Watching Sylar, in a daze of sorts, he hadn't really expected the other man to drop down to his knees and begin taking off his shoes. It was as if this evening was becoming infinitely stranger as the seconds ticked by, and Peter was losing his place in reality. But for the time being, he really just didn't care.

The affection in the gesture wasn't lost on him either, or perhaps Peter was making more of it than Sylar was, and he just responded resolutely, making every action as easy on Sylar as he could possibly.

But it was when Sylar held the towel out in front of his waist that Peter paused, completely aware of what he was implying even without the eyebrow raise from the other man. For a second, he almost decided to drop the idea all together, he didn't care if his carpet was covered in blood. Except for how he did, and he swallowed thickly, dropping his gaze down onto himself.

His own movements were a bit slower than Sylar's, but he's undoing his jeans a second later, exhaling shakily as he squirms them down past his hips, the wet fabric trying to cling to his skin as he goes. His boxers go right along with them, and Peter's breathing far too hard as he teeters precariously, trying to pull his legs out of the heavy, damp denim. He's still paler than he should be, still trying to return back to one hundred percent when he reaches for the towel Sylar's holding out.

But suddenly it seems he has enough blood to have a flush.