Day 76, February 24, Morning
The intrusion of Sylar's tongue was wet, slippery, and entirely unwanted. The sense of revulsion that swept through Peter took him by surprise. He didn't want any part of Sylar's body inside his own, something he hadn't realized until it happened. His reaction was visceral and so intense that Peter jerked his head back, smacking it against the tile hard enough that the whole world seemed to be a bell someone had rung. He was too stunned by the self-inflicted blow to focus, but he managed to roll his head to the side. He turned his face away from Sylar to prevent any continuation of the kiss. The fluttering in his stomach that had previously been almost pleasant and definitely exciting devolved back into a more virulent form of the roiling upset he'd felt immediately after the fighting had stopped. Gasping, Peter sat up as abruptly as he dared, fearing he was about to be sick. The room spun and darkened at the edges. He leaned over, bracing himself against the floor with one hand while the other pressed to his belly. His stomach heaved and he gagged, retching twice as he endeavored not to actually vomit.
XXX
One minute they were liplocked and the next, Peter was making faces and trying to escape. Sylar frowned and let him go, mostly out of confusion for the first few seconds. Then Peter sat up and…gagged. Dry heaving. It shocked him more than it should have. Either I hit him too hard or he couldn't do it. Who are we kidding here? I was right and he can't…Sylar sprawled in place, feeling any and all hope spiraling away as if it had never existed.
XXX
Peter was eventually successful in keeping the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be. Not bothering to look at Sylar (he didn't want to; it would be embarrassing; what would he say?), he crawled over to the cart and used it to pull himself to his feet. He still felt uncomfortably woozy. The store seemed too bright. Damn it. We're probably both concussed. Peter sighed, finally looking over at Sylar because he had to or it would be even more awkward than it already was. Peter shook his head slowly. He wanted to say things. He wanted to explain why kissing was good at this stage but French kissing was too much. He needed to say something elaborate and convincing about consent, stages of intimacy, the trauma of their past, Peter's uncertainty of where they stood with each other, his concerns about Sylar's behavior and motivations, his fear of letting Sylar take the lead, and about the very physical aftereffects of the fight they'd just had. But his head hurt and his mouth was sore and he was still dripping blood from somewhere. He shook his head again. It was as articulate as he could manage. He'll just have to deal with it.
XXX
There was everything to say and yet none of it was sufficient. All he could say would be excuses and stupid emotion that Peter had neither asked for nor wanted. The scales were balanced, as usual. There were no more questions to be answered. Everything was clear. Peter realized now that there was no other way to do things. Sylar didn't think for two seconds that Peter's stomach was that upset over a fight or his injuries. He saw the other man shaking his head and it pained him how sufficient that was as an explanation.
(I'm so disgusting he nearly vomited. I told him I wasn't like other people). He should have fucking listened instead of leading me on! (He tried. I don't know why, but…he tried. Just now. He tolerated it and that's…that's all he could handle. It was more than most people can manage. That's why he said no kissing, no making out, no sex.) Why the fuck would he bother?
Then he was subjected to a second shake of Peter's head: a complete and utter rejection, not just of the act and the action, but of him. He was suddenly overwhelmingly ashamed. It was a good thing he was next to invisible because he almost needed it right now. It cut him deeper than he'd imagined to be held so cheaply that Peter couldn't kiss him and probably still wanted to fuck him. It would probably always be done rough and impersonally…and he knew Peter wasn't like that with other normal, wholesome people. Invisible wasn't his style though and he desperately wanted some kind of…acknowledgement, no matter how negative. I don't exist anymore.
Sylar slowly pushed himself upright, sitting on the floor as he looked out down the deserted dairy aisle that ran one of the lengths of the store. He was gutted, surprised and vindicated all at once. He couldn't blame Peter at all, not for trying or for…failing to handle it. It proved some of Peter's point also, about the empath's own sustained internal damages. He felt like he was on an island again, watching mirages of ships passing by, only to wake up and find his own imagination had been telling him comforting lies all along. A slow starvation, helplessly awaited. He could see all the kindness, decency, comforts, and agreements being stripped away now. Peter knew those deals were no longer binding with a freak. Suddenly physically everything hurt and he deserved it.
XXX
Peter grabbed a half dozen random blocks of cheese and a mesh bag of round things, tossing them all in one of the sacks set up in the cart. Then he started slowly pushing it towards the frozen food aisle, hanging onto it for balance. Walking was easy enough, but breathing was hard. The various rib shots he'd taken were making themselves known with every breath.
XXX
Sylar watched out of the corner of his eye. He was in no hurry to follow after Peter, somewhat certain that distance was necessary right now after such a violation. He stood and trailed after the medic. The pattern would be a more brief excursion in the store to gather food and supplies before aftercare.
Just beginning to come to terms with his fate, Sylar felt the need to soothe his would-be partner and see to his health. Those were the rules. No kissing. And no talking about it. Not fucking ever. (He wondered if that was the worst part all along.) Maybe I should tell him his reaction was normal. For all I know, it is. Sylarspared a glance at Peter. 'I had no idea it was that bad for you.' 'I'm sorry.' 'It won't happen again.' All those count as 'talking about it.'
Sylar looked back at the wreckage, concerned about the display case and the mess. That's my fault, isn't it? I should clean it up. Now or…? (Which is worse, if I leave him now to do something stupid, or something I should have done already, or if I stay and ignore it like I didn't notice or take responsibility? Should I be driving the cart? Does he need to go home while I get the supplies? I'm just worrying about anything else so I don't have to think about this).He quickly went back to watching where they were going and strangely hoped Peter hadn't noticed his distraction.
XXX
Peter pushed the cart slowly. He could see that even so, Sylar was lagging behind. That was fine. The longer they could go without talking, the better. What the hell would I say, anyway? It looks like I nearly ralphed from him kissing me, which is…mostly true. I didn't want him doing that. How do I explain that without sounding like a prude with weird boundaries? I don't want him doing things to me! He kissed me (without asking). He had me feel him up last night (without asking). If he doesn't ask, then he can go without an explanation when things fuck up. Why did I feel like it was so gross? I've French kissed…hundreds of people. But I didn't want it this time. Not from him. Not without…I don't know what I want from him. But I don't want him sticking his tongue or anything else in me without…something. I can't explain it to him – I can't even explain it to myself!
He frowned, stopping in front of the frozen vegetables. He could see Sylar lingering at the end of the aisle, keeping him in sight. Peter pulled out a bag of corn and held it to the back of his head. The chill felt good, suppressing some of the unpleasant throbbing. He pulled out a second and shut the door, leaning against the glass and using it to pin one of the bags between the back of his head and the door. The second bag he pressed to the lower half of his face. Whatever was bleeding seemed to have stopped, but he'd still dripped all over himself. He tongued the cut where his lip had been caught between Sylar's fist and Peter's teeth. It seemed superficial despite the swelling. It couldn't have bled that much. Must be my nose. I don't remember getting hit in the nose. He felt of it. It wasn't even all that tender, but he still couldn't breathe out of it and felt a renewed trickle just from his exploratory wiggling. Whatever. I won't die from it. He looked over at Sylar, who had come a little closer.
XXX
Sylar attempted to gently stretch his neck. That was the worst of it. He'd had the air knocked from him a couple times, been tripped, and yanked on, hit with fists and a cardboard box that had…He touched at his face. Yes, cut. It burned some and bled. The punches to his face, ribs, and his own knuckles were secondary. Sylar found that out when he tried to slide his hands into his pockets.
XXX
"We should get some Tiger Balm. Or Bengay," Peter said in response to Sylar's motion. "We're both going to be sore and I don't think the penthouse has any." He gave Sylar a quick, practical look up and down. "Do you have any broken bones, cracked ribs, anything I need to know about?" He felt like he had to ask. He ought to do an exam, but his hands hurt, Sylar probably didn't want him touching him (and Peter wasn't entirely sure he wanted to touch him), and there wasn't much Peter could do for him anyway.
XXX
In the awkward silence (different from the usual silence), Peter's voice still sounded loud. It was a little startling. His eyes darted up to look at Peter. Sylar shook his head in response. I didn't mean to imply you should…take care of me. I was just stretching. The frozen food was a good idea (and not abusive, as Peter sometimes was to food); he copied the process for his neck and knuckles to start, albeit at the far end of the aisle.
XXX
Peter didn't nod – he was still keeping the bag of frozen corn pinned against the back of his head. The one in front of his mouth wasn't doing his speech any favors, but he sounded understandable. "Good. I wasn't trying to hurt you." I'm not apologizing. I didn't do anything wrong. Not on purpose. It sounds like I'm apologizing, though. He glanced away with an uncomfortable grimace, then back. "Not badly, at least. We're getting better at fighting – we're not tearing each other up as much." Maybe we can get better about the other stuff. Just…go slow. But I thought I was going slow on his behalf, not mine.
Frustrated with himself despite the progress they were making, Peter reached back and tugged out the bag of corn from behind his head. Then he tossed both bags into the cart. "Let's get the minimums and get out of here. Maybe a gallon of milk, some bread, the Tiger Balm, and get home." Home. He lives at 'home' with me. And I'm starting fights with him and beating him up. Peter felt guilty, unhappy with and resentful of his own emotions. This is fucked up.
He turned the cart around to head back to the dairy section, taking it past Sylar. He gave him an appraising look, thinking about the way Sylar had been skulking at the end of the aisle and was still doing his best to keep his distance. It looks like either he thinks I don't want him around, or he's stalking me. I don't like either of those, but at least he doesn't look afraid of me. Peter tipped his head in the direction he was going, inviting Sylar along. "Stay with me," he added softly.
XXX
Sylar shuffled back as Peter began his approach with the cart leading the way. He was just giving it room. Not forcing himself on Peter in any way, except…except not with his presence, apparently. It was hard to believe. "Of course," he replied as if that was a given, absolute in life: Peter getting his way. In a few ways, he didn't want to stick around – on principle that Peter didn't get to say horrible things then demand that he hang out with Peter. Maybe he needs me to get more groceries. Maybe it's just efficient. Maybe he needs to keep an eye on me. There's plenty of reasons. Mostly, Sylar didn't know what else to do.
XXX
Peter didn't have much of a plan for shopping at this point. Previously, he'd expected to make multiple trips. Now, he just figured two small bags each was good. A gallon of milk made one bag. The cheese he'd already picked up, with a big container of yogurt added in, made a second bag of about the same weight. As they headed to the pharmacy section, he put a box of chocolate-coated ice cream bars in the sack with the frozen corn. In the healthcare area, he gestured at the different muscle relaxant products for Sylar to choose one. "Pick out what you prefer. I remember you said you liked Tiger Balm." He looked around idly at the different pain relievers, thinking about how he fully intended to be the one applying the cream to Sylar.
Will he object? Does he understand why I want to do it? Was that what the kiss was about – him needing the same thing, contact? Was it because I touched him on the arm? Did that prompt him to come over and kiss me? He went for it with his tongue after I touched his face while we were kissing. Am I setting him off all the time, triggering him? He twitched when I touched him. He's usually twitchy when I touch him, sometimes even when I warn him I'm going to do it. Maybe him getting turned on during the foot massage wasn't about feet, but more about me touching him at all. He's lonely, he's starved for contact – is every touch overwhelming?
XXX
Sylar picked out bread, peanut butter, and a few cans of soup (several of them vegetable with no meat broth involved). He stayed a foot or two apart from Peter as they walked. He nearly balked at the pharmacy because he couldn't imagine what they would need that they didn't already have in Peter's medical bag of tricks. Brows furrowed, he spared a glance at his companion before entering the aisle to get a better look. Is this a test? That was it; that explained what he was feeling. He felt set up or betrayed somehow. Peter had intentionally baited him and…he'd fallen for it. What a stupid, useless feeling to have. There was no point in confronting Peter about it (he kind of already had) and Peter was probably right to start a fight and say what he'd said. It felt like Peter was watching him, so he hastily grabbed the Tiger Balm as soon as he found it.
XXX
They crossed the store to the bakery, then to the fruit section. A bag of apples and another of grapes joined the assortment to make up the last two bags. Peter wasn't keen on getting fresh veggies. They were likely too crunchy for his teeth to handle, at least for a few days. He topped off the bags with a handful of softer candy bars. He parked the cart near the front door and gave Sylar a long look. This is usually where I'd pat him on the shoulder. He felt sore, banged up, and still confused about the mixed emotions Sylar engendered. His mind was churning on the events of the last half hour, weighing his desire to touch against the possibility that Sylar was reacting badly to it, and reacting badly because he was desperate for it. Peter picked up his bags without offering contact. "Can you get those two?"
XXX
Peter remembered the apples, though. That had been on Sylar's mental list even if apples were probably difficult to eat with a torn up mouth. Grapes were another good idea. Bite sized and soft. The candy bars almost earned a comment. 'Eat a Snickers'? How about 'just get fucking laid already'? When they neared the doors, he could feel Peter's eyes on him. Let me guess: one of us is going home. But Peter wasn't saying it yet, just a request to help carry the bags. He nodded and took the handles, taking a moment to arrange them for optimal transport.
XXX
It was a quiet slog back through the snow. Peter voiced no questions this time around. He couldn't pull together his thoughts to formulate anything useful in any case. The world was too bright – his eyes and head hurt to go along with mouth and ribs and the ache in his right hand because he'd used it to hit Sylar more than he should have. I shouldn't have been hitting him at all. I started that – the whole thing, provoked him on purpose, then started swinging when all he did was push me. His thoughts were hazy, unpleasant, and left him sullen. So he kept his mouth shut and stayed focused on getting to the apartment.
XXX
Sylar knew it was bad when Peter had nothing to say. It wasn't going to end well. Either Peter was too tired or hurting (Sylar's fault) or Sylar had fucked up so badly that- well, he didn't know what exactly. The cold contracted muscles and made the pain more obvious with the exaggerated motions through the few inches of snow and shivering. It was concerning to wonder about what had changed between them.
XXX
Getting inside was a relief. So was the silent elevator ride as he recovered. Peter shut his eyes, even with Sylar right there. Once in the apartment, the few groceries were quickly put away. Peter went in the bathroom and cleaned his hands and face, stripping off his blood-stained shirt and dropping it in the corner. He cleared his nose carefully, enough so he could breathe out of it and not so much that he started it bleeding again. He wet a clean washcloth with the intention of using it on Sylar (whether it might be triggering or not for the man) and came out of the bathroom.
XXX
Sylar cracked open two cans of tomato soup, pouring it into bowls and beginning to heat it while Peter cleaned up. The work was comforting, distracting from whatever was coming. He found that he needed that. It was a stupid and useless feeling to be upset about being rejected so violently. Peter returned with a washcloth in hand. Sylar glanced at him, then at it, then away. Was I supposed to be taking care of him? Peter was clean now so he'd missed it regardless. Just another failure to add to the ever increasing list. Oh. It must be for me. He turned back and extended his hand for the washcloth, "Thank you."
XXX
"No," Peter said gently, moving the washcloth an inch or two away from Sylar's hand. It wasn't a veto, he wasn't blocking Sylar from taking it from him, but he certainly wasn't volunteering to hand it over. "Let me."
XXX
With his hand paused in mid-air, having never made contact with the cloth, Sylar looked up into Peter's face. He didn't understand so maybe there was something in the medic's expression…Peter quickly clarified his intent, but it still didn't fit the script Sylar expected. He went along with it because it was easy to give.
XXX
"Come here," Peter said unnecessarily, putting a hand on Sylar's shoulder and lifting the cloth towards his face. "This helps me," he said in a serious tone, pausing so Sylar had another moment to realize Peter was about to put his hand to Sylar's face. "I need this." Peter wiped off the bleeding from the cut on Sylar's cheek – probably from the cheese block – and then the less defined smears and drops elsewhere on the man's face. Those were most likely from the ice pack, Sylar wiping at his skin, maybe even Peter's fists. "I am really, really angry at you – not right this moment, just in general." He looked into Sylar's eyes for a long second, then back at what he was doing as he moved on to the man's lips. Here, he knew where the blood had come from – from Peter, from their kiss. He was more delicate with his touch. "Letting me help you…puts you in a different role in my head than the guy who killed all those people. Clearly, I need that." Peter took in an unsteady breath. He put his hand down and let the other drop from Sylar's shoulder and to Peter's side. He tipped his head forward slightly, raising his brows earnestly. "We're working on this together, right?"
XXX
For the cleaning process, Peter gave a much clearer and more familiar message with his body language and painfully obvious words. The man's need was unmistakable and part of it Sylar could understand right away. The empath wanted some form of feedback, checking in, dominance. The cloth on his face was gentle and it caused hardly any pain. It was a mixed message to see Peter staring at his mouth. Even if the answer had been different, it would have to be agreement. He probably wants to do to me what I want to do to him. I don't know, touching, being in charge, choices, getting to say what you want to. If he has it, does that mean it's a normal urge? It was difficult to imagine that any of his own impulses being normal. Did I fuck up that badly? He's incredibly angry at me, but 'not right now' – or so he says. Do I believe that? His face blank but serious, he agreed, "Yes, of course."
XXX
Peter frowned. He tossed the cloth on the kitchen counter, sighed in frustration, and entwined his sore hands into the fabric of Sylar's shirtfront. Peter lifted his chin, regarding Sylar with a sober expression. He shook him gently, almost comically so – once, twice, a third time, then a pause and a fourth. "I would bet a week's worth of lattes that you're just telling me what you think I want to hear." Then he let go. The bell of the microwave had long since gone off. "But fine. Let's get lunch. Is any of that for me, or should I get my own?" He picked up the cloth and took it to the sink to rinse. After that, he put a clean, new shirt on.
XXX
Sylar straightened, leaving hands at his sides and being mostly confused because Peter had to be hurting. And the medic had said once he began to clean up, any fighting was over. Peter's displeasure was clear, though Sylar didn't take any of the body language or being grabbed as threatening. Sylar had questions regarding the man's message, too. I thought that was a good thing. I can't even agree without him disbelieving me? Because I pulled a prank or made him look foolish? Is he just angry in general? He remained in place for a few seconds longer. "Yes," he said carefully. Too much agreement was uncertain ground apparently. Then, realizing how it sounded, he added, "For you."
XXX
Peter wanted the food…until it was in front of him. At that point, his bile threatened to rise again. He stirred the tomato soup silently, considering the throbbing in his head and the queasiness earlier. There's nothing I can do about the concussion, but there is for the symptoms. He set his spoon down and went to the medical bag, digging through it until he found the Zofran and a syringe. He drew up the recommended amount, found a vein, and injected.
He returned to the table, giving Sylar a wordless shrug before picking up his spoon again. I don't want to explain. I don't want him to think I couldn't kiss him only because I'd been hit too hard. And I wasn't hit too hard – it was slamming my own head into the floor that did it. The back of my head was hurt the last time I was concussed, too. I wonder if it didn't heal right after that glass?
XXX
Sylar glanced up when Peter stood up and walked over to the wheelchair with the medicine bag. His gaze lingered when he saw the injection. It worried him and raised more questions. Is he concussed or still upset? Of course it was possible to be so upset that it resulted in appetite loss. Tomato soup is never a good choice. He was bleeding. He's said before that he doesn't eat certain foods because of the smell. What do I say if he is concussed? It was my fault…
Then Peter sat again, giving another non-verbal gesture of communication. Sylar saw it and focused on his food again, idly stirring.
XXX
His appetite did not return immediately, nor did the upset stomach subside that soon, but he managed to eat some anyway. Peter was quietly thankful the food was nearly liquid, given the issues with his mouth. For once, he didn't complicate the meal with crackers, cheese, or anything else – not even conversation. They ate. They cleaned up. Peter retired to the bed with a couple ice packs he'd made, taking off his shoes and settling in on top of the covers. The warm food, of which he'd eaten maybe half his portion, had left him drowsy. Or perhaps that was a side effect of the medication, or concussion – he couldn't recall and didn't much care. He felt basically safe, which was oddly comforting to realize – Sylar had killed him more than once, but Peter had grown to feel 'safe' in his company. He arranged an ice pack behind his head and balanced the other on his face, watching Sylar idly.
XXX
It was weird, Sylar noticed, not to be asked question after question about a significant event here with Peter. Either this was different, or Peter was merely waiting, or this was one of the things that couldn't ever be discussed. Sylar did most of the cleaning and when he was done he noticed Peter lying down on the master bed. No shower? He must be concussed. Should I ask? Does he even know?
It was enough odd behaviors to tip the balance of favor and dictated his course of actions: I need to treat him like he's concussed. While ice might have felt good, he wasn't sure how that fit with the changing dynamic. He did allow himself to lie down on his back next to Peter with a foot or more of space between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, the silence, but it was…present.
XXX
After a minute or so, Peter rolled to his side. The motion prompted him to re-arrange his ice packs, but was worth the bother to face the other man. Once done, he extended a hand to touch Sylar's forearm, less tentatively than he had after the fight. "I like touching you," he said quietly, watching what he was doing, stroking dark hairs one way and then the other. "It makes me happy – or at least content, inside." He made a brief gesture at his own chest. "What would make you happy like that, Sylar?" His question was casual – not so much an offer as simply making conversation.
XXX
Sylar tensed inwardly to feel the shift in the mattress. He wasn't afraid of violence, but of the dialogue Peter would try to start. It wasn't what he was expecting at all. Sylar experienced a multitude of reactions to those nice, simple statements and the question. He likes touching me? Really? I thought he was angry. How can he stand it? Then, because it was more pressing and almost more of a mystery, he focused on his reply.
There was the obvious, 'Being touched' response. There were plenty of defensive, sharp, disbelieving, dismissive, undeserving, submissive, needy, disgusting answers, too. Under it all, the answer was: I don't know. Sylar couldn't imagine a reply that would satisfy that question so he didn't really try. "That's not necessary, Peter. Touching me is okay. I don't mind at all."
XXX
"I don't mind at all," Peter said, copying Sylar's inflection. "That's where we should start – things we're both okay with." He continued petting Sylar's forearm, staring at it blankly. He was focused on other things than sight – the faint, very faint tingle the contact engendered, and the emotional, uncertain quality of what Sylar had just said. There was a wavering there that was almost palpable. "You didn't answer the question, though. It's a kind of rude question I guess. It wouldn't be if we were closer." Peter felt through his hand. If he concentrated, he could feel threads of energy from his fingertips running back through his body. It seemed unwise to go too far down that road. If Sylar felt something ability-related, he might (rightfully) freak out. Despite his mention of the benefits of practicing, Peter doubted Sylar would volunteer himself as a test subject. So Peter went back to the more pleasing but merely physical sensations. He felt very tired. Lids drooping, he said, "Sometimes I wonder if we're all just energy fields, like characters out of Tron. 'Luminous beings', like Yoda said."
XXX
Sylar frowned. Peter wasn't making sense and he didn't sound like himself. He was tired, nauseous, needy, and out of it. "Do you think you might have a concussion? I think you have a concussion."
XXX
Eyes shut, Peter agreed, "Yeah, definitely. A mild one. Should be better tomorrow. I can still kick your ass, though. Don't forget that." The world seemed to swirl away for a moment before wakefulness returned. He chuckled. "I threaten you then go to sleep next you. That's either really dumb or really trusting. Or maybe a sign of," Peter's tone changed to mimic one of his professors, "poor judgement consequential to traumatic brain injury."
XXX
It was a relief when Peter agreed with him. It also made him a little concerned. He was glancing at Peter every now and then so he saw when Peter appeared to zone out. The bravado was laughable because Sylar was offering no threat. "I'll take care of you," he said anyway.
XXX
"Good," Peter responded, words slurred by a combination of swollen lip, ice pack, and drowsiness. By this point, he was basically sleep-talking – thinking he was making friendly jokes and being too out of it to consider if Sylar understood his words the same way. "I'd hate to be wrong about you. Might not wake up." He slid his hand down to Sylar's wrist, thinking something ill-defined about hanging onto him in case Sylar tried to hurt him. Then he fell asleep.
XXX
You probably are wrong about me, Sylar thought in disappointment. He assumed Peter's mental filter was shot and it was likely he was being truthful about his lack of trust. Somewhere, recently, he'd earned it and that had changed how Peter saw him. He patted the other man's hand as it rested on his arm. He remained looking at Peter's closed eyes until he detected steadier, deeper breaths.
The question is…why is he nauseous? And when did he hit his head? Sylar knew he'd been throwing hard punches, but it was hardly a life-or-death struggle and it hadn't been his best effort. Peter appeared to have smacked his head against the floor in his desperation to get away from Sylar's kiss. He was miserable and guilty and desperate for being so disgusting as to cause such an extreme reaction. He wanted to be forgiven and comforted but that wasn't going to happen. Regardless of how it had happened, it was his fault Peter was injured.
After wondering, he glanced back over to Peter's covered face and wished he could see more of it. He petted his hand because he could. Maybe ten minutes later, he picked up his book from the nightstand and tried to ignore his problems.
XXX
Peter woke when Sylar moved his head to position two new ice packs. Both were pressed too firmly against swollen, sore flesh. Peter half-remembered the painless process of Sylar removing the old ones. But the pain woke him up fully this time around. He grimaced as he blinked his eyes open.
XXX
Sylar hesitated, now able to see the pain cross Peter's face. He replaced the new packs and his hand drifted across to Peter's hair. He didn't know how else to make it better and…it was something he wanted. He petted the soft locks with a few quick motions.
XXX
He wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't feeling guilty. It's not because of the ice packs. Peter caught Sylar's wrist as the man went to pull it away. It wasn't thought out beyond a sudden desire to address that guilt. If anyone was at fault for the fight, Peter thought it was himself.
XXX
Sylar paused, half-sitting on the bed beside him. He was trying to imagine why Peter was holding onto his wrist.
XXX
Peter pulled in a long breath. It's not the fight, either. He knows it was the kiss. So he's overcompensating by being guilty about touching my hair? Of course, he is! He doesn't know how I'll take anything if I freak out over a kiss. Peter drew back the hand, slowly, and put it against his hair again. He watched Sylar. Peter raised his brows slightly in invitation or question, but he didn't speak. He still didn't know how to explain without sounding like an idiot. Instead, he stroked Sylar's hand along his hair, petting himself. It's like last night, Peter thought, hoping Sylar would see the similarity. When you used my hand to touch yourself?
XXX
Sylar held his breath for a moment when his hand was replaced on Peter's hair. He knew he was being watched, but he was hurriedly checking between the empath's face and where his hand was being guided. Peter's expression appeared interested. Peter wants my hand in his hair? Then he got it: this was quid pro quo. He wants my hand in his hair. He's showing me what he wants. The realization was deeply satisfying, but he had a flash of concern that this was somehow related to Nathan. Sylar dismissed that because he couldn't find a rational connection. The better connection was to last night and how…sexually he'd intended Peter's hands all over him to be. It felt too good to be true and his body agreed: flushing with heat and filthy/pleased sensations.
Sylar finally noticed he'd been staring at Peter and glanced to where his hand was being held.
XXX
Peter paused, reached along Sylar's fingers and straightened them, then inserted them carefully into his hair over his ear. Sylar's fingers flexed, following the line of Peter's scalp. It hurt a little – at least once during the fight, Sylar had grabbed Peter's hair and jerked him aside with it. It was a minor injury. Peter ignored the pain to show Sylar that this sort of touching was approved. It was okay. It was what Peter wanted if they were together.
XXX
Oh God, yes. (Was this what it was like last night for him?) He'd touched Peter's hair before, grabbed it, petted it. This wasn't new, but it was. The man's hair was thick and glossy. Peter still had loose 'hold' on his hand, which he had mixed feelings about. It was a little annoying and kind of sexy, too. He had freedom of moving his fingers and took advantage of that.
XXX
Peter continued to guide him for three more passes before redirecting Sylar's touch to his neck. He paused again, arranging fingers so it was just fingertips and not the entire press of fingers against him. It was a trivial difference of personal taste – Peter would rather Sylar not wrap his hands around his throat, at least not at this stage. He brought them down behind his ear, curving upward after a short sojourn across his neck. He led Sylar's hand over his jaw to his cheek, up under his eye and over to his nose. Peter's eyes were on Sylar the whole time, his expression intent and serious because that was how he wanted to look, and a little vulnerable and concerned because he couldn't stop that from bleeding through. Peter let go, leaving Sylar's hand unattended to see what would happen next.
XXX
It got so much better. Peter led his hand to his beautiful neck, the side of his throat, just brushing and moving on. It was a delicious tease with only one set of fingertips in play. Oh God. Is he concussed so badly he's lost his mind? Then his hand was led up around the ear, next the muscular jaw and cheek, lastly up over Peter's face and nose, feeling it through the open nerves of his hand. His attention was locked onto his hand because his brain couldn't confirm this was happening unless he watched it. This was answering perverted wants and strange, unknown needs he hadn't been able to put into words. This was the start of everywhere he wanted to touch. He could feel warmth and the beginnings of arousal in his loins.
Then…Peter let go. Sylar's attention shifted to look into Peter's eyes. His own expression was wondering, focused, and…knowing at the same time. He wanted to jump him so badly and, for several reasons, couldn't do that. He's sick and injured. That's really gross. (He knows I'm fucked up. If he can plan to be this inviting when he's concussed…No. Leave him wanting it.) He's giving me control? At least a little bit of slack.
Sylar felt his hand retracing everywhere he'd just touched, gently, skimming over the skin. It was innocent. It was seductive. He wanted to bite that throat, grasp that head, tickle the ears, grab at the hair…When his fingers returned to Peter's nose, they drifted down to rest beside Peter's mouth. His digits just touched outside of the soft, pink lip. I bet he's just trying to prove some point. Like, I'm 'trustworthy' or I 'can be gentle' or something. Sylar didn't care.
Peter would care if another kiss was forced on him by his caretaker. After a brief second, Sylar worried it was weird, so he moved on. His thumb briefly brushing the outer corners of Peter's eye socket. When Peter was happy and smiled, it made adorable little crow's feet that made him look his age. Passing by that, he stroked the start of Peter's hair at his temple – where it transitioned from flesh to hair, short hairs to long. He couldn't help but grin a little.
XXX
Peter smiled more clearly. He stretched slightly, letting the ice pack fall out of place, then moved his head into Sylar's hand so it was cupping his cheek. Peter let his eyes slide shut for a long moment, feeling relief and pleasure at something simple enough that he didn't feel torn up inside by allowing it.