More Between Us Chapter 81/? "Clutch"
More Between Us, Chapter 81/? "Clutch"
Day 32, January 10th, Afternoon
“Come to think of it,” Peter said as he pointed out a low red building near the corner that said 'Taco House' on the awning, “if I can't figure out how to fix it right away, then I'll definitely need to go back there and get plywood and stuff - hammers, nails, boards, whatever.” He was puzzling over how he'd manage to affix the plywood to the building's brick facade when he noticed Sylar's reaction.
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Sylar jerked and tried to pass it off as straightening up, but every muscle had already contracted hard, readying for flight. The trip through the local armory seemed like a softball, walk-through threat and this was the solidification. The image of being crucified on another plywood surface, this time a raised, upright one was a potent one. Peter wanted him involved after all. He nodded tensely and followed Peter into the taco place while strongly considering disappearing. There wasn’t anywhere for him to be; the place he wanted to hide at was compromised; the man who would hunt him wasn’t trustworthy or stable; and any love tap could be the last. Peter sat. Sylar remained standing, fidgeting against the cashier’s counter. Peter was calm and carefree, seemingly oblivious to everything, and why should he care? Putting me in my place and shutting me up, that’s what he’s wanted all along. What if he could put the fear of God into me - he’d do it. Make me compliant, right? It was obvious this was punishment, but it seemed like overkill compared to the offense. Sylar had gone to far, overstepped and crossed lines. It wasn’t high in his considerations at the moment. Did he do something to me? Things have been different since…Curiosity won out, though the answer was likely to be an easy lie, unprovable and lacking comfort. He just…wanted to hear what Peter had to say. In a quiet but serious voice, he finally said what was bothering him. “What did you do to me when I was unconscious?”
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Peter had noticed Sylar's tension, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if perhaps the current problem was due to the Mexican eatery, though he assumed it was something he'd said. That seemed more likely. Maybe Sylar was upset Peter might not fix the smashed storefront today? Reluctant to make things worse, Peter took a seat near a window, set out his books, and cracked one open. He was only staring at the page, though, when Sylar addressed him.
“When?” he asked cautiously.
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“When you choked me out. What did you do to me then?” Sylar repeated, anxiety spiking at having to repeat himself. Peter thought so little about it.
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Peter put down the book and closed it. This was going to be a conversation (or an argument - his bet was on argument, if the strain in Sylar's voice was any indication). “Nothing. I checked your pulse, then you woke up and we … talked.”
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“Didn’t try to turn me into someone less irritating? No conversations with your brother? Didn’t mess around with any of my fucked up mental functions to better suit you? None of that?” Sylar spat out, edgy and interrogating, gesturing to his own skull. His disbelief was very apparent. “What did you take, Petrelli?!”
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“Nothing,” Peter repeated insistently. He could understand Sylar's fear - it made perfect sense, other than the part about why Peter would wait until that particular moment if he had the ability to do any of the things Sylar was accusing him of. There had been so many better times. All he'd been trying to do at that point was shut Sylar up. “It was only a few seconds. Maybe a minute at most.”
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“I guess I’ll never know, will I?” To think all the times he’d been stupid enough to sleep with Peter around, foolishly relieved by the lack of nightmares. He’d been so suckered in by his own loneliness. Pondering the evidence, or lack thereof, he came across something that confirmed it and felt his blood run cold. “You did…didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Peter had telepathy, too, by his own admission. “That’s why my head hurt worse when you left…” Sylar stood utterly still in a betrayed, horrified shock. I need to move…That was the least of his problems.
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When I left? His head hurt …? He's saying his headache got worse after I moved out, right? Probably because he wasn't taking his stupid painkillers! He made to stand. “Sylar, it's not-”
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“Don’t! Don’t….” Sylar pointed at him and began sidling away towards the door. He didn’t know where he was going except ‘away.’ It upset him greatly that Peter insisted on having his little unnecessary war and Sylar was forced to participate or perish. He had no idea what was going to happen to them; he would probably end up dead or very much worse and it was that ‘worse’ he was afraid to death of. Sylar remembered the last time he’d told Peter to stay away and knew it wouldn’t work this time either. He backed out the door, his face a twisted wreck, his mouth open but unable to articulate - not an excuse or threat or ‘it didn’t have to be this way’ because in Peter’s mind, it did. After that, he ran.
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“Sylar!” Peter's yell was not gentle or couth. It was loud and demanding, irritated as he finally gave vent to some of the frustration that had been building up inside. He went to the door immediately, but he didn't chase. I chased him before; he just kept running until he got somewhere safe. Peter used a different tactic this time, waiting until Sylar was out of sight and then running to where he could see him again, hoping the man would go to ground quickly. Honestly, Peter was surprised Sylar could run at all, between the toes and the bad balance.
Are bouts of paranoia symptomatic of concussions? I didn't think so … and why would it be cropping up now? Bad nutrition maybe? Bad … oh. Bad sleep. Insomnia can fuck up a lot of things. He keeps telling me he can't sleep without me there. (Then how the hell was he sleeping before I cleaned his fucking clock?) Doesn't matter. He isn't now. Maybe he's more sensitive now because of the concussion, or the headaches, or whatever. There! He went in that office building.
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Sylar ran until he panicked himself into needing somewhere to hide. He didn’t know or care if Peter was after him. Everything was blurry, too familiar, too…déjà vu. He felt like he’d been here before, done this before and it wasn’t going to work out any better the second time. He dashed into a large building - more places to hide, possibly a back exit. It was a very bad choice. /Filthy and frightened of the large police officer, he’d been dragged in with cuffs on. The place was ill-lit, too gray, black, hostile and cold. He had been caught and confined, no knowledge of who or where he was and no chance of getting out - completely at the mercy of these strangers who clearly didn’t like him./ This place reminded him of that in a heartbeat. The gold insignia plastered everywhere, the secure, threatening walls and doors, even the windows. It was a trap; an institution. The police station was a fatal mistake. Sylar would not be leaving with his mind intact, if he left at all.
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At least, it looked like an office building to Peter. It was one of the shorter skyscrapers, with a brick facade and no windows for the first few floors. Most of the buildings in this area were taller and most of those had plenty of glass on the bottom story to open them up to view. Maybe that was why Sylar had dodged inside of this particular one - it looked easier to hide in from the outside. You could only see in through the doors and the view was distorted at that. Peter walked steadily to the door, finding the reason for the obstructed vision was that it was especially thick glass and reinforced with a mesh. Some wry corner of his mind suggested it would make a good replacement for the door he'd spiderwebbed at the ruined storefront. This was a door that might be able to stand up to the worst Peter could dish out. But he wasn't here shopping for doors. He was unwilling to let Sylar think the worst of him and genuinely concerned about the man's health. He went inside, passing through the foyer without much of a look around except to see that Sylar had gone further into the building. The next door was metal and just as reinforced as the one before, in its own way. Again, though, he wasn't paying attention to the surroundings much. He found Sylar a lot faster than he'd expected.
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Sylar sat clumsily; shoulders slumped with knees tucked under himself like a doll with cut strings. Peter was inescapable; he’d won. There were restraints and weapons here, judgment and imprisonment also. The terror of what he faced broke his control. He cried hot, large, quick tears, not for show or to invoke pity. From here Peter would tie his mind into knots, stretch and abuse it without end. Sylar wouldn’t know day from night, right from wrong, up from down unless Peter said so. His entire being could be turned inside out and turned against itself and Sylar would have no defense against it. It was the ultimate phobia and the ultimate punishment, so much worse than his body merely being tortured, which would be preferable. Soon he was unable to breathe, his head paining him like a harbinger of an evil fate, and his lungs began to stutter into gasping chokes for air around a stuffed nose. He could barely hear let alone see Peter’s approach; perhaps that was a good thing.
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That gave Peter pause. He'd known Sylar was upset. He hadn't known he was that upset, but it all clicked together now. Peter hesitated for a moment, taking the small, confining room with its hard benches and unwelcoming array of equipment only peripherally, but still a part of his mind recognized the law enforcement setting. Maybe they were in booking; he wasn't sure. His eyes did not stray from Sylar. The man looked helpless and wretched and it twisted at Peter's heart, no matter who Sylar was to him otherwise. Right now, Sylar was a human being in pain and Peter responded. He moved forward, holding his hands out to either side, palms towards Sylar. He said softly, “Hey ... hey. I didn't take anything. I didn't.” Peter squatted just as slowly, a double handful of feet from where Sylar sat, unwilling to take away what little agency Sylar had left by going all the way to him like Peter's instincts screamed at him to. “Can I come closer?” he asked with a tilt forward of his head, dipping his face and looking up in entreaty.
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Sylar tried to quiet himself, holding his breath only to let it out in a rush to suck more in. He heard the other man - Peter had stopped a ways away to draw things out. Very seriously, trying to look up at Peter, his voice muted and dull without hope, “Can you dake the rest ob it? Peoble...like me when I’b…gone.” That was as close to asking, begging for mercy as he could get, not that he thought it would be granted. If the little hero took everything at once, Sylar would become no one or someone else immediately and the torturous transitions entirely avoided. It would almost be pain-free.
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Peter took that as an invitation, no matter how twisted it was. “Can I take away who you are?” Peter's brows pulled together in distress - it was a horrible suggestion, and yet it was something he'd done. And yes, he would have rather had Nathan, then and probably even now, even knowing Nathan wasn't real, but Peter's feelings on that weren't as firm as they had been before. Sylar was asking him to kill him. Peter knew that and it tore at him. “Sylar,” he said, voice low and gentle. “It's okay. It's going to be okay.” He couldn't not think of the office worker with the gun, who had listened to his words, been affected by them, and then shot him anyway. This might turn out very badly; Peter knew he had no control over things. Sylar's problems almost certainly ran deeper than Peter could fix and his current pain and fear was something Peter's presence, by itself, had to be aggravating. But there was no one else here. If Peter left, Sylar would be alone and not just alone, but actively abandoned by the only other soul that existed for him. Being alone could be tolerable. Being lonely, being isolated, being rejected - those were the most venomous and toxic things Peter knew of and he would not inflict them on a human being whom he could look in the face. Not even his worst enemy.
He slid in close, probably way closer than Sylar had in mind. Peter did it with an awareness that Sylar might at any moment assault him. Peter tried to look as non-threatening as possible, his movements slow, hands low, expression open, eyes not leaving Sylar's face. He was not the hero he'd tried to be at with the office worker, wrapped up in his own grief and projecting it onto others. He wasn't even focusing so much on what Sylar was feeling - he just wanted to be there for him, to help, to let him know he wasn't alone. He knelt with one knee to the floor next to Sylar's left hip and Peter's other knee splayed to the side. If he had lowered his rump a few inches, he'd be sitting on Sylar's lap. As it was, he was in danger of being racked by the man by even a slight movement. Peter put his arms around Sylar - his right arm topmost, left arm under Sylar's right - and hugged him.
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Sylar closed his eyes as more tears gushed out. At least he’d go gently at first and that was something. When Peter was in place Sylar’s arms wrapped around him tight and clutching at the fabric of his coat. The other man being over him was threatening, yes, but Sylar didn’t have a choice in what went on from here.
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Having made it this far, Peter tried talking. “Easy … Hey … I know I could make a lot of promises to you, but I don't know if you'd believe any of them. So I hope you can believe this,” he said, emphasizing his words by tightening the embrace - firm, secure, and holding Sylar close. He wished they didn't have their bulky jackets between them. It would have made the hug more human and less distant, but he made up for it with persistence. He held on and didn't let go, his chin on Sylar's shoulder, arms clasped around him. Peter was so deeply gratified and relieved when Sylar didn't shove him away. Maybe this can work. Maybe I can help.
After a minute or two, Peter settled in and relaxed was much as the awkward pose allowed. He rubbed his hands slowly up and down Sylar's back and let his head loll slightly to the side, his breathing deepening. He shut his eyes and rocked them very slowly. He had not a word to say, not that he knew what he could say that wouldn't cause problems. If Sylar couldn't believe his word, then he could at least believe Peter's actions.
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Goddamnit it and Peter, but this felt safe - it should have been a safe thing. Sylar no longer cared if this was just a mind trip before the other shoe fell. As it was, he wanted to believe this was comfort so much that he did believe it, at least while it lasted. It wouldn’t hurt, when it happened. He would just wake up and be ignorant of his origin, of the past, of himself. He would be and do whatever Peter wanted. For now, he just cried and clutched harder but it felt better, this mockery of comfort. It was so very much needed.
Sylar could feel the heat of another human, could have smelt him had his nose been clear. Either this was some prolonged torment designed to freak him out or…it was genuine. The longer it went on, the more the second possibility seemed true and likely. This was…a voluntary hug. He cried calmly now, tears leaking silent onto Peter’s shoulder as he clung to the longest, intentional, voluntary contact he, Sylar, had received in…ever? It was timely in his moment of need. He didn’t know if Peter understood but…maybe that was okay. Did I freak out over nothing? It’s not nothing, it will never be ‘nothing’, but…he didn’t do it. I don’t think…not just now, anyway. I don’t know about before. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Sylar eventually snuggled his face into Peter’s chest as time went on, his tears beginning to dry from the relieved part of his upset. He could have easily fallen asleep there, though the floor was a little cold and hard.
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Peter finally couldn't take the position. Not unless someone's life depended on it, which it didn't. (Or at least he didn't think so.) His muscles were on fire and he was so hot inside the stifling, heavy winter coat that he was sweating. He straightened a little, giving Sylar a brief squeeze as a signal that something was changing. He cleared his throat and said, “You want to go back to the Pegasus? We could go up to that penthouse, you could get some rest, and I'll stay with you and read my books.” He hesitated, not sure what he was getting himself into with his next offer, but he took the plunge anyway. “I'll even read in bed with you if that helps.” Peter was imagining something akin to sitting at the bedside of an ailing patient, except instead of sitting bedside, he'd actually be on the bed. He pushed back enough so he could see Sylar's face, though they were still very close. Peter's right hand rested on Sylar's shoulder, his left was at his side. “I'll keep the nightmares away, okay?” He rubbed just a little with his right hand, waiting for a response.
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Sylar inhaled quickly, as if waking, when Peter pulled away. As much as he didn’t want Peter to see him like this, a swollen, red, streaked mess, the close quarters wouldn’t allow for him to hide - swiping his face on his sleeve was gross and not an option. He looked back at Peter, searching his face, his own eyes tinted with hope. His lip trembled before he firmed it, completely ashamed at his entire display of weakness but…it was being rewarded with the things he wanted most. He nodded timidly at first, then stronger. (You used to be one of the nightmares, Peter. I want you to keep them away). They didn’t have to be friends; Sylar didn’t have to be liked, but this could very well solve a lot of their problems.
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“Come on,” Peter said, his tone still gentle and low. He stood, his legs cramping painfully. Squatting for a half hour or however long he had was not pleasant. He put his right hand on Sylar's shoulder to steady him and offered him his left to grab onto and pull himself up. With Peter's shaky legs and the additional weight, he lost his own balance and nearly went down. Peter wavered and ended up hanging onto Sylar as they other man finished standing, leaving the two of them clinging to one another yet again. Peter chuckled at how his gallant offer to help Sylar up had ended a bit ignominiously.
“Sorry about that.” He patted Sylar a couple times and separated, moving his legs stiffly to stretch them. “My legs are messed up.” He leaned against the nearest counter, giving it a quick scan. It was cluttered by various pieces of equipment. Peter recognized a fingerprint machine and breathalyzer right in front of him, but more important to him was the box of wipes and tissues situated between them. He grabbed the tissue box, pulling a couple out, and then offered the box to Sylar to let him clean himself up. Peter winced and stretched a little more, wiping at the moist blot on the front of his coat. He'd been spattered with worse.
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Sylar tried to hold Peter up. His instincts were responsible for that when he felt like the other man would slip and face-plant unless he did something about it. Grateful and embarrassed he took the proffered tissues, cleaning his nose and face but it did nothing for his puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses. There was nothing to be done about it. It would get worse in the cold on the walk back and it was way too obvious that he’d lost his marbles and cried about it. It made him angry, but… maybe he shouldn’t try to fix it or cover it up, not if Peter was responding to this current mess. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, seeing Peter trying to brush off his coat. The rest of it, he wasn’t sure he should apologize for.
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Peter shrugged about the coat. “It's okay.” He gave Sylar a brief, warm and lop-sided smile. He took charge, on a mission now even if it was a fairly minor one. He retraced his steps to the Taco House, where he'd left the books. He stayed even with Sylar and physically closer than they had on the walk out. He was only an arm's length away now. Peter smiled at him every now and then. He liked helping people. He liked having the opportunity to help. He hoped Sylar believed him, at least somewhat, that he wasn't out to get him, that he could be trusted at least a little. Things would be intolerable without that and here was a way Peter could prove himself. He felt filled with energy and determination, silly as it seemed given that the 'mission' involved simply lying in bed reading while Sylar napped.
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Peter didn’t touch him as they walked, but he stayed close, perhaps worried Sylar would bolt or fall if he wasn’t close. Sylar tried for a few small, watery smiles in return because it seemed the thing to do. He hadn’t gotten answers but Peter’s behavior was usually the indicator and if Peter was caring for him then…he probably didn’t have to worry, at least, not to the extent he feared and maybe not even about the things he was afraid of if Peter was too distracted or stupid to take advantage of opportunities. It made his muscles feel weak and rubbery with the lack of tension. The cold helped snap him out of his pleasant, warm haze until he wanted, even more desperately, to be snug in bed with someone else if only for warmth’s sake. His toes twinged with each step, his head still pounding away, but he walked in a straight line and did not require assistance.
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Peter was busy thinking as they walked through the lobby of the Pegasus building. He was going through his mental roster of the various supplies and things he'd stored in the rec room here. None of them were really helpful - the only thing Sylar might need were the painkillers already in Peter's pocket and the bed they were heading towards. No matter what the medical advances, 'rest' was something no pharmaceutical could duplicate.
The penthouse apartment was familiar and strangely relaxing when Peter walked into it. Maybe it was that it was a goal reached, but there was also something of how it was not a site of conflict. They'd had disagreements here - they'd had them everywhere - but there had been no fighting as there was at Sylar's, no destruction as at the storefront, and no feeling of invasion as Peter would feel if they'd gone to his apartment. This was shared. It wasn't Sylar's space; it wasn't Peter's. He set down the books and peeled off his winter wear, grateful to get out of the layers. It was all damp in spots and hadn't kept him as warm as he'd wanted on the way back. He felt chilled despite the heavy gear.
“If you want to clean up or something before we settle down, that'd be fine,” he suggested. “I'm going to make some hot cocoa if I can find the ingredients.” He left Sylar to his own process as Peter searched around in the kitchen. He found sugar and baking cocoa - that was good enough. Milk he had to raid out of a different apartment. Mental note: stock this place up for food just like I stocked my own apartment. He had not found marshmallows, nor looked for them, and only realized that after he had poured up two cups of steaming chocolately goodness. He might not know how to cook a lot of things, but cocoa was on the short list of what he knew. Hot, sweet, full of calories, mood-lifting - just what Sylar needs. It didn't hurt that Peter wanted it, too.
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Sylar took that as a strong hint; he agreed and disappeared into the bathroom. There he washed his face and finger-combed his hair back, blowing his nose for good measure. He went to the master bedroom and stood there, unsure if he should lie down or if that was too lazy of him, expecting Peter to feed him in bed. Time passed or skipped around, he didn’t know, but soon enough Peter was there, handing him a coffee mug of cocoa. “Thank you,” Sylar said meaningfully. This felt so very strange but refusing any of this seemed very rude and undesired.
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Peter sipped his drink. It was too hot to do much with. He set it on 'his' side of the bed, which was the left as you faced the headboard. It was the side nearer the outside wall and the side that left his more-functional left hand between him and any other residents of the bed. He claimed the side with his cup on the night stand and by moving the books to it. Then he announced, “I'm going to take a quick shower before we settle down.” He scavenged in the drawers for a different t-shirt and underwear. The rest of his clothes could be reworn. Brief shower taken mainly just to rinse off the dried perspiration, he was finally ready.
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Sylar tested the temperature of the cocoa instinctively. He hissed quietly when it was too hot, nodding to acknowledge Peter’s shower. A shower? Does that have to do with hugging me, my snot, or…? It was weirdly domestic, especially when Peter returned to climb in bed with him, smelling…fresh, from what little Sylar could detect. Peter’s side was already chosen, so Sylar sat on the other. He would lie down when his cocoa was gone. It smelled good, too, and would taste the same when it was cool enough.
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Peter sat on the bed cross-legged after pushing the pillows against the headboard to his satisfaction. He leaned against them and recovered his cup to blow on it slowly, watching it swirl in a tiny whirlpool as he blew on only one side of the cup. Neat. He looked over at Sylar's back, wondering about him. Once more his thoughts turned to what kind of a person Sylar was without their history, without abilities. 'Boring stuff' - reading, working … was he happy with that? Why did he lash out so much after getting his ability? He wished he could ask; wished he'd get an answer if he did. Spontaneously, Peter said, “I worry about you. I'm sorry about the way things are. Between us.” He took a sip of his cocoa, watching the liquid instead of the back of Sylar's head. “I didn't do anything to you while you were unconscious. I can't … change who you are or take your memories. I don't have any abilities here. I can't even get us out.”
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Peter spoke but it wasn’t what Sylar expected to hear. He didn’t turn around or shift to see him better, instead he listened and pretended to be more involved with his cocoa than he really could be at that point. Worried about me? Why would he be sorry? I thought this was the way he wanted it. I suppose the only thing keeping him from doing that is the fact that he can’t do it for some reason. Maybe he doesn’t have abilities - mine don’t work. I can’t…feel them. “Then why did my head hurt worse when you left?”
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“You probably weren’t taking your painkillers.” Peter said, even if he didn't believe it was anything that simple. “Were you?”
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“No…” Sylar replied, feeling very low and very stupid. Peter didn’t mock him about it, the question was factual, logical, and easily deducted. I didn’t know they made such a difference.
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“Will you tell me how your has been feeling lately?”
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“Just…really bad headaches. One big one, really. It’s…” difficult to do anything, focus, talk, think. “I want to sleep a lot but that’s….” difficult, too. He knows why, I guess. I don’t want to have to go out and find you only to fight with you. I must be more fun to be around when I’m retarded and sick.
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Peter reached up and rubbed at his own forehead in a sympathetic gesture, imagining Sylar's miserable catch-22. Well enough to kick me out, but not well enough take care of himself. Great. Of course, good reasoning ability and solid self-assessment are pretty asymptomatic for the mentally compromised. Peter suppressed the sigh he wanted to make. He should have known better than to leave Sylar to his own devices without so much as checking on him. He knew what he'd been thinking - he hadn't cared. It was difficult to care for someone who was combative, threatening, and had killed you a few times in the past. Peter wasn't even sure if he should blame himself. “What have you eaten since I left?”
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“Um…crackers and cheese. Some soup maybe? One of the dinners you left.” It did not add up to the correct number of meals for the days Peter had been gone. Hey, I fucking ate on my own. I told him I wouldn’t starve and I didn’t. “It’s hard to eat with…everything. Cocoa feels like a meal sometimes.” He checked over his shoulder at Peter, then shrugged. Sylar knew that wasn’t good, the shrunken stomach feeling.
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“Yeah?” That was not a good sign - at all. He was no nutritionist, but if Sylar was saying he had no appetite and perhaps even a diminishing appetite rather than an increasing one, then that needed to be remedied immediately. “If you don't mind,” Peter said softer and more gently than the rest of his words because this was a request, truly a request and one Sylar was at complete liberty to refuse, “I'd like to stick around and get some calories in you for a few days.”
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Sylar just nodded. He didn’t think it was the least bit smart to turn that down. It was what he wanted and what he knew he needed…Besides, Peter was the one to offer it. Playing the weakling works with him. Does he think less of me this way or…He’s a nurse, medic. He sees it all the time. He likes being around it so much he nearly kills himself.
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“How are your toes doing after that run?”
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“They hurt to walk on. They did that before, they’re…a little worse now,” Sylar said, feeling guilty and stupid once more. He’d done that to himself, over nothing it would seem, if Peter was to be believed. By then his cocoa was cooled enough to drink, so he did. It still burned a little on his tongue, but it warmed up his insides quickly and he didn’t hesitate to down it all. He set the empty mug on the bedside table and lay down atop the covers.
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On top of the covers? That was not going to work. Peter drained his cup more hastily than he wanted and got up off the bed. He tugged at the blanket before Sylar could get too settled in. “Hop up. Underneath. You'll sleep better if you're warmer.” He climbed under them himself, redistributing the books to the night stand and then moving himself up to where he was sitting against the pillows again, under the blanket only from the waist down. He waited a few beats, watching Sylar and trying to judge his own personal safety here. Things seemed okay. Peter carefully unstrapped his brace, which was still damp from the shower, and laid it on the night stand so his hand and the brace both could dry. He picked the thinnest book, pulling it over and opening in the middle for now, expecting to flip through it for a while before checking the table of contents and picking the parts he wanted to review.
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Sylar sat again on the sheets, back to Peter as he unlaced his shoes. That sounded much more comfortable and looking back on it, he realized he hadn’t done that so it didn’t upset Peter’s position or flip-flopping sense of personal space. Being invited was so much better! In socks, dress shirt and jeans, he lay back again, and rolled to face Peter, craning his head to watch him read for a moment. Sylar could very well sleep here, despite the issues from earlier. Softly, he said as he grew drowsy, “Don’t touch my head at all, Peter.” He kept his eyes open long enough to hear the confirmation, inching closer until he could smell the other man.
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What a strange request. Or not really a request - it was an order that came with a question mark - a 'please don't do this' followed by a 'are you going to do it anyway?' Peter looked at said head, at Sylar's forehead, for a long couple of seconds, putting together Sylar's ability, the wiping of his memories, the concussion, and his current fears of being blotted out. They were all of a theme. He wondered if it meant anything similar about him that it was his hand that had been broken. His eyes went back to Sylar's sleepy ones with a single nod. “Okay. I won't.”
Sylar scooted close after that, stopping only a couple inches away. Peter could feel the heat from Sylar's body against his skin and the regular puffs of his breath moving the bared hairs on his forearm. He didn't want to pull away - it wasn't his personal space that was bothered. It was that if he moved at all, he might brush against Sylar and he hadn't been planning on being perfectly still. If nothing else, he'd be turning pages and switching books. The proximity was inconvenient and restrictive, not threatening. He thought about it for a while, then dismissed his concerns. If Sylar wanted to be that close to him, then Sylar could just deal. Speaking of things Sylar would have to deal with, Peter stuck his sock-clad foot to the left until it touched Sylar's shins. He pushed it between those shins and went back to his book smugly satisfied that he'd done something - asserted his dominance or whatever. He just knew he was happier having done it.
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Sylar’s eyes flew wide at what was a domineering, vaguely sexual move. At first, Sylar didn’t even know what it was until he looked and deduced visually. Shoving something between my legs…Is…that going to turn into more? Just as quickly, he checked Petrelli’s face - it was smug and content. Guess that’s…what I wanted, him touching me and…if it involves sex, then I offered first I suppose. While it wasn’t his ideal of safety, Sylar was fairly certain that was the extent of Peter’s moves…for now. And if it wasn’t, well, he’d deal with it as it came because he had no other choice. He didn’t like that part about not touching my head. Ducking his head back down, he let his eyes fall shut.
XXX
It was a need for lunch that finally stirred Peter out of the bed, though he was glad of the excuse to move. He was stiff and he was bored with reading about a subject that didn't interest him to start with. He learned mainly by doing. Despite the many pictures, he didn't think he was making much of the material. Also, he needed to pee.
XXX
Sylar inhaled and felt himself waking to some outside stimulus. Huh? Sleeping what he assumed was a few hours felt like longer and that told him how tired he was. He saw Peter…going somewhere.
XXX
Peter turned back after setting his books aside and picking up his brace. Seeing Sylar awake was unsurprising, although the man had slept quietly enough and Peter, despite his Sylar-will-have-to-deal-with-it attitude, had in actuality moved very little while in the bed. “I'm going to make something for lunch. I'd like you to eat some.” After the bathroom, he detoured over to his coat for the painkillers, setting the bottle prominently on the table before heading on to the kitchen. He didn't like the selection of foodstuffs, but had a feeling that leaving, even to go across the street and get food from his apartment, would not be taken well. There was enough to make it to tomorrow if they were happy with condensed soup. He'd seen some in the apartment where he'd gotten the milk earlier.
“I'm going to go down the hall to get some soup. I'll be right back.”
XXX
Sylar sat up, both at the mention of food and Peter leaving. He’s come back every time he said he would…even sometimes he didn’t say he was going to come back. Looking over Peter’s face, he couldn’t think of a reason for Peter to ditch him now. He hugged me earlier. “I’ll eat.”
XXX
Reconstituted cream of mushroom soup - it was easy to make, although Peter had yet to figure out how to avoid it being clumpy. It still tasted good. He kept an eye on how much Sylar ate, made sure he took his pills, and didn't engage in any conversation more stressful than a discussion of which of the four varieties of condensed soup Sylar might want for dinner: split pea and ham, cream of mushroom again, cream of asparagus (Peter's choice, not that he mentioned it), or chicken noodle. If Sylar wanted something other than the cream of asparagus, then Peter would simply fix two soups.
XXX
Continued...
Day 32, January 10th, Afternoon
“Come to think of it,” Peter said as he pointed out a low red building near the corner that said 'Taco House' on the awning, “if I can't figure out how to fix it right away, then I'll definitely need to go back there and get plywood and stuff - hammers, nails, boards, whatever.” He was puzzling over how he'd manage to affix the plywood to the building's brick facade when he noticed Sylar's reaction.
XXX
Sylar jerked and tried to pass it off as straightening up, but every muscle had already contracted hard, readying for flight. The trip through the local armory seemed like a softball, walk-through threat and this was the solidification. The image of being crucified on another plywood surface, this time a raised, upright one was a potent one. Peter wanted him involved after all. He nodded tensely and followed Peter into the taco place while strongly considering disappearing. There wasn’t anywhere for him to be; the place he wanted to hide at was compromised; the man who would hunt him wasn’t trustworthy or stable; and any love tap could be the last. Peter sat. Sylar remained standing, fidgeting against the cashier’s counter. Peter was calm and carefree, seemingly oblivious to everything, and why should he care? Putting me in my place and shutting me up, that’s what he’s wanted all along. What if he could put the fear of God into me - he’d do it. Make me compliant, right? It was obvious this was punishment, but it seemed like overkill compared to the offense. Sylar had gone to far, overstepped and crossed lines. It wasn’t high in his considerations at the moment. Did he do something to me? Things have been different since…Curiosity won out, though the answer was likely to be an easy lie, unprovable and lacking comfort. He just…wanted to hear what Peter had to say. In a quiet but serious voice, he finally said what was bothering him. “What did you do to me when I was unconscious?”
XXX
Peter had noticed Sylar's tension, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if perhaps the current problem was due to the Mexican eatery, though he assumed it was something he'd said. That seemed more likely. Maybe Sylar was upset Peter might not fix the smashed storefront today? Reluctant to make things worse, Peter took a seat near a window, set out his books, and cracked one open. He was only staring at the page, though, when Sylar addressed him.
“When?” he asked cautiously.
XXX
“When you choked me out. What did you do to me then?” Sylar repeated, anxiety spiking at having to repeat himself. Peter thought so little about it.
XXX
Peter put down the book and closed it. This was going to be a conversation (or an argument - his bet was on argument, if the strain in Sylar's voice was any indication). “Nothing. I checked your pulse, then you woke up and we … talked.”
XXX
“Didn’t try to turn me into someone less irritating? No conversations with your brother? Didn’t mess around with any of my fucked up mental functions to better suit you? None of that?” Sylar spat out, edgy and interrogating, gesturing to his own skull. His disbelief was very apparent. “What did you take, Petrelli?!”
XXX
“Nothing,” Peter repeated insistently. He could understand Sylar's fear - it made perfect sense, other than the part about why Peter would wait until that particular moment if he had the ability to do any of the things Sylar was accusing him of. There had been so many better times. All he'd been trying to do at that point was shut Sylar up. “It was only a few seconds. Maybe a minute at most.”
XXX
“I guess I’ll never know, will I?” To think all the times he’d been stupid enough to sleep with Peter around, foolishly relieved by the lack of nightmares. He’d been so suckered in by his own loneliness. Pondering the evidence, or lack thereof, he came across something that confirmed it and felt his blood run cold. “You did…didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Peter had telepathy, too, by his own admission. “That’s why my head hurt worse when you left…” Sylar stood utterly still in a betrayed, horrified shock. I need to move…That was the least of his problems.
XXX
When I left? His head hurt …? He's saying his headache got worse after I moved out, right? Probably because he wasn't taking his stupid painkillers! He made to stand. “Sylar, it's not-”
XXX
“Don’t! Don’t….” Sylar pointed at him and began sidling away towards the door. He didn’t know where he was going except ‘away.’ It upset him greatly that Peter insisted on having his little unnecessary war and Sylar was forced to participate or perish. He had no idea what was going to happen to them; he would probably end up dead or very much worse and it was that ‘worse’ he was afraid to death of. Sylar remembered the last time he’d told Peter to stay away and knew it wouldn’t work this time either. He backed out the door, his face a twisted wreck, his mouth open but unable to articulate - not an excuse or threat or ‘it didn’t have to be this way’ because in Peter’s mind, it did. After that, he ran.
XXX
“Sylar!” Peter's yell was not gentle or couth. It was loud and demanding, irritated as he finally gave vent to some of the frustration that had been building up inside. He went to the door immediately, but he didn't chase. I chased him before; he just kept running until he got somewhere safe. Peter used a different tactic this time, waiting until Sylar was out of sight and then running to where he could see him again, hoping the man would go to ground quickly. Honestly, Peter was surprised Sylar could run at all, between the toes and the bad balance.
Are bouts of paranoia symptomatic of concussions? I didn't think so … and why would it be cropping up now? Bad nutrition maybe? Bad … oh. Bad sleep. Insomnia can fuck up a lot of things. He keeps telling me he can't sleep without me there. (Then how the hell was he sleeping before I cleaned his fucking clock?) Doesn't matter. He isn't now. Maybe he's more sensitive now because of the concussion, or the headaches, or whatever. There! He went in that office building.
XXX
Sylar ran until he panicked himself into needing somewhere to hide. He didn’t know or care if Peter was after him. Everything was blurry, too familiar, too…déjà vu. He felt like he’d been here before, done this before and it wasn’t going to work out any better the second time. He dashed into a large building - more places to hide, possibly a back exit. It was a very bad choice. /Filthy and frightened of the large police officer, he’d been dragged in with cuffs on. The place was ill-lit, too gray, black, hostile and cold. He had been caught and confined, no knowledge of who or where he was and no chance of getting out - completely at the mercy of these strangers who clearly didn’t like him./ This place reminded him of that in a heartbeat. The gold insignia plastered everywhere, the secure, threatening walls and doors, even the windows. It was a trap; an institution. The police station was a fatal mistake. Sylar would not be leaving with his mind intact, if he left at all.
XXX
At least, it looked like an office building to Peter. It was one of the shorter skyscrapers, with a brick facade and no windows for the first few floors. Most of the buildings in this area were taller and most of those had plenty of glass on the bottom story to open them up to view. Maybe that was why Sylar had dodged inside of this particular one - it looked easier to hide in from the outside. You could only see in through the doors and the view was distorted at that. Peter walked steadily to the door, finding the reason for the obstructed vision was that it was especially thick glass and reinforced with a mesh. Some wry corner of his mind suggested it would make a good replacement for the door he'd spiderwebbed at the ruined storefront. This was a door that might be able to stand up to the worst Peter could dish out. But he wasn't here shopping for doors. He was unwilling to let Sylar think the worst of him and genuinely concerned about the man's health. He went inside, passing through the foyer without much of a look around except to see that Sylar had gone further into the building. The next door was metal and just as reinforced as the one before, in its own way. Again, though, he wasn't paying attention to the surroundings much. He found Sylar a lot faster than he'd expected.
XXX
Sylar sat clumsily; shoulders slumped with knees tucked under himself like a doll with cut strings. Peter was inescapable; he’d won. There were restraints and weapons here, judgment and imprisonment also. The terror of what he faced broke his control. He cried hot, large, quick tears, not for show or to invoke pity. From here Peter would tie his mind into knots, stretch and abuse it without end. Sylar wouldn’t know day from night, right from wrong, up from down unless Peter said so. His entire being could be turned inside out and turned against itself and Sylar would have no defense against it. It was the ultimate phobia and the ultimate punishment, so much worse than his body merely being tortured, which would be preferable. Soon he was unable to breathe, his head paining him like a harbinger of an evil fate, and his lungs began to stutter into gasping chokes for air around a stuffed nose. He could barely hear let alone see Peter’s approach; perhaps that was a good thing.
XXX
That gave Peter pause. He'd known Sylar was upset. He hadn't known he was that upset, but it all clicked together now. Peter hesitated for a moment, taking the small, confining room with its hard benches and unwelcoming array of equipment only peripherally, but still a part of his mind recognized the law enforcement setting. Maybe they were in booking; he wasn't sure. His eyes did not stray from Sylar. The man looked helpless and wretched and it twisted at Peter's heart, no matter who Sylar was to him otherwise. Right now, Sylar was a human being in pain and Peter responded. He moved forward, holding his hands out to either side, palms towards Sylar. He said softly, “Hey ... hey. I didn't take anything. I didn't.” Peter squatted just as slowly, a double handful of feet from where Sylar sat, unwilling to take away what little agency Sylar had left by going all the way to him like Peter's instincts screamed at him to. “Can I come closer?” he asked with a tilt forward of his head, dipping his face and looking up in entreaty.
XXX
Sylar tried to quiet himself, holding his breath only to let it out in a rush to suck more in. He heard the other man - Peter had stopped a ways away to draw things out. Very seriously, trying to look up at Peter, his voice muted and dull without hope, “Can you dake the rest ob it? Peoble...like me when I’b…gone.” That was as close to asking, begging for mercy as he could get, not that he thought it would be granted. If the little hero took everything at once, Sylar would become no one or someone else immediately and the torturous transitions entirely avoided. It would almost be pain-free.
XXX
Peter took that as an invitation, no matter how twisted it was. “Can I take away who you are?” Peter's brows pulled together in distress - it was a horrible suggestion, and yet it was something he'd done. And yes, he would have rather had Nathan, then and probably even now, even knowing Nathan wasn't real, but Peter's feelings on that weren't as firm as they had been before. Sylar was asking him to kill him. Peter knew that and it tore at him. “Sylar,” he said, voice low and gentle. “It's okay. It's going to be okay.” He couldn't not think of the office worker with the gun, who had listened to his words, been affected by them, and then shot him anyway. This might turn out very badly; Peter knew he had no control over things. Sylar's problems almost certainly ran deeper than Peter could fix and his current pain and fear was something Peter's presence, by itself, had to be aggravating. But there was no one else here. If Peter left, Sylar would be alone and not just alone, but actively abandoned by the only other soul that existed for him. Being alone could be tolerable. Being lonely, being isolated, being rejected - those were the most venomous and toxic things Peter knew of and he would not inflict them on a human being whom he could look in the face. Not even his worst enemy.
He slid in close, probably way closer than Sylar had in mind. Peter did it with an awareness that Sylar might at any moment assault him. Peter tried to look as non-threatening as possible, his movements slow, hands low, expression open, eyes not leaving Sylar's face. He was not the hero he'd tried to be at with the office worker, wrapped up in his own grief and projecting it onto others. He wasn't even focusing so much on what Sylar was feeling - he just wanted to be there for him, to help, to let him know he wasn't alone. He knelt with one knee to the floor next to Sylar's left hip and Peter's other knee splayed to the side. If he had lowered his rump a few inches, he'd be sitting on Sylar's lap. As it was, he was in danger of being racked by the man by even a slight movement. Peter put his arms around Sylar - his right arm topmost, left arm under Sylar's right - and hugged him.
XXX
Sylar closed his eyes as more tears gushed out. At least he’d go gently at first and that was something. When Peter was in place Sylar’s arms wrapped around him tight and clutching at the fabric of his coat. The other man being over him was threatening, yes, but Sylar didn’t have a choice in what went on from here.
XXX
Having made it this far, Peter tried talking. “Easy … Hey … I know I could make a lot of promises to you, but I don't know if you'd believe any of them. So I hope you can believe this,” he said, emphasizing his words by tightening the embrace - firm, secure, and holding Sylar close. He wished they didn't have their bulky jackets between them. It would have made the hug more human and less distant, but he made up for it with persistence. He held on and didn't let go, his chin on Sylar's shoulder, arms clasped around him. Peter was so deeply gratified and relieved when Sylar didn't shove him away. Maybe this can work. Maybe I can help.
After a minute or two, Peter settled in and relaxed was much as the awkward pose allowed. He rubbed his hands slowly up and down Sylar's back and let his head loll slightly to the side, his breathing deepening. He shut his eyes and rocked them very slowly. He had not a word to say, not that he knew what he could say that wouldn't cause problems. If Sylar couldn't believe his word, then he could at least believe Peter's actions.
XXX
Goddamnit it and Peter, but this felt safe - it should have been a safe thing. Sylar no longer cared if this was just a mind trip before the other shoe fell. As it was, he wanted to believe this was comfort so much that he did believe it, at least while it lasted. It wouldn’t hurt, when it happened. He would just wake up and be ignorant of his origin, of the past, of himself. He would be and do whatever Peter wanted. For now, he just cried and clutched harder but it felt better, this mockery of comfort. It was so very much needed.
Sylar could feel the heat of another human, could have smelt him had his nose been clear. Either this was some prolonged torment designed to freak him out or…it was genuine. The longer it went on, the more the second possibility seemed true and likely. This was…a voluntary hug. He cried calmly now, tears leaking silent onto Peter’s shoulder as he clung to the longest, intentional, voluntary contact he, Sylar, had received in…ever? It was timely in his moment of need. He didn’t know if Peter understood but…maybe that was okay. Did I freak out over nothing? It’s not nothing, it will never be ‘nothing’, but…he didn’t do it. I don’t think…not just now, anyway. I don’t know about before. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Sylar eventually snuggled his face into Peter’s chest as time went on, his tears beginning to dry from the relieved part of his upset. He could have easily fallen asleep there, though the floor was a little cold and hard.
XXX
Peter finally couldn't take the position. Not unless someone's life depended on it, which it didn't. (Or at least he didn't think so.) His muscles were on fire and he was so hot inside the stifling, heavy winter coat that he was sweating. He straightened a little, giving Sylar a brief squeeze as a signal that something was changing. He cleared his throat and said, “You want to go back to the Pegasus? We could go up to that penthouse, you could get some rest, and I'll stay with you and read my books.” He hesitated, not sure what he was getting himself into with his next offer, but he took the plunge anyway. “I'll even read in bed with you if that helps.” Peter was imagining something akin to sitting at the bedside of an ailing patient, except instead of sitting bedside, he'd actually be on the bed. He pushed back enough so he could see Sylar's face, though they were still very close. Peter's right hand rested on Sylar's shoulder, his left was at his side. “I'll keep the nightmares away, okay?” He rubbed just a little with his right hand, waiting for a response.
XXX
Sylar inhaled quickly, as if waking, when Peter pulled away. As much as he didn’t want Peter to see him like this, a swollen, red, streaked mess, the close quarters wouldn’t allow for him to hide - swiping his face on his sleeve was gross and not an option. He looked back at Peter, searching his face, his own eyes tinted with hope. His lip trembled before he firmed it, completely ashamed at his entire display of weakness but…it was being rewarded with the things he wanted most. He nodded timidly at first, then stronger. (You used to be one of the nightmares, Peter. I want you to keep them away). They didn’t have to be friends; Sylar didn’t have to be liked, but this could very well solve a lot of their problems.
XXX
“Come on,” Peter said, his tone still gentle and low. He stood, his legs cramping painfully. Squatting for a half hour or however long he had was not pleasant. He put his right hand on Sylar's shoulder to steady him and offered him his left to grab onto and pull himself up. With Peter's shaky legs and the additional weight, he lost his own balance and nearly went down. Peter wavered and ended up hanging onto Sylar as they other man finished standing, leaving the two of them clinging to one another yet again. Peter chuckled at how his gallant offer to help Sylar up had ended a bit ignominiously.
“Sorry about that.” He patted Sylar a couple times and separated, moving his legs stiffly to stretch them. “My legs are messed up.” He leaned against the nearest counter, giving it a quick scan. It was cluttered by various pieces of equipment. Peter recognized a fingerprint machine and breathalyzer right in front of him, but more important to him was the box of wipes and tissues situated between them. He grabbed the tissue box, pulling a couple out, and then offered the box to Sylar to let him clean himself up. Peter winced and stretched a little more, wiping at the moist blot on the front of his coat. He'd been spattered with worse.
XXX
Sylar tried to hold Peter up. His instincts were responsible for that when he felt like the other man would slip and face-plant unless he did something about it. Grateful and embarrassed he took the proffered tissues, cleaning his nose and face but it did nothing for his puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses. There was nothing to be done about it. It would get worse in the cold on the walk back and it was way too obvious that he’d lost his marbles and cried about it. It made him angry, but… maybe he shouldn’t try to fix it or cover it up, not if Peter was responding to this current mess. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, seeing Peter trying to brush off his coat. The rest of it, he wasn’t sure he should apologize for.
XXX
Peter shrugged about the coat. “It's okay.” He gave Sylar a brief, warm and lop-sided smile. He took charge, on a mission now even if it was a fairly minor one. He retraced his steps to the Taco House, where he'd left the books. He stayed even with Sylar and physically closer than they had on the walk out. He was only an arm's length away now. Peter smiled at him every now and then. He liked helping people. He liked having the opportunity to help. He hoped Sylar believed him, at least somewhat, that he wasn't out to get him, that he could be trusted at least a little. Things would be intolerable without that and here was a way Peter could prove himself. He felt filled with energy and determination, silly as it seemed given that the 'mission' involved simply lying in bed reading while Sylar napped.
XXX
Peter didn’t touch him as they walked, but he stayed close, perhaps worried Sylar would bolt or fall if he wasn’t close. Sylar tried for a few small, watery smiles in return because it seemed the thing to do. He hadn’t gotten answers but Peter’s behavior was usually the indicator and if Peter was caring for him then…he probably didn’t have to worry, at least, not to the extent he feared and maybe not even about the things he was afraid of if Peter was too distracted or stupid to take advantage of opportunities. It made his muscles feel weak and rubbery with the lack of tension. The cold helped snap him out of his pleasant, warm haze until he wanted, even more desperately, to be snug in bed with someone else if only for warmth’s sake. His toes twinged with each step, his head still pounding away, but he walked in a straight line and did not require assistance.
XXX
Peter was busy thinking as they walked through the lobby of the Pegasus building. He was going through his mental roster of the various supplies and things he'd stored in the rec room here. None of them were really helpful - the only thing Sylar might need were the painkillers already in Peter's pocket and the bed they were heading towards. No matter what the medical advances, 'rest' was something no pharmaceutical could duplicate.
The penthouse apartment was familiar and strangely relaxing when Peter walked into it. Maybe it was that it was a goal reached, but there was also something of how it was not a site of conflict. They'd had disagreements here - they'd had them everywhere - but there had been no fighting as there was at Sylar's, no destruction as at the storefront, and no feeling of invasion as Peter would feel if they'd gone to his apartment. This was shared. It wasn't Sylar's space; it wasn't Peter's. He set down the books and peeled off his winter wear, grateful to get out of the layers. It was all damp in spots and hadn't kept him as warm as he'd wanted on the way back. He felt chilled despite the heavy gear.
“If you want to clean up or something before we settle down, that'd be fine,” he suggested. “I'm going to make some hot cocoa if I can find the ingredients.” He left Sylar to his own process as Peter searched around in the kitchen. He found sugar and baking cocoa - that was good enough. Milk he had to raid out of a different apartment. Mental note: stock this place up for food just like I stocked my own apartment. He had not found marshmallows, nor looked for them, and only realized that after he had poured up two cups of steaming chocolately goodness. He might not know how to cook a lot of things, but cocoa was on the short list of what he knew. Hot, sweet, full of calories, mood-lifting - just what Sylar needs. It didn't hurt that Peter wanted it, too.
XXX
Sylar took that as a strong hint; he agreed and disappeared into the bathroom. There he washed his face and finger-combed his hair back, blowing his nose for good measure. He went to the master bedroom and stood there, unsure if he should lie down or if that was too lazy of him, expecting Peter to feed him in bed. Time passed or skipped around, he didn’t know, but soon enough Peter was there, handing him a coffee mug of cocoa. “Thank you,” Sylar said meaningfully. This felt so very strange but refusing any of this seemed very rude and undesired.
XXX
Peter sipped his drink. It was too hot to do much with. He set it on 'his' side of the bed, which was the left as you faced the headboard. It was the side nearer the outside wall and the side that left his more-functional left hand between him and any other residents of the bed. He claimed the side with his cup on the night stand and by moving the books to it. Then he announced, “I'm going to take a quick shower before we settle down.” He scavenged in the drawers for a different t-shirt and underwear. The rest of his clothes could be reworn. Brief shower taken mainly just to rinse off the dried perspiration, he was finally ready.
XXX
Sylar tested the temperature of the cocoa instinctively. He hissed quietly when it was too hot, nodding to acknowledge Peter’s shower. A shower? Does that have to do with hugging me, my snot, or…? It was weirdly domestic, especially when Peter returned to climb in bed with him, smelling…fresh, from what little Sylar could detect. Peter’s side was already chosen, so Sylar sat on the other. He would lie down when his cocoa was gone. It smelled good, too, and would taste the same when it was cool enough.
XXX
Peter sat on the bed cross-legged after pushing the pillows against the headboard to his satisfaction. He leaned against them and recovered his cup to blow on it slowly, watching it swirl in a tiny whirlpool as he blew on only one side of the cup. Neat. He looked over at Sylar's back, wondering about him. Once more his thoughts turned to what kind of a person Sylar was without their history, without abilities. 'Boring stuff' - reading, working … was he happy with that? Why did he lash out so much after getting his ability? He wished he could ask; wished he'd get an answer if he did. Spontaneously, Peter said, “I worry about you. I'm sorry about the way things are. Between us.” He took a sip of his cocoa, watching the liquid instead of the back of Sylar's head. “I didn't do anything to you while you were unconscious. I can't … change who you are or take your memories. I don't have any abilities here. I can't even get us out.”
XXX
Peter spoke but it wasn’t what Sylar expected to hear. He didn’t turn around or shift to see him better, instead he listened and pretended to be more involved with his cocoa than he really could be at that point. Worried about me? Why would he be sorry? I thought this was the way he wanted it. I suppose the only thing keeping him from doing that is the fact that he can’t do it for some reason. Maybe he doesn’t have abilities - mine don’t work. I can’t…feel them. “Then why did my head hurt worse when you left?”
XXX
“You probably weren’t taking your painkillers.” Peter said, even if he didn't believe it was anything that simple. “Were you?”
XXX
“No…” Sylar replied, feeling very low and very stupid. Peter didn’t mock him about it, the question was factual, logical, and easily deducted. I didn’t know they made such a difference.
XXX
“Will you tell me how your has been feeling lately?”
XXX
“Just…really bad headaches. One big one, really. It’s…” difficult to do anything, focus, talk, think. “I want to sleep a lot but that’s….” difficult, too. He knows why, I guess. I don’t want to have to go out and find you only to fight with you. I must be more fun to be around when I’m retarded and sick.
XXX
Peter reached up and rubbed at his own forehead in a sympathetic gesture, imagining Sylar's miserable catch-22. Well enough to kick me out, but not well enough take care of himself. Great. Of course, good reasoning ability and solid self-assessment are pretty asymptomatic for the mentally compromised. Peter suppressed the sigh he wanted to make. He should have known better than to leave Sylar to his own devices without so much as checking on him. He knew what he'd been thinking - he hadn't cared. It was difficult to care for someone who was combative, threatening, and had killed you a few times in the past. Peter wasn't even sure if he should blame himself. “What have you eaten since I left?”
XXX
“Um…crackers and cheese. Some soup maybe? One of the dinners you left.” It did not add up to the correct number of meals for the days Peter had been gone. Hey, I fucking ate on my own. I told him I wouldn’t starve and I didn’t. “It’s hard to eat with…everything. Cocoa feels like a meal sometimes.” He checked over his shoulder at Peter, then shrugged. Sylar knew that wasn’t good, the shrunken stomach feeling.
XXX
“Yeah?” That was not a good sign - at all. He was no nutritionist, but if Sylar was saying he had no appetite and perhaps even a diminishing appetite rather than an increasing one, then that needed to be remedied immediately. “If you don't mind,” Peter said softer and more gently than the rest of his words because this was a request, truly a request and one Sylar was at complete liberty to refuse, “I'd like to stick around and get some calories in you for a few days.”
XXX
Sylar just nodded. He didn’t think it was the least bit smart to turn that down. It was what he wanted and what he knew he needed…Besides, Peter was the one to offer it. Playing the weakling works with him. Does he think less of me this way or…He’s a nurse, medic. He sees it all the time. He likes being around it so much he nearly kills himself.
XXX
“How are your toes doing after that run?”
XXX
“They hurt to walk on. They did that before, they’re…a little worse now,” Sylar said, feeling guilty and stupid once more. He’d done that to himself, over nothing it would seem, if Peter was to be believed. By then his cocoa was cooled enough to drink, so he did. It still burned a little on his tongue, but it warmed up his insides quickly and he didn’t hesitate to down it all. He set the empty mug on the bedside table and lay down atop the covers.
XXX
On top of the covers? That was not going to work. Peter drained his cup more hastily than he wanted and got up off the bed. He tugged at the blanket before Sylar could get too settled in. “Hop up. Underneath. You'll sleep better if you're warmer.” He climbed under them himself, redistributing the books to the night stand and then moving himself up to where he was sitting against the pillows again, under the blanket only from the waist down. He waited a few beats, watching Sylar and trying to judge his own personal safety here. Things seemed okay. Peter carefully unstrapped his brace, which was still damp from the shower, and laid it on the night stand so his hand and the brace both could dry. He picked the thinnest book, pulling it over and opening in the middle for now, expecting to flip through it for a while before checking the table of contents and picking the parts he wanted to review.
XXX
Sylar sat again on the sheets, back to Peter as he unlaced his shoes. That sounded much more comfortable and looking back on it, he realized he hadn’t done that so it didn’t upset Peter’s position or flip-flopping sense of personal space. Being invited was so much better! In socks, dress shirt and jeans, he lay back again, and rolled to face Peter, craning his head to watch him read for a moment. Sylar could very well sleep here, despite the issues from earlier. Softly, he said as he grew drowsy, “Don’t touch my head at all, Peter.” He kept his eyes open long enough to hear the confirmation, inching closer until he could smell the other man.
XXX
What a strange request. Or not really a request - it was an order that came with a question mark - a 'please don't do this' followed by a 'are you going to do it anyway?' Peter looked at said head, at Sylar's forehead, for a long couple of seconds, putting together Sylar's ability, the wiping of his memories, the concussion, and his current fears of being blotted out. They were all of a theme. He wondered if it meant anything similar about him that it was his hand that had been broken. His eyes went back to Sylar's sleepy ones with a single nod. “Okay. I won't.”
Sylar scooted close after that, stopping only a couple inches away. Peter could feel the heat from Sylar's body against his skin and the regular puffs of his breath moving the bared hairs on his forearm. He didn't want to pull away - it wasn't his personal space that was bothered. It was that if he moved at all, he might brush against Sylar and he hadn't been planning on being perfectly still. If nothing else, he'd be turning pages and switching books. The proximity was inconvenient and restrictive, not threatening. He thought about it for a while, then dismissed his concerns. If Sylar wanted to be that close to him, then Sylar could just deal. Speaking of things Sylar would have to deal with, Peter stuck his sock-clad foot to the left until it touched Sylar's shins. He pushed it between those shins and went back to his book smugly satisfied that he'd done something - asserted his dominance or whatever. He just knew he was happier having done it.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes flew wide at what was a domineering, vaguely sexual move. At first, Sylar didn’t even know what it was until he looked and deduced visually. Shoving something between my legs…Is…that going to turn into more? Just as quickly, he checked Petrelli’s face - it was smug and content. Guess that’s…what I wanted, him touching me and…if it involves sex, then I offered first I suppose. While it wasn’t his ideal of safety, Sylar was fairly certain that was the extent of Peter’s moves…for now. And if it wasn’t, well, he’d deal with it as it came because he had no other choice. He didn’t like that part about not touching my head. Ducking his head back down, he let his eyes fall shut.
XXX
It was a need for lunch that finally stirred Peter out of the bed, though he was glad of the excuse to move. He was stiff and he was bored with reading about a subject that didn't interest him to start with. He learned mainly by doing. Despite the many pictures, he didn't think he was making much of the material. Also, he needed to pee.
XXX
Sylar inhaled and felt himself waking to some outside stimulus. Huh? Sleeping what he assumed was a few hours felt like longer and that told him how tired he was. He saw Peter…going somewhere.
XXX
Peter turned back after setting his books aside and picking up his brace. Seeing Sylar awake was unsurprising, although the man had slept quietly enough and Peter, despite his Sylar-will-have-to-deal-with-it attitude, had in actuality moved very little while in the bed. “I'm going to make something for lunch. I'd like you to eat some.” After the bathroom, he detoured over to his coat for the painkillers, setting the bottle prominently on the table before heading on to the kitchen. He didn't like the selection of foodstuffs, but had a feeling that leaving, even to go across the street and get food from his apartment, would not be taken well. There was enough to make it to tomorrow if they were happy with condensed soup. He'd seen some in the apartment where he'd gotten the milk earlier.
“I'm going to go down the hall to get some soup. I'll be right back.”
XXX
Sylar sat up, both at the mention of food and Peter leaving. He’s come back every time he said he would…even sometimes he didn’t say he was going to come back. Looking over Peter’s face, he couldn’t think of a reason for Peter to ditch him now. He hugged me earlier. “I’ll eat.”
XXX
Reconstituted cream of mushroom soup - it was easy to make, although Peter had yet to figure out how to avoid it being clumpy. It still tasted good. He kept an eye on how much Sylar ate, made sure he took his pills, and didn't engage in any conversation more stressful than a discussion of which of the four varieties of condensed soup Sylar might want for dinner: split pea and ham, cream of mushroom again, cream of asparagus (Peter's choice, not that he mentioned it), or chicken noodle. If Sylar wanted something other than the cream of asparagus, then Peter would simply fix two soups.
XXX
Continued...