More Between Us Chapter 77/? "It's Fun To Stay At The..."
More Between Us, Chapter 77/? "It's Fun To Stay At The..."
Day 26, January 4, afternoon
Sylar would admit he was a little surprised when Peter turned on his heel without another word, leaving his stupid eggs behind just to provide further mockery. The Petrelli was nothing if not contradictory, bipolar, something. Sylar wondered if he’d pushed too far. Telling off one’s imaginary companion wasn’t the best way to determine sanity or to keep said companion around. Only time would give that answer. (What if he doesn’t come back?) He’ll come back. He can’t stay away. He probably won’t do anything different, though - still doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong.
So Sylar sat and stared into space replaying the argument, twisting it around in his mind to spot any flaws (on either side), including the contextual moments and managing to focus on the less arousing parts. He maintained his position that Peter was being psychotic, unfair and unkind while Sylar felt he’d at least tried to extend olive branches and be welcoming, taming down his own inherent craziness. When the water boiled, he was forced into action, boiling the eggs with the idea of being spiteful, as if Peter could somehow see him or care, but he really wanted to hold onto them and make useful missiles out of them when next he saw Peter or throw the damn things out. Let them get old and rotten. Or boil them and make them solid for throwing.
He ate a few of the eggs, warm just to try them that way, assuming the protein would do well for him. With nothing to keep him awake (except maybe the returning threat of more violence in his apartment home), Sylar napped hard but disturbed and lonely on the couch until it was dark. Once in bed, he curled up, feeling cold and remembering the night Peter had tucked him in so gently.
XXX
Peter was not broken up about their parting of the ways. It was clearly for the best if things had deteriorated to where they were shouting and shoving over lunch, about to get into a fight he didn’t want to have. He wasn’t happy about the rejection, but Sylar was (probably) able to take care of himself now. He was at least well enough to pick fights and be provocative. The best thing Peter could do for the guy was to get himself away from him so as not to violently and negatively impinge on Sylar’s health. And, as it had occurred to him before, this let him off the hook, morally, for caretaking duties. He no longer had to stifle his enmity and render medical aid to someone he’d sooner let rot.
He walked off down the street with a fairly clear conscience, putting the matter behind him quickly. He didn’t feel like lunch (his jaw was aching enough that even a sandwich sounded like too much), so he crossed to the building with the piano and entertained himself playing love songs - because he liked them, and finally Sylar wasn’t there to hear them and perhaps take them wrong. After that, he wandered around checking restaurants until he found one that could make a milk shake. Thus satisfied, he made an early night of it, already thinking about the different things he might do when freed from the constraints of playing nursemaid.
Day 27, January 5
The first day, Sylar waited impatiently. How long was this going to take? Peter was so needy and people-friendly even Sylar was a good option to spend (or waste) time with after all. What could be more important or more entertaining than the only other person alive (especially when that person was offering Peter’s favorite past times: nursing, saving people and/or fucking them). Since he was bored, Sylar now had the time and reason to replay the memory of Peter stalking across the room to choke him out in a sudden rage, then linger over his body and allow himself to be pulled atop Sylar, all the while panting, not resisting, and eventually getting hard over it. That Peter was hot for it was hot. Desire was involved and it didn’t matter too much what the desire was for, just that it was aimed and associated with Sylar, who would reap the benefits. If he’s going to choke me out every time, that might cause some problems. His head was still a horrible mess of pain. He took some of the painkillers that Peter had left, resentful of the fact that he was forced to care for himself now. Isn’t he supposed to be here and babysit me? All that guilty care but he didn’t want to be here. Doubt entered his mind then, that maybe giving Peter an easy out was going to backfire.
He stayed home, not up for a search in the gloomy grey yet somehow brightly sunshined between the clouds outdoors, not with his headache. Besides, he had to wait here for Peter. His time was spent reading and puttering around, annoying because he couldn’t fully engage in something while waiting, lest he be interrupted. He thought that’s what he did primarily but sleep was a large part of his day, blissful for being alone yet haunted for that same reason.
XXX
Peter rose from sleep with something of an erection and managed, just barely, to get it down enough to urinate. It stubbornly returned to full salute while he was brushing his teeth. Snagging a washcloth and some lotion, he walked into his bedroom. At least Sylar could not interrupt him here. Reveling in the freedom of having the whole day to himself, without obligation or responsibility, Peter let himself relax and took the opportunity to entertain himself. It had been far too long.
He stood before the foot of his bed, looking down on the rumpled covers and trying to decide what to fantasize about. Who would I want to see there? Hm? What would really work for me? His left hand stroked slowly at his firm flesh. Who would I want to see in my bed? He spread his legs a little, kneading at himself as he tried to bring to mind the faces he most frequently used as his focus. But faces, here, were in short supply. For all the time he’d been here, he’d seen only one other than his own.
That one face was clearest, especially coupled with what they'd (almost) done so recently. Sylar? Ha. Get real. He tried to think of others, but the features were blurred. And anyway, his rebellious mind kept darting back to the one thing he was trying not to think about - Sylar’s face, looming over him in the hallway a few weeks ago, or under him just the day before, the man’s body wriggling so provocatively against Peter’s. Fine, Sylar then. It’s just a fantasy, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
Peter’s eyes narrowed at the bed and he shook his head, turning sideways to it. I don’t want Sylar in my bed. I want him on his knees. I want him on his knees in front of me, where I can come on his face. Peter lathered his hand with the lotion and started stroking harder with long, slow pulls from bottom to top. I would love to see his face dripping with my come. I’d love to make him taste it, that arrogant prick. Maybe when he wiped it off, he’d wipe off some of that smugness, too.
He tried to think about degrading Sylar, or abusing him sexually, but it wasn’t doing it for him so he changed the fantasy. I know, I’d have him suck me. He'd want to do it. I’d let him. He’d still be angry, though. I’d look down on that gorgeously handsome face and he’d be glaring up at me with my cock in his mouth. He’d never bite me - he wouldn’t - but I wouldn’t know that for sure. That would be part of the danger, not knowing, but letting him do me anyway.
Peter’s breathing sped up - a willing participant did it for him way more than otherwise. His rapid pumping changed tempo as he rolled his palm around the head of his cock, imagining Sylar’s tongue laving him, exploring the ridge of his corona and teasing the very tip of his tongue into Peter's slit. He groaned, arching back just a little as his hips jutted forward involuntarily. Oh yeah. He looked down with narrowed eyes, conjuring Sylar’s face licking over him, lips puckered around his penis while those incredible, piercing dark eyes smoldered up, meeting Peter’s own and promising to drown him in desire.
Oh yeah. I’d be fucking his mouth and he’d be staring up at me, never letting me look away, totally focused on me. And he’d be good at it. You gotta know someone with lips like his is going to be good at it. Those lips would be wrapped around my dick, sucking and pulling, like he was fucking milking me. Oh yeah.
He shifted back to stroking, but this time in shorter jerks near the head of his dick, rubbing his index finger up and down against the frenulum. And he’d want me so much. He’d want me to come. He’d be all into it, really enthusiastic. Angry, yeah, maybe, but really into it, really going to town, letting me in deep, then taking me shallow, then deep again - just whatever he needed to do to get me off. And he’d put his hands on my ass and spread it. Oh! Peter’s legs shifted further apart as his hips moved in sync with his left hand. His right, damnably trapped in the brace, still managed to stroke his and tease his buttocks.
He’d spread me. He’s got such big hands. Long fingers. Oh God, yeah! He’d brush just his fingertips across me. Peter ran his thumb up and down his crack, imagining Sylar's fingers probing so much deeper. His dick throbbed and he felt the beginning of his peak forming as a twist of glowing sensation in his gut, spreading fast through his veins. His breath was coming in short pants and he let loose brief whines that punctuated the wet sound of his lotioned hand pistoning up and down on his cockhead.
His fingers would be playing with my ass while he sucked at my dick. His tongue would be all over it, his lips tight against me, just a little bit of teeth because he'd be trying so hard … oh my God … I’m so close … and then … I’d put my hands in his hair … and I’d stroke it. He’s got such great hair and I think he likes mine. Oh God, baby … baby … I love this … please … I love it. I love yo- Wait, what? Peter teetered on the edge of release, the knowledge of what he’d almost thought/said to Sylar, even as a fantasy, thoroughly fucking with his head.
What the fuck? Peter’s fantasies nearly always included him crooning endearments to his partners, usually much more coherently than he ever managed in real life (such being the essence of ‘fantasy’), but to find himself dreaming of saying those words to Sylar threw him so badly that he found himself holding a spongy, fast-shrinking package. It scared him. There were too many things it could mean - nearly all of them being things he didn’t want to think about. What he most didn’t want to think about was Sylar’s words refuting Peter’s stated lack of interest in him: ‘I’d be a lot more inclined to believe you if you hadn’t sat still and let me rub on you.’ A part of Peter had enjoyed the hell out of that, and that was no meaningless, easily dismissed fantasy.
With a loud, frustrated groan, he threw himself on the bed, landing face up, arms spread to the sides, penis wilted between his legs. God-dammit! He huffed. His balls hurt now. He wasn’t about to try to rub one out again - not until he got his head on straight. One thing was certain, his erection problem was taken care of, though it had done nothing for his frustration.
Lying on the bed moping wasn’t Peter’s style. After a brief, pointless period of fuming at himself, he got dressed and headed out. When he left, he wasn’t sure where he was going, but he soon picked a goal - anything to distract himself and the more engaging and physical the better. He stopped at a few clothing stores for warmer gear, because it was frigid if sunny. After that, he made an expedition out to the hospital, restocking supplies like IV fluids, Zofran, a new trauma kit, and other things. He dug around in doctor’s offices until he found some books to read - general anatomy, head trauma, broken bones, and the DSM-5. The hefty tomes were about all he thought he could comfortably pack through the cold, when combined with the supplies he’d already set by the door.
He lugged his new things to the building across the street from his apartment, opting to stash them in the rec room rather than clutter up his place with them. He lounged for an hour while he laid on the couch and read up on the structure of the hand, attempting briefly to meditate his own into healing faster. It didn’t seem to work, but that had never stopped Peter in the past. Maybe I just need to focus on it more. Won’t hurt to keep my mind off of other things, like Sylar.
Day 28, January 6
Sylar didn’t want to get up. He knew it was childish and pointless - no one was around to see or care and it had no effect on his day, such as it was. He was stuck at home, by reason of his condition or because he was waiting for Peter. The little punk thought it was funny to make him wait. But he would do just that because…that was the implied command, whether he liked it or not. The second day he worked on the clocks to make a point that he wasn’t being controlled or made to do anything. It didn’t go so well. His neck and back hurt in a dozen different places, mostly all related to Peter’s rough handling, and his headache grew worse when he leaned over. Still, Sylar kept at it as long as he could with sanity and any measure of precision. It didn’t feel right to try to fix something when he couldn’t do a good job at it. He made himself a sandwich (peanut butter and jelly) and ate some crackers, otherwise lounging, trying to focus and read and stay awake.
XXX
Peter was disappointed by the lack of food in his apartment. For the previous few weeks, he’d been eating at Sylar’s all the time, so his own cupboard was bare. The night before, he’d had to scavenge through neighboring apartments for dinner. He was done with that now. In the morning, he bundled up and went to the grocery store, filling a cart with everything he thought he’d need to handle a small siege, or getting snowed in again. It was cloudy and windy, still bitterly cold, but he didn’t see any precipitation. Peter was glad to get inside, put everything away, and make himself a nice hot lunch of canned soup.
Despite the forbidding temperatures, he headed back out in the afternoon. The wind had settled down, which was good. His goal now was to learn the neighborhood. He’d seen and become familiar with storefronts as he’d walked past them on his many trips from Sylar’s apartment to the grocery store, as well as his two trips to the hospital (although one of those was in blowing snow and hardly counted). But now he was going to make a systematic effort of it. When he wanted a hot chocolate or a certain type of bandage, he wanted to know off-hand where the nearest coffee shop or pharmacy was. He explored at ground level, not going into higher floors or individual offices. Not yet, anyway. This wasn’t the same as his apartment search early on, when Sylar had accompanied him. Then, he hadn’t known what he was looking for. Now he did - he wanted the lay of the land and aside from the chilly weather, this was the perfect time to get it.
Day 29, January 7
Waking up was miserable by himself. The weather was chilly with the promise of getting colder still. Peter didn’t appear at all. And Sylar listened very carefully. He just…left me? (Can he do that?) Of course he can, he will and he did. If it’s a choice between you and the people-less world, he’s taking the world. (What if he’s already gone? What if I can’t find him? What if I’m all alone again?) I wonder if I should move…About lunch time, Sylar could take no more. Groomed and jacketed and fed, he left his apartment to look for Peter. He went first to the man’s apartment building of choice, standing outside and looking up at the windows to see if, by chance, he could spot Peter’s floor at the very least. The smooth, mirrored face of the building seemed to be mocking him: ‘Peter isn’t here. He never was.’ It was intimidating and frightening, the idea that he was abandoned and alone. Sylar was frantic and worried, hasty yet hesitant to enter the medic’s building. (He won’t like me stalking him…He wanted space…Has he booby-trapped the place?) So he tried to move quickly and carefully to the stairs - less likely to result in convenient elevator accidents that way - but he knew he wouldn’t make it very far, his toes were beginning to recover, but stairs made hard use of his blood-pressure and headache and spine.
When he got to the second floor, he gingerly stuck his head inside the door. These were nicer apartments, bigger, too, than Sylar’s. That was a goddamn annoying, obvious, ‘I’m better than you.’ “Peter?” he called out, several times in varying volumes, still shouting the question, never an angry demand. This was a stupid idea. All he has to do is ignore me. Unless I start breaking down doors…It was so tempting, and karmic - breaking in Peter’s door, attacking him…choking him out and rubbing on him some more in his own apartment…It made him fucking tingle but he would save it for a last resort, once he’d gone around Crazy Bend, if he still hadn’t found Peter.
Sylar repeated the process for three more floors with no success, not that he expected any at that point. He had to rest before going down the stairs, not wanting to slip and bash his own brains out on some stupid mission, only to have Peter find him there weeks later and have a good laugh. He went home before dark, huddled against the weather, miserably munched more crackers and put himself to bed with less hope than he’d had in the morning.
XXX
Peter spent the entire day out roaming around. About halfway through, he’d stumbled across his greatest find yet - a YMCA, just a block and a half from his apartment. It had everything - a pool, an indoor track, racquetball and basketball courts, and all the equipment and machines he could dream of. This was one of the few buildings he went inside of to check it out (the other places he’d entered had been for warmth or food, but this was for pleasure). Despite the temptation to give up on his exploration and remain here, he eventually pushed on, reminding himself that getting out and looking around was exactly how he would find more places like this.
Day 30, January 8
Sylar woke up in a blurry funk. He didn’t hurry per se, his mood and dread wouldn’t allow it despite his worry, but once ready, he left once the sun was up. It was still cold with no indication it would warm up later in the day. Sylar went to the other man’s apartment and checked the lobby, peering up the stairwell to no avail. Where is he? I didn’t check anything above the fourth floor…He likes to be out, though. Check the hospital? Library? Porn shop? (Yes, he knew where several were). Maybe that pool…Sylar walked around the immediate vicinity until afternoon. He found Peter coming out of the building across the street, the one with the piano, where they’d stayed in the penthouse previously. Relief filled him and tension fled. He knew when Peter had seen him, giving him another of those up-and-down checking looks, maybe it meant something but most likely it didn’t. Sylar approached him, wanted to grab him, hug him, touch him again, if only to make sure Peter was still real, or for darker reasons. “Peter!” he said when the other man seemed ready to walk past him like nothing strange had been going on, like walking by him was normal. When the nurse gave no answer, slowing to a halt to engage him and that was promising, Sylar lamely greeted him, “Hey.”
XXX
Well, there was Sylar. That was good to know - that he was alive, up and around. Peter looked him over carefully, trying to assess how Sylar was moving, his posture, his skin tone, his expression, and from that, his general health. Peter didn’t think the guy was doing very well - he was a little slow, hunched, pale, with dark circles under his eyes and not as alert as Peter had seen him in the past - but Peter didn’t see anything that truly alarmed him. Sylar looked mobile, oriented, clean, properly dressed, and together. It was more than some people managed. Peter tried to move on and ignore him, because seeing Sylar didn’t require interacting with him, but Sylar apparently didn’t see things that way. After being called, Peter stopped, regarding Sylar coolly to find out what he wanted.
XXX
"What are you doing out here?”
XXX
Peter reached up and scratched at one eyebrow with a gloved hand, glancing away as he did. “Just making the rounds.” When that didn’t seem to satisfy, he added, “Exploring.”
XXX
“What are you looking for?” Sylar tried to ask this politely, friendly because Peter didn’t have to answer. Or talk to him at all, that much was clear. The nurse looked like he’d rather get back to his exploration and walk by without exchange. Sylar knew that and stubbornly wanted the opposite, if only to get on Peter’s nerves and prove he wouldn’t be easy to ignore.
XXX
Places you can’t kick me out of. Peter snorted softly and looked away with half a smile. “Ways to spend the time.” Sylar was still looking at him. The man was not going to be brushed off by Peter’s cold shoulder, short responses, or inconsistent eye contact. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured down the street in the direction he’d been intending to go anyway, “I found a YMCA just up the street. Did you know that was there?”
XXX
“Hmm,” Sylar hummed an affirmative, nodding. He hoped that wasn’t an accusation, like he’d been holding out information for some unknown reason.
XXX
“I got some free weights and stuff from there. They have a pool, too. I was going to go back and see if there was anything else I wanted. Extras, you know? Duplicates. It’s a nice place.” That said, Peter had still decided that for his morning workout, he preferred the weight room across the street. It was closer and smaller and less intimidating. The YMCA was vast and empty, which while that had its good points at times, on the whole Peter found it unsettling. He’d spent the morning moving everything he wanted to the smaller, more comfortable room. His plans for the afternoon had involved swimming, but Sylar’s presence probably put the brakes on that. Probably. On autopilot, Peter started walking in the direction of the YMCA anyway. When he saw Sylar wasn’t keeping up but was definitely following him, Peter just as automatically shortened his strides and fell in a few yards away - Sylar on the sidewalk, Peter on the street.
XXX
Maybe he’s just letting me come along so I can help lift things. Sylar watched Peter from the corner of his eye in time to see the man sidling closer. Immediately he looked forward to keep his peripheral open; he stood straighter and tensed. Just because he could take being choked out didn’t mean he necessarily enjoyed it or wanted to do it again (particularly if there was no sexual climax involved). It also didn’t mean he wouldn’t put himself in a situation that might end similarly if he felt he had to or that he would put himself into a stupid situation needlessly.
XXX
Peter had intended to walk closer, but Sylar’s body language put him off. Peter looked away pointedly. Glancing back, he said quietly, “Sylar, if you’re afraid I’m going to attack you, then why don’t you stop when I get upset, when you’re goading me?” It’s not like I don’t give signals! He flapped his arms to either side and said, still in a low voice, but also frustrated and earnest, “I’m not going to attack you out here, for no reason.” He fell silent. This is probably too much of a conversation to have right after running into the guy. Peter frowned, but even though his head was tilted forward a bit like he was looking down, it was also turned so he could watch Sylar. The occasional, avoidant eye contact of earlier was gone - now Peter wanted something from Sylar - an answer, if one was possible.
XXX
Sylar just shrugged. He had nothing (decent) to say and kept his mouth shut because opening it would result in Peter leaving, with or without another beating. To say things were complicated was an understatement. Sylar was angry, vengeful, resentful, wary yet needy, self-loathsome, humiliated all at once. Such a liar, he thought about everything Peter had said and he couldn’t count how many ‘inconsistencies’ there were. It was easier, and a better strategy, to assume Peter was a frequent liar, at least where he was concerned. Right, of course you’re not going to attack me for ‘no reason.’ You never do. He ignored the looks in his direction. Health and fucking survival had to rank somewhere on his list of priorities because sometimes Peter conveniently ‘forgot.’ Why don’t I stop? "Because I like to see you get so hot and bothered," Sylar replied, complete with a nasty side-eye.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a look, a 'you are such an asshole' look of reproach. It was almost a glare. He wasn't sure if Sylar's statement was funny because it was so over-the-top and uncalled for, or if it was irritating as hell because Sylar didn't get the point. It's not something we need to be joking about, Sylar! Peter sighed, looked away, and blew it off by means of a displeased grunt. Fine. Be that way. But after a few paces (still shortened to keep even with Sylar), he had to wonder, Why is he joking about something so serious? Does he not care if he gets hurt? He was laughing when he thought I was going to hit him and when I went to choke him out … and at Mercy Heights, where he told me to kill him. And other times. Peter frowned, staring off to the left at the empty courtyard with a currently non-functioning fountain that they were slowly passing. You know, him being suicidal is not out of the question.
XXX
Disappointingly, Peter (not including a nasty look of his own) failed to respond to that barb. Otherwise, Sylar was quite ignored and he felt that keenly. The conversation could not be deader, although Peter still walked with him. He didn’t regret saying it. It wasn’t like he had been the one to bring it up, either - no, that was all Peter, who would probably blame him for the outcome of such a stupid exchange. Shifting the focus, he asked more normally, “Why not just work out at the ‘Y’?”
XXX
Peter pulled his head around to deign to look at Sylar again. After another huff to make his unhappiness clear about Sylar's previous line, his demeanor calmed and he answered. “It's … empty. Kind of big. There's nothing like a room full of twenty treadmills to remind you you're the only one there.” He was quiet for a few more strides, then added, “Makes me want to start going room to room to see if I can find someone.” Somewhere in the core of Peter's being, he felt that if he just kept looking hard enough, he'd find … something. The way out, a sign, an obstacle to overcome, or unlikeliest of unlikely, a person. Well, a person other than Sylar. Sylar didn't count, especially not when he was being an asshole. But at the moment, maybe he wasn't being that.
XXX
That had Sylar boiling again. I’m someone! If he’s that fucking lonely…(I’m not someone to him and he’ll blame my behavior for that. What can I do-) I’m not going to sugarcoat myself. He needs me. Sylar’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Peter. After a while, he probed, “Is that just habit or wishful thinking or do you have difficulty believing me when I tell you there’s no one else here?” His slighted feelings made an unsubtle appearance; “I’m good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found, wherever they are. I’ve had a lot of time to look and I didn’t find anyone.” He meant it also to imply that he’d given Peter space and that he wasn’t blind to Peter’s snubs.
XXX
Peter glanced over, taking in Sylar's shift of mood. So now he's pissed. Why? Because I didn't go looking for the guy who laughed about my brother being killed? Or the guy who did the killing in the first place? Peter rolled his eyes at Sylar's narrow-eyed stare and kept walking. But despite the emotional byplay and what sounded like an attempt at a threat (not much of one, really, so Peter ignored it), Peter answered Sylar's question. “Wishful thinking, I guess. Maybe habit. I just have this feeling.” He raised his right hand and waved it at the city in emphasis, brace poking out of a glove he'd mutilated until it fit around the device. “It's not that I don't believe you,” he said sincerely, “it's just that it looks like a city, looks like a place where people should be.” He sighed. “I'm not used to it yet.” He glanced over at Sylar, intending to sooth the guy's ruffled feathers by ceding seniority in the not-hotly-contested issue of who had been here longer. “I haven't had a lot of time to not find anyone.” Looking away, he shrugged. “I'll probably get over it eventually.”
They walked along in silence for a little while before Peter asked abruptly, “What was that like? All that time, no one here?” His gaze on Sylar was attentive and concerned, but also curious. How did someone cope with something like that? How did Sylar? For someone who seemed to nearly freak out when Peter left at night, he seemed to have handled Peter staying away for days just fine. Or was that just how it appeared?
XXX
Sylar frowned, looking ahead as they walked. It sounded like a stupid question but it wasn’t. It was another one of those personal questions Peter wanted to know without a good reason. After maybe thirty seconds to think, he answered slowly. “My sanity was already in question so this is…” he trailed off with an incomplete, vague wave of his hand. “It can’t be a hallucination or a dream if two people see it….assuming you’re real, of course,” Sylar intoned dryly.
XXX
“I think I'm real,” Peter interjected as though offering a piece of helpful evidence.
XXX
“I’m not used to people so that’s not much of a change, not having to watch over my shoulder until you showed up. It’s…empty.” He fidgeted, trying to put more into words. He felt colorblind, hypersensitive to a void vacuum. He’d always been needy but it had become instinct to block things out and defend himself until now, when he (almost) didn’t need to anymore. Now he felt the absence of pressure, awareness, contact. There were no human social constructs to worry about or enjoy. With Peter here, it would take one wrong move to turn a potentially fun, fulfilling situation into a one-man horror show. That was the only challenge once again - survival and sanity. Peter was both an irritant and a balm. All that passed through him for the most part and Sylar eventually blurted, “It’s too quiet, what the hell do you think it was like, Peter? You don’t have to deal with it.” A shrug tried to dismiss it and he propelled himself into walking faster, hoping it hurt or to hurt himself, just something.
XXX
Peter shrugged, too, and let Sylar get ahead of him a little. One of the accusations Sylar had made repeatedly was that Peter was privileged, lucky, some kind of fortunate son. Maybe he feels that way because he has Nathan's point of view from his memories? But … Nathan wasn't … well, he was privileged in a lot of ways. But he was also alcoholic, unfaithful, and … Peter frowned and hunched his shoulders against the pang he felt inside at thinking negatively of his brother, under the circumstances. Dead. And Sylar thinks I'm so lucky that I don't have to deal with being here alone. So lucky to have him here with me. He huffed and caught up with the guy as Sylar started slowing back down.
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Sylar sighed. “It gets on your nerves in every way,” he admitted, matching Peter’s pace more intentionally. “I think that’s the point.” That was murmured with misery. There was no doubt in his mind that this was punishment or some form of karma. How could it not be? At least Peter wasn’t laughing and otherwise humiliating him with the fact. Sylar glanced at his partner, then looked away to avoid detection. (It could be worse). The problem was discerning if it was going to get worse or not.
XXX
“There was never anyone else here, was there?”
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“No,” Sylar whispered, shaking his head. The question and answer were all encompassing.
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“Did you ever have dreams like this, before? Nightmares, maybe?”
XXX
“Not-not like this, no…” Dreams of being abandoned and alone? Nightmares? Absolutely. But never an empty city. The affect was exactly the same on him. A child terrified his parents would disappear, leaving him to wander and eventually starve; that is if they didn’t leave him locked away in his room, wondering where his family was, why he’d been forgotten. Or a lonely adult, searching for meaning and value through the reactions he could gain and deeds he could perform, banished to a world with no accomplishment or hope. He would starve a different way, his mind devouring itself.
XXX
“I used to have nightmares like this, sort of,” Peter said softly, waving vaguely at the buildings again. “I'd be in New York. The city had been evacuated. But everyone I cared about was still there. They'd refused to leave, I guess. Then I'd explode.” He shook his head against the memories. It made his skin crawl just to think about it. “I had that same nightmare over and over when I was in that coma after I ran into you at the Odessa stadium. Over and over.” He looked ahead at the structure of the YMCA. It was surrounded by a now-pointless parking garage that had the function of camouflaging it from street view. Trying to take his thoughts away from the things that haunted him, he wondered if it had one of those spiral ramps. Those were cool to skateboard down, and the possibility of that was one benefit of a lack of cars or security guards.
XXX
Sylar was watching and listening intently, relieved to not be the focus for questions like these. He saw how much it bothered Peter; how could it not? It had bothered Sylar even in the height of his bloodlust insanity. In the future…he said I was the bomb. I blew up California. Something shifted; he twitched and lengthening his strides though he didn’t intend to, “//Right now I’d settle for you walkin’ straight.//” Wait, what was that fr-? It had been the last thing Nathan said to Peter before he’d slipped into that coma, after running off, getting himself killed, arrested, then babbling on like the sick idiot he was…Um…I didn’t bring it up. Sylar hesitated to slow down again because it would put him in range, target painted on the back of his head and everything. He was sure he didn’t want to get hit today, or ever until he healed (and maybe even after that…) but he couldn’t discern if he desired to talk or even be around Peter in general today.
XXX
His voice … that's not Sylar! Peter stopped in his tracks, heartbeat and breathing both accelerating in a fight-or-flight response very focused on 'fight'. He stared to bore a hole in the back of Sylar's head. He didn't recognize the words as anything Nathan had said to him, but he recognized the tone, even the body language as Sylar walked ahead of him. But then he thought, If I hit him when he thinks he's Nathan, am I hitting him or Nathan? Peter jerked, brows furrowing, his expression turning from anger to confusion. It's not like I've never hit Nathan, but I'm either hitting him or hitting Sylar while Sylar's … not in his right mind. Like beating up on someone who's in an altered state. It's one or the other. Peter deflated, frustrated and at a loss as to how to resolve the dilemma unfolding in his head. The more he thought about it, the less justified was his angry response. He was still angry; he just couldn't see moral a way to do anything about it.
XXX
Nervously, Sylar cleared his throat. I’m the one who can’t walk straight. Some help I’m going to be to him. “Where did you go after that? The coma?” It wasn’t something Nathan knew - where Peter had gone after he’d woken from a coma and gone missing. Plus, Peter talking and him listening seemed to make everyone happier than if Sylar shared or asked questions.
XXX
Peter made an upset chuffing noise and hurried to catch up, lengthening his strides. Sylar sidestepped, almost tripping over himself, turning to face him while backing up. Peter made the same dismissive sound and pointed forward, under the gloomy bulk of the parking garage. “Door's that way,” he said, otherwise ignoring Sylar's reaction.
XXX
Sylar was still wide-eyed on high alert, the words not registering immediately. He didn’t move but Peter did, leading the way into the building - Sylar let him, that way he could be (more) sure he wouldn’t be ambushed. Peter was upset; he got that much. There’s no line to cross with him. There are no boundaries. Any little thing will start a fight. (Of course, that was a big thing and he hasn’t hit me. Yet). Slouched and tense, he followed as far behind Peter as he thought he could get away with.
XXX
Continued...
Day 26, January 4, afternoon
Sylar would admit he was a little surprised when Peter turned on his heel without another word, leaving his stupid eggs behind just to provide further mockery. The Petrelli was nothing if not contradictory, bipolar, something. Sylar wondered if he’d pushed too far. Telling off one’s imaginary companion wasn’t the best way to determine sanity or to keep said companion around. Only time would give that answer. (What if he doesn’t come back?) He’ll come back. He can’t stay away. He probably won’t do anything different, though - still doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong.
So Sylar sat and stared into space replaying the argument, twisting it around in his mind to spot any flaws (on either side), including the contextual moments and managing to focus on the less arousing parts. He maintained his position that Peter was being psychotic, unfair and unkind while Sylar felt he’d at least tried to extend olive branches and be welcoming, taming down his own inherent craziness. When the water boiled, he was forced into action, boiling the eggs with the idea of being spiteful, as if Peter could somehow see him or care, but he really wanted to hold onto them and make useful missiles out of them when next he saw Peter or throw the damn things out. Let them get old and rotten. Or boil them and make them solid for throwing.
He ate a few of the eggs, warm just to try them that way, assuming the protein would do well for him. With nothing to keep him awake (except maybe the returning threat of more violence in his apartment home), Sylar napped hard but disturbed and lonely on the couch until it was dark. Once in bed, he curled up, feeling cold and remembering the night Peter had tucked him in so gently.
XXX
Peter was not broken up about their parting of the ways. It was clearly for the best if things had deteriorated to where they were shouting and shoving over lunch, about to get into a fight he didn’t want to have. He wasn’t happy about the rejection, but Sylar was (probably) able to take care of himself now. He was at least well enough to pick fights and be provocative. The best thing Peter could do for the guy was to get himself away from him so as not to violently and negatively impinge on Sylar’s health. And, as it had occurred to him before, this let him off the hook, morally, for caretaking duties. He no longer had to stifle his enmity and render medical aid to someone he’d sooner let rot.
He walked off down the street with a fairly clear conscience, putting the matter behind him quickly. He didn’t feel like lunch (his jaw was aching enough that even a sandwich sounded like too much), so he crossed to the building with the piano and entertained himself playing love songs - because he liked them, and finally Sylar wasn’t there to hear them and perhaps take them wrong. After that, he wandered around checking restaurants until he found one that could make a milk shake. Thus satisfied, he made an early night of it, already thinking about the different things he might do when freed from the constraints of playing nursemaid.
Day 27, January 5
The first day, Sylar waited impatiently. How long was this going to take? Peter was so needy and people-friendly even Sylar was a good option to spend (or waste) time with after all. What could be more important or more entertaining than the only other person alive (especially when that person was offering Peter’s favorite past times: nursing, saving people and/or fucking them). Since he was bored, Sylar now had the time and reason to replay the memory of Peter stalking across the room to choke him out in a sudden rage, then linger over his body and allow himself to be pulled atop Sylar, all the while panting, not resisting, and eventually getting hard over it. That Peter was hot for it was hot. Desire was involved and it didn’t matter too much what the desire was for, just that it was aimed and associated with Sylar, who would reap the benefits. If he’s going to choke me out every time, that might cause some problems. His head was still a horrible mess of pain. He took some of the painkillers that Peter had left, resentful of the fact that he was forced to care for himself now. Isn’t he supposed to be here and babysit me? All that guilty care but he didn’t want to be here. Doubt entered his mind then, that maybe giving Peter an easy out was going to backfire.
He stayed home, not up for a search in the gloomy grey yet somehow brightly sunshined between the clouds outdoors, not with his headache. Besides, he had to wait here for Peter. His time was spent reading and puttering around, annoying because he couldn’t fully engage in something while waiting, lest he be interrupted. He thought that’s what he did primarily but sleep was a large part of his day, blissful for being alone yet haunted for that same reason.
XXX
Peter rose from sleep with something of an erection and managed, just barely, to get it down enough to urinate. It stubbornly returned to full salute while he was brushing his teeth. Snagging a washcloth and some lotion, he walked into his bedroom. At least Sylar could not interrupt him here. Reveling in the freedom of having the whole day to himself, without obligation or responsibility, Peter let himself relax and took the opportunity to entertain himself. It had been far too long.
He stood before the foot of his bed, looking down on the rumpled covers and trying to decide what to fantasize about. Who would I want to see there? Hm? What would really work for me? His left hand stroked slowly at his firm flesh. Who would I want to see in my bed? He spread his legs a little, kneading at himself as he tried to bring to mind the faces he most frequently used as his focus. But faces, here, were in short supply. For all the time he’d been here, he’d seen only one other than his own.
That one face was clearest, especially coupled with what they'd (almost) done so recently. Sylar? Ha. Get real. He tried to think of others, but the features were blurred. And anyway, his rebellious mind kept darting back to the one thing he was trying not to think about - Sylar’s face, looming over him in the hallway a few weeks ago, or under him just the day before, the man’s body wriggling so provocatively against Peter’s. Fine, Sylar then. It’s just a fantasy, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
Peter’s eyes narrowed at the bed and he shook his head, turning sideways to it. I don’t want Sylar in my bed. I want him on his knees. I want him on his knees in front of me, where I can come on his face. Peter lathered his hand with the lotion and started stroking harder with long, slow pulls from bottom to top. I would love to see his face dripping with my come. I’d love to make him taste it, that arrogant prick. Maybe when he wiped it off, he’d wipe off some of that smugness, too.
He tried to think about degrading Sylar, or abusing him sexually, but it wasn’t doing it for him so he changed the fantasy. I know, I’d have him suck me. He'd want to do it. I’d let him. He’d still be angry, though. I’d look down on that gorgeously handsome face and he’d be glaring up at me with my cock in his mouth. He’d never bite me - he wouldn’t - but I wouldn’t know that for sure. That would be part of the danger, not knowing, but letting him do me anyway.
Peter’s breathing sped up - a willing participant did it for him way more than otherwise. His rapid pumping changed tempo as he rolled his palm around the head of his cock, imagining Sylar’s tongue laving him, exploring the ridge of his corona and teasing the very tip of his tongue into Peter's slit. He groaned, arching back just a little as his hips jutted forward involuntarily. Oh yeah. He looked down with narrowed eyes, conjuring Sylar’s face licking over him, lips puckered around his penis while those incredible, piercing dark eyes smoldered up, meeting Peter’s own and promising to drown him in desire.
Oh yeah. I’d be fucking his mouth and he’d be staring up at me, never letting me look away, totally focused on me. And he’d be good at it. You gotta know someone with lips like his is going to be good at it. Those lips would be wrapped around my dick, sucking and pulling, like he was fucking milking me. Oh yeah.
He shifted back to stroking, but this time in shorter jerks near the head of his dick, rubbing his index finger up and down against the frenulum. And he’d want me so much. He’d want me to come. He’d be all into it, really enthusiastic. Angry, yeah, maybe, but really into it, really going to town, letting me in deep, then taking me shallow, then deep again - just whatever he needed to do to get me off. And he’d put his hands on my ass and spread it. Oh! Peter’s legs shifted further apart as his hips moved in sync with his left hand. His right, damnably trapped in the brace, still managed to stroke his and tease his buttocks.
He’d spread me. He’s got such big hands. Long fingers. Oh God, yeah! He’d brush just his fingertips across me. Peter ran his thumb up and down his crack, imagining Sylar's fingers probing so much deeper. His dick throbbed and he felt the beginning of his peak forming as a twist of glowing sensation in his gut, spreading fast through his veins. His breath was coming in short pants and he let loose brief whines that punctuated the wet sound of his lotioned hand pistoning up and down on his cockhead.
His fingers would be playing with my ass while he sucked at my dick. His tongue would be all over it, his lips tight against me, just a little bit of teeth because he'd be trying so hard … oh my God … I’m so close … and then … I’d put my hands in his hair … and I’d stroke it. He’s got such great hair and I think he likes mine. Oh God, baby … baby … I love this … please … I love it. I love yo- Wait, what? Peter teetered on the edge of release, the knowledge of what he’d almost thought/said to Sylar, even as a fantasy, thoroughly fucking with his head.
What the fuck? Peter’s fantasies nearly always included him crooning endearments to his partners, usually much more coherently than he ever managed in real life (such being the essence of ‘fantasy’), but to find himself dreaming of saying those words to Sylar threw him so badly that he found himself holding a spongy, fast-shrinking package. It scared him. There were too many things it could mean - nearly all of them being things he didn’t want to think about. What he most didn’t want to think about was Sylar’s words refuting Peter’s stated lack of interest in him: ‘I’d be a lot more inclined to believe you if you hadn’t sat still and let me rub on you.’ A part of Peter had enjoyed the hell out of that, and that was no meaningless, easily dismissed fantasy.
With a loud, frustrated groan, he threw himself on the bed, landing face up, arms spread to the sides, penis wilted between his legs. God-dammit! He huffed. His balls hurt now. He wasn’t about to try to rub one out again - not until he got his head on straight. One thing was certain, his erection problem was taken care of, though it had done nothing for his frustration.
Lying on the bed moping wasn’t Peter’s style. After a brief, pointless period of fuming at himself, he got dressed and headed out. When he left, he wasn’t sure where he was going, but he soon picked a goal - anything to distract himself and the more engaging and physical the better. He stopped at a few clothing stores for warmer gear, because it was frigid if sunny. After that, he made an expedition out to the hospital, restocking supplies like IV fluids, Zofran, a new trauma kit, and other things. He dug around in doctor’s offices until he found some books to read - general anatomy, head trauma, broken bones, and the DSM-5. The hefty tomes were about all he thought he could comfortably pack through the cold, when combined with the supplies he’d already set by the door.
He lugged his new things to the building across the street from his apartment, opting to stash them in the rec room rather than clutter up his place with them. He lounged for an hour while he laid on the couch and read up on the structure of the hand, attempting briefly to meditate his own into healing faster. It didn’t seem to work, but that had never stopped Peter in the past. Maybe I just need to focus on it more. Won’t hurt to keep my mind off of other things, like Sylar.
Day 28, January 6
Sylar didn’t want to get up. He knew it was childish and pointless - no one was around to see or care and it had no effect on his day, such as it was. He was stuck at home, by reason of his condition or because he was waiting for Peter. The little punk thought it was funny to make him wait. But he would do just that because…that was the implied command, whether he liked it or not. The second day he worked on the clocks to make a point that he wasn’t being controlled or made to do anything. It didn’t go so well. His neck and back hurt in a dozen different places, mostly all related to Peter’s rough handling, and his headache grew worse when he leaned over. Still, Sylar kept at it as long as he could with sanity and any measure of precision. It didn’t feel right to try to fix something when he couldn’t do a good job at it. He made himself a sandwich (peanut butter and jelly) and ate some crackers, otherwise lounging, trying to focus and read and stay awake.
XXX
Peter was disappointed by the lack of food in his apartment. For the previous few weeks, he’d been eating at Sylar’s all the time, so his own cupboard was bare. The night before, he’d had to scavenge through neighboring apartments for dinner. He was done with that now. In the morning, he bundled up and went to the grocery store, filling a cart with everything he thought he’d need to handle a small siege, or getting snowed in again. It was cloudy and windy, still bitterly cold, but he didn’t see any precipitation. Peter was glad to get inside, put everything away, and make himself a nice hot lunch of canned soup.
Despite the forbidding temperatures, he headed back out in the afternoon. The wind had settled down, which was good. His goal now was to learn the neighborhood. He’d seen and become familiar with storefronts as he’d walked past them on his many trips from Sylar’s apartment to the grocery store, as well as his two trips to the hospital (although one of those was in blowing snow and hardly counted). But now he was going to make a systematic effort of it. When he wanted a hot chocolate or a certain type of bandage, he wanted to know off-hand where the nearest coffee shop or pharmacy was. He explored at ground level, not going into higher floors or individual offices. Not yet, anyway. This wasn’t the same as his apartment search early on, when Sylar had accompanied him. Then, he hadn’t known what he was looking for. Now he did - he wanted the lay of the land and aside from the chilly weather, this was the perfect time to get it.
Day 29, January 7
Waking up was miserable by himself. The weather was chilly with the promise of getting colder still. Peter didn’t appear at all. And Sylar listened very carefully. He just…left me? (Can he do that?) Of course he can, he will and he did. If it’s a choice between you and the people-less world, he’s taking the world. (What if he’s already gone? What if I can’t find him? What if I’m all alone again?) I wonder if I should move…About lunch time, Sylar could take no more. Groomed and jacketed and fed, he left his apartment to look for Peter. He went first to the man’s apartment building of choice, standing outside and looking up at the windows to see if, by chance, he could spot Peter’s floor at the very least. The smooth, mirrored face of the building seemed to be mocking him: ‘Peter isn’t here. He never was.’ It was intimidating and frightening, the idea that he was abandoned and alone. Sylar was frantic and worried, hasty yet hesitant to enter the medic’s building. (He won’t like me stalking him…He wanted space…Has he booby-trapped the place?) So he tried to move quickly and carefully to the stairs - less likely to result in convenient elevator accidents that way - but he knew he wouldn’t make it very far, his toes were beginning to recover, but stairs made hard use of his blood-pressure and headache and spine.
When he got to the second floor, he gingerly stuck his head inside the door. These were nicer apartments, bigger, too, than Sylar’s. That was a goddamn annoying, obvious, ‘I’m better than you.’ “Peter?” he called out, several times in varying volumes, still shouting the question, never an angry demand. This was a stupid idea. All he has to do is ignore me. Unless I start breaking down doors…It was so tempting, and karmic - breaking in Peter’s door, attacking him…choking him out and rubbing on him some more in his own apartment…It made him fucking tingle but he would save it for a last resort, once he’d gone around Crazy Bend, if he still hadn’t found Peter.
Sylar repeated the process for three more floors with no success, not that he expected any at that point. He had to rest before going down the stairs, not wanting to slip and bash his own brains out on some stupid mission, only to have Peter find him there weeks later and have a good laugh. He went home before dark, huddled against the weather, miserably munched more crackers and put himself to bed with less hope than he’d had in the morning.
XXX
Peter spent the entire day out roaming around. About halfway through, he’d stumbled across his greatest find yet - a YMCA, just a block and a half from his apartment. It had everything - a pool, an indoor track, racquetball and basketball courts, and all the equipment and machines he could dream of. This was one of the few buildings he went inside of to check it out (the other places he’d entered had been for warmth or food, but this was for pleasure). Despite the temptation to give up on his exploration and remain here, he eventually pushed on, reminding himself that getting out and looking around was exactly how he would find more places like this.
Day 30, January 8
Sylar woke up in a blurry funk. He didn’t hurry per se, his mood and dread wouldn’t allow it despite his worry, but once ready, he left once the sun was up. It was still cold with no indication it would warm up later in the day. Sylar went to the other man’s apartment and checked the lobby, peering up the stairwell to no avail. Where is he? I didn’t check anything above the fourth floor…He likes to be out, though. Check the hospital? Library? Porn shop? (Yes, he knew where several were). Maybe that pool…Sylar walked around the immediate vicinity until afternoon. He found Peter coming out of the building across the street, the one with the piano, where they’d stayed in the penthouse previously. Relief filled him and tension fled. He knew when Peter had seen him, giving him another of those up-and-down checking looks, maybe it meant something but most likely it didn’t. Sylar approached him, wanted to grab him, hug him, touch him again, if only to make sure Peter was still real, or for darker reasons. “Peter!” he said when the other man seemed ready to walk past him like nothing strange had been going on, like walking by him was normal. When the nurse gave no answer, slowing to a halt to engage him and that was promising, Sylar lamely greeted him, “Hey.”
XXX
Well, there was Sylar. That was good to know - that he was alive, up and around. Peter looked him over carefully, trying to assess how Sylar was moving, his posture, his skin tone, his expression, and from that, his general health. Peter didn’t think the guy was doing very well - he was a little slow, hunched, pale, with dark circles under his eyes and not as alert as Peter had seen him in the past - but Peter didn’t see anything that truly alarmed him. Sylar looked mobile, oriented, clean, properly dressed, and together. It was more than some people managed. Peter tried to move on and ignore him, because seeing Sylar didn’t require interacting with him, but Sylar apparently didn’t see things that way. After being called, Peter stopped, regarding Sylar coolly to find out what he wanted.
XXX
"What are you doing out here?”
XXX
Peter reached up and scratched at one eyebrow with a gloved hand, glancing away as he did. “Just making the rounds.” When that didn’t seem to satisfy, he added, “Exploring.”
XXX
“What are you looking for?” Sylar tried to ask this politely, friendly because Peter didn’t have to answer. Or talk to him at all, that much was clear. The nurse looked like he’d rather get back to his exploration and walk by without exchange. Sylar knew that and stubbornly wanted the opposite, if only to get on Peter’s nerves and prove he wouldn’t be easy to ignore.
XXX
Places you can’t kick me out of. Peter snorted softly and looked away with half a smile. “Ways to spend the time.” Sylar was still looking at him. The man was not going to be brushed off by Peter’s cold shoulder, short responses, or inconsistent eye contact. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured down the street in the direction he’d been intending to go anyway, “I found a YMCA just up the street. Did you know that was there?”
XXX
“Hmm,” Sylar hummed an affirmative, nodding. He hoped that wasn’t an accusation, like he’d been holding out information for some unknown reason.
XXX
“I got some free weights and stuff from there. They have a pool, too. I was going to go back and see if there was anything else I wanted. Extras, you know? Duplicates. It’s a nice place.” That said, Peter had still decided that for his morning workout, he preferred the weight room across the street. It was closer and smaller and less intimidating. The YMCA was vast and empty, which while that had its good points at times, on the whole Peter found it unsettling. He’d spent the morning moving everything he wanted to the smaller, more comfortable room. His plans for the afternoon had involved swimming, but Sylar’s presence probably put the brakes on that. Probably. On autopilot, Peter started walking in the direction of the YMCA anyway. When he saw Sylar wasn’t keeping up but was definitely following him, Peter just as automatically shortened his strides and fell in a few yards away - Sylar on the sidewalk, Peter on the street.
XXX
Maybe he’s just letting me come along so I can help lift things. Sylar watched Peter from the corner of his eye in time to see the man sidling closer. Immediately he looked forward to keep his peripheral open; he stood straighter and tensed. Just because he could take being choked out didn’t mean he necessarily enjoyed it or wanted to do it again (particularly if there was no sexual climax involved). It also didn’t mean he wouldn’t put himself in a situation that might end similarly if he felt he had to or that he would put himself into a stupid situation needlessly.
XXX
Peter had intended to walk closer, but Sylar’s body language put him off. Peter looked away pointedly. Glancing back, he said quietly, “Sylar, if you’re afraid I’m going to attack you, then why don’t you stop when I get upset, when you’re goading me?” It’s not like I don’t give signals! He flapped his arms to either side and said, still in a low voice, but also frustrated and earnest, “I’m not going to attack you out here, for no reason.” He fell silent. This is probably too much of a conversation to have right after running into the guy. Peter frowned, but even though his head was tilted forward a bit like he was looking down, it was also turned so he could watch Sylar. The occasional, avoidant eye contact of earlier was gone - now Peter wanted something from Sylar - an answer, if one was possible.
XXX
Sylar just shrugged. He had nothing (decent) to say and kept his mouth shut because opening it would result in Peter leaving, with or without another beating. To say things were complicated was an understatement. Sylar was angry, vengeful, resentful, wary yet needy, self-loathsome, humiliated all at once. Such a liar, he thought about everything Peter had said and he couldn’t count how many ‘inconsistencies’ there were. It was easier, and a better strategy, to assume Peter was a frequent liar, at least where he was concerned. Right, of course you’re not going to attack me for ‘no reason.’ You never do. He ignored the looks in his direction. Health and fucking survival had to rank somewhere on his list of priorities because sometimes Peter conveniently ‘forgot.’ Why don’t I stop? "Because I like to see you get so hot and bothered," Sylar replied, complete with a nasty side-eye.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a look, a 'you are such an asshole' look of reproach. It was almost a glare. He wasn't sure if Sylar's statement was funny because it was so over-the-top and uncalled for, or if it was irritating as hell because Sylar didn't get the point. It's not something we need to be joking about, Sylar! Peter sighed, looked away, and blew it off by means of a displeased grunt. Fine. Be that way. But after a few paces (still shortened to keep even with Sylar), he had to wonder, Why is he joking about something so serious? Does he not care if he gets hurt? He was laughing when he thought I was going to hit him and when I went to choke him out … and at Mercy Heights, where he told me to kill him. And other times. Peter frowned, staring off to the left at the empty courtyard with a currently non-functioning fountain that they were slowly passing. You know, him being suicidal is not out of the question.
XXX
Disappointingly, Peter (not including a nasty look of his own) failed to respond to that barb. Otherwise, Sylar was quite ignored and he felt that keenly. The conversation could not be deader, although Peter still walked with him. He didn’t regret saying it. It wasn’t like he had been the one to bring it up, either - no, that was all Peter, who would probably blame him for the outcome of such a stupid exchange. Shifting the focus, he asked more normally, “Why not just work out at the ‘Y’?”
XXX
Peter pulled his head around to deign to look at Sylar again. After another huff to make his unhappiness clear about Sylar's previous line, his demeanor calmed and he answered. “It's … empty. Kind of big. There's nothing like a room full of twenty treadmills to remind you you're the only one there.” He was quiet for a few more strides, then added, “Makes me want to start going room to room to see if I can find someone.” Somewhere in the core of Peter's being, he felt that if he just kept looking hard enough, he'd find … something. The way out, a sign, an obstacle to overcome, or unlikeliest of unlikely, a person. Well, a person other than Sylar. Sylar didn't count, especially not when he was being an asshole. But at the moment, maybe he wasn't being that.
XXX
That had Sylar boiling again. I’m someone! If he’s that fucking lonely…(I’m not someone to him and he’ll blame my behavior for that. What can I do-) I’m not going to sugarcoat myself. He needs me. Sylar’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Peter. After a while, he probed, “Is that just habit or wishful thinking or do you have difficulty believing me when I tell you there’s no one else here?” His slighted feelings made an unsubtle appearance; “I’m good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found, wherever they are. I’ve had a lot of time to look and I didn’t find anyone.” He meant it also to imply that he’d given Peter space and that he wasn’t blind to Peter’s snubs.
XXX
Peter glanced over, taking in Sylar's shift of mood. So now he's pissed. Why? Because I didn't go looking for the guy who laughed about my brother being killed? Or the guy who did the killing in the first place? Peter rolled his eyes at Sylar's narrow-eyed stare and kept walking. But despite the emotional byplay and what sounded like an attempt at a threat (not much of one, really, so Peter ignored it), Peter answered Sylar's question. “Wishful thinking, I guess. Maybe habit. I just have this feeling.” He raised his right hand and waved it at the city in emphasis, brace poking out of a glove he'd mutilated until it fit around the device. “It's not that I don't believe you,” he said sincerely, “it's just that it looks like a city, looks like a place where people should be.” He sighed. “I'm not used to it yet.” He glanced over at Sylar, intending to sooth the guy's ruffled feathers by ceding seniority in the not-hotly-contested issue of who had been here longer. “I haven't had a lot of time to not find anyone.” Looking away, he shrugged. “I'll probably get over it eventually.”
They walked along in silence for a little while before Peter asked abruptly, “What was that like? All that time, no one here?” His gaze on Sylar was attentive and concerned, but also curious. How did someone cope with something like that? How did Sylar? For someone who seemed to nearly freak out when Peter left at night, he seemed to have handled Peter staying away for days just fine. Or was that just how it appeared?
XXX
Sylar frowned, looking ahead as they walked. It sounded like a stupid question but it wasn’t. It was another one of those personal questions Peter wanted to know without a good reason. After maybe thirty seconds to think, he answered slowly. “My sanity was already in question so this is…” he trailed off with an incomplete, vague wave of his hand. “It can’t be a hallucination or a dream if two people see it….assuming you’re real, of course,” Sylar intoned dryly.
XXX
“I think I'm real,” Peter interjected as though offering a piece of helpful evidence.
XXX
“I’m not used to people so that’s not much of a change, not having to watch over my shoulder until you showed up. It’s…empty.” He fidgeted, trying to put more into words. He felt colorblind, hypersensitive to a void vacuum. He’d always been needy but it had become instinct to block things out and defend himself until now, when he (almost) didn’t need to anymore. Now he felt the absence of pressure, awareness, contact. There were no human social constructs to worry about or enjoy. With Peter here, it would take one wrong move to turn a potentially fun, fulfilling situation into a one-man horror show. That was the only challenge once again - survival and sanity. Peter was both an irritant and a balm. All that passed through him for the most part and Sylar eventually blurted, “It’s too quiet, what the hell do you think it was like, Peter? You don’t have to deal with it.” A shrug tried to dismiss it and he propelled himself into walking faster, hoping it hurt or to hurt himself, just something.
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Peter shrugged, too, and let Sylar get ahead of him a little. One of the accusations Sylar had made repeatedly was that Peter was privileged, lucky, some kind of fortunate son. Maybe he feels that way because he has Nathan's point of view from his memories? But … Nathan wasn't … well, he was privileged in a lot of ways. But he was also alcoholic, unfaithful, and … Peter frowned and hunched his shoulders against the pang he felt inside at thinking negatively of his brother, under the circumstances. Dead. And Sylar thinks I'm so lucky that I don't have to deal with being here alone. So lucky to have him here with me. He huffed and caught up with the guy as Sylar started slowing back down.
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Sylar sighed. “It gets on your nerves in every way,” he admitted, matching Peter’s pace more intentionally. “I think that’s the point.” That was murmured with misery. There was no doubt in his mind that this was punishment or some form of karma. How could it not be? At least Peter wasn’t laughing and otherwise humiliating him with the fact. Sylar glanced at his partner, then looked away to avoid detection. (It could be worse). The problem was discerning if it was going to get worse or not.
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“There was never anyone else here, was there?”
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“No,” Sylar whispered, shaking his head. The question and answer were all encompassing.
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“Did you ever have dreams like this, before? Nightmares, maybe?”
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“Not-not like this, no…” Dreams of being abandoned and alone? Nightmares? Absolutely. But never an empty city. The affect was exactly the same on him. A child terrified his parents would disappear, leaving him to wander and eventually starve; that is if they didn’t leave him locked away in his room, wondering where his family was, why he’d been forgotten. Or a lonely adult, searching for meaning and value through the reactions he could gain and deeds he could perform, banished to a world with no accomplishment or hope. He would starve a different way, his mind devouring itself.
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“I used to have nightmares like this, sort of,” Peter said softly, waving vaguely at the buildings again. “I'd be in New York. The city had been evacuated. But everyone I cared about was still there. They'd refused to leave, I guess. Then I'd explode.” He shook his head against the memories. It made his skin crawl just to think about it. “I had that same nightmare over and over when I was in that coma after I ran into you at the Odessa stadium. Over and over.” He looked ahead at the structure of the YMCA. It was surrounded by a now-pointless parking garage that had the function of camouflaging it from street view. Trying to take his thoughts away from the things that haunted him, he wondered if it had one of those spiral ramps. Those were cool to skateboard down, and the possibility of that was one benefit of a lack of cars or security guards.
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Sylar was watching and listening intently, relieved to not be the focus for questions like these. He saw how much it bothered Peter; how could it not? It had bothered Sylar even in the height of his bloodlust insanity. In the future…he said I was the bomb. I blew up California. Something shifted; he twitched and lengthening his strides though he didn’t intend to, “//Right now I’d settle for you walkin’ straight.//” Wait, what was that fr-? It had been the last thing Nathan said to Peter before he’d slipped into that coma, after running off, getting himself killed, arrested, then babbling on like the sick idiot he was…Um…I didn’t bring it up. Sylar hesitated to slow down again because it would put him in range, target painted on the back of his head and everything. He was sure he didn’t want to get hit today, or ever until he healed (and maybe even after that…) but he couldn’t discern if he desired to talk or even be around Peter in general today.
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His voice … that's not Sylar! Peter stopped in his tracks, heartbeat and breathing both accelerating in a fight-or-flight response very focused on 'fight'. He stared to bore a hole in the back of Sylar's head. He didn't recognize the words as anything Nathan had said to him, but he recognized the tone, even the body language as Sylar walked ahead of him. But then he thought, If I hit him when he thinks he's Nathan, am I hitting him or Nathan? Peter jerked, brows furrowing, his expression turning from anger to confusion. It's not like I've never hit Nathan, but I'm either hitting him or hitting Sylar while Sylar's … not in his right mind. Like beating up on someone who's in an altered state. It's one or the other. Peter deflated, frustrated and at a loss as to how to resolve the dilemma unfolding in his head. The more he thought about it, the less justified was his angry response. He was still angry; he just couldn't see moral a way to do anything about it.
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Nervously, Sylar cleared his throat. I’m the one who can’t walk straight. Some help I’m going to be to him. “Where did you go after that? The coma?” It wasn’t something Nathan knew - where Peter had gone after he’d woken from a coma and gone missing. Plus, Peter talking and him listening seemed to make everyone happier than if Sylar shared or asked questions.
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Peter made an upset chuffing noise and hurried to catch up, lengthening his strides. Sylar sidestepped, almost tripping over himself, turning to face him while backing up. Peter made the same dismissive sound and pointed forward, under the gloomy bulk of the parking garage. “Door's that way,” he said, otherwise ignoring Sylar's reaction.
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Sylar was still wide-eyed on high alert, the words not registering immediately. He didn’t move but Peter did, leading the way into the building - Sylar let him, that way he could be (more) sure he wouldn’t be ambushed. Peter was upset; he got that much. There’s no line to cross with him. There are no boundaries. Any little thing will start a fight. (Of course, that was a big thing and he hasn’t hit me. Yet). Slouched and tense, he followed as far behind Peter as he thought he could get away with.
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Continued...