It felt like forever that they lay there, bitterly cold, soaking wet, each of Peter's breaths, his fluttering heart, beating against his own. He became more used to the cold after a while, but it was Peter's warmth against him as much as anything else that helped steady him. He didn't question it--after the first minute it didn't seem as strange any more, and they sat in teeth-chattering, companionable silence, because Sylar wasn't sure what to say either.

Five minutes later, he gave up on his quiet will for the towels to fly across the room toward them, and with a great effort, and slipping a little across the bottom of the tub, he pulled both himself and Peter up and onto the tiled floor, still dripping pink water, and then - quite suddenly - he laughed.

It was an awkward laugh, a mere bark of laughter, because Sylar didn't laugh often, and on top of everything else it was almost obscene, after all it had been laughter killing Peter.

"Can you stand?" he finally asked, pulling the towels off the rack and wrapping one of them around around Peter's bare shoulders, dropping the other on his head.