Day 67, February 15, Morning
Peter woke to the sensation of being held. That wasn't what had woken him, though. The thing that had brought him out of blissful somnolence was the rod-like pressure against his left buttock and tailbone. He was vaguely aware that much earlier, he'd been having a nightmare. His mother had replaced his body and he was left with the issue of what to do with the old one. It was a headless corpse with the top of the spine missing and the chest cavity open from the back (because apparently the 'transplant' had involved his heart and backbone as well as his mind). He remembered that he'd been trying to talk and failing because the new body wasn't acclimated to him yet, when his bed partner had rolled over and hugged him from behind. It had calmed him. The nightmare had peacefully drifted away as he bathed in the warmth and comfort of another's embrace.
Another slow, gradual, almost sneaking shift of Sylar's hips brought him back to why he'd stirred. Oh yes, the boner. Sylar's boner. Huh? Him? He laid his hand over Sylar's, snugly situated across his stomach, holding him close. Sylar's arm. That was him – not just a dream earlier. He was sorry about that. It made it harder to do what he knew he had to do, which was get up and get away. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he just stayed here – would Sylar have an emission and remain asleep, so Peter could absorb just a little more of this? It was full-body contact. There was nothing bashful about it. Sylar's body wrapped his from behind from their tangled ankles all the way to where Sylar's face pressed against his shoulder. And of course in the middle, pressed hard and hot through Sylar's pajamas and Peter's boxers, was the man's erection. Sylar's occasional quiet sigh was accompanied by a furtive clenching of the arm across Peter's belly and a roll of the hips against his ass. It was so slight as to be only barely visible unless you were the one being frotted. Another thought, less brief, came to Peter's mind on the subject of simply staying here and pretending sleep. It seemed almost believable that he could say he hadn't known what was going on.
That's wrong. On so many levels. (He's asleep; he doesn't mean it; he's not consenting; I'm awake enough to know better now; I'm not having sex with him and that's what this is; and what the hell would I do if he woke up in the middle of it or after and realized I wasn't asleep?!) He untwined his feet and tried to slide out of bed. Sylar gripped him more securely around the waist, pressing his forehead and the bridge of his nose against Peter's shoulder. He might have muttered something, but he definitely didn't seem oriented.
"Sylar!" Peter said loudly and firmly enough to wake anyone not actually unconscious. "Sylar. Let me go." He tugged at the wrist of the hand around his waist.
XXX
Sylar faded in and out of dreams, though some were nightmares. His mind kept wandering between delight and shame at what he thought was a fantasy, of holding someone skintight and slowly pleasuring himself against them. It was a delicious new experience, rare even for a dream and he could feel with clarity how hard it made him. Something about it was very wrong, he knew, but he kept pushing it aside, delaying the repercussions for just a little longer. It was something about the person he held: was it a man or a child? Was he…forcing them? Were the two of them related? Was the person dead? That was a common paranoia. If people thought he ate brains, what other evils did they think he committed with the dead? The body he held was very warm, dry, and seemingly whole – it even smelled nice, but for a long time there was no movement from the other. Obviously he shouldn't be holding them, whoever it was, anyway. Taking comfort, in this manner especially, was always wrong and he didn't want someone to walk in...The dream shifted to a nightmare as did the body, struggling against him. Sylar longed to protest that he wasn't doing any harm, that what he was doing was normal in some way, but his throat was clenched too tight for words. Besides, how could he explain any of this?
Then there was a loud noise that started him awake with a jerk, less than a second later identifying it as his name from an unmistakable voice. His hand around the body instinctively clasped, then, as he came to full consciousness, pumped full of adrenaline, reversed course entirely. Something like, What am I doing this close to anyone? (never mind that it had occurred during sleep) flashed through his head as he bodily shoved himself away as an act of self-preservation, also an instinct. Sylar breathed hard, eyes wide for the moment, and felt his dick throbbing below. It had been real, this unforgivable, disgraceful lack of control which was and was not his fault.
Sylar knew all Hell was about to break loose and nothing would ever be the same again, which was horrible enough, but there he lay, twisted up in his own sweatpants and the sheets, with a desperate erection, embarrassed and upset with himself. I've never slept with anyone before. I've never even had that dream (nightmare?) before. Where did that come from? Why would I do that? He clutched at his groin, his body so alert and still so indecently turned on despite his sore back, as he tried to fix his face. I tried to- I almost asked him what would happen if I did something…on accident, but there are no accidents. I don't make mistakes. He can't prove innocence here alone. He said he wouldn't sleep near me if I…He met Peter's eyes when the man turned around, though he would have gladly crawled under a rock to live there. Sylar waited a few beats to come up with something vaguely appropriate to say and attempt to read Peter's mood (or fist) in the off chance he didn't need some witty brush-off.
XXX
Peter rose from the bed. He eyed Sylar sharply, expression hardening, because how Peter took all of this depended on what Sylar's intentions had been. Even if those had been innocent, then how the man played it off was important. Peter could see that he looked overwhelmingly guilty, but that could just as much be guilt at getting caught molesting his bedmate as guilt over doing it. The first only meant Sylar was in fear of the consequences (and that Peter should make sure there were strong ones). The second meant there was no point in retaliation – Sylar already knew he shouldn't have done it. At least he wasn't smirking. That helped. Blunt and direct, Peter asked, "Did you do that on purpose? Were you awake for it, aware of what you were doing?" It seemed just possible the man had been awake for the whole thing, trying to pull one over on Peter when his defenses were down.
XXX
Sylar was just as lost how to answer for himself, surprised too, that Peter wasn't beating the shit out of him. That has to be some kind of trick question. "I like to think if I did something like that on purpose, I'd be a lot happier about it. If you know what I mean," he said with an edge as soon as he'd thought of it, gesturing to his lower half. He felt like he was lying on a bed of nails (and he might be literally very soon, which only upped his tension). How sick do you have to be, when you wake up to find yourself humping the enemy and that's better than the dead body you were (sort of)dreaming about? I'm not telling him about that. My dick isn't supposed to get me in trouble. I'm not a Petrelli.
XXX
Peter cocked his head. More than Sylar's words, he was assessing body language and expression, tone of voice and tension. Sylar was not happy. That was clear. There was no mocking dominance lurking behind his façade. He wasn't waiting for Peter to walk a safe distance away before spouting some perverted version of how he was getting revenge on the Petrellis, or gloating about how Peter was not only playing Monopoly and looking after Sylar, but also tolerating the man using him as a sex toy. He seemed as genuinely embarrassed as Peter thought he should be. As well, he seemed afraid, still clutching, covering, or keeping at least one hand near his groin like he thought Peter might try to dick punch him or exact some other retribution. Revenge was not what Peter was about. Especially not for something so petty in the grand scheme of things. He had far bigger things to be angry at Sylar about. Inappropriately placed morning wood didn't compare. He looked away and shrugged, trying to make the motion relaxed. "It doesn't count then. It doesn't have to be a big deal." He looked back. "I'm not hurt by...what happened. I can go back to sleeping on top of the covers." Not that he wanted to. If he were honest with himself, being held like that had been so nice that…he couldn't let himself think that. It was too tempting and too wrong to allow.
XXX
Sylar could only stare at Peter like he'd suddenly decided to speak in tongues. Not a big deal. Doesn't count. He's not hurt. He'll still sleep with me? It's not a big deal, like my dick isn't to size? No, he supposedly doesn't care about that. Not a big deal like…he's used to that? Or…he liked it? He still hadn't moved from his rushed repositioning and his erection was only now deflating somewhat. A breathless, humorless chuckle slipped out of him. "N-" he began, "You…On top of the covers?" he asked incredulously. Sylar could easily grasp the concept of his wants being purposefully ignored, but the part where his screw up went unpunished, when punishment had been explicit…Or maybe he's counting on me fucking up something else so he can punish me.
XXX
Peter raised his brows briefly and tipped his head in an ambivalent motion. "We're supposed to be safe in bed. Remember?" Telegraphing his action, he reached out to touch Sylar's shoulder, trying to show him nothing bad was in the offing. If Peter stayed on top of the covers, it was just to keep them both safe. I'm an adult. Nothing happened. It's the same as what I did a month or so ago to him when he crawled in bed with me. I even told him I might do it again, accidentally, if we slept together again. He was fine with that. So now it's him doing it. It's still okay. We can just…work around it. "That applies to both of us. This doesn't have to change anything." He let his hand fall away and headed off to the bathroom, more to give Sylar space than because he had any urgent needs.
XXX
Of course Peter took the bathroom first. I don't think he enjoyed it enough to get hard over it. It still left Sylar with confusion and lingering arousal. I get my dick on him and I'm asleep so I can't remember it. The dream portion was fading but the sensations remained – his shaft against the man, dickhead poking at him, arm wrapped around him, bodily pressed to him, smelling him. It was almost an invitation to do it again, since Peter wasn't punishing him (yet). Perhaps it was some subtle message of what Peter wanted or would tolerate. More likely he finds me completely pathetic. Sylar stayed put out of laziness and because he'd awoken the bruise on his back with his hasty retreat earlier. That wouldn't keep him in bed all day but he had nothing else to do until he could have the bathroom.
XXX
He didn't stay in the bathroom long – only enough to empty his bladder, get a drink, rinse out his mouth, and wash his hands. He came out with no stealth so only the most inattentive would be surprised (in case Sylar was…busy, which Peter would have found both rude and flattering, and both kinky and gross to do in a bed they shared). Sylar was just lying there, neither surprised nor interrupted. It was unlike him to remain abed when Peter was up, but the morning hadn't started like any other morning. Peter perched on the edge of the bed on Sylar's side, Sylar being more-or-less in the middle, having previously been spooning Peter on Peter's side. The two of them simply looked at each other for a moment. Peter broke the silence before it could get too uncomfortable. "What are you thinking?"
XXX
Sylar turned over to observe Peter walking over. He didn't know what to make of the sitting on the bed, with him, on his side of it. Is this the punishment? Or at least, the lecture? It didn't look like it, either way it didn't make sense. Neither did the question, of course. What am I thinking? he thought to clarify to Peter because it was a strange question; then, What am I thinking? to himself. He supposed his reply should be something contrite, to show that he'd learned his lesson (without any punishment; how was that possible?) So he said something that wasn't exactly the truth because he felt he had to explain his second lapse – staying abed. It still boiled down to being and feeling rejected because he'd wanted to finish so badly. "Oh, you know…It's just my back." This was said softly with a light tone.
XXX
Peter didn't buy it. Not that he doubted the soreness of Sylar's back (his own shoulder, neck, and arms ached and begged for a good stretch and maybe even a workout to get them back in order), but it wasn't the real reason Sylar was still in bed. Nor were physical woes what he thought was on Sylar's mind. He suspected Sylar was afraid of how Peter would respond to waking up to being used like that. How do I say I didn't mind without sounding like I want it again? (What if I do want it again?) It made him restless just to think about – his desire, Sylar's desire, the rubdown(s) of the day before, getting off in the shower and how innocently good it had felt to have Sylar rub tiger balm into his achy shoulder and upper back later. It wasn't a big deal, he tried to tell himself. None of it was. We didn't do…much. We didn't do anything wrong. He didn't, I didn't, do anything wrong this morning. How do I show him that's okay?
He reached out to touch Sylar's shoulder again, like he had before he went to the bathroom, and he reached just as carefully as he had earlier. As before, Sylar did not stop him, brush him off, or seem to resent the touch. Peter very much wanted to touch him. He'd enjoyed waking up with someone holding him so close. Even though he couldn't allow that (probably) in future, there were other things he could do. "Roll over on your stomach and I'll rub your back." It was mid-way between an offer and an order. His desire was starting to outstrip his scruples.
XXX
Sylar accepted the contact because there seemed nothing else to do about it. Every action from Peter only added to the tornado of confusion. He can touch me when he likes; that's okay of course. He paused at the order, sure he'd misheard it. His back could use it there was no doubt, but this seemed far too good to be true. Was it another trick? Is he going to fuck me now? At last, something that logically connected to the situation. It took Sylar less than a second to check his own reaction, deciding that if this was punishment it seemed fair (Peter wanted to express dominance and get off), not to mention that Sylar had incited it, invited it, and he certainly wasn't able to back out of it. He rolled over, more tense than he'd been a few moments ago and also entering a mental fugue, his awareness shrinking, disassociating from his inevitable reality. Fucking this man wasn't…a turn on. Peter wanted him turned into someone else, wanted him dead, and the brother angle was lingering, though the idea of fucking a willing Petrelli would be an evil achievement and that didn't mean Peter might not do something rough and arousing on accident. Once he was in position, Peter commanded him to take his shirt off, so he propped up to obey.
XXX
Peter looked at the gorgeous, bare back laid out before him, only slightly marred by the darkening bruise and carpet rash. Sylar smelled of sleep – that relaxing, comforting, lovely bed-scent that spoke to Peter of warmth and safety, of having someone want him and want to spend time with him. It was intensely pleasurable without necessarily being sexual. He hadn't fully connected Sylar's desire to sleep with him with the idea the man might actually want to be near him, with him. He wasn't sure that was accurate even now – why would Sylar put up with him, if Sylar had any other options, if he wasn't so starved for human contact by years of perceived aloneness? It was depressing that it took so much torment for Peter to be worth more to Sylar alive than dead. It was worse that Peter was desperate enough in turn to find hope in Sylar's…tolerance.
He leaned forward and took the bottle of unscented lotion off the nightstand, where it had been sitting prominently since their weird joint shopping trip. Sylar had picked it with the obvious implication that he (and/or Peter) would masturbate with it. Peter smiled slightly and squirted a liberal amount into his palm. Replacing the bottle, he set his other palm over the gel and warmed it while he looked over Sylar's body again. It was nice. From the back, Sylar wasn't looking at him, judging him, taunting him. From behind, he was vulnerable and Peter could help.
Peter put his hands palm down on either shoulder blade, feeling a familiar tingling stir through his hands and forearms. He was starting to really like that feeling and associate it very directly with Sylar. He made small circles to spread the lotion, then larger ones to get it further out. He breathed in deeply, then out, relaxing as though he were the one getting the massage and not the one giving it. He rolled his shoulders with the motions, working out the kinks he'd woke with. He flexed his hands, too, feeling the knuckles creak (one popped) as the tendons in his hands loosened. He extended himself forward and back, letting the effort roll up his spine, getting the stretch he'd known he needed. His hands gripped and released, changing points of pressure from fingers to palm and then to the heel of his hands. He let his left hand take over where his right couldn't yet apply pressure without hurting himself. He confined his attentions to Sylar's deltoids, shoulders, and upper back, working every inch of them thoroughly and attending to every knot of tension he found, which were plentiful and stubborn. Lower on Sylar's back was the bruised and probably tender area where he'd landed. Peter avoided it. And higher…Peter thought Sylar didn't want him touching his head, but Peter's reluctance was more for the level of intimacy implied by putting his hands in the man's hair, which reached well down his neck. Too, the lotion wouldn't agree with hair. Fortunately, Sylar's upper back was fairly hairless. His lower back was the opposite, and quite tempting, but Peter stayed to the area he'd assigned himself. Sensual, he could allow. Sexual…he wasn't supposed to.
XXX
At first it was difficult to keep up his state of tension when hands were actively trying to rid him of it with specific purpose. I wonder if that makes for a better fuck somehow, he considered briefly. More likely this was intended as a mind fuck. Either way, there seemed no point in hating the experience while he had it. Sylar sighed, coming back to himself more for the moment. He allowed himself a forbidden fantasy (weren't they always?), that Peter was doing this to make him feel better after yesterday and the screw up today. It warmed him and it helped with mental categorization and emotional soothing.
The presence of lotion ruined everything, a confirmation that he was getting fucked shortly. Who uses lotion for a massage?! (I didn't get the lotion for that!) It doesn't matter. He can use it for that. I practically told him that he could. His eyes widened, his breath came fast, and he stiffened, but it all passed in minutes. Through it all, Peter's strong hands worked at him and the addition of the lotion was what he imagined a professional massage must feel like. It was heavenly in the way that good sex might be. Those hands didn't stray anywhere inappropriate or even painful, which was fine with him until he relaxed too far, nearly panting, and his penis beginning to stiffen again. "Oh…" he voiced nearly on accident as he grasped at the sheets, imagining he could feel the heat from Peter's body and breath.
XXX
Peter finally stopped where his hands had started, palm-down over Sylar's shoulder blades. He waited for several breaths, feeling the body under his hands, feeling the shift of Sylar's breathing and more faintly the throb of his heart. Healthy. Strong. Peter shut his eyes and breathed, at peace for the moment and intensely enjoying the stolen moment. His arms burned with unreleased, tingling energy from his fingertips to his brain, but he let that be. Sylar's response had been a long time coming (which had pinged Peter's radar that something wasn't right), but the hands gripping the sheets were an excellent sign the man had enjoyed it. That one syllable he'd had from Sylar had been musical with how genuine it was. "I hope that helped," he said softly, pulling away even if it was like pushing aside a bowl of his favorite ice cream half-finished. He wanted more, but he knew he'd had enough. Further, and he'd get into the 'things I shouldn't be doing' territory of the day before. This was adequate to satisfy his immediate needs. Peter rose from the bed and went in the kitchen to wash his hands. Feeling serene and pleased, he set to making omelets for breakfast with buttered raisin toast on the side.
XXX
By the end of it, Sylar felt completely worked over (in a very good way, except for the erection), his shoulders felt unlocked and full of motion if he ever decided to move. He exhaled aloud, probably not for the first time. What helped? Sylar tried to orient himself to the moment in time. He almost wanted to be fucked, or he felt that it might not be as much of a burden to perform after a massage. I'm already hard. Is that going to be a problem for him? Then he shouldn't have fucking massaged me. When Peter rose, Sylar quickly did the same, thumbs in the waist of his sweatpants facing the bed in preparation to strip and bend over…Only to see Peter walking away. He watched with a nearly haunted expression. Sylar felt some urge to emote when the confusion became overwhelming. He escaped to the bathroom, feeling more humiliated than ever. Peter had touched him without price, foregoing the promised punishment for Sylar's lack of control…it was all too much. If he cried when he splashed water on his face, he blamed the water. What the hell was that?It took longer than normal to compose himself but he emerged with his usual perfect appearance. Quietly, keeping his head down, keeping to himself he set up for breakfast with milk and plates and utensils. He wasn't sure if he should express gratitude because he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with anything right now. When they sat with the food, he said, "Thank you." A few bites in, he asked so he didn't blurt out his confusion over the lack of punishment, "Have you done that before? Given someone a massage?" I know you have. What does it mean?
XXX
"Yeah," Peter said with more defensiveness than the moment warranted. Whoa. Check yourself. A quick scan of Sylar's face and demeanor confirmed there was nothing aggressive directed Peter's way. I'm out of line. "Yes," he said much more gently, tone softer. I gave him one yesterday. But…yeah…okay, maybe he's asking if I'm making a pass at him? He knows what I did after yesterday's massage in the locker room. This morning, with the way we woke up and then me…as soon as I got back from the bathroom, getting all over him. Maybe that's how it seemed to him? Sylar was not acting in a way that was normal for him. He was quiet and subdued. Although that had given Peter the psychological space to take the lead, ask for, and do what he wanted, at the same time, there were those brief alarm bells Peter had noticed during the massage to consider. He proceeded carefully, "I've given a lot of massages." Thinking he needed to dispel the idea that it was solely erotic, he added, "In the course of my work - I gave a lot of them to hospice patients. Some people hadn't had anything like that for years." Or ever, which Peter found sad. "Human touch is underrated. It's like a…need. We need it," he said with the slightest stress on 'we'. I need it, but he does, too. That's what this place is all about – hell for him is a place with no people, no touch, no contact ever of any kind. I don't want this to be hell for either of us. He watched Sylar carefully, the toast in his hand forgotten for the moment.
XXX
Sylar squinted at his breakfast, frowning for a few seconds before covering it. There's that 'we' that doesn't mean 'we' again. And that 'human need' thing that doesn't apply to me. Or did it? Peter was willing to give him a massage only because he thought Sylar 'needed' it. Only on his terms, where he doesn't feel…pressured. (Or when he doesn't have to look at me or hear me, I'm sure that helps). That much synced with other things Peter had said, or done, in the past. It made blessed sense at last! Sylar wasn't sure he was happy with such a non-starter answer to that mystery but it was an answer. Peter made it sound like massages (plural) were a natural part of life and anyone who (Sylar) had never received one was a freak. Hospice patients, though, excluded a sexual motive, which of course, didn't help his confusion. Then there was the part where Sylar had tried to say the same thing before with an attempt to kiss Peter. He decided he didn't really want to talk about it. Irritated and still wound up on the inside, he had to say it, "That really didn't upset you, waking up…like that?"
XXX
Peter pursed his lips and looked away for a moment. He spotted his toast. This seemed like a great time for another bite, so he took one while he thought about the question. When he'd washed down his bite with some milk, he answered, "The first time you got in bed with me, you woke up the same way." He looked away, slowly licking a few stray crumbs off his lip. He reached up and wiped brusquely at the numb patch to make sure it was clean, too. "I had this dream, last night." He glanced down at his eggs, remembering too clearly and too graphically what the inside of his own chest cavity had looked like. Somehow it mixed with the feeling of burning numbness he'd felt when he'd stopped time just a little too late after Jeremy had shot him point blank in the chest. "It was," he swallowed roughly and moved his fork around restlessly, "not a good one." He looked up at Sylar. "I was trying to talk in the dream. I suppose I was making noises in my sleep. I didn't wake up completely, but you hugged me, from behind." He looked up now, breathing out. "I woke a little. Enough to know what was going on but not enough to do anything about it. And I went back to sleep, but the dream was gone. Nightmare," he amended, since it clearly had been. He looked back to Sylar. "How you got there, if I'm remembering right, was innocent. You were trying to help me and you did. When I woke up later, things were…different, but no, it didn't upset me."
Peter was quiet for a moment. "You said a while back that if I got hurt enough that you needed to take care of me, that you'd be kind of rough – 'no balloons and flowers' was what you said. It doesn't have to be that way. When you help people, it usually feels good."
XXX
Of the similarity, Sylar thought, But that's different. He remembered the disturbance in the night but it didn't cancel out the inappropriate contact. More importantly, Peter's words were actively darting through his head time and again, 'We're supposed to be safe in bed. That applies to both of us. This doesn't have to change anything.' Sylar couldn't comprehend a designated safe zone like that. So if I never get out of bed, he won't do anything to me? Ever? Like my feelings count when I'm lying in bed? What if I say I don't want to fuck while I'm in bed? Whose bed is it? He didn't think the safe zone outweighed the crime. It demanded to be tested further, both the concept of punishment and of safety. He ate reflectively, not paying as much attention to Peter as he probably should, snapping out of it when he realized he was being quoted on something. He wasn't sure what Peter was getting at exactly. "I'm sure it is nice to help people who need it. People are probably happy to see you when you show up," he said, a bit pointedly in reference to Peter being the friendly hero, not some walking nightmare boogeyman and hinting that he didn't 'need' a massage because he wasn't a pathetic, emotional weakling. Before a taking drink of milk, he added, "All I meant was you don't need balloons and flowers to heal. No one does."
XXX
Peter frowned sharply. Is he implying he didn't want any of that? (No, he's saying he's not so weak that he needs kindness.) That's dumb. (He's saying he doesn't need me.) That's mean. "But it's nicer if you get them," he said as though explaining to a five-year-old, and yes, Peter knew it was insulting. He didn't stop there, either. "And about being happy when I show up and wanting me around?" He jerked his chin at Sylar. "You among them." It was a challenge. Tell me you don't want me here. I dare you. Tell me you didn't want me giving you a rubdown, that you didn't have that erection for me. Peter stared Sylar down, waiting for an answer.
XXX
Oh, that tone. Nathan had been an expert in ignoring its parental moralizing. I knew it. I knew it. No punishment then, just humiliating me. What did he say before? 'I won't do anything with the information except try to help you'? Sylar acknowledged the cleverness but after the events of earlier he didn't necessarily know what to say. He took quick stock of his options. Saying no outright wasn't smart unless he wanted to endure loneliness by day and by night and possibly another fight; saying yes was dangerous but perhaps not as bad as it usually was to advertise a need. He already knows. It's not like it isn't obvious. (I don't want to be obvious! he worried). I didn't mean to wake up holding him like that. He just wants to hear that I want to be around him, that I want to fuck him? Yeah right. He wants a pressure point he can exploit. He wants me to say it out loud. Sylar hated being cornered and forced to capitulate. (If it wasn't weird for him to wake up with my dick – or to come back and massage me – then maybe it isn't weird if I hit on him and pretend I like this arrangement, whatever it is?) That would be the smart thing to do – taking Petrelli's barb and blunting it by…accepting it and playing against the attack.
After Peter said his piece, Sylar was left to think and respond. At first, he stared across at his most stressful companion, gauging him and his words. Then he broke off the stare, which he easily could have continued, and affected that he was pausing to consider his reply in order to buy time. If Peter was stupid enough to ask the question, then he was probably desperate enough to swallow whatever hook Sylar could devise. He thought of sassing, 'My back isn't going to massage itself' but Peter would find that 'insulting.' "Apparently," he said with a lilt, head angling to one side before lifting his eyes to Peter's. Seducing the man now had several motives. Sylar layered on a smug, purring pleasure, "I didn't know you would be so talented at massage."
XXX
Ohh...he's playing me. Peter picked up the body language immediately, the eye contact, the tone of voice. But that's not a 'no'. It's not a 'no' at all. He gave a single, muffled laugh and looked away, coloring slightly. It wasn't the words of the compliment, but the intention behind it as Peter understood it. "You have no idea," he flirted as he looked back, completely inappropriately, but he did it anyway. It was fun. He was tense. They weren't going to do anything ever, right? He let his eyes roam over Sylar's face in an also completely inappropriate manner, then his smile faded to quietly pleased as he looked down at his plate and went back to eating.
He didn't want to let Sylar take the conversation further along these lines, so he changed the subject. "My only plans for today are to work out and play piano. Did you have anything in mind?" Peter tilted his head and looked away and up to the left briefly, then back, "Anything that doesn't involve things we might joke about but not do?" He assumed Sylar would get the message – 'flirting is fun, but I'm not serious, so don't get any ideas'.
XXX
Sylar felt a surging thrill. It wasn't the feeling of flirtation. Instead his sense of victory came from getting Peter to flirt with him, that it was received and returned. Fuck. I want him to massage me somewhere else, he mentally leered, definitely feeling teased and challenged in a way that demanded action. He wanted to push Peter around, push him down and…well, he was torn about wanting to hold the man down while he had his way with him or if he wanted Peter to make it interesting. His face showed his prurient intent, he was sure, and uncaring. If Peter didn't like it then he needed to make up his mind and stop…allowing and inviting such temptations. It had nothing to do with liking Peter and a lot more to do with appreciating the tension the little empath stirred up and even wanting to problem-solve through physical contact and hatred. Peter was (almost) delightfully inconsistent in his rejections. He enjoys massaging me. Little pervert. (And I enjoyed being massaged. Is that normal or does he think of me like some hospice patient skeleton he'd never dream of fucking?)
Of course, Peter had to ruin it. Yeah, those are the things that come to mind. "I wouldn't dream of it," he grumbled. Am I supposed to say if I do have plans? "Just exciting stuff. You know, washing the dishes." Sylar said this as he focused on his food, intent on ignoring the hard-to-follow flip-flopping from Petrelli for at least the rest of the day. He'd get plenty of time to irritate Peter in turn while he stalked the man's workout. Drive him up a confused wall of nonsense. It's only fair.
XXX
He raised his head to watch Sylar after the grumbling answer. There was a little bit of a smile on Peter's lips – something pleased and victorious and tickled all at once. He ducked his head. It would not do for Sylar to see him gloating. He backed down. He just let it go! Cool! The push-and-pull interplay helped map out areas of safety – and apparently certain kinds of flirting were okay. He takes 'no' for an answer really well…. That opened up possibilities Peter wasn't willing to think about, but he felt the excitement building inside. He could play much closer to the line of acceptability if he knew he would be allowed to back out. He could hardly sit still.
With a last hurried bite, he finished his eggs and carried his plate over to the sink. Wanting to burn off some of this sudden energy, he decided to take Sylar's statement as volunteering for the task of cleaning up. I made breakfast, so he'll be okay with cleaning up, right? He wiped his hands on a towel and headed for the door, not bothering to gather up his winter wear. He shouldn't need it and didn't want to precipitate some scramble to accompany him like he'd seen Sylar do when he thought Peter might leave. With that in mind, he gave a statement of his intentions: "I'll come back up after the workout to wash up here." That was new – most of the time he went over to his apartment. His reasons for being okay with the proximity were another thing he didn't want to examine, so he occupied his thoughts by trying to remember if he'd done mainly upper or lower body exercises last time.
XXX
Peter was happy because he thought he'd gotten one over on Sylar. How foolish of him. Peter likes to trust others. (Maybe it isn't such a great idea to rid him of that delusion…?) It was enough to temporarily halt his mental plans to bring Peter's imagination crashing down. I don't like being commanded like a dog: flirt now, stop flirting now. He had been too self-absorbed to see the abandonment building on Peter's face. He did see the move for the door. Wait! What? Sylar rose to his feet, grabbing for his dishes. Peter was treating this like…like it was nothing. It was no more surprising or random than anything else this morning. He's in a good mood so he wants to…be alone. But he said he'll come up here to shower. That was a break from the pattern, though it was still just words. Wait, wait, wait…he pleaded.
XXX
The scramble was happening anyway. Peter stopped immediately, taking his hand off the doorknob and turning back. "No. It's okay. Just finish your breakfast. I'm coming back," he insisted. I'm not going anywhere. It's just downstairs. Not even leaving the building. Come on! He waited, hopeful that Sylar would change his mind, finish his food, and give him some space.
XXX
Sylar looked at him steadily for a moment, holding his plate, bowl, and cup while weighing the words. He failed to see the importance of finishing what little was left of his breakfast, especially if Peter was still going to leave. Is he testing my obedience? It didn't help his suspicion and only added to his current helplessness and feelings of being trapped. Seducing someone you dreaded fucking had that affect. He was angry at the implications. Pushing back, he said, "No, I'm good."
XXX
Peter let out a stifled sigh. "We had a big fight yesterday. You need to eat. Just…" He made an open-handed gesture at the dishes in Sylar's hands, not quite up to issuing orders or even suggestions. What he meant was clear enough, though: just sit and eat. I can't promise to stay until he finishes, because then he'll come with me. Frustrated, he headed into the kitchen and started migrating all the used utensils and dishes next to the sink. Maybe Sylar would settle back down if he thought Peter was sticking around.
XXX
His head canted as if to demand, 'really?' His body language probably reflected it, too. Now, he was twitchy, confused, teased, irritated, likely insulted, and somewhat vengeful and breakfast wasn't even over. Petrellis, he thought with a sneer. "I said I'm good." Are you really going to push this? It was ridiculous even by his screwy standards. With that, he approached the kitchen to make it look like he was going to wash the dishes. That would probably fool Peter into leaving. Sylar had every intention of following him. Starting the water, he took up the scrub brush. That was stupid. Why did I say I would do the dishes? He couldn't count on me to say I'd do that or anything else so he could escape. He planned to leave anyway.
XXX
"Okay. Yeah." Peter retrieved a few other things from the table while Sylar began on the dishes. He put away the butter and moved the loaf of raisin bread back to the spot on the counter it had previously occupied. The carton of eggs went back in the refrigerator. He's not looking at me. He's busy. Maybe I could just walk out?