sirenspull_logs | i'm your villain

Entry tags:

i'm your villain

Who: Peter & Sylar
When: The morning after Sylar's post
Where: Peter's apartment.
Summary: It's the morning after Peter's begun to harbor a fugitive and let strange things happen in the night. And now Peter's making breakfast..... things're sure to get interesting, yup.
Warnings: awkwardness? shenanigans? will change if necessary

[ Peter had woken up before Sylar, something he was in fact thankful for, for a variety of reasons. One of which was so that he could stare at Sylar for an unquestionable amount of time, and try to piece together the series of events that had led them to this. Sylar was still curled awkwardly on top of the sheets, though he'd settled slightly in his sleep and Peter just couldn't stop staring. Because somehow it seemed the more time he spent around him, the more human Sylar became. The more present, Peter's own constant. And looking at the other man while he slept, well -- there wasn't much monstrous about him.

Giving his head a shake and mussing his own hair, Peter slowly eases himself out of bed, trying to move slow so as not to wake his "company." Only after he's padded out of the bedroom does he breathe a little easier, pausing at the basket to give Mr. Muggles some scritches behind the ears before Tabitha mewls and wanders by for some morning cuddles as well. Peter's apartment: a little bit like a zoo; who knows where Denzel was hiding, waiting to pounce.

But after a few more seconds, Peter stands, yawns, and heads to the kitchen because in the morning, Peter's brain is gooey at best, and coffee is an absolute necessity. Setting up the machine to brew an exceptionally full pot, Peter folds his arms over his chest, already starting to twitch with Sylar out of his sight, something he's still too warm and sleep addled to try and think about.

Because as soon as it's done, Peter's pouring himself a cup and walking slow back towards the bedroom, where he leans against the doorframe and simply watches. Stares at the fact that there's another person in his bed, that he perhaps can't curl around, and his warm-fuzzy-morning-addled mind might be pouting a little at that fact. Breathing in the warm scent of caffeine, Peter knows he can find something better to do, like make toast, or read the paper. But instead he's rooted to the spot, waiting for the rousing of Sylar. ]

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[ There were so many levels to that question, but the answer he got was expected. Peter had come to control the most difficult of his abilities - Sylar's. Or perhaps Ted Sprague had won that particular prize? In any case, he had mastered it, and there could be little that could shake him in the wake of powers so dangerous, so explosive.

But it meant that Peter, for once, was certain of something about himself, and Sylar noted it for use in a later argument, because he was serving up pancakes now, and having them thrown back at him was far from the agenda. ]

It would be different at home, wouldn't it? Knowing you're different, but never being able to tell anyone about it. It's expected here.

Do you have any maple syrup?

I have... just syrup. Somewhere, I think.

[ Ignoring Sylar's other question for a few moments in favor of going to dig through the fridge, Peter sighs, closing his eyes for the length of a heartbeat before he sets to digging around, pushing aside butter and milk and beer until the syrup reveals itself in the back of fridge, and he drags it out to set it on the counter. ]

Yeah, it'd be different at home. It always was different. Doesn't mean that it's any better here, just because we all get to know. You think I tell people about everything i've done?

[ He still rarely talked about the explosion in Kirby Plaza, or what happened with Simone. But admittedly, Peter was eyeing breakfast, and simultaneously eyeing Sylar. This wasn't his usual morning routine and it set him slightly off kilter. ]

[ He tilted his head, moving to take the syrup from Peter, and pouring it quietly into a saucepan. The kitchen wasn't exactly overequipped, but he could get by. It might drive him to madness if he had to live here as long as Peter had. He swapped the pancakes with the saucepan and began to serve up, knowing that he had Peter's attention for no more complicated reason than that he was being utterly, remorselessly domestic.

And he was doing that partly because it was breakfast time, and partly to unnerve the other man. It seemed to be working.

He found cutlery and set the two places, then returned to pick up the hot syrup from the stove, then turned to drizzle it over the pancakes. ]

In our house, breakfast was the most important meal of the day. My mother always thought I looked like I needed feeding up.

[ Sandwiches. For a moment he froze dead still, half way to sitting down, like a fox that had caught a scent, and then the moment broke and he settled into his chair, focusing on the pancakes. ]

[ Unnerved was a little bit of an understatement. And it wasn't just because of the pancakes, but of the talk of their pasts that was starting to rub Peter the wrong way. It didn't raise his hackles so much as set him on edge, as if he should be expecting something actually bad to happen at any moment.

But it didn't. All Sylar did was make pancakes, and then offer him a plate. That's all it was. Which was the strange part.

Watching Sylar closely, Peter slips around him and goes to sit on the couch. Because there's no way he's sitting at the table with Sylar when this all felt peculiar enough, and while they were talking about their families. He just can't. ]

Couldn't tell you what meal of the day my mom thinks is the most important. It's probably the meal we have with guests over. [ He was purposefully speaking more to himself than anything as he leant carefully to the side to put his coffee on the ground by the couch before starting to dig in. ]

[ His eyes flickered up to Peter as he left, and then with a frown he gathered up his plate and his coffee and stepped after him. He wasn't planning to continue this conversation from the kitchen, after all. He set the cup down on the top of the television, then deftly balanced his plate in one hand while he started on it with the fork. His eyes never left Peter, but he was a few sticky mouthfuls in by the time he spoke again. ]

You don't feel anything but contempt for the way you were raised, do you?

[ He took another bite. ]

No, don't answer that. You think the whole world should pity you, that nobody understands how hard it was to grow up wanting for nothing but love. Was there anything about your childhood that you don't look back on with hatred, Peter?

I don't think the whole world should pity me. [ Eyebrows furrowed intensely, he glares up Sylar, pausing in his eating to curl an arm around himself protectively. ] And I know other people get it. Understand what it's like.

[ That didn't mean he wasn't allowed to bitch and yeah, he knew that Sylar was doing this just to get to him, but Peter had always found himself an easy target, and he made it just so damn easy for Sylar that it took him another few seconds, and another sip of coffee to shake it off. And even then, he was still distressed.

Sylar was just doing this to irritate him, to get under his skin, to piss him off. None of it mattered. After a full minute he huffs, shrugging. ]

We had a dog, for one thing. I liked my dad's study, not that he liked when I was in it. I liked going fishing with Nathan -- I liked when he visited after he went to college. I liked when my mom actually asked how school went for once, and Sylar you don't care about any of this. Why does it matter to you?

[ It was with a particular firmness that he put his fork down, as though Sylar himself was frustrated. ]

Because I didn't have a dog, or a father, or a brother who visited, or took me fishing. Because, Peter, differences matter. Differences are what set us apart, differences stop you from being me. Isn't that what you want?

[ He took a sip of coffee, carefully, then set it back down, his hand shaking just slightly as he picked up the fork again. ]

I was the watchmaker son of a watchmaker. My father left, my mother smothered me, and that was my world end to end. You had everything. [ His eyes flickered up, condemning. ] But what is 'everything' to the man who doesn't know what 'nothing' means?

Why do you live like this, Peter?

[ He gestured to the apartment. ]

[ Alright, admittedly, that was a little bit of a smack to the face. Through most of Sylar's words, Peter's left staring into his cup of coffee, feeling rather guilty for hating every that he did have.

He's not trying to act like the stuck up little rich boy, Nathan always got to play that part while Peter always ran for dear life from it. It helped that his own father thought he was worthless and made that point clear until the day that he died.

But at the last question he looks up, but only just for a second. ]

Because I don't need more than this, and I can't afford much more than this, even if I wanted it. [ After a beat, he shrugs almost shamefully, taking a sip of his rapidly cooly coffee. ] Spike never complained.

[ Good. That was how he'd meant to make him feel, not to keep him on edge but to make him actually think for himself. He'd lost his identity - fine - then he had to be reintroduced to who he was, whether he liked what he found or not. ]

I thought it might be because you're still proving a point. That you live like this to prove that you can. Do you know what you tell the world, here, Peter?

[ He ate the last mouthful of his pancakes, then set the dish on top of the television. ]

You tell them that you're not special, and that you don't want to be. The smaller the box you put yourself in, the closer you get to the smallest box of all. You're happy being nobody.

I'm not proving a point, it's an apartment, Sylar. [ His tone's growing far more clipped, cut of by the irritation of having to explain this for what feels like the hundredth time now. ]

And you try getting something nicer on my salary. It's not like I work.. [ Peter works way more than he should, and he knows that, which is exactly why he goes quiet for a few seconds, searching for a better excuse than that one. Because he has money, and he knows it. ]

I never planned on being here for that long. In the Port. Why stay somewhere nice if you're only going to end up going back home in a month or two. And then a month turned into a whole year, but it's just an apartment. Haven't even had that many people over and nobody cares what it looks like.

[ He shrugs, poking at some of the remnants of his pancakes. ] I don't need a fancy apartment. I live- lived by myself, hardly spend any time here. Why have something nice if i'm not even gonna use it, huh?

I don't want you to defend the apartment, Peter. I want you to defend yourself. Nothing you've said has made me think you have any pride; nothing you've done.

[ He picked up his mug now, finishing off he cold coffee and setting it on the plate, then took a step in toward Peter.]

I know you care what other people think of you. The apartment is just an example of that. You look ill. You could care less about your appearance, or your health, you put yourself out in the Darkness fighting who knows what, and you think that having a sociopath in your house constitutes having a social calender.

You have to want it.

Yeah, well maybe I don't deserve to have any. Ever thought of that? [ Glaring up at Sylar for a long moment, there's a thousand other things Peter wants to say, but each second he doesn't say them, it gets harder to try.

Not to mention, Peter feels intensely awkward having this argument while holding a plate and coffee, breakfast Sylar made, and he can only take it for so long before he pushes himself up off the couch and breezes past Sylar back into the kitchen. ]

And I tried having a social calendar, didn't turn out so well.

[ Peter's edging up on getting actually upset, rinsing out his cup and giving off the tell tale signs of anger. He tried to come back out of his shell after months of regressing, tried to date, tried to get involved. And then Amy had a fiance and Claire put herself in jail and the world managed to close in around him again, just when he'd started to try. ]

[ He should know to keep his distance, but what would Peter do, really? He was as meek as a pussy cat, powers or not. So he followed with the cup and plate, both empty, and came to lean on the sink beside Peter, slouching down so that he might look up at him, but doing so no less severely for that. ]

So because you tried once and failed, that means you have nothing to try for? That there's no hope for you?

[ He touched Peter's arm with the tips of his fingers. ]

The world owes you nothing, Peter.

[ The touch, only because it's unexpected, makes Peter twitch and stop what he's doing -- giving in and looking... strangely down at Sylar. It's an add sense of perspective, considering Peter's used to looking up at most men, and having Sylar place himself at some standing that's supposed to make him appear less threatening, makes Peter shake his head. ]

Yeah? And I owe the world everything, so I guess it all works out, huh.

[ Shutting off the water with telekinesis and leaving his cup in the sink, he takes a step back, arms folded more protectively over his chest than defensively. ] And it's not the first time i've tried.

That's what I'm trying to say. You have it the wrong way round. The world owes us, we owe it nothing.

[ He didn't leave Peter to take the room, to escape from him just by putting distance between them again. This time when he stepped forward, he placed both hands on Peter's shoulders, and there was no give in them at all. He stood at his full height, with his head tipped forward, looking through his eyebrows at him with concern, with deliberate intention weighing his words. ]

We're the ones that are special, Peter.

[ Though the stare makes him anything but comfortable, it's the hands on his shoulders that make Peter quite literally want to phase his way through the floor, but he stays put. He stares up at Sylar for as long as he can, before his gaze is thrown sideways, like a puppy losing a staring contest. ]

After everything we've done to it? How can we owe it nothing.

[ He shook his head, apologetic, leant down to speak the next few words into Peter's hair, his hands working out the knots across the other man's shoulders. ]

Look at what it did to us.

[ Just that alone is enough to shift Peter's emotions from angry to demolished, dropping his gaze even further down, his hands falling down into the pockets of his sweatpants and tucking his shoulders up higher instead.

He's far too sensitive at the moment, easily knocked down a few notches and prone to thinking that he's the worst thing that the world has ever seen. So that even though it's strange to have it be Sylar who's trying to work the tension from his skin, Peter's too upset to try to back out. ]

I asked for this, Sylar. It didn't do anything to me, and look what I did in return.

[ Poor broken thing. He would have laughed, if not for the clear unhappiness that came off Peter in waves. A little more delicacy, then--

He stepped closer, if only because Peter wasn't ripping himself away, worked his fingers into the invulnerable knots across the other man's shoulders. His eyes followed the curve of the other man's throat, and he wondered how his heart felt, and whether he could hear it if he leant close enough. Being powerless made such simple things so much more complicated. ]

You never asked to be used, to be twisted around the world's finger. So you went nuclear. Did you want that power, Peter? Did you want mine? You can't be held responsible for what the world has done to you. It owes you nothing.

[ If Sylar had laughed, it would have been the end of the conversation, right then and there. But instead, Peter's keeping his gaze stubbornly tucked away from Sylar's, pressing back hard with his shoulders against Sylar's fingers until he finally, finally gives in and let's them drop -- let's Sylar try to work out some of the tension from his muscles even if it's a strange concept to behold. ]

Maybe not. [ Also known as, he still doesn't believe most of what Sylar's saying, though it's not because he doesn't want to. He's trying. Peter's just buried himself six feet deep in his own self-deprecation. ]

But I still asked for this.

[ Much better. He felt Peter slump underneath his hands, and tilted his head back to one side as he worked, watching the other man's face, his eyes shut, wallowing in his misery. ]

For 'this', Peter. What do you mean?

[ Because now he was beginning to wonder what 'this' was. Was it the powers? The apartment? Being used? How had he asked for any of it? ]

[ Peter bristled again, but only slightly. Enough so that it made it momentarily hard to breathe, twitching under Sylar's hands. It didn't help that he liked the massaging a little bit too much, and he wasn't going to have a replay of last night. Nor was he fond of this intensive questioning, not about things he didn't like to talk about in the first pace, and his shoulders lifted again as he took a step back. ]

I mean my abilities. I wanted to be something special, didn't I? Something better than what I used to be. And I got it. [ Defensive. His tone is purely defensive because Sylar isn't the one he's upset with, not anymore. ] So yeah, I asked for it. This.

[ When Peter pulled back, Sylar let him go, crossing his arms over his chest again, and circled back to into the sitting room, leaving Peter behind him. He leant against the wall beside the kitchen door.

It's his own argument--we're special because we had that space in our lives, because we wanted to be, so he doesn't contradict it. ]

So that makes everything that's come since your fault? It's other people who don't understand you, Peter; that makes it their mistake.

[ Watching Sylar walk away, Peter tries to swallow whatever the rest of it is he's feeling, tries to come up with a say for Sylar to stop getting inside his head.

But he's buckling, he can feel it, because this is like salt in a wound he can't seem to heal and Sylar's just aggravating it with every word. Peter doesn't want to feel okay with what he's done -- he wants someone to take the blame, and the only person there is to do that, is himself. ]

I've stopped expecting anyone to understand. Not about this. [ Speaking under his breath as he pushes his way out of the kitchen, Sylar only gets a passing glance as Peter heads towards his bedroom, fully intent on escaping this conversation. ]

[ Gabriel watched him, waited, still folded against the wall, the hell of his right foot angled against it behind him. He didn't have to speak, so he didn't, but cracked the thought like a whip between them, loud enough to fill the quiet apartment. ]

But I do understand, Peter.

i'm your villain

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