Shivering from cold instead of any sort of tremors, Peter was doing what he could to try and turn himself on his stomach, instinct telling him to curl up against Sylar, who was warmer than he was, though just as equally drenched. The hand at his back helped equally as muh, only encouraging him that much more to seek refuge against the other body in the tub.

Still pulling in hard breaths that had his chest heaving, Peter didn't know if he hurt simply because his mind was playing tricks on him, or because his body had truly tired itself out with the constant repeat of having to bring him back to life. But he didn't care what the answer to that question was, because he was tired, tired of dying and desperately hopeful it wasn't about to happen again anytime soon.

After another long few moments, Peter finally stops struggling so hard for breath and slowly settles, albeit coldly, exactly where he is. Finally opening his eyes to peer blearily through his bangs at the side of the tub, even if he felt like speaking, he wouldn't have the slightest clue what to say, so for another few seconds at least, he stays silent, waiting. Hoping that this is all over with. Some small part of his mind notes that he's curled up against Sylar, Sylar of all people, but his ability to care has slipped down the drain with the rest of his blood, and for the moment, all he wants is whatever comfort he can find, not exactly too bothered by the source of it.