Day 78, February 26, Early Morning/Night
He watched Peter get up, ignoring him as he walked on the other side of the table and into the kitchen, then watching as Peter sat himself facing him and kindly passed him a glass of orange juice. Peter waited patiently, staying up and not going back to sleep as he could have so easily done. "Thank you," he said quietly, taking a sip. He knew this was the space for talking. And he wanted to, but didn't know what (or who) would emerge when he opened his mouth.
"She offered me a drink, too. Tea. And her watch was fast." He gave a bitter, fond half smile at the thought of Dr….Dr. Gibson. "She reminds me of you, actually. The way you are with…people, always helping." He was babbling just to get words out and fill the silence for Peter, he told himself. He cleared his throat and took another drink, shifting his weight. "Danko was helpful, too. My left eye stayed blue for over an hour once and extra teeth appeared in my mouth when I woke up. I didn't want to play dead and I didn't want to be Taub. That wasn't long before Stanton actu-" Sylar caught himself and cleared his throat again. "You don't want to hear that. I think I'll take a walk. You can go back to sleep if you want." Walking wouldn't help, he suspected, but if he was going to ramble aloud it was probably best to do it in private and not disturb Peter's night further.
XXX
"We're not dressed for a walk," Peter observed, trying to discourage any immediate departure and fishing for whether he'd be welcome to accompany Sylar if a walkabout was what the man wanted to do. Sylar still wasn't sitting. Peter certainly understood tension and restless energy. Softly, he added, "What I would like is to hear you and whatever you have to say." Peter recognized that Sylar was opening up, if only just a little, and so, so disjointedly. Most of what the man had said didn't make sense, but it wasn't the time for asking questions – just for listening.
XXX
Sylar paused in the act of setting his drink on the corner of the table. He looked at Peter; hand still on the cool glass. His gaze fell back to the glass as he rotated it against the wood. He didn't feel like putting effort into gracefully accepting the offer without looking more vulnerable than he already did. "I wouldn't know what to talk about. Obviously," he hesitantly voiced. "I just…had a nightmare. That's all." And he was frightened of the cold darkness tonight, fearful of being sucked into some endless pit. A walk sounded dangerous.
XXX
Peter let the silence prompt Sylar more surely than anything he might say.
XXX
"I was dying. I thought I was dying. I was killing…me? Then you killed me. It's so stupid. It's just a nightmare. It's just dying. I've done it fifty times or more, so what's the big deal?" He frowned in annoyed anger at his own reaction and using Peter as a sounding board without realizing it. "'Die alone', that was the deal. There're no surprises. Killing yourself or having your brother-fuckbuddy kill you is pretty damn ironic. It's always just like a nightmare, too! Dying doesn't leave a mark! Nothing does! How am I supposed to know what happened if it doesn't leave a mark?"
XXX
I'm a 'brother-fuckbuddy'. He sees me as a brother. It's incest for him. Huh. I'm not sure what I should do about that. I'm not even sure it bothers him. For his own part, Peter didn't look at Sylar and see Nathan; he looked at Sylar and saw Nathan's killer. But this wasn't the time for that discussion. Sylar needed someone to help him process. Peter could do that. "That…must feel so unsatisfying. You want to show how something made you feel and there's nothing there for anyone to see. Claire told me, 'dying is no big deal', but being killed certainly is. Having someone else take your life from you? That's terrible. Every time it's happened to me, it fucked me up just a little more, because that was someone who wanted me dead. Is it the same way for you?"
XXX
Peter hit the nail on the head – there was never any proof of his wounds to show anyone. It was all, always, internal, apparently healed based on his outer appearance. He stared at Peter, totally lost at how to express anything after that. Even if he could prove the trauma and get someone to listen, that didn't mean he deserved to heal or be helped. Sylar desperately wanted to stay in that moment and attempt to figure it out, but Peter had moved on. He huffed a sigh when Peter brought up something he should feel guilty about. "At the time, I meant it as a compliment. You have brass balls." There was more he could say about that, but he selfishly wanted to discuss himself.
XXX
Killing me was a compliment? That I was worth his time to get rid of me? Peter didn't feel flattered. He felt angry that Sylar was blaming Peter for having tried to stop him, blowing off the terror Peter had felt in those early encounters as inconsequential. He tried to keep his expression steady, but some of the supportiveness inevitably bled away. Sylar seemed to sense it.
XXX
Sylar lifted his glass and retreated around the table so it stood as a barrier between them again. "Everyone I know wants to kill me. Mostly it's inconvenient and frustrating when I can regenerate. I assume everyone is 'out to get me' so it's become part of life. It's…worse when it's…someone who should have…been my family." The Petrellis. He threw a nervous glance at Peter. He'd been cast out from the family clan he still clung to, feeling betrayed (yet understanding that he'd never been desirable and no longer served any use) and vengeful. Mercy Hospital was a raw memory even now. Sylar questioned if it was safe to be talking to Peter Petrelli like this.
He continued when there wasn't any interruption, "People who still are my family in some ways. Anything from them, Bennet, or the Company is personal. The 'why' is important. There's really only a few deaths that…bother me. Like I said, it's stupid. It's just a stupid nightmare that doesn't mean anything," he said dismissively into his glass. He took a large gulp of juice as something to distract himself with.
XXX
Nathan's death bothers him. Good. Peter drew in a breath and exhaled, trying to get his mind out of the wrath it had sunk into at the trauma of their encounters being reduced to Peter having 'brass balls'. He knows damn well how much that fucks a person up! That's what he's talking about! Peter shut his eyes for a moment, pursed his lips, and tilted his head as he opened his eyes to regard his orange juice. "There's a lot between us," he said quietly. "Being upset about dreaming that isn't stupid. It means something to you. It's personal. That's yours." This was easy to say – no empathy was required for the plain truth.
He looked up at Sylar. "The hardest things for me to deal with have been my family coming after me, or even worse, just…not caring. No, it's always the 'not caring' part. That's what it was when I was a teenager dealing with Dad. That's what it was when Mom left me in that cargo container, and here. And when Nathan decided he'd rather have me locked up so he didn't have to deal with me anymore." He took a drink of his juice. "Your family should be on your side. That's what I've always tried to do." His gaze fixed on Sylar. "Even with you – when I thought you were my brother, both times."
XXX
That was true. Peter had tried (succeeded, not so much. Mostly, Sylar recalled having to hunt Peter down several times after the Carnival and when he first thought he (Nathan) was developing a dozen new abilities. Peter had been distracted and busy). Now he had the feeling Peter was done talking about stupid nightmares. It was irksome, but a fact of life. He was grateful to be allowed to vent as much as he had. "You remain loyal and get hurt and betrayed in the process. That doesn't effect me anymore. I would ask you how you deal with that, but you've already told me."
XXX
"No," Peter agreed, "it doesn't effect either of us. Not now." He rose and walked around the table, putting his hands on the outside of Sylar's arms and rubbing slightly. Mostly, he was checking to see if he was allowed to get close or to touch.
XXX
Even with Peter's…admission? agreement? Sylar felt a welter of reactions. My family is dead. You still have family. Does it ever stop effecting us? He wasn't wary at Peter's approach, more lost in thought than anything else. I don't deserve any of that, Peter. Biting his lip, he looked at Peter and greedily drank up the contact anyway. Knowing Peter, it felt like a prelude to a hug, if he'd been someone trustworthy. He was disgustingly grateful and still somewhat embarrassed to have caused such a scene.
XXX
"What we have, here, is each other." Peter moved away now, picking up his glass and carrying it to the sink for a quick rinse. "You had a bad dream about me killing you. If we go back to sleep, would you rather I was in the bed with you, on the couch, the guest room, or somewhere else?"
XXX
(Is that it? Will I ever 'have' you?) Sylar knew the answer, and he understood Peter hadn't meant it that way. It showed Peter's inner character of sweetness and he felt…filthy to be around or receiving it. Peter mentioned another point of interest – the bed. There was literal distance between in bed and 'in the bed.' It was casual, unintentional, subconscious, but it told him where Peter was. Not 'my bed' or 'our bed,' just the bed. After everything else, that was acceptable and Sylar wasn't about to ask for more. He watched Peter whisk away to dutifully rinse his glass. It gave him some silly relief to see the clean up. "In the bed. With me," he answered meaningfully.
It was an odd question, he realized, to be asked his preference. Yet another kindness he didn't deserve. "You expect me to go back to sleep after you give me sugary fruit water? Didn't they teach you that was bad in medical school?" Lips quirked with humor and no real complaint, Sylar swallowed the last of his juice and followed Peter's example of placing it in the sink after filling it with water.
XXX
"Sugary fruit water?" Peter asked, amused. "I could have given you caffeinated bean water, or dried leaf water. I'm sure we have some around here somewhere." He gave Sylar a light jog to the shoulder while the man was at the sink, then headed back to the bed. He climbed in on Sylar's side, lifting the covers and scooting over to the middle of the bed. Even though Sylar was obviously following him, Peter added, "It's dead dark outside. I don't want to stay up. If it takes a while for you to get back to sleep, that's okay. Or if you want to leave the light on and read, I'll be fine."
As Sylar joined him, Peter didn't move aside. He watched Sylar with careful attention to body language and distance, trying to judge where they stood relative to one another. Is this okay, or should I mind my own business?
XXX
Sylar smirked at the nudge. He felt something in his gut twist at the sight of Peter climbing into bed on the wrong side – his side – and Peter lifting the covers invitingly, watching him. It was sweet and far more caring than he deserved. He knew it wasn't anything more than Peter being his empathic self. He wanted it. Peter wanted it; otherwise he wouldn't do things like that. It was easier to be greedy that way. Sylar crawled into bed, slipping between the sheets, and lay down about a foot away from Peter.
XXX
Peter sniffed audibly and rolled to his side, having decided that Sylar wasn't radiating any form of 'fuck off, Petrelli!' He touched Sylar on the shoulder just as he had at the start of the night, extending the invitation to go back to lying in one another's arms. Peter enjoyed it and he knew there was no altruistic or larger purpose to it this time. When they'd first gone to bed, it had been a means of coping with everything Sylar had told him earlier. It had been selfish even then, but possibly for the best for both of them. Besides, he felt kind of…entitled. But now, he wanted to do it just because he liked the feel of another body next to his – and Sylar's particularly.
XXX
Sylar exhaled and assumed Peter wanted more proximity. He shifted closer and Peter took care of the rest, positioning them the way he wanted. Perhaps he told himself that this was for Peter's sake still, paying his dues. (I think he's still trying to comfort me.)
XXX
Peter settled in, basically in the same position as before but with extra care this time not to do anything Sylar might interpret as a request for sex. Even so, Peter wriggled and shifted a little as his pleased hands brushed Sylar's hip and the back of his shoulder a few times. He was happy and felt a brief surge of energy. Oh! He's okay with this? I know we're not fucking and I like this and it's probably wrong to be this close to someone without…without being willing to so much as kiss him… Peter dipped his head forward the few inches it took to give Sylar a brief peck on the forehead, disproving his internal monologue. Is this playing with him? Is it wrong? I probably shouldn't do this no matter how much I want to. What if he thinks it's more? He just had a nightmare of me killing him. I should stop. Peter drew in a deep breath, calming himself from his desire to fondle, tease, explore, and play. Chill, okay? He exhaled slowly, relaxing as deliberately as he could. A few more deep breaths, and sleep found him faster than he'd expected.
XXX
Sylar relaxed at the petting. How strange it was to think the bed might actually be a safe zone. It still felt…relationship-y. He experienced another jolt when he felt a kiss on his forehead. I know mouth-kissing upsets him. Other…applications of mouth don't bother him. Maybe it's a bedtime thing. Parents kiss their children's faces. Sylar couldn't discern the cause behind it or what he'd done to earn any kind of kiss. It didn't seem to matter when Peter appeared to drop off to sleep if his breathing was any indication. Sylar was still very relieved to have company and to be held, particularly after a nightmare where he'd woken his bed partner. He didn't remember much else after he compared how different his nightmare was to the current Peter here with him.
XXX
Day 78, February 26, Morning
Something was tickling his nose. It was no way to sleep. With a half-stifled grunt, Peter pulled his head back from where it had been buried in the fine hair of Sylar's crown. His irritation at the errant sensation vanished as he saw the reason for it. He blinked at the dark mop, registering the close embrace they shared and had shared all night. That…tolerance made him grateful and warm, aware as he was of how accommodating Sylar was.
He tightened his arm protectively around the other man and lifted himself slightly, only the inch or two he could shift without changing position. Peter surveyed the room. It was brightly lit – fully morning and all the lingering snow outside was sending up quite the reflection. More importantly, though, he could see the everywhere he needed to and there was no one else here. Not that he expected anyone else, but the vigilance wasn't likely to vanish by itself.
He settled back down with a slow sigh. He could enjoy this and he was going to. He took in another breath, immersing himself in the sensation of having someone close to him, safe and secure. It had been so long since he'd had anything half so lovely. His pleasure in it was made more acute by knowing how fragile and impossible the whole thing was. He moved his head forward, nose in Sylar's hair again, and exhaled hot air against the man's scalp.
XXX
Sylar wasn't conscious and it was so restful. He twitched hard when he felt something teasing his scalp with an intuition that it was from another person who was close by. His eyes snapped open and all he could see was flesh. Sylar pulled his head back, lifting it off the pillow and away from whatever had touched his head, only to detect there was a lot of touching going on. The more threatening touch to his head didn't correlate with…being held. By Peter Petrelli. The sun was a bit blinding, and he blinked as it hit his suspicious, narrowed eyes. The man's hands were accounted for so the threat was non-existent. "Were you smelling my hair?" he asked. The light behind Peter made him difficult to see in an artistic kind of way, like classy photography of handsome models. He looked incredibly soft and tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed – or hadn't yet rolled out of it. He stared as best he could with sleepy, sun-dazzled eyes.
XXX
That sounds perverted. Not that that's a bad thing. He felt playful, yearning to indulge himself further, but that way was dangerous. What if he didn't like that? I'm not supposed to touch his head – does that qualify? I don't know what's okay and what's not. "Um…maybe," Peter hedged. Sylar was squinting, making it difficult to discern his true expression. The morning light revealed the bruises from their fight just days before, but the man was still drop-dead handsome.
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar grunted lazily with the arrogance of being right, dropping his head to the pillow and back within reach. The thought of Peter molesting his hair was quickly growing into (at least) mental foreplay and it was sure to feel fantastic. "You should fuck me already," he murmured, slyly sliding his hand up Peter's abdomen to his hip. Interrogations and judgments aside, Peter's current seduction was very effective, Sylar realized. The kindness, questions, and proximity were making him high. If he keeps this up, fucking me might not even be…bad. He was almost starting to want it.
XXX
Peter sighed and relaxed, feeling the touch as Sylar's hand rode up his body, feeling welcomed by the action. He sank into it, even while knowing he shouldn't, couldn't. "I want to," he murmured back as he moved forward into a tighter embrace, his chin over Sylar's shoulder. "I want to make your toes curl," he said softly, huskily, letting his frustrated desire bleed into his voice. "I want to hear you gasp when you go. I want to see you come undone with me in you." He paused, dipping his head to put his lips for a moment against the t-shirt on Sylar's shoulder. "But I still can't let go."
He'd intended the words more as a statement of how he couldn't follow Sylar's advice to just 'let it happen', but once spoken aloud, what was brought to mind was Nathan, hanging from the edge of Mercy Heights Hospital. All the muscles in Peter's hand, arm, shoulder, and back had been burning, but he'd refused to voluntarily release his brother. Peter pushed away from Sylar, separating them enough that he could see his face. It was Sylar then, too. Not Nathan. There was concern and regret in Peter's expression. "Not enough for that."
XXX
Sylar swallowed drily. He felt a flush of heat at those words, the ideas or maybe the promise therein. Was it a promise? You think you're really that good? Peter Petrelli and his magic dick. You could turn me gay, get me off that way? (Do toes curl during orgasm? Is that a gay thing or an abilities thing or…?) Part of him didn't care about any of it; it sounded so good, worth a try anyway.
And then the rest of what Peter had to say. Letting go. This again. It always came back to him – to Nathan. How difficult was it, truly? You get the easy part, Petrelli. Get hard like you do, roll me over – you're strong enough – and put your dick in me, like you did before. It's just a different hole. You've done it before to other…men….women? I have to let you fuck me! He grit his teeth, wanting to bite Peter out of spite. Before he could react, Peter was pulling away and would be able to see him. "Good thing you can let go in my mouth…" he said gruffly, likely glaring with half the intent to make that glare arousing. The rest of it was angry.
The hand on Peter's hip, slid down and into the empath's underwear, grasping the beginnings of (no surprise) an erection. He had every intention of thoroughly going down on Peter, using the angry glaring the man found so attractive as motivation. All of his complaining and he'll still let me do this.
XXX
Peter was left gaping at Sylar's response. It was true, sort of. It made him look shamefully guilty of being selfish, that he'd accepted a blowjob and handjob from Sylar, and reciprocated only with a badly-ended handjob of his own. Now Peter was trying to unilaterally refuse anything else - specifically the receptive role, which Peter saw as the more desirable of the two. If Sylar saw it the same way, then Peter was taking the acts he liked from the relationship and not extending the same to Sylar.
He knew he needed to do or say something, but "Huh?" was all he got out before Sylar was reaching for him. His thoughts were tangled up in whether it was more selfish to decline or accept, how either impacted Sylar, and how Peter was getting angry at having to juggle the insecurities of the guy who had done so much to hurt him. Plus, his meaning of 'no' had been perfectly plain even if he hadn't said it explicitly. He knew what I meant!
Peter took Sylar's wrist and pushed it to the side, leaning into him with the intention of putting Sylar on his back. Peter's lips skated over Sylar's stubbled cheek, because he wanted Sylar despite everything else. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't have been in this mess. "Yes, I did," Peter said sharply. "And I don't regret it, but I'm not going to do it again until I get my head straight." He was also, he noticed, about to hump Sylar's hip, given the way their bodies were pressing together. I am the fucking king of mixed messages, he thought with some resignation. But fuck him. If he wants me, then he'll deal with it. He gave another touch of his face to Sylar's cheek before withdrawing (or at least trying to).
XXX
Sylar was…distracted by being rolled over with Peter nearly atop him and Peter being in his face. "What?!" he spat. That was too ridiculous. How righteous and sanctimonious…! It had reached a whole new level of Petrelli crazy. He quickly reached out and snagged a hand around the back of Peter's neck to keep him from escaping. That was it? Good for one (admittedly poor) blowjob and jerk off session to be discarded for offering up sex? Deciding things with no warning, only an off-hand comment as explanation?
"Sweetie, we both know your head," he emphasized to refer about the head without Peter's brain, "is anything but straight. I assume I didn't hear you correctly because Peter Petrelli loves to talk things to death. How the hell is fucking me different than anything else?"
XXX
'Sweetie'?It was more endearing that it should have been, especially given that they were effectively arguing about an incredibly sensitive subject while face-to-face. Peter frowned and tugged his head back enough to make sure Sylar was committed to keeping him there. That ascertained, Peter didn't fight it. "It's not," he snapped. He let go of Sylar's far wrist, the one he'd pushed to the side, and put his hand on Sylar's chest in case he needed to resist being pulled down. "It's all off the table!"
XXX
Sylar tightened his grip and flexed his arm to keep Peter here. He wasn't thinking about beds and safe zones, just the insanity of it all and his demand for an explanation that probably wouldn't make sense. It's not different? It's 'off the table' – it's not on the fucking bed maybe! He glared at Peter's tone, ignoring the hand on his chest. "What's so wrong with you getting off? What changed?"
XXX
"That's not the issue." Peter bared his teeth. "I can't just shut off the past and pretend everything's okay. I thought I could. I can't."
XXX
That's insane! I fucking told you that before! "When were you going to tell me? Why do you get to make these decisions when you claim this is a relationship? Or am I suddenly not good enough for that?"
XXX
"I've been telling you all along!" Peter shifted a little to put a few inches between their bodies. His eyes darted over Sylar's features as he tried to divine how bad this was. He's insecure. He must be afraid he loses whatever protection he thought he had. He was willing to put out for that. It means a lot to him. I'm scaring him. Peter changed gears, taking a more delicate tack. "It must feel like a betrayal for me to back off now." He left it at that, inviting Sylar's response rather than throwing his own out there.
XXX
"A betrayal?" Sylar snorted out a breath. "Right, you suddenly remembered you're better than a mass murderer? Or did the thrill just wear off? Because I know you didn't get what you wanted. It sure looks like you regret it. It…doesn't have to be shameful because no one will ever find out."
XXX
That's everything he's afraid of, right there. "I'm with you, Sylar. I want to make this work, just like you do. The other day, you showed me that you were all-in on us, that you were willing to do whatever it took to…please me." He stroked Sylar's chest lightly. "And that's what you're offering right now. I get it. I want to take you up on it. I've tried to take you up on it before." He chewed his lip for a moment and moved his head, feeling Sylar's hand shift in his hair. "That feels nice. Would you be okay with something…a little lower stakes? For now?"
XXX
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was an air of manipulation and he attributed that to Peter wanting to avoid a scene (or to 'protect the safe zone' or something equally lame). It was complimentary if sugarcoated. He inhaled when he felt the delicate caress against his chest. Why do you do that? he thought of Peter's contrariness, considering a possible pattern, (He might be more…giving when he's turning me down.)
Sylar rolled his head aside on the pillow in frustration. He felt Peter sliding around in his grip and he turned back to observe that. Peter still looked, well, adorable now, petting himself with Sylar's hand. He greedily spread his fingers out and speared them possessively into Peter's lush hair. Like what? I've already done most things with you – to you – whatever. I don't think you mean you'd let me feel you up. I know you want sex, so what else is there?
"Do I have a choice?" he rumbled, knowing the answer but wanting Peter to hear how stupid his question was. He continued massaging Peter's scalp.
XXX
Peter turned his head to look around the apartment, continuing to roll it against Sylar's hand, then looked back to answer, "Given the lack of other people lined up for the opportunity, I'd say there's not much of one." He settled against the mattress, putting his head to the pillow, Sylar's hand included. He sighed, wishing Sylar would take a little more active role in touching him. It seems to be 'sex or nothing' with him. That's frustrating. He kept moving his head against Sylar's hand and looked at the man with half-open eyes. "You can always bow out."
XXX
Sylar's face went blank. It didn't seem to him that the comment was warranted, reminding him that he was only the Last Man on Earth and there was no line outside his front door, no waiting list, no demand. Admitting that he had no choice but to be pathetic and wait on Peter's moods because Peter was the only one even considering having him – even then only because he was desperate and Sylar was cheap and available.
Peter had since flopped to the side, trapping Sylar's hand beneath his head. Absently, he twitched his fingers to give scratching strokes to Peter's hair, pressing and releasing. He controlled his snort of derision this time. "Oh, really," he said with mildest sarcasm. Quickly he covered it with a disinterested, questioning, "Can I?"
XXX
Does he mean 'Can I bow out?' or is he asking to do something, like with my hair? Peter raised his brows a little in question. It also hadn't gone unnoticed that his minor joke had pissed Sylar off, or at least fell flat. A depressingly familiar wariness returned. "Yes," he said. The answer was the same either way.
XXX
Sylar shook his head. Peter wanted to cuddle after all the build-up and teasing. The empath had been on the course to consummation until something had changed. I shouldn't have told him about Nathan. It was fine before then. He just uses me to tell him things about his brother. He certainly thinks I'm his bitch. All the 'I'm going to get you off so hard' bullshit was just that and he thinks I believe it. Of course he can't be with something filthy.
There was nothing to be gained by backing out, assuming that was an actual, unlikely option. (If anything, it would hurt his chances by being inconsistent, proving his interest was 'shallow', which apparently mattered). Peter offering it at all meant he was in for another, perhaps longer wait. The tenderness wasn't undesirable – far from it, but on the heels of such a pointless rejection made him angry.
He had questions, but knew he wouldn't be satisfied with the answers and he certainly didn't want to have any discussion in such a passive-aggressive location. "I get the feeling it will be about the same either way," he said succinctly. "I said you could fuck me and you can fuck me." He lifted himself up onto an elbow, took a slight handful of Peter's hair, and bent down to bite at the man's neck. After sinking his teeth in enough to leave a mark deep and dark enough to satisfy a predator, he released.
XXX
A bite. Another bite. Opposite side of the neck from last time. Peter made a low groan and arched tensely. He put his hands on Sylar – one on his chest and the other on his arm – but neither pushed nor gripped. He winced and bared his own teeth when it started to hurt. How hard is he going to do this? Is this revenge? Foreplay? Ow, damn it. Then it was over, without having quite reached the point where Peter was willing to shove him away. Peter fell back on the bed, getting himself, especially his face and neck, far enough back that Sylar would have to shift and stretch to reach him again. He had a sullen look on his face.
XXX
"Ummm," he purred, licking his lips and eyeing the mark. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked even though he knew the answer. Sylar flung the blankets off and lifted himself from the mattress with the intent of showing off his body for the horny, but self-righteous empath, standing beside the bed to wait for the reply.
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Peter stayed where he was and didn't answer right away. He was feeling resentful of being bitten without any erotic lead-up that would have made it pleasurable, and of the failure to get more than token touching when he asked for something lower stakes than sex. Sylar stood up fluidly, posing as much as one could in t-shirt and boxers. Peter let his eyes roam up, down, and then back up again, though he didn't feel particularly attracted. He looked because he was obviously supposed to. Peter wiped at the spot on his neck slowly. "Coffee, toast, and jelly," Peter said finally. He's still making me food. Is that what he thinks people in a relationship do? Or is he trying to make up for being an asshole just now?
When Sylar headed off, Peter felt safe enough to stretch on the bed. He rubbed at the spot on his neck and called out half-bitter, half-jokingly, "Do I need to start wearing a spiked collar?"
XXX
It appeared that Peter wasn't amused or aroused and that was troubling. He knew the message he'd missed (perhaps intentionally). I don't want lower stakes. What does that even mean: 'less than sex'? He just wants more of the same – he doesn't want to grope me, won't let me pet him, so it's just more cuddling. He's putting me off and blaming me for it somehow. There didn't seem to be any point in asking for clarification, so Sylar proceeded to the bathroom. He chuckled at the idea and the enticing image Peter presented so willingly, and possibly, seriously. He paused and turned halfway back. "Hmm. Of course. I'm happy to bite you elsewhere." His eyes flicked over Peter's spread form, mentally referring back to the nudity from the night before.
XXX
Peter assessed Sylar with a heavy-lidded, otherwise neutral look while still touching his neck. "Yeah?" he said, inviting clarification, if it was available. Sylar kept toeing up to the line between 'sexy' and 'unsettling'. While being bitten was usually (could be?) sexy, this last time had simply hurt and he wasn't sure Sylar understood that.
XXX
"Oh yeah," he replied in a deep voice. He had a sizeable list of places on Peter's body where he wanted to apply his teeth. Muscular, soft, flawless flesh bare and innocent to his filthy desires. Peter enjoyed it but still rejected it. He knew as he said it that his lusty initiation was a turn off for the empath. His face went blank after that. No amount of creativity would convince the most stubborn Petrelli when that Petrelli didn't want to be pleasured. Once in the bathroom, clean up was a simple affair – not that it really mattered. The only person he needed to impress was…unimpressionable.
It didn't escape him how messed up it was to have a requirement that Peter fuck him, yet wanting to accept this lesser offer of 'lower stakes' without sex because it met half of his needs. If he accepted, he would never be viewed as 'fuck-buddy' material and Peter would be free to abandon him because there would be nothing to tie him to Sylar. (Is there a possibility he knows what I'm doing? No, he dismissed the idea.) Peter's motives were selfish – clearly – and his own, always revolving around Nathan and family and doing the right thing.
He went about making breakfast for two, pondering where he stood in whatever agreement they did or did not have and how Peter really felt about any of it. Nathan was still an obstacle he couldn't solve. Since toast was uncomplicated, he waited until it sounded like Peter was finishing in the bathroom before starting the toaster. After quick preparation, he brought it to the table and sat with his own plate.
XXX
Peter stayed sprawled on the bed until Sylar finished in the bathroom, then took his turn using the facilities. He came out and found his workout clothes, shooting a glance over to Sylar. The man had his back to Peter, just beginning to pour up coffee. Peter changed quickly, aiming to avoid a scene about his brief nudity and yet annoyed at feeling he needed to be furtive about his own body, in their shared apartment, with a guy who claimed to be at his disposal for sex. At his disposal…but Peter wasn't comfortable enough to change clothes without checking, not after Sylar calling attention to it the night before.
He moved to the table and accepted his cup when Sylar brought it over.
XXX
They had both barely settled in at that table before, Sylar blurted out his burning question. "Out of curiosity, what did you mean by 'lower stakes'?" He hoped it sounded casual and disinterested enough, a negotiator interested in the 'other' options he was being presented with – assuming it was truly an option.
XXX
The question was asked just as Peter bit down on a piece of toast, which was lucky. It gave him time. The food was also excellent – having been lightly buttered while hot, with a thin layer of jelly that left it still crunchy, but sweet. He would have used too much jelly if he'd done it himself, giving him soggy toast and a sugar overload. Peter appreciated the difference as he mulled over his thoughts.
What? He doesn't know? Is this why he's 'sex or nothing'; why he bit me and backed out; because there's nothing else on the menu? The no-hands blowjob came to mind, along with Sylar fleeing to the bathroom after, either to spit or to retch, but Peter's money was on retching. I warned him, but he didn't pull off. How much experience does he have? What if it's none? It's not like he had any experience in getting flogged, but he signed up for that, no questions asked.
Peter put down his toast and followed it with a sip of coffee to wash it down. That needs more cream and sugar, but it's close. He's trying to do it right and not fuck this up. To Sylar's question, he answered, "Playing. Making out. Touching." He shrugged like the next was more optional than the others, "Kissing? Like with abilities, maybe I just need to practice."
XXX
Peter's delay in responding made him suspicious that perhaps Peter hadn't considered what it really meant and was now hastily making something up. It was a decent answer, full of logic flaws. Sylar frowned heavily, munching on his own toast.
Massages and touching, flirting was already happening, if not playing (because Peter didn't like painful, violent, scary things and Sylar had no idea what else 'playing' could be). I don't see how anyone can make out without kissing. And kissing me is so different that he needs to fucking practice it. He knows he doesn't have to do anything for me, so why offer even that much? But no sex. Because I don't qualify for that. He'll just dangle it in front of me with the hopes of 'some day' while he uses me to answer all his elusive questions about his precious brother. Sylar's lips thinned dangerously as he considered. That's…really backwards. The last thing most people want is any kind of…interaction with a killer. I think he wants something…normal. I want to ask him about this so badly!
I think he's…asking me. Actually asking me to choose. Giving me a choice. (And I have no idea what I want more or what is an acceptable answer.) I think he…allowed those things because he was concussed and now he's changing his mind. He wouldn't really be able to remember his own reasons for doing it. He gave up on his contemplative, worried frowning. "How is your concussion?" he asked, genuinely interested and dodging the current topic as far as Peter was concerned.
XXX
Peter ate quietly, watching as Sylar slowly digested Peter's suggestions for 'things to do in bed other than stick a dick in someone'. The delay confirmed his suspicions about Sylar's relative inexperience. Should I have been more specific? No, I don't think so. We'll work it out. Eventually.
"It's okay," Peter said in answer to Sylar's eventual question. Abrupt change of subject, which probably means, 'I don't know what to do or say about the sex thing, so let's talk about something else.' "I still have a headache, but it's not that bad. If I have other problems, I haven't noticed them. How's your back?"
XXX
I've noticed them, Sylar thought about their encounter the other night compared to the rejection of this morning. "I think it's fine." Partly to be available, he swiveled in his seat and began to lift up his shirt.
XXX
Peter grunted as Sylar reached for his shirt. Taking a look wasn't what he'd expected, though it made sense. He rose and moved to fetch the kitchen towel, wiping his hands free of any crumbs and butter as he moved behind Sylar to see. Peter helped push up the shirt so he had a good view. "I'm not going to touch you because my hands aren't clean," he said distractedly as he studied the marks.
"You're right. They look good. You should probably still take antibiotics for a day or two more. I'm not sure what caused the infection to start with." He let the shirt fall, feeling a little guilty because he had his suspicions about what had caused it – hate, anger, some physical manifestation of his feelings, inflicted on Sylar's flesh. Peter huffed and went back to his seat to finish eating. At least they were healing.
XXX
Now you won't touch me because of something that may or may not be an excuse? Sylar adjusted his shirt and faced forward again. "Are you sure about your concussion? Is there a test I should run or something?"
XXX
Peter took a larger drink of his coffee. "There are tests. It'd be like the mental exam I was giving you. The biggest use of that was keeping me focused on being patient with you and letting me know how much I needed to help with and watch out for, like on self-care." He pushed his empty saucer forward. "You're already doing that: making sure I eat, get enough sleep, and take care of myself. That's really all you need to do."
Peter shook his head dismissively. "I'm not operating heavy machinery or working. If I still have symptoms aside from a sore head, they'll probably manifest as me not thinking clearly or getting disoriented." He gave a self-deprecating smile as he passed on his way to the sink, cup and plate in hand. "I don't know if you'd be able to recognize that as any different from normal."