Wall Verse Chapter 13, Window Pain
First Day After
Peter woke to his head throbbing front and back. He was lying face down (on the good side of his face, fortunately) in a pool of his own drool and perhaps worse (unfortunately) on a strange couch (which he had no idea if that was a good thing or not). He moaned involuntarily and caught himself a moment later - he was vocal during fights, but he was not very prone to showing pain once he was hurt. He would have liked to say his father drummed that lesson into him, because it seemed like the sort of thing Arthur would have gotten off on instilling in his boys, but instead it was just something the two boys had shared with their father - an inborn stoicism that rarely did them favors in expressing their feelings.
With difficulty Peter pulled himself upright. His mouth tasted like someone had thrown up in it and sadly that wasn't an exaggeration. He couldn't breathe out of his nose, which was probably for the best. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. Carefully he palpated his injured cheek, but he couldn't tell if the bone was broken or not. It didn't matter anyway - the only treatment for such things was to leave it alone and let it heal.
He touched the back of his head. I feel like I got hit with a 2x4. The fight at Mercy Heights with Sylar wandered through his brain. Sylar. I had sex with him on the piano bench. The events of the previous morning slowly unveiled themselves to his sluggish mind. Peter grunted with the emotional blow that came with those thoughts - defeat, oppression, sorrow … and rejection. That last was the root of all. He'd opened himself up to the worst person he knew and he'd been not just slapped in the face, but punched.
I feel like such a failure. Worthless. Every shaming thing his father had ever said to him echoed in his head, more than a few of them homophobic and ugly, things Peter didn't let himself remember when he had better control: caring for others was weak; he was a fuck-up and a little faggot; he'd let the family down and dishonored them. His own thoughts traitorously continued the pattern: he'd failed to protect Nathan, which was what had gotten him into this whole mess … he'd failed. I can't even bring a little love into Sylar's life without freaking him out and pissing him off. He must hate me. Peter's shoulders sagged. He's always hated me and he has a right to. Why did I think there was anything I could do to change that?
He sighed and looked across the living room at the door, worrying that an angry or unstable Sylar might find him. He rose and slowly, carefully, and resolutely shoved an overstuffed easy chair in front of the door out, blocking anyone from getting inside. He didn't want Sylar to get to him. He felt hopeless and depressed. The last thing he wanted was for the cause of all his problems to come in here jeering at him or worse. He cleaned up the kitchen floor, the couch, and finally himself before moving to the bedroom to collapse on the bedspread. Sleep overtook him slowly.
Peter woke to a sharp, stabbing pain in his face when he'd restlessly tried to roll over onto his damaged cheek. He rolled back the other way with a grunt, but he'd been lying in the same position for too long. He was stiff and uncomfortable and there was only one way to lie that didn't hurt his head or face. Reluctantly, he got up.
It was daylight outside, the sky grey and uncertain. He wasn't sure if it was the day after the debacle with Sylar, or two days. For a while, Peter sat at the window, staring out through the blinds. He was pretty sure he was invisible, with the room dark behind him. Mostly, he just sat there and stared out, mind blank, a flat, reactionless aspect to his demeanor that was common for victims of concussion. He still hadn't eaten. Even though he felt the steady gnawing of hunger, the idea of putting food in his mouth repulsed him. The stunned, depressed stupor stayed with him through the rest of the day.
Second Day After
Thankfully, the catatonia was mostly gone when he awoke the next morning. The illusion of safety, engendered by being left alone so far, was what pulled him out of the funk enough to start his mind to thinking. What am I going to do? He was staring out the window again, his empty stomach rumbling at him. He didn't want to leave the tenuous safety of the apartment. He felt quite comfortable right where he was, where he didn't have to face anyone, where he didn't have to face Sylar. Perversely, as long as he hid, he could pretend he wasn't afraid of the man. If he faced him, he might have to admit to his feelings, and none of them were simple.
Peter hung his head. To start with, he was angry at Sylar. He was also angry at himself. I must have pushed him too fast. But it wasn't my fault! He was the one who hit me! He's the serial killer. He's the fuck up! He's the one who kept touching me and making comments and getting close to me and looking at me … all that time, that was him! And then when I finally go and give him what he wants, he hits me. He hits me!
I didn't hurt him. I didn't hit him. I wasn't … exploiting him. I didn't force him. … Did I? Peter shifted uncomfortably. He's an asshole. He led me on and then switched … that can't be right. I know he wanted me. But he still hit me … Can he be that kind of person and … in love with me? Peter struggled with the concept. That's fucked up. I don't want to be with him. I don't want to be with someone like that. But could he be any other way? Can he change - not be a killer, not be an asshole, but actually be nice to someone and have it be something other than an act?
Ha. Dream on, Peter. You sound like some battered wife trying to excuse her abusive husband - 'oh, he only hit me because I made him lose his temper' or 'he's so sorry, I know he'll never do it again' or 'he didn't really mean it, I can tell.' He remembered one too many ambulance trips with women who were afflicted with mysterious household injuries and vacant stares. For a little while longer, he stared vacantly out the window until he realized what he was doing and looked for something neutral to occupy his mind. He searched the apartment and found a deck of cards. He dragged a little table over under the window and began to play Solitaire. He determinedly kept his mind on diamonds and clubs, spades and hearts, rather than thinking about anything more immediate to his situation.
Third Day After
The next day he finally ate - a bowl of chicken noodle soup - which only after consuming it did he remember that it had been years since he'd eaten meat. He rolled his eyes at his own silliness. It doesn't matter. It's all in Sylar's head anyway. It's not like a real chicken had to die for that. He smiled (and then grimaced because that hurt his face) at the idea that some imaginary chicken had to give its imaginary life for his imaginary soup and that he had imaginary philosophical qualms about it. I'm such an insufferable prick sometimes. I don't know how anyone puts up with me. He smiled faintly and went back to his table under the window, beginning to make a house of cards instead of resuming his companionless game. Well, given that I was living alone and had been for years, couldn't keep a relationship to save my life or theirs, I suppose no one was able to put up with me after all.
A little while later, motion out of the corner of his eye captured his attention. Sylar had returned. Instantly a tightness descended over Peter's chest, his breath shortened and his thoughts hiccupped. Sylar was pacing and stretching. He must have been sitting in front of the building Peter was currently in, which was the one directly across the street from Peter's own apartment. It was the same building the piano was in. Directly under Peter's window, where Sylar must have been sitting (unless he'd been inside - a thought which stabbed Peter's heart with terror), had left the man unseen and invisible until now.
Peter hardly breathed as the minutes ticked by. Sylar did nothing more threatening than walk out kinks in his legs and peer up and down the street. He wouldn't be stiff if he was inside the building looking for me. He must have been sitting on the steps, probably reading a book, like he always does when he's waiting for me to come outside. He must think I'm in my apartment. He doesn't know where I'm at. Don't panic. Calm down.
Eventually Sylar disappeared back to where he'd come from and Peter leaned over, face flat with the glass. He could just see one of Sylar's feet jutting out into the street. He's probably reading. He's looking for me. He's waiting for me. Peter sighed, forehead resting on the windowpane. It's not over. I can't hide from him forever. I have to face this and deal with it. He shook his head and went back to his house of cards. But I don't have to do it today. Let him fucking wait.
Fourth Day After
The next day Peter searched the apartment in scrupulous detail, amused by something as simple as cataloguing the contents of the place. He went to the window often, keeping watch. Sylar came by at least four times, loitering briefly in front of the door to Peter's apartment before going on his way, shoulders hunched and head down. He's missing me. He's lonely. Peter sat down at the little table after Sylar had walked out of sight. He shuffled the deck of cards and tried to decide how he felt about Sylar's desire for Peter's company.
I like him. Crazy … but true. It's tough to blame him for his ability once you know him. Of course, he hit me without any influence of his ability at all. That was him all the way. Maybe we could just be friends? Ha. He wants more than that. And to be honest, so do I. I don't want to be here alone for so long with him making passes at me and me telling him no. Or me making passes at him. Peter smiled to himself because yeah, he'd been the instigator just as often as Sylar had. This wasn't all Sylar's big bad plan to get into Peter's pants. Peter had to admit to the same intention in return.
But I don't appreciate being hit. No more of that hot/cold stuff Sylar was pulling. Of course I can say that, but … Sylar really wanted me. I could feel that. He wasn't trying to pull something on me. He just … couldn't … whatever. He got freaked out about getting really turned on and when I finally got him off, he flipped. Peter's brows pulled together. That's gonna complicate sex a lot. Maybe if I just go slower, like with that first kiss, or let him lead … let him lead? Give him control? Jeez, I think that's more scary that getting hit out of the blue every now and then. Peter made an inarticulate grumbling noise. He started laying out the cards for Solitaire, avoiding following that line of thought anymore because it made him uncomfortable.
Fifth Day After
Okay, fine, I'm lonely too. Or at least stir crazy. I don't want to be in here anymore. The place smells funny and I've eaten everything I want to eat in here. I gotta get out. I can just … avoid Sylar for a while more, until I don't freak out just seeing him. I know how to do that. I don't want to talk to him anyway, the asshole. He'd long since washed out his clothes in a sink and dried them. Now he set to taking down his impromptu barricade from in front of the door.
He waited until Sylar had come and gone, obviously still trying to find him, before slipping out of the apartment and quietly padding down the stairs. Peter stopped by the room with the piano to get his guitar on his way out. The street was deserted. He walked across it to his own apartment building, opening the door and heading up. He didn't notice the bits of clear tape near the base holding a short black thread.
Sixth Day After
Peter looked out the window before getting ready to go out and damned if Sylar wasn't there again, waiting. Shit. Apparently alert for movement at the window, Sylar looked up. Peter resisted the urge to jerk back. He'd been seen - jerking back would only make it look like he was afraid. I'm not afraid of you, asshole, he thought defiantly. Of course, here I am hiding in my apartment. Fucker. I'd like to see him come up here so I had a good excuse to kick his ass down all eight flights of stairs. He glared death down at his adversary, but he suspected the nuance of his expression was lost over the distance and through the mostly open blinds.
He huffed at himself and retreated back into his apartment, pacing, running his hands through his hair and grimacing. No one was here to see his anxiety attack so he didn't try to curb it. When he calmed down a little he picked up the guitar and fiddled with it, not actually playing, but just strumming a few chords now and then and fidgeting. It took him a while to relax enough to play an actual song. He didn't go out that day.