Summary: Prompted by Peter's questions, Sylar makes a journey to self-acceptance and beyond.
It was the gentle pleadings that broke Sylar - Peter begging him for answers when he had none. The recriminations, accusations, and silent treatment had been easier to take, but eventually Peter just wanted to know the truth. Sylar had thought the worst torture of this hell was the oppressive, relentless loneliness of three, long years, but Peter showed him he'd been mistaken. At times, Sylar almost wished for a return of the quiet, measured out by the steady ticking of the clocks. They demanded nothing of him … unlike Peter.
In Peter's defense, there was nothing else in the world to distract him from the subject of his inquiry. It was his whole point here and sometimes Sylar wondered if Peter really existed, or if he was some demon sent to carry out the next stage of torment. Peter had no friends or family or even complete strangers here who could capture part or all of his attention, so he fixed it entirely on Sylar. His only project was getting closure.
And so: Why? The question was asked over and over in endless variations. It was profoundly irritating in both its simplicity and difficulty. Sylar understood better than he wanted to how annoyed parents became at curious toddlers who learned that cursed word. Like a child, Peter wanted to understand. He was trying to wrap his mind around why a person – any person, but Sylar in particular – would kill another (and in Sylar's case, another and another and another ...) He understood anger and a desire to hurt, but a desire to end, to terminate? It was foreign and so he asked.
At first, Sylar fended him off with anger and sarcasm, his sword and shield against the emotional assault. Peter would retire to nurse his wounds, but he never gave up. It was like he could sense the weakness underneath Sylar's armor of indifference and was determined to expose it. Enduring the questioning wasn't the price of admission to sharing Peter's company. If it had been, Sylar might have stayed away entirely. Instead, it was the requirement for a different sort of proximity, a more emotional one, something Sylar wanted more than mere presence. Actually, at the bottom of it all, Sylar did want to be understood; he just didn't want to answer for what he'd done. Yet despite his desire to writhe and twist away from responsibility, he couldn't figure out how to get the openness without exposing himself.
The real hell began when he genuinely started trying to find the truth Peter wanted. Neither of them was satisfied with glib answers. As much as Sylar would have liked to avoid the subject entirely, if he was going to give an answer, then he was going to give an honest one. But the truth wasn't simply a matter of speaking it, or as simple as identifying a warped gear within a watch. He couldn't just pick out an isolated thing that had gone wrong and caused the past; there was no stepped-on butterfly he could point to. It was more complicated by far. There were so many times where he hadn't examined why he'd chosen one act over another. While yes, the exigencies of circumstance favored one path more than the others, there were deeper reasons. His own mind framed his choices and that limited his possible solutions. Why was he comfortable with violence to the level that he had performed? Where did the uncaring come from? How deep did it run? What other aspects of his being did it affect? In the end, was he … salvageable?
The worst were the questions softly spoken, breathed out in cautious whispers like Peter was afraid to speak them too loudly. The answers were often ugly and increasingly, Sylar couldn't divorce himself from them or pretend that anyone would have done the same in his place. He was special, bitter pill though that was to swallow. His actions had defined the person he was. If they were menacing and evil, then so must he be as well. It wasn't how he wanted to be and he mourned to be faced with it. He didn't want to be the kind of person that no one in the world wanted to be near. He tried to fight it, but he was trapped by things that had already happened, impossible to undo. He didn't want to be … bad, a lost cause, unworthy of everything. He wanted to be good and Peter's questioning of his soul made him so angry he contemplated murder yet again. Yet he couldn't lash out without proving the very thing he was trying to disprove about himself. It was his helplessness, the futility of it all, that broke him.
"I don't know!" Sylar burst out, but the high emotion sounding through his words was desperation and grief, not rage. His hands shook and his shoulders threatened to. He felt so impotent and incompetent, so stupid and dense and uninformed about his own inner workings. He felt like he was crumbling, like a wall that had been battered on for too long, finally giving way at the masonry seams. He was so lost in his own misery that Peter settling next to him on the couch was startling. The cushion dipped and by natural law of gravity, he tilted towards Peter. They were touching all down the thigh and briefly at the shoulder … and then Peter was twisting towards him, not done yet with the Petrelli space invasion. Peter raised his arms and slid them over Sylar's shoulders, ignoring his stiffness as he guided Sylar to turn to match him, and then wrapping around to pull him close.
Sylar stopped breathing entirely for long seconds and when he resumed, his breaths were shallow. What is he doing?! his mind squeaked about the sudden, unprecedented, and unasked-for-but-wonderful contact. What was happening seemed clear enough, though. It was a hug. A simple hug. Or maybe a complex one, Sylar didn't know. What he knew was that he could feel the warmth of Peter's body through his shirt and smell the oil of his skin in a much more concentrated nasal draught than he was usually gifted by in the closest passage he might make. The reality of Peter's nearness was enough to shock him out of most of his wretched thoughts. He's hugging me. Why would he hug me? Is he attracted to me? Am I sexy this way, almost in tears? Is that it? No, I don't think it is. I must look like a child, like a little boy he wants to comfort. Is that so he can lord it over me and be more powerful?
"It's okay," Peter murmured. "It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here, I'm listening, I'm paying attention. We can figure it out. No hurry." Peter's words were always so soft when Sylar was upset – soft on the outside, but still hard on the inside. Peter wasn't going to let him off the hook for a few tears. Taking a break wasn't the same thing as quitting. Sylar knew that and it made him respect Peter all the more for it.
He brought his own hands up to Peter's sides, fingers twiddling senselessly with the seams of Peter's jacket. What the man said was soothing, reminding him of what a relief it was that he had someone who would listen to him at all, despite the frustrating nature of the inquiries. The embrace certainly wasn't brief, either. Peter was stroking his back with firm, steady sweeps of his right hand, the left exerting pressure and letting him know he was right where Peter wanted him to be. Sylar drew in a deep breath and let it out. It's like he's petting me, like a dog. Sylar relaxed. I can play this role. If that's what he wants … if that's what gets me this. He swallowed and leaned into the posture, turning his head and laying it on Peter's shoulder.
In the choice of which direction to face, he opted for maximum intimacy just like the rest of his life was marked with extremes. He put his nose against Peter's neck, facing him rather than the more usual facing away. He could feel the tension that went through Peter at his position – the stroking on his back interrupted for a moment - and Sylar felt a spasm of fear that Peter would shove him away for taking the liberty. Regardless of what Peter did, it sure as hell felt good to be held. It felt nice. It thrummed through his bones and made his heart rattle his chest with all the heavy thumping it was doing. The angles were awkward and his spine was twinging from leaning weird, but it was completely worth it. He sighed, knowing that some of his breath blew hot against Peter's skin. Strangely, that seemed to calm Peter, who tightened his hold and shifted his hips a little to face him more directly, resuming the comforting stroking.
A moment later, they were swaying slightly as Peter rocked him slowly. Sylar snuggled in, all too aware that he might never get another chance at this. He'd been this close to other people, but the truth that Peter was trying to be kind to him was finally filtering through his formidable defenses. He could try to pretend to himself that Peter was dominance-tripping or treating him like a pet or child, but his logical mind had sifting through the probable motivations and kept coming back to one very core to Peter's being – he wanted to help. He was over here hugging Sylar because he wanted to help him.
Peter tolerated the hug far longer than Sylar would have expected. Long minutes, more than a quarter hour. It felt like an eternity to spend arm-locked with someone on the couch. And because he didn't think he'd ever get this again and he might as well go for everything, seizing every experience possible and claiming it for his own, when Peter shrugged his shoulder and went to gently push Sylar away, Sylar lifted his head and swooped in to kiss. Peter was not so slow that he couldn't have reacted. Sylar knew that. He was gambling, going for the long shot, pushing the limits like he always did. He was forcing Peter to choose between shoving him away brusquely or … what Peter did. At the last second, he did nothing. Peter sat there and allowed Sylar plant his lips over his own, for one brief kiss that Peter ended with a more definitive, but still not rough, push.
It had been years since Sylar had had a kiss. It wasn't like it was something he required for survival, but it was something he hungered for – to be close to someone, to be accepted, to have a connection that was real and honest. He'd never had that, not in the way he wanted, not in the way he could almost taste from Peter. All their talking had created this tenuous link between them that was just waiting to become reality. His fingers bunched the fabric at Peter's sides, not wanting to let him get away while knowing he had to eventually.
Peter eyed Sylar warily and stood, forcing Sylar to loose his fingers and let the man slide out of his grip. Peter gave him a parting pat on the shoulder that was nothing like the stern slap of rejection Sylar would have expected. He … he let me! Let me? Jesus, he even started it! What does that mean? Does it mean he wants me? Or just that he doesn't think I'm beyond help? More importantly, can I make him do that again? Yearning eyes followed Peter across the room, hyper-alert to the smallest nuance, not that it helped.
There followed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and the next morning as Sylar struggled to figure out how to replicate the situation where Peter would hug on him and hold still for kissing. He hungered for that shred of approval, that teasing glimpse of acceptance, the hint that his explanations were satisfactory. He tried being forward, imagining things had changed between them and touching was welcome now. It was not; Peter shut him down. He tried being persistent; Peter threatened to leave. Sylar submitted completely and Peter stayed. He tried offering more information about himself, but they'd already covered what came to him easily. The rest was harder. He tried more tears, but they were fake and Peter was on to him. As a result of that last stunt, he was left alone for the night, hoping his bout of acting hadn't ruined his chances. He hoped Peter understood why he was suddenly all over him. He was an empath, after all, and that was supposed to mean something even if Sylar hadn't been able to puzzle out what.
It was a miserable night, which was fucked up because he'd had more mutual friendliness in that one long hug than he'd had ever. He thought he ought to be happy. He ought to be grateful. He ought to be satisfied. But he wasn't. He tossed and turned and felt his aloneness more keenly than he ever had while Peter was in this world with him. He obsessed over every detail of the day, trying to figure out exactly what he'd done and when, that he could do it again to get the same result, or even anything close to it. It wasn't like Peter ever stayed the night, but he couldn't help but think that Peter's departure had gone badly and that he'd pushed it too far with the false sorrow.
The morning found him itchy-eyed and sweaty-skinned, but the dawn light gave him an excuse to get out of bed and stop wallowing. Peter was often in a better mood after getting away from him for a while (sad commentary though that was, all by itself; Sylar still looked forward to exploiting it). Sylar sought him out at breakfast, nearly falling all over himself to ingratiate himself. His nocturnal cogitations had convinced him that Peter wanted to be in charge, he wanted Sylar submissive and … vulnerable. Not that he wanted Sylar to be weak, but when Sylar was, Peter was most apt to get close to him, lend a helping hand, gentle his words, and handle him carefully. His brain was working feverishly to concoct whatever scheme was necessary to win him a place in the ranks of human beings worthy of friendly association.
"Stop. Stop, Sylar."
He pulled up short from trying to bus Peter's side of the table. Was Peter not done eating?
"Is this about the hug yesterday?"
Sylar looked away, trying to think of whether he should agree or not. Peter's voice was level enough, if a little exasperated, so there wasn't much clue there about how he felt towards Sylar's obsession with the embrace. The kiss wasn't being mentioned at all. His eyes darted back to Peter and fixed on him attentively, opting to say nothing and thus reduce his chance of incriminating himself.
Peter stood, pushed his chair in properly, and stepped close. He took the washcloth from Sylar's hand and dropped it on the table, sliding his hand between Sylar's side and arm – first the right, then the left. "Come here." Sylar hugged him back immediately, tucking his head in close to the side of Peter's, feeling the fine, dark, silky hair bunch and shift under his cheek, the faint smell of shampoo in his nostrils. He trembled and squeezed briefly, feeling a profound sense of relief wash through him as Peter sighed and relaxed against him in turn. He was so solid, like a rock supporting the lighthouse which shone its beacon over turbulent waters and through shroud of fog, guiding those who had wandered astray to safe harbor. His strength seeped into Sylar and showed him peace.
"Hey," Peter said softly, speaking into his shoulder, "I know you've been working really hard, doing a lot of soul-searching. Just want you to know, I'm right here with you. We'll figure it out." Sylar squeezed again, wishing he could pull Peter inside of himself, envelope the guy completely so he'd never leave. But too soon, Peter pulled away, gave him a friendly pat, and directed them on to morning errands.
Twice within twenty-four hours, though – that wasn't coincidence. Sylar stalked Peter all morning, crowding too close and trying to touch him. Sometimes he covered it as happenstance; sometimes he didn't bother. Peter gave him a few shy smiles at first, but they faded as Sylar continued to push for as much as he could get. It wasn't until they returned to the apartment for lunch, well past noon, that he realized he'd taken it a bit too far. Peter stepped to the side and refused to go up the stairs first. Scandalized and concerned that he was ruining the best thing he had going for him, Sylar backed off with an effort. He needed to quit looking at Peter and start looking at himself. It was his change that had drawn Peter near, after all. If he wanted that again, he needed to change more. Lunch was awkward and quiet as Sylar ruminated on the new topic.
After the dishes were cleared away, he returned to his seat and brought up the subject himself, rather than waiting for Peter to ask the usual questions. "I know we've gone over this before. A lot. I did it because I could; because I could get away with it. And I know now that's not the real answer. I thought anyone would do it, everyone wanted to, it was natural selection. None of that is the answer, because the real answer is underneath: why would I think that?
"I can point to stories of bullies in middle school and high school teachers playing favorites – anybody but me; I was ignored by everyone but the bullies. I can talk about the very essence of some of us having extraordinary powers and everyone else not – how it seemed like so many didn't deserve what they'd been gifted with. I could even argue that by virtue of having abilities, we have a moral imperative to use them to their fullest, even if that means abusing other people."
He looked up at Peter, his patient, attentive audience, for a long moment, then away again. "I know. We've been through this already. All that and more – dissected my motivations, cracked open my past, ruptured every flimsy rationalization I've used to defend actions that are indefensible. No matter what I say, there are still people dead and others hurt."
He sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. "If I squinted, I was the archetypical hero, right down to the wise, old mentor who dies in the course of the story, but not after imparting to me the path I was to take – in this case, in the shape of a list. Fate had written everything out already, literally. It was all excused because it was 'destiny'. It's easier to take when you let me slap a coat of heroic paint on it and call it good. Hell, easier to talk about if you'd just admit that I'm evil."
"You're not evil."
Sylar looked up at Peter, meeting steadfast eyes that didn't give an inch on this. Not anymore. At first, Peter had entertained the idea, but even then it had seemed half-hearted. It wasn't long before he rejected it entirely and refused to countenance it. Sylar was not a bad guy in Peter's eyes and how he'd made that transformation was a mystery to Sylar. Peter had judged him human and possessed of all human faculties, both the frailties and the strengths. It hadn't meant the questioning had changed much. Peter still wanted to know why.
"Killing … wasn't something rare or exotic to my mind. I thought it was something that happened between people no matter how they felt about each other. My earliest memory was of murder – one person I had loved killing another." He laughed hollowly. "They say that kids always see things as being about them – 'Mommy and Daddy got divorced because I got bad marks in Math' – it was about me. That was inescapable. Everyone I cared about was dead or gone. Then it repeated twenty years later – Mommy dead, Daddy gone.
"Why would I care about these people, Peter, when the people who were supposed to love me turned on me like that?" His voice was pleading, looking for a reason, but Peter wasn't there to give him answers. He couldn't, anyway. This was Sylar's trial to endure. He stared at the floor, looking for an answer, stumbling through the dark. "I loved them – my parents. I wanted to love … others, anyone, really. I wanted … to love, to be … loved." Tears threatened again and he pressed the heel of his hand into one eye socket. "But there was no one there who cared. I was meaningless and therefore I thought everyone else was, too. For once in my life, I'd show them that they couldn't ignore me. I was angry at all those people who had things I wanted – more than just the abilities, they had lives and loved ones and jobs and meaning," he spat out viciously, because that was the core of it. "They thought they were important and I was so sure I wasn't. I thought killing them made me important. It showed them how powerful I was and how wrong and insignificant they were. I didn't care about options or alternatives. I didn't look for any other way to get their powers because the bloody way served all my interests. All I cared about was lashing out and getting away with it. I was going to make everyone hurt for ignoring me and that's the most selfish, stupid, and callous thing imaginable." He shook his head. "I see that now, but it doesn't matter. I've done what I've done. I deserve what I …" He shook his head again, pressing thumbs into tearing eyes. "Someone else in my position would have done something different. They would have tried harder. They wouldn't have killed. They would have stopped themselves." He made a dry chuckle. "But it wasn't someone else; it was me."
He looked up at Peter, realizing something and wondering why he hadn't seen it before. "You're not going to get the answer you want," he said bleakly. "There's no explanation, no cause and effect. I was there and someone else wasn't; I'm the sort of person who turns into a killer under those pressures and other people aren't." He looked down and gave a brief loft of his brows, thinking of his biological father, of Arthur Petrelli, Noah Bennet, and various others. "Well, some other people are, too, but that's just how we are. There's no 'why' to this, Peter. The 'why' is … because I am who I am." He sniffled. "I can apologize for that forever, but it doesn't change anything. Nothing changes." His shoulders sagged in resignation. This really was hell.
Long moments ticked by in stalemate. There was nothing left to do, no apology left to make, Sylar realized, and that realization finally lifted the burden from his heart. He'd done everything possible, everything within his power, to explain himself and satisfy his judge. He was sorry for being who he was, but there was nothing he could do to rewrite his past. He blinked at the table, tears clearing, as he realized, too, that acceptance wasn't something Peter could give him. The only place it could come from was within and somehow in his monologue, he'd come to terms with the motivating forces in his life. Not that he was happy with the events, but he understood them himself, finally, simple and human as they were, stripped bare of rationalizations and justifications. Some people were taller than others; some shorter; some more prone to violence than others; some less. He was both tall and prone to violence. Put in a situation that rewarded that tendency and discouraged other solutions, he'd done things many people (but not all) wouldn't do. There was no emotion or regret that would make the past right – only the open-eyed acceptance of the past as having happened exactly as it had, for the reasons that it had. If he didn't want it to happen again, then he had to accept why it had happened in the first place and work to make sure the future didn't repeat the pattern. That seemed … doable.
The dreamlike quality of the place had never been so strong as when Peter's voice, even softer and more gentle than he'd ever heard it before, invited, "Come out to the couch with me." Sylar did, watching as Peter sat to one end of the furniture and gestured for him to join him rather than sit on the opposite end. In the same tone, Peter continued, "Things can change, Sylar. You have." He took a long, breathless pause, "I have." Peter leaned to the side, lifted his arm, and made an unmistakeable gesture of 'come here'. "You are who you are … and … I think that's okay. Lie with me?"
Sylar blinked in astonishment at what was being offered. He wasn't sure what to call it, but he laid down, the side of his body against Peter's, one arm folded underneath him and the other moving tentatively and unrepulsed around Peter's stomach. His head ended up on Peter's chest with Peter's arm laid over his back. He snuggled up like a little boy even though he was longer-limbed than Peter was. Some other time he would work out fine points of geometry. For now, he contact, the gesture, the offer – he didn't lust for it like he had just hours earlier, but he appreciated it no less. More, even, because now it was something freely given rather than something he'd manipulated Peter into providing. He didn't know why Peter was offering this now, but Sylar hadn't exactly been paying attention as he laid the last of his soul bare. For once, the response of another hadn't mattered as much as his own opinion of himself. He sighed and accepted what Peter gave him, eyes sliding shut in unanticipated bliss.
He could hear Peter being alive. The thrumming thump of Peter's heart wasn't that different from the ticking of a watch. After his ability manifested, people's hearts had bothered Sylar. They unsettled him with their messiness and their irregularity. They raced; they slowed; they skipped beats. It had gotten under his skin and was always there, in the back of his head when dealing with someone, quite a bit worse after getting enhanced hearing. Hearts weren't quite right – a flimsy, unreliable mechanism that begged to be fixed or scrapped altogether. But he'd never taken the time to listen as closely as he was doing now. He'd never focused on that organ the way he had on the brain. He could hear the rushing whoosh of blood being pumped with more mechanical precision than any other part of the body. Properly stimulated, the heart would continue beating even after removal from the host. It was one of the most durable parts of the body, reliable from cradle to grave even if occasionally erratic. If he could learn to appreciate the brain, Sylar thought, he should be able to comprehend the workings of the heart.
Hundreds of beats passed, Sylar's mind keeping itself busy with the puzzle. He heard the heartbeat trip faster for a fraction of a second before Peter's free hand rose. Intention – the heart knows what the body will do before the mind even fathoms it. It's in there, an intuition, guiding the mind about what's possible and not. You can't have one without the other – no brain without the heart to sustain it. Peter moved his hand to Sylar's cheek, stroking slowly with his thumb rather than his fingertips. He's … letting me stay with him. Is this … is this the connection I was supposed to find? Sylar rolled his head to look up at Peter. He didn't look dry-eyed either, no less touched by what was happening between them.
Sylar turned his attention back to Peter's hand, rubbing his face on it in gratitude and channeling his pent-up desire to climb all over the man in that one, elaborate gesture. Peter rolled his hand so Sylar was putting his cheek and nose alternately to palm and back of hand. Sylar made a barely controlled moan at the sign of reciprocation. Through heavy, half-closed lids, he could see Peter smiling now, as though that one shared motion had changed the questions forever. After a few more caresses, the hand finally settled on his shoulder. Sylar gave him a smile that was hopeful and infatuated all at once.
"It's going to be okay," Peter told him. "Between us."
Sylar looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then lifted himself slowly. Pushing forward, he brought his face to Peter's, gaze flickering uncertainly between eyes and lips. With Maya, Elle, and Lydia, he'd taken what he wanted just like with every other part of his life – he'd seized it for himself before it could be taken away. This time, he stopped a few inches away and waited, his expression imploring Peter to prove the promise of his words with actions. Peter waited for that pause and when it came, he raised his hand to under Sylar's chin, drawing him in as he tilted his head, lips sliding into place over Sylar's, mouth moving definitely and securely against his own.
Energy shot through Sylar – and apparently through Peter, as well, because in an instant they were hurrying to change positions. Sylar broke away to raise himself as Peter rearranged to be directly beneath him, then Peter's hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a second kiss. Sylar melted over him, easing down on top of him. He felt himself stiffen almost instantly as Peter's thighs rose on either side of him, Peter's lips parting for his tongue to slip out and tease along Sylar's. It was ticklish and made him jerk, an all-over twitch that came with a hitch in his breathing and a widening of his eyes. Oh my God … That was as far as Sylar's thoughts could go, but his body knew what came next. His heart hammered against his ribs, a better instrument than any clock, pounding out a message more important than the passage of time – it was the existence of life.
"I want you," Peter whispered huskily in his ear. It was verbal ambrosia. What followed was less palatable. "I don't know if we're ready for this. Are you?"
Sylar wanted to agree immediately; he wanted to insist he was ready for anything Peter would allow him and the erection Peter was sporting implied Peter's body, at least, was ready for quite a bit. But the question by itself was sort of staggering. That he was even being asked his desires … It was … respectful, he realized – something he'd had very little of in his life. He was being acknowledged. His opinion, his feelings, mattered. He lifted himself up and off a few inches, getting the distance he needed to give it all of his attention. Were they, truly, ready for this level of intimacy? They were rushing into it; Sylar knew that. He'd rushed with Elle; presumably Peter had with others (Nathan believed as much). Being in a hurry didn't doom a relationship, but it could complicate it. Yet there was no one else here to make things difficult and no reason to wait until a better time. They'd already covered so much ground between them. Sylar wanted to finalize this, to do something clear and unequivocal that showed the connection between them. He didn't expect Peter to deny it, but this act would put fears to rest that hadn't even had a chance to grow yet.
Peter trusted him to know his own mind. That brought a genuine, affectionate smile to Sylar's lips and a softening around his eyes. Options considered, he answered with firm resolve, "Yes. I'm ready. Are you?"
Peter shifted slightly, eyes skimming up and down Sylar's frame. He nodded shallowly, "Yeah," and then wrapped his legs tighter around Sylar's waist, pulling them back together. Fingers curled into his flesh and thighs clamped around him securely. Peter buried his face against Sylar's neck, breath hot against sensitive skin. A shiver of rapidly building desire ran through them both. It was really going to happen! The walls around their hearts were torn asunder, light streaming through both of them and setting their souls dancing in the air, spinning away from one another in a strange, reality-twisting vertigo.
Sylar blinked and jolted as he found himself in the dark, nose full of the smell of drying masonry instead of Peter's delicious scent. His abilities, all of them, stirred to life in the back of his mind as the rest of his consciousness swiftly reorganized its grip on reality. One thing was for sure – he wasn't on his couch, making out with Peter Petrelli, with a warm, sexy, and very willing body pressed to his own. The loss and change was shocking, but it was hardly the first harsh bait-and-switch he'd endured. He felt like he could actually sense his spirit shrinking. The memory of being loved seemed as unreal as anything else in the bizarre dream. Matt Parkman's ability trapped me, just like Candace's did. I must have found the way out. How much of that did I make up along the way? Anger surged up inside of him, along with an uncertainty as to what to do about Parkman's trick. Playing with his heart like that was one of the cruelest things he'd ever had done to him. Before he'd had his enforced siesta, he would have punished Matt in kind. But now? It felt wrong.
There was a noise outside, a faint scuffling. Sylar welcomed the excuse to act. He exerted his powers, channeling a telekinetic blast straight forward. And there was Peter, staggering back from the explosion, then moving forward to look at him as Sylar stepped out. Peter's expression showed no fear of him, regarding him in a familiar manner. Instantly, his rage died as he realized Peter's presence in the dream hadn't been a figment of his imagination. Peter was no demon conjured by an overactive mind to flog a confession out of him. He'd come to save him – could it all be true? His heart leapt to his throat and his spirit rebounded. He didn't dare push for answers, fearing it might all fall apart if he questioned it too much. What he knew for sure was that Peter had come for him, wasn't leaving him, and a few minutes later, he supported him when Matt threatened him. Peter was there, a hand on his back and a presence at his side. Sylar clung to that, remembering dimly that Peter had had a purpose beyond saving Sylar's soul. He had a mission to fulfill and if Sylar knew anything about Peter, it was that the mission would come first.
It was easily enough accomplished. The evening drew to a close without any new demand on their attention. The carnies were safe; Claire had left with the reporters. After one last, vigilant look over the dispersing crowd, Peter sidled closer and slipped his hand into Sylar's. Looking down at their joined hands, Peter rubbed his index finger back and forth. "Do you want to come back to my place?" He glanced up at Sylar then, all dark lashes and darker eyes. Peter looked away when he didn't get an immediate answer; Sylar was literally wordless at the moment. Peter shrugged with affected nonchalance, giving his hand a squeeze and adding, "It's probably best to get you out of here, in case Noah or …"
"Yes." Sylar managed to blurt. He didn't think Peter was seriously considering his safety as the reason for finding some privacy. His heart soared. He could have flown back to Peter's apartment and if he'd been able to teleport, they would have been there already. Peter squeezed his hand again and off they set. They'd held hands while flying, too, but talking while supersonic was impossible. Even though Peter had tried a few bits of sign language, neither of them knew enough to hold a conversation Watching Peter smile shyly and finger-spell his name as they'd rushed through the sky had soothed Sylar's insecurities and charmed him. It allowed him to be patient and stay focused on what he needed to do rather than what he wanted. For there to even be a difference between those two was an exotically new flavor of candy.
With the apartment door finally shut behind them, a few worries surfaced. It was possible, after all, that Peter had just invited him up for coffee or to talk and maybe not for a continuation of where the dream had left off. Sylar supposed those were … okay. They'd still sort of be together, after all. Peter had so many other choices now that they were back. He was a fool to think that wouldn't play a part in things. There would be other missions, he knew, but he didn't know where he'd fit into any of that, if he'd fit at all. To distract himself from any possible disappointment, he looked around the oddly barren apartment, thinking about the various times he or Nathan had been here in the last few years – violence, strangeness, and betrayal came to mind. No wonder he wanted answers. Things have been as fucked up for him as they were for me.
He didn't get to think more before Peter was in his arms, pinning him to the door, pulling him down for an ardent kiss. It obliterated all his doubts and reminded him acutely of how inside-of-his-own-head he'd been living recently and how little regard he'd been giving to Peter. Peter, who wanted him and was expressing that very clearly at the moment – but why? Something about solving his own internal problems had lit a fire of curiosity within Sylar to know more about others. He'd been so focused on his own journey that he'd missed the one Peter had been making parallel to him – how over the years, hatred had cooled to dislike, and then had come the questions – first as interrogation, but then becoming gentle and probing though no less persistent. And while Peter's tone softened, so too had his heart. Somewhere along the line, sympathy had become empathy which had morphed into affection – and maybe even into something more. Sylar cursed himself briefly for not having paid more attention to that ultimate transformation, though he'd been a bit busy with his own.
Peter parted from him just enough to whisper huskily against his lips, "You still want this?"
"All of it," Sylar growled without hesitation this time, kissing back and pushing Peter backwards from the door towards the bed. A flick of his fingers threw the French doors open wide. Peter scrambled onto the bed, pulling off his shirt with enthusiastic abandon. Sylar's shirt followed, the two garments landing atop one another in the corner.
Sylar paused at the bedside and took in the incredible sight of someone eagerly awaiting intimacy with him. Peter was so beautiful and perfect that it seemed almost too good to be true. Peter had had his dramatic rescue of Emma. He had to know Sylar wasn't going to go back to the life he'd had before (any of the various walks of life he'd trodden). And so Sylar found himself contemplating once more the same question Peter had pestered him with so much in the nightmare world, the same one that was already echoing around in his own skull: Why? But rather than torment Peter with years of questions, he had a short cut. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes intent on Peter. "I have an ability from Lydia. It helps me understand people. I want to understand you. Will you let me use it?"
Wide-eyed, Peter blinked at the interruption in the moment, but took the quick de-escalation in stride. "Okay." He nodded slowly as he took in what that meant. "I want you to understand me, so … yeah."
Sylar nodded back, turning to crawl onto the mattress and sit cross-legged before Peter, who was on his knees. Sylar reached out to cup Peter's face with a hand on each handsomely-stubbled cheek. "Using her ability has its perks." He smiled and leaned in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to Peter's lips. He felt Peter stiffen at the foreign tingle of the ability, but he showed his trust by not pulling away. A moment later, Sylar had all the answers he needed – all the mechanisms and complications of Peter's soul were laid bare, every damaged part clear. There were a lot more of them than he'd expected. Leaning back, he observed, "You need a connection as badly as I do."
Peter defiantly pulled his face from Sylar's grasp, leaving Sylar smiling slightly at the display of 'I'm not weak' or perhaps an even more childish, 'I don't need nothing!' But Peter recognized the reaction as well as Sylar did. "Maybe," he allowed and then warned, "Things haven't been good for the people I've fallen for. Think you're up for it?"
A challenge. Peter was not at all as confident and purposeful as he acted. The passionate, pinned-to-the-door kiss of earlier and the scrambling on the bed weren't the indicators Sylar had thought they were. They were still indicators, but instead of a thoroughly thought-out course of action, it was a reckless plunge accompanied by a 'hope for the best'. It was winsome and adorable in that sweet, naïve way of Peter's. He'd take a risk on anyone, even Sylar, and he'd been battered so badly by that openness that his whole life had come apart. Sylar knew how to put it together, and that would start with building him up. "I've taken falls for worse." Sylar cocked his head philosophically, his gaze falling into Peter's. "But not for better."
Peter chuckled uncertainly, wanting to take that as an authentic compliment, but thinking it was so much more likely that Sylar was joking. He didn't look like he was joking. As always, Peter dealt with uncertainty with action and started to pull Sylar down over him to repeat their arrangement on the couch. Sylar stopped him, pulling him right back up. "I want you inside of me," Sylar said seriously, taking Peter's chin and giving him a quick smooch, then backing off a few inches. This was far more important than he suspected Peter knew.
Sylar knew it wasn't enough for Peter to have the anticlimactic non-answer he'd gained in the dream world, that Sylar was as he was. It had been enough for Sylar, but he'd seen in Peter's heart that it wasn't enough for him – not really, not completely. Ultimately, that wouldn't satisfy someone who had so determinedly peeled back every layer of Sylar's being, trying to metaphorically get inside him. To have Peter accept him entirely, forever, Sylar had to let him get inside him physically, to know him in every way, and to claim him. And Sylar so badly wanted to be claimed. It would finalize that connection, just as he'd wanted to do in the dream world.
For a long, dangling moment, Sylar wondered if he'd misread the signs he'd divined with Lydia's ability. Peter's gorgeous, liquid eyes were inches from his own, taking him in and sizing him up. Then with a sudden, decisive huff of breath, Peter pushed forward and kissed him hard and lustily, guiding him over backwards, heads towards the foot of the bed. Sylar squirmed to unfold his legs and then raised his knees around Peter's hips just as Peter had done to him on the couch. He'd never been in this position with a male: face to face. His hands wrapped around the bare skin of Peter's sides, fingers skating across the moving planes of muscle on his back. Peter bent to Sylar's neck, kissing and working his way up in separate applications of lips and teeth. Sylar groaned at the riveting feeling of Peter's breath alternating hot and cool against him. Peter rolled his pelvis in a slow rocking motion, rubbing them together and bringing yet another dimension of pleasure to bear.
A desperate urge to hurry passed through Sylar. He wanted this to happen. He wanted it to be real. He didn't want to get interrupted by dreams or gunshots or Peter's mother calling on the phone at the exact wrong time. He stopped gripping the valley of Peter's spine and instead scrambled at their pants. Peter let him, but moved up distractingly to kiss his mouth, all tongue and pulsing lips, one kiss after another, hard and soft and all over and then just sucking in one lip at a time. Sylar couldn't take it - his eyes rolled back in their sockets as his hands gave up their task only half done and seized Peter's still fully-clothed hips. Even aside from drowning in sensation, he could hardly breathe with the oral assault Peter was laying on him. His own pants were open, his erection straining for release as Peter's matching hardness ground against him.
"Ugh." Sylar tried to pull himself together, vague thoughts about telekinesis and pulling his jeans off getting repeatedly disrupted by Peter's hums and smooches and being awash in the experience of the man being right up in his face and staying there. He finally put his hand on Peter's chest and pushed him away. It took more resolve than he'd expected, but it was the only way he was going to get any more of his clothes off.
Peter took the opportunity to follow his example, ending naked and on his knees between Sylar's legs. As Sylar settled back into his former position, Peter licked his finger and ran it daringly from the tip of Sylar's erect cock to the base, a glowing golden light sparking between the two of them. What the hell is that? Sylar's eyes widened. He was okay with abilities, obviously as he'd just used one to toss his pants over on the growing pile in the corner, but having something completely unknown applied without warning (to his penis of all things) was startling. Everything felt okay, though.
Peter smiled smugly at him and put that hand out to the side, a focused expression passing over his face. Lotion flew to his hand a moment later and Sylar supposed Peter could be forgiven for showing off his single ability when Sylar had more than a dozen. "It's been a while for me," Peter said hesitantly, explaining his lack of prober sexual lubricant as he popped the cap on the bottle. It was unscented at least. "I don't have condoms, either. I'm tested at work; I'm clean. If you'd rather do other things, I'm okay with that …"
Sylar shook his head, crooking an elbow to put his hand behind his head, watching Peter let a little vulnerability show through. "I want you in me," Sylar repeated his objective firmly. He had no idea of his own 'status', but of all his various problems, he'd never had symptoms of that issue. He had regeneration and Peter could acquire that ability from him. STDs were not a realistic concern, but he was glad Peter brought it up. He was thinking, at least – thinking about Sylar and his safety.
Peter nodded, setting aside the bottle as he leaned over Sylar, one hand coming down on the edge of the mattress near his head while the other, slick and searching, moved up between Sylar's legs. Peter kissed him, gentler, slower kisses now than they had been earlier. The back of his thumb found the bottom of Sylar's testicles and stroked back and forth across them, causing his scrotum to involuntarily tighten and draw up. Peter smiled, feeling the tender skin he'd been rubbing go from smooth to wrinkled in a few heartbeats. Wet, lotion-heavy fingers began to probe lower down. Sylar's legs pulled up further, knees high as his gut clenched and anxious butterflies took flight in his stomach. He worried about being too hairy or dirty or having some physical trait previously unbeknownst to him that might make him unsuitable for the act. His hands stroked nervously up and down Peter's wonderfully smooth chest and abdomen. He tried to fight off the feeling of possible inadequacy, but the strongest blow against that was how Peter didn't pause or flinch or turn away. Peter used his skilled digits to smear Sylar thoroughly, the slick, sliding sensation on his anus titillating and tantalizing with the promise/threat of more.
Sylar pulled Peter down for a longer kiss, hands on each side of his face as he called on Lydia's power again. He needed the reassurance it offered. Peter wasn't going to hurt him; Peter's motives were pure (or, well, as pure as you could expect for someone currently overcome with the desire to fuck your brains out). It was what Sylar needed to know – no hidden agenda, no manipulation, no reservations. Peter wanted him, might even love him although he wasn't quite to verbalizing that yet. He was still a lot closer to it than Sylar was, which blew Sylar away that anyone could feel that way towards him at all. He let go the last of his reservations and tried to relax all the right muscles to make this work the way he'd heard it did between people who wanted the pleasure to be mutual.
A single finger breached him and he jerked, wondering, realizing, that Peter had felt what he'd done in using Lydia's power, but hadn't let it interrupt this time. His hips bucked as Peter hooked his finger up and brushed over sensitive, internal parts. Peter showered kisses in a trail across Sylar's cheek and then back along his jawline as he probed and opened him.
"You want me," Sylar whispered to him as earnestly as if it were a profession of his own attraction.
"Don't need an ability to find that out," Peter made a rough chuckle, turning his head to work his way down Sylar's throat. His fingers, plural now, pistoned in and out slowly.
Sylar tipped his head back, baring himself eagerly. Mindful of the dangers of his Adam's apple bobbing around under the circumstances, he took the risk anyway and said, "I didn't hurt anyone for that one. It's special."
Peter lifted and looked at him, hand stilling for a moment before he leaned in to kiss his mouth tenderly and slowly. "You're special no matter what." He eased his hand out, lotioned himself heavily, and moved into position after tucking a pillow under Sylar's rump. Sylar canted his hips up, trying to visualize how the angles were going to work and wishing he'd watched more gay porn in his rather sheltered and limited sexual life. Peter knew what he was doing, though, and he could feel the hot, rounded head of Peter's cock pressing against him, one hand on it to guide it in, the other bracing Peter's upper body as he mounted his partner.
Sylar reached up to pet his face, watching the expressions of concentration and desire play out across Peter's features. He had enough of an idea of what was about to happen to bear down at the right point, feeling the gradual stretching as Peter pressed inside of him bit by careful bit. The feeling went from odd to uncomfortable to something Sylar could only describe as 'hungry' in a far shorter order than he expected. His breathing turned to gasps. He moved his hand from Peter's cheek to slip it behind his neck, holding on as Peter began to flex back and forth, adding a whole new magnitude to the experience. That was new, different, and good. "Oh!" popped out of his mouth unintentionally as Peter prodded his way deeper, the delicate, nerve-filled skin of his ass being pulled and pushed, the muscles of his sphincters being gently coaxed even further open.
Peter stooped to kiss him – long, slow, and unbearably sweet. Finding himself surprisingly impatient, Sylar started moving his hips himself and Peter let him fuck himself on him for a while before taking over with one final push, socketing them together as deep as he could go. Sylar gave up any illusion of dignity and moaned, clenching his hands on Peter's shoulders, then he growled possessively as he tightened his legs around Peter's buttocks. This was his – it was finally his! Peter pushed him down and started riding him harder, tirelessly filling and refilling Sylar's body with his cock. He was taking him, pounding himself into him, and making them one. Sylar offered himself up, giving a loose, smug smirk of immense satisfaction as Peter worked and sweated and pumped away at him.
Sylar's dick was hard between them, bobbing and slapping against his stomach in time with Peter's thrusts. Sylar touched himself occasionally, but mostly he was just along for the ride, thrilled at what was happening. It was so fucking unbelievable. Everything about it made his head spin. He tried to stay focused on Peter and on how much Peter wanted him. He felt loved … and damned if he didn't feel what he imagined love to be, swelling to life inside of him.
Peter stopped for a moment, shifting his weight and displacing Sylar's half-hearted tugging at himself. "I want to feel you come … around me," Peter murmured as he leaned in what was an impressive one-handed push-up, kissing Sylar deeply. Mouth, dick, ass all being stimulated at once by a lover, Sylar was overwhelmed by this growing, glowing, tingling limerent feeling of being high burning inside of him. When the kiss ended, he flopped back, his head dipping off the end of the bed, as Peter wasn't quite as good at keeping them on the furniture while one of his hands was busy. Sylar thought about trying to give them leverage with telekinesis, but … fuck it. He didn't care if they fucked on the floor or hanging from the ceiling. He was getting stroked and pounded in sync and wasn't going to last long enough anyway, although the real reason was that in all of that huge brain of his, he couldn't spare the brain cells. Every one of them was too busy with the experience just as it was.
After a few more seconds, Peter repeated his athleticism of earlier, bending to bite and nip at Sylar's exposed throat. It was so easy for that particular maneuver to be brutal, life-ending even, yet Peter was so delicate, so careful. Sylar felt himself losing it - arousal lit him up even brighter from inside, warming and spreading, coiling through his form until it settled in his balls, a hot, building pressure desperate for release. Nothing else existed but the urge to come, Peter's hand working him, and Peter's shaft filling him. He was wanted, taken, and used – everything he wanted, all at once. He burst out, ejaculating across Peter's hand, his asshole tightening and squeezing around Peter's cock.
"Ha," Peter puffed out triumphantly, moved to speak even if he was lacking a bit in articulation at the moment. "Oh yeah. Baby. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah!" He went back to both hands, bracing himself through his own climax a few moments later. This time, Sylar finally used telekinesis to keep him from taking a fall for Peter in a very literal fashion. It would be exactly the wrong moment for Peter's needs, as the man was grunting and vigorously slamming himself home, shoving into him as hard as flesh would bear. Sylar knew he was being well and thoroughly fucked. Peter's breath caught and his thrusts shuddered to an erratic stop as his cock pulsed, spilling his seed. Finally spent, Peter sank over Sylar and held them together as his hips started moving again, making a few last, parting rolls out of instinct or just indulgence. "Oh … yeah. Fuck me," he muttered. A second later, as sense finally penetrated the fog of lust Peter was in, he noticed there was nothing but empty air beyond Sylar's shoulders. "Uh?"
"Hold onto me." Sylar lifted them both and reoriented them back on the mattress. "There. Safe now."
"Hm. Yeah." Peter nuzzled him, lifting his weight off and slowly extracting himself before returning for more nuzzling and pecking at Sylar's face. The endorphin rush left them both affectionate and cuddling. Sylar's muscles felt watery and bone-deep sore in a few places. For the moment, he elected to leave his regeneration off-line. The feeling was fantastic – like nothing else he'd ever had. To be on the receiving end of a partner who was so attentive to his pleasure was mind-blowing. He felt so vulnerable, yet safe. Peter rubbed his nose against his cheek, asking, "Is this … what you want? Someone to love? Can … Could I be …"
Sylar smiled wanly as Peter tried to pick his way to a declaration he'd made so easily to many people before. It was always easier when you'd just met someone and had little on the line. It was tougher when someone already meant a lot to you, when you were invested, when you felt like you'd lived with them for years and knew them inside and out. That was when there was more to lose, but Peter was still trying gamely to say it, and he was enough of a romantic to think they needed to talk about it, right now. Silly man, Sylar thought, and rescued Peter from his struggle. "Yes. This is what I wanted: someone to-" He paused for a moment, wondering if Peter had intentionally tricked him into saying it first. Even if it wasn't the classic, three-word formula, the meaning was the same. From the sly little smile tickling the corner of Peter's mouth, Sylar knew the answer. Well. So he's not an entirely open book after all. That's good. Clever, clever. Sylar's smile broadened and he finished, "Someone to love, someone to love me."