sirenspull | 010 } video

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010 } video

[ Seated in the corner of the couch in his living room, Peter's looking better than he probably has in months. Less tired, less haggard. Less miserable. You might say he even almost looks... happy. ]

Probably should've spoken up sooner, but-- lost track of time the past few days. [ There's a glance off camera for a second before Peter's clearing his throat and focusing. ]

Starting to think the newspaper really should start trying to be a little more thorough with its investigative work before it tells everyone i've died. Back when the Joker-- Uhm, there's a reason they didn't recover the body. [ a beat ] 'Cause I survived. So if anyone saw that, read it.. i'm fine. Nothing to worry about.

And-- [ After a put upon sigh, for a couple seconds, Peter holds his NV up against his chest, muffling both visuals and sound as he, off camera, takes care of something. But he's back on screen momentarily. Just technical difficulties, folks. ]

If anyone saw that bit in the paper about the aliens? Wouldn't worry about it too much. That was kind of-- [ he sighs; he really doesn't actually want to bring this up, but better to keep rumors spreading than not. ] The Darkness monster population in one of the sectors got kind of overcrowded, figured it was an easy way to take care of it all at once. Sorry about that.

[ And after a forced smile sort of a thing, he clicks his NV off. ]

[ ic replies will likely come a couple hours later. ]

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[ Peter shakes his head, trying to keep from ending up amused because he's supposed to be irritated, dammit. ]

I was doing a perfectly good job keeping my mind on other things, thanks. [ He's pushing himself off the couch, pausing give Sylar a look. ] Until you interrupted.

I know exactly what things were on your mind, Peter, and it had nothing to do with aliens and inept reporters.

[ And he slides away from the kitchen door. There's a tug on him that draws him over to where Peter keeps his watercolours, an instinct that he's learned not to ignore, and he looks up again as he digs them out. ]

Thoughts like--

[ This. He cocked one eyebrow as he brought one particular image to life in his head, projecting it so that Peter couldn't miss it, even with his very best efforts. ]

[ Peter almost closed his eyes for a fraction of a section at the projected thought, but caught himself before he could be completely sucked in. No pun intended. ]

You know, I do actually think about other things from time to time.

[ But his petulant tone defies him before he exhales hard, watching Sylar go for his watercolours. Tipping his head curiously for only a moment, Peter finally pushes towards the kitchen to get a beer. ] Even if those things aren't aliens.

[ Sylar just smiles, digging on through the drawer to pick out the sketchbook. There are some of his own paintings in here now, beside Peter's. A painting he'd made of himself being electrocuted, for one, and another of them both sitting by Versaid Lake, radioactivity melting the snow and ice around them. Another of Peter glowing in the dark, ash floating down from the sky. He had torn out several paintings too and destroyed them, knowing that they would happen but afraid of them too.

Paintings of a blonde girl with her head split open.

There wasn't a single plain sheet of paper left, not even on the backs of the other paintings, and Sylar frowned before setting it back in its drawer, scanning the room irritably. ]

Do you have any more paper?

Uh... [ Pulling his head out from the fridge, Peter thinks for a second as he pops open a beer. ] Yeah, I should. Hold on.

[ Setting the can back on the counter, Peter kneels to rummage through a side cabinet, filled with odds and ends -- books, paperwork from the hospital, old newspapers, and some leftover art supplies tucked away amidst it all. Walking over to Sylar, he holds out the sketchpads, glancing only briefly at the one Sylar'd finished. ]

Here.

[ He takes it quickly, flicking to the first blank page, and his shoulders settle in relief as the image flickers across the white, blotches of colour, of shape, urging him to reach out and bring them to life. His hand twitches toward the paint, then back to Peter.

If he paints Claire dying again there will be uncomfortable questions. So he snaps the pad shut, hard, and wrenches his thoughts elsewhere, even though doing so actually aches. It's like withdrawal. ]

Do I get a beer?

[ Peter lifts an eyebrow, releasing easily enough that he's been dismissed; that he's getting in the way of Sylar's precognition. ]

Yeah, sure. [ And he's turning back to the kitchen, knocking back from his own can as he goes. ] I'll make sure to get it slowly. Let me know when you're done.

[ He relaxes when Peter leaves, flicking open the pad again and letting the picture swim to life. It feels like a rush, overwhelming, reaching into his mind and taking away everything but the page, removing even the comprehension of what he was doing, or his surroundings. There's just the page, and his paint, and the eerie lizard part of him that reaches out and licks the page with specks of paint, working life into the plain white canvas.

It's quick work, a small piece of paper, and experience behind his brushstrokes, but at last he's done. A picture of Peter's window, looking in from outside, the glass exploding outward as something or someone within explodes. He studies the picture as though he's never seen it before, tired from the effort, paint all over his hands that hadn't been there before, and then he reaches up and rips the page clean out, scrunches it into a ball and then ignites it in a burst of contained radiation, turns it to dust. ]

I'm finished. You can come back, Peter.

[ Peter's been keeping himself busy doing absolutely nothing other than sitting on the counter in the kitchen, sipping on his beer. But as soon as he hears Sylar speak up again, he hops back down and digs in the fridge for another can, setting it on the counter before grabbing a dishrag out of a drawer besides the sink. Flipping on the water, he lets the rag soak for only a few seconds, before he rings out the worst of the dripping.

And then he's bringing both the beer and the rag, handing over the wet towel first for the other man's hands, holding onto the beer while Sylar cleans up. ]

Paint anything interesting?

[ His eyes flicker up to Peter, then to the sketchbook he's tossed aside on the couch, and he shrugs, taking the towel to clean the watercolours off his hands.

He changes the subject. ]

I've been painting long enough to have learnt how to keep most of the paint on the page by now, but it always seems to get everywhere anyway. Why do you think that is?

[ Don't think he doesn't know you're changing the subject, Sylar. But Peter just sort of shrugs before he holds out the beer, waiting for Sylar to finish cleaning up. ]

No idea, think that's just how it works. Can't play with paint without getting messy.

[ Putting the rag aside, he takes the beer, then gives Peter a little telekinetic tug to pull him down into his lap. ]

That's one way to put it.

[ Peter gives off a quiet 'oof' when he suddenly finds himself dropping into Sylar's lap, though it's not as if he minds. Holding out his own hand, there's the sudden zip of a magnetic pull and his own beer can finds its way into the palm of his hand from the kitchen. ]

Think they say the same thing about fire. [ Is Peter trying to be cheesy? dorky? adorable? Probably all of the above, who knows, as he raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of beer. ]

And you are playing with fire, Peter.

[ There was an intensity, a seriousness to his words that he didn't linger on, because the truth was that Peter's friends would be inconsolable if they found out about this. But he was enjoying the light conversation, the contact, and he wouldn't let being too thoughtful spoil his mood. Not when there was beer to drink. Not when any day now he would kill Claire, and the apartment would take a turn for the worse.

He fakes exhasperated, flicking his eyes down, and taking a mouthful of his own drink before he speaks: ]

Whatever am I going to do with you?

[ Peter snorts, at the both the serious words and the falsely exasperated ones. He knew exactly where the serious ones were coming from, but that was going to be his problem one day, whatever day that might be. It didn't need to be Sylar's explanation, only Peter's, and he knew that far too well already. Though in a way, he was starting to believe he didn't actually need to explain himself, though he'd have to.

But he'd cross that bridge when he had to come to it, because for the moment he simply shrugged, knocking back another swig of beer and easily feigning his own ignorance. ]

Nothing? Pretty sure you've already done everything to me you can think of.

[ He looked affronted, stung, but he was playing his part more than anything else, mouth open wide, eyebrows high. ]

You think I've exhausted my imagination after only a week and a half? I'm hurt.

[ He leant up, balancing the beer can with one hand on the sofa, moving suddenly ice cold fingers to the curve of Peter's ear. ]

I think I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve.

[ Shivering at the touch that catches him off guard, Peter can't contain his slip of laughter, ducking out from under Sylar's hand. ]

Okay fine, so you've got a few. [ The thing was that Peter was pretty damn sure it'd take a lot more than that to exhaust Sylar's imagination, and he takes another sip before sucking at the foam collecting on the top of his beer can. ]

Guess i'll give you that much.

[ Sylar smiles as he too goes back to his beer, quietly watching Peter for a few moments longer. The pause stretches out, just a little longer than is strictly comfortable, and then whatever he's thinking about slips as easily away, and he tilts his head back in the other direction, idly reaching up to close the kitchen door with a flick of telekinesis.

The bang is what breaks the silence. ]

Besides which, you're the one helpless to resist me. Isn't that right?

Unable to keep your mind off me. Even when you're busy. Almost as if--

[ His mind provides a thousand answers that he doesn't use out loud, because instead he just smiles, letting the words hover there. ]

[ Peter almost rolls his eyes, and he in fact even tries to. But it's difficult when he knows that Sylar's right, and so he tries to bristle with offense, but even that doesn't work and Peter's left shaking his head and trying his hardest not to grin.

But he finally snaps out of it, using his beer can to point at Sylar. ] I might be helpless to resist you, but i'm not the one who put me here.

[ He gives a slight tip of the head down as if to indicate where exactly he's sitting, quirking an eyebrow in the process. ]

Means i'm not the only one who can't seem to do the resisting. [ Peter shifts forward enough to brush his nose against Sylar's cheek, though he knows he has no reason to be smug. He's the one who oozes the need for affection, and he knows it. ]

[ It's his turn to look surprised, and it could be mock affront, but for once isn't. Because Peter has caught him more or less red handed enjoying all of this. Enjoying just being Gabriel for once. Enjoying being wanted, and wanting.

He turns his head slightly into Peter's as he leans down, wraps both hands and beer around the other man's back, and gently pulls Peter a little closer. ]

Hoisted by my own petard, aren't I? Mm-- [ He brushed a kiss under Peter's eye. ] Let's see... Last one to finish their beer has to feed Mr. Muggles.

[ It's just that Sylar was the one cheating, using telekinesis to pin Peter's beer hand down as he raised his own to his mouth. ]

continued here!

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010 } video

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