H's trying, by god is he ever trying. But his feet are intent on sliding out from under him no matter how hard he's trying to work at keeping his knees locked, because nothing seems to be to functioning correctly when he's in agony, when the bottom of the tub is flooded with his own bood, and when what little blood was catering to his brain was slipping away, leaving him with only higher level functioning.
Trying to listen to Sylar talk was hard enough when he was fading in and out but Peter kept trying to grab hold of the words like they were they only stock left he had in reality, finally giving up in his efforts to grab hold of the knife.
"Sylar," Looking up at him through wet bangs that were still running pink, the focus he has on the other man keeps pulling out and Peter keeps squeezing his eyes shut, choking on agonized sobs before forcing his eyes open again to try to regain his sight. But no matter what he does, Sylar's turned into a blur, the edges of his vision black and closing in, and he doesn't want to say the words. In fact, he doesn't want to talk at all, he just wants to scream, but he hardly has the energy to do it when he's staring down deaths door.
"I- I asked you to..." The tremors have dwindled from ones that were poison induced to simply shakes of a dying variety, and Peter's finding it hard to make his tongue form the words that Sylar wants him to say. It shouldn't matter, not when he can barely think straight, but he's forcing out whatever words he can. "-- M'not afraid of it."
But he's drifting and there was no other way to put it. Dangling from consciousness on a thin rope, any eye contact he might have had is lost entirely when Peter drops his head down against Sylar's chest, going practically slack and Peter just whimpers, the last sound of a man inches away from death.
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Trying to listen to Sylar talk was hard enough when he was fading in and out but Peter kept trying to grab hold of the words like they were they only stock left he had in reality, finally giving up in his efforts to grab hold of the knife.
"Sylar," Looking up at him through wet bangs that were still running pink, the focus he has on the other man keeps pulling out and Peter keeps squeezing his eyes shut, choking on agonized sobs before forcing his eyes open again to try to regain his sight. But no matter what he does, Sylar's turned into a blur, the edges of his vision black and closing in, and he doesn't want to say the words. In fact, he doesn't want to talk at all, he just wants to scream, but he hardly has the energy to do it when he's staring down deaths door.
"I- I asked you to..." The tremors have dwindled from ones that were poison induced to simply shakes of a dying variety, and Peter's finding it hard to make his tongue form the words that Sylar wants him to say. It shouldn't matter, not when he can barely think straight, but he's forcing out whatever words he can. "-- M'not afraid of it."
But he's drifting and there was no other way to put it. Dangling from consciousness on a thin rope, any eye contact he might have had is lost entirely when Peter drops his head down against Sylar's chest, going practically slack and Peter just whimpers, the last sound of a man inches away from death.