Day 70, February 18, Afternoon
Sylar knew his time was up, already pushing the probability of the time limit for browsing (even for him in a library). He wandered back to Peter, picking up some history tome to maintain the illusion. The urge to touch him was incredibly strong and resulted in probably some awkward stares at the man's face, hair, and upper body. "I'm ready," he said with multiple meanings, watching Peter carefully to see if he understood.
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Peter lifted his head, tilting it back further than normal as he assessed Sylar's mood, stance, body language, and tone. The choice of words was almost immaterial, although they basically complimented everything else Peter was reading. Sylar was just as defensive, vulnerable, and needy as Peter's previous glimpse of him had suggested. The man's motions were a little too tight right now; his expression too schooled. Sylar's eyes darted and lingered on different parts of Peter – shoulders, arms, hands, shoulders again, face, hair.
He's telling me he's ready because he's been over there psyching himself up for something. Well, crap. It would be helpful if he'd tell me what it was. "Okay," Peter answered mildly. He gave the thick book a long look, willing to bet Sylar couldn't tell him the title if he asked. But he didn't. He didn't want to challenge him or amp up the tension. Peter tried to be patient and give Sylar the opportunity to calm down. He'll tell me when he tells me.
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He led Peter back the way they'd come. Peter had been more than patient with him but that didn't help his nerves. Arriving at the door first, he held it open for his companion and tousled the man's hair once again as he passed. It felt like he was trying to appease a barely tame thundercloud before it burst. Sylar knew Peter may very well turn around swinging and start things without any deals or other dialogue. I do enjoy playing with fire.
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Peter glanced at the contact, immediately registering, That's twice. Twice in one day that he's touched me out of the blue, just because he wanted to. He's being friendly. Or trying to be. Is that what he was psyching himself up about? Peter smiled back, a warm expression that centered mainly around the corners of his eyes rather than his lips, but it was a pleased look by any definition. He didn't say anything about it, but communicated in another way – when Sylar's steps fell in next to him, walking closer than usual, Peter didn't move away. He just gave Sylar another aware, knowing look and continued on. Nathan always walked this close to me.
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Sylar walked ahead a second time when they neared the Pegasus, holding open the door to see if Peter would allow it. He didn't intend to touch him. I wonder if he likes it. He must. Nathan was just as touchy as Peter was to him. A smirk followed Peter when the Italian didn't bat an eye and preceded Sylar indoors.
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Peter went to the guitar as soon as he entered the room, casting Sylar a wary look that disappeared when he saw there was no pending threat. Making a small grunt to himself, he went to gather up his different supplies, putting everything away in a paper box except the clear coat.
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He was left following Peter and he caught the disapproving look. It's kind of late to glare because I touched your hair, Pete. It confused him until he saw the guitar. Sylar rolled his eyes. Once the bad guy, always the bad guy. He just makes my points for me. He saw also a box belonging Primatech Paper. That was…off-putting when they were probably about to discuss his torture. Sylar frowned at the inanimate, otherwise innocent object that bore no possible threat. He sat on the far side of the couch to watch Peter do whatever. Clearing his throat, he asked, "What did you mean by 'taking care of me and pulling myself together after'?"
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Peter put the can of paint stripper into the box on the floor. He was kneeling next to it as he turned to look at Sylar. "That depends on...what we're going to be doing," he said slowly. "What I'd imagined was that you wanted me to hurt you, or you were okay with me hurting you." He studied Sylar for a response.
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Does it? Sylar mentally sassed. Does it depend on what 'we' are going to be doing? And what if I say I don't want you to hurt me? He contained another eye-roll at Peter making everything infinitely more difficult than it needed to be. "I assumed you would be." This time it was Peter being vague. The word 'hurt' could imply pain of various forms or actual injury itself. Is that an important distinction to him?
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Peter made a slow nod. Why is he being so cagey about all of this? So I get some free punches in, or hit him with...something. But he could start fighting back at any point, right? The way he's acting, that's not the deal. He's acting like this is all or nothing. Is it? "Okay. What I meant was that after that, I'd make sure you were okay physically...and emotionally." Physically, Peter doubted Sylar would need much. Even without knowing what was on the table or off, Peter wasn't going to do anything that risked broken bones, internal damage, or much in the way of open wounds. Even if he did break the skin, the environment here seemed nearly sterile. Peter would certainly apply disinfectants as needed just in case, but the fact remained that he didn't think physical injuries were what he'd need to do something about. He swallowed. "We'd need to talk about what you wanted – if you want me to leave you alone, I can do that, but I can also stay with you." He was quiet for a long moment, registering Sylar's reaction to the two options and contemplating what he, Peter, was offering Sylar before putting it in words. "Help you. Tend you. Get you somewhere comfortable. Clean you up if you need it. Clothes." Flashbacks from his time in the backroom of the Wandering Rocks Pub kept cropping up. "Talk to you," he said before falling silent, overwhelmed by intrusive thoughts he couldn't shake. They weren't entirely unpleasant, but it made it hard to stay focused on the now. What happens if Sylar bonds with me the same way I did with Caitlyn? He stared at the floor, struggling with impressions of the cargo container, the back room, getting beaten to death, rediscovering his powers, loving Caitlyn, holding her after finding her charred brother and knowing it was his fault, losing her and knowing that was even more his fault.
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Sylar watched as Peter appeared to zone out with no clue as to the reason. Torturing me or caring for me doesn't upset him. Is he moralizing something? Thinking about…him? Or Emma? The silence dragged on as his curiosity grew and worry beginning to build. It doesn't look like a panic attack, he reasoned. I didn't say anything provocative. Telegraphing his movements, he approached the man, a hand extended towards him, "Peter? Earth to Peter Petrelli, come in Peter Petrelli."
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Peter oriented – someone was closing with him. His heartbeat accelerated. It was Sylar, which was both soothing and not. Peter looked up at him, startled for a moment. How'd he get so close? I must have zoned out. He gave himself a shake and wiped his face with one hand. "It happened to me. I was kind of...raw." But he didn't want to talk about this and get lost in the memory hole again. He switched the topic back to Sylar. What were we talking about again? Oh yeah, now I remember. "I'll take good care of you. What did you have in mind for aftercare?"
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Sylar's expression was disbelieving. "You asked someone to beat you?" What does 'raw' mean? I don't doubt he'll take 'good' care of me. He didn't think that with any real malice (and the thought was more for the beating and very little about the medical care Peter would provide because Peter was a good nurse).
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"I...was beaten." He grimaced and looked away briefly. "It doesn't matter. I need to know what I should do for you afterward."
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Sylar frowned about Peter's reply, then shook his head, "I don't know. I'm not asking for it. Whatever you're willing to do will be more than fine. I won't need any bed rest." At least, I don't think I will. Unless he wants me in bed. But he won't want me in bed and anyway, he thinks 'bed' is some kind of safe zone. He felt conflicted about what he was supposed to decline. Usually he wanted space to lick his wounds without the additional salt of the company of the person who beat him.
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You don't even know what I'm going to do. Peter looked up at Sylar blankly, then wiped his face again. "Okay." He doesn't know what to ask for. No one's ever done it for him; I've never done it for anyone. "We'll figure it out." He put the last of his supplies in the paper box and moved to sit on one end of the couch. "What is it I'm supposed to do? I'm not going to hit you with my fists – I'd break them. Are we talking flogging?"
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Mouth beginning to open, Sylar's eyes faded off to the side when Peter declined to hit him with fists. It sounded like bare-knuckle punches were his default, his instinct, and that he knew himself well enough to know that he'd hurt himself from the frequency. Oh. That makes sense. It's smart, too. I guess most people use a convenient object. He felt stupidly disappointed at Peter's words. It wasn't like he had some precise plan to share. His desires had included Peter's fists beating him, in the moment with that delicious passion. So there Peter sat, watching him, pressuring him for answers Sylar hadn't thought of yet. He sat down again. "I want you to beat me. However you want to, however is convenient, whenever you feel like it," he shook his head, speaking slowly. "Strangle me, kick me, pull on my hair, fuck me; I don't care." In the middle of speaking, a thought popped into his head: Will he still sleep with me? He hadn't mentioned fucking until now, but it was only in the hopes that Peter would see the connection between the fighting (or beating him) and fucking. "I know...everyone is different. Some people want to scar my body, others want to…" he swallowed and took a breath to fortify himself, "do things to my mind. Sometimes it's constant; sometimes it's whenever you feel like it. Some people don't care if I defend myself; other people are offended by it. What I want and what I'm allowed to have are never the same thing." He gave Peter a wary look then applied more manipulation, "The important thing is that I'm the bad guy and I don't think you're the type to let me get away with killing your brother just because I wanted to." Sylar quickly leaned in, took hold of Peter's face, and kissed him solidly on the mouth. It was forbidden. He wanted to prove a point and to rile Peter up a little.
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Peter was sitting there, mouth half-open as he tried to process Sylar's words. There was so much there he wanted to ask about, talk about, and understand. There were parts that nauseated him and made him want to reject this whole thing, whatever it was. But then Sylar kissed him. More energy shot through him than if Sylar had punched or even electrocuted him. It scrambled his thoughts. A moment later (a long moment of warm lips pressed against his and Sylar so close he could literally taste him), Peter shoved him away with both hands, gently, and held him at arm's length. There was so much to process. 'Killing your brother just because I wanted to' – he raised one hand to slap Sylar, but head shots were off-limits so it hung uselessly, poised in the air as if about to strike. He needed to say something – he knew that – and so he grabbed semi-randomly at the chaos going on in his head. "Don't fight back!" Maybe that would protect him and buy some time. He definitely did not want a fight right now, not with Sylar acting like that was what got him off. 'The game' was starting to make sense, complete with sexual component. As was the period he'd gone through wondering if Sylar felt compelled to do what Peter told him, and the way the man flinched from him so much of the time. It all fit. He didn't know if he'd ever so thoroughly misunderstood someone's signals.
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Sylar reveled in the noticeably longer pause of several seconds before Peter pushed him away (none too violently, either). He'd wanted the contact and momentary acceptance from the kiss, too. He licked his lips when he knew Peter could see it and waited for the rest of the man's reaction, which wasn't long in coming. A hand was went up to slap him – clearly that's what it was – and Sylar waited, eyebrow raised, daring him to do it. A slap? That's it? But Peter didn't even do that, despite the amount of violence they'd just been discussing. With the 'command' that he not engage in fighting and simply let Peter beat or hurt him his eyebrow fell into something more of a defensive sneer. Not even a slap! Sylar rolled his eyes and continued to wait because if Peter wasn't hitting him, then he would have some lovely lecture.
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Totally winging it, Peter grabbed Sylar's hair instead of hitting him, pulling him close. It was a move that would have irritated the hell out of Peter, and had Sylar done it, Peter would have come around swinging. It was also perilously close to 'don't touch my head, ever'. This was a test. "Strangle you, kick you, pull your hair?" Peter cocked his head to emphasize the question.
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But it wasn't a lecture. At least, not at first. Sylar's eyes widened when his hair was yanked and used to position him still closer to Petrelli. He darted a glance at the other man's hand (usually the more dangerous one if it were going to punch him or…do other things to his head), yet that free hand was motionless and relaxed. He looked back into Peter's eyes, easier to do than looking down and around at anything else because their faces were a mere six inches away, maybe. Some part of this seemed very familiar and not in a good way. The limo at Stanton! Peter looked about as friendly as he had then. Sylar hadn't been tense before, but he was now, paying more attention to the temporarily invisible threat. He lifted his chin up (partly to see if the motion would be allowed) and grinned affirmation, which was cockier than he felt right now.
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This is what he meant by engaging with me. He surveyed Sylar's face up close and personal, much like he had in the president's limo after Sylar had shaken his hand and been startled by the feedback from trying to replicate a shapeshifter's form. Peter half-expected to be dismissed and laughed down for the second time today, but he was going to try for this anyway – this strange new territory Sylar was offering up. He released the grip on Sylar's hair, carding his fingers through to smooth it while being careful not to touch the man's scalp. "Get used to me owning you," Peter murmured, looking deep into Sylar's eyes only a few inches apart, his own gaze being hard and angry. "You owe me something you can never pay back." He pushed the man away with a hand to his shoulder. He gave Sylar's entire form a long look up and down, then said, "Read your book. I have a lot to think about." Peter reclined in his corner of the leather couch, body still half-turned towards his companion.
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Sylar angled his head away from the touch, stuck between getting away from it and thinking to make…patting his hair easier for Peter. If that was what he was doing. It was frightening for all its confusion, coming from this man. He stared right back, his own eyes more narrowed with suspicion. I'm the king of fucking stare downs, Petrelli. This time he moved with the push, shifting to make it look like he'd been uncomfortable in the position Peter had shoved him into. Well, at least he gets it now, finally, he thought of the comments about being 'owned' and 'owing/paying back.' He stayed put because it suited him. He didn't take well to being commanded to read, so he didn't yet, but kept his eyes on Peter and let his gaze drift over the room as he thought.
This victory felt somewhat hollow. He had deep, lingering, irrational disappointments that Peter had been so easily seduced by his offer. All that talk of better solutions instead of violence, of him being presumably all of Peter's people here, of Peter not leaving him, of caring for him, wanting to understand him more deeply than most had ever tried, and feeling like he was the empath's brother…It had made him feel like there was a sliver of humanity left in him – not good or worthwhile, but humanity nonetheless. It had felt good that someone was trying to dig deeper. He'd been testing Peter, tempting him with darkness. And of course he'd known what this victory would mean, saying goodbye to any friendliness they'd had because Sylar couldn't live up to acting 'normal,' couldn't fake it anymore, not on a scale of years. He had to go back to being worthless again – or nearly so, because he always had his body as a final playing card. At least Peter was interested in that. The upside of being hurt and possibly fucked nearly gave him butterflies of a dubious nature.
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'Take me' – that's what it boils down to. Peter sensed a yawning emptiness behind Sylar's offer of his body, and if necessary, his mental integrity. He'll give anything and everything – in exchange for not being left. Not left alone, not left behind. He wants engagement, all right. Mine, anyone's. Peter glanced over Sylar, who was sitting still, a little lost in thought, glancing at Peter occasionally. But I'm his only option. I'll bet everyone in his life has either turned their back on him or died. He's said as much – there's never been any help for him. Even me beating the crap out of him whenever I want, totally on my terms, is a step up for him because he's ruined every other chance he's had at a human connection.
Is it a step up for me? It wasn't an equation he normally would have bothered to work out, because normal people deserved Peter's attention and effort much more than any self-interest on Peter's part. Sylar wasn't normal. Any punishment Peter wanted to dish out was fair. I'd be safer, if this is how we do things and Sylar plays ball. This is what he meant by me acting like a Petrelli – using him. This isn't manipulation. This is entirely out in the open. I wouldn't be lying or hiding anything and I'll bet that's part of why he wants this. But…is it right to treat him like this? Even if he wants it, what's the difference between this and sadism as far as I'm concerned? Should I be concerned? He doesn't have anything without me. I was just thinking about his emotional needs earlier today. Was that for real? All he's asking for is for me to beat the crap out of him if I feel like it (and to let him get me off in every way possible, to feel everything I can for him – I'm not so sure about those, but I can always stop him if he gets too sexual).
"Is that why you killed him – just because you wanted to?"
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This time Sylar rolled his eyes with a sigh of helpless anger. Of course that's all he fucking heard! Nathan; always Nathan. "Part of it, yeah." Mostly I just wanted a reaction from you, but I don't know that I'm going to get it. Don't cry on me, he mentally warned.
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Peter frowned and his nose wrinkled slightly. "I can do this, sure. But right now," he said standing up, "I'm going to finish the guitar." He collected the clear coat spray can and the instrument itself, heading out to find a place with better air circulation. It was, in a way, a deliberate snub of what Sylar wanted. It was also Peter probing to find out if Sylar wanted Peter to do something to him right here and right now. Peter had other priorities at the moment, but he was giving some thought to the 'whenever you feel like it' portion of Sylar's proposal.
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Sylar got up quickly to follow Petrelli, slightly disbelieving that the guitar was his purpose and destination. He didn't care if he was invited or not. He stood outside Peter's range when he caught up to him and watched a clear coat of spray paint cover the red painted carving of a phoenix. The guitar sat on a large piece of smeared cardboard to prevent any mess that Sylar would have complained about. After several even passes of glistening, smelly paint, the Italian gently took the guitar back to the rec room and laid it there to dry. Sylar noted that it was more or less in neutral territory and, if he needed to, he had access to the guitar because Petrelli had left it out.
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When he was done, Peter announced. "I'm getting hungry. Let's go upstairs and score some chips and sandwiches. We can read up there." He snagged his book about Ali and waited for Sylar to precede him out the door of the rec room. Peter put a hand on Sylar's shoulder as they headed towards the elevator. "Does it have to be violent - what I do to you?" He gave Sylar a couple casual squeezes before letting go.
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On top of everything else, Sylar felt pathetic to be forever following Peter Petrelli around like a dog because he had no life and no options and now Petrelli knew it, too. He felt his insides go still but he kept walking, tolerating the hand on his shoulder and fixing his face to something blank. It had taken Petrelli moments to figure out exactly what Sylar did not want – every 'non-violent' way of making someone's life miserable. And Petrelli had already proven himself to be quite resourceful, unexpected, and creative. His voice lacked excitement, "No. No, it doesn't."
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Peter frowned and let his hand drop. There was nothing there – no tingle in his fingertips, no feeling at all beyond the physical sensation. It marked the first time he'd noticed the absence. He had no idea if it correlated with anything. More pressing was the way Sylar was acting. It was as if having made the deal, Sylar wasn't happy about it. Of course, if he thinks I'm going to randomly beat the crap out of him, then I can understand that. Maybe I should explain. "You mentioned a massage earlier."
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Once in the elevator, Sylar picked a side of the car, leaning against the railing as he eyed Peter. "Yes," he said, a bit slowly. "I did mention a massage."
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"I don't want to beat you up right now. I want to eat lunch and then read my book, with or without a rubdown. To be honest, I don't care too much what you're comfortable with or what you approve of. Just 'will you do it?' and 'will you let me do it?' If the answer's yes to either of those, then let me know. We can work out me kicking your ass some other time, like this evening, or tomorrow or something. If I get to pick 'whenever I want', then whenever I want isn't right now."
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Sylar heaved a sigh, leading them from the elevator because just maybe that would shut Peter up, or at least minimize the talking. What else is there left to talk about? "Then we'll eat lunch and read; I don't care when you do it. The answer to both is 'yes.'" When they reached the door to the suite (their suite), he held it open for both of them. "Why are you complaining? You're not the one who's going to be hurt. We're both getting what we want." Peter passed him by and Sylar followed up with an encouraging look and welcoming tone, "I don't have any problem giving you a rubdown. You did mention a blowjob earlier, too." I would be remiss if I didn't mention that.
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Peter gave Sylar an arched brow as he walked by, heading over to the bed to toss his book on his side of it. "I wasn't complaining. I was telling you how I want things to be." That was new for Peter. "As for the other…" He turned to face Sylar, giving him an interested look on behalf of the latter topics, mostly the massage. "I'm not interested in a blowjob. That's a fantasy – nothing more." Then after a pause, his libido prompted him to add wiggle room (in case Sylar insisted, which Peter would have a really hard time turning down) by saying, "It doesn't have to be anything more than a fantasy."
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Sylar rolled his eyes and shrugged, but he wasn't disappointed. "Fine. Just the rubdown then." That had been almost too easy. Getting his hands on Peter would be…nice. It was difficult to believe Peter would, well, let him. Wait, I'm giving him a massage, right? Not the other way around…No. A quick review of the conversation with logic made more sense if Peter was offering to give him a massage – asking for one seemed…random, almost lacking context. He does want me to be his pet servant, killing or saving people as he pleases. Massages would fit into that, even though it has nothing to do with his goals.
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Peter nodded and drifted over to where the wheelchair sat near the front door. He tended to use it as a coatrack, which was where he put his jacket and winter things now. He didn't hurry. When he was done, Sylar was stirring around in the kitchen, putting together the makings of two cheese sandwiches. Peter appreciated that, even more when he figured out Sylar was going to grill them. He got out olives, chips, plates, utensils, and drinks while the other man managed cooking. Lunch was quiet. Peter was still mulling over the conversation from earlier. He had so many questions that he didn't know how to approach, or if he should. Wait, see, and react seemed like the best policy, even though he'd rather be the one initiating than responding.
When they were done, he ferried dishes to the sink, olive jar to the fridge, and chip bag to the cabinet, while Sylar did what dishwashing was required. Peter leaned against the bar and tried not to leer too obviously at Sylar's backside. What he's saying is that I could have that whenever I wanted, right? That's…wrong. Nuts. Crazy. Stupid. Immoral. Idiotic. But that is what he's saying, right? Sylar was done and looking at him expectantly now, so Peter asked, "Where do you want to do this? The massage, that is."
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"Don't look at me. You're the one who wanted a massage." Sylar stood in the kitchen, hands at his sides, aiming to appear willing and able. He was prepared to give a massage but he was waiting to see what Peter meant exactly.
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Peter moved over to one of the dining room chairs, shifting it a few inches experimentally. I could sit facing away and he'd be behind me. He'd have to stoop. It was also arm's length and Peter wanted something less impersonal if he could manage it. He glanced at the bed. Is that too much? Then at Sylar, who stood with one eyebrow raised as if to say, 'Really?' while Peter figured himself out in the awkward pause. "What would you be comfortable doing?" he asked, trying to put the decision on Sylar.
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"If you're asking what I want, why not get naked on the bed? I don't think I'll fit on the couch with you, short or not." That was his way of saying it wasn't about him, but about Peter. Case in point, because if it was about him, then Peter would be naked on the bed (assuming the bed wasn't too intimate).
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"Um, no," Peter said quietly. "Not naked." But he looked back at the bed again, heading towards it anyway. He wasn't ready to be that compromised with Sylar, or that (literally) exposed. Also, he wasn't entirely sure if Sylar's answer had nothing to do with a massage and everything to do with 'what Sylar would be comfortable doing', which would mean he was comfortable doing Peter. The thought made Peter warm. He touched the bedspread on the side of the bed that faced the room – the side Sylar normally slept on. There was one way to find out where the limits were here. He took his shirt off and flopped on the bed, arranging himself facedown a little below where the pillow rested.
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This was the point where Sylar began to reconsider letting Peter skip right where he wanted him – and where Peter apparently wanted to be. A massage. Right. (Never done one of those; let's just hope that's not code for something). How hard could it be? He hopped on the other side of the bed, on Peter's side, crossing his ankles under folded knees to be nearer. It was a nice looking back, defined without being explicit and overdone. He remembered Peter being obscene with the lotion but he wanted skin-on-skin so that's what Peter would get. Wide, long-fingered hands spread over Peter's back felt like nirvana as he began to squeeze and rub.
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Oh-kay. He's next to me, not on me. He'd expected Sylar to straddle his thighs or butt, which made it easiest to get both hands on his back in an even fashion. It was disappointing, and not merely because it meant Sylar's efforts were unlikely to be symmetrical. Might as well have used the dining room chair. Peter didn't want to think about how much he wanted…more – more that he wasn't going to ask for, nor was likely to get, and would refuse if it was offered because refusal of inappropriate intimacy with Sylar was something Peter had to do if and when it came up. But this wasn't inappropriate, especially with Sylar sitting next to him. Asymmetrical or not, Peter sighed and relaxed into the comforter a few seconds after the first laying on of hands. He made a murmuring, barely articulate sound of approval as Sylar's hands worked over him. It didn't matter whether Sylar was good at it or not – it was the contact Peter wanted, and the intention to make him feel better. He encouraged it as much as he could with sounds of appreciation and little motions of his fingers against the blanket. They were loosely duplicating the motions of Sylar's hands. Peter turned his neck to one side and then the other when Sylar rubbed it, so the man could access it better. He moved his whole body a little closer to Sylar to make the reach easier.
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Sylar exhaled as he warmed to his work. Peter was really into it. Almost too into it, making Sylar wonder if he was faking it for some unknown reason but he quickly ignored that idea. Peter had no reason to manipulate him when he was allegedly getting exactly what he wanted. Sylar added pressure from his body and superior height, but not too much, easing into it and backing off repeatedly. He began at the mid-back, working his way up, then back down, gripping and caressing with fingers and palms the whole way, feeling the drag and motion of flesh between them. This was…different somehow. He assumed perving wasn't allowed so he didn't try. There hadn't been enough pressure for him to want it, either. Peter wasn't asking for anything more than this yet. It was simple and rather normal (if two grown men gave massages on a bed which they usually shared without sex). Nathan never did this for him. Oh, Nathan had done it for girls a few times, but for all the touching on his younger brother, never gave him a massage. I'm doing something Nathan didn't, Sylar thought with satisfaction. He enjoyed wringing pleasant noise from someone; he enjoyed being useful. It wouldn't be long before Peter pushed for more and worse so this was one of those rare moments to savor. In addition, what made it better was his previous drought of human contact; before there had been no one to touch – not for any reason. He'd gone years without sight or sound of so much as an insect. And now he had someone half naked, demanding his touch. Sylar wanted to lie on him, trap him, feel his fantastic skin and just breathe, but massaging was an acceptable alternative. It was…important.
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Peter would have melted into the bedspread if it were possible. Phasing, he thought muzzily. Phasing would make it possible. "Mmm," he hummed when Sylar finally stopped. He wriggled and stretched, still on his stomach. Reaching above him, his hands found the pillow, which he pulled down and face planted into. It smelled of Sylar, he noticed immediately. "Mm?" It wasn't a bad scent. He liked it, despite and maybe because of all the complicated associations. It reminded him of the time he'd slept on Sylar's couch and had one of his pillows then. He turned on his side and regarded the author of the signature scent. "Thank you," he said, voice thick with pleasure. He suspected he had an erection, but he didn't draw attention to it by checking. At the same time, he didn't care if Sylar saw. He knew he was on display. He kept his stomach tight and reached up to brush his hair out of his face as he studied Sylar's reaction to him.
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Eventually his hands became tired. It wasn't as if he was used to this kind of exercise. Sylar rested his wrists on his knees, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement. The gratitude wasn't necessary, but it was nice. Peter was good about that, he noticed, not for the first time. Curious, he glanced down to see Peter's visible excitement and the flexing muscles and flat belly, so strangely hairless. I did that to him. Or he…feels that way about me. It's happened before. He's making this way too easy for me, Sylar thought of his entire grand seduction. That disappointed him because he wanted, no, expected – needed – more of a challenge from Peter Petrelli. His eyes returned to watch Peter finger-comb his hair. "Are you always that noisy for a massage?"
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Peter snorted and blew off the implied criticism. "That's because it felt good, asshole." Peter smiled and sat up, gesturing at the bed behind Sylar. "Get over there and let me do the same to you." He sat up on his knees waiting for Sylar to get settled.
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Sylar controlled his expression and gaze though some surprise widened his eyes. Uh…I thought this was just for him? But I don't need one. Why…? Badly he wanted an excuse to get out of it but couldn't think of anything, especially when he remembered how the last massage had felt… To have someone touching him like that, stimulating him was orgasmic in a non-sexual sense. It's happened before and nothing bad happened. Is this time a trick? Again, he could think of no ulterior motive besides maybe 'now you owe me,' which was ridiculous because he'd just serviced Peter. (I did offer him sex…) And that was more worrisome. Sylar blinked a few times, casting about for a moment before complying, hesitantly stripping off his shirt. This isn't weird, he tried to tell himself. This was nowhere in his familiar script. Slowly but not trying to look like he was stalling or reluctant, he settled himself on his stomach; head turned enough to watch Peter with a fair amount of mistrust.
XXX
Feeling awesome, Peter adjusted himself so that what erection he had left was riding high and not hanging down one of his pant legs where Sylar would feel him. Then he literally mounted Sylar – planting himself on the other man's ass, knees on either side of him carrying most of Peter's weight. He waited a beat to make sure Sylar didn't freak out and buck him off, then gradually leaned down so his hands were on Sylar's shoulder blades, palms flat. Peter drew in a deep breath, feeling Sylar's body moving under his hands just like the first time he'd done this – breathing, heartbeat, minuscule shifts in the body compensating for Peter's weight on him. The sexual side of his arousal continued to fade because this wasn't about sex at all for Peter. It was just as human and intimate and basic, a primal, bonding contact with another human being. Sylar was right where Peter wanted him to be.
There was a purpled bruise marking where Sylar had hit the floor only four days before during their last fight. It wasn't like Peter had forgotten the altercation, but the violet, green-rimmed mark was still a reminder of Sylar's (and his own) human fragility. Peter lifted his hands and made a few light passes, trailing only his fingertips over the skin, barely brushing up and down the spine, then over the shoulders and down the flanks. He circled and lightly stroked the bruise, putting no pressure on it as he traced over it. When he was done, Peter moved up to start just below the neck and work his way down, using firm strokes on Sylar's lean, hard muscles. He avoided the bruised area and an inch or two to either side of it, kneading everything else, manipulating and rubbing until as much of the tension as possible was out of Sylar's frame.
XXX
Instinctively Sylar sucked in a breath and held it, every muscle as tight as possible for a second, then relaxing. Peter…sitting on him, getting on him in a questionably sexual way was…not what he'd done to Peter. This is not the same as what I did to him. What is he doing? Though his muscles had released (by force of habit), he was far from calm. The first breath was let loose and he quickly regulated that, too. His- Is he-? (I didn't ask for this! Any of it!) Shut the hell up. I told him he could, so he can; and he will if he wants to. There's nothing you can do about it. There was no press of an erection against him, no initial motion of Peter's pelvis and he would have felt it because he stayed still, waiting for just that. Peter nearly tickled him, tracing random parts of his skin with his fingertips, causing a purely sympathetic shiver before Sylar could stop it. A nervous swallow preceded Peter actually massaging him, just below his neck, leaving that part out to some of Sylar's disappointment. (It's just a massage. I don't like being freaked out every time, though…) It's really not about what you want, is it? Enjoy this. Sylar kept his hands underneath the pillow above his head, loosening from the uptight fists they'd previous been, flattening them against the mattress as he stretched out, luxuriating, breathing slowly. Ooh, that's it. Sit on my ass, Petrelli. You little pervert.
XXX
"I like doing this," Peter said quietly as he was finishing. His fingers lingered on the gently curling hair at the small of Sylar's back. "Am I…understanding this right that you're giving yourself to me?" His tone was soft. As soon as he'd asked, he wished he could see Sylar's face, but on the other hand, perhaps the privacy of facing away would help the man answer. He rubbed a few of the longer hairs between his fingertips, taking a liberty he would only dream of doing if he didn't think the answer had already been stated as 'yes'. It was more than he ought to be doing and he knew that, but damn if his fingers weren't doing it anyway.