Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for all of your wonderful feedback! It definitely keeps me inspired to know that people are enjoying this story. There have been so many kind words, and I definitely appreciate it!
Chapter 10
He allowed his memories to take hold of him once more. Like a drug addict, he kept reaching for the memories that were only sure to lead to his destruction eventually. The present was all that really mattered; didn't Peter keep telling him that? But Peter had left, he had left Gabriel all alone today, so Gabriel went back to a familiar way to comfort himself, clinging to his old memories that told him that Peter had always been his, even during the dark days.
Sylar had been wandering the desert like a lost soul roaming in the afterlife. He hadn't the faintest idea of how many days had already passed. His stomach panged with hunger...his parched lips were crying out with thirst...he was so desperate...needing. He had thought himself dead after Hiro's blade had pierced him through, and hadn't it been destiny he fall dead that cold night in Kirby Plaza? But no, he had lived, surely by some depraved force of fortune at work. He had awakened to find himself in the care of a strange girl named Candace, or Michelle; he still wasn't sure who she had really been. She had nursed him back to health and then seemed to think he shared her perverse desires and lust. Well, she had been sorely mistaken, for all of Sylar's faults; he still wasn't looking for any cheap thrills. Candace didn't love him, and he didn't love Candace...the only thing Sylar loved were powers, and she had thankfully provided him with one. With this realization, Sylar decided to make her useful in a way quite different than she had in mind.
He had killed her and tried to understand what made her so special, but he soon found that he could not. Something had happened in-between dying and being reborn, and all his powers had been ripped away from him. Someone had robbed him of all he had collected over the course of the last year, just as they had robbed him of his destiny in Kirby Plaza some four months ago. He was just Gabriel Gray again. He had done so much that was irredeemable, and for what? He had nothing to show for it. He was just that scared, lonely little boy again.
And he so hated that little boy.
So he had taken to the desert, but what he was searching for he wasn't certain. There was nothing out here...nothing for miles...and he was sure to die alone out in the unforgiving, harsh landscape. And he was so thirsty...desperate...needing...the sweat slipping down his face and rolling down his chest and back. His legs staggered and his throat felt so dry it was as if it were choking him with each swallow.
He had once been so powerful...so special. It was painful to remember now; to even think on for a moment. Who was the most special now with him gone, after all? The answer always fluttered unwelcome against his weary mind; mocking him incessantly.
Peter Petrelli, of course. Peter who could take whatever power he wanted without a shred of thought, without a shred of ethical wrong doing. Sylar hated Peter Petrelli.
Candace had told Sylar that New York had not exploded. Something had diverted it...Sylar supposed that still made Peter a hero, didn't it? He wondered what Peter was like now, was he the cynical, bitter young man Sylar had imagined him becoming, or was he still the wide-eyed embodiment of goodness he had been when Sylar left him?
It shouldn't matter. Nothing mattered but trying to find something that soothed the rough burning in his mouth and throat, but Sylar couldn't help thinking about Peter as he roamed the endless sands. Peter and Sylar had been two sides of the same coin...two titans battling among the throngs of demigods...they had been each other's equals in all ways.
What would Peter think of Sylar now? Peter would think he was pathetic, of course, pathetic as Sylar crawled across scorching desert sands, his heart hammering in his chest, his head screaming at him as he choked on his own dried spit and bile. He was so thirsty...so hungry...desperate and needing.
Peter was no longer his equal...that thought hurt Sylar, for many reasons he had yet to fully understand. Sylar tried to imagine if he and Peter had continued to be equals instead, both retaining their powers...fighting for an eternity over the souls of little special ones...Sylar to consume, Peter to care for. Would Peter and Sylar truly fight for an eternity, or would one eventually break and give in?
Give in...give in to desperate, needing lips...lips that drank their fill...give in to desperate, needing hands...hands that grabbed and consumed and fed a dark hunger.
Sylar felt himself collapse to the ground. His legs burned beneath him; his wound where Hiro's sword had pierced him felt like fire ripping across his heaving chest. God, he was ready to die. He was already in hell right now, the heavy air and smothering heat pressing in all around him, making it more and more difficult to breathe.
He would just die here. It was better than continuing down this never-ending path; all his true wants and desires somewhere far away and out of reach. No more powers, no more destiny...somewhere Peter still lived...a hero...the most special...
"Sylar." The voice was dark and husky in his ears, just as Sylar had remembered it. He slowly lifted his heavy brown eyes, taking in the full view of the young man who towered over him. His thick brown hair shrouded his sharp features, but those bright, hazel eyes remained on display. Those full lips parted so slightly...Sylar shuddered...what did Peter want from him anymore? He was no longer Peter's equal...no longer a fellow titan among demigods.
"I have nothing you want, Peter." Sylar whispered darkly, dropping his chin back down into the heated sand. "Just leave me to die."
Peter was silent and Sylar wondered if the young man believed his statement or not. Sylar didn't care, he wouldn't allow himself to look weak in front of Peter, even now. Even now he could find ways to unnerve the young man, to shake his innocent, little core.
"Ah!" Sylar gasped, as with a twitch of Peter's fingers he found himself thrown over onto his back; his arms pinned to his sides, his palms facing up. Sylar narrowed his dark eyes quickly; his parched lips parting to give surprised whimpers. "What are you doing?"
"I learned something that you taught me." Peter gave a dangerous smirk, bending down onto one knee. "I learned how to be the most special."
Sylar eyed him wearily. So after all the taunts and dark promises Sylar had delivered to Peter in Kirby Plaza, here Peter was in Sylar's darkest hour to return the favor. Sylar wasn't sure what Peter had in mind, but if he was planning on torturing Sylar, well, he welcomed it. Anything to take Sylar's mind off this damned thirst that seemed to be all demanding and all devouring of his senses.
"You don't seem scared." Peter whispered, tauntingly. He reached a hand down to place in Sylar's mess of thick, dark hair...his fingers lightly stroking and touching each tendril.
"Scared of you?" Sylar murmured, gazing unwaveringly into Peter's bright eyes. "You can't hurt me, Peter. Even without my powers, you're weaker than me."
Peter's eyes hardened as his hands went from gentle strokes to a quick pull of Sylar's hair, jerking the latter's head back into the rough grains of sand. Sylar gave a dark laugh, pleased he had elicited a frustrated response from Peter.
"You bastard, you don't know anything about me." Peter growled, pressing his face closer to Sylar's. Almost close enough to taste...and Sylar was so thirsty...his lips burning for relief. "Believe me, I've learned how to use these powers. And guess what?" Peter leaned down so that his warm lips burned against Sylar's ear. "I'm gonna use them all on you."
Sylar released another strained laugh, his eyes widening towards their gaze on the heavens. "Go to hell, Peter."
Peter brought one hand out of the tangles of Sylar's dark mane and dragged his fingers down the taller man's temple. The imagery of the young man's nails digging in near Sylar's skull was not missed on the latter. Peter quirked his lips at Sylar, "You think you understand me? You don't know how I work yet. I bet that drives you crazy..." His fingers continued to lower, scraping along Sylar's jaw line. "I bet that really gets under your skin not knowing...not knowing what all this..." His hand played across Sylar's chest; and Sylar felt the thirst and hunger begin to mount within his core. "...what all this means."
"Then let me rip open that skull of yours and find out!" Sylar seethed, his body giving small trembles against his invisible restraints. God, if only he had his powers, he could stop Peter's taunting...hold the young man beneath him, quivering on heated sand, completely at Sylar's mercy just as it should always be.
"Aw, am I frustratin' you?" Peter gave his familiar half-grin that looked so confident and boyish. "What's wrong, Sylar? Where'd all your powers go..."
"I don't need powers to handle you, Peter." Sylar snapped, trying to still his heart from hammering against his ribcage. "Let me show you."
Peter ignored him; his fingers were playfully trailing down in-between Sylar's sternum and towards his taut stomach; Sylar closed his eyes tightly and released a dark snort.
Sylar hated Peter. How could he always think he was so much better than Sylar, his self-satisfaction with the state of his soul angering Sylar to no end. Even if Peter really was the good balance that the scales of the universe demanded...as sometimes Sylar suspected might be true...he needn't mock Sylar now that Sylar had nothing, now that Sylar was just Gabriel again, now that Sylar was frightened, and alone, and desperate...needing.
"Look at you...to think I ever feared you." Peter murmured, tauntingly.
Sylar squeezed his eyes shut; trying to will himself somewhere far away from this cursed wasteland. He wanted to be far away from the thirst...the hurting...the dying...the loneliness...somewhere safe and familiar, so that if Peter was going to tear him down at least Sylar could be somewhere grounded and secure.
His eyes blinked open and he was in his old clock shop. He hadn't been here in nearly a year...he gave a small smile; his hands brushing tenderly over some of the old, classic pieces he had helped to restore. He heard a slight shuffling of feet, blinking up to see Peter still within his vicinity, although he had broken free of Peter's captivity.
Sylar's eyes darted around the room; eager to trap Peter before the young man had the chance to entrap him once more. Peter watched him closely, a sharp anger falling over his face as Sylar made a lunge towards him...Peter moved to run away, but Sylar's form was long and blocked Peter's escape, he grabbed Peter by the wrists and slammed the young man's body flesh up against the large grandfather clock that Sylar kept in his shop. Here, away from the lonely and terrifying unknown that the desert had plagued him with, Sylar was in power once more.
Peter gasped, his lungs constricting as he collided roughly against the front of the clock; a loud crack snapping through the glass. He stared at Sylar with a mix of fear and disbelief...good, these were the emotions Sylar wanted to see coming from Peter. Not that confidence and mocking he had been wielding before. This...this was much more comforting.
"See, Peter! I tell you what to do! I TELL YOU WHAT TO DO!" Sylar roared, bringing his face forward so that it was inches from Peter's; watching as the dried flecks of spit flew from his mouth. His temper was flaring; something about Peter always seemed to bring out this crazed needing pulse throughout his body. "If I want you to open your skull for me so I can see all your little fantasies, you do it! If I want you to blow up New York for me, you do it! If I want these lips..." Sylar removed his hand from one of Peter's wrists and shot it up to grip tightly onto the young man's chin...oh, it was just like Mohinder's apartment, and what he should have done before, without wasting time trying to kill a man who couldn't die. "...if I want these lips devouring me, you do that too."
Peter stared at him intently; bright hazel eyes burning into his own dark, brown gaze. Peter was nearly unmoving; the only sound a small rasp as he tried to suck air into his burning lungs. There was a palpable tension that hung in the silence.
"Oh, maybe you didn't hear me." Sylar hissed, his eyes flashing; as he reestablished his punishing grip on Peter's chin. "I want you to...!"
But before the words could even finish leaving Sylar's lips; Peter's mouth came crashing down upon his own, taking him in with such desperate fury that Sylar felt as if Peter was robbing him of all breath and understanding. Oh, god, those lips...they were so soft and full, just as Sylar had always hoped...so imperfectly perfect; Peter's mouth was so warm, so encompassing, so safe...and Sylar drank and drank, trying to take his fill...he had been dying of thirst so much longer than the desert, he had just never fully realized it. Oh, oh, those lips, those lips, they burned him, they froze him to the spot, they made something deep in his chest roar even as he quivered and shook beneath them.
"Oh, god, Peter..." Sylar moaned against those soft lips, his words coming out in jumbled murmurs. "All mine..."
Peter pulled away, his nose giving out heated spurts against Sylar's bowed head. His voice darkened as he spoke, certainly due to the adrenaline that was now pumping in his veins, "You sick bastard."
Those words twisted at Sylar's insides, much like a fire twists and tapers papers in a blaze. He raised his head; trying to raise his defenses once more...Peter could never see too much emotion from Sylar, after all. Peter was so powerful, so demanding, and Sylar had to be his equal. God, even without powers Sylar desperately needed to appear as Peter's equal.
"I'm sick?" Sylar groaned, something dark clawing in his stomach, everything was beginning to grow tight and painful. "You practically attacked me, and I'm sick?"
"You made me." Peter snapped, his eyes biting with dark accusation.
Sylar tightened his grip on Peter's chin, slamming the young man's head back against the clock, watching with dark satisfaction as thick locks of brown hair fell messily over Peter's face, shrouding him in erotic shadows. "What kind of perverse little mind games are you playing? Why did you come to me anyway? Huh?" Sylar felt his temper rising once more, his knuckles burning white in their rough grasp on Peter. "TELL ME!"
"You...don't tell me what to do, Sylar." Peter gave a weak chuckle, there was a small trickle of blood forming on his lower lip from when his head had last collided against the glass. "Sick...bastard..."
"What do you want from me then?" Sylar shouted, his hand slipping down from Peter's chin to rest on his collarbone. He gave a rough sigh, trying to lower his voice in an attempt to steady it. "What do you...Peter...good god, what do you want from me, Peter?"
Peter...so intoxicatingly good...so frustratingly heroic...just an angel...an angel with wings that Sylar wished to shear, watch as the pretty little feathers floated to the ground in sound conquering. Yes, Sylar wanted to conquer Peter, and then maybe he could emulate whatever made Peter so intriguing. Peter was just a little impure angel, an angel for his goodness and impure for coming to Sylar now, and Sylar longed to be one too, just like Peter.
"I want you to let me go." Peter murmured, his own voice softening. "I want you to let go for a minute, okay?"
"You're going to leave if I let you go!" Sylar accused, his eyes still burning into Peter's. You'll leave and I'll be alone once more. You'll be gone, gone from my life and I never really got to understand, why had I wasted so much time with other things and not with understanding you...?
"I won't." Peter soothed, and he gently brought up his own hands to gently coax down Sylar's. His hands were smooth, but strong, and Sylar allowed them to lead his own hands to his sides. He watched, trustingly, as Peter stood before him. Both were without powers now, without control, neither dominated the other at the moment. They were equals once more.
"See?" Peter whispered, drawing his lips so painfully close to Sylar's neck. Peter's soft murmurs were blazing against Sylar's sensitive skin. Something was tightly beginning to coil within Sylar's core, and he was still so thirsty, so desperate, so needing.
"See, I'm not goin' anywhere..." Peter continued, and those full lips pressed up against the pulse in Sylar's neck. Sylar let out a vibrating moan, his hands moving backwards to steady himself against his work table. Peter continued to pay special attention to his pulse, sending shivers rushing down Sylar's back. Sylar began to whimper, his head craning back to allow Peter full access as he continued to ravish the area.
"Those lips, Peter..."Sylar moaned, breathlessly. He was obsessed with them.
"Shhh..." Peter murmured, his hands beginning to gently caress Sylar's face, fingers searching quietly. Every trace of Peter's hands were bringing out new longings in Sylar, new dark desires, new wants to discover Peter, to understand whatever it was that made this young man tick.
"Why are you doing this...you...you hate me..." Sylar whimpered, as Peter's tongue moved out to tenderly lap down to his collarbone.
"I dunno." Peter whispered, pulling his lips away briefly. He gave Sylar a dark, lopsided smile; his eyebrows arching. "Maybe I'm just a sick bastard too."
"You're not though." Sylar hissed, and his hands itched to reach out and grab Peter once more. "It's what makes you so annoying..." And he wanted to feel the young man's warmth beneath the palm of his hand, to explore him and feel parts of him that were hidden, to try and release an animal from Peter that had to be buried somewhere deep inside...if only the right cages were unlocked.
"You hate me then?" Peter hissed, allowing Sylar's large hands to mold around the former's hips, to draw him closer into a demanding embrace.
"God, I hate you..." Sylar nodded, pressing his hips firmly against Peter's, as he gently bit down on the bottom of Peter's lip. Sylar tasted the blood there from earlier...he didn't like that so much now...as he began pressing soft kisses against the young man's again and again, his hips beginning to roll against Peter's...oh, he needed to feel Peter...he craved the feel of Peter pressing into him. "Everything about you Peter...I hate everything about you...those defiant eyes staring at me...those lips...your smile...I hate it all so much..."
His hips found a rhythm against Peter's, as Sylar used his encompassing grasp to roll Peter's hips again and again; the pressure was beginning to affect Sylar's sensitive area and soon he was keening and grunting with need as his arousal began to grow in response. He could feel Peter's growing too...oh, he wanted to feel this for so long now...he could never admit it, he didn't care if it made him sick or not, he just wanted Peter pressed so tightly against him.
Peter let out soft moans and hisses, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as his long, dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. Small tremors were shaking his form, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
"Hate me too..." Sylar begged, the contact was firing against his nerve-endings now, every time their hips connected a jolt of pleasure soared through him. "Hate me too, Peter, please..."
"No...no, I don't." Peter's lips parted and a gentle groan slipped past them...god, he wanted to smother those lips. Peter needed to stop talking, just shut up and allow himself to feel everything that Sylar was feeling. "I feel nothing for you. You're...you're just a fading bad dream to me now, Sylar..."
Sylar let out a sharp hiss of frustration...why did Peter keep talking, he was ruining it all. Sylar didn't care what Peter actually felt or thought about any of this, he just needed to remain silent. Someone needed to silence him once and for all.
Sylar opened his mouth and pressed it into Peter's, moving to fully take in the other man's lips with his own. His tongue probed to explore every inch of Peter...Peter was his to understand now...his to pull apart and then put back together again until Peter worked just the way that Sylar liked. Peter was all-consuming, all-engulfing, and while he hated Peter, he also craved this. After all, a man can only hunger and thirst for so long until he's driven to madness.
Sylar could feel Peter's arousal pushing roughly against his inner thigh. He moved his hips forward eagerly, hoping Peter could feel him just as closely. God, he wanted to go to work on Peter...Sylar was surrounded by clocks but they were all so useless to him now. Peter, so self-righteous, so irritating, so defiant, so heroic...if he could just bury Peter...bury himself within Peter... then everything would be set right again.
"Touch me, Peter." Sylar groaned, slipping his lips away and pressing them furiously into the side of Peter's warm, sweat-slicked face. Both their breathing had grown belabored, neither hips stilling as they continued to roll and grind against the other, the tightening and shivering only intensifying with each swoop. He waited for Peter's touch but it was still absent and his arousal was throbbing and aching for something more firm. He let out a low grunt, "Touch me, Peter!"
Peter shook his head, his lips parting with every hiss and gasp, the pleasure churning and heightening within his quivering form as well. "No."
"No?" Sylar demanded, his eyebrows furrowing as he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, Peter, I can still kill you if you don't have any use..."
"No, no you touch me." Peter commanded, his eyes fluttering shut once more. "You... you can just shut up and touch me."
Oh, Sylar hated him so much. Peter held all the power, all the control, all the dominance. Peter never gave Sylar anything, he just took, took, took, and he made Sylar so craving, so hungry, so needing. God, what did Sylar need this badly?
Sylar brought a hand down to caress against Peter's clothed sensitive area. At the contact, Peter released a loud moan, his hands reaching out to steady himself against Sylar's broad shoulders. Sylar kneaded at Peter's pulsating arousal expertly, delighting in all the new and wonderful sounds it was pulling from deep within Peter. Sylar decided it was time to lower his mouth back down upon Peter's in an attempt to stifle the young man's crying out. Soon, Peter was sufficiently suffocated beneath Sylar's full, angry lips again.
Stop talking, Peter, stop making noises. I tell you what to do...just like before, just like always...and you're mine to have any way I like.
Peter was bucking his hips against Sylar's touch, his head lolling back and pulling away from the taller man. His hands fisted balls of Sylar's shirt as Peter pushed down against Sylar's shoulders in reckless abandon. Oh, this was delicious...Sylar should have done this when Peter was pinned against the wall in Mohinder's apartment...oh, the perversity of it was terrible, and all of the culminating fantasies were making Sylar's lower regions teem with added tension.
"I hate you so much, Peter..." Sylar continued to rage, his hand continuing to knead at Peter with determined ferocity. Peter's cries of pleasure were so tantalizingly erotic, each one sending a lurch through Sylar's achingly tight stomach. "I hated you in Texas...and when you came to Mohinder's apartment...and during Kirby Plaza..."
Peter nodded, his eyes glazed over with rough excitement as another loud groan tore itself from his throat. He'd agree with anything Sylar said now, the little devil...everything was building inside of Peter just like it was mounting inside of Sylar...
"I hate the way you're always everywhere I turn...everywhere...I hate how innocent you are... how good you are...I hate you...ah, touch me, please...please..." Sylar cried, his face burying into the side of Peter's hot, sweaty neck. Everything burned, it was so, so agonizingly hot and Sylar was so thirsty...so thirsty...he needed water, he needed relief, he needed Peter to just reach out and touch him, damn it!
Peter seemed to finally have some mercy on him, as Sylar felt the young man's warm hand snake down the length of Sylar's lean form. Peter ran two teasing fingers against Sylar's needing arousal and Sylar let out a low grunt, his eyes squeezing shut as he continued to bury his face into Peter.
Did Peter hate him too? Did Peter hate Sylar just as much?
None of that seemed to matter, Peter dragging his lips sensually across Sylar's neck and jugular, his hands roughly kneading at Sylar's arousal. Peter was taking all that teeming tension that was growing inside of Sylar's heaving form and rushing it towards a dangerous precipice.
"If you hate me so much..." Peter's voice was low, but the rough mocking tone had seemed to reappear. "...why do you want this so bad?"
Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking! If Sylar had his powers, he would force Peter's mouth shut with telekinesis, he wouldn't even allow Peter to moan or cry out his approval. He would gag Peter until Sylar was done. Then, and maybe only then, would Sylar allow Peter to talk again. But as it were, he hadn't any means of silencing Peter with powers...
Sylar lifted one of his trembling, large hands and clamped it tightly down against Peter's mouth, forcing the young man into silence. "Shh...Peter, I hate it when you talk, too..."
Peter's eyes flashed at Sylar with ferocious defiance, but nonetheless, the young man continued to rush his hands again and again over Sylar's hot, needing arousal. Peter's sounds were now extinguished but those dark, hazel eyes were still so full of spite...god, it was all so arousing. Sylar leaned his head back and cried out as his release was beginning to build within him.
"I'll...I'll let you...t-talk..." Sylar promised, choking on his words as he felt the light promise of spasms starting to churn in his lower regions. "I'll...let...you talk...if you say it...say it, Peter...tell me that y-you h-hate me..."
Oh, god, it was almost too much. Too much pleasure, too much pain...even as Sylar cried out for water, he was crying out to be thrown over the edge. There was too much tension burning through him, it was making him weak...dizzy...and Peter was such a terrible, hateful tease. He was purposefully dragging this out, keeping Sylar just on the edge without granting him completion. Those eyes, those eyes, so passionate, so stubborn, so hateful...so hateful...Sylar wished he could see those imperfectly perfect lips right now too, but it was much better that Peter couldn't talk and ruin all the wonderful pretend that Sylar had constructed for them.
Do you hate me too, Peter? I need to know, I need to know that you hate me just as much, if you think about it nearly as much as I do...I need to know that it tortures you too...
Sylar let out a choked sob; his head moving back to bury onto Peter's collarbone. Peter's chest rose and fell heavily as Sylar felt his hands tremble on Peter's lean, sturdy hips. He was almost there...he was so close, and Peter was going to finish this...
"Say it...say it!" Sylar demanded, and he let his hand slip ever so slightly down to reveal Peter's lips once more. They were so beautiful, and Sylar wondered what they would feel like quivering all across the length of his form...he wanted Peter's lips pressing into every inch of his body. "Tell me you hate me!"
Peter took in a shaky gasp, his gaze intensifying, and in this lighting Sylar could appreciate the light gold flecks that seemed to blaze around Peter's irises. "I...I'm all you can think about, aren't I?"
"S-stop it..." Sylar seethed, hot tears spilling from his eyes and onto Peter's chest. Peter was breaking his rhythm with his hands and it was infuriating, Sylar needed to let go and this was only keeping his wanting...begging...if only he had his powers to make Peter do what he needed. "If-if you...you don't say what I w-want...then don't t-talk!"
There...there was the rhythm once more...oh, just a few more strokes of Peter's hand and Sylar would be there, all this horrible pressure and strain giving away to flooding release. Sylar gritted his teeth, his hands straining under the strength of his grasp.
"I'm all you can think about...but I can hardly remember you at all. Just a bad, fading nightmare. That's all you are to me, Sylar."
Except Sylar was gone without all the powers. It was just Gabriel, lonely, needing, sobbing Gabriel. Would it help to tell Peter? Would it help if he knew the truth...
Oh, he was almost there...almost there...it didn't even matter if Peter's words were cruel and spiteful...Sylar could be just as cruel, just as spiteful...it didn't matter if Peter spat upon him, didn't regard him as an equal any longer...had they ever truly been equals, since Peter was so maddening with all his complexities...and even as Peter spoke words that Sylar told him not to speak, he still did actions that followed exactly what Sylar demanded of him...Sylar would achieve his completion through Peter, just as it always should have been.
"Ah, Peter, don't stop...keep going..."
Just at that moment, just before that final riveting touch, Peter drew his hand away...his soft touch regressed...he was fading...fading like a dream fades into a particularly harsh awakening after a gentle night's slumber. Sylar felt a desperate cry part his lips, his hands jerking up into the air and trying to grasp onto Peter's weakening form. His eyes blazed in disbelief as Peter continued to disappear. Peter wasn't real, he wasn't concrete anymore.
"Where—where are you going? Don't...don't stop...god, I'm—I'm almost..."
But Peter was slipping out of Sylar's grasp. Peter was becoming like air between Sylar's fingers as Sylar tried desperately to call him back, to concentrate and make Peter real again...no, no, no, no, NO! Peter was real, but he was in New York. And he was not thinking of Sylar at all. Sylar was just a fading bad dream...but Peter...oh, Peter was a reoccurring nightmare, haunting him, teasing him, bringing him so close to release and then frustrating him to insanity.
Sylar let out a pained roar, his fingers clawing at the sand beneath him as his arousal still ached painfully against the tight constraints of his jeans. It was all just a painful mirage, and Sylar was still hungry...and thirsty...and desperate...and needing...and Peter had left him alone to die. Damn Peter. He was so good, so innocent, such a messed up, sick little bastard and Sylar wanted him to just go away.
Or to stop slipping away, to allow Sylar to have Peter any way that he wanted, to use Peter's image to console himself, to bring himself a moment's comfort and respite. But Peter wouldn't even give him that much. Peter didn't even remember Sylar anymore. Maybe Sylar didn't even exist anymore, this pathetic, powerless, empty shell of a man lying in the sand in Sylar's place.
All that remained of Sylar to Peter was a fading bad dream. But Peter, god, all that remained of Peter to Sylar was hateful hazel eyes that shone with defiance, parted imperfect lips that were soft with perfection, thick, brown hair that cried out to be pulled at and held onto.
Peter was the reoccurring nightmare that never went away.