Day 77, February 25, Morning
Sylar knew when Peter bailed. There was no more touching and cuddling, Peter's tense voice, the expression that was practically a glare, and the immediate exit. He'd fucked something up and now Peter knew it, too. Everything in him cringed in horror and he felt like he'd never be clean again. It was the farthest thing from a lovely morning-after.
This was the other shoe being dropped. From the roof of a tall building. Into the street. Everything had been going so well – too well. Was he really awake? He chose to do it! He didn't have to! I didn't ask him to! (He asked me, though. I think I gave the wrong answer. I wasn't supposed to accept. Or maybe he wanted another blowjob? I did ruin his fantasy. Was it because I made a mess? I violated the 'safe' zone of the bed.) The worst part was he felt helpless to address it. All I can do is give him a better blowjob ASAP. His plan had fallen apart as predicted, all the more disappointing because he'd had the empath where he wanted him – and because his body knew just how good it could be. His body still throbbed with the after affects of long-denied pleasure.
He hadn't been able to stop himself from daydreaming what-ifs up from the day before until now: Peter touching him, being gentle, then being rough, fucking him, then fucking an enthusiastic Peter. Peter who had cruelly given him a glimpse (perhaps that was part of the man's plan) of what he wanted, knowing Sylar couldn't justify receiving it.
Once Peter was out of sight, Sylar unclenched his muscles and forced himself to get to work. Waiting to access the bathroom was another kind of torture, but if Peter was disgusted by what had happened, then it was only fitting that he clean up first and make Sylar wait. He did scrub his hands thoroughly in the sink before moving to separate the bedding from the sheets, then stripping the sheets from the bed. They were…contaminated. (Why use the bed for exactly that reason? Was that my fault? Does he even care? Is it just my job to clean up after?) Wadding up the sheets, he deposited them in the guest bedroom and closed the door.
Sylar felt his heart beating too fast and he couldn't think what else he was supposed to be doing. I have to be productive. Everything is normal. Everything is fine. I'll do all the work. It was a sadly familiar experience to deal with an 'intimate partner' who hated him and was always angry with him. (Careful what you wish for. This is what I manipulated him into doing. Of course it's my fault.) He tried to remember what came next in their daily schedule and found himself in the kitchen, getting cereal and bowls out before recalling his promise of pancakes. It gave him something to do instead of freak out.
XXX
Peter left the bathroom, having succeeded in not punching anything therein, although it had been a near thing with his own reflection in the mirror. He was slightly more emotionally settled, but 'slightly' was the keyword. He held in his mind the memory of petting Sylar's face less than an hour previous, panting on him in lust as Sylar worked him, the intimate, sexual feel of Sylar's chest hairs against Peter's face. But there was also the memory of reaching for Nathan's corpse in that box they'd found in the storage unit, of helping Noah Bennet heft Nathan's body into the airplane, the rough fabric of the flag draped over his coffin. The man he'd had sex with, held in his arms last night, was the one who had done that – taken Nathan from him and caused those events to unfold. Peter's chest was unbearably tight, like he wanted to sob, or rage. It was the latter that came more naturally to him, but those first memories – gentle touches and uncertain looks – left him powerless and confused.
XXX
If Peter took a long time in the bathroom, Sylar didn't notice. He was grateful that the timing was good when Peter finished and the pancakes were done. He served Peter and departed into the bathroom, assuming it was his time to clean himself up. Peter likes space anyway. He already regrets everything. In the bathroom, he scrubbed himself in the shower, muscles alternately trying to lock up and relax, let the water run over him. He wound up zoning out, wondering why he had to leave the shower or forgetting why he was there in the first place, but he was getting clean. Physically, at least. The rest of his routine was normal.
XXX
Peter's expectations – sitting together, maybe talking things out somehow – went out the window as Sylar disappeared. He's probably as off-center as I am. What's going through his head? He blew me, we slept together (really together, not just in the same bed), he jerked me off, and then me him. And now he won't look at me. Is it because of how I left this morning? He did the same thing last night, though – when he came back from the bathroom he was staring at the ceiling again, pretending I wasn't there. I was the one who had to get him to be with me. Why? He's willing to suck me off but can't look at me after? Does he feel trapped like he has to do this because I'm an asshole and he needs to do it to keep me from beating the crap out of him?
There was an icy feeling in Peter's gut at how likely that last thought seemed to be. What if he was taking advantage of Sylar – having sex with someone who felt they had no other option to keep him pleased and cooperative? Just the suspicion made him feel like a rapist and a dupe. The idea of running off while he had the chance and never going anywhere near the other man ran through his head, but he knew how much that abandonment would hurt Sylar – perhaps to the point of suicidal (or homicidal) behavior, not to mention how unconscionable it was to do right after a night of sex with someone.
He's probably already thought all of this out. And I can't even say he's wrong, because him getting me off does mean I'm more likely to stay. All this time of listening and watching and figuring me out so he could do this. I'm not going to pretend I don't – but what the hell? He's prostituting himself for my…my what? Me to sleep with him. I am such an unstable fuck-up that he has to do this to feel safe.
Peter felt trapped, manipulated, and at fault for not seeing it sooner. It was an enormous risk for Sylar to take, because a part of Peter still felt like the best thing to do would be to flee – but that would help nothing and no one. He felt compromised and low because he wanted what Sylar was offering, yet felt like scum for the desire. It was a feeling he was accustomed to - no different than how his family had made him feel over and over in the last few years.
He sighed. His tension bled away in the loneliness, replaced by depression. Peter ate his breakfast as slowly as possible, wanting Sylar here with him, maybe giving him an opportunity to work some of this stuff out. But the other side of the table was empty. Sylar's plate still waited on the counter.
XXX
Sylar convinced himself to emerge and show his face. It was a necessary part of the act – nothing had happened, business as usual. Last night, this morning, he'd had Peter somewhere familiar, if not necessarily…desirable. Peter wasn't his connection, Sylar wasn't special, and Peter wasn't able to give him what he wanted. Now, Peter was reconsidering with deserved prejudice. He allowed himself a quick glance to see that Peter was still eating at the table. I have to fix this. Soon. Continually seducing Peter, keeping him busy and occupied was his only plan. Stomach queasy, he loaded his plate with pancakes and joined Peter at the table.
XXX
He felt better when Sylar joined him. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Sylar's hunched posture and wary look reminded him of Sylar stuffing his mouth with pumpkin pie. Peter's lips snapped together. He put both elbows on the table and waited quietly, massaging his temples as he tried to get the unhelpful image out of his head. The more he tried, the more entrenched it became. Sylar had cleared his plate with surprising speed. In a moment, he'd be on the move again. With a frustrated huff, Peter looked up and went back to his original question – what he wanted to know. "Do you want me, Sylar?"
XXX
He didn't look at Peter much, instead pretending his food was interesting. It was delicious and he was hungry, very hungry, but his stomach was still unsettled. Sylar saw or sensed Peter relax for a moment, then tense up again, rubbing his face like he was tired or disappointed. Maybe I wasn't supposed to sit across from him. Or sit at all. He had to minimize Peter's disgust. Quietly, he worked at finishing his breakfast but not before Peter spoke, nearly startling him again because he wasn't expecting…dialogue (or normal volume dialogue).
Sylar froze and blinked. It wasn't a fun question. The answer depended on so many factors he could hardly keep track of all of them. Surely it wasn't a real question, asked in a vacuum where Sylar's desires mattered. It was some kind of test. I must have failed it before. (Why is he asking again?) This is the big 'morning after'? (Is he angry?...Worse: does he know?) If Peter had guessed, in any way, that Sylar was playing him then of course the entire thing would fall apart and be insanely difficult to piece back together because it involved…stretching Peter's trust further than it already was.
He answered, "No…" Sylar's brows twitched at a frown as he glanced away for a second. It was suddenly so uncomfortable that he had to move, not wanting to endure the waiting or reaction. He rose to his feet and took his plate to the kitchen, intending to wash it.
XXX
Peter blinked a couple times. It wasn't the answer he'd expected and the questioning tone of it left him confused. Is he being sarcastic? Is that answer supposed to be obvious? (Well, why would he genuinely want someone like me? He'd just as soon kill me as look at me and he's tried that, what?, two or three times?) He drew in a deep breath and let it out. Of course he doesn't want me, he's just doing this because he thinks he has to.
But there was only one way to make sure of that – to ask. He stood up and took up a position at the end of the bar where Sylar had to pass him to leave the kitchen. Speaking clearly, he asked again "Do you want me, or are you just giving me what you think I want?"
XXX
"Oh, I want you. But the things I want to do to you…" Sylar prowled over, possessively, invading the man's space to loom over him, hands up. One hand brushed Peter's lips, then slid into his hair to grab it at the same time his other hand pushed Peter back into the counter and grasped lightly, completely, on his throat. He leaned down, feeling his front brushing against Peter's clothes, but no closer. Even that much was beginning to trip his trigger, and once started, he wouldn't stop. "…I don't think you want it. I don't always play by the 'hero's' rules." Just as quickly as he'd done that, gotten into position, delivered his desire, Sylar stepped back, releasing the hair and throat, turning both into a far gentler version of what he really wanted.
XXX
Whoa. Fuck. Sylar's intensity was not to be underestimated. Nor his ability to flip from distant to sexually aggressive and back again when it suited him. Peter didn't suppress the shiver that came with being touched like that, but it didn't distract him from how contradictory the words were – he didn't want Peter, he wanted him, or maybe he only wanted him in certain ways. "What things are those?"
XXX
"Yesterday, in the dairy section," Sylar said flippantly. "It's normal." It was. It highlighted how strange this morning had been. Fucking with men wasn't like that in his experience. Sylar turned back to putting the rest of the non-refrigerated pancake ingredients away.
XXX
"Oh." Not because it made sense. It didn't, really. Does he mean the fighting? Or the kissing? Or fighting followed by kissing? He was just now pantomiming choking me. He's been turned on by violence before – several times. That would fit with him saying he doesn't play by 'hero's rules', I guess.
XXX
"Yes: 'oh.' It's all part of the arrangement." What else would it be?
XXX
Peter lifted his eyes. Sylar was saying clearly and unequivocally that he was with Peter for Peter's benefit alone. It wounded his pride that Sylar either didn't want him, wouldn't admit it, or wanted him only conditionally. It was bullshit. It had 'manipulative trap' written all over it, especially when paired with the cold/hot/cold act of just moments before.
"What the fuck, Sylar?" Peter scoffed, refusing to pander. "An arrangement? We have a relationship whether you want it or not." He went to Sylar's own words for ammunition. "You're the one who said we were 'together', remember? You're the one who said we trusted each other because we were doing things that showed trust. And right now? This is a relationship. This isn't…enemies with benefits!" He laughed at his own joke.
"We sleep together, we spend all our time together, never see other people, ha - you do not get to tell me this is nothing!" His voice rose on the last word, emotion suffusing him unexpectedly as he turned from bitterly amused to angry.
He straightened from where he'd been leaning on the counter. "This isn't a deal! You're not paying me off to get good behavior out of me!" He shut up then, because the logical continuation was to promise he'd act bad no matter what Sylar did, which was ridiculous and stupid. Peter fumed, feeling backed into a corner and unable to shake the suspicion that this was exactly how Sylar wanted him to feel.
XXX
Sylar had nearly run out of things to do in the kitchen and Peter was still blocking the way out. The kitchen is where half of most of the accidents in the home happen,a part of his brain unhelpfully supplied. He wondered if that was intentional or threatening. Then Peter started in on him. The longer he went on, the more it made sense. Oh my God. He's…offended? Because sex really does solve everything in his little rose-colored world! (Enemies with benefits is catchy though.)
At that point, Sylar gave up some of his attempts to look busy and allowed Peter some attention. "Of course it's not 'nothing,' Peter. A deal implies I'm getting something out of it, Peter. This is all about you. Call it whatever you like."
XXX
Peter could feel himself getting worked up inside. The alternating 'seduction/ignore/seduction/ignore' routine was impossible to follow. "It's not all about me!" he insisted. "A relationship is what I want. It's what we have." And if I'm having to beg him to admit that last night and this morning meant something, then this is fucked up. I have to get out. How the fuck do I get out of this?
XXX
Peter was insistent with his rose-colored opinions, but it wasn't matching up with reality. Whatever Peter thought he was offering was….too good to be true. With any luck, the empath was starting to see how things were falling apart. Obviously he was already suspicious. Sylar's chin lifted up and he inhaled before matter-of-factly voicing the issue, "You think I deserve happily ever after? You're going to be my connection? Are you going to suck my dick? Make love to me? You'll give me all that when you can't kiss me and you can barely manage to sleep in the same bed together. What a relief you decided to forgive me and get over the whole Nathan thing. So, yes, Peter. It's an arrangement. Just like those one-sided deals you like so much." He didn't say it with any malice and didn't intend it with any bitterness towards Peter.
XXX
Parts of that made him flinch: 'make love to me', 'decided to forgive me', 'one-sided deals'. He doesn't know if I can. Idon't know if I can. Maybe I'm just stringing him along. Of course he doesn't think there's anything here for him. Maybe there isn't. Just…keeping me happy so I won't bother him too much. So I won't get mad and beat the crap out of him. That's all he sees and it's cruel to try to promise him more. Peter swallowed, feeling two inches tall. He made himself nod woodenly and left immediately, head ducked and tail tucked.
XXX
That was…not the reaction Sylar had expected. He'd anticipated a fiery retort, a lecture full of blame about how Sylar wasn't acting right and hadn't ever acted right or something well-worn like that. Instead, he got silence, a quick nod, and swift departure. I'm not telling him anything he doesn't already know. He doesn't have to pretend for my benefit. I'm not offended by what he wants – I accept it. Hell, I did it last night! I'm giving him what he wants, but he still wants more? Something different? (But I have been ruining his fantasies…) Fuck! No wonder he's disappointed.
The apartment felt terribly empty without Peter, even an angry Peter here with him. Sylar scooped up the laundry and put it to wash, lingering there to think unpleasant thoughts. Finally, he went to check on Peter to see if joining him was an option. Sylar wandered in at the start of Peter setting up a puzzle. When there was no immediate rebuke or glare, he moved into the room, circling closer.
XXX
He worked out. He showered. He thought a lot during both. He went to the rec room to pass the time until Sylar showed up, which happened right away.
"I need to talk," Peter said, situating himself at the ping pong table with a box of puzzle pieces. "You don't have to answer, but I hope you can listen." He studied Sylar for a long moment, then poured out the pieces and began to sort.
"I enjoyed last night. And this morning." He started picking through the pieces, turning them colored side up. When he found a straight-edge, he pushed them over to the side. "I enjoyed sleeping together like we did – really together. Close. Relaxed. It felt nice." It had felt right, but Peter wasn't sure how to express that. Or if he should, because it sounded like deep-end commitment and he couldn't promise that. He'd run people off in the past with that sort of disclosure.
XXX
Sylar had pulled up a chair opposite Peter and was just reaching to become involved in the puzzle process when the talking started. He was trapped. He retracted his hands and kept them to himself. The more he heard, the more uncomfortable and worried he became. It was so close to Talking About It. Didn't Peter know the rules? But Peter only mentioned 'sleeping together' which was safely ambiguous enough. Sylar still felt flushed, on the verge of sweating.
XXX
Peter looked at a corner piece, the first one he'd found. Then he looked past it at Sylar. "You don't have to have sex with me for that." His gaze stayed on Sylar. He didn't think Sylar believed him. He supposed it didn't matter – time would pass and that would reveal whether Peter could keep his word. "But if you do…I'd be honored." He breathed out unevenly a few times. "Arrangement or not. You get to call it what you want, too." He set the corner piece by itself and went back to flipping the other pieces. It had been hard to come to that point in his arguments with himself – that Sylar's view on how they interacted was valid, no matter how negatively it cast Peter. Peter still had his reservations, but he couldn't promise or prove anything to Sylar.
XXX
It felt like his head was spinning. The world was unreal. He would have found it more believable if Peter had decided to discuss unicorns. To consider what Peter was saying…(He thinks I have a choice? He's giving me one? Worse: he thinks I'm asking for things. I AM asking for things. Why? And I'm talking about the wrong things, shoving my stupid opinions on him. I guess that's good to know). Sylar did his best to appear receptive.
XXX
"You said earlier that I didn't like the things you wanted to do. I'm not arguing. I don't want to argue. I'm not even sure of what you want to do. But I do want to explain some of what's going on with me. I've never been good at turning off my emotions or forgetting what people mean to me. You have a lot of meaning to me. I have a lot of…complicated emotions about you." He'd finished turning all the pieces color-side up. He started through them again for straight-edges. "Even more complicated, now."
"There were times when we were together this morning and yesterday where I couldn't not think about all of that – your past, the people who have died, things that have happened to both of us. And I know you were doing a very good job of distracting me," Peter chuckled ruefully and raised his brows, "but…" He shook his head. He made his guesses about the three corner pieces he'd found and started roughing out where the straight-edges went. "I couldn't control it. Maybe I need more practice, but I think what I really need are some answers."
"Why? It's the question that runs around in my head the most. I don't know how to accept the answers you've given me. Some were self-defense. Probably not all. How did one event lead to another? Why did you keep doing it? You were killing people and torturing them, trying to assassinate the president! Are you still that same person? Can I trust you? And sure, maybe you're saying I'm already showing trust, but I'm also showing distrust because I can't handle…" Peter shook his head and went back to the puzzle pieces, getting his breathing under control enough to finish, "I can't handle being with you the way you want me to be. I don't want to give up any control because I don't trust you."
"I want to make this work so we're not yelling at each other and hiding. I want to make it work so you're getting something out of it, something that's worth it to you. I don't want it to have to be work, for either of us." In a softer tone, he said, "I really enjoyed last night. And this morning. I want you to know that." With a sigh, Peter went on with working the puzzle, occasionally glancing at Sylar, but not speaking further. He didn't know what to say or how to find the right words. He had more than a suspicion that it didn't matter what he said – the words he needed would have to come from Sylar.
XXX
Peter at least solidly confirmed several things in a generous, if strange way. Sylar struggled through what was true and what was hidden between the lines. His gut was bouncing. The words…hurt. He hadn't anticipated that, not this kind of sensation anyway. It was difficult to hear Peter Petrelli treating him like he was someone else. What would I want to gain if I could get something? Sylar felt like that was a new question, just another one of many he was aware of and hadn't addressed.
The demand for answers was horrifying. Being a disappointment. Being needy. It was everything he didn't want and could barely manage to give. He was the farthest thing from special at that moment.
When Peter was finished speaking, Sylar was left another mystery of how to respond – if he should respond at all. He recalled one piece of information: that Peter wanted to be acknowledged when he spoke. Some response was required. "I-" he began and coughed, his throat overly dry from underuse. His voice still came out meek and whispery. "I see. I don't have any expectations. Whatever it is, whatever you want is great." Please stop talking!
XXX
Peter tilted his head and looked at Sylar for a long beat, then nodded. He's not being patronizing. He's confused, I think. If he thinks I'm this fucked up hero-monster who has to be appeased because he killed my brother, then he wouldn't have any expectations and whatever I want is what he's willing to give. The blow job, last night, wasn't kind so much as coerced. Peter pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly.
He felt, again, unclean for having gone through with it, for having thought the weird vibes and awkwardness was just first-time sex and that interrupting to get clarity would be wrong. He still thought interrupting would have probably been wrong and not because he was getting off on it. Maybe it was important to let Sylar give him something. Maybe Peter thought he (Peter) needed the wake up call, needed Sylar to metaphorically shake him up and make him realize Sylar was trying to make this work as well, within Sylar's limits, and Peter hadn't seen until now how sincere Sylar's efforts were.
He pushed over the lighter colored pieces – white and light blue. "You think you can work on the sky? It's harder, but there are fewer pieces. It should go better now that neither of us are concussed." He chuckled, changing the subject to something easier – low stakes teamwork where they simply shared time with one another. "We were kind of a mess a couple months ago when one or the other of us had been knocked in the head too hard."
XXX
Sylar met the look for a moment, then went back to admiring the scattered array of puzzle pieces. Peter wasn't happy with that answer – probably wasn't happy at all. I'm such a catch. I do so many things right. That's just one of the hundreds of reasons it can't be a relationship, Peter. How the hell could I ever make you happy? Sylar didn't imagine the interrogation was over and yet, Peter changed the subject and invited him to participate. Letting out the breath he'd been holding, he leapt at the opportunity. He was so relieved he almost missed the compliment and the humor. Thank God he's not broken – he can still make jokes! His chuckle grew beyond the proportion of the quip. Focus!Sylar cleared his throat and sorted the pieces by shape.He gave me the difficult part. (And he stopped talking. It's like he was reading my mind… After a suspicious glance, he dismissed it.) Perhaps Peter was learning.
Sylar was so relieved he was grateful and he wanted to express it. He stood up and stooped over and across the table to mime reaching for a piece on Peter's side. Once there, he pretended to grab too hard at the flat piece on such a smooth surface and the piece snapped away, bouncing off Peter and onto the floor. "Oops," he said and sat down, "I'll get it." His foot poked about blindly, as if seeking to drag the piece back to himself. But he was really finding where Peter's ankles and legs were – once found, he gently teased up the inside of Peter's ankle, minding his own business with the contents of the table.
XXX
Sylar leaning towards him, a hand extended, kept Peter's attention more than what Sylar was reaching for. The piece had already disappeared under the table before Peter realized his hypervigilance was uncalled for – at least in this situation. Is it really him? Or am I so fucked up by the last few years that I'd be on guard with anyone? He thought about the way he'd treated Emma – breaking the cello, his mother – taking her ability over her protest, with Claire – insisting she provide him with healing, and others. It's not Sylar. It's me. Oddly, that realization that Sylar wasn't the problem calmed Peter down.
Peter looked down for the piece Sylar was obviously fishing for with his foot. He didn't see it, but he did see Sylar very intentionally seek out Peter's foot. He looked up to see Sylar was pretending to be engrossed in the blue and white pieces in front of him.
That's cute. Peter smiled warmly at the overture, even if he wasn't sure what Sylar meant by flirting with him. It was nice – intimate without being intimate – but there still lingered in Peter's mind 'the arrangement' Sylar had spoken of, and the 'no' about being attracted to him. He didn't want this to go anywhere until he figured some things out. "How's your back?" Peter rose and came around the edge of the table towards Sylar, his manner not at all sensual as he tried to steer things in a safer direction. "Can I take a look? Have you been taking your pills?"
XXX
Sylar blinked, processing this…retaliation? Seduction? Refusal? Peter was approaching him and appeared to have on his 'nurse' expression. That was…almost disappointing. How sexy would it have been if Peter took him up on the offer that easily? Sexy and pathetic if Peter was that easy. It was just another move in the ever-shifting game. He thinks he can distract me. My back would be better if you fucked me. "Of course," he purred in a deeper-than-necessary tone because he refused to let up. "But…I think I forgot the pills this morning." Now I'm back to looking like an idiot. Great! Sylar pivoted away and shucked up his shirt as far as it would go with the limitations of the fabric. Is he going to touch my back? He's already seen it. (He's seen more than my back, I think).
XXX
Peter pushed the shirt up the rest of the way, not responding to Sylar's obviously come-hither tone. He looked over the spots and instead thought about the last time he'd washed his hands. It hadn't been long – he'd showered after working out, but his hands certainly weren't sterile. It didn't look as though it mattered. The wounds were closed and continuing to heal well. There were no signs of infection. Peter touched the healthy-looking skin surrounding the worst spot. It wasn't fevered. "Do they itch yet?" He resisted the urge to touch the rest of Sylar's back, or anywhere that wasn't medically necessary.
XXX
The nurse didn't feel him up. He said he doesn't like sick people…Is he checking to see that I'm 'fit for duty' before he fucks me? Is he just discharging what he feels ishisduty? That's how he claims his brain works; it's just…hard to believe. Delayed, slightly distracted, Sylar replied, "A little?" Should I say 'yes' so he'll scratch them for me, or clean them again or something?
XXX
"I'd tell you to try not to scratch them, but you can barely reach them as it is. They look good. When we go up for lunch, you should take another dose." He dropped Sylar's shirt, arranging it loosely before heading back to his own seat. He tucked his feet up under his chair, hoping Sylar didn't make another pass at him.
What am I supposed to do? He acts turned on, he says he doesn't want me, maybe he only wants to do certain things, he definitely thinks he has to do stuff or else. 'Or else' – what a fucking turn off. He hates me, but he wants me here. What the hell is going to happen in bed tonight? Maybe I started it last night. Maybe this morning, too? I don't know. Didn't mean to. But I definitely didn't just now. (On the other hand, I just told him over and over how much I enjoyed it, so what the fuck is he supposed to think? Of course that sounds like a 'go for it!') I don't know what to do.
"Have you seen the other corner piece? I only found three of them earlier." He glanced at Sylar only briefly and tried to keep his expression neutral. He was so conflicted he felt sick.
XXX
They resumed their puzzle work and Sylar took that as a very subtle, graceful side-step to his mid-morning proposition. Too much? Maybe he doesn't want flirty. I think he likes to initiate. Fitting for a Petrelli. "No…not yet." Sylar was taken with the process and the search, but he noticed Peter giving him what appeared to be a strange look. Did I miss something? Other than the puzzle piece he needs? No hints sprung up so he ignored it.
XXX
Peter lost track of time and the queasiness faded. He watched Sylar out of the corner of his eye, tried to see patterns among the pieces and hook them together, and listened to his companion's motions. At least two-thirds of his awareness was on Sylar instead of the puzzle, but he still had some substantial blocks assembled by the time he could no longer ignore the rumbling of his stomach. He leaned back and rolled his shoulders a couple times, rubbing at his tired eyes with balled fists. "Wow. It has to be past lunch time. Let's go up."
XXX
Something about Peter rubbing his eyes that way was very sweet. It still highlighted his failing to take proper care of Peter's other needs. They stood and walked together to the elevator, entering and traveling up to the top floor. I fix timepieces, I should know when he needs to eat. His companion didn't appear angry so that was helpful. Sylar glanced at Peter as much as he could, thoughtfully. He hasn't been angry with me at all yet. Perhaps that was the reason for his unseemly relief so far. He hasn't been pushy or rough or demanding. Nothing. I wonder if he's going to end it. I'm sure he's considered it. Sylar was bizarrely calm about that probability.
XXX
Once inside the apartment, Peter's eyes went to the bed because that was where his thoughts kept circling to – what would happen tonight, what had happened this morning and the night before, and what Sylar had said. There had been such disgust and anger in the words, like Peter was an idiot for wanting, or thinking they could have, something more than a rough trade. If he was going to through with this (which he did, and they had), then he wanted to be at least decent to his partner, if not better. The whole elevator ride he'd been quietly stewing. "You made the bed," he observed, remembering that the last he'd seen it, it had been stripped. "Did you do the sheets?"
XXX
"Yes," Sylar said with a bit of a tone. That much was obvious and expected, wasn't it? Maybe he thinks I didn't do them – thatwould be an issue.
XXX
Peter nodded once. He's preparing for tonight. Already, this morning, he was thinking about it. Peter exhaled and moved on to the kitchen. "That's good," he managed. "I think I'm just going to have a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It's simple. And soft. You want some?" He got out the bread, peanut butter, and a dinner knife.
XXX
Sylar winced as Peter once again had to step up and start the most basic of tasks, settling for a basic option because one hadn't been provided. "Yes, please." He tried to make up for it by getting milk in glasses, grabbing plates and the jelly from the fridge.
XXX
He applied the peanut butter rather heavily, then, because he wanted to tick Sylar off, he shamelessly licked off the excess peanut butter like it was no big deal. He waited until Sylar was looking, of course.
XXX
Sylar was hovering, waiting to see how long the preparation was going to take and if Peter would assign him anything else. He noticed the knife going up and up…He stared in growing horror, expressed by a blank face and blinking eyes. Peter's tongue came out and slathered all over the blunt dining utensil. For a moment, just a second, Sylar gave the benefit of the doubt that maybe Peter had forgotten…But no. Peter was looking right at him.
XXX
Peter held the knife upright and off to the side, drawing attention to it without brandishing it in a threatening way. "We're kissing? Then I get to lick the knife."
XXX
Sylar's head came back. That was a strange connection, but it made sense given their previous, more involved activities. He felt put upon to respond and that was strangely difficult with Peter staring at him. "We're not…actually kissing…" Does that sound like I disapprove? Of either – licking things or kissing?
XXX
"Don't count me out yet." He sucked the rest of the peanut butter off to make a point of how Sylar couldn't stop him, staring at him as though daring him to do just that, and to get the last little bit of peanut butter from it. "Because you're right – if I can't kiss you, then it's just an arrangement. That's not what I want. It's not what I'm going to have." He reached for the jelly. I wonder if I'm going to have to eat his sandwiches, too? (I could stick them in the fridge if he won't touch them.) Just how grossed out is he going to be about this? I came in his mouth, so what's the problem? I think he threw up after that, though, so…maybe it is a problem. He's the one who stuck my dick in his mouth! Whatever. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I said I needed answers. I need to start asking the right questions.
XXX
So focused was he on the knife and the secondary tongue bath, his own stare gaining an edge he couldn't prevent, that he almost missed Peter's…promise of sorts. He's testing me, daring me! He knows I can't do anything because…(Because I trapped myself into saying that I want him to kiss me and don't want him licking my food?) That's so stupid! That's not what I meant at all! The little prick! Sylar could feel himself heating up with the most hypocritical, irrational anger. He hated to be humiliated. It was equivalent to being slapped in the face with a glove while tied on a leash. 'Don't count him out' of what? Of course he can kiss me. His ability to kiss me is in question. A brief check confirmed that Sylar knew he hadn't given any mixed signals there. Kissing (or not kissing) was perfectly fine, either way.
But I'm 'right.' So I'm challenging him to kiss me? (Why does it feel like he's promising me something…something I might enjoy?) At the same short time it took him to process his reaction with anger, he felt flushed for a different reason. Peter moving sticky, phallic objects in his mouth while being impudent and domineering was…really sexy. Peter finally looked away, going back to stick the damn knife in the jelly now! Sylar cleared his throat and fortuitously thought of something else to do – napkins.
XXX
Peter gave an amused smile as Sylar turned away, looking hot and bothered in more ways than one. I wanted more of a fight than that. Like for him to say something, at least, maybe do something. He's not real emotive, though. There's a lot going on inside of him. And what the fuck can he do, anyway? If I'm right about how he's thinking about all this, then he's feeling trapped and I'm the one setting the conditions anyway. Maybe he doesn't think he gets to argue. I have to find a way out of this. I'm not taking advantage of him by licking the fucking peanut butter knife! (Or am I?) Let it go, Pete, and focus on getting answers.
He finished putting together two sandwiches for each of them and moved them to the table on the plates Sylar had provided. Peter took a seat and dug in. He put aside his worries for the moment as he mulled over what he most wanted to know from Sylar.