Day 34, January 13, Evening
That word, the…innuendo therein, meant nothing to Sylar. Almost immediately, Nathan recalled it: /pornography – curiosity; in the Navy, being propositioned to bottom on board the Endeavour, being propositioned to top other men, in college – hazing, parties, orgies; even as a lawyer and as a politician./ Sylar licked his lips at the realization of the question, feeling his eyes take on another kind of intensity. Peter had asked how to fuck him. He slowed his pace and reached out to grab Peter's closer shoulder, then letting his hand slide down the man's coat-sheathed arm, brushing his chest along the way, "Don't worry, Petey. You're on the list," he rasped with plurisignificant promise. "And you can top it." I won't make it easy, though.
XXX
Peter slowed when grasped, tensing and coming hyper-alert as some instinctive part of him brought all systems on line. He wasn't being attacked, though. The hand that stroked down his arm damn near fondled him and he was thankful (and regretful) he had on enough winter clothing to muffle the contact. Even if he lost a lot of the sensation, he missed none of the intention. Sylar's eyes were dark, lips wet, his gaze direct and demanding attention. Peter returned it, feeling his breath catch in his throat as his heart started to pound. What Sylar's words meant made its way to his conscious mind a lot slower than to his subconscious, which had apparently clued in before Sylar even spoke. There was the literal (which was troubling, actually, given they were talking about people Sylar wanted to get back at) and then the subtext (which was … fuck, an offer).
An offer he … did and did not want to take Sylar up on. He didn't, not really, at least he told himself that (while standing there just a few heartbeats away from having an erection), but the offer was the stuff of dark fantasy the likes of which Peter would never admit to having entertained. Oh shit. But I started it with the 'topping' comment. And by looking at him like that. He blinked, licking his own lips, and swallowing. He realized he'd stopped and was just standing there. They both were. And it looked a lot like Sylar was right on the cusp of …
"That's good, right?" Peter interrupted and laughed, a loose, relaxed sound as he realized how fucked he was and how fucked up all of this was. It was like when he'd woke up after Jeremy had healed him. He'd laughed out of hysteria and relief and at his own stupidity for trying to stop a shotgun shell with his chest. It was like he laughed now, knowing he'd brought this on himself, knowing he wanted it, knowing he could never take Sylar up on it. "Come on," Peter said abruptly, jerking his head the way they'd been going. "Let's keep moving. It's cold out here."
XXX
He felt a flush of heat at the other man's reaction. After a few seconds, Sylar raised an eyebrow curiously. Yes, it was a good thing. Peter had obviously missed or decided to overlook the part where it made Peter a target, so…yeah, a good thing because that left only the offer standing between them. And Peter had…laughed. It didn't sound mocking, nor did the man's body language indicate it. The response was 'keep moving. It's cold.' Sylar chose to take that as acceptance and he followed.
XXX
Peter shoved his hands in his pants pocket, the better to conceal anything that might be visible. He shook his head at his own stupid libido. It was like when Sylar had loomed over him in the hallway of the apartment and Peter had gone off upstairs and tried to jerk off but Sylar had walked in on him … yeah. Sometimes, all it seemed to take was the right fucking look from Sylar to get him going. Ridiculous – I am ridiculous. Peter shook his head again, smiling slightly. He called me 'Petey'. I suppose it's better than 'Pete'. Regardless of which list he was on, he felt wanted now instead of rejected. It drained his anxiety and left Peter feeling pleased. Even the nickname was seen in a good light.
XXX
Once they were moving, Sylar checked his partner's zipper out of curiosity. He was quite certain he'd given Peter an erection at least once before. This time…he couldn't tell. Literally. Sylar was no judge of what was penis and what was simply the mobile folds of denim because it wasn't like he looked at other guys' bulges as a habit or hobby. But he put his gloved hands in his pants this time, which is nearly impossible to do. It's awkward, so why do it? A check of the man's face was somewhat more helpful – Peter was ruefully amused, no longer jumpy and pressing. I might not mind a little pressing now…I offered to let him…Great. Anxiety killed or repressed any arousal Sylar might have had, though the idea had initially sounded very appealing, if done correctly. It was unlikely and he knew it. But Peter was interested, there was no denying it. That was all that mattered.
The rest of the walk was more or less silent. In the elevator, Sylar cast heated looks at his companion, with the intent of being caught at it a few times. Peter began to undress from his outerwear once they arrived at the apartment suite – coat, gloves, headband – and Sylar lingered nervously in the entryway, taking off his own coat and shoes. The nurse's first order of business was something involving the kitchen (and that didn't help Sylar's paranoia), which turned out to be cocoa. He wouldn't care if I was cold, but maybe he can't perform when he's cold, in the cold. That doesn't mean I misunderstood…I just…thought he'd be a lot more…aggressive or specific…? Half way through the process, Sylar slunk closer to sit at the table, facing forward at Peter, telling himself, This is normal.
"What's your poison?" he asked less casually than he'd intended.
XXX
"What?" Peter looked over his shoulder from where he'd finished stirring sugar into the cups. "At the moment, hot cocoa." He turned back and hunted through the cabinet in front of him for the marshmallows, finding them.
XXX
Of course subtle went right over Peter's pretty head as it had every other time before. The man responded to directness. But not to kissing. Or licking. "What's your fantasy? Sexually," he clarified, "What do you want to do?" Fuck. Is he making me cocoa, too?
XXX
Peter's brows rose. That's … blunt? Direct? A little more explicit than I thought we were? (I did bring it up …, some part of him excused Sylar.) Taking both cups, he brought them to the table and pushed one over to Sylar. Neither were full – each was only about half full of cocoa with a layer of marshmallows that took another quarter of the cup's height. He'd misjudged the amount of milk and decided against heating more or watering it down. If Sylar wanted round two, he could make it. Or he could ask politely, which seemed unlikely as Sylar asked for very little – except for sex and more intimacy than Peter had given some of his lovers. He has this strange, 'I ask for nothing except everything from you' going on, and then acts like he hasn't asked for anything beyond basic decency, to be indecent with me.
Peter sighed and blew in his cup, not that it did any good with the marshmallows insulating the liquid. "My fantasies involve people who want me," he stated truthfully, "and who like me," he added, shutting down Sylar's chances, "for who I am rather than me being their only option." He shrugged. "I suppose it says something about me that they involve people paying attention to me rather than me to them, but that's how it is in any case." He raised his cup and took a sip. It wasn't as hot as he'd expected (which would have been too hot) and the cocoa was well-mixed; it was sweet enough.
"What's yours?" he asked more blandly than if they were discussing the route to the Home Depot.
XXX
Sylar quickly asked another question, "What do you think about when you masturbate?" with the implication that Peter possibly thought about Sylar when he jerked off. Will he admit to it? He wanted to put Peter on the spot and get some information for being turned down (Peter's idea of rejection was rather weak).
XXX
Peter looked down in his cup and then got up to fetch a pair of spoons. He used his to scoop out some half-melted marshmallow to eat, following it with a drink of cocoa. It gave him time to think over Sylar's continuing inappropriate questions. He noticed the evasion of his own question, but he didn't see any harm in responding. "The person I'm with, why they're there, and how they feel about me." He inclined his head a little. "It's the same answer, really." He waited patiently for Sylar to connect the dots as to why Peter wouldn't be with him, even if he was the last man on earth.
XXX
Sylar's expression soured at the non-answer. I'm the person you're with, who cares why you're here, and you don't have a damn clue about how I feel about anything, as if it matters anyway – he just said it didn't matter. He idly swirled his cocoa because it was probably too hot even though Peter was drinking his like it was fine. Burger and beer was a heavy dinner or lunch, whatever, so it wasn't like he was hungry. Peter's little assumptions were getting under his skin. He frowned and addressed it with more of his current candor. "Why do you think I don't like you, Peter? How would you know if I did like you? Or do you just get to decide that? I mean, you liking me, and I'm your only option, too, how does that factor into anything?"
XXX
Peter leaned back in his seat without tipping the chair, head tilting a little. Sylar's tone and his manner was confrontational now, interrogating him. Rejection stings, Peter thought, considering the irritation he'd felt when Sylar had decreed that Peter's ability wasn't good enough for him to want. It was a really stupid thing to be upset about, just as Peter didn't see much reason for Sylar to be upset that Peter wasn't into him. No reason, that is, except ego, which was one of the most important reasons of all.
He gentled his tone and leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around his nearly empty cup. "You've said you didn't like me. Most of the time you act you don't, either, but then you do things like grabbing me earlier today. I think you were trying to protect me." He gave the cup a half-turn, considering the complexity of their relationship. "I can live without sex. I want your company, though." Sometimes. Maybe. You are my only option, after all. I'd rather be with you than alone most of the time. He frowned and spooned out the last bit of marshmallow, washing it down with the dregs of cocoa.
Ignoring the bulk of Sylar's questions, Peter put his cup down and fixed Sylar with his full attention. "Why do you want to have sex with me? Why that, specifically, from me?"
XXX
There were so many reasons he had to answer that question. Admittedly, few of them were even good reasons. Sylar distinctly didn't want to talk about it. "No. I have reasons not to like you. I want to know if you understand why I don't like you." At least, in the way you seem to demand to be liked. At least Peter was perceptive enough to notice Sylar didn't 'like' him, and to remember that Sylar had said so (at some point) – the empath wasn't totally deluded.
XXX
Peter exhaled heavily and looked away, lips pursed. A lot of things ran through his head as possibilities, but he didn't have enough information. He looked back. "I don't know. I don't know what caused you to do the things you've done. A little bit of it hangs together for me, but not all of it or even most of it. So why you feel the way you do about me? I don't know and I don't want to play the guessing game while you string me along. Just tell me."
XXX
Sylar stared at him. There was nothing more he could do. He was surprised but he knew he shouldn't be – this was typical Petrelli, hero behavior. It was a low he'd thought no one would ever sink to. Maybe the lack of guessing or 'game playing' was a sadistic joke but…not even a wild theory. Nothing! It was utterly dehumanizing, degrading; he had no value and the events at Mercy were normal and morally valid. Sylar felt incredibly tired and he didn't care if another fight broke out; it just didn't matter. He thinks that's okay, assuming he remembers it at all. He thinks it's okay. (I'm not safe). Eventually he stopped looking at Peter, his gaze sightlessly directed elsewhere as his breathing sped up to panting. His calm was shattered, the comfort he'd been getting from sleeping beside Peter was now suspect.
XXX
"Sylar?" he asked quietly. The guy was hurting and that hurt to see. Something Peter had said had struck deep. If it were someone else, if it were some other subject, then Peter would have moved to give comfort physically – a hand on Sylar's shoulder at the least. But the topic was why Sylar didn't like Peter. Peter was wary of people who were this quiet. It wasn't because Sylar was being polite.
"I don't understand why you would like me, either," he said in the same low tone as before, voice sad as he kept his seat across the table. "That's why I'm afraid sometimes that you're going to kill me. I mean, why wouldn't you? You killed Nathan," his voice caught briefly but then steadied. "You killed my dad. You were going to kill Ma. You came back to Mercy Heights to kill me. I might not know your reasons, but I know what you intend for me and my family." What's left of it. I'm not even sure what you did to Claire.
He watched Sylar for a long beat. The silence prompted him to go on. "The reason I don't want to guess is that there are so many things it could be. Was it the stadium in Odessa, or was it Kirby Plaza, or Mohinder in that med suite when you came back for me? Or was it the Stanton or Coyote Sands or Mercy Heights? Or any of that whole thing with Matt? And those are just the times you've been killed or close to it that I've been involved in. Or maybe you're angry about something else entirely. I don't know."
He didn't ask again for Sylar to tell him or explain himself. If he expected Peter to be a mind-reader, then he was expecting the superhuman in a world where they were all too human. It ran through Peter's mind that perhaps Sylar was thinking Peter knew these things from the stolen memories. He exhaled heavily, the fingers of his left hand picking briefly and anxiously at the edge of the brace on his right. He rose more slowly than normal and fetched Sylar's painkillers, offering them because he didn't know what else he had to offer as a balm.
XXX
Of course, thinking about it from Peter's perspective, it probably wasn't obvious though Sylar still thought it should be. Peter droning on about just how clueless he was wasn't helping, neither was Sylar's rising anger. It didn't give him any response, no way to communicate the issue let alone sort his feelings. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about but it needed to be said at some point – for now, Peter was aware there was an issue on Sylar's end. More animated at least, he took the pills. "That answers it," he said with a dull edge. Is he safe to sleep with? Sylar gave him a searching look. Why didn't I originally include him in the plan to kill the Petrellis? Claire still isn't 'on the list.' Peter's on it now. (Sort of. Why do I want to sleep- fuck him?). He knew he should stick up for himself in this. "I have reasons for everything I do." Why can't you see that?! "That's all I can tell you for now." I should probably wait until we can fight about it – it's not like Petrelli would think he has any blame. "I'm going to read," Sylar said like he didn't care what Peter did with himself. He wanted to think, so he escaped to the bed.
It had been such a long day: Peter's weirdness and claimed ignorance, confessions, getting hit again, almost getting hit on – for once! He'd been so close, he could taste it…or maybe that was the lingering taste of Peter's knuckles on his tongue…Sylar comforted himself with the knowledge that Peter's body very much wanted to fuck him. He shot another piercing look over the top of his book, I wonder if he needs to jerk off. Again. Has he been getting off?
XXX
Peter exhaled heavily at the lack of answers, which Sylar claimed was an answer. The 'all I can tell you for now' made him wonder if Sylar was operating under some mental compulsion to be obtuse. But it wasn't necessarily that. He could simply be unwilling to tell. Peter knew it wasn't like he was a trustworthy, sympathetic ear for the man. After all Sylar had done, Peter found it hard not to be either wary or seething, especially when reminded of the past. He collected the cups from the table, noticing how Sylar hadn't touched the cocoa he'd made him, that Peter had shorted himself on to have enough to share. It pissed him off more than anything else had. He felt ignored, taken for granted, despised, and rejected. He was unwanted and unappreciated – or at least, the things he wanted to be wanted for, and appreciated for, were meaningless to Sylar. Instead, Sylar just wanted to fuck him, even as he talked about how much he didn't like him. Peter was seething again. In a quiet fury, he poured the cup out, rinsed them both, and headed downstairs without any announcement of his intentions.
XXX
Sylar sat up and frowned heavily at the other man's abrupt exit. What did that mean? How far was Peter going? He worried despite everything. Well, fuck you, too. Oh, wait, you won't let me. It was obvious he wasn't meant to follow and…the bed was comfortable. Maybe it was better to be alone to be both safe and somewhat comfortable (because there was more comfort to be had, if he could arrange it).
XXX
Peter put his emotions into music, not returning for dinner until some hours later. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself on toasted raisin bread and had one of Sylar's apples with it. Still feeling angry and hurt, he didn't volunteer to make anything for Sylar, nor ask him what he wanted. Peter sat on the couch near one of the lights, where he transferred the measurements they'd taken that morning to his sketchpad, then browsed through the books for ideas. He didn't stay at it for long, wondering as he climbed in bed how much longer he'd have to keep these close living arrangements with someone who would kill him if circumstances were even a little different.
XXX
Sylar frowned some more through his relief at seeing Peter again. He definitely felt ignored and momentarily abandoned. He knows how I feel about that and he does it anyway, on purpose. The silence grew stronger; Sylar bunkered down on himself, not attempting to break it because he hadn't done anything to earn this treatment. His pride outweighed the slight rumble of his stomach when Peter made his own dinner. If I want to eat, I'll make something, he told himself. He was lonely, even having the empath's presence – his back was turned, not a look, not a word spared for him.
After Peter readied himself for bed, Sylar followed, brushing teeth and hair, pajamas and using the toilet. He carefully approached the bed Peter already occupied, laying on his designated 'side' (they had sides!) about a foot away from Peter to be cautious. And, admittedly, he really wasn't up for trying anything in spirit or in body. He let things lie between them and eventually fell into a tortured sleep. He was in Taub's apartment – the blue walls, white trim and dark taupe carpet he'd know anywhere. He sat in a small body before a bloody corpse that filled him with such terror and shame. Whoever he was, he realized he was a child and he knew the corpse was his mother, dead by his doing somehow (he both knew and didn't know how it was his fault, if his actions directly caused her end). Sylar…Gabriel?...lay next to her cold and entirely distant body, waiting for her to wake up and comfort him. He rocked himself, plucking at her, jostling her to help the process, crying the whole while.
From nowhere, on the other side of his mother, appeared…another mother – one whose face kept shifting back and forth between two dark haired, dark eyed women. One wore sweaters and hairpins and a cross, the other pearls and eyeliner. Both were his mother. They called to him, 'Gabriel…Gabriiiel!' Their arms outstretched to…grab or embrace him, he couldn't be sure. And he was torn between who was right, who was alive, who would punish him and hurt him the worst over being betrayed because he had to choose! He'd already killed one mother! Her blood was all over him now. He tried to scramble back; while he moved, he didn't gain any distance, it was like he squirmed on ice with no momentum or leverage. He was stuck! They would get him and tear him apart under the guise of love. There was no one to hear, not that he could get much sound out anyway, though he tried to question to make sense of it.
XXX
Noise. Huh? Peter waited a beat, playing 'Dream or Not Dream' with himself as he tried to sort out what had woken him. But there it was again, along with a fitful kick by his bedmate. Not Dream. Aside from the brief, startling blow, they weren't touching – he didn't remember touching Sylar at all earlier, having been feeling unsafe and unhappy when he'd gone to bed, huddling on his side and staying strictly apart. Sylar sounded distressed, his breathing ragged and forced. Peter reached out automatically with his foot to find the part that had kicked him, establishing the contact that was so important to him. Peter fumbled through his sleep-addled memory for what Sylar had told him to do if he had a nightmare. 'Throw a pillow at me.' Well, I'm in bed with him already, so … He took his pillow and nudged Sylar with it firmly, in the side. "Sylar? Sylar?"
XXX
The corpse beside him convulsed and a hand locked around his ankle – he could feel the pressure! Sylar or Gabriel, turned to see his mother's grey, lifeless face like a zombie, morph into Peter Petrelli's satanic grin. The…body (still his mother's, bloody clothes and a skullcap just barely attached, sliding around, leaking red) heaved itself to its side and began to drag itself towards him, working with the other mothers in reaching for his head to take his memories. Somehow he knew that was the point of everything. He also knew the process would be far more prolonged and agonizing than it had been before. He held out his arms, kicking, pushing the fiendishly strong and determined corpse away, and struggled against all three (four?) of them, trapped and outmanned in his frail child's form – it would fail him, his strength would give out and they would remake him into…whatever they pleased, he didn't know: something useful and special surely; someone who wouldn't kill his loved ones.
XXX
Peter let go of the pillow after Sylar hit his forearm, only to have the pillow shoved at him as Sylar flailed in his direction. He backed up, off the bed entirely to stand next to it, uncertain as to how intentional Sylar's attack was. In the dark, getting the pillow shoved in his face looked a lot like a violent rebuff – 'get away from me, NOW!' Despite how smooth a continuance that was with how little Sylar wanted his help, Peter waited before passing judgment. He knew that his own nocturnal actions were little reflection of his conscious desires. In the meantime, he turned on the lamp on the nightstand to see what was really going on.
XXX
Sylar gasped fresh air. He thrashed some more, feeling muffled in every way but the light burning his eyes even through his lids came from somewhere outside his terror and he followed it out, gratefully. He raised a hand against the light, panting and still panicked. It all washed over him a second time when he saw who stood by the lamp. Peter Petrelli, alive, in his own body, but looking him over all the same. Sylar stared back in horror, poised for the slightest wrong move (but even then, he wasn't sure he could hold it together). He felt his breath choking, his eyes still felt muffled but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop, could never stop and that's why he was here.
XXX
Peter saw the moment when Sylar truly woke, when realization dawned on him that he was in a bed and the nightmare wasn't real. Peter had had that feeling himself. Years ago, it had only meant waking or half-waking from disturbing or passionate dreams, rarely troubling his sleeping companion if he had one. But since his abilities had manifested, it had been better for him to sleep alone. When he had his memories and knew who he was, his dreams were more often violent and his waking from them left him disoriented and emotionally jarred. He could see that on Sylar's face now. Sylar, who didn't want to share anything with him of himself, had asked (insisted) on Peter sharing his bed for just this reason. At least on some level, Peter thought, Sylar wanted his help. He let out his held breath slowly, putting the pillow back on the bed before climbing on himself, careful and slow with his motions, telegraphing before committing and constantly watching the other man. Peter lay on his side facing Sylar. He reached out and touched him on the outside of his elbow, testing the waters. Maybe Sylar didn't want to be touched at all; maybe he wanted it as badly as it looked. When the contact wasn't refused, Peter scooted closer and raised his arm in mute invitation for a hug.
XXX
That tiny touch, meaningless by itself but made incredible by context, nearly broke him. He was so disgustingly weak, beyond pity and repair yet it made him feel…soothed, to the core, somewhere deep he couldn't reach inside himself. His throat ached so hard it made him cry more. Sylar let Peter do whatever he wanted then, he fell into the hug without even seeing it; he could only feel it. He wanted out and away and this solid human mass of warmth would do for now. It wasn't like he could do anything else right now but clutch at his companion's soft t-shirt, which was the most amazing thing he could remember feeling. He felt sure rejection was inevitable, though it was a good thing he wasn't being pushed away because he didn't think his grip would ever loosen.
XXX
Peter pulled Sylar into him, repeating the positioning he'd used at the police station, but this time they were a lot closer with neither of them in winter wear. Sylar was cradled against his chest, arms folded between them, face against Peter's chest and hands buried in his shirt. Peter's chin was on a level with the top of Sylar's head, tousled hair brushing his neck. His right arm was around the other man's back while his left was trapped between them and under Peter's body. He stroked Sylar's back slowly, thinking back to how hollow-eyed the guy had been after a few days of solitude. Sylar had implied he hadn't slept after Peter left the apartment. Is he having nightmares now, even though we're in the same bed, because of last night's argument? Peter curled his fingers so it was his first knuckles rubbing up and down, feeling the other man's body shake with quiet weeping. He gave a brief, tighter squeeze with his right forearm and tucked his head to the side, pressing his cheek to Sylar's head, rocking them briefly side to side. Peter made a faint sound deep in his chest – the only sound he'd made so far. It was a whine of sympathy before he went back to merely holding. He moved his left hand forward for a little more engagement, even if all he could manage was a touch of fingertips on Sylar's right forearm. It was nice to give comfort and have it accepted, to do something for someone and have them … well, he wasn't sure if Sylar appreciated this or not, but at least he allowed it and that was something.
XXX
Sylar prayed his sobbing explained everything and nothing at the same time. He needed both, or…the reality of one and the illusion of the other. He was disgusting and he didn't know how Peter could touch him. Tears were to be ignored, punished at worst but it felt like such a pressure valve even as it hurt to breathe, to think, to feel. Sylar was sure he was hysterical – that was an excellent explanation if nothing else; he couldn't label it otherwise. The contact hit a part of his brain that was fucking ravenous and it devoured the proximity as he gushed saline and snot on Peter once again. The emotions cycled out of him until he was angry and he kneaded and tugged (both towards and away from himself) the man's t-shirt, as if trying to move the man himself. I hate you! he thought vehemently. He meant it and much more, every flavor or hatred and friendship, competition, envy, rejection, pain, longing, lust and love within the word.
XXX
Peter switched to patting as Sylar grew restive and he leaned back to give an inch or two more space between them. He couldn't see Sylar's expression, but he could see the fists balled in his shirt and feel the fabric tight around his torso. His hand moved up to Sylar's shoulder, smoothing down his upper arm to where the t-shirt ended and bare skin began. His hand moved over it, stopping to clasp lightly just above Sylar's elbow. He gave a light tug like another invitation to embrace – waiting, watching, and letting Sylar process while also letting him know he was welcome and safe. He didn't ask any questions or demand explanations. This was not a time for either and anyway, the situation was obvious. Knowing the details wouldn't change anything, but he'd listen if they were offered.
Sylar was so human and fragile that Peter held and comforted him without a judgmental thought to Sylar's past. All that 'angry killer who had his reasons for all he did' routine – Peter didn't think Sylar was happy with those reasons. Bad choices – just like me with Caitlin – things I still regret even though I know it was right. (Sort of.) Does he regret what he's done and just can't admit it? Peter gave him another squeeze, sympathetic to that, understanding the fear that could hold Sylar from sharing something like an 'I was wrong' with someone he trusted as little as he did Peter.
XXX
So much Sylar wanted to blame and hurt Peter – just for being here, for making him feel this way, for asking questions, for holding him now, for hurting him before. It was easier and simple, unlike what he felt now: complicated. At the same time, he wished to cling with grateful, pathetic need and hurting Peter would end this thing, which hurt worse and soothed him. He couldn't bring himself to pull away despite his own sense of morals and pride – both of which were in upheaval. A few more rough, going-through-the-motions tugs of Peter's shirt helped settle him, along with the invitation for the hug to continue. The direct contact made him hold his breath, unsure of what that meant: stop or…? It confused him so he quit tugging.
He did not want to know what Peter thought of him in this moment but he could deal with it another day, it seemed. For once, he just needed and for once, he was getting it. Sylar couldn't remember a time since Elle, all those years ago, when someone had held him while he cried and didn't push him away when they thought he should man up. He told himself that now with little effect. He liked where he was and he would pay for it later if he had to. Some strange olfactory sense was aware that Peter smelled comforting (because his nose was useless from the crying); the man was warm and Sylar was still tired, if possibly less tense than he was before. His upper arm, which had been doing the primary shirt-pulling, rested around Peter's ribs and back, keeping them in place. If he slept again, he hoped it would be better. His eyes ached so he closed them.
Day 35, January 14, Morning
Peter woke up with Sylar's head on his left bicep, his right arm loosely slung around the guy, Sylar's breath puffing on his chest. Their legs were similarly entwined. The smell between them was heavy, but healthy and human. He didn't mind. So much contact! He didn't tend to sleep this close even with lovers, but he wasn't a stranger to waking up like this from time to time – though it was usually more comfortable. He was hot, almost sweaty. His jeans were binding and uncomfortable, getting more every second … because, he realized suddenly, the close quarters and intimacy, combined with the biology of waking up, was giving him an erection.
No! He wasn't sure how the two of them had become so close, but now that he was awake, he wouldn't stay that way. He pulled away as gently as he could, disentangling himself and moving out from under the covers. He sat at the edge of the bed, raking his hair out of face as he tried to recall the events of the night. He remembered moving and repositioning the two of them so dimly he might have been imagining it – more clear was Sylar cuddled up to his chest, sobbing. What started that? Did it just happen? Did I wake up and he was crying? He seemed to remember Sylar making noises and thrashing, but the details and timeline were fuzzy. Didn't he have a nightmare? I think that's what happened. It fit all the information and had the benefit of being innocent enough that Peter didn't feel (very) bad about climbing all over Sylar in his sleep.
He stretched a little, stiff. So was his shirt. He looked down and picked at the suspicious, crusty spots on it, glad he could remember Sylar crying because otherwise his next guess about might have caused that was a lot more worrisome.
XXX
Whatever pillow he was pressed against was getting a promotion – it felt fantastic and unlike anything Sylar had ever experienced. It moved and made noise, waking up, so he became aware that it was a person but it lacked any sense of threat so he gave it no mind. He purred and reached after it, still half asleep, eyes shut. The movement away got his attention enough that he woke. Peter…? his mind supplied cluelessly. Peter Petrelli had slept with him like that? Peter had been that close to him? Had that been something hard against him lower down? Yet the empath wasn't rushing for the shower or anywhere else – instead he sat at the edge of the bed, quietly and calm as far as Sylar could tell. What does that mean? Should I pretend to be sleeping or…Asking questions was likely to start the day in an unpleasant manner and that decided him. He couldn't help himself, though. It was stupid, especially when he didn't know how Peter felt about any of it. A hand placed in the middle of Peter's back, rubbing there in a barely-platonic way, "Peter," he said almost as a question, though the implication was clear: come back.
XXX
Peter looked back at the touch, pulling one knee on the bed. Sylar looked a little rough, but easy on the eyes all the same – that face would be handsome even in the worst of conditions, he knew for a fact. Peter also knew what was being asked of him. What kind of a lover would he be? Peter couldn't help but ask himself with that hand stroking his back. He couldn't remember Sylar ever touching him like this before – nice, intimate, friendly, not frightening and threatening with dark promise even if the potential was still there. His eyes held Sylar's. Both of them looked uncertain of where things stood between them after sharing hours in one another's arms. Has anything changed? He still doesn't like me, does he? If we did … do something … it wouldn't change anything else. He'd still probably kill me when we got out of here; he still wouldn't help Emma and the others. I'd just be in even deeper than I am now.
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Peter allowed the touch. Sylar pressed for more. "Lay down. I'll give you a massage," he appealed. Peter wore a shirt and it was interfering with Sylar's gutterbrain.
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Peter reached back and captured the hand that was touching him, taking it down to the mattress where he trapped it for the time being. He glanced down, not sure what to do with it now that he had it, his hand loosely around Sylar's wrist. He ignored the offer and changed the subject to one he found less disturbingly tempting. "How do you feel?"
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Both of them looked at their hands. Sylar felt a strange flutter of excitement and a slow tide of something warm about it. "Better." He didn't pretend to misunderstand what he knew Peter meant. It was honest; it just slipped out. He didn't regret it; it felt good – it felt good to feel good.
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Peter petted the back of Sylar's hand a couple times, about as 'barely platonic' as Sylar rubbing his back. He wasn't sure what their relationship was, but he thought something had changed – more inside of him than Sylar, probably. He was losing that hard edge of hatred and the constant blame that he used as sword and shield against Sylar's humanity. He wondered if the events Sylar had needed comforting over included Nathan's death. Peter didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, if it did. "What happened last night?" Peter's hand stilled and he watched Sylar closely.
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Sylar inhaled slowly, deeper than before at the petting. He had no idea what that meant, none at all. It seemed a weird thing for one man to do to another but…he couldn't argue the feeling. Then it stopped and Peter turned on him with intent. Sylar tensed, wondering if having his hand trapped (and stroked) was some kind of overture to the hand being damaged if he didn't give the correct type of answer, a response he couldn't fathom at. He stared back at Peter. "I had a nightmare. You hugged me. I fell asleep." That was usually what Peter's questions were about with this sort of thing, right? 'How the hell did you end up in bed with me again?' Sylar…didn't know if he wanted to think about the other possibilities behind the question.
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Peter gave a bobbing tilt of his head. Yes, I remember that much, dork, he thought with amusement. "I was hoping for some details. I'm not going to put conditions on me being there for you when you're upset. That's not how it works. But if you're willing to tell me what was happening for you, I'd like to hear. I'd like to know what matters to you. That's what you want me here for, right?" He smiled a little, voice soft. "Slay the dragons, be a hero, keep the nightmares away? It's easier to do if I know what I'm fighting."
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No conditions? Sylar noticed immediately; then (Yes, that's exactly what I want you here for). Firmly enunciating, he took his hand back and clarified his position…somewhat. "I am not a damsel in distress. I can fight my own battles and hold my own." Looking down at the recently freed hand, he reconsidered and changed tactics. "But I'll play your game. Assuming I wanted that, what do you want in return?"
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Sylar, a damsel in distress. Peter had to really fight to keep his face serious for that mental image, despite how much he knew that everyone needed help at one time or another. "All I would want," he said slowly, not understanding the question, "is enough information to do a good job. And," he shrugged one shoulder self-consciously, "to know that I was doing a good job. If I was."
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"That's it?" Sylar deadpanned in disbelief.
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"That's it."