More Between Us Chapter 70/? "A Mile In Sylar's Shoes"
More Between Us, Chapter 70/? "A Mile In Sylar's Shoes"
Day 22, New Year’s Day, Morning
Peter leaned back, groaned, and shut his eyes, face tilted towards the ceiling. I don't want to argue about this. Not this. There's no way I can win on any of this and there's no point to winning on it, anyway. All I'm going to do is piss him off. A moment later, he reached up and rubbed at his forehead. Go. Just go. He sighed, straightened, and reached down for the socks hanging out of the side of his shoes. He hiked one foot across a knee and brushed the dust off with his hand. “You're right, Sylar. I don't know anything. That's my point.” He put on his sock, shaking his head slightly as he did it. “I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a therapist. All I have is a bunch of college courses and having watched people. You're less crazy than a lot of people who are considered perfectly sane.”
XXX
Uh-huh, there it is. LESS crazy. He didn’t know if that angered or relieved him. Sylar felt bipolar, torn in different directions, what he wanted, what he was, and what he had to be (then the whole Nathan thing…) Perhaps if he could pick one, stick with it and make it work…He knew the trouble with that would be slaughtering and repressing the other instincts, whichever those were.
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“And I don't want to talk about abilities,” Peter snapped as he swapped feet, brushing off the next one more vigorously than the first as his mood coiled in an ugly direction. “You want to talk about how you got yours?” Peter snorted, thinking briefly about his sudden attack and murder of his brother in the future. “I'll bet your initiation makes jumping off a building look tame.” If Sylar's ability could move Peter to attack his own brother, then the reason why Sylar didn't want Peter asking about his mother seemed pretty fucking clear. Peter reached for a shoe. He wasn't here to address Sylar's problems or his past or any of those things Sylar wanted to talk about that Peter didn't want to hear. It was the future that mattered and Sylar clearly wasn't going to help in that.
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Sylar gaped. Peter was leaving, that was a concern, but he still focused on the words being spoken. Killing someone is…tame? That’s not right. I think he’s just…upset. That upset transferred to Sylar, who didn’t know if he was the cause or reason for it in the first place; upset was around him and Peter Trouble Petrelli was definitely readying to leave which was Sylar’s cause for upset. He was so helpless to stop it - if there were only words or deeds to bind and bond and keep someone close…
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“I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it.” His voice picked up speed and roughness, frustration coloring his tone. “I want to get out, get away, and not have to worry about things, like you and your fucking rules and how you don't act like I've done anything worthwhile for you.” He stomped down his foot, having worked himself to a head of steam one shoe too early. He was at the point, emotionally and in his diatribe, where he wanted to storm off angrily, but doing it with only one shoe on would be ridiculous. He yanked up the other - a thick-soled, black leather, ankle-high, medium-duty work shoe - and started putting it on in silent fury.
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Storm clouds gathered over Sylar, the helplessness washing away as he matched Peter’s mood. “You’re the one who brought them up! You are nothing but a spoiled, pretty boy if you think ‘my fucking rules’ don’t apply to you.” He stopped short, running out of words but also surprised. He thinks I owe him something? The first shoe was on and it looked every bit like an act of cruel, rude defiance aimed directly at him, Peter thumbing his nose at him, thinking he could walk away and get away with it without consequences…No. Driven to acts of spite (and possibly to keep Peter here longer and show he was serious), Sylar darted in, sat beside Peter on the couch and snatched the irksome, remaining shoe, holding it at arm’s length on the other side of his body where Peter couldn’t reach it. “That’s another thing about ‘my fucking rules,’ Petrelli: I didn’t ask you for anything. Maybe I’d do a better job bowing and scraping if you hadn’t concussed me in the first place!”
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Pretty boy? Peter had no idea why his mind arrested on that, but a moment later, Sylar was sitting next to him and stealing his shoe, playing keep-away with it in a bout of supreme childishness. I'm being ridiculous, flashed through his mind with the instant understanding that his own bout of temper had caused Sylar's, his mood infecting another just as theirs so often affected him. Ridiculous or not, realization or not, he was still pissed and Sylar, sitting to the right of him, still had his shoe.
“Hey!” Peter shoved at him with his right and punched him in the shoulder with his left fist. All things considered, it was a rather light blow delivered without leverage, across his body. He scooted back and away from Sylar's efforts to fend him off and possibly grab him. He retreated to the corner of the couch nearest him, coiling his body somewhat by raising his foot as if to kick … but Sylar wasn't pursuing. He lowered it and switched to venting, voice raised. “Your fucking rules only apply to me, Sylar! And I don't give a shit what you asked for! That doesn't have anything to do with it!” He knew it did, but he didn't care.
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Sylar took the mostly unexpected blow without a sound, maintaining his prize. Peter could blow wind chimes out his ass for all the talk of peace and do-good-unto-others and non-violence he preached but a simple act, like taking his shoe, for God’s sake, had Peter throwing punches. And he calls me violent and unpredictable? He frowned when Peter thought he’d attack. He probably should, but it was so stupid it would be serious overkill. It wasn’t like Peter wasn’t asking for it, either. He picks fights and blames me.
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His eyes darted past Sylar's face to his shoe. His shoes were really important to him. As far as material items went, given the world he was in with Sylar, his shoes were the firmly in the top five valuable items category (and maybe the top of those). There wasn't much here he considered 'his', but the things he'd showed up with were among them. Plus he needed them. The idea of hobbling around town in the freezing weather looking for a decent shoe store was not appealing. He's trying to keep me here, came another flash of insight. “If you don't want my help, then give me my shoe back and I'll leave.”
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“Yeah, I know you don’t give a shit what I asked for but it does matter,” Sylar addressed first, exasperated with his reactionary companion. Peter was eyeballing him (or rather, his shoe) which meant he had the man’s attention. For now, he ignored the stupidity of the logic Peter displayed - ungratefully, he wanted Peter to leave, so he took his shoe to…aid the process of leaving. Right. (Is this like one of those primitive cultures where ‘I hold the shoe, I’m king of the mountain, I get to speak and make the rules’? Somehow that was hilarious to him: that they’d both devolved so quickly to caveman). How Peter jumped to the harebrained conclusion that Sylar was ungrateful and disinterested in fucking help was beyond him. How it wasn’t obvious that he needed help, in any sense of the word, was equally incomprehensible. “The rules apply to everyone - everyone, Peter. What’s the first thing to drive people crazy, do you think? All that stupid crap you want to know about. I mean, look around you…” Sylar gestured. I’m such a crazy/not-crazy mess because the rules apply to me. (And I try to make them not apply). He needs to get with the program - he’s not exempt. (He won’t do it). Fuck what he wants. “Why are you leaving anyway? You said you wouldn’t.” That was…a shot in the dark. He didn’t know, with certainty, how Peter intended that promise of sorts. It would be better, easier on him if he could get Peter tied down to that, or anything, really.
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Peter looked around the apartment when directed to do so, then back to Sylar. His anger faded to puzzlement. What the hell is he talking about? “I'm not … I am getting out of here to take a walk, cool down, and get away from you. And I'm going to do that whether you give me my shoe back or not.” He huffed and straightened on the couch, putting both feet on the floor in an orderly fashion as though he might actually get up and leave. The toes of his merely sock-clad foot scrunched up a couple times with nervousness, but he kept talking instead. “I never said I'd stay in your line of sight at all times. That's ridiculous.” He batted his hair back, turning his torso to face Sylar. “Half of what you say doesn't make sense to me. What do you mean, 'what's the first thing to drive people crazy?'” He shifted his weight uneasily, blurting out, “All that stupid crap I want to know about is you!”
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At first Sylar’s eyes narrowed at ‘get away from you,’ then Peter called him and his desire/preference/whatever ‘ridiculous’ and his mouth pursed. He still held the shoe and now had to consider if Peter was bluffing or not, and, if so, what he’d do about it. Keep him talking. “Exactly.” He was prepared to leave it at that. It made perfect sense to Sylar but it was immediately clear Peter didn’t get it, any of it most likely, so he elaborated, “The first thing to drive people crazy is all the stupid crap about themselves. If you want to know about abilities that’s pretty harmless because we don’t have any; but you want to know about that. There’s nothing there - you know that. You spend all your time trying to get rid of me…” his voice trailed off as he thought about it. Peter had more interest in him now then he had when Sylar had been his brother how many times. “Is that what this is about? Trying to find some way to get rid of me and bring him back?” Sylar was horrified and betrayed despite knowing better. It left him in shock a little, to this day. It was the definition of personal, his personality, his mind and memories, and that was Peter’s target; it had to be, it was the perfect motive. Some part of him still couldn’t handle the idea that someone could or would torture and hate him to that extent.
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Peter’s face became stony at the mention of Nathan - brows lowered, eyes narrowed a little, lips tighter, otherwise impassive. What he was getting from the rest was that Sylar didn’t consider his ability the reason why he’d killed people - he blamed … something else: his life, himself, whatever ‘there’s nothing there’ meant. Either that, or perhaps Sylar was talking about ‘crazy’ in regards to something other than killing people. Peter wasn’t sure which he meant, so for now he pushed it aside and stayed focused on Sylar.
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Shakily Sylar stood up. “It doesn’t work like that,” he managed to get out, feeling like he was arguing for his life, reasoning or pleading with Peter to keep his mind and prevent it from being taken away, his body used as cheap housing for someone just as worthless. “Maybe you didn’t have to deal with it because you’re so fucking special but using the little stuff doesn’t work either!” his voice rose with his terror, giving him cold sweat, rapid heartbeat, tight chest and throat and tunnel vision. His only weapon was Peter’s own shoe, which he clutched hard. He felt abandoned and cornered in his own apartment, sick at the thought of becoming nothing or someone else again at Peter’s whim.
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Peter got to his feet, his expression shifting to resentful and angry at the mention of him being the recipient of extraordinary favoritism (again). He felt uneven in more ways than one, but primarily he didn’t like standing there with only one shoe on. It made him feel like an idiot for letting Sylar grab it out of his hands, and there right in front of him was Sylar clinging to what Peter needed to be balanced. Peter wanted to throw down, get his shoe back, and beat the crap out of Sylar for having the … the … whatever he had for taking it in the first place. Oh yeah, he’s afraid that I’m going to leave and he’ll be all by himself for … forever. Someone being afraid wasn’t an acceptable reason to start a fight with them, shoe or no shoe. The anger drained off Peter’s face, leaving him merely unhappy looking.
As Peter saw it, he had two clear choices with Sylar: 1) talk him down, calm him down, take care of him, or 2) blow him off, walk away and leave him to his own devices. The fear was baseless and the best way for Sylar to figure that out was for Peter to … talk him down, calm him down, and take care of him. That’s not much of a choice. Fuck. It certainly wasn’t the choice he wanted to make, but contrary to Sylar’s take on things, Peter didn’t feel his life had, or even should, hand him good options to pick between. Most of it sucked and it was his job to do his best even when he didn’t like it, like now. He exhaled slowly and sat back down, curling his lips into his mouth and chewing at both of them as he bit back his anger. With an effort, Peter arranged himself on the couch, leaning back, the shoeless foot crossed at the ankle over the knee of his other leg and defiantly sticking up in the air as if to call attention to itself.
Foot twitching a little, speaking in a low but clipped voice, Peter said, “I’m not trying to get rid of you; I didn’t come here to get rid of you; that’s not how I’m spending my time.” He sighed. “I’m trying to get to know you because you’re the only one here and I’m … lonely.” He wasn’t sure whether to admit that. He wasn’t sure how true it was. He hadn’t been able to be away from Sylar long enough to get stir crazy, if you didn’t count the first couple days. The guy was clingy, which made it hard to be ‘lonely’ and was part of why Peter was currently jonesing for some time apart. A more accurate description of Peter’s motives would have been curiosity or even just basic sociability. The first might be taken as threatening if Peter were digging for information to harm him; the second seemed unlikely to be understandable to a life-long loner. But Peter expected him to relate to loneliness, so he used that.
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(If he came to get rid of you, he’d be doing a much better job, he helpfully pointed out to himself). He’s lonely? Peter’s lonely? Sylar supposed that if Peter was (fairly) normal and normal people got lonely, it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. Peter hadn’t answered //his// - Nathan’s - phone calls, still lived in that rat-hole apartment. Now here he was, cut off from all his friends and family, including his girlfriend - Peter, who wasn’t used to being alone. Sylar didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he was being offered a great opportunity, a bond, a connection he otherwise wouldn’t have. But it wasn’t much of a choice for Peter, who had no other options, the bonding was mandatory, random, forced, he wasn’t…special (but at the same time, he was, in a way). Sylar could love or hate the circumstances that brought them together and made interaction possible, but he couldn’t make Peter choose to be with him. “I’m all you have,” he said slowly, lilting the words almost as a question. He needs me, not just for his girlfriend. He needs me alive and in decent health. That gave Sylar leverage, it made him feel better, too. It was almost like being cared for, looked after, sought out. “Then why are you leaving?” It’s those things he does after saying stuff like that, ‘I need you’ then he tries to kill me; ‘I’m lonely’ then he leaves. How can I believe him?
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Peter tilted his head in quiet agreement to Sylar's first statement. Sylar was the one he'd seen in the dream. Angela's implication (and she was presumably much better at reading precognitions than he) was that only Sylar could do it. He was, yes, all Peter had and yet Peter didn't have him at all because Sylar refused to help. It left Peter in a frustrating holding pattern. As for Sylar's implication that Peter needed him on a more personal level - it was probably true, but Peter didn't want to think about it more than necessary. Instead, he addressed the question, “Sylar, I’m trying to be friendly, but some of what you say comes off really insulting and I don’t like it. It doesn’t matter how lonely I am - there’s going to be times when I need some space.”
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I don’t like some of what you say, either, but that’s just tough luck for me, isn’t it? (I want my cake and eat it, too). It struck him that he wasn’t okay with either/or, that he wanted both and it wasn’t possible to have both polite conversation and walk away to send a message if Peter said something he didn’t like yet still keep the man’s company. It was that same struggle for…respect; he’d never managed it, he was too extreme. “What did I say that was insulting?” That was news to him. No wonder I can’t understand people. I don’t even see where I insulted him? Or he just…thinks I insulted him or feels that I did? (Maybe he made it up?) I mean, who decides if I actually insulted him? Does intent matter? “You never needed personal space //bef-ore//…” the word tripped from his mouth, realizing he was referencing Nathan’s life and Peter’s childhood. //Peter had been a tag-along, small shadow, a darling little stalker; clingy, if he dared use the word, ever hopeful and needy and it had boosted Nathan’s ego like none other (those big hazel eyes offering up love, hope and forgiveness at every turn), so much so that it continued to work even into their adult years//.
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Peter gave another head tilt at the personal space bit, deciding consciously to leave alone the question of why Sylar felt entitled to comment on Peter's past habits. And besides, he'd been living estranged from most everyone for years now, not that Sylar (or even Nathan) had known or cared. “A couple things you keep saying that I find insulting - that I had it good. Or I had it better than you and that makes you better than me.” He waved his left hand demonstratively before clasping his knee with it, the one that went with the shoeless foot, “Or that I am better than you.” He drew in his chin. “None of that matters. I'm not better than you; you're not better than me. Maybe I had it good compared to you - how the hell can I know that with what little you've said? But what I do know is that what I had sucked. And I'm pretty unhappy about it. So you telling me that I got off easy pisses me off. Kind of like how I figure you'd be pissed off if I took the attitude of, 'Well, you know, you're here now, so it couldn't have been too bad, just get over it already' and just dismissed everything that's ever happened to you.” Peter frowned up at Sylar, trying to will the message to sink in.
“And for another thing - I told you why I was upset last night, why I 'freaked out' as you put it, and all you've done since is argue about it. I don't need your arguments, Sylar. I know how I felt; I told you how I felt. You can be unhappy about that, but I'm not going to agree it was okay. Nothing excuses it. I'm angry you keep trying to convince me there's something that makes it right for you to do things to me I don't want.” Peter rubbed at his knee restlessly as he watched Sylar, glowering a bit with his foot still twitching back and forth. His tense body language probably wasn't helping anything (and certainly not his head, which was starting to give him a full-fledged headache), but he was at least sitting and not escalating things.
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Sylar was quiet, wide-eyed and listening. The whole talking thing was so strange - he could ask questions and get actual answers, Peter didn’t blow him off or make him feel like crap just for asking. He almost didn’t know what to do with the information; it was so shocking to have in and of itself. It was a relief as well, like Peter could…see and hear him. That was how he came to stand there and drink in the sound of someone else’s voice, deigning to form words for him, almost regardless of their content.
When Peter finished, Sylar took a handful of seconds to absorb it. “Don’t you think you’re better than me? You don’t ask to come in, you treat my things like crap and you don’t know if I’m a good houseguest because I’ve never been to your place. And that’s just the recent stuff, Peter. I am…I was your brother - do you remember what you did? It’s not just…you; it’s your whole family on that count. You think I’m scum for lots of reasons, don’t you? So whatever you do to me is okay. But that’s not the point. I’m not talking about abilities right now - because //I didn’t even//-he didn’t even know some of the stuff you’ve told me here. I’m talking about your home life - about you - because you say that’s what you want to know about me, right? You do have it good, or…had it good, whatever. I know because I was there.” He knew he was digging himself a very deep hole, but Peter wanted to paint them as equals yet refused to adhere to basic fairness and that, more than anything, pissed him off to argue and keep arguing. Peter thinking he could just bounce in and out of his life, his apartment at will, heedless of what it did to a severely fucked up person like Sylar…
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What the hell is he talking about? That was the repeated refrain as Sylar talked. Peter's foot dropped to the floor at the 'I was your brother' bit until his brain pointed out Sylar was probably talking about when Angela and Arthur had declared him their son. It wasn't about Nathan, so he kept his seat. But then a few sentences later, Sylar was speaking unmistakably as Nathan. Peter wanted to be outraged by that, but the rest was coming too fast as he was trying to remember what exactly he'd said, when, and what time and place Sylar was referencing. He was left staring, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees, gaping a little. Something his father had liked to say (and occasionally repeated by Nathan) came to him: 'If you can't convince them, confuse them.' If Sylar wanted to be understood, then he was perfectly capable of being understandable. So it followed that this was just another tactic. Baffled, frustrated, and depressed, Peter leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and looked fixedly at the floor.
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Sylar snorted a breath, “’Just get over it,’ isn’t that what you’re here to tell me? Isn’t that what you always say? You don’t need my arguments, you don’t need my excuses - well what about yours?! Where do you think I learned it, huh?! Just keep convincing me you have a really good reason for doing things I don’t like. I am not always at fault. You play fair or you don’t play. So if I have to get over it, so do you. Of the two of us,” Sylar gestured betwixt them before pointing to himself, “I never said I was a good person.”
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I don't say that. I don't say any of that. He wants me to argue with him. He's goading me, on purpose. I'm done here - I can't help. Mentally numb from the verbal assault, Peter stood up and walked over to the closet. His coat was inside of it, but he ignored that, bending to retrieve Sylar's shoes. From rough visual assessment, Sylar wore a size or two bigger. They'd probably fit. Even if they didn't, he'd have Sylar's shoes, which was mean of him and petty, but he was going to take them anyway.
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“Oh, what? You don’t like that I talk now? Does my voice insult you now, too?” Sylar followed Peter around, staying within arm’s reach but far enough back that he couldn’t easily be hit with much force. “You don’t like hearing a list of your faults either, Petrelli? I know how much you heroes hate having your own bullshit thrown back at you. Well, some of us don’t get to walk away! You’ve got normal life to go back to but what have you left for the rest of us, huh?” Sylar could feel the horde of negative emotions rising up to choke him but he reacted with anger because…that was all he could do. Feeling them made him angry, knowing the regret, loneliness and helplessness would return made him this way. Once talking, he couldn’t stop. “Now you’re stealing,” he said of the shoes, “Don’t you dare try to judge me for the same shit you do!” /‘And don’t come back! If I find you again…I’ll kill you,’ he’d snarled through his unbidden tears at a powerless, special, teenage, motherless boy for daring to spy on and speak to him/. Desperate and out of words, he expelled, “You’re just proving my point.”
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Peter opened the door and walked out, having not so much as looked at Sylar since he stood from the couch.
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Then Peter was gone, probably for good and Sylar was alone with his feelings again. He felt gutted but still wound up and so angry - not all of it about Peter but the guy worked as an excellent trigger for who knew what else. Sylar wanted to flop on the bed dramatically and mope; he could take a shower; he could do all sorts of things Peter wouldn’t approve of (or care about if he found out, most likely); Sylar wanted to pound the shit out of something with his fists, he wanted a reaction, pain, something! But as usual, just like before, like always, there was nothing: empty quiet. He took my shoes! How dare he? Everything he says is a lie. And he gets so upset with me? I was ‘insulting,’ saying he was better, had it better than me, but he expects me to grovel and act like scum anyway which means he’s still better than me! What the hell does he expect? What does he want from me? (An apology?) That would require knowing what specifically he’d said or done and understanding it even though he didn’t technically have to mean it if it was just to keep the peace. Doesn’t he have it better than me? He said it himself, how would he know? He said he’s…lonely and I’m partly crazy. He stays and…treats me at least because he’s lonely aside from everything else. So how can I use that?
Sylar milled about his apartment, anxious and ultimately quite pointless. He nibbled on some saltines but didn’t feel up for much more. Fretting about Peter’s return came on faster than he thought. He dug out Peter’s shirt, desirous to either molest it or shred it out of spite. He was real, then, if his clothes are still here - well, a shoe and a shirt. He did nothing with the shirt other than stare at it on his desk. The shirt was a hostage, less so than the shoe, but he didn’t want to enrage Peter further if he could help it, unless he had to. He then fussed about trying to talk to Peter because it never ended well with anyone. I should…just let him talk. He likes to talk. I like for him to talk. It’s…nice. Of course, he would have to ignore how good it had felt just to ‘vent’ about something, at least, that was the common word for what he thought he’d done. But…I guess he’s insulting, too. Neither of us…know what we need to know yet. What he wants to know is total bullshit! It’s not important. I haven’t done a damn thing to him and he acts like I’m going to fly off my hinges at the drop of a hat! He’s the one who does that! Why do I have to put up with it? He…acknowledges it and then doesn’t change it. Sylar sighed and gave up thinking, resolving to be on better behavior next time (if there was a next time) and keep his mouth shut even about the bullshit because that was the only thing that worked. He gave up not thinking about thinking and eventually read a history book.
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Limping unevenly, Peter nonetheless took the greater number of steps that the stairs involved, ears pricked to hear if Sylar's door opened again. There seemed to be no pursuit, but he took precautions anyway. When he came to the landing for the second floor, he walked well out of sight from the upper floors of the stairwell and sat down to try out Sylar's sneakers. He took off his own shoe and put the others on. They were tight across the bridge, but Peter knew he had a slightly wider than average foot. They had no arch support and the soles were thin, leaving him literally a half inch shorter. No room to stretch, unsupported, feeling small - metaphor much? He tightened up the laces as much as possible because they were a little long for his feet. Bad metaphor or not, let's go walk a few blocks in Sylar's shoes. They'll get me home and after that … I have no idea. His head hurt too much to contemplate and he wasn't much at planning anyway. Picking up his lone, unmatched shoe, he snuck out the back way, glad of the quirk of the world that left doors unlocked by default (and more importantly, the fire alarms didn't go off when the door was triggered).
Peter spent the rest of his day lazing around, recovering from the hangover and being weirded out by the silence. There was no ticking, no soft snoring or sounds of Sylar stirring around, no expectations or reasons to keep track of the time. He toyed with his non-functioning watch, trying to figure out what it meant to be timeless in Sylar's world. I wonder if I should have him look at this some day? Ah, fuck him and his shit. I'm not asking him for anything. He's too busy being hurt and feeling sorry for himself. He's a pain in the ass. What's that word Hesam used? Obstinate. Sylar's an obstinate fucking patient.
'Some of us don't get to walk away.' Peter mulled that over that evening as he ate a very bachelor meal of jelly on crackers (he'd lost track of the last time he had food in his apartment). What does he mean by that? That he's stuck here no matter what, that I'm the one with the option to leave? Even if I can't, from his point of view, it probably looks that way. Maybe that's what he's afraid of. Because he's really scared. He's pissed at me, too, but there's a lot of fear there. What is he afraid of, exactly? It's something he's more afraid of than driving me off. Maybe it's being made to answer for what he's done? Being in a place with no people should be heaven then. He wouldn't even agree he'd done something wrong last night. He kind of implied before that all his killings were self-defense. Hitting me in the head with a shard of glass wasn't self-defense. Killing some cheerleader in a stadium wasn't self-defense. Killing Nathan wasn't, either. Ted was tied up in that police van, still chained to the ceil- floor, from what I was able to read out of that cop's mind. The ones I know about … those weren't self-defense. He knows he did wrong, but he can't face it. Can't even face a little thing like, 'I told you not to do something and you did it anyway.' Asshole.
Day 23, January 2
The next morning, Peter felt better and didn't bother himself thinking about Sylar nearly so much. As far as he was concerned, the hangover was cured. He made it to his usual workout, enjoying losing himself in the hour-long routine he'd settled into - pumping iron, doing resistance exercises, and running on the treadmill, something he was finally well enough to do. After that, he scoured the apartment building for shoes, eventually turning up some sandals that fit him fine. Wearing them with a thick pair of socks and a heavy coat he'd found in his search, he explored the streets until he found the sporting goods store he'd seen the first few days he'd been in this world, thinking they might have a selection of athletic shoes. They did not, but he did pick up some dumbbells and a baseball bat. He snagged a couple baseballs while he was at it, though that was hardly his main interest in the bat.
His rumbling stomach sent him on to the grocery store after he dropped off his finds in the weight room. It was then that his thoughts finally returned to his uncompanionable companion. The main danger with concussion sufferers is … well, after the acute period, which he's out of, is self-care. Is he feeding himself? Can he keep a routine? Is he self-motivating? Peter sighed. I don't know, but I can't just check out on him. And so he went about the task of assembling a meal for someone he didn't like, who had stolen his fucking shoe, and had yelled at him yesterday about so many things Peter didn't even know where to start. He took a long moment outside of Sylar's apartment to pull himself together and try to find his center before extending his hand to knock firmly five times. You know, he might not be here. That would be a relief-
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Sylar woke up feeling extremely alone. He bathed and groomed in case…in case Peter arrived or in the event Sylar had to go looking for him. His headache felt worse, even after a few painkillers and he cursed Peter for leaving him like this, for causing additional pain. Sylar dithered around, unsure to start a project or a book, stay or leave, eat or wait, all the while growing more worried. It was two o’clock, well past lunch when Peter might have shown up and Sylar was more seriously considering a search party for someone who probably didn’t want to be found, planning where to look when the knock came. He jerked to his feet and froze, stuck between action and moods. (What do I say?) Nothing. He was sure his voice itself was insulting to Peter so where that left him, he didn’t know. Was Peter armed? Did he have a gun waiting to fire through the door or a bat ready to brain him as he opened the door? Hesitantly, with growing dread, Sylar moved to the door and peered out, seeing…no weapons. He opened the door with something of a confused frown, waiting for Peter to light into him in turn.
XXX
“Hey.” Sylar was home after all, dammit. Peter gave the briefest glance down, staying focused mostly on his face. Sylar's expression was a close reflection of his own - wary and cautious, unhappy by default. “Can I come in?” He hefted the canvas shopping bag he was carrying, not going so far as to explain that he'd brought food and hoping that would be clear by reference.
XXX
Sylar moved with the door to allow Peter passage, eyeing him a bit…warily or wonderingly. He wondered what was in the bag.
XXX
Peter slipped by, turning his head to keep Sylar in his peripheral vision as he headed to the kitchen. He set the sack on the table, circling it immediately so that Sylar, following him in, was on the other side of the table from him. “Have you had lunch?” he asked in a carefully neutral tone. Peter cast a quick look over the counters, seeing nothing out of place - no dirty dishes or moved pans that might indicate a meal, but on the other hand, Sylar kept the kitchen clean normally as far as Peter could tell.
XXX
Sylar followed Peter further into the apartment, drawn by his presence and several mysteries. He shook his head at first but Peter couldn’t see, “No.” I waited for…Because…Fuck, I don’t know. Hovering uncertainly, as much as he might want to be close to be helpful, he didn’t know if either would be tolerated.
XXX
“I picked up some stuff at the store.” He reached into the bag and took out a couple plastic cases, black on the bottom and clear on top. “They had some sushi. It’s just California rolls and other stuff so if you don’t like raw fish, you don’t have to worry about it.” He paused and eyed Sylar, lips set together as he looked the guy over. He was waiting to see how Sylar was going to play this - if things were going to be normal between them, or if Sylar wasn’t done yet with chewing on him. After his moment of wary examination, Peter went on, pulling out two heat-and-serve cans of clam chowder. “If you didn’t like that, we could cook this for you and I’ll eat the other. Otherwise, I thought we’d split it.” He gave another stiff pause before asking, “Which do you want to eat?”
XXX
He tensed when Peter’s hand disappeared in the bag because the accompanying statement was so vague. His eyebrows went up when he heard (and saw) what it was. S-sushi? //’You were the one you had a craving for yellowtail’//. Sylar inhaled. Dinner with mom, dinner with Peter…They’re so alike and that was when…And she said…He’s not going to…? Shit, he was making Peter nervous now, ever the monster, it was his punishment for raising his voice the day before. “I- No, sushi’s,” A really odd choice, slimy; I’m trying not to think of sex metaphors here, “fine. Whichever you want is fine.” I don’t have chopsticks…Whatever, Peter would have to deal. Sylar moved into the kitchen, slowly, getting out utensils while Peter got water for two. He’s really not going to talk about it. He wants to talk about everything else under the sun, why is he not…I don’t know, tearing me a new one? Peter Petrelli was the biggest mystery of all.
XXX
Peter didn’t have much to say as they got ready for the meal. He slowly eased down from his subdued alert so that by the time they were sitting down to eat, there had been several moments when he wasn’t keeping half an eye on Sylar. Sending his thoughts back to the matter of Sylar's health - Peter's reason for being here - he tried to remember what Sylar had been wearing the day before. His eyes skimmed over Sylar’s shirt and pants. Had he changed clothes? Peter thought he had. He looked clean and he had definitely shaved - a glance over his face and hair assured Peter of that. He’s okay. I just need to make sure he eats. “What time is it, anyway?”
XXX
With as much tension in the room as they had going on, Sylar could feel Peter’s eyes on him the second it happened. What does he want? “Um…two-twenty, give or take…” his tone was a giant question, ‘why do you ask?’
XXX
Peter nodded and went back to eating in an unhurried manner, using a fork to scoop out the individual sushi pieces. It was late for lunch, early for dinner, which put him in mind of considering the later meal. “Do you have anything in particular you want to eat for dinner later?”
XXX
No answer, no explanation. He’s…ridiculously infuriating! Peter had barely done anything other than show up with food. “Me?” tripped from him. That has to be a trick question - his answer is ‘a knuckle sandwich; rat poison; humble pie’? When he couldn’t get his brain to cooperate, he finally said, “I…hadn’t really thought about it.” He went back to trying to eat and simultaneously wonder what kind of fish he was eating.
XXX
“’Kay. How’s your head feel? Have you been keeping up with your painkillers?” I should look around for a pharmacy with one of those pill counters with a morning, noon, and night divider.
XXX
Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn’t come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn’t handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…”Peter,” he burst out before calming himself, “I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi,” Sylar gave it a glance. “But you like to talk, you’re compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…” he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, “why…What…” Wonderful. After all that and he couldn’t formulate the question. “What are you doing here, like…this? You’re not going to…?”
XXX
Continued...
Day 22, New Year’s Day, Morning
Peter leaned back, groaned, and shut his eyes, face tilted towards the ceiling. I don't want to argue about this. Not this. There's no way I can win on any of this and there's no point to winning on it, anyway. All I'm going to do is piss him off. A moment later, he reached up and rubbed at his forehead. Go. Just go. He sighed, straightened, and reached down for the socks hanging out of the side of his shoes. He hiked one foot across a knee and brushed the dust off with his hand. “You're right, Sylar. I don't know anything. That's my point.” He put on his sock, shaking his head slightly as he did it. “I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a therapist. All I have is a bunch of college courses and having watched people. You're less crazy than a lot of people who are considered perfectly sane.”
XXX
Uh-huh, there it is. LESS crazy. He didn’t know if that angered or relieved him. Sylar felt bipolar, torn in different directions, what he wanted, what he was, and what he had to be (then the whole Nathan thing…) Perhaps if he could pick one, stick with it and make it work…He knew the trouble with that would be slaughtering and repressing the other instincts, whichever those were.
XXX
“And I don't want to talk about abilities,” Peter snapped as he swapped feet, brushing off the next one more vigorously than the first as his mood coiled in an ugly direction. “You want to talk about how you got yours?” Peter snorted, thinking briefly about his sudden attack and murder of his brother in the future. “I'll bet your initiation makes jumping off a building look tame.” If Sylar's ability could move Peter to attack his own brother, then the reason why Sylar didn't want Peter asking about his mother seemed pretty fucking clear. Peter reached for a shoe. He wasn't here to address Sylar's problems or his past or any of those things Sylar wanted to talk about that Peter didn't want to hear. It was the future that mattered and Sylar clearly wasn't going to help in that.
XXX
Sylar gaped. Peter was leaving, that was a concern, but he still focused on the words being spoken. Killing someone is…tame? That’s not right. I think he’s just…upset. That upset transferred to Sylar, who didn’t know if he was the cause or reason for it in the first place; upset was around him and Peter Trouble Petrelli was definitely readying to leave which was Sylar’s cause for upset. He was so helpless to stop it - if there were only words or deeds to bind and bond and keep someone close…
XXX
“I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it.” His voice picked up speed and roughness, frustration coloring his tone. “I want to get out, get away, and not have to worry about things, like you and your fucking rules and how you don't act like I've done anything worthwhile for you.” He stomped down his foot, having worked himself to a head of steam one shoe too early. He was at the point, emotionally and in his diatribe, where he wanted to storm off angrily, but doing it with only one shoe on would be ridiculous. He yanked up the other - a thick-soled, black leather, ankle-high, medium-duty work shoe - and started putting it on in silent fury.
XXX
Storm clouds gathered over Sylar, the helplessness washing away as he matched Peter’s mood. “You’re the one who brought them up! You are nothing but a spoiled, pretty boy if you think ‘my fucking rules’ don’t apply to you.” He stopped short, running out of words but also surprised. He thinks I owe him something? The first shoe was on and it looked every bit like an act of cruel, rude defiance aimed directly at him, Peter thumbing his nose at him, thinking he could walk away and get away with it without consequences…No. Driven to acts of spite (and possibly to keep Peter here longer and show he was serious), Sylar darted in, sat beside Peter on the couch and snatched the irksome, remaining shoe, holding it at arm’s length on the other side of his body where Peter couldn’t reach it. “That’s another thing about ‘my fucking rules,’ Petrelli: I didn’t ask you for anything. Maybe I’d do a better job bowing and scraping if you hadn’t concussed me in the first place!”
XXX
Pretty boy? Peter had no idea why his mind arrested on that, but a moment later, Sylar was sitting next to him and stealing his shoe, playing keep-away with it in a bout of supreme childishness. I'm being ridiculous, flashed through his mind with the instant understanding that his own bout of temper had caused Sylar's, his mood infecting another just as theirs so often affected him. Ridiculous or not, realization or not, he was still pissed and Sylar, sitting to the right of him, still had his shoe.
“Hey!” Peter shoved at him with his right and punched him in the shoulder with his left fist. All things considered, it was a rather light blow delivered without leverage, across his body. He scooted back and away from Sylar's efforts to fend him off and possibly grab him. He retreated to the corner of the couch nearest him, coiling his body somewhat by raising his foot as if to kick … but Sylar wasn't pursuing. He lowered it and switched to venting, voice raised. “Your fucking rules only apply to me, Sylar! And I don't give a shit what you asked for! That doesn't have anything to do with it!” He knew it did, but he didn't care.
XXX
Sylar took the mostly unexpected blow without a sound, maintaining his prize. Peter could blow wind chimes out his ass for all the talk of peace and do-good-unto-others and non-violence he preached but a simple act, like taking his shoe, for God’s sake, had Peter throwing punches. And he calls me violent and unpredictable? He frowned when Peter thought he’d attack. He probably should, but it was so stupid it would be serious overkill. It wasn’t like Peter wasn’t asking for it, either. He picks fights and blames me.
XXX
His eyes darted past Sylar's face to his shoe. His shoes were really important to him. As far as material items went, given the world he was in with Sylar, his shoes were the firmly in the top five valuable items category (and maybe the top of those). There wasn't much here he considered 'his', but the things he'd showed up with were among them. Plus he needed them. The idea of hobbling around town in the freezing weather looking for a decent shoe store was not appealing. He's trying to keep me here, came another flash of insight. “If you don't want my help, then give me my shoe back and I'll leave.”
XXX
“Yeah, I know you don’t give a shit what I asked for but it does matter,” Sylar addressed first, exasperated with his reactionary companion. Peter was eyeballing him (or rather, his shoe) which meant he had the man’s attention. For now, he ignored the stupidity of the logic Peter displayed - ungratefully, he wanted Peter to leave, so he took his shoe to…aid the process of leaving. Right. (Is this like one of those primitive cultures where ‘I hold the shoe, I’m king of the mountain, I get to speak and make the rules’? Somehow that was hilarious to him: that they’d both devolved so quickly to caveman). How Peter jumped to the harebrained conclusion that Sylar was ungrateful and disinterested in fucking help was beyond him. How it wasn’t obvious that he needed help, in any sense of the word, was equally incomprehensible. “The rules apply to everyone - everyone, Peter. What’s the first thing to drive people crazy, do you think? All that stupid crap you want to know about. I mean, look around you…” Sylar gestured. I’m such a crazy/not-crazy mess because the rules apply to me. (And I try to make them not apply). He needs to get with the program - he’s not exempt. (He won’t do it). Fuck what he wants. “Why are you leaving anyway? You said you wouldn’t.” That was…a shot in the dark. He didn’t know, with certainty, how Peter intended that promise of sorts. It would be better, easier on him if he could get Peter tied down to that, or anything, really.
XXX
Peter looked around the apartment when directed to do so, then back to Sylar. His anger faded to puzzlement. What the hell is he talking about? “I'm not … I am getting out of here to take a walk, cool down, and get away from you. And I'm going to do that whether you give me my shoe back or not.” He huffed and straightened on the couch, putting both feet on the floor in an orderly fashion as though he might actually get up and leave. The toes of his merely sock-clad foot scrunched up a couple times with nervousness, but he kept talking instead. “I never said I'd stay in your line of sight at all times. That's ridiculous.” He batted his hair back, turning his torso to face Sylar. “Half of what you say doesn't make sense to me. What do you mean, 'what's the first thing to drive people crazy?'” He shifted his weight uneasily, blurting out, “All that stupid crap I want to know about is you!”
XXX
At first Sylar’s eyes narrowed at ‘get away from you,’ then Peter called him and his desire/preference/whatever ‘ridiculous’ and his mouth pursed. He still held the shoe and now had to consider if Peter was bluffing or not, and, if so, what he’d do about it. Keep him talking. “Exactly.” He was prepared to leave it at that. It made perfect sense to Sylar but it was immediately clear Peter didn’t get it, any of it most likely, so he elaborated, “The first thing to drive people crazy is all the stupid crap about themselves. If you want to know about abilities that’s pretty harmless because we don’t have any; but you want to know about that. There’s nothing there - you know that. You spend all your time trying to get rid of me…” his voice trailed off as he thought about it. Peter had more interest in him now then he had when Sylar had been his brother how many times. “Is that what this is about? Trying to find some way to get rid of me and bring him back?” Sylar was horrified and betrayed despite knowing better. It left him in shock a little, to this day. It was the definition of personal, his personality, his mind and memories, and that was Peter’s target; it had to be, it was the perfect motive. Some part of him still couldn’t handle the idea that someone could or would torture and hate him to that extent.
XXX
Peter’s face became stony at the mention of Nathan - brows lowered, eyes narrowed a little, lips tighter, otherwise impassive. What he was getting from the rest was that Sylar didn’t consider his ability the reason why he’d killed people - he blamed … something else: his life, himself, whatever ‘there’s nothing there’ meant. Either that, or perhaps Sylar was talking about ‘crazy’ in regards to something other than killing people. Peter wasn’t sure which he meant, so for now he pushed it aside and stayed focused on Sylar.
XXX
Shakily Sylar stood up. “It doesn’t work like that,” he managed to get out, feeling like he was arguing for his life, reasoning or pleading with Peter to keep his mind and prevent it from being taken away, his body used as cheap housing for someone just as worthless. “Maybe you didn’t have to deal with it because you’re so fucking special but using the little stuff doesn’t work either!” his voice rose with his terror, giving him cold sweat, rapid heartbeat, tight chest and throat and tunnel vision. His only weapon was Peter’s own shoe, which he clutched hard. He felt abandoned and cornered in his own apartment, sick at the thought of becoming nothing or someone else again at Peter’s whim.
XXX
Peter got to his feet, his expression shifting to resentful and angry at the mention of him being the recipient of extraordinary favoritism (again). He felt uneven in more ways than one, but primarily he didn’t like standing there with only one shoe on. It made him feel like an idiot for letting Sylar grab it out of his hands, and there right in front of him was Sylar clinging to what Peter needed to be balanced. Peter wanted to throw down, get his shoe back, and beat the crap out of Sylar for having the … the … whatever he had for taking it in the first place. Oh yeah, he’s afraid that I’m going to leave and he’ll be all by himself for … forever. Someone being afraid wasn’t an acceptable reason to start a fight with them, shoe or no shoe. The anger drained off Peter’s face, leaving him merely unhappy looking.
As Peter saw it, he had two clear choices with Sylar: 1) talk him down, calm him down, take care of him, or 2) blow him off, walk away and leave him to his own devices. The fear was baseless and the best way for Sylar to figure that out was for Peter to … talk him down, calm him down, and take care of him. That’s not much of a choice. Fuck. It certainly wasn’t the choice he wanted to make, but contrary to Sylar’s take on things, Peter didn’t feel his life had, or even should, hand him good options to pick between. Most of it sucked and it was his job to do his best even when he didn’t like it, like now. He exhaled slowly and sat back down, curling his lips into his mouth and chewing at both of them as he bit back his anger. With an effort, Peter arranged himself on the couch, leaning back, the shoeless foot crossed at the ankle over the knee of his other leg and defiantly sticking up in the air as if to call attention to itself.
Foot twitching a little, speaking in a low but clipped voice, Peter said, “I’m not trying to get rid of you; I didn’t come here to get rid of you; that’s not how I’m spending my time.” He sighed. “I’m trying to get to know you because you’re the only one here and I’m … lonely.” He wasn’t sure whether to admit that. He wasn’t sure how true it was. He hadn’t been able to be away from Sylar long enough to get stir crazy, if you didn’t count the first couple days. The guy was clingy, which made it hard to be ‘lonely’ and was part of why Peter was currently jonesing for some time apart. A more accurate description of Peter’s motives would have been curiosity or even just basic sociability. The first might be taken as threatening if Peter were digging for information to harm him; the second seemed unlikely to be understandable to a life-long loner. But Peter expected him to relate to loneliness, so he used that.
XXX
(If he came to get rid of you, he’d be doing a much better job, he helpfully pointed out to himself). He’s lonely? Peter’s lonely? Sylar supposed that if Peter was (fairly) normal and normal people got lonely, it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. Peter hadn’t answered //his// - Nathan’s - phone calls, still lived in that rat-hole apartment. Now here he was, cut off from all his friends and family, including his girlfriend - Peter, who wasn’t used to being alone. Sylar didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he was being offered a great opportunity, a bond, a connection he otherwise wouldn’t have. But it wasn’t much of a choice for Peter, who had no other options, the bonding was mandatory, random, forced, he wasn’t…special (but at the same time, he was, in a way). Sylar could love or hate the circumstances that brought them together and made interaction possible, but he couldn’t make Peter choose to be with him. “I’m all you have,” he said slowly, lilting the words almost as a question. He needs me, not just for his girlfriend. He needs me alive and in decent health. That gave Sylar leverage, it made him feel better, too. It was almost like being cared for, looked after, sought out. “Then why are you leaving?” It’s those things he does after saying stuff like that, ‘I need you’ then he tries to kill me; ‘I’m lonely’ then he leaves. How can I believe him?
XXX
Peter tilted his head in quiet agreement to Sylar's first statement. Sylar was the one he'd seen in the dream. Angela's implication (and she was presumably much better at reading precognitions than he) was that only Sylar could do it. He was, yes, all Peter had and yet Peter didn't have him at all because Sylar refused to help. It left Peter in a frustrating holding pattern. As for Sylar's implication that Peter needed him on a more personal level - it was probably true, but Peter didn't want to think about it more than necessary. Instead, he addressed the question, “Sylar, I’m trying to be friendly, but some of what you say comes off really insulting and I don’t like it. It doesn’t matter how lonely I am - there’s going to be times when I need some space.”
XXX
I don’t like some of what you say, either, but that’s just tough luck for me, isn’t it? (I want my cake and eat it, too). It struck him that he wasn’t okay with either/or, that he wanted both and it wasn’t possible to have both polite conversation and walk away to send a message if Peter said something he didn’t like yet still keep the man’s company. It was that same struggle for…respect; he’d never managed it, he was too extreme. “What did I say that was insulting?” That was news to him. No wonder I can’t understand people. I don’t even see where I insulted him? Or he just…thinks I insulted him or feels that I did? (Maybe he made it up?) I mean, who decides if I actually insulted him? Does intent matter? “You never needed personal space //bef-ore//…” the word tripped from his mouth, realizing he was referencing Nathan’s life and Peter’s childhood. //Peter had been a tag-along, small shadow, a darling little stalker; clingy, if he dared use the word, ever hopeful and needy and it had boosted Nathan’s ego like none other (those big hazel eyes offering up love, hope and forgiveness at every turn), so much so that it continued to work even into their adult years//.
XXX
Peter gave another head tilt at the personal space bit, deciding consciously to leave alone the question of why Sylar felt entitled to comment on Peter's past habits. And besides, he'd been living estranged from most everyone for years now, not that Sylar (or even Nathan) had known or cared. “A couple things you keep saying that I find insulting - that I had it good. Or I had it better than you and that makes you better than me.” He waved his left hand demonstratively before clasping his knee with it, the one that went with the shoeless foot, “Or that I am better than you.” He drew in his chin. “None of that matters. I'm not better than you; you're not better than me. Maybe I had it good compared to you - how the hell can I know that with what little you've said? But what I do know is that what I had sucked. And I'm pretty unhappy about it. So you telling me that I got off easy pisses me off. Kind of like how I figure you'd be pissed off if I took the attitude of, 'Well, you know, you're here now, so it couldn't have been too bad, just get over it already' and just dismissed everything that's ever happened to you.” Peter frowned up at Sylar, trying to will the message to sink in.
“And for another thing - I told you why I was upset last night, why I 'freaked out' as you put it, and all you've done since is argue about it. I don't need your arguments, Sylar. I know how I felt; I told you how I felt. You can be unhappy about that, but I'm not going to agree it was okay. Nothing excuses it. I'm angry you keep trying to convince me there's something that makes it right for you to do things to me I don't want.” Peter rubbed at his knee restlessly as he watched Sylar, glowering a bit with his foot still twitching back and forth. His tense body language probably wasn't helping anything (and certainly not his head, which was starting to give him a full-fledged headache), but he was at least sitting and not escalating things.
XXX
Sylar was quiet, wide-eyed and listening. The whole talking thing was so strange - he could ask questions and get actual answers, Peter didn’t blow him off or make him feel like crap just for asking. He almost didn’t know what to do with the information; it was so shocking to have in and of itself. It was a relief as well, like Peter could…see and hear him. That was how he came to stand there and drink in the sound of someone else’s voice, deigning to form words for him, almost regardless of their content.
When Peter finished, Sylar took a handful of seconds to absorb it. “Don’t you think you’re better than me? You don’t ask to come in, you treat my things like crap and you don’t know if I’m a good houseguest because I’ve never been to your place. And that’s just the recent stuff, Peter. I am…I was your brother - do you remember what you did? It’s not just…you; it’s your whole family on that count. You think I’m scum for lots of reasons, don’t you? So whatever you do to me is okay. But that’s not the point. I’m not talking about abilities right now - because //I didn’t even//-he didn’t even know some of the stuff you’ve told me here. I’m talking about your home life - about you - because you say that’s what you want to know about me, right? You do have it good, or…had it good, whatever. I know because I was there.” He knew he was digging himself a very deep hole, but Peter wanted to paint them as equals yet refused to adhere to basic fairness and that, more than anything, pissed him off to argue and keep arguing. Peter thinking he could just bounce in and out of his life, his apartment at will, heedless of what it did to a severely fucked up person like Sylar…
XXX
What the hell is he talking about? That was the repeated refrain as Sylar talked. Peter's foot dropped to the floor at the 'I was your brother' bit until his brain pointed out Sylar was probably talking about when Angela and Arthur had declared him their son. It wasn't about Nathan, so he kept his seat. But then a few sentences later, Sylar was speaking unmistakably as Nathan. Peter wanted to be outraged by that, but the rest was coming too fast as he was trying to remember what exactly he'd said, when, and what time and place Sylar was referencing. He was left staring, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees, gaping a little. Something his father had liked to say (and occasionally repeated by Nathan) came to him: 'If you can't convince them, confuse them.' If Sylar wanted to be understood, then he was perfectly capable of being understandable. So it followed that this was just another tactic. Baffled, frustrated, and depressed, Peter leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and looked fixedly at the floor.
XXX
Sylar snorted a breath, “’Just get over it,’ isn’t that what you’re here to tell me? Isn’t that what you always say? You don’t need my arguments, you don’t need my excuses - well what about yours?! Where do you think I learned it, huh?! Just keep convincing me you have a really good reason for doing things I don’t like. I am not always at fault. You play fair or you don’t play. So if I have to get over it, so do you. Of the two of us,” Sylar gestured betwixt them before pointing to himself, “I never said I was a good person.”
XXX
I don't say that. I don't say any of that. He wants me to argue with him. He's goading me, on purpose. I'm done here - I can't help. Mentally numb from the verbal assault, Peter stood up and walked over to the closet. His coat was inside of it, but he ignored that, bending to retrieve Sylar's shoes. From rough visual assessment, Sylar wore a size or two bigger. They'd probably fit. Even if they didn't, he'd have Sylar's shoes, which was mean of him and petty, but he was going to take them anyway.
XXX
“Oh, what? You don’t like that I talk now? Does my voice insult you now, too?” Sylar followed Peter around, staying within arm’s reach but far enough back that he couldn’t easily be hit with much force. “You don’t like hearing a list of your faults either, Petrelli? I know how much you heroes hate having your own bullshit thrown back at you. Well, some of us don’t get to walk away! You’ve got normal life to go back to but what have you left for the rest of us, huh?” Sylar could feel the horde of negative emotions rising up to choke him but he reacted with anger because…that was all he could do. Feeling them made him angry, knowing the regret, loneliness and helplessness would return made him this way. Once talking, he couldn’t stop. “Now you’re stealing,” he said of the shoes, “Don’t you dare try to judge me for the same shit you do!” /‘And don’t come back! If I find you again…I’ll kill you,’ he’d snarled through his unbidden tears at a powerless, special, teenage, motherless boy for daring to spy on and speak to him/. Desperate and out of words, he expelled, “You’re just proving my point.”
XXX
Peter opened the door and walked out, having not so much as looked at Sylar since he stood from the couch.
XXX
Then Peter was gone, probably for good and Sylar was alone with his feelings again. He felt gutted but still wound up and so angry - not all of it about Peter but the guy worked as an excellent trigger for who knew what else. Sylar wanted to flop on the bed dramatically and mope; he could take a shower; he could do all sorts of things Peter wouldn’t approve of (or care about if he found out, most likely); Sylar wanted to pound the shit out of something with his fists, he wanted a reaction, pain, something! But as usual, just like before, like always, there was nothing: empty quiet. He took my shoes! How dare he? Everything he says is a lie. And he gets so upset with me? I was ‘insulting,’ saying he was better, had it better than me, but he expects me to grovel and act like scum anyway which means he’s still better than me! What the hell does he expect? What does he want from me? (An apology?) That would require knowing what specifically he’d said or done and understanding it even though he didn’t technically have to mean it if it was just to keep the peace. Doesn’t he have it better than me? He said it himself, how would he know? He said he’s…lonely and I’m partly crazy. He stays and…treats me at least because he’s lonely aside from everything else. So how can I use that?
Sylar milled about his apartment, anxious and ultimately quite pointless. He nibbled on some saltines but didn’t feel up for much more. Fretting about Peter’s return came on faster than he thought. He dug out Peter’s shirt, desirous to either molest it or shred it out of spite. He was real, then, if his clothes are still here - well, a shoe and a shirt. He did nothing with the shirt other than stare at it on his desk. The shirt was a hostage, less so than the shoe, but he didn’t want to enrage Peter further if he could help it, unless he had to. He then fussed about trying to talk to Peter because it never ended well with anyone. I should…just let him talk. He likes to talk. I like for him to talk. It’s…nice. Of course, he would have to ignore how good it had felt just to ‘vent’ about something, at least, that was the common word for what he thought he’d done. But…I guess he’s insulting, too. Neither of us…know what we need to know yet. What he wants to know is total bullshit! It’s not important. I haven’t done a damn thing to him and he acts like I’m going to fly off my hinges at the drop of a hat! He’s the one who does that! Why do I have to put up with it? He…acknowledges it and then doesn’t change it. Sylar sighed and gave up thinking, resolving to be on better behavior next time (if there was a next time) and keep his mouth shut even about the bullshit because that was the only thing that worked. He gave up not thinking about thinking and eventually read a history book.
XXX
Limping unevenly, Peter nonetheless took the greater number of steps that the stairs involved, ears pricked to hear if Sylar's door opened again. There seemed to be no pursuit, but he took precautions anyway. When he came to the landing for the second floor, he walked well out of sight from the upper floors of the stairwell and sat down to try out Sylar's sneakers. He took off his own shoe and put the others on. They were tight across the bridge, but Peter knew he had a slightly wider than average foot. They had no arch support and the soles were thin, leaving him literally a half inch shorter. No room to stretch, unsupported, feeling small - metaphor much? He tightened up the laces as much as possible because they were a little long for his feet. Bad metaphor or not, let's go walk a few blocks in Sylar's shoes. They'll get me home and after that … I have no idea. His head hurt too much to contemplate and he wasn't much at planning anyway. Picking up his lone, unmatched shoe, he snuck out the back way, glad of the quirk of the world that left doors unlocked by default (and more importantly, the fire alarms didn't go off when the door was triggered).
Peter spent the rest of his day lazing around, recovering from the hangover and being weirded out by the silence. There was no ticking, no soft snoring or sounds of Sylar stirring around, no expectations or reasons to keep track of the time. He toyed with his non-functioning watch, trying to figure out what it meant to be timeless in Sylar's world. I wonder if I should have him look at this some day? Ah, fuck him and his shit. I'm not asking him for anything. He's too busy being hurt and feeling sorry for himself. He's a pain in the ass. What's that word Hesam used? Obstinate. Sylar's an obstinate fucking patient.
'Some of us don't get to walk away.' Peter mulled that over that evening as he ate a very bachelor meal of jelly on crackers (he'd lost track of the last time he had food in his apartment). What does he mean by that? That he's stuck here no matter what, that I'm the one with the option to leave? Even if I can't, from his point of view, it probably looks that way. Maybe that's what he's afraid of. Because he's really scared. He's pissed at me, too, but there's a lot of fear there. What is he afraid of, exactly? It's something he's more afraid of than driving me off. Maybe it's being made to answer for what he's done? Being in a place with no people should be heaven then. He wouldn't even agree he'd done something wrong last night. He kind of implied before that all his killings were self-defense. Hitting me in the head with a shard of glass wasn't self-defense. Killing some cheerleader in a stadium wasn't self-defense. Killing Nathan wasn't, either. Ted was tied up in that police van, still chained to the ceil- floor, from what I was able to read out of that cop's mind. The ones I know about … those weren't self-defense. He knows he did wrong, but he can't face it. Can't even face a little thing like, 'I told you not to do something and you did it anyway.' Asshole.
Day 23, January 2
The next morning, Peter felt better and didn't bother himself thinking about Sylar nearly so much. As far as he was concerned, the hangover was cured. He made it to his usual workout, enjoying losing himself in the hour-long routine he'd settled into - pumping iron, doing resistance exercises, and running on the treadmill, something he was finally well enough to do. After that, he scoured the apartment building for shoes, eventually turning up some sandals that fit him fine. Wearing them with a thick pair of socks and a heavy coat he'd found in his search, he explored the streets until he found the sporting goods store he'd seen the first few days he'd been in this world, thinking they might have a selection of athletic shoes. They did not, but he did pick up some dumbbells and a baseball bat. He snagged a couple baseballs while he was at it, though that was hardly his main interest in the bat.
His rumbling stomach sent him on to the grocery store after he dropped off his finds in the weight room. It was then that his thoughts finally returned to his uncompanionable companion. The main danger with concussion sufferers is … well, after the acute period, which he's out of, is self-care. Is he feeding himself? Can he keep a routine? Is he self-motivating? Peter sighed. I don't know, but I can't just check out on him. And so he went about the task of assembling a meal for someone he didn't like, who had stolen his fucking shoe, and had yelled at him yesterday about so many things Peter didn't even know where to start. He took a long moment outside of Sylar's apartment to pull himself together and try to find his center before extending his hand to knock firmly five times. You know, he might not be here. That would be a relief-
XXX
Sylar woke up feeling extremely alone. He bathed and groomed in case…in case Peter arrived or in the event Sylar had to go looking for him. His headache felt worse, even after a few painkillers and he cursed Peter for leaving him like this, for causing additional pain. Sylar dithered around, unsure to start a project or a book, stay or leave, eat or wait, all the while growing more worried. It was two o’clock, well past lunch when Peter might have shown up and Sylar was more seriously considering a search party for someone who probably didn’t want to be found, planning where to look when the knock came. He jerked to his feet and froze, stuck between action and moods. (What do I say?) Nothing. He was sure his voice itself was insulting to Peter so where that left him, he didn’t know. Was Peter armed? Did he have a gun waiting to fire through the door or a bat ready to brain him as he opened the door? Hesitantly, with growing dread, Sylar moved to the door and peered out, seeing…no weapons. He opened the door with something of a confused frown, waiting for Peter to light into him in turn.
XXX
“Hey.” Sylar was home after all, dammit. Peter gave the briefest glance down, staying focused mostly on his face. Sylar's expression was a close reflection of his own - wary and cautious, unhappy by default. “Can I come in?” He hefted the canvas shopping bag he was carrying, not going so far as to explain that he'd brought food and hoping that would be clear by reference.
XXX
Sylar moved with the door to allow Peter passage, eyeing him a bit…warily or wonderingly. He wondered what was in the bag.
XXX
Peter slipped by, turning his head to keep Sylar in his peripheral vision as he headed to the kitchen. He set the sack on the table, circling it immediately so that Sylar, following him in, was on the other side of the table from him. “Have you had lunch?” he asked in a carefully neutral tone. Peter cast a quick look over the counters, seeing nothing out of place - no dirty dishes or moved pans that might indicate a meal, but on the other hand, Sylar kept the kitchen clean normally as far as Peter could tell.
XXX
Sylar followed Peter further into the apartment, drawn by his presence and several mysteries. He shook his head at first but Peter couldn’t see, “No.” I waited for…Because…Fuck, I don’t know. Hovering uncertainly, as much as he might want to be close to be helpful, he didn’t know if either would be tolerated.
XXX
“I picked up some stuff at the store.” He reached into the bag and took out a couple plastic cases, black on the bottom and clear on top. “They had some sushi. It’s just California rolls and other stuff so if you don’t like raw fish, you don’t have to worry about it.” He paused and eyed Sylar, lips set together as he looked the guy over. He was waiting to see how Sylar was going to play this - if things were going to be normal between them, or if Sylar wasn’t done yet with chewing on him. After his moment of wary examination, Peter went on, pulling out two heat-and-serve cans of clam chowder. “If you didn’t like that, we could cook this for you and I’ll eat the other. Otherwise, I thought we’d split it.” He gave another stiff pause before asking, “Which do you want to eat?”
XXX
He tensed when Peter’s hand disappeared in the bag because the accompanying statement was so vague. His eyebrows went up when he heard (and saw) what it was. S-sushi? //’You were the one you had a craving for yellowtail’//. Sylar inhaled. Dinner with mom, dinner with Peter…They’re so alike and that was when…And she said…He’s not going to…? Shit, he was making Peter nervous now, ever the monster, it was his punishment for raising his voice the day before. “I- No, sushi’s,” A really odd choice, slimy; I’m trying not to think of sex metaphors here, “fine. Whichever you want is fine.” I don’t have chopsticks…Whatever, Peter would have to deal. Sylar moved into the kitchen, slowly, getting out utensils while Peter got water for two. He’s really not going to talk about it. He wants to talk about everything else under the sun, why is he not…I don’t know, tearing me a new one? Peter Petrelli was the biggest mystery of all.
XXX
Peter didn’t have much to say as they got ready for the meal. He slowly eased down from his subdued alert so that by the time they were sitting down to eat, there had been several moments when he wasn’t keeping half an eye on Sylar. Sending his thoughts back to the matter of Sylar's health - Peter's reason for being here - he tried to remember what Sylar had been wearing the day before. His eyes skimmed over Sylar’s shirt and pants. Had he changed clothes? Peter thought he had. He looked clean and he had definitely shaved - a glance over his face and hair assured Peter of that. He’s okay. I just need to make sure he eats. “What time is it, anyway?”
XXX
With as much tension in the room as they had going on, Sylar could feel Peter’s eyes on him the second it happened. What does he want? “Um…two-twenty, give or take…” his tone was a giant question, ‘why do you ask?’
XXX
Peter nodded and went back to eating in an unhurried manner, using a fork to scoop out the individual sushi pieces. It was late for lunch, early for dinner, which put him in mind of considering the later meal. “Do you have anything in particular you want to eat for dinner later?”
XXX
No answer, no explanation. He’s…ridiculously infuriating! Peter had barely done anything other than show up with food. “Me?” tripped from him. That has to be a trick question - his answer is ‘a knuckle sandwich; rat poison; humble pie’? When he couldn’t get his brain to cooperate, he finally said, “I…hadn’t really thought about it.” He went back to trying to eat and simultaneously wonder what kind of fish he was eating.
XXX
“’Kay. How’s your head feel? Have you been keeping up with your painkillers?” I should look around for a pharmacy with one of those pill counters with a morning, noon, and night divider.
XXX
Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn’t come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn’t handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…”Peter,” he burst out before calming himself, “I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi,” Sylar gave it a glance. “But you like to talk, you’re compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…” he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, “why…What…” Wonderful. After all that and he couldn’t formulate the question. “What are you doing here, like…this? You’re not going to…?”
XXX
Continued...