Our Little Secret

Rapid huffs of breath rent the air. Sounds of the city easing to life floated in through the open window, muted by stolen kisses, the scratch of clothing, the slide of skin against skin as two men stumbled away from the window, raindrops dripping onto the carpet.

Unashamed, nearly a decade's worth of history unfolded between the pair in a blur of racing hearts and clinging hands that made it impossible to remember why they hadn't been doing this all along. It was new but it wasn't, it was taboo but it made so much sense, and every breath, every brush of fingers against skin was excruciating in that they couldn't possibly get closer than they already were but it still wasn't close enough.

Why had it taken so long to get here? There had been so many chances – so many times when they'd both needed it – but it had never been right – always been the wrong opportunity – and now that the world was ending it was probably the worst time of all to get distracted, but they didn't care in the slightest...

Sylar let Peter Petrelli guide him across the hotel room until his back hit the wall, impervious to anything besides the warm weight in his arms and Peter's tongue in his mouth, coiling fire through his nerves until he was burning all over. Sylar had always strived for control, for as long as he could remember. He'd yearned for it, hunted for it, killed to ensure he would never again be without it. But currently he was helpless. Speechless. Out of his mind, completely at the mercy of the only person he felt safe enough to surrender to. And he hadn't felt so right in a long time.

Of course Peter could only be considerate and giving in this regard, just as in everything else. It wasn't a surprise. And in this particularly thankful state of mind? Sylar never even stood a chance.

"P- Peter -" He tried, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Yeah." Peter gasped quietly into his mouth, climbing further into his arms and sliding two hands up Sylar's back. It was an encouragement, not an answer. "Oh yeah..."

It was easier than it had any right to be for the pair to get so close, to invade each other's space in this way and adapt to one another's height and built and nudges for dominance, for permission. Shoes were kicked off somewhere in the darkness; fingers teased beneath shirts; panting and kissing and nipping and licking, the pair fought to keep quiet but only failed each time flushed skin met skin. And for all the horrors they had inflicted upon each other in a different life, the way they were entwined was beautiful now.

Sylar buried his face in Peter's hair when the man dipped to his chest, his mouth a burning spot of heat and suction through the clinging wetness of the t-shirt. Fuck, he made it seem effortless, and Sylar could only slump against the wall, smile involuntarily and groan in the back of his throat, reaping the benefits of this beautiful creature who was totally and utterly selfless...

If only everyone who'd ever doubted them could see them now.

Sylar hummed deep in his chest, the thrill of naughty pleasure flooding him as he imagined Noah and precious Claire and even, god forbid, Angela walking in on them right now. Everyone who had ever warned Peter off him, tried to steal him away and encourage him to leave Sylar and everything they'd built together – how could they twist this? How could they deny it was real, claim Peter didn't want to be here when Sylar could feel compelling evidence to the contrary pressed shyly against his thigh? All those fuckers who thought their word was law: Sylar relished in the fact that they'd made no impact on their darling Peter Petrelli after all. So what that they shared his blood, or they'd called on him a few times to help them "save the world" before dumping him back in his lonely corner until they next had a use of him? None of them could elicit such care and attention from him. None of them could have their way with him the way Sylarcould.

That was, if only the eager little man would give him a second to catch his breath first.

It was amazing, addicting, more intoxicating than the old lure to acquire a new power. This master of control was losing control in the best way possible, every knot of tension spiralling out of him as he let each second carry him wherever it wanted to go...

But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Sylar wanted to take his time but he couldn't bear to slow down. He wanted to switch gears and be the one to do all the giving instead of taking so greedily, but he didn't think he had it in him while Peter was pressed against him as tightly as he was, suckling so tenderly while encircling his waist in two strong arms.

It was only when they parted to pry Sylar's t-shirt over his head that he found his voice again. Tingling with glorious stimulation, he rested his head back against the wall to bring his lips out of the other guy's reach, grinning although nobody could see it.

"I need – Peter – I want you to..." But his words deserted him when Peter only bent his head to press hot lips to Sylar's collarbone instead. Soft and wet, he mouthed a trail up the side of Sylar's neck, prompting the former killer's eyes to roll shut once again. He cradled the back of Peter's head and made a helpless sigh of appreciation, just breathing in the smell of him and feeling the forbidden scratch of stubble graze lightly across his skin... And the next words, breathed into the hollow below his ear, almost destroyed any last fragments of control he thought he may have left.

"Like this?" The empath rocked firmly against him, just once. Sylar released an embarrassing sound.

Jesus Christ. At this rate it would be over before he even got started. How humiliating. He would like to attribute that to the fact that it had been so long since he'd last encountered even the prospect of sex, but honestly he couldn't be sure if it was just because this compassionate man was a natural at knowing just how to undo him.

This level of intimacy was reserved for more than a casual hook-up or frantic fuck, and that alone was thrilling enough to make Sylar near delirious. None of his few previous partners had come close, but none of them had even liked him and so maybe they hadn't been trying. It had always been hurried or selfish or some sort of pity screw, just something to shut him up for asking too many questions around the Carnival. And so of course Sylar hadn't known how it felt for someone to really invest the effort to try and make him feel good.

And then along came Peter.

( )

Sylar's chuckle vibrated beneath Peter's kisses. "What part of "let me help" didn't get through to you, I wonder?" A soft, rumbling voice; slightly gruff but polite, quiet, sexy. Shit, how could Peter have ever once thought it was scary?

Lost in a haze of adrenaline, of gratitude, of the deep, gnawing need to give love, he hadn't even made it halfway through unbuttoning his own shirt before he was spun and pushed backwards, hard. With a surprised yelp he fell back into the wall where Sylar had just been, quickly followed by the man himself who pinned Peter in place with his own body, two hands in his hair and a scorching, ravenous gaze that was more effective than telekinesis would've been.

Superhuman power throbbed through Peter's veins so deeply it was almost painful, or maybe that was just his heartbeat. His lips stung with the absence of Sylar and the taste of the other guy's skin lingered on his tongue, but still he needed more, to be closer, to connect and share and experience with this human being in a way he had almost forgotten was possible.

Slowly the world seeped back into existence, enough for Peter to actually make sense of what his friend had just said. "Wh-what d'you mean?" He asked, breathless. Held in place such as he was, he was just out of reach of another kiss. So he made do with lightly brushing the tip of his nose against Sylar's.

The taller man only pulled back another inch, his eyes crinkling warmly. "I mean you don't have to try so hard anymore." He whispered. For a moment Peter didn't understand. But then Sylar stroked through his wet hair and down his face, goosebumps flaring wherever those deep, dark eyes roamed. "...Let me?" He purred, rubbing his thumb over the outer rim of Peter's ear.

And Peter's insides somersaulted. Because he thought he knew exactly what that look meant. And what was going to happen next.

He'd never been too good at actively standing back and letting himself be taken care of. Sylar had to know that already. He had always had to validate his existence, to ensure he'd earned his place whenever he was lucky enough to be invited, and the way to do that was to give everything he had and more, in every aspect of life.

And when it came to this part of life...? Peter hadn't ever been too good at initiating it, either. It was the boldest thing he'd ever done until that night: the moment he told Simone Devaux so directly how he felt about her. Even that confidence had only come from the awakening of Peter's abilities. Before then he'd always been shy and awkward when it came to matters of the heart: he'd love from afar, take forever to build the courage to confess his feelings, care too deeply, get too attached, invest his entire heart into making the other person feel appreciated – only to be shot down or dumped after only a few weeks. And after Simone had died, and Peter had lost Caitlin in an over-written future... it just hurt too much to let anyone get close again. Even things with Emma had never moved further than the potential hint of something more than friendship between them. Over time, Peter had just got used to loneliness. He'd had more than enough world-threatening drama to keep him busy anyway.

But then Parkman's mind-trip had happened, and he'd accidentally wound up caring about Sylar. Then there was everything between them since then, and then there was this, tonight. And as Peter's legs threatened to give way beneath him, he knew he had never known anyone else who wanted to make him happy as much as he wanted to give in return.

So even if he did want to deny his friend what he was asking right now, after everything Sylar had already done for Peter – including sacrificing the world, itself? He wouldn't even dream of it.

Throat suddenly too tight to speak, he slipped a hand over Sylar's shoulder and around the back of his neck, savouring the intimacy that allowed him this, knowing he didn't have to let go this time. That he didn't have to hide. He smiled nervously, entranced by the way the shadows complimented the striking angles of the other man's face, as if he had been created with the task of making them look so good.

Once that same sight would have been frightening to Peter. It wasn't now.

Aching with a renewed rush of desire, he could only mouth a single word: "okay". Then he rose to meet his companion in a heartfelt, lingering act of submission.

( )

Lips curving into a smile against Peter's, Sylar allowed the empath to mould his tight little body around his own, to sift his fingers through his hair and tickle patterns into his scalp. He really was the most needy, touchy-feely creature Sylar had ever encountered. But, tonight, he wasn't going to be the only one.

Breathing heavily, the watchmaker wasted no time in blindly unfastening the buttons of Peter's wet shirt and peeling it away from his skin, pushing the fabric off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Peeking down through wet strands of his hair, he was shamelessly drawn to this exposed part of Peter's body that had teased him with its nakedness even recently, but that he hadn't been allowed to appreciate until now. Taut, toned, smooth, just a light peppering of freckles across his shoulders... How the hell had Sylar lucked himself into this after all the pain he'd wrought on the world? Not to mention on this man, himself?

The object of Sylar's admiration hitched a shaking breath before he was even touched, the muscles of his torso constricting just below the surface. He really was beautiful. "I've wanted this." Sylar murmured wistfully, running both hands up Peter's sides.

He was rewarded with a brush of lips to his cheek, a slight tug of his hair and the strained huskiness of the other man's reply. "Yes." His eyes slid closed, arousal colouring his voice like a fog.

And oh how Sylar liked the sound of that.

He kissed Peter again. Hard, deep, desperate. He stroked a hand down the man's heaving torso, enjoying the feel of it and catching the accompanying gasp on his tongue. Yearning to touch, to give, he listened for every sigh, every shuffle, any sign that might mean he was going too fast, but none came. Peter only trembled against him, his heartbeat audible and his hold tightening around Sylar's shoulders and in his hair: a pointed attempt to just relax, to relent, to simply receive for once in his life.

And Sylar was determined to make it worth every last ounce of effort.

( )

Slowly, the taller man mouthed his way down past Peter's throat, leaving him alone up here to battle between nervousness and exhilaration and the aching heat that was corrupting him inside, and shit, it was so bright, so vivid and strong and real between them in a way it had no business being after everything that had come before... Oh god. It seemed silly to be anxious but Peter couldn't help it, and there was no reason to be embarrassed but he was a little anyway, aware that it had been a long time since he'd bared his body for someone else's eyes.

"I've waited..." Sylar's confession was muffled from a few inches down.

A burning surge of need leaked into every touch of a finger, every kiss against flushed, heated skin, and even if Peter wasn't already aware, it would be impossible not to know how much he was wanted here. How safe.

"I waited." The other man repeated, trailing his mouth across the expanse of Peter's chest, a nipple, his sternum, smooth and steady and methodical in his toying of the empath. Eyes closed tight, Peter just nodded, afraid to speak again in case he couldn't find his voice.

Mind clouding over as pure sensation began to overwhelm him, he was relieved to note that he didn't care that the man whose hands and mouth were making his breath catch was the same one who had caused him so much pain in the past. He didn't care that Sylar had killed him and hunted him and tortured him along with hundreds of other people; that he'd left billions of innocent lives to their fate in a different life; or even that Sylar had murdered Nathan just because he'd felt like it.

They'd been through so much since then. Even more since Sylar's redemption. The ugly parts of their history felt so far away and they didn't matter right now because Peter needed him anyway. And he wanted him more than anything.

( )

Finally free to indulge in his repressed desires, Sylar's fingers shook and his legs turned numb but that didn't stop him from settling on his knees down here on the worn old carpet.

His friend squirmed beneath the nuzzling explorations of his abdomen, encouraged Sylar with tiny noises only he was lucky enough to hear. And when he targeted the reliably sensitive spot of Peter's belly button and had him arching his back and searching for a grip on the wall within seconds, somehow Sylar could ignore the deafening scream of responsibility that tried to get in. Everything else tuned out, the past the present and the future, every piece of painful reality that existed outside this trusted bubble of their creation. And Sylar wouldn't choose to be anywhere else, in any possible timeline, but here.

"Sylar."

The sound of his own name cradled so impatiently made his heart hurt and a smile split his face. The man he was kissing smelled like Peter Petrelli and he felt and sounded like him, and Sylar could only treasure how comfortable it was here, between them. How familiar. The best part about it was that he knew he wasn't intruding and he knew he wasn't unwanted, and he knew he could finally express his feelings aloud within the safety of this secret.

And so as he eased his fingers around the final barrier of Peter's waistband he let the words fly free, let them tumble past his lips, and marked his gratitude in every caress, in every kiss to the soft, rain-speckled skin of his hero.

"Peter..." He crooned into the guy's navel.

"Yes."

"Peter –"

"I-I know." Peter's voice was weak yet dripping with understanding. His fingers shook against Sylar's scalp as fabric slid down past his hip bones. "Yeah I know me too..."

"I've missed this."

"Please..."

"It's been so long, Peter..." The younger man's knees trembled at each side of Sylar. "So long..." A gasp and a shiver accompanied the soft thump of his head dropping back against the wall.

( )( )( )

Somewhere in the darkness a mattress was creaking. The sound was barely louder than the soothing patter of rain against the window, or the locking of lips that filled the room, but still it echoed. Gentle, rhythmic rocking of two bodies, shining with rain and sweat, moved together, entwined. Hands stroked across naked skin, tangled in damp strands of hair and in bed sheets, and it was only when the two men parted for air that a voice pierced the night around them.

"When we get outta here... back to the real world..." A shaky huff, then a pause as the two shadows joined again at the lips, just for a moment. "...I still want you to..." Another kiss. "...To read me with Lydia's ability, like I asked."

Falling back onto the pillow, Sylar reached up to brush the other man's dark hair away from his face, gazing up into lust-blown, hazel eyes and red, swollen lips. An involuntary spasm fizzled through his body at that expression alone, causing Peter Petrelli to shift his weight slightly where he was straddling Sylar's hips, teasing another soft moan out of both of them.

"Okay." Peter agreed distractedly, snuggling back down to continue their kissing, his hair falling onto Sylar's face and his arms tensing repeatedly around the back of Sylar's head. The ex-killer happily relented, unable to keep his affectionate partner waiting. Really though. Just because Peter's simple mind shut down during sex didn't mean that his did too. Entirely, anyway.

Panting unevenly against Peter's mouth, Sylar ran a hand down the man's spine to hold the small of his back and keep them close, chest to chest, heart to heart. He sank comfortably into the bed the more Peter rocked atop him, sensual and secure, nurturing and intimate, tickling and caressing and gratifying each other in so gentle a way that Sylar hadn't even known it was possible before Peter.

It probably wouldn't have done much for him back then anyway. It did now.

( )

Here at the centre of the world it was musty, hot, dark, quiet but for the rain falling fast outside. Only small grunts of effort that the two occupants couldn't contain echoed out into the void of forever. They worked tenderly together, secretly, biting back desperate groans and moans and whimpers although there was nobody else in this world of one man's creation who might hear them anyway. But in moments like these, when mutual human touch was enough to black out the rest of the nothingness, it was easy to forget it was only a dream city that stood beyond these four walls, and that the isolation it wrought was endless.

They could have been anywhere. In any reality. Sylar's apartment was only recognisable by the scents of dark wood and watch oils, of books, of the burned attempt at dinner made earlier that evening, but it all went unnoticed within this private tangle of sheets.

Peter's muscles were trembling and sweat glistened on his skin and he couldn't be sure if it was his own or Sylar's, but he honestly didn't care. He was so far gone that all he was aware of was the distinct form of a man's body beneath him: strong and lean and rough in places that women were smooth; holding him; invading him; breaking him to pieces then delicately putting him back together all over again; pleasuring him so intimately while quenching the thirst for human connection that would have killed him long ago, without this.

He couldn't even tell how long had passed before Sylar pulled his lips away again. "I-I'm serious, Peter." He pressed, catching his breath.

"Hm?"

Undeterred, Peter shifted to the patch of dark hair adorning the other man's chest, kissing him greedily, needily, hungrily – it didn't matter where, just as long as he could make him feel good, just as long as he had an outlet for this insatiable urge to give. Picking up the tempo, Sylar flipped their positions, rolling the empath onto his back and nestling in on top of him. He needed no prompting from Peter before wrapping him up in his arms the way he knew made Peter's heart flutter, puffing hotly into his temple with that sinfully soft voice of his. Fuck yes.

"I mean it, I... I want you to do it."

"Mmfph. I know – I will. We'll see 'bout it... talk 'bout it later..." Quivering in Sylar's embrace, Peter dropped his head back into the pillow with eyes closed and his hair clinging to his face. He couldn't contain a tiny cry or the attempt to pull his partner's hips in deeper. Sylar obliged. The mattress creaked louder.

( )

If he wasn't so familiar with the hurt, choked noises Peter spilled against his lips Sylar might have been worried. It might have sounded as though he was in pain, like he was fighting not to cry or scream, and it wasn't like Sylar didn't know from experience how Peter sounded when wounded. But now he relished every single note that was granted to him, because he was the one easing them to life. And because these cries weren't borne from distress, this time.

Each one spiraled sparks deeper into the cavern of his person, building a light so strong it nearly eradicated the shadows that had plagued him with darkness for years. It was a unique experience, cruelly addictive in that it was only temporary and that Sylar couldn't replicate the sensation in any other way than this. It was excruciating. It was exquisite. It was more than he'd ever thought he deserved. But it still wasn't enough when he still had so much more to offer.

"I really think it's – the best way –" Sylar managed between thrusts as the world began to contract around him. Holding Peter tight and closing his eyes, he treasured for the hundredth time how lucky he was to have been granted this closeness by someone he had wronged so much in the past. "For you to know –"

"Shh, I know. S'okay, I know..." This was uttered into the crook of Sylar's neck as Peter's arms wrapped tighter around him, his body tensing, seizing up, and his stream of gasps becoming desperate. He was trying not to get impatient with all the talking, that much was obvious. But Sylar couldn't help himself.

"I want you to understand – how grateful I am, Peter. How – how sorry. For everything."

Peter's hold slackened slightly. "Wh...?" His kisses ceased along the ex-murderer's skin.

Sorry. The word had long lost its meaning between the pair. Sylar had lost count of the amount of times he'd said it but still, impossibly, Peter had somehow grown to care for him anyway. And now here they were, tangled together in the hot sweaty darkness, and Sylar yearned to apologise still, more than with words. With every passionate, drawn-out plunge into Peter's body he tried to transfer every fragment of remorse he possessed, as if it could ever hope to erase the tortures he'd enacted in the past upon this precious, kind, forgiving man...

"Because I am sorry. I'm sorry. So – so sorry..."

He'd said it all before, but now, deep in the moment and overwhelmed by his feelings, it was extremely important that Peter realised just how much Sylar had changed over their years together. They'd endured so much, broken all the rules a hundred times over, and it hadn't even been scary for Sylar to ask Peter to read his soul, and he'd said yes, and Sylar still couldn't believe that he was trusted this much by anyone, let alone the brother of the man he had once murdered. And so Peter needed to be reminded, Sylar felt, how much he meant in this vast, empty dreamworld so that he'd never forget. So that he'd never hate Sylar again. And so maybe this strange, comforting, glorious relationship they had formed together could continue to thrive if they ever broke free of Parkman's goddamned wall...

"I'm sorry for hurting you," Sylar insisted. "For – for breaking your heart when you didn't deserve it. For killing Nathan –"

It was only when the empath stopped moving beneath him that Sylar ground to a confused halt, leaning up on his elbows. Rousing from the depths of his lust-addled state, he opened his eyes to the wrath of Peter's glare below. Then his heart dropped mid-beat. Oh shit.

( )

"Seriously? You're doing this now?" Peter panted, swiping his hair off his face with the back of his hand. He didn't care that Sylar looked offended at their sudden stop in momentum, reeling as he was from the sudden drop in desire and tenderness he had felt towards that man mere seconds before.

Sylar just blinked down at him as if trying to realise what he'd done wrong. The promise of release that had been pulsing just out of Peter's grasp drained away entirely then, the hurt in his chest erupting instead.

"Peter -?"

"I don't wanna talk about Nathan!" He yelped, breaking into shivers at just the mention of his lost brother while the man responsible for the fact was currently sheathed deep inside him.

No way could Sylar seriously be so ignorant as to not know what he'd just done?! No way! Not after the years of fights and tears and heartbeak – not to mention all the times Peter had asked him not to do this very thing! As if Peter hadn't worked so hard to get to the point where he didn't want to rip his own skin off every time he lay with the guy who had once shattered his soul into pieces! As if he needed the reminder that the truest connection he'd ever had was built atop so much pain!

He felt sick. Taken completely off guard. Violated. So embarrassed in this most vulnerable of positions, to think he'd just been savouring feeling so close to this person only to be sucker punched when all his shields were down. He wanted so badly to have misunderstood somehow, for Sylar to clear up the mistake and make it all better.

But even if the man hadn't said what he did next, there was nothing he could have done anyway to save what had just been lost.

( )

Sylar scanned the face just inches below his own. He couldn't miss the furious desperation there. The heartbreak. And because he had just been feeling nothing but adoration for his companion, getting this in return hurt like a stab wound to his vital organs.

He frowned, wetting his suddenly dry lips. "I... I thought you were past that." He said numbly, warding off the cloud of dread that threatened to break above him.

It split open anyway in the next second.

"PAST that?!" Peter's entire body trembled as he gazed up at Sylar, incredulous. And everything Sylar thought he had began to unravel through his fingers too fast for him to catch.

"No, that's not what I meant -"

"I know what you meant!" Peter mewled, looking utterly lost for a moment before wriggling in a furious attempt to push Sylar away.

"What? Wait – what're you -"

"Get off! Get offa me!"

Sylar obeyed without a fight. Disorientated, he sat reeling on the bed while Peter clambered unsteadily to his feet, grabbed at his clothes from where they'd been discarded on the floor and started to fumble his way into his jeans.

What the hell...? How had it all gone wrong so fast? The distinct pang of self-loathing and rejection unspooled in Sylar's gut as he watched everything go down the drain and could do nothing at all about it. It was happening so quickly that his body barely even had time to acknowledge that the mood had been shattered or that the dissatisfaction curdling in his lap was the least of his worries. It had been a long time since Peter had stormed away from him like this. Fuck...

He struggled to recover his voice, brow drawn low. "Where are you going?"

"I can't be here right now. I just – I can't."

Sylar couldn't move. Rooted to the spot in shame and disbelief, he watched the shape of his ally's half-dressed form blend into the darkness away from him. His groin ached in incompletion and he didn't try to say anything else because he didn't know what to say, but the solid bang of the front door swinging on its hinges told him that Peter had left his apartment anyway.

A gust of cold air hit Sylar's body now that he was without someone else's to keep him warm. For a while there was nothing but his pounding heartbeat and the slowing tap of rain against the window.

Then it all caught up to him at once, a devastating blow. Swiftly, he untangled himself from cooling sheets and found his footing, grabbing at scattered garments of clothing and struggling to decipher his own from Peter's in the dark.

( )

Bursting into the safety of his own apartment, Peter paced madly back and forth, barefoot and bare chested but uncaring of any of that. He couldn't believe Sylar! What the hell had he been thinking casting up Nathan at the most inopportune moment?! It was the exact topic Peter worked so hard to (and had been successful until that moment) bury deep in his mind whenever he was with Sylar that way! It was the one thing Sylar knew he wouldn't stand for!

He trembled, whether in rage or repulsion he didn't know. He wished that he lived somewhere further away than this apartment he had adopted directly across the hall from Sylar's: maybe that way he could have worked off some steam on the walk, at the very least. But as it was, barely thirty seconds had passed since he'd left the other man's side. Already the rushing swell of anger was making way for something much more raw inside.

Peter fell to a stop with his back to the room, dumping his handful of clothing to grip instead onto the back of a mis-matched dining chair, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could still taste Sylar. He could feel the man's touch all over his body. He was still sprinkled with perspiration, a hundred handprints burned on his skin and he couldn't even breathe without catching the scent of the murderer on him, marking him, claiming him, even.

Tears burned at Peter's eyes. He couldn't escape the image of Nathan's throat slicing open at the flourish of a hand: the very same hand that had just been entangled in Peter's hair, running along his skin, undoing him in a much less fatal way than it had Nathan –

He span around when the door burst open behind him. Sylar stormed inside the apartment, flushed and tousled and fastening the button on his jeans, naked chest heaving.

"What the hell are you doing, Peter?" He demanded. As if compensating for his earlier lack of emotion, he was brimming with the stuff now. "We've been over this a million times! I'm really sorry for what I did, and I know you know this! But then you keep casting it up again and again as if these past years have meant nothing between us!"

Peter hugged himself, working hard to hold back the promise of tears that he knew was written clearly on his face anyway. His skin crawled at the tenderness of what they'd just been doing being roughly eclipsed by a fight, by this. He felt more exposed standing here now than he had when fully stripped and at the mercy of the former serial-killer.

"I know it'll never go away, but I am not that guy anymore! And this is exactly why I want you to look into my soul – then you'll see I'm telling the truth!" Sylar's tone was earnest and his skin was aglow, his lips were dark and velvety and his hair was mussed up the way Peter liked it best, and the whole damn thing ran him straight through all over again.

It was too sore to confront this dilemma again, to tear his heart clean in two this way. Nobody could deny how many times Peter had turned hot and cold again and again, least of all himself, and Sylar had been nothing but patient with him in return, keeping him sane. But Peter couldn't help that it hurt, that Sylar was to blame, and that he felt guilty every time he thought of Nathan and guilty when he didn't.

It just wasn't fair. Why did he have to find the deepest connection he'd ever known in the guy who'd murdered his brother? Why did Sylar have to kill Nathan in the first place?!

"I told you not to talk about him when we're –"

"Will it always be like this?" Sylar cut across him, swooping in close enough to tower over Peter, who refused to back away. Even though he had been entirely wrapped up in Sylar's space just moments ago, it was the last place he wanted to be now. "Will you ever let go of your anger or will we be tip-toeing around your brother for the rest of forever?"

Although too close, Sylar's stance didn't frighten Peter. He wasn't intimidated by his larger, cleverer opponent who had ended a hundred lives without breaking a sweat. He wasn't scary, and he wasn't repulsive the way he'd used to be through Peter's eyes. He was beautiful. Safe. In spite of everything he'd ever done and everything he was capable of.

It had never made sense, but it had stopped mattering long ago.

( )

"You know I can't do that!" Peter snarled, balling his fists and baring his teeth. It was a transparent display of aggression that was supposed to conceal how deeply upset he was, but even if Sylar didn't know him as well as he did he wouldn't have been fooled. "I am not getting over him!"

"I'm not asking for that!" It was impossible not to snap, due to the fact that Sylar's hormones were still raging and frustrated or not.

Of course he didn't want to put his only friend through pain, and of course he felt bad about what had just transpired in the most awkward of moments, but how long was this going to keep happening? How long did he have to wait, have to grovel, have to insist on his redemption before Peter would finally overcome the final hurdle between them? The final confession that he still wouldn't give...?

They'd been fine! They'd had a pleasant day together: they'd gone on a walk; played some chess; Peter had "cooked" and Sylar had eaten it anyway; they hadn't so much as disagreed in weeks, now. But one hint of Saint Nathan Petrelli and all the good stuff became irrelevant?!

Sylar glared unfalteringly down at the little man, just as he glared right back up. Exasperation, impatience and desperation were unfurling within the penitent killer like a poison, and even not that long ago he knew this would have descended into a scrapping fist fight between them. But today it didn't. Because they didn't do that anymore. They didn't hurt each other now that they had come so far and overcome so much and been there for each other through every step of hell.

Or that was the impression Sylar had been under. Until about a minute ago.

( )

"You don't have to choose between him and me, Peter, I get it! Nathan will always come first!"

It was a truth that scalded Peter to hear as much as it scalded Sylar to admit, ripping free from the layers of quiet denial that had been slowly burying it into a corner for months now. Peter wished that he didn't want to deny it. He hated that he couldn't.

"But what about us?" Sylar's lips grew thin, echoes of his kisses tingling upon Peter's skin. "Until you learn to put the past in the past we'll never get outta here! I know you don't want to hear it but you have to be realistic –"

"Realistic?" Peter spat, narrowing his eyes and gesturing both arms wildly around the pair. "What part of all this is realistic? The part where I've been living inside a man's head for five years? The part where we've survived this long? Or the part where I've gone so insane that I'm actually sleeping with the man who killed my brother?!"

Silence, as that sank in.

( )

Instantly, all of Sylar's rage deserted him.

Normally he would have attempted to cling onto a scrap of composure. He couldn't now. Not when he had just been so vulnerable with that smouldering man, not when they'd just been connected so intimately. To try and backtrack now would be nothing but a pathetic waste of effort.

His voice was very small. "Is that what this is?" He squinted down at Peter, recoiling half a step, the space between them too convoluted to withstand. "...Is that what I am to you?"

Feeling unsteady on his feet, Sylar watched as Peter's expression wavered for a second, his faulty lower lip almost quivering. There was no doubt in Sylar's mind that the guy regretted his words. But that didn't mean he hadn't meant them. Sylar's pulse beat dully while Peter blinked rapidly and battled to compose a frown.

"Well what am I?" He countered, throwing Sylar's own words back at him from what felt like a million years ago. "Nothing personal? A scratch for an itch? Just an arrangement until we get the hell outta here, right? Never to be spoken of again?"

This stung Sylar deeply, cracking across his face like the tails of a whip and leaving bruises in its wake. Because, yes, he'd said all those things. And at the time he'd meant them. But how was he supposed to know what would grow between these two lost souls when nobody was watching? How would he ever have expected it to evolve into so much more than the occasional escape whenever the loneliness got unbearable...? Because it had evolved. Sylar knew it had; more than he'd known he was supposed to be special, more than he knew how things worked, more than he'd known there might never be anyone out there who would ever care about him.

And he knew Peter felt it too.

Everything was screaming at Sylar that his only friend was just upset. It didn't mean this was still meaningless sex to him until he got a better offer, or that because all this was happening inside a dream it made it any less real to Peter than to Sylar. He wanted to believe it, despite the doubts that got in the way. Peter would calm down soon, amble over with an apology and then things would work out again. Right? It was just the way it went between them.

But that sure as hell didn't mean that Sylar was going to crawl begging for validation on his knees. If Peter was still favouring his self-serving bastard of a brother even when Sylar was offering up his very soul, then what else did he possibly have to give?

( )

"If that's all you want to be."

Peter's throat tightened as painfully as if beneath a telekinetic grip, but there were no abilities here. He physically couldn't reply. He barely managed to so much as hold himself together, stand his ground and stare directly into hurt, glistening eyes opposite his own, until Sylar turned his back and silently let himself out of the apartment.

And when Peter's tears finally spilled down his face, he knew in his heart that they didn't fall for his brother.

( )( )( )

"I, uh... I know it's been a while. I'm sorry. I've been meaning to get over here sooner, but..."

Peter floundered for an excuse, but there wasn't one to give. He blew out a sigh, thin and papery as it whispered throughout the vacant world. It wasn't particularly cold out here but he shivered anyway, turning up the collar of his jacket and huddling up small on the ground.

"Well. You know why."

It had stopped raining by the time he got here The clouds had cleared, the grass was dewy and the full moon hung low and heavy in the sky above. The night had broken too quickly, come to a standstill where nothing was happening and everything was possible. The city was waiting, expectant, at Peter's back, as if the whole word was holding its breath.

He pretended he didn't know why.

"I... don't know how to do this." He confessed weakly, sniffling away the lingering aftermath of crying.

His nose was still blocked and his voice thick, but really Peter was impressed with himself that he'd managed to recover this much. His heart was infected, swollen and too sensitive, impossibly heavy for his chest to contain much longer. If nothing changed he'd have to carve it out himself if only to ease the pain. He just couldn't bear the thought of what he knew he had to do to lighten the load.

"Y'know he must've said sorry a million times by now? Yeah." Peter scoffed and shook his head, toying with damp blades of grass in his fingers. "And I wish I could accept his apologies, but..."

He paid no attention to the chill seeping through the grass into his jeans. When he peeked up through his hair again, the stone before him was as proud and unyielding as ever, catching the moonlight just like the smile of the man it memorialised had used to catch the sun.

"I keep thinking of you, Nathan." Blinking back a fresh surge of tears, Peter reached out and traced his fingers along the deep grooves of his brother's name, carved so boldly into marble that it was impossible to deny.

Matt Parkman had really done a number on this place. It didn't matter that this cemetery should really have been outside the borders of the wall, or that Angela still hadn't settled on what to put on Nathan's true stone, that it hadn't even been made yet in the real world. A few years back Peter had needed a way to feel close to his brother, and then had happened across this place. He didn't mind that it wasn't real. He might die in here anyway before ever getting to see the authentic one.

"I know what you'd say. You'd tell me to grow up, right? That I've gotta carry on and live my life instead of sitting here moping." He swiped at his nose with his sleeve, haunted by the final words he'd ever heard in his brother's voice before he'd slipped from Peter's grasp forever. If it had been anyone else, Peter knew without fault that Nathan would have encouraged him to move on. He'd always tried to push Peter out of his comfort zone and into socialization, after all.

Except this wasn't anyone else. It was Sylar.

"But if you knew the things I've done?" His voice faded for a second, cast back to memories of heat and desire and naked skin against his, keeping him alive when the rest of the world bled with nothing... "You'd hate me."

Peter shivered again, overcome with more guilt than he knew how to handle.

He knew he had every right to mourn Nathan and hold a grudge against his murderer. Every time Sylar mentioned him, Peter could only look at his friend and see him killing his brother. Sylar took Nathan away from him. But Peter also knew that he couldn't keep this up forever. He recalled Sylar's long, painful redemption, how lost he'd been before all this, how broken, possessed by anger and loneliness and spite. He remembered that the man had been apologising tonight when the aforementioned name had been uttered, how trusting and hopeful he'd been in his intention to simply connect on a deeper level than they had all the others already.

It hadn't been a deliberate rise, Peter knew that. It was what made it so hard to stay angry.

Even now if he closed his eyes all that came up to meet him was Sylar. The way he'd looked at Peter just then, the shake in his voice as he'd confronted him, confused and hurt and rejected again. Peter could still feel the ghost of the man's touch swarming over his skin, infiltrating his body, keeping him safe, cherishing him in the way nobody had ever bothered to before. And after some tearful contemplation it no longer made him squirm.

Yes, Sylar was Nathan's killer. Sylar was a murderer. But he was also Peter's salvation here. He was the only source of colour when the rest of the world was in greyscale, he was light, he was life, he was everything there was to find, and he was the only person Peter had ever known who made him feel like he was enough the way he was. There was no pretending between them. Nowhere to hide anymore. Peter was pretty sure he would trust Sylar with his life if they ever got out into the real world. And it could only be called pride that he felt each time he imagined what the guy could do out there as a reformed hero with all his abilities restored...

"He's changed, Nathan." Peter said quietly. "He really has. You wouldn't even recognise him anymore." The smile that wanted to take over his face was too heavy to sustain for long.

It was the first time he'd ever spoken those words aloud. It wasn't that he hadn't realised the truth before – he'd been aware of the journey for every painstaking hour of it. It was just something he'd never said. No, never been able to say. Until now.

"He wants me to let him in entirely. And I'm trying. I don't wanna hurt him, but I just... don't wanna lose you, either."

Nathan's headstone remained silent and imposing. Somehow, Peter didn't think it was the fact that he hadn't visited this site in a long time that was making it seem less... well, alive than it had used to. The thing was solid and strong, angular, withstanding the elements as if it were only a day old, just as when Peter had found it the first time. But it didn't feel the same anymore.

Of course he knew that Nathan had never really been here. He was buried six feet beneath the real ground in the real cemetery in the real world. But he'd never seemed far away. Not for the first few years, anyway.

Peter no longer felt his brother's memory hovering disapprovingly over his shoulder whenever he felt anything other than loathing towards Sylar. It made him want to cry each time he remembered to check this, but it was impossible to deny the feelings he couldn't deny anymore or hope to hide from himself. Nathan's murderer was filling the hole in his heart that the man himself had left behind, the two constantly fighting for space within Peter's core, and fuck, it hurt.

"Nathan..."

Before this screwed-up co-dependency with Sylar had turned into something more, Peter hadn't even known what it meant to be able to truly depend on someone. Not his parents who had always betrayed him, not even his beloved big brother who would throw him under the bus whenever it suited his own needs – although that didn't stop Peter from trying, repeatedly. And when it came to friends or relationships? He could count on one hand the instances where they hadn't fucked off and left him for a more interesting offer, without him ever getting a solid reason as to why.

But now...? Sometimes it was scary. Sometimes it was more terrifying than the eternal damnation that may await him after death, to realise he had found real trust in another person at long last. The one he would have least expected. Sure, it wasn't like there were any other offers here besides Peter for Sylar to choose from, but even when there had been he had never been drawn to them. He'd never let his walls down with anyone else, ever – he was even newer to this dangerous game than Peter was. And sometimes... sometimes it was frightening to know Peter was giving so much power to someone who had already hurt him more than anyone else ever would.

But most of the time he could barely even think of his friend as the fearsome mass murderer he had used to be. Which was why it always hurt so much to be reminded. And to be confronted by how deeply he felt towards the same son of a bitch who had once slit his brother's throat.

Peter wasn't sure he was strong enough to withstand this pain much longer before something had to give. Which brought him right back to why he was currently sitting in wet grass spilling his heart out to an imaginary gravestone.

Taking a breath, he stroked his fingers across the cool surface of Nathan's stone. "...It doesn't mean that I don't love you." He croaked with difficulty, a shaky sentence that began strong before ending in a knot. "Because I do. And I always will, no matter what happens." His voice broke into a splintered wreck. It was all he could do to stop from bursting into whimpering tears like a child. "And I'm so sorry. But I have to go to him. Even if I'll always be angry for this... for you." Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, but it didn't help much. All he could see was a fuzzy blur through the burn wrecking havoc in his eyes.

For a rare moment, he was glad he was all alone here. He didn't want Sylar to see this, even if he knew the guy wouldn't laugh at him or make a smart-ass comment, not anymore. No. He had evolved his own means of showing, if not respect, then remorse at this site. Silent, still and somber. For a while now, Sylar had been insistent that it didn't have to be a choice between him or Nathan, that they could co-exist at once, and deep down inside Peter believed him. Nothing could ever replace the love he held for his brother. But still he was just scared to let go, in case someday he looked for the scars inside and found only Sylar where Nathan should have been. He never wanted to forget the pain or the anger that stained his brother's death into his person.

So he'd been holding back for so long. He'd been afraid for much longer. And it wasn't that he hated Sylar that was the problem in all this... it was that he didn't. Not anymore. He hadn't for a long, long time.

Peter let his hand slip from the headstone, settling instead on the hastily wrapped package resting in the grass beside him. "He needs me, Nathan." He sniffed briskly. "We need each other." He amended, nodding as if that had ever made any of his pleas work on Nathan anyway. "I know I can't make you understand. I can barely understand it myself, sometimes. But I'm not asking for permission, or forgiveness, and I don't even want your approval. I just... I just hope that you'd accept this." He finished, just as the last dregs of his voice tapered out. His mouth betrayed him in a tiny, hopeful smile that lasted for only a moment. "'Kay?"

Peter could clearly see his brother looking at him now, his lips pursed and his eyebrows furrowed in the way that meant he didn't approve of this decision, but that he wasn't going to fight it either. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. No anonymous phone calls to be made, no strings to be pulled behind the scenes... Nathan Petrelli had always been gracious enough to know when he'd been beat. So maybe he'd actually be okay about all this? If he knew...?

That was probably just wishful thinking on Peter's part. But it was all that he had.

Releasing a long, shaking breath, he dried his eyes and tucked his hair back off his face, pulling himself back together by sheer force of will, if nothing else. Making to leave, Peter climbed to his feet, dusted off his jeans and scooped up the heavy weight of the parcel he'd carried from his apartment.

He hesitated for a moment, absorbing the sight of Nathan's pretend resting place to tide him over until the next time he dropped by. He told himself it wouldn't be so long this time. Bending down, he touched his lips to smooth marble. "Miss you."

As soon as he stood up straight and started winding through silent rows of headstones, Peter found that he could breathe easy again. He was aware of the weight of his decision, of the twist in his chest transforming instead into a nervous whirlwind inside. The stuttering of his heart repairing itself even minutely reassured him that he was doing the right thing, no matter how daunting it was or if tonight's argument was still clouding his judgement a little.

There was only one place Sylar would be. The only time they ventured near that alley anymore was after a fight of epic proportions, when they'd vent their anger on brick and mortar instead of each other. Sometimes, when tempers were flaring and a sledgehammer was in hand, it was difficult not to let the imagination wander...

But tonight, Peter was determined not to fight again, even if anger and shame were going to make that much more difficult than it should be. He had to make things right. At the very least he had to tell Sylar how much he appreciated his patience.

Making his way through the silent streets of the city, he turned the gift-wrapped book anxiously in his hands. He had been planning on keeping it for Sylar's birthday, but tonight called for more of a peace offering than Peter could manage in words alone. The newspaper he had used to wrap the thing was soggy from the grass and the print had ran a little, but it didn't bother him too much.

And when he lingered at the mouth of the alleyway, and the sight of a small, hunched silhouette before the wall made his throat constrict, he just hoped it wouldn't bother Sylar too much either.

( )( )( )

"Fuck."

"Mmm, I know."

"That was..." Breathless, Peter was barely audible, never mind coherent, over the thriving sounds of life beyond the open window. The exhausted pair didn't even notice the ruckus, their endless nights of knowing only silence and nothingness far behind them now. "That was..."

"Spectacular?" Sylar supplied, grinning against the base of Peter's throat.

Flush head to toe with sweet, sweet satisfaction, he purred triumphantly between kisses and nibbles to Peter's jawline, neck, shoulders and lips; wherever he could reach while the guy lay panting and shuddering so gloriously beside him. The pair clung to each other as daylight stretched timidly into the room; spent and sweaty and swaying. Their heartbeats slowed as they lay entwined on their sides, cooling down in the hotel's rickety old bed that had barely survived the previous ordeal in one piece.

Peter hummed and squirmed delightfully against Sylar, enjoying the reverberations of what was likely his first orgasm since escaping Parkman's dreamworld (Sylar wouldn't even put it past him the way he'd been so obsessed with saving the world lately. Self care had never been Petrelli's strong suit, after all). Soft fingers tickled at the nape of the watchmaker's neck while Peter pressed his face into Sylar's hair, nuzzling and kissing and prolonging the tingling aftermath of their affair because why the hell not.

Sylar revelled in the attention he hadn't realised he had missed as much until he had it again. Peter was just as needy and affectionate as he used to be, unburdened for a change, so relaxed, and neither man had to work very hard to forget about the future they knew was looming on the horizon of this reprieve. It couldn't reach them here.

Peter failed to catch his voice again. "That was..."

"Earth shattering? Back-breaking? The best you've ever had? C'mon, Peter, spit it out, this is no time to be modest." Sylar giggled languidly into the empath's chest, and he was too goddamned happy to care how it sounded. God, he'd missed this.

Absently, he drew scrawls of appreciation into Peter's waist with his fingertips, down his back, over his hip and along his thigh: still tensing sporadically atop Sylar's. His skin was still burning underhand, shivering as he slowly unwound in the watchmaker's arms, and Sylar adored every last little tremor he was granted. Last over the finish line as usual, always second place, Peter fought to breathe steady while his cognitive functions were restored to him, and Sylar was happy to wait. He was used to the fact that this empathetic creature physically couldn't let himself go until knowing his partner was fulfilled first. And fulfilled, his partner was indeed.

Shit, it had been even better than Sylar remembered.

Not just because of the unfortunate incident that had tainted their last night in the dream city, but because he would swear every sensation was so much stronger than he had used to know. It was as if all the other times they'd been working through a muted veil of surreality without knowing, and what they'd always thought was normal was just two thirds of a whole. It was like, this time, Sylar had shed the final restraints of the dream to touch and be touched with all his nerve-endings entirely, sensitively intact.

And judging by the sounds his companion had just been making, it was safe to assume he felt the same.

Currently, Sylar enjoyed the simple pleasures of lazy smooches and Peter's drying hair tickling his face, hands roaming lightly over his companion's naked form while fingers stroked his spine in return. And all this time it had been fear; fear and uncertainty and bad timing that had conspired to make themunsure if they were allowed to re-ignite this pact outside the dream? It seemed ridiculous now. But things hadn't ended on the most confidence-inspiring note last time. The pair never got the chance to clear the air on this particular argument before the wall had broken unexpectedly, and suddenly they were back in the real world and Sylar, personally, hadn't wanted to endanger this precious thing between them by broaching such unsteady waters.

He still didn't regret his decision. This relationship of theirs was too complex to risk for any means, far too irreplaceable. True, it didn't make much sense to any outsiders looking in, but that didn't matter at all to these two lost souls who trusted and connected and cared and protected and had just happened to fuck, sometimes. What they had didn't have to be amended. It didn't have to be labelled or justified or explained. It just existed in its own right, the easiest thing in the world. It was important and special and unique and enough just the way it had been for over the past half year – they didn't need this part. And in no world Sylar had ever known (dream or reality) would it ever be a consolation prize to settle for a deep, meaningful connection over sex.

But to combine the two...? Well. That was hardly a consolation, either.

With a content sigh, Peter pushed himself up on an elbow to lean over Sylar, cradling his head in both hands. Sylar indulged in trailing long, tousled strands of hair away from obscuring that face. Breathtaking. Then Peter smiled down at him with every part of it, familiar and open and shyly pleased with himself. With them. With what they'd just done. Pride simmered happily in Sylar as brightly as it shone from the other man, too wonderful a thing to keep from melting into his own expression.

"That was..." Peter's tiny crooked grin could only be the perfect cherry atop an already pretty exceptional morning. "Way better than last time."

Sylar burst out laughing. He laughed despite the unpleasant reminder of the night in question, his painful incompletion and how empty his bed had felt after Peter had left him. It really did feel like a long time ago. Shaking his head, he tugged the other guy down and caught his addictive little lips for the countless time that morning. Chuckling, smiling together, the men settled back down into the pillow without once sacrificing their embrace.

Oh yes, Sylar concurred. This was definitely better than last time.

A/N: As always, if you've stuck with the story this long I can only say thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and everything that happened within. What do you think of our boys' secret? Did you see it coming? Don't be shy to let me know X)

And now that the truth is out: I can finally admit that this has been planned from the very beginning of the story! They've had this secret between them all this time, and yes, there have been hints strewn throughout the chapters XP If you ever happened to go back and re-read the fic I bet you'd interpret a few of their interactions a little differently this time...

I hope you check back in for the rest of the story – just because the guys have had a chance to unwind for a moment doesn't mean it's the end. Things are only going to increase in drama from here on out, as the lives of two heroes always tend to do.

P.S. Within the next few days I'm going to post a oneshot that is a tie-in prequel to Tongues of Fire, set in The Wall during the forming of their rather complicated friendship... Please stay tuned and check it out soon X)