I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU...
As usual the loud, echoing crack of metal against brick sounded out around the empty city in a sustained, repeated cycle. By now Sylar was sick to death of the sound (he even heard it in his dreams during the rare hours Peter wasn't working at the thing) but in that moment he praised it. The noises were loud enough to muffle his footsteps, and so he could take his time to approach Peter, unseen.
His stomach was wringing itself into knots, and his pulse was faster than it had been in a long time. There wasn't much to get excited about in this nightmare (of Parkman's doing or not), but Sylar's current intention had driven him into a frenzy of mixed nerves and adrenaline. It was almost too much for him to handle, and he wondered if maybe he should just quit and save himself the hassle...? But no, he'd been planning this for one year and fourteen minutes precisely, and he was not backing out now!
So he forced himself to keep walking steadily, pacing his footsteps to match the rhythm of the sledgehammer. It was the same old sight: Peter was submerged in his futile efforts to escape, lost in time and working at every and all hours. Since the damned thing had materialised almost three months ago, Peter had done nothing else except pound away at the wall to no effect.
It was already late, and the streetlamps had been lit for ages, yet Sylar knew Peter would probably keep this up for another few hours at least before turning in. Then he'd start the exact same process tomorrow. When the sun rose, things would continue the same, as they always did... but tonight was different. Tonight was special...
Finally Sylar approached the other man, who noticed him at last. Not that he turned around, but Sylar could tell by the way his whole body tensed and the way he put more strength into each wallop with the hammer now that he had an audience to prove his diligence to. As if anyone could doubt it anyway.
Twenty three useless hits to the brick later, Sylar finally found his voice. It was now or never, one year and nineteen minutes in the making. "P-Peter." He coughed, clearing his throat. He hadn't talked aloud in a while. "I have something... for you." Adopting an innocent, unimposing demeanour, Sylar watched with a racing heart as Peter finally turned to face him. Instantly a sense of ease settled over Sylar at seeing his face for the first time in days, and excitement began to surpass the anxiety. He was sure of it now: he definitely didn't want to back out of this.
"Oh yeah?" Peter said dully, lowering the sledgehammer to his side and rolling his stiff shoulders. "What is it?" He didn't really care, he was only asking to be polite (a courtesy Sylar still couldn't take for granted), yet at least he was listening. At least he was cooperating at all.
Swallowing, Sylar dug a hand into his coat pocket, rummaging around conspicuously and inching his way closer to Peter. "I've been saving it for a special occasion..." He mumbled, by some miracle managing to conceal the effects of his constricted throat and thoroughly rung-out internal organs. He made quite a show of searching his pocket, and tingled when Peter crossed the remaining few feet to reach him, genuinely curious now. His eyes were locked onto the pocket while he waited patiently, and he even leaned in a little to see better...
Perfect.
Now only inches away from Peter, breathing in the smell of his shampoo and skin, mingled with a pleasing amount of sweat and fresh air, Sylar couldn't wait any longer. So he abruptly dropped his performance with his empty pocket, and in one lunging motion cupped Peter's face with both hands and swooped down on him, crushing their lips together in a rough, needy kiss. Their very first one.
Yes! Finally! Sylar whooped inside, a sizzle of electricity stemming from his burning lips and fizzling through his entire body. He couldn't believe he'd gotten away with it! At first time seemed to still, and they just stood there in the middle of the street with their lips locked and so much tension between them. Sylar milked this for as much as he could, gripping Peter to him and taking everything that he doubted he'd ever be allowed again. It was only a kiss, no groping of intimate places, no pulling of hair or backing the smaller man into the wall to grind against him (as much as he wanted to). But "just a kiss" was the most amount of physical contact both men had experienced in much too long. So Sylar took, and he didn't even feel guilty for doing so.
Peter, however, hadn't responded at all. He'd just tensed, frozen in place, and allowed his mouth to be claimed so incessantly by his arch enemy. Sylar hoped he wasn't about to get his head bashed in for this, but then the loud clunk of the sledgehammer slipping from Peter's slack fingers and hitting the ground eased that worry. The man felt and tasted even better than Sylar had imagined – warm, solid and another living being. The feeling was intoxicating: both the thrill of finally breaking through the teasing sexual tension that had always transpired between them, and the rush of doing something daring and forbidden had combined into a heavenly cocktail that Sylar dreaded losing. But he knew he must.
After holding on for as long as he thought he could possibly get away with, Sylar pulled back, breaking their lips apart with a dirty and oh-so-satisfying smack. He grinned, smug, invigorated and proud of himself, which all showed clearly on his face. Meanwhile Peter gasped and wiped Sylar's taste and saliva off his mouth, overwhelmed by it all. He hadn't even twitched during the whole kiss, just stood motionless, lost and stunned since the whole thing had begun. Now he didn't seem to know what to do with himself, caught between repulsion and confusion, and Sylar almost felt sorry for him then. But not enough to regret what he'd done.
"Wh...?"Peter breathed, gaping at Sylar with those huge, adorable bush-baby eyes of his beneath a furrowed brow. He looked so young, bewildered, unsure if he should laugh or cry, and Sylar would take a guess that his current thought process was either "what the fuck just happened?!" or "did that seriously just happen or have I finally cracked in here?!" The silence stretched wider, along with Sylar's arrogant grin, and Peter continued to do nothing more than blink stupidly until Sylar actually took pity on him.
He tapped at his watch. Although the one he was wearing was broken, the many time-pieces in his apartment weren't. He knew the time. He knew the exact second. "Happy New Year." He said with a loft of his magnificent eyebrows. Peter flinched at the words, as if they had hit him painfully. His face was still flushed and his chest was still heaving. He probably didn't even know the date, being so wrapped up in his attempts to escape and go "save the world". But Sylar had been counting the minutes all day. "It's just after midnight." He elaborated, and was gratified with a spark of recognition flashing on Peter's face. So he had eventually got it! Sylar itched to hear Peter's angry response, to store it away and inspect it later for any cracks in his voice or sign of underlying emotion beside the impending, expected fury.
But one didn't come. Instead Peter jolted back into action quicker than Sylar had seen anyone move before. He was blinking at the ground and clutching his aching nose before even realising he'd been socked in the face, trying to see past watering eyes. He moaned, feeling blood trickle from his nostrils, and watched as the sledgehammer was whisked up from the ground. Oh well, he thought simply, this is how it's going to end. He didn't actually mind that much: at least it would put an end to this never ending torture realm, and he'd die with the taste of Peter Petrelli still on his tongue. It wasn't the worst way to go, actually.
But no life-ending whack came crashing down on his back or skull, or anywhere else for that matter. Instead Peter's boots reappeared in Sylar's limited line of sight before stomping away furiously. A moment later the same crack!... crack!...crack! Filled the whole alleyway as Peter resumed his driving purpose.
Huh. Vision blurred, stemming his nose with his sleeve, Sylar straightened and watched Peter vent the rest of his repressed violence on the wall. That hadn't actually gone that badly, he reasoned, smiling again despite the pain swarming over his entire face. He'd expected a fight, or at the very least an argument. But by the looks of it, nothing of the sort was headed his way.
Overall his plan felt like a huge achievement. Sure, his nose could possibly be broken, and yeah, this had probably earned him a week or four's silent treatment, but in time those problems would come to pass. That kiss, however, was something Sylar would never forget.
What a way to start a new calendar year – his fourth in this hell, Peter's second. No doubt there would be many more to come... and Sylar couldn't wait to try this again next year. He headed back to his apartment, in desperate need of cleaning himself up, but the blood and the agony didn't dampen Sylar's good mood.
It had been totally worth it.
A/N A little New Year fic :) Please don't be shy to leave a comment! :D