A/N: My enormous thanks to thegreyhawke for beta reading this several times.

After Sylar's breathing slowed back to normal, he pulled back. Peter could see the man looking at him in the gloom, probably unsure of where he stood. Peter expected him to roll away and leave – a sort of 'get off and get off.' Instead he seemed reluctant. Sylar leaned in hesitantly as if to kiss him, clearly and literally holding his breath. Peter met him immediately. He told himself he was giving reassurance, that Sylar had to be questioning himself after the dubious nature of the consent given (or rather, specifically not given). Peter was certainly questioning himself. Why am I kissing him again? The feel of Sylar's breath on his face was a narcotic.

Sylar sagged against him with that kiss, relaxing suddenly and even though the weight was heavy, for that moment Peter welcomed the contact and the feel of another body pressed against his. He'd been so long without even basic affection - saying no was not an option. Then Sylar shifted to hold himself up and a second later he did climb off, but stayed crouched near Peter's head, bending over to keep giving him a broken stream of kisses.

If this is his way of apologizing, it only underscores that he knows he fucked up. "It's okay, it's okay," Peter said, finding the strength finally to push him away. His head was spinning a little, his body singing, his lips tingling.

Sylar fell back and flopped on his side of the blanket. He looked up at the sky. Peter followed his gaze and for a while, they lay there silently. Peter licked his lips slowly, concealed by the darkness. There was a taste on them that was not his own. He wanted more of it - he'd had that first free dose of the drug. He looked at Sylar out of the corner of his eye, then shut his eyes. He didn't know what he wanted. Or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted, and he didn't want to want it.

Peter struggled with himself. He'd seen no other human face for nearly three years. They'd argued; they'd made up; they'd shared things about themselves that they'd told no other person living or dead; they'd hurt each other; they'd tended one another's hurts; they'd shared food and resources and entertained one another (although often as not at the expense of the other); hell they'd even sang songs together. Sylar was still, however, the man who had killed Nathan and so many others. He hadn't taken no for an answer and that fit with everything Peter knew of him - he took advantage; he didn't respect people; he didn't treat them as subjects, but rather as objects - of his affection or his attention. Peter felt like he'd been used.

Eventually Sylar coughed a little and said, "Um. I have some ice cream sandwiches downstairs." Peter looked at him. "Do you want one?"

"Sure," Peter answered, pulling himself together. If Sylar could act like everything was normal, then so could Peter. "How about I come down with you?"

"Sure. Yeah. Um. Yeah. Guess we've … ah, seen all there is to see here." Sylar had a rictus grin born of nerves.

Peter got to his feet and together they gathered up the blanket. Sylar was still giving him an uncertain look, caught between timid and exultant. Peter told him, "Hey, just relax, okay?"

"You're not mad?" Sylar blurted out.

"No, I'm not mad. I don't know what I am." They shook the blanket before starting to fold it between them.

"But you're something?"

"Yes, I'm something. Did you think that was going to happen and I wouldn't feel anything?" Peter watched the other man's face carefully, trying to divine if Sylar had any understanding of what he'd done.

The other man's mood darkened and he looked down sullenly. "No, of course not." They finished folding up the quilt and Peter took it.

Peter nodded. "Give me a little while to process."

"Okay," Sylar said faintly. He started to step closer to give Peter a kiss, but Peter extended the hand that held the blanket and blocked him, still holding the quilt. Its bulk enhanced the barrier between them and delivered a clear message: Stay back. Sylar's eyes jumped from the blanket to Peter's face, back and forth.

Peter dropped his hand, tucking the blanket up under his arm again. "No." This time it was firm and unequivocal. He could have slugged Sylar and affected him less (in fact, he had done just that in times past). The hurt and sense of betrayal from the other man was palpable. Peter sighed. I have a right to say no, Sylar. You have to understand that. This was going to be difficult. He took control of the situation. "Come on. Show me where you stashed the ice cream."

Sylar nodded numbly and preceded him down the stairs. Peter tossed the blanket on a chair in Sylar's apartment, then went to the bathroom to make an effort at cleaning himself. When he was done, he stared into the mirror. I just let the man who killed my brother get me off. What the hell happened? Does it matter? How starved am I that I'm accepting his advances? Do I really want him, or am I just desperate and lonely? Is it fair to either of us if that's all it is? He didn't have any answers. When he came out, Sylar handed him a wrapped dessert. They sat together at the table. Peter was lost in thought, keeping his eyes downcast.

"So, um," Sylar said, "What do you think you're going to do tomorrow?"

Peter glanced up at him and decided to follow Sylar's lead in acting like nothing had changed. "Same old, same old."

"More hammering?" He didn't need to ask, but making conversation was one of the things Sylar did. Surprisingly, he was the more talkative of the two.

"Yep." Peter smiled a little. "One of these days it'll come down."

Sylar smirked at what was, by now, a very old joke between them. "One of these days, huh?"

Peter warmed to it, familiar with the pattern. "Oh yeah. Pretty soon, I'm sure."

"Uh-huh."

Peter leaned forward conspiratorially. "Why, just the other day, I could swear … I saw another bit of masonry fall off."

"You don't say?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure. You ought to come down and watch more often. Maybe you'd see something like that."

Sylar glanced off to the side, his voice deepening with emotion to something closer to a purr. "Maybe I will. I happened to enjoy what I saw there the other day, when you took your shirt off," he looked back, eyes unusually intent.

Peter took a deep, uneven breath and suddenly found the rest of his ice cream sandwich fascinating to examine. I've been leading him on. I've been flirting with him. Did I really expect he wouldn't take that as an invitation? Wasn't that exactly what it was? He popped the last bit in his mouth. "Yeah. Well. I'll see you there then." He stood up and headed out, trying to act like nothing at all was different when they both knew it was.


In the morning, there was Sylar, already awaiting him at the Wall. He wasn't a stranger to it by any means, but the partnership in trying to bring it down was somewhat one-sided. He'd taken up the hammer initially, promising to help, and swung it for a few days. When the existence of the Wall proved to be one of the many things that didn't change in this nightmare world, Sylar had quit and urged Peter to do the same. The former killer became depressed and sulky when Peter did not, but eventually he'd returned, being grudgingly supportive.

These days, Sylar occasionally devoted some interest to it, when his other projects bored him, or when he had a new idea. He'd bring out a chisel or a rock hammer or a cordless drill or some other possible solution. He experimented, unbothered when his plans failed, because he never expected them to succeed. More and more, Sylar just leaned against it and talked while Peter hammered. It was, at times, profoundly annoying, but Peter thought that about Sylar under the best of circumstances.

Peter went to pick up the sledge, as usual, but Sylar hurried to cut him off. The empath hesitated.

"Peter!" Sylar stepped closer, closer than he needed to be by far. Peter leaned away, but didn't step back. "About last night …" Sylar reached out to take his shoulder. Peter's look was questioning, but he didn't shrug him off. They touched each other so rarely. The contact sent a shiver through him. Whatever Sylar had intended to say got aborted with Peter's reaction and he leaned in suddenly to kiss him.

The Italian jerked back. "No!" He pulled his shoulder free of Sylar's grip, fists balled, fighting his own reaction as much as the other man. Sylar swayed back, having been on the receiving end of those fists enough to not want to be again, yet unwilling to actually retreat. Peter, similarly, was not about to back down. He shoved Sylar away though and Sylar let him.

"So that's how it is, huh?" the taller man snarled.

After a beat, Peter responded emphatically, "Yes, that's how it is. How I feel about things matters."

"You liked it last night," he said in his most scathing tone.

Like that's going to get you anywhere, Peter thought. "This isn't last night."

Sylar's eyes measured off the distance between them. Two arm's lengths and that was all. If he reached out to touch, and Peter did the same, their fingertips would meet. He frowned. Peter watched him steadily, waiting.

"By the light of day you change your mind, is that it? I'm okay for a quickie in the dark, when you can convince yourself I'm someone else?"

"Sylar," Peter said softly, "don't." He'd never lost track of who he was with – not last night, not now.

The other man turned and strode away, anger rapidly bleeding into another emotion as he jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Peter took up the hammer, feeling that familiar desire and ignoring it as always. He had more than his usual share of frustrations to vent on the wall.


Lunchtime came and passed. Peter continued working. Clouds rolled in; rain began. He stopped, put away the tools and stomped off to his apartment. He could work in the rain, but the handle became slippery and his blows less true. He'd broken a sledge hammer before that way and bruised his arm really badly. It rained all night and the next morning. He knew what it meant – the rain. Sylar was upset, more sad than angry, if the relative absence of thunder and lightning meant anything.

Peter passed the time picking at his guitar. He supposed he could have gone across the street and played at the piano in the next building over, but he was reluctant. He didn't want to have another altercation with his sole partner in this world. They tended to stay away from one another's residences unless invited – not that this was any sort of hard rule, but Peter expected he would be unapproached if he stayed inside and he was right.

It rained through the night and much of the next morning, finally clearing off around mid-day. Peter had a few other projects to putter around with though. Despite Sylar's allegations, he did have hobbies outside of hitting things. The next morning though, he was back at it. He wanted out with a little more fervor than usual.

Sylar showed up minutes after he'd begun, undoubtedly summoned by the noise. Peter glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and kept swinging. Sylar stood back at a distance, but off to the side where he could be seen - where it was clear he wasn't trying to hide. He stood there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, but his posture was straight and stiff. His expression was angry. Minutes passed, marked solely by the dull thud of hammer on brick. Finally Sylar walked over to the wall and pushed on it as he sometimes did. He put his hands back in his pockets and turned to lean his back against it. He stared off down the street.

Peter kept up a steady beat. It seemed like a half hour went by. Sylar shifted closer a few times, ending up only a dozen feet away - where he usually stayed if he wanted to talk at Peter while the other worked. There were no flying chips or debris to be avoided, so the only danger was getting hit with the hammer itself. That had never happened. Sylar didn't speak. Instead, his eyes flitted to Peter a half dozen times, always glancing away when Peter would look back. Then finally, they didn't look away. He wasn't looking at Peter's face.

The Italian's grip slipped and shifted on the sledge hammer and he nearly lost the damn thing altogether. It hit clumsily, jarring his arm all the way up to the shoulder. He tightened his grip and started anew. He glanced over. Sylar was still checking him out and being blatant about it. Goosebumps rose on Peter's skin and other parts of his body roused as well. Sylar was coveting, letting his eyes run up and down Peter's form, admiring the play of his muscles and how his slightly sweat-stained t-shirt clung to his chest, how his jeans sheathed his legs. He undressed Peter with his eyes, his imagination obviously removing minor obstructions like clothes. Peter's mouth was dry; his breathing sped up. Sylar stood there only a few yards away and lusted after him openly. The empath felt every twitch of those eyes on him, every shift of his head as he followed Peter's motions.

Peter's lips parted, sucking in air. His hands clenched around the handle of the tool. He swung harder and faster, trying to pretend there was no one else there … it was only him, alone, hitting the wall as hard as he could, making the blood surge in his body, sweat bead up and dribble down. Alone. By myself. Every hair on his body was trying to stand up. He felt like there was a subtle hum of electricity buzzing through him. He felt high.

He worked until his muscles ached and he could feel the beginning of tremors. A fantasy ran through his mind despite his attempts not to think about it: he'd work until he collapsed, then Sylar would take him and he'd be too weak to fight him off. Peter shook his head, teeth clenched, but rather than slow down and adopt a more reasonable pattern, he stepped it up, grunting with the exertion, as if he wanted to make that fantasy a reality. Even though he'd swung this hammer for hours and hours, day after day, today he put on a blazing pace that wore himself out. He hit with everything he had, every time, time after time, putting his whole body into the effort. Just when he thought he wouldn't be able to go any longer, the other man shoved off from the wall and … walked away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Peter stopped. He put his forearm on the wall and let the hammer fall to the ground. His hands shook and his vision shimmered. His knees were weak. He panted, wrung out, even though his whole body tingled on the edge of release. He had never been so turned on by so little in his life.

He brought up a trembling hand to his groin. It felt tight and hot and straining. All he did was press his hand to it and he came. He groaned and collapsed to his knees, both hands on the wall, head hanging. "Oh… fuck me," he breathed out. If Sylar had been there it would have been an invitation. Peter would have let him do anything to him without a peep of resistance. No, he would have offered. Still breathing hard, he looked over his shoulder … but no. He was alone. He turned back and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the rough brick.