Day 78, February 26, Late morning
He was watching Peter throughout the explanation. When Peter mentioned not thinking clearly, he glanced down and away. It made him feel…sad for a moment, then perhaps relieved the more he considered it. He was messed up when he allowed it. Now he's feeling like himself. Everything is back to normal and he says he doesn't want it. We both know he does and I have to persuade him to do it again. "I can tell," he said simply. "I see you're going to the gym."
XXX
"Yeah." He poured out the last of his coffee and rinsed off his dish. "What are you doing today?"
XXX
(You?) Sylar shifted his weight in the chair. With a soft tone, he replied, "I was going to clean up the dairy section at the store." He felt that the fight was his fault and thus cleanup would fall to him. It wasn't something he necessarily wanted to draw attention to. Cleanup was something that should happen behind the scenes after all.
XXX
"Oh," Peter said, leaving the sink and walking towards Sylar. Should I offer to help? What kind of a mess did we leave? Blood everywhere, I think. Maybe broken stuff. I'm not dressed for it and I've already said I was going to work out. Should I ask him to wait?"Um, okay. If you're not back when I'm done, I'll come join you. We could stand a few more groceries anyway." He gave Sylar a concerned, uncertain look, then moved to his side to touch lightly along the top of Sylar's nearer shoulder. In a soft voice that matched Sylar's, he said, "Are you okay after last night?"
XXX
He couldn't stand that voice. The pity or caring, certainly not the gentleness it implied. It felt so wrong and out of place. Sylar nodded quickly and began fussing with his own dishes, waiting until Peter broke the patronizing contact first.
XXX
Peter nodded. "Okay. I'll see you later then." He gave Sylar's shoulder a pat and left, heading downstairs to the exercise room. Once there, he stretched, his mind full of thoughts on the morning, the night, the evening before, and Sylar's story of Nathan's death. He talks about that and the next day, Sylar wants me to fuck him and gets bent out of shape when I don't want to. The night after he told me all that, even then, he acted like he thought I wanted head.
Peter shook his head as he climbed on the treadmill. If things were normal, I'd say he was insensitive. Just beyond. But it's the opposite. He's reading my anger and trying to suck up. Or make it up. Make me breakfast, go clean up the store, offer himself – whatever he needs to do, like I'm the monster.
Peter scrubbed at his face. It doesn't make any sense. It makes too much sense. I don't know if he's seeing the truth or lying to himself. Am I just like my dad? Or my mom? Am I the one lying to myself? Fuck it. Fuck him. Just run. He punched the right buttons for one of the tougher, pre-programmed running plans in the machine. When his legs were rubbery and lungs burning, he turned it off, took a short breather, and moved to the rec room where he pounded the punching bag as hard as he could, keeping at it until he managed to sprain his elbow. He stopped at the pain. The whole room was spinning by then, so he staggered to the pool table and leaned against it, looking uncertainly at his bruised knuckles. The leading ones were bleeding. Fuck, was the only coherent thought his mind could form.
He made it back to the penthouse and into the shower, although he couldn't have explained how he got there if he'd needed to. It didn't matter much. Warm water cascading over him took his worries away. He stayed there until his thoughts cleared and he remembered his offer to help Sylar at the store. Shit. He's probably done by now.
XXX
Nearly forty-five minutes later, Sylar returned to the penthouse. On opening the door, he heard sounds coming from the shower. He felt this was an opportunity. He had a predatory urge. Anger and lust, a kind of vengeance and overcoming himself were part of it. The bathroom door was open. Sylar imagined he could smell Peter, could certainly imagine him because he'd already seen the man naked. He stood where he was, between the living room and the kitchen, in view of the bedroom – and waited.
XXX
Peter exited the shower and pulled the towel off the rack. There wasn't that much to clean up, but I should still go check if he needs me. He scrubbed at his hair, pausing for a moment to wipe his face, then went back to his hair. Get some extra groceries at least. Maybe eat there. He turned toward the rest of the apartment, letting the towel fall to his shoulders. He pulled on one side, sliding it off and gathering half of it to dry his hands. He was moving on to drying his forearms, having reached the side of the bed, when he realized he wasn't alone.
XXX
Sylar watched as Peter's body jiggled about a little as he dried himself vigorously. The empath paraded himself to the bed before his eyes met Sylar's. The bottom half of the towel hung in front of Peter's groin, the rest was wadded up, held at his navel. The man's skin and lovely dark hair glistened.
Sylar approached, getting in Peter's space, close enough to breathe on him and breathe him in. He smelled delicious. Peter's face wore multiple emotions. Sylar touched the wet, black hair, sliding his fingers into it until his palm rested under Peter's ear. It was already mostly slicked back, making Peter look younger than he was. Some strands dangled around his face in a beautiful arrangement. "Is this what you meant by 'touching'?" he rasped.
XXX
Peter drew himself up in height as Sylar approached, the air immediately becoming charged with tension. But no amount of straightening his spine made up for the fact that Peter was barefoot, Sylar was shod, and Sylar was several inches taller than him even when they were both in shoes. The man towered over him by nearly half a foot. That, added to Peter's nakedness, sent a wave of defensiveness and vulnerability over him. It wasn't fear, though, that caused his skin to prickle or his nostrils to flare. His heart started drumming in his chest and his fingers tightened on the towel. It was excitement of a different kind. He finally broke eye contact with Sylar to glance in the direction of the touch to his hair. "Some. Yeah."
XXX
Peter didn't look upset, at least not the vengeful kind. He was paying attention though. The hand in Peter's hair trailed one finger down Peter's cheek to his lips. He knew it was a bad idea – too much intimacy, too emotional, too real, but he wanted to touch. For a split second, he thought Peter would allow it until he saw the anger and everything in the man's body language refused. So Sylar shifted closer and his finger continued down over throat, collarbone, chest, abdomen…
XXX
Sylar's eyes bored into him. He wants me. The morning fight (argument) ran through his mind. Sex would make him feel safe, but I turned him down. Is he threatening me? He's fucking hot. Peter watched the finger come to his mouth. He didn't part his lips, but he did breathe harder as anger rose up in him. No! I'm not going to suck him off.
Their arrangement – the height difference, the power imbalance of Sylar clothed and him not – combined to make him think Sylar was about to demand the tables be turned and Peter…wasn't up for that yet. He was just barely on the side of not freaking out about having Sylar looming over him like this – submitting further, to so dangerous a person, was too much.
Keyed up by tension, he shivered as Sylar's finger trailed down his body. Sylar drew their bodies together, but Peter still grasped the towel between them. It kept him covered, but made it impossible to tell how ready to go Sylar was and how much of this was designed to upset him.
He refused to play that game. Pushing down his anger, Peter let go of the towel with one hand and trailed tentative fingers up the outside of one of Sylar's arms. He tilted his head to the side, regarding Sylar and inhaling as he reached the man's shoulder. He's so handsome. Even when he's all over me like this.
His hand crossed to Sylar's chin. He's mine, if I want him. He leaned in and kissed Sylar's jawline. It was rough stubble so his touch was light. His lips made a gentle trail of separate pecks a few inches along Sylar's jaw. When he reached Sylar's ear, Peter whispered, "Is this what you want?"
XXX
Sylar wasn't put off by the touch up his arm. It seemed within the realm of familiar possibility of Peter's range of touching. The touch to his face surprised him. He twitched and his expression nearly broke. What was the purpose behind that? It felt good. It felt better when Peter kissed across his jawline. It made him exhale and gave him nasty ideas. Sylar canted his face to be as close to Peter as possible. "This is what you want," he whispered back, then dropped to his knees.
XXX
Should I refuse? This isn't fair to him is it? He's doing me and I'm not doing anything for him. But that's…that's exactly what he wants. He wants me to owe him. He wants to make me happy. If I don't let him get me off, then I'm telling him we're still enemies. I have to let him do this. This is what he wants: proof, actions, not lip service and promises but instead for me to put it on the line like he has.
It was a difficult step to take. It still felt like a bizarro-world situation. I told him it was all off the table this morning, but as long as I hold out on him, he can't be sure I'm not going to hurt him. (Or rather, he can be sure I'm holding out and can't be trusted.)
This is fucked up. Twisted. He had no guns to stick to – his principles were at odds with one another. Peter was certain Sylar had orchestrated the perversity of the situation precisely so there was no clean and easy way for Peter to refuse. In retrospect, Sylar had obviously hit on sex after trying many other things, seeking enough leverage to manipulate him. He'd found it, Peter was sorry to admit. Maybe this was Sylar's act of last resort, which left Peter ashamed that he'd forced Sylar to go to such an extreme to prove himself…though on the other hand, Peter wouldn't have believed his sincerity for anything less.
Having reached this point, to turn Sylar down again would be cruel and dangerous, signaling a desire on Peter's part to continue fighting (and not just arguing), signaling that Sylar wasn't safe and that there might be no amount of degradation or submission that would satisfy Peter. That wasn't true.
With a jerky, uneasy movement, Peter moved the towel aside, exposing himself. His penis was swollen, but not erect. There was too much tension for that. He dropped the towel on the floor. His other hand stroked the back and side of Sylar's neck in acceptance.
XXX
Peter hesitated then bared himself. Again, he wasn't ragingly hard and ready. It was worrisome on several levels. Sylar felt a jolt that perhaps he was overestimating his own appeal. The hand on the back of his neck was everything. He didn't mind most of this process; in fact, it was a kind of ego stroke. Peter was easy. Sylar leaned in, looked up, and opened his mouth to take Peter in. It was still filthy that Peter didn't just fuck his face, instead forcing him bob and suck on him.
XXX
Peter gasped when Sylar put his lips around him. The look up at him was incredible. Sylar's expression, this time, looked so much more engaged, meeting his eyes and responding. Peter cupped the back of Sylar's head with one hand, the other skimming the top of the man's shoulder. Sylar's hands…were not in play, just like the first time. What's he doing? Does he not like to touch? Maybe…I need to show him?
"Give me your hands," Peter asked, guiding one to the base of his cock and the other to his butt cheek. "I like it when you touch me."
XXX
Sylar slowed and lifted his hands, expression mildly questioning. His hands were placed on Peter's dick and, more importantly, on one ass cheek. His breath left him in arousal, puffing out around Peter's organ. He made an involuntary noise, his dick was suddenly inexplicably stiff, and his eyes burned with trying to communicate. He squeezed that ass cheek and his head spun. The cheek was soft to the touch, firm and muscular, the perfect handful. He had thoughts, but they passed too quickly to be remembered. It was unthinkable what was happening. Sylar sucked harder, driven now to do a good job this time, though he didn't want to like it.
XXX
"Oh! Oh yeah." It was working. The whole thing was working. This was actually intimate and Peter could feel the difference. "Yeah, oh…" He was tingling, too, and all over but mostly where Sylar was touching him. He knew he was going to come fast. Peter brushed his fingertips through Sylar's hair, down his neck and over his shoulder where he could reach. Peter's other hand rubbed over his own chest and then his neck, covering the latest bite mark Sylar had given him. The fingertips on the back of Sylar's shoulder dug in a little as he neared his peak.
XXX
He was stroking Peter's dick into his mouth, tasting him, feeling the hard shaft slide over his tongue. After a time of that and groping Peter's ass, his hand fell away and he pressed deeper. It didn't take much and Peter was pumping himself inside far too gently. There was rhythmic contact at the back of his throat all the same and his lips were smudged wet. He desperately wanted to do things to Peter's ass, more than squeezing and rubbing. Sylar listened to Peter's noises, watching his hands pet him and the other touching himself.
XXX
Sylar took him even deeper, swallowing him down and enveloping him nearly entire with his large mouth. "Oh fuck," Peter whispered. The hand on Sylar's shoulder became firmer as he pressed down as though for balance. He couldn't stop his hips from moving in tandem with Sylar's sucking – they seemed to have a mind of their own but he did his best to thrust as little as possible. "I'm gonna c-come." He pressed on the bite mark on his neck – it hurt enough that he needed do nothing more to get the rush he wanted.
A few seconds after orgasm, he pulled out. I should have pulled out before I came. He retched last time. Fuck, why didn't I do that? This was hot. Sylar… There was a yearning tone to the thought. He went to his knees, joining Sylar on the floor, still panting and spent. Peter picked up the damp towel and offered it in case Sylar wanted to spit in it or just clean up.
XXX
He felt when Peter came in his mouth before he tasted it; the throbbing, hot heartbeat was a giveaway. Sylar tensed up, feeling helpless and trying not to gag. Peter withdrew and Sylar held still even when the empath knelt in front of him. He would have shuddered about the taste, but he was vaguely aware that Peter was close and probably watching. Spitting this time wasn't going to work, not if he was going to prove himself. He choked it down and swallowed. He didn't have a use for the towel, as wiping his mouth would be rude, so he held it loosely. Am I supposed to put this in the hamper? He stared confused at the towel.
XXX
Sylar seemed lost inside himself. Peter ached because this wasn't right. Something wasn't right about the whole thing. He touched fingertips to Sylar's forearm and leaned in to give him a light kiss on the lower cheek. He touched Sylar's face with the tip of his nose, then withdrew a few inches, eyes moving over Sylar's features, trying to find something to connect with.
XXX
He felt Peter brush his arm and then a sweet, undeserved caress of a kiss grazing his cheek. Sometimes it seemed as if Peter knew him very well; knew he was a sucker for having his face touched. Sylar exhaled and his eyes followed Peter. He drew another breath, staring at the man's neck. The taste in his mouth was an unwelcome distraction.
Sylar darted a glance at and out of the window. I had time. I should have closed that. Since Peter appeared to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, he pretended to be fine with a grin.
He stood, intending to keep moving so Peter didn't say, think, feel, do anything to ruin it and to avoid the very clear shot of the window. Walking to the bathroom, he disposed of the towel in the hamper and returned to the living room after another round of paranoid checks to the window. Sylar stood between the support column and out of direct range. "Do you want lunch?"
XXX
That's it. That's all I get. A blowjob, a brush-off, and lunch. He should have been happy. He was the one who received the act, but the way Sylar acted, Peter still felt used and discarded. He felt ashamed for wanting and accepting it when he'd known there wasn't the intimacy or understanding between them to support it – but there sure seemed like there had been at first. It was good for a moment there. He looked at where Sylar was standing, decidedly away from him. He doesn't want me near him now. He did what he needed to and left. With a sigh, he got to his feet. "I guess," he said with quiet depression. He's trying. He just blew me. This isn't his problem. Peter nodded and spoke more firmly, making eye contact and trying to act normal. "Yes, please. I'll get dressed."
XXX
"You probably don't have to get dressed," Sylar muttered, mostly to himself. He had a built-in excuse to get in the fridge for something to wash the taste away – his mouth still feeling tacky or dry, perhaps both. He used that excuse and quickly drank some juice. Now, ideally, Peter wouldn't be able to complain about the quality he provided. He'd given it his all and Peter had even given him something though it wasn't necessary.
After a few breaths, he considered the meal preparation. He was angry and disgusted. Peter was easy and very willing to accept this as the new arrangement of all-take-and-no-give no matter what he said about it. He avoided his feelings about other things that would get in the way of his performance. Sylar got out bread and condiments. Peter's veganism prevented a heartier sandwich. He allowed himself to feel righteous smugness to meet Peter's basest needs, hearing Peter's voice saying, 'I like when you touch me' in direct conflict with his cool acceptance of his hair being touched moments before.
XXX
There was something dreadful about what Sylar had muttered about him not getting dressed that made Peter feel more naked than any leer could have. It was hard to put into words how unsettling that was on top of everything else. He put clothes on immediately.
Fuck! I shouldn't have let him do that. I knew it. I knew it! Fuck! Peter took a moment as Sylar was busy at the counter to press the heel of his hand against his forehead. This is fucked up. He keeps doing this to me. (I keep letting him do it!) Who's fault is this? Why doesn't he quit? He looked over at Sylar and realized he wanted to deck the guy, for Sylar giving him a blow job he hadn't asked for and then making him feel like scum for accepting it. Anger was building up fast. Peter took a few deep breaths and tried to put that aside with a shake of his head. Okay, maybe this is his problem. I don't fucking know.
He drummed his fingers uneasily on his knee for as long as he dared, but when Sylar brought food to the table, Peter had to rise and join him. He tried to keep the many mixed emotions he was feeling off his face, but he doubted he did a good job at it. He pulled his sandwich in front of him and ate it silently, without even a 'thanks'.
XXX
Peter was unusually quiet. A look at the man's expression showed there was definitely something going on. What that might be was less clear: anger, disgust or something else entirely. Sylar knew it was his fault and he was weighed down by that. With a brief, helpless frown, he attacked his own sandwich.
XXX
"So," Peter said when they were both done eating, "tell me about something you said yesterday. You said killing Nathan was a nightmare and the wrong thing to do, but then you argued you were justified. Which is it?" His tone was both confrontational and tired. He knew different ways conflicted feelings like that could play out, but he wanted to know what Sylar meant by it.
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That was not the topic Sylar expected. After a myriad of reactions, he landed on suspicion. Was this Peter's pattern: fucking and questions about Nathan? Is he using me? It was a dangerous thought, especially since it was his plan to manipulate the empath and he'd assumed it was working. "Really, Peter? This is how it's going to be?" Sylar rolled his eyes and sighed. "Maybe you liked being tied up."
XXX
He snorted at the insinuation, then pursed his lips and looked at the table. Regrouping for another attempt, Peter tried, "Is it both? Did you change your mind later? Explain it to me." I want to know. I want to get something from you.
XXX
Sylar sat quietly for a moment, trying to gauge his partner. His lips tensed before he reached for Peter's plate. He placed it atop his own and brought them to the sink. It wasn't a difficult question, but his feelings about it, his motivations might be.
XXX
Peter sighed. The silent act? Great. "You can tie my foot down again if that helps. Whatever. We have to talk, Sylar."
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Apparently Peter had no patience, but that was what Sylar wanted to know. "Actually we don't, Peter. You want to talk. You didn't wake up this morning with this in mind," Sylar said as he scrubbed the plates. "If one question and one answer will help you calm down, then yeah. I will tie your foot down."
XXX
He started to argue about that – he wanted to. But yeah, he hadn't woke up with this in mind. But fine, Sylar was agreeing. Keep my mouth shut, then. With a roll of his eyes, Peter went to the corner of the bed when Sylar was done with the dishes. He took a seat and drew up one foot, unlacing his shoe. He did the other one as well. I didn't say he could have my shoes this time. He frowned at them, but left them on his feet. If Sylar wanted them for the Q&A, then he could take them off. He gave them back last time.
Once Sylar came over and began to wrap the tie around his ankle and the post on the bed, Peter couldn't stop himself from…objecting. Physically. He pushed Sylar's upper arm, then grabbed at the end of the tie. He wasn't trying to stop him. He was just upset, so agitated and frustrated and not getting what he wanted. This isn't helping, fucking with him. Shit. He let go of the tie, the muscle of his jaw jumping as he clenched it. Peter looked away in a huff and said, "Never mind. Go ahead."
XXX
Sylar paused at the interference and gave Peter a look. For a man who'd got his this morning, Peter was being testy and juvenile. Sylar knew he had to handle this carefully because Peter was a tinderbox (and not in a good way). When Peter subsided and appeared cooperative, Sylar continued with the same tie from before.
He didn't bother with any excess touching of Peter's ankle this time. He plucked off Peter's shoes and sat at a kitchen chair, turned towards Peter. Feeling defeated, he gestured for Peter to ask his piece.
XXX
Peter looked at that gesture and shook his head mutely, falling backwards onto the bed. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, then yanked hard, three times, at the restraint on his ankle. It tightened, perhaps dangerously – that depended on how Sylar had tied it and Peter wasn't going to the bother of checking it. He wanted to yank harder. He wanted to rip the fabric (although a good silk tie was almost certainly stronger than he was). He wanted loose. He wanted his problems solved. He didn't want to be sitting across from Sylar who wouldn't talk to him and treated him like he was a monster. He ground his teeth.
Peter sat up with a controlled sigh. "I want to know if you think you did the right thing in killing my brother. I don't mean that in any simplistic way. I know it's a complicated subject. I want to hear it." He stared at Sylar, lips pressed together and expression intent.
XXX
"If this is some kind of sideways attempt to get me to confess to something, you're barking up the wrong tree," he said with a somewhat annoyed warning tone. "I told you shapeshifting can…affect your mind, especially when Parkman's done things to it. I've been your brother and I think you know how confused that can get."
Clasping his hands in his lap, he glanced at them for a moment. "I'm not going to answer anything about any regret or mistakes I might have. You haven't…earned that from me. 'Earn' isn't the right word," Sylar winced at that incorrect implication. "I have the idea that you will keep digging no matter what I tell you and…you can't dig into this answer. You can get as angry as you want or take it personally. You can try to beat it out of me, but…" he shrugged.
He was surprised Peter was still listening, hadn't broken the tie and charged him to do just that. It was difficult to explain because Peter would only hear 'no' and not the reasons why or what Sylar was truly trying to communicate. This answer has a lot of meaning. And he doesn't care, not about me anyway.
XXX
Peter flopped back on the bed again, moving his leg restlessly. "Okay," he said in a tense tone as he stared at the ceiling. "Okay. I hear you. I've backed you into a corner. You're being very…diplomatic about everything. I don't need a confession. I know what you did. And of course I'm going to keep digging. I loved him! You killed him! It's personal, Sylar. Fucking personal. I can't beat it out of you. I can't beat anything out of you."
He lifted one of his hands, looking at the reddened, puffy knuckles from trying just as pointlessly to beat some sense into the punching bag earlier in the morning. His elbow still ached for his trouble, but at least it was only Peter hurt – not Sylar, no one else. "I think you're saying that between the shape-shifting and Matt, the answer's different now than it would have been then. You've changed, or been changed."
XXX
Sylar exhaled in relief that Peter understood and what's more, dug deeper into what he wasn't saying (couldn't say). It was more than he'd hoped to achieve. He can read between the lines. Yes! Good! He licked his lips while Peter checked his hand. He canted his head to the side, looking away, with something of a nod to say 'something like that.'
XXX
He muttered as though to himself, "At least, that's what I think you mean." Back to Sylar, he said, "How do I get the answers I need? How do I earn your trust?" He rolled his head to the side, looking down his body and across the room at Sylar. Peter's face was less tense and more like angry begging. "What would you suggest I do here?"
XXX
It wasn't the first time he'd been asked this. The answer was just as clear now as it had been before. "I suggest you…continue to read between the lines for answers," he gave Peter a well-earned smirk of encouragement. He was pleased with Peter's response, his performance, so praise was due. In a way, that would give Peter more answers to questions yet unasked and perhaps even gain some trust. "I suggest you try to be as consistent as possible. I know that's…a lot, of you, especially now, especially to me."
XXX
Peter stared at him for a long moment, his face turning serious. He's not going to tell me what I want to know. That's what he's saying. But…what if he can't? What if this isn't a case of 'won't'? If he's not being difficult? Peter let out a slow sigh and pulled at the restraint. I think he's being difficult. Because he doesn't trust me. But it doesn't matter. It's how he is.
"Could you untie me? I'm not going to ask anything else." It all seemed pointless – fighting, arguing, begging for answers from someone who implied he didn't have them, wouldn't give them, perhaps couldn't, and that Peter wasn't trustworthy enough to make an effort for. From a man who'd just given him a blowjob under what looked a hell of a lot like duress. All this distance from Peter looked like a sort of flinching away from the monster. Peter felt horrible.
XXX
He knew Peter was disappointed. It was a mixed bag because he thought Peter got the point, but Sylar didn't derive much pleasure beyond that. The Petrelli's kicked-puppy emotion was palpable. Sylar pursed his lips and approached to remove the tie, which Peter had repeatedly yanked on and tightened. He used his fingernail and knowledge of the knot to loosen a few strands first.
XXX
Peter breathed out heavily again as Sylar untied him. He sat up and watched the process as Sylar picked at it. "I don't even know what consistent is for me anymore," Peter said quietly. The moment the tie was released, he put his hand on Sylar's forearm, holding it. I want this. Please? He pulled it over to where his leg was crooked on the mattress. With a glance up at Sylar's face for permission, Peter put Sylar's hand, palm-down, on the jeans that covered his calf. Can I show you? It's not sexual. It doesn't have to be.
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar agreed with a surprising amount of understanding. Giving it more thought, he wondered if he really wanted consistency from Peter after all – what with the man's intense passions being so interesting. It probably wasn't a fair thing to ask someone so emotional. Peter grasped his forearm and Sylar paused, curious. He met Peter's eyes and allowed his hand to be positioned on the man's lower leg. It seemed harmless enough.
XXX
After a beat, Peter moved Sylar's hand in a petting motion, watching what he was doing instead of Sylar's face. After a few strokes, he moved it to his knee and did the same. Then he lifted it slowly to his face, looking to Sylar's expression again for guidance. He turned Sylar's hand and pressed the palm to his cheek. Peter shut his eyes and sighed. I would have been happier with this than the fucking blow job.
XXX
Sylar briefly frowned when his hand was moved upwards. He didn't have time to worry – his hand was raised to cup Peter's face next. He was free to relax his expression when Peter was no longer looking. The empath appeared contented.
He misses Nathan's touch, Sylar concluded. Nathan touched him all the time, was possessive about it in fact. Peter had invited or asked to be touched before now (platonically more often than not). He misses his family. And he wants me to comfort him after I turned him down. Sylar used his other hand to slide his fingers into Peter's hair near the temple. He has to know I don't deserve this. He repeated the stroking, fingers brushing Peter's scalp. It wasn't brotherly, but it wasn't anything more or less either. It was good to be used this way, to soothe and comfort.
XXX
Two hands now? That was good; more than good – wonderful. He made a small happy noise. Peter tipped his head into it and let his shoulders sag. Eyes shut, face downwards, he presented his head for Sylar to touch. This is what I need. Please. This is so good. He existed in a pleased bubble of undemanding touch, no one being traumatized (he hoped), no one being taken advantage of (he hoped this, too), where Sylar was willing to do this for him, and neither of them would suffer later because of it. Peter breathed heavily, wishing he could fall asleep like this and wake up a million years later, finally content and calm with all his tension behind him.
He reached out and touched Sylar on the waist, thinking about hugging him, but decided that might be too forward, or misinterpreted somehow. He didn't want to fuck this up. Peter let his hands rest on his leg instead. "Reading between the lines," he said and paused for few beats, thinking. "Can I ask a question anyway?" His voice was even and relaxed, just loud enough to carry.
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Sylar hummed, enjoying Peter's pleasure. He loved watching Peter's glossy hair move about, petting it back and forth. "I suppose," he replied after a moment's thought. The empath appeared pliant and his voice lacked any edges.
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"Did you feel guilt about it then? Do you feel guilt about it now?" He kept his head down as long as Sylar was still touching him. "It doesn't change anything, but I want to know. If the answer's no, then that's the answer."
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Damn. Peter was still calm, but how easily that could change since he was no longer restrained. It was another question Sylar lumped together with the previous one – topics that would not be discussed. "Isn't 'guilt' just another word for 'regret'?" he asked right back.
Both hands moved to be smothered by Peter's hair, one in the forelock and the other nearly stroking the back of the man's head. He wanted to be deeper in Peter's hair, wanted the man's face pressed to his abdomen to really get into a massage if only to distract him from a second refusal.
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"I suppose so," Peter said slowly. He made another sound of pleasure – a noisy sigh. "Not really, though. I think guilt is if you do something wrong and regret is if you wish you hadn't done it. I might feel guilt about pulling the trigger on my dad, but I don't regret it. I'd do it again. Probably."
He winced a little as Sylar's fingers touched too firmly at the still-sore spot on the back of his head. It was from slamming his head on the floor of the grocery store. He pulled his head free of Sylar's hands, or at least mostly free and let Sylar do the rest. "Okay. I like this, what you're doing. A lot. Thank you." Peter looked up at Sylar. "You can do it anytime you want to."
Peter shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know if you would…want to, but you can." He looked in the direction of the door. "I guess I'll go downstairs and play music or something." Since you're not going to give me answers and I've pushed too much. He waited for Sylar to step back before he went to put his shoes on.
XXX
He met Peter's gaze as he listened. He lofted his eyebrows slightly as if to say 'Oh, really?' as he acknowledged the…offer. It was almost certain that it was a legitimate offer – one he might take the Italian up on. Waking up, lying in bed, playing with his hair…or maybe his ass… He felt disappointment when Peter looked past him with the air of moving on. Sylar took the hint and stepped away slightly, nodding at Peter's plans. He intended to follow even if that wasn't an invitation and gathered up a book to bring down.
XXX
Peter laced up his shoes and headed downstairs, content that Sylar was coming with him. It had been a strange morning. He was pleasantly buzzed from Sylar messing with his hair, which had been far more enjoyable in a lingering way than the blowjob (which he was still torn up about). It pleased him that Sylar wasn't staying on the other side of the room from him like he had briefly. Even though Peter had been stymied on answers, he was okay with that as long as Sylar wasn't acting like Peter was an abuser.
In the rec room, he went to the piano and played upbeat songs for a while. His fingers were still sore and his elbow achy, so he quit sooner than he would have liked. He walked over and fiddled with the puzzle, standing next to the table rather than taking a seat. When he got bored with that, he came to the couch and sat at the opposite end from Sylar.
It was only at this point (looking at Sylar and thinking about earlier) that he realized how much disarray his hair was in. Peter ran his fingers through his hair, watching Sylar openly to see if he cared or noticed. Then he got his comb out and did a proper job of straightening it out, without quite so much observation.
That done, he settled into the corner of the couch, one knee crooked, and spent his time looking at his companion. Just looking – and trying to mentally feel his way through things. How do I read between the lines on a guy who won't even let me crack open the covers of the book? It was a dilemma.
XXX
Sylar noticed Peter touching his hair because of the motion. He followed it with a side-eye before glancing at Peter's face to find the man already looking at him. He would have enjoyed watching the combing regimen but brought his attention back to reading. After a while, he was aware that Peter was watching him. At first it was nothing, though he didn't feel any shift of attention away from himself. In fact, it felt as if Peter was scoping him out. He waited to see if that shift happened. It didn't. Peter was staring and observing him.
Sylar glanced up, casual and checking. Am I supposed to do something for him? Peter met his eyes and held them with a neutral expression, then went back to scanning his body, lingering on the book and Sylar's face, not just his eyes. Nowhere did Sylar gather than he had to do anything for Peter in this moment. There was no lust or anticipation he could detect. Um…Okay. He just wants to look? I would ask him but it's not worth starting a philosophical argument I have to fend off.
Since Peter wasn't being needy and the attention wasn't offensive, Sylar went back to reading. Concentrating on the text was another matter.