, so it seemed - was that due to past alcoholic experience which Sylar lacked?); but it was also nice, in a sick sort of way, to share something. It was a physical pain, self-induced, stupid, but it was an experience Peter certainly could relate to.
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Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before an idea popped into his head, one he didn't know why he hadn't thought of before: Zofran. It was followed quickly by: IV fluids. “Ehhhn.” He levered himself up. “I got an idea. Be right back.” He got to his feet and went out in the hallway, rummaging through the bags on the seat of the wheelchair. There were indeed two IV bags left, along with plenty of injectable nausea relief.
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Sylar cranked an eye open to watch Peter…leave? Wait…He’s in no condition to…”Where are you going?” he rasped after his companion, considering levering himself up to follow. Seconds later, he heard noises in the hall that confirmed Peter’s location. Not another board game, you idiot. Maybe no more games in general.
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Peter returned, arms full of IV bags, tubing, tape, syringes, and bottle. He set it all down on the desk and flopped into the office chair. “This will take care of all of our problems.” He paused, looking at Sylar, then down at himself. “Most … um, some … a few of our problems.” He shook his head as he separated the equipment out into two sets. “It'll make things better, I promise.” He set it up first for himself, then found himself stymied. “I either have to do this with two fingers and a thumb on my right, or I have to do it left-handed.” He frowned. “I never had much practice shooting up anyway.” He'd done it once and hadn't enjoyed it at all, which was why it was a 'once' deal and never again. “Can you do this?” He looked at Sylar dubiously. Even people with medical training often had trouble dropping a line. “Wait, never mind. Let me do you first. You watch what I do, then you'll feel better after - hands steadier, that sort of thing.”
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Immediately, the nurse’s proximity was a comfort, even if it was a loud comfort. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, then moved to sit on his cot, legs hanging off the side because it was easier on his stomach than sitting Indian style. At the mention of shooting up he thought about the time he’d had to ‘shoot up.’ It had been life-and-death, not a loser’s pleasure cruise. He tried not to remember all the other needles in his life, ones used for torture, revenge and abuse. Sylar nodded yes to the question of his competence, “Yeah, I can.” He nodded, “Okay.” Sticking Sylar first made sense. I’ve got steady hands anyway, one little- one big headache isn’t going to screw up my aim that bad. Peter installed the IV line, hooked the bag on the shelf above the head of his bed, and injected Zofran, presumably, into the port on the bag.
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Peter watched the drip for several minutes, which was about as long as he could put up with. The idea that he'd have to wait most of an hour before getting his own relief was too much. He moved on to setting up his own situation - opening packaging, drawing up the Zofran, swabbing his arm. “I'm going to try this anyway.” He did - try, that is, and missed. The all-encompassing headache and slightly shaking hands didn't help at all. “Fuck.” He tried a second time - except instead of just having a slowly bleeding hole like the first time, he also managed to blow out the vein. It was now bleeding under the skin, giving him a swelling hematoma and making further attempts on that arm futile. “Fuck!” He set the syringe aside and covered his elbow with the alcohol swab, applying pressure as per procedure, even though what he wanted to do was fling it across the room and throw an undignified fit. Staring at the ceiling, he huffed. “Sometimes I feel like … the whole fucking world … every time I try to do something - shit blows up, people die, the future ...” He shook his head. “I can't even give myself a fucking IV!”
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But we just said…Sylar almost stopped him, because it seemed like a bad idea and they’d just agreed to do the opposite. He watched as Peter botched it. I should find this hilarious after all the times he’s handled needles for me and for patients. Maybe it’s a good thing he has no practice doing it fucked up and hung over. Understandably the failure quickly ‘got under Peter’s skin’ and he began to fuss. Loudly. “Shh, shh, shush, Pete,” Sylar said in a mix of reactions, part begging, part demanding, though he didn’t do it to console his partner. He just wanted him to shut up. He reached out and patted the man’s now-clothed shoulder and that was for Peter’s comfort. “I know how to do it. It will be easier on someone else, actually. ‘Kay?”
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Peter gave him a sharp, narrow-eyed look for calling him ‘Pete’. Was it intentionally mocking him for acting childish? Was it unintentional because Nathan often called him that? Was it just a common shortening of his name (although Sylar should have known better than to call him that)? Thinking through the possible motives hurt his head. Sylar patted his shoulder and Peter sighed, face relaxing. You only get to call me that when we’re both hung over, he thought grumpily. He nodded to Sylar’s question and went about fixing the tourniquet to his other arm.
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When Peter gave sign of assent, Sylar took the needle and Peter’s undamaged left arm. “You make your job sound so hard,” he mused, both as affectionate mockery and general observation. “I’ve had to do this after someone used me for a battering ram through a glass door after she shocked me like a wet finger in a wall socket after being powerless and sick for weeks after being stabbed through the chest with a samurai sword.”
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Peter grunted in acknowledgement, thinking he should have some questions or something to say about that sequence of events. All he could muster was something half-formed about having wondered what happened to Sylar after Kirby Plaza. He abandoned trying to finish the thought in favor of making a fist to make his veins more prominent. It was part of what had gone wrong on his right arm - unable to make a fist with his right, he’d been poking at ill-defined targets.
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Sylar leaned in close to look for veins, or rather, a good large vein because they were plentiful on Peter’s lovely arm. “Needless to say, this should be a walk in the park.” He pulled the skin taut and slid the needle in at an angle so as not to go through the vein, and it had a better chance of getting in, as he understood it. Given the bloody feedback in the tube, he’d got it in one. “Hmm,” he grunted his success, looking to see if he had impressed Peter.
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Two things: Peter realized he should have given some advice, and the other was that even without it, Sylar had done the job perfectly, first try, with a hangover. That was amazing and Peter’s pair of surprised blinks conveyed it. “Good. Hold it right there.” He struggled to get past the cotton in his head to get the tape he’d laid out, fixing the plastic piece in place. “Now turn it a little and pull it out. The syringe - that thing there.” He pointed helpfully and Sylar followed directions like a pro, detaching the needle to leave the plastic shunt in the vein. “Then I’ll attach the line and tape that down, too.” Peter managed the rest, shooing away Sylar’s hands, which seemed determined to cradle his forearm now that they weren’t engaged otherwise. Brushed off, Sylar watched for a moment, then laid down, head on his folded arm, looking up at Peter. Once set up, Peter sprawled in the chair, elevating his feet by way of propping them on the far corner of Sylar’s tiny bed. In a half hour to an hour, the fluids should have done their trick of restoring hydration and knocking out the worst hangover symptoms. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait.
And think. Maybe it was just a placebo effect, or the continued, gradual waking, but he already felt like he was thinking better. The first thing he dwelled on was Sylar’s steady, unhurried hands in finding the vein. Most people were afraid of hurting the person they were working with and that manifested as hesitation, second guessing, or hurrying - sometimes all three - which worked together to make them as lousy at the job as Peter had been on his attempt at his right arm. Sylar didn’t have that. There was no ‘I’m sorry I hurt you’. Even when he’d looked up after stabbing Peter in the arm, his expression hadn’t been concern. It was more like approval-seeking, without regard for the possibility Peter might be upset about having a bit of metal poked into him.
That was … interesting. Kind of unsettling. Very practical, and it made sense given Sylar’s past, Peter supposed. He’d been told that the best surgeons were really scary people precisely because they had no compunctions against slicing into folks. Sylar … well, compunctions against cutting into people seemed to be lacking. He glanced over at Sylar, who was spending his time staring at Peter. He wasn’t sure what to make of that particular feature. Was it a deficit? Or just a trait? Was it something his ability and experiences had driven out of him? Or was it something that had never been there to start with? Certainly the lonely past Peter had been able to put together for him wasn’t the sort of thing that would nurture normal responses to people.
Does he even know how to be normal with someone? No roommates - he’s already said that. No friends - said that. No siblings - said that. No father part of the time, hated him while he was there. Biological father - only knew him a few hours, hated him. Mother … there was something weird about the way he talked about her, the stuff he’s said about her before, too, and now she’s off-limits to ask about, assuming she’s even alive. So … mother at most and I’m not sure how that relationship was. Has he ever been with anyone else for any length of time?
There’s Elle. Something happened with her. He died for her, made love to her at least, and he really was making love to her. That wasn’t just sex. He didn’t die because he didn’t care - if he had, he wouldn’t have said that was the most noble thing he’d ever done. Then there was Luke. They were … friends? Yeah, friends. But it sounds like they only knew each other for a few days, maybe off and on for a few weeks. Hard to tell, because he really leaves a lot of gaps in his explanations. It’s like … it’s like he’s never had to explain anything to anyone; he doesn’t wait for directions and it’s like he doesn’t expect any. Fuck - I might be the most meaningful and long-term relationship he’s ever had, and coming on the heels of three years alone, that’s … it’s an explanation for awkward. For him - no roommate Kevin, no Hesam at work, no brother Nathan, no girlfriend, no patients, no friends in high school and then different friends in college and different friends still in nursing school, all plus the kids of my parent’s friends, or the maids. Not even a fucking dog. Peter’s mind boggled at how narrow that made the world.
A surge of wanting to be there for someone ran through him, hurrying Peter’s breathing, making him swallow and look away as he tried to quash his feelings. This is stupid. Sylar is a murderer. I’m not even sure if he understands, really, that what he did was wrong, or what was wrong about it. And Nathan … Peter shook his head, forcibly drawing his thoughts away from the subject. “What do you remember from last night?”
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Sylar inhaled and let it out heavily, calming his stomach as it clenched, and to buy time. What do you want me to say, ‘I remember everything’ or ‘I remember nothing’? Licking his lips, he looked upwards but the light from the window was too much. “Um…I remember playing games. Truth or Dare.” His eyes briefly roving over Peter’s form said how much and what he remembered of the previous night. I remember finding out just how naughty you are and getting to touch you. It was then he took in the fact that Peter was dressed in his clothes. Sylar remembered feeling a strange proprietary surge at seeing Elle wearing his black button-up shirt after sex. It was probably not a good idea for Peter to have chosen of his own volition to don Sylar’s clothes. He’ll smell like me a little, maybe. The shirt was too long, but tighter and the pants were much too long. (He’s not sending a message.) I don’t care. He’s wearing my clothes; not just my clothes, my fucking pajamas for God’s sake. He’s responsible for himself, throwing his pants at me, giving me his shirt. He should have thought of that before he did it. I’m not responsible for what happens after. Seeing Peter like this had little logical reason to be sexy, but there it was.
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Another non-answer. Peter huffed at the annoying evasion. “What do you remember specifically?”
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“Is there something I should be forgetting?” Sylar shot back. He didn’t care for the implication that he should forget things when it was convenient for others. He’d had enough of that. “I remember all of it. You’re a kinky little bastard,” he smirked. And a tricky one who got me to do things.
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That was … warming. And not in a way Peter was really comfortable feeling at the moment, coming on the heels of other less-than-antagonistic thoughts about Sylar. The way the guy had looked him up and down just now hadn’t gone unnoticed, either. Peter cast a quick look down. The fly of the pajamas wasn’t gaping open or anything like that, but then again, Sylar’s eyes hadn’t stopped at any particular place, which Peter found even more flattering than if he’d focused on one thing. He felt a low-level excitement hum through him, which left him wordless for a moment.
He finally managed a defensive, “Well, I remember everything, too.” Going on the offense, he added, “Should I go get you some tea?” He waved in the direction of the kitchen and shifted his feet a little on the end of the bed, but made no actual motion to get up. If I have to deal with what I did, then you’re not getting away with yours, either.
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Wh- oooh…Sylar glared as best he could, knowing it was weak. That was uncalled for. After his glare reached its expiration date, he thought up a reply through his overheated brain, “Sure, if you can do it in your underwear, Boner Boy.” He chuckled, partly for effect. And I thought I was the horny one. “Maybe you should moonlight as a stripper. You have the paramedic uniform,” Sylar chuckled some more. As good looking as Peter was, stripping was kind of waste of his talents. Something in him strongly disapproved of the mere idea, found it insulting, degrading and felt that Peter should be protected, if not for himself, then for…His laughter wound down and he cleared his throat. “Do you always do that with booze or…I mean, how does that work? Why does that do it for you?” he asked, genuinely curious. He had no information on it or Peter so…why not ask? The arousal clearly wasn’t stimulated just from the average stare (because Sylar had stared Peter down plenty, granted, never with his shirt off; Nathan had had opportunities and never noticed any lower region action. Peter was good looking so he’d definitely been ogled before), so there was something to it, another factor he couldn’t account for at first glance (no pun intended). It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him, you know, being looked at as a turn on? There was one potential reason he didn’t mention, yet, because it was so unlikely it was quite impossible: Peter liked the source of the attention - Sylar.
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Peter ran through a lot of reactions in short order - affront and anger at Sylar's comeback (accompanied by pushing the rolling chair half a foot away from Sylar's bed, but he didn't take his feet off the end), sneering disgust at the suggestion he disgrace his position as a paramedic by involving his uniform in a strip routine (a wrinkled nose and a glare served to convey his feelings while Sylar laughed), and then narrow-eyed suspicion at Sylar's semi-honest-seeming questions. He snorted strongly and frowned off in the direction of the kitchen.
My head hurts too much for this. Is that an honest question with a bunch of defensive bull up front, or is that a sarcastic/rhetorical/fake question and the bull is how he really feels? Peter sighed, still looking away. He didn't suggest anything all that bad, really - that he thinks I look good and he thinks other people would think so, too. Peter breathed out heavily again, glancing back at Sylar with a sour expression on his face. He likes how I look … Peter tried to ignore the pleasant, tingly way that made him feel.
“Are you serious?” He said it like a threat or a challenge, throwing it out with a matching forbidding expression on his face just in case Sylar was full of it. Peter watched him sharply for cues, or at least as sharply as he could with his head pounding and gut feeling queasy.
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“Yes,” Sylar prolonged the word slightly; narrowing his eyes a little because of the disbelieving look he was being given.
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Peter tilted his head, eyes still narrow, but none of that helped him think. He was too keyed up for this and he hadn't had enough drip yet from the IV bag to endure it. He leaned back into the chair, relaxing a little in posture and face. “Booze doesn't have anything to do with it - just that I wouldn't be dumb enough to strip for you unless I was drunk, which I was.” So there.
Having established (he hoped) his disinterest, Peter moved on to the main question, his voice getting much smaller as he took a sudden apparent interest in the IV tube. “I like it. I like the attention.” He opened his mouth to say more, but then shut it. He didn't know which words to use and didn't want to say something Sylar might use against him. 'It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!' Those words rang in his head instead, engraved there by having rehearsed them prior to Nathan's arrival and the adrenaline rush of the leap that followed. He toyed with the clear tube, rolling it pensively between his fingers, and looked over to see Sylar's reaction.
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Sylar was surprised and happy to get an answer at all. At least it ruled some things out even if it wasn’t descriptive. In a leading tone, Sylar probed deeper, “Attention…gets you off?” Again, it was obvious it wasn’t that simple but it would be very nice if Peter was that easy. He frowned a little from confusion.
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“It's just a thrill, you know?” He looked at Sylar, but wasn't getting any indication he did know. And besides, what was there to 'know' with what little Peter had said? He looked down at his lap and frowned, then shook his head in frustration. “It's the attention, yeah, but not just any attention. I'm not showing myself to strangers in the library, after all. You're into me. Or at least I think you are. That's the difference. People who think I'm hot looking at me … it's hot. Some people are turned on by looking at others. I'm not. At least not so much. It's why I was always out where other folks were instead of holed up in my bedroom with a porn mag. I wanted people looking at me.” He gave a long pause, then added the more important point, “I wanted to matter. That's what does it for me.”
It was a lot bigger deal than just how it manifested in his sex life. Peter knew that even if he didn't like thinking about it. Feeling defensive and too vulnerable (pointless, extra, overshadowed by Nathan, ignored by his parents in favor of their golden child, always second-rate, or also-ran, no matter what he did), he shifted the focus. “This is not a weird kink. I'm sure you have ones of your own. Everyone does.” Not that Peter had thought about what turned Sylar's crank. He looked over at him speculatively before pulling his thoughts away from that. I do not care about what gets Sylar off. It didn't take long for his subconscious desires to make an end run around his conscious mind, suggesting, Actually, that's a much better topic than him asking more about what I like. “So what are you into?”
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Now came the descriptions. It was…a lot of information to process. Sylar listened intently, trying to make sense of it because it was obviously important to Peter for whatever reason. He was being given answers but he had to translate them - the answers themselves were key. Then Peter gave him gold; something resonated in him and he didn’t know why, ‘I want to matter.’ That overwhelmed and eclipsed anything else Peter might say and everything he’d already said. Sylar understood that that was a very big deal. Before he could dissect it, Peter was busy making insinuations about him. I don’t like y-! It was halfway off his tongue before he stopped himself. Denying his interest would be shooting his chances with Peter in the metaphorical foot - the man wanted interest. Let him think I like him. He doesn’t care if I have feelings for him, or if he does, he’s still wrong. Then there was the rest of it: I have kinks? Everyone does? As Sylar knew it, kinks were kinks because they were odd sexual obsessions - odd because not everyone shared them or they would be commonplace. Peter stopped everything in its tracks with his unforeseen, highly personal question. Sylar froze, stunned and probably showing it. What do I like? You think…I can like things? Is that allowed? Well…shit, what do I say? What will work with him? (Do I say I like watching him? Why is he asking?) Once the immediate reactions were out of the way (for now), he began to formulate a response, hopefully one that would work.
“I’m into sex,” he said simply, face dull and blank.
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Peter waited a beat, but that was all Sylar apparently had to say. He noted the sudden loss of expression - a dead give-away that Peter had hit a button, probably an insecurity because Sylar was into something he didn't want to confess. Which was okay. Peter mostly just wanted to make the topic of conversation something other than himself. Still, his curiosity was piqued now. “Yeah…? What specifically?”
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“Sex is sex,” Sylar shrugged, desperate to blow this off and simultaneously convey the idea that he was easy, without complications or demands. “I’m more of an open-book; I’m not picky. I don’t really have ‘kinks.’” Or if I do have them, they’re not going to bother you, that’s for sure. Why would he even ask that?
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You either don't know what I'm talking about because you're inexperienced, or you're into something awful enough that you won't admit it. Peter didn't have enough to go on to decide which was in play. Did Sylar genuinely not know himself? Surely even if he hadn't been around much he'd at least know his preferences for porn. Or did he know and wasn't telling, in which case why not just lie? Peter wouldn't know the difference, although he had to admit Sylar had shown an astonishingly surprising penchant for being truthful.
Truthful, but evasive - annoyingly so, and a lot of the time the evasion didn't even seem intentional. Crankily, Peter snapped, “If we're going to talk, then you need to give me better answers. If I'd answered you like you just answered me, you would have asked why that did it for me and if I were answering like you, then I'd only say 'booze didn't have anything to do with it' or 'guess you'll just have to find out on your own' or whatever and nothing else. It's really frustrating to try to have a conversation with you, Sylar!”
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Sylar could feel his stress level ratcheting up at being cornered. But I don’t know….he mentally whined. More accurately, he didn’t know what to communicate and what to leave unsaid. “I don’t see what it matters, Peter,” he managed to grate out. “You already said you don’t like talking to me - whenever I do talk, you want me to stop. People don’t ask and I don’t tell, I already told you that.” And he had; something to the effect of not involving himself with people for a host of reasons. “My ‘kinks’ weren’t in question last night.” That was even more of a provable outright lie than ‘I don’t have kinks’: he’d practically fondled Peter in several places last night, mostly the guy’s hair. With any luck, Peter wouldn’t remember it in that light or he didn’t notice at all.
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“If I didn't want to talk to you, Sylar, I wouldn't.” Peter started to go on in that argumentative vein, his mouth even open about to do so. Then he stopped. “'Whenever you do talk.'” Peter's head pulled back and his demeanor changed from irritably quarreling to paying close attention. Wonderingly, he said slowly, “We're not talking right now, are we? Not really. Not what you just meant. What is it I want you to stop ...” He looked away for a moment, thinking. “Nathan, the murders, my family. Are those the things you want to talk about that I stop you?” It hit Peter how much Sylar probably did, desperately, want to talk to someone about all of that. What Sylar had done was confusing, dehumanizing, frightening, and soul-wrenching. He'd almost certainly never had anyone he could talk to about it, and Peter had neatly declared every damn bit of it off-limits.
XXX
What did I mean by that? I meant…uh…Peter continued, getting closer and closer to the thing making Sylar anxious to the point of an aneurysm. (Do I need to talk about that? Do I need to talk about anything?) I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sylar swallowed roughly, needing relief and needing it fast. His voice wavered and caught, but he managed to demand, “How about that tea?” He was readying his acting chops to play the most needy patient Peter had ever seen. He wanted out, he was scared, not sure why, and ready to do whatever it took to get out of it and away from it. No, clearly, I don’t want to talk about it. Just some nice tea, calm my nerves…calm the urge to puke, calm all these headaches you insist on giving me - this is perfectly normal, Peter.
XXX
Peter continued looking piercingly at Sylar, feeling like he was really seeing into the man for the first time, or perhaps simply seeing him as he was for the first time. Tea? He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't want to talk about it. I don't think I should push him on this. I was just thinking about how honest he usually is. If I make talking a condition of … us, me, me being here … wait, does he think he has to do whatever I insist he does? That was mind-boggling. Peter nodded. “Tea. Sure.” He got up out of the chair carefully, bringing his mostly drained IV bag with him, and headed off to the kitchen.
XXX
Sylar heaved a wavering breath, slumping as soon as Peter was out of sight, shutting his eyes for a moment. Why am I so upset? I want to talk to him, don’t I? He’s the only person here; he has to listen to me. He’s the one making all these rules…Then it dawned on him. Peter was indeed setting rules and setting precedents. What’s more, if Sylar strayed onto any topic Peter didn’t like, Peter would cave his skull in and punch him with little to no warning. The man was completely volatile. Not that Sylar had a glass jaw, low pain tolerance or aversion to pain, but he knew (and could guess) from experience what repeat offenders were punished with. Even the night before, when he’d been messing with Peter, the nurse had gone completely overboard without warning. That decided him - he did not want to talk about anything with Peter fucking Petrelli. And they say I’m crazy? He covered his face with his forearm, chuckling to himself, but it had more than a touch of hysteria lacing it before he wound down. Sylar certainly had no need to talk anyway. There was no ‘help’ for him, as his last attempt had shown. He’d had to abandon the hope, the idea. This is my life now and no kooky Petrelli is going to mess with my head.
XXX
Peter returned with a cup of plain tea, bag still steeping in it. He offered it quietly before sitting, fiddling with the IV bag to make sure the last of the fluid made its way into his veins. I don't think I want to listen to him talk about any of that. But I'm going to have to eventually. This is like me for the last year … never able to tell Hesam or anyone else about abilities, not talking to anyone, just keeping it to myself. He could see where this was going, but for the moment, he sat quietly and let sleeping dogs lie, not extending any invitation for Sylar to speak about the forbidden subjects and not revisiting the issue of kinks, either. He didn't think he was ready to be the sort of listener Sylar needed.
XXX
Continued...
Day 22, New Year’s Day, Morning
Oh … ow. That was an understatement. Peter didn't happen to know any words to describe how he felt, not even the vulgar ones would do. There was a crushing pressure in his head, a roiling sensation in his bowels, and the thing that had woke him from the fitful, distressed sleep he'd been suffering through - an urgent need to relieve himself. NOW. “Uff!” He was up and off the couch in record time, bare feet getting him to the bathroom while his sphincter made one last argument with his brain. Why the fuck am I still wearing my jeans? He never slept in his pants, because doing so left him exactly as he was now - sweaty, clammy, and having to peel himself out of them. He struggled through it, weathering another surge of 'I have to go NOW' from his body. But he made it. That was all that mattered. A few moments later, he had the presence of mind to reach out a foot and nudge the bathroom door shut. Thankfully, Sylar hadn't made a peep.
Much later, literally drained, Peter washed up and then stumbled into the kitchen to rehydrate. Water and painkillers went down the hatch, prompting another hurried visit to the bathroom. After round two and Sylar still hadn't stirred, he went over to look the guy over. He was pale, definitely breathing, and smelled … sour. That's reassuring somehow. I was starting to worry that he smelled good to me all the time. I think I'm just … really getting used to being around him. Peter fetched a glass for Sylar along with a batch of pills, then retired to the couch with the feeling that his energy reserves had been completely depleted by the small tasks. He laid there in his underwear, the sheet flipped over him, vaguely considering past hangovers and the events of the previous night during the periods when his body deigned to allow him enough brain power to think.
XXX
A sense of throbbing pain invaded Sylar's sleep, increasing in awareness to the point where he could slumber no longer. With a gasp and a groan, Sylar felt himself enter the land of the living - supposedly. “Oh, God…” he moaned without thought, thinking he was alone, because surely Peter had left after…Oh, God, but the world was too bright and his creature comfort clocks were too loud; his head was too heavy and hurting, his gut and bladder…I’mgoingto-! Followed by wordless images and sensations of what unpleasant, embarrassing bodily functions, plural, his body was going to perform with or without a bathroom. Yanking himself out of bed sent his brain once again sliding around in his skull. If he could have cried out or fussed in some way at that moment, he would have. As it was, he made the mad dash to the toilet to puke. This time it was worse, half-digested and stale (or maybe that’s how he currently felt). He spat copiously to rid himself of everything about it - the idea, the memories, the taste, the impression it made on his senses.
XXX
Peter waited while the worst of the vomit noises passed. Where the fuck are my jeans? I woke up in them earlier. … Shit. They must be in the bathroom. He better not be puking on them. He got up, feeling seriously underdressed to be performing nurse duties. This is like one of those weird dreams nightmares where I show up to work naked. Oh well. He went in the bathroom anyway, the door still hanging open, and got down the hand towel to wet it. His jeans were on the other side of Sylar, wedged between him and the tub. He gave a resigned sigh to the situation and was thankful this hadn't been one of those days when he went commando, which was more often than not.
XXX
“Ah, fuck. You,” Sylar’s voice was so rough he made a drag down a gravel road sound inviting. This was Peter’s fault. Dumb idiot had gotten him very drunk on top of the head trauma he was also accountable for. “What were you thinking,” he croaked, “making us drink like that?”
XXX
“Right. 'Us'. Made us both do it.” Peter squatted down and made to wipe Sylar's face like he had last night. The guy had to be feeling worse than warmed-over crap not to have taken the opportunity to remark on Peter's state of undress. But he was still complaining. As they said in EMT training, the louder the patient was, the less you needed to worry about their health. “I was just evening the score. You were the one trying to get me drunk, the way I figure it.”
XXX
Sylar lifted his head away indignantly, very much like an infant refusing baby food on the spoon, but Peter followed with the cloth, wiping his face anyway. Shit, go easy. My head feels like…Just go easy. He clutched at Peter’s arms as he worked, panting a little from waking up and standing up too quickly for distressing purposes and the tenderness of his head and eyes. His function may have improved, but his headache symptoms from the concussion weeks ago was still very present below his apparently self-induced issues. Peter went for his forehead and Sylar growled at him, tugging the man’s hands away. What was with that continued pressure to touch his damn forehead? Did he think Sylar was that stupid? Right now he couldn’t remember who was at fault for the resulting hangover (Peter was most definitely responsible for all concussion problems); were they both at fault? Did it matter right now? Right now Sylar badly wanted to blame Peter for his pain, blame him for anything, really. “Of course I did,” he sneered bitter and sarcastic. Blame the psychopath. Funny how I’m the one hunched over the toilet, puking up a lung, no matter who’s fault it is.
XXX
Peter let Sylar's grip on his arms be his guide. Hanging onto him was fine and told him that the contortions of Sylar's face at the touch of the towel weren't anything to be worried about. When the grip tightened and pushed him back, though, Peter desisted. Forehead. His mind went back to the first head-to-toe exam he'd done on Sylar and how he'd been prickly about it then, too. Wasn't last night, but he was drunk then. Peter pulled away and stood to rinse out the towel, leaving Sylar to collect himself.
XXX
It was then, when Peter moved away, that Sylar noticed his state of undress. Uuuh…his mind provided helpfully as he stared. The only other time he’d seen this much of Peter was during their medical exam, a week or so ago. Not that I’m complaining, but didn’t I leave him with his pants on? Did I…? What the hell happened last night? “You better not have pissed my couch, Petrelli. Where are your pants?”
XXX
“You wouldn't give me my shirt back last night and now you've got my pants.” He gestured at the garment with his right hand while his left half-heartedly tried to wring out the towel by itself. He gave up with it still sodden and wiped his own face with it, forehead included. “I hope you're not married to that toilet, because I'm going to need it myself after a while.” A trickle of water ran down his chest and his gut churned at the unexpected sensation. That one cold line down his front was too much to process with everything else - the smell, Sylar's proximity, his head, his stomach, the chill sweeping over his skin. He left the bathroom, needing the distance. “I'm going to borrow your pajamas.”
XXX
I have your…? Oh. There they are. Why are they here and why do I have them? I’m sitting on his pants so he can’t get them, ha. He still didn’t tell me why he’s not wearing pants. Is this another showing-off thing? When we’re sick and it makes no sense…Sylar gave him a weak glare about being married to the toilet. “Whatever,” he muttered about his clothes being appropriated without permission. Truth be told, Sylar wasn’t sure watching Peter prance around in only underwear was helping him feel better anyway. He stood, bracing through the wave of nausea and head-pains to do it, and kicked the door shut but not closed. It blocked the view and that was all Peter could bitch about, or not, while Sylar relieved himself. It was amazing how swollen one’s bladder could get in one night, one of those freaky human body things of nature.
XXX
Peter adopted the new clothes - pjs with legs too long for him, a t-shirt that fit him okay - and sat on the couch. The thought of breakfast revolted him enough so that after Sylar vacated the bathroom, he used it again. On his way out, tired and wrung out, he offered the water and pills to Sylar. Painkillers on an empty stomach weren't a good idea, but his brain was too fogged to think of anything better. “You need to drink as much as you can keep down. Sip it slowly. Your stomach will handle it better that way. Take the pills. I know you must feel like shit. I do, too.” With that, he laid on the couch with his forearm over his eyes, bare feet buried in the tangled sheet, and went back to letting his brain fuzz out.
XXX
“Thanks,” Sylar managed when he was once again horizontal, sloppily spread over his cot with an eye towards Peter…if he chose to open it and do so. Only time would take away the roughness in his throat so his voice was still a croak. The water helped and he downed the pills without comment even though the drink caused his guts to roil. Unfortunately, he stayed mostly awake and his thoughts mostly avoided the previous night. If I don’t think about it, I don’t have to…I don’t know, expend energy and when Peter asks about it (which I know he will), I can answer honestly that I don’t really know. I don’t want to worry about it right now. It actually worked in his favor that Peter felt just as bad. Sylar wondered if he should feel guilt for supposedly causing Peter’s pain. It sucked to have his nurse and roommate out of commission (even though Peter was handling it better, so it seemed - was that due to past alcoholic experience which Sylar lacked?); but it was also nice, in a sick sort of way, to share something. It was a physical pain, self-induced, stupid, but it was an experience Peter certainly could relate to.
XXX
Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before an idea popped into his head, one he didn't know why he hadn't thought of before: Zofran. It was followed quickly by: IV fluids. “Ehhhn.” He levered himself up. “I got an idea. Be right back.” He got to his feet and went out in the hallway, rummaging through the bags on the seat of the wheelchair. There were indeed two IV bags left, along with plenty of injectable nausea relief.
XXX
Sylar cranked an eye open to watch Peter…leave? Wait…He’s in no condition to…”Where are you going?” he rasped after his companion, considering levering himself up to follow. Seconds later, he heard noises in the hall that confirmed Peter’s location. Not another board game, you idiot. Maybe no more games in general.
XXX
Peter returned, arms full of IV bags, tubing, tape, syringes, and bottle. He set it all down on the desk and flopped into the office chair. “This will take care of all of our problems.” He paused, looking at Sylar, then down at himself. “Most … um, some … a few of our problems.” He shook his head as he separated the equipment out into two sets. “It'll make things better, I promise.” He set it up first for himself, then found himself stymied. “I either have to do this with two fingers and a thumb on my right, or I have to do it left-handed.” He frowned. “I never had much practice shooting up anyway.” He'd done it once and hadn't enjoyed it at all, which was why it was a 'once' deal and never again. “Can you do this?” He looked at Sylar dubiously. Even people with medical training often had trouble dropping a line. “Wait, never mind. Let me do you first. You watch what I do, then you'll feel better after - hands steadier, that sort of thing.”
XXX
Immediately, the nurse’s proximity was a comfort, even if it was a loud comfort. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, then moved to sit on his cot, legs hanging off the side because it was easier on his stomach than sitting Indian style. At the mention of shooting up he thought about the time he’d had to ‘shoot up.’ It had been life-and-death, not a loser’s pleasure cruise. He tried not to remember all the other needles in his life, ones used for torture, revenge and abuse. Sylar nodded yes to the question of his competence, “Yeah, I can.” He nodded, “Okay.” Sticking Sylar first made sense. I’ve got steady hands anyway, one little- one big headache isn’t going to screw up my aim that bad. Peter installed the IV line, hooked the bag on the shelf above the head of his bed, and injected Zofran, presumably, into the port on the bag.
XXX
Peter watched the drip for several minutes, which was about as long as he could put up with. The idea that he'd have to wait most of an hour before getting his own relief was too much. He moved on to setting up his own situation - opening packaging, drawing up the Zofran, swabbing his arm. “I'm going to try this anyway.” He did - try, that is, and missed. The all-encompassing headache and slightly shaking hands didn't help at all. “Fuck.” He tried a second time - except instead of just having a slowly bleeding hole like the first time, he also managed to blow out the vein. It was now bleeding under the skin, giving him a swelling hematoma and making further attempts on that arm futile. “Fuck!” He set the syringe aside and covered his elbow with the alcohol swab, applying pressure as per procedure, even though what he wanted to do was fling it across the room and throw an undignified fit. Staring at the ceiling, he huffed. “Sometimes I feel like … the whole fucking world … every time I try to do something - shit blows up, people die, the future ...” He shook his head. “I can't even give myself a fucking IV!”
XXX
But we just said…Sylar almost stopped him, because it seemed like a bad idea and they’d just agreed to do the opposite. He watched as Peter botched it. I should find this hilarious after all the times he’s handled needles for me and for patients. Maybe it’s a good thing he has no practice doing it fucked up and hung over. Understandably the failure quickly ‘got under Peter’s skin’ and he began to fuss. Loudly. “Shh, shh, shush, Pete,” Sylar said in a mix of reactions, part begging, part demanding, though he didn’t do it to console his partner. He just wanted him to shut up. He reached out and patted the man’s now-clothed shoulder and that was for Peter’s comfort. “I know how to do it. It will be easier on someone else, actually. ‘Kay?”
XXX
Peter gave him a sharp, narrow-eyed look for calling him ‘Pete’. Was it intentionally mocking him for acting childish? Was it unintentional because Nathan often called him that? Was it just a common shortening of his name (although Sylar should have known better than to call him that)? Thinking through the possible motives hurt his head. Sylar patted his shoulder and Peter sighed, face relaxing. You only get to call me that when we’re both hung over, he thought grumpily. He nodded to Sylar’s question and went about fixing the tourniquet to his other arm.
XXX
When Peter gave sign of assent, Sylar took the needle and Peter’s undamaged left arm. “You make your job sound so hard,” he mused, both as affectionate mockery and general observation. “I’ve had to do this after someone used me for a battering ram through a glass door after she shocked me like a wet finger in a wall socket after being powerless and sick for weeks after being stabbed through the chest with a samurai sword.”
XXX
Peter grunted in acknowledgement, thinking he should have some questions or something to say about that sequence of events. All he could muster was something half-formed about having wondered what happened to Sylar after Kirby Plaza. He abandoned trying to finish the thought in favor of making a fist to make his veins more prominent. It was part of what had gone wrong on his right arm - unable to make a fist with his right, he’d been poking at ill-defined targets.
XXX
Sylar leaned in close to look for veins, or rather, a good large vein because they were plentiful on Peter’s lovely arm. “Needless to say, this should be a walk in the park.” He pulled the skin taut and slid the needle in at an angle so as not to go through the vein, and it had a better chance of getting in, as he understood it. Given the bloody feedback in the tube, he’d got it in one. “Hmm,” he grunted his success, looking to see if he had impressed Peter.
XXX
Two things: Peter realized he should have given some advice, and the other was that even without it, Sylar had done the job perfectly, first try, with a hangover. That was amazing and Peter’s pair of surprised blinks conveyed it. “Good. Hold it right there.” He struggled to get past the cotton in his head to get the tape he’d laid out, fixing the plastic piece in place. “Now turn it a little and pull it out. The syringe - that thing there.” He pointed helpfully and Sylar followed directions like a pro, detaching the needle to leave the plastic shunt in the vein. “Then I’ll attach the line and tape that down, too.” Peter managed the rest, shooing away Sylar’s hands, which seemed determined to cradle his forearm now that they weren’t engaged otherwise. Brushed off, Sylar watched for a moment, then laid down, head on his folded arm, looking up at Peter. Once set up, Peter sprawled in the chair, elevating his feet by way of propping them on the far corner of Sylar’s tiny bed. In a half hour to an hour, the fluids should have done their trick of restoring hydration and knocking out the worst hangover symptoms. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait.
And think. Maybe it was just a placebo effect, or the continued, gradual waking, but he already felt like he was thinking better. The first thing he dwelled on was Sylar’s steady, unhurried hands in finding the vein. Most people were afraid of hurting the person they were working with and that manifested as hesitation, second guessing, or hurrying - sometimes all three - which worked together to make them as lousy at the job as Peter had been on his attempt at his right arm. Sylar didn’t have that. There was no ‘I’m sorry I hurt you’. Even when he’d looked up after stabbing Peter in the arm, his expression hadn’t been concern. It was more like approval-seeking, without regard for the possibility Peter might be upset about having a bit of metal poked into him.
That was … interesting. Kind of unsettling. Very practical, and it made sense given Sylar’s past, Peter supposed. He’d been told that the best surgeons were really scary people precisely because they had no compunctions against slicing into folks. Sylar … well, compunctions against cutting into people seemed to be lacking. He glanced over at Sylar, who was spending his time staring at Peter. He wasn’t sure what to make of that particular feature. Was it a deficit? Or just a trait? Was it something his ability and experiences had driven out of him? Or was it something that had never been there to start with? Certainly the lonely past Peter had been able to put together for him wasn’t the sort of thing that would nurture normal responses to people.
Does he even know how to be normal with someone? No roommates - he’s already said that. No friends - said that. No siblings - said that. No father part of the time, hated him while he was there. Biological father - only knew him a few hours, hated him. Mother … there was something weird about the way he talked about her, the stuff he’s said about her before, too, and now she’s off-limits to ask about, assuming she’s even alive. So … mother at most and I’m not sure how that relationship was. Has he ever been with anyone else for any length of time?
There’s Elle. Something happened with her. He died for her, made love to her at least, and he really was making love to her. That wasn’t just sex. He didn’t die because he didn’t care - if he had, he wouldn’t have said that was the most noble thing he’d ever done. Then there was Luke. They were … friends? Yeah, friends. But it sounds like they only knew each other for a few days, maybe off and on for a few weeks. Hard to tell, because he really leaves a lot of gaps in his explanations. It’s like … it’s like he’s never had to explain anything to anyone; he doesn’t wait for directions and it’s like he doesn’t expect any. Fuck - I might be the most meaningful and long-term relationship he’s ever had, and coming on the heels of three years alone, that’s … it’s an explanation for awkward. For him - no roommate Kevin, no Hesam at work, no brother Nathan, no girlfriend, no patients, no friends in high school and then different friends in college and different friends still in nursing school, all plus the kids of my parent’s friends, or the maids. Not even a fucking dog. Peter’s mind boggled at how narrow that made the world.
A surge of wanting to be there for someone ran through him, hurrying Peter’s breathing, making him swallow and look away as he tried to quash his feelings. This is stupid. Sylar is a murderer. I’m not even sure if he understands, really, that what he did was wrong, or what was wrong about it. And Nathan … Peter shook his head, forcibly drawing his thoughts away from the subject. “What do you remember from last night?”
XXX
Sylar inhaled and let it out heavily, calming his stomach as it clenched, and to buy time. What do you want me to say, ‘I remember everything’ or ‘I remember nothing’? Licking his lips, he looked upwards but the light from the window was too much. “Um…I remember playing games. Truth or Dare.” His eyes briefly roving over Peter’s form said how much and what he remembered of the previous night. I remember finding out just how naughty you are and getting to touch you. It was then he took in the fact that Peter was dressed in his clothes. Sylar remembered feeling a strange proprietary surge at seeing Elle wearing his black button-up shirt after sex. It was probably not a good idea for Peter to have chosen of his own volition to don Sylar’s clothes. He’ll smell like me a little, maybe. The shirt was too long, but tighter and the pants were much too long. (He’s not sending a message.) I don’t care. He’s wearing my clothes; not just my clothes, my fucking pajamas for God’s sake. He’s responsible for himself, throwing his pants at me, giving me his shirt. He should have thought of that before he did it. I’m not responsible for what happens after. Seeing Peter like this had little logical reason to be sexy, but there it was.
XXX
Another non-answer. Peter huffed at the annoying evasion. “What do you remember specifically?”
XXX
“Is there something I should be forgetting?” Sylar shot back. He didn’t care for the implication that he should forget things when it was convenient for others. He’d had enough of that. “I remember all of it. You’re a kinky little bastard,” he smirked. And a tricky one who got me to do things.
XXX
That was … warming. And not in a way Peter was really comfortable feeling at the moment, coming on the heels of other less-than-antagonistic thoughts about Sylar. The way the guy had looked him up and down just now hadn’t gone unnoticed, either. Peter cast a quick look down. The fly of the pajamas wasn’t gaping open or anything like that, but then again, Sylar’s eyes hadn’t stopped at any particular place, which Peter found even more flattering than if he’d focused on one thing. He felt a low-level excitement hum through him, which left him wordless for a moment.
He finally managed a defensive, “Well, I remember everything, too.” Going on the offense, he added, “Should I go get you some tea?” He waved in the direction of the kitchen and shifted his feet a little on the end of the bed, but made no actual motion to get up. If I have to deal with what I did, then you’re not getting away with yours, either.
XXX
Wh- oooh…Sylar glared as best he could, knowing it was weak. That was uncalled for. After his glare reached its expiration date, he thought up a reply through his overheated brain, “Sure, if you can do it in your underwear, Boner Boy.” He chuckled, partly for effect. And I thought I was the horny one. “Maybe you should moonlight as a stripper. You have the paramedic uniform,” Sylar chuckled some more. As good looking as Peter was, stripping was kind of waste of his talents. Something in him strongly disapproved of the mere idea, found it insulting, degrading and felt that Peter should be protected, if not for himself, then for…His laughter wound down and he cleared his throat. “Do you always do that with booze or…I mean, how does that work? Why does that do it for you?” he asked, genuinely curious. He had no information on it or Peter so…why not ask? The arousal clearly wasn’t stimulated just from the average stare (because Sylar had stared Peter down plenty, granted, never with his shirt off; Nathan had had opportunities and never noticed any lower region action. Peter was good looking so he’d definitely been ogled before), so there was something to it, another factor he couldn’t account for at first glance (no pun intended). It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him, you know, being looked at as a turn on? There was one potential reason he didn’t mention, yet, because it was so unlikely it was quite impossible: Peter liked the source of the attention - Sylar.
XXX
Peter ran through a lot of reactions in short order - affront and anger at Sylar's comeback (accompanied by pushing the rolling chair half a foot away from Sylar's bed, but he didn't take his feet off the end), sneering disgust at the suggestion he disgrace his position as a paramedic by involving his uniform in a strip routine (a wrinkled nose and a glare served to convey his feelings while Sylar laughed), and then narrow-eyed suspicion at Sylar's semi-honest-seeming questions. He snorted strongly and frowned off in the direction of the kitchen.
My head hurts too much for this. Is that an honest question with a bunch of defensive bull up front, or is that a sarcastic/rhetorical/fake question and the bull is how he really feels? Peter sighed, still looking away. He didn't suggest anything all that bad, really - that he thinks I look good and he thinks other people would think so, too. Peter breathed out heavily again, glancing back at Sylar with a sour expression on his face. He likes how I look … Peter tried to ignore the pleasant, tingly way that made him feel.
“Are you serious?” He said it like a threat or a challenge, throwing it out with a matching forbidding expression on his face just in case Sylar was full of it. Peter watched him sharply for cues, or at least as sharply as he could with his head pounding and gut feeling queasy.
XXX
“Yes,” Sylar prolonged the word slightly; narrowing his eyes a little because of the disbelieving look he was being given.
XXX
Peter tilted his head, eyes still narrow, but none of that helped him think. He was too keyed up for this and he hadn't had enough drip yet from the IV bag to endure it. He leaned back into the chair, relaxing a little in posture and face. “Booze doesn't have anything to do with it - just that I wouldn't be dumb enough to strip for you unless I was drunk, which I was.” So there.
Having established (he hoped) his disinterest, Peter moved on to the main question, his voice getting much smaller as he took a sudden apparent interest in the IV tube. “I like it. I like the attention.” He opened his mouth to say more, but then shut it. He didn't know which words to use and didn't want to say something Sylar might use against him. 'It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!' Those words rang in his head instead, engraved there by having rehearsed them prior to Nathan's arrival and the adrenaline rush of the leap that followed. He toyed with the clear tube, rolling it pensively between his fingers, and looked over to see Sylar's reaction.
XXX
Sylar was surprised and happy to get an answer at all. At least it ruled some things out even if it wasn’t descriptive. In a leading tone, Sylar probed deeper, “Attention…gets you off?” Again, it was obvious it wasn’t that simple but it would be very nice if Peter was that easy. He frowned a little from confusion.
XXX
“It's just a thrill, you know?” He looked at Sylar, but wasn't getting any indication he did know. And besides, what was there to 'know' with what little Peter had said? He looked down at his lap and frowned, then shook his head in frustration. “It's the attention, yeah, but not just any attention. I'm not showing myself to strangers in the library, after all. You're into me. Or at least I think you are. That's the difference. People who think I'm hot looking at me … it's hot. Some people are turned on by looking at others. I'm not. At least not so much. It's why I was always out where other folks were instead of holed up in my bedroom with a porn mag. I wanted people looking at me.” He gave a long pause, then added the more important point, “I wanted to matter. That's what does it for me.”
It was a lot bigger deal than just how it manifested in his sex life. Peter knew that even if he didn't like thinking about it. Feeling defensive and too vulnerable (pointless, extra, overshadowed by Nathan, ignored by his parents in favor of their golden child, always second-rate, or also-ran, no matter what he did), he shifted the focus. “This is not a weird kink. I'm sure you have ones of your own. Everyone does.” Not that Peter had thought about what turned Sylar's crank. He looked over at him speculatively before pulling his thoughts away from that. I do not care about what gets Sylar off. It didn't take long for his subconscious desires to make an end run around his conscious mind, suggesting, Actually, that's a much better topic than him asking more about what I like. “So what are you into?”
XXX
Now came the descriptions. It was…a lot of information to process. Sylar listened intently, trying to make sense of it because it was obviously important to Peter for whatever reason. He was being given answers but he had to translate them - the answers themselves were key. Then Peter gave him gold; something resonated in him and he didn’t know why, ‘I want to matter.’ That overwhelmed and eclipsed anything else Peter might say and everything he’d already said. Sylar understood that that was a very big deal. Before he could dissect it, Peter was busy making insinuations about him. I don’t like y-! It was halfway off his tongue before he stopped himself. Denying his interest would be shooting his chances with Peter in the metaphorical foot - the man wanted interest. Let him think I like him. He doesn’t care if I have feelings for him, or if he does, he’s still wrong. Then there was the rest of it: I have kinks? Everyone does? As Sylar knew it, kinks were kinks because they were odd sexual obsessions - odd because not everyone shared them or they would be commonplace. Peter stopped everything in its tracks with his unforeseen, highly personal question. Sylar froze, stunned and probably showing it. What do I like? You think…I can like things? Is that allowed? Well…shit, what do I say? What will work with him? (Do I say I like watching him? Why is he asking?) Once the immediate reactions were out of the way (for now), he began to formulate a response, hopefully one that would work.
“I’m into sex,” he said simply, face dull and blank.
XXX
Peter waited a beat, but that was all Sylar apparently had to say. He noted the sudden loss of expression - a dead give-away that Peter had hit a button, probably an insecurity because Sylar was into something he didn't want to confess. Which was okay. Peter mostly just wanted to make the topic of conversation something other than himself. Still, his curiosity was piqued now. “Yeah…? What specifically?”
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“Sex is sex,” Sylar shrugged, desperate to blow this off and simultaneously convey the idea that he was easy, without complications or demands. “I’m more of an open-book; I’m not picky. I don’t really have ‘kinks.’” Or if I do have them, they’re not going to bother you, that’s for sure. Why would he even ask that?
XXX
You either don't know what I'm talking about because you're inexperienced, or you're into something awful enough that you won't admit it. Peter didn't have enough to go on to decide which was in play. Did Sylar genuinely not know himself? Surely even if he hadn't been around much he'd at least know his preferences for porn. Or did he know and wasn't telling, in which case why not just lie? Peter wouldn't know the difference, although he had to admit Sylar had shown an astonishingly surprising penchant for being truthful.
Truthful, but evasive - annoyingly so, and a lot of the time the evasion didn't even seem intentional. Crankily, Peter snapped, “If we're going to talk, then you need to give me better answers. If I'd answered you like you just answered me, you would have asked why that did it for me and if I were answering like you, then I'd only say 'booze didn't have anything to do with it' or 'guess you'll just have to find out on your own' or whatever and nothing else. It's really frustrating to try to have a conversation with you, Sylar!”
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Sylar could feel his stress level ratcheting up at being cornered. But I don’t know….he mentally whined. More accurately, he didn’t know what to communicate and what to leave unsaid. “I don’t see what it matters, Peter,” he managed to grate out. “You already said you don’t like talking to me - whenever I do talk, you want me to stop. People don’t ask and I don’t tell, I already told you that.” And he had; something to the effect of not involving himself with people for a host of reasons. “My ‘kinks’ weren’t in question last night.” That was even more of a provable outright lie than ‘I don’t have kinks’: he’d practically fondled Peter in several places last night, mostly the guy’s hair. With any luck, Peter wouldn’t remember it in that light or he didn’t notice at all.
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“If I didn't want to talk to you, Sylar, I wouldn't.” Peter started to go on in that argumentative vein, his mouth even open about to do so. Then he stopped. “'Whenever you do talk.'” Peter's head pulled back and his demeanor changed from irritably quarreling to paying close attention. Wonderingly, he said slowly, “We're not talking right now, are we? Not really. Not what you just meant. What is it I want you to stop ...” He looked away for a moment, thinking. “Nathan, the murders, my family. Are those the things you want to talk about that I stop you?” It hit Peter how much Sylar probably did, desperately, want to talk to someone about all of that. What Sylar had done was confusing, dehumanizing, frightening, and soul-wrenching. He'd almost certainly never had anyone he could talk to about it, and Peter had neatly declared every damn bit of it off-limits.
XXX
What did I mean by that? I meant…uh…Peter continued, getting closer and closer to the thing making Sylar anxious to the point of an aneurysm. (Do I need to talk about that? Do I need to talk about anything?) I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sylar swallowed roughly, needing relief and needing it fast. His voice wavered and caught, but he managed to demand, “How about that tea?” He was readying his acting chops to play the most needy patient Peter had ever seen. He wanted out, he was scared, not sure why, and ready to do whatever it took to get out of it and away from it. No, clearly, I don’t want to talk about it. Just some nice tea, calm my nerves…calm the urge to puke, calm all these headaches you insist on giving me - this is perfectly normal, Peter.
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Peter continued looking piercingly at Sylar, feeling like he was really seeing into the man for the first time, or perhaps simply seeing him as he was for the first time. Tea? He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't want to talk about it. I don't think I should push him on this. I was just thinking about how honest he usually is. If I make talking a condition of … us, me, me being here … wait, does he think he has to do whatever I insist he does? That was mind-boggling. Peter nodded. “Tea. Sure.” He got up out of the chair carefully, bringing his mostly drained IV bag with him, and headed off to the kitchen.
XXX
Sylar heaved a wavering breath, slumping as soon as Peter was out of sight, shutting his eyes for a moment. Why am I so upset? I want to talk to him, don’t I? He’s the only person here; he has to listen to me. He’s the one making all these rules…Then it dawned on him. Peter was indeed setting rules and setting precedents. What’s more, if Sylar strayed onto any topic Peter didn’t like, Peter would cave his skull in and punch him with little to no warning. The man was completely volatile. Not that Sylar had a glass jaw, low pain tolerance or aversion to pain, but he knew (and could guess) from experience what repeat offenders were punished with. Even the night before, when he’d been messing with Peter, the nurse had gone completely overboard without warning. That decided him - he did not want to talk about anything with Peter fucking Petrelli. And they say I’m crazy? He covered his face with his forearm, chuckling to himself, but it had more than a touch of hysteria lacing it before he wound down. Sylar certainly had no need to talk anyway. There was no ‘help’ for him, as his last attempt had shown. He’d had to abandon the hope, the idea. This is my life now and no kooky Petrelli is going to mess with my head.
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Peter returned with a cup of plain tea, bag still steeping in it. He offered it quietly before sitting, fiddling with the IV bag to make sure the last of the fluid made its way into his veins. I don't think I want to listen to him talk about any of that. But I'm going to have to eventually. This is like me for the last year … never able to tell Hesam or anyone else about abilities, not talking to anyone, just keeping it to myself. He could see where this was going, but for the moment, he sat quietly and let sleeping dogs lie, not extending any invitation for Sylar to speak about the forbidden subjects and not revisiting the issue of kinks, either. He didn't think he was ready to be the sort of listener Sylar needed.
XXX
Continued...