Title: Raw Deal
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word count: 9,800
Setting: The Wall
Summary: I wanted to write a story where Sylar had emotionless sex with Peter as a routine thing. It was challenging to figure out how that would come to pass, given the personalities of the men involved. It was challenging enough that I failed, but it's a fun story nevertheless.

Sylar watched as Peter ran, muscular legs flashing in even strides, feet flying over the treadmill. His black compression shorts showed off the swells of thigh and buttock. His white t-shirt rippled and shifted with each surging step. He must have been running nine or ten miles an hour, maybe more. It wasn't record-breaking stuff, but Peter was pounding it out as hard as he could. He'd obviously been at it a while. He wasn't a natural runner; his bandy legs didn't favor it; but he had heart, he was strong, and he was fit. It showed.

It was the first time the raw physicality of Peter Petrelli had made an impression on Sylar. Prior to this, it had been his mere physical presence Sylar had noticed, although it had proven difficult to accustom Peter to sharing that presence with him. It wasn't like Peter had invited him here to work out with him. Sylar had been wandering, looking for the man like he usually was (seriously – what else was there to do? Stalking Peter was way more interesting than repairing yet another watch), and saw him going into this building from nearly three blocks away. By the time he'd gotten here and found the right room, Peter had worked up a sweat.

Peter had been running long enough that his form was starting to suffer. His feet didn't come down as evenly as before, but he was too stubborn to give up right away. With a grimace, Peter threw his head back, stuck his chest out, and redoubled his efforts. For a while, it worked. Then he nearly went down when a tired foot landed wrong. Peter flailed at the settings, but it didn't help. He had to yank out the magnetized clip to activate the emergency stop. Then he staggered with the precipitous drop in speed, grabbing the support bars to either side as his chest heaved with exertion.

Sylar smirked. He snagged a white towel off the stack next to the door and sauntered across the fitness room. Peter saw him coming, although it was the first Peter had noticed him. The one-time empath stared, too blown to glare and too breathless to speak. Peter watched Sylar's face all the way, never glancing towards the towel. With no indication that Peter was even aware of the cloth, Sylar had the option of putting it between them and offering it like a supplicant, or he could do something more direct.

With an amused smile, he reached up and blotted the perspiration from Peter's brow, swiping the plastered hair out of the man's eyes. Peter smelled good, he noticed. He was sweaty, yes, but he'd only just begun to sweat so there was as yet no underlying funk to it. It was that first flush of pheromones people gave off as they became active. It was the sexiest scent Sylar had ever come across.

The realization must have shown on Sylar's face, because Peter rolled his eyes and snatched away the towel. Sylar didn't mind. Towel gone, he didn't withdraw his hand right away. Instead, his fingers caressed down Peter's temple, over his cheekbone, then his jawline, following that to his chin, where Sylar's thumb curled up to hold it gently. Peter had frozen, his eyes widening slightly at being intimately touched. His breathing changed, tense now with sharper inhalations. But he had yet to actually object.

In his most sultry voice, Sylar rumbled, "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Anything?" Peter huffed out with disbelief.

Sylar rubbed his thumb across Peter's chin and let his hand drop away. In case there was any doubt of what he was insinuating, he took his time to look up and down Peter's body. The compression shorts really left little to the imagination. Peter had a nice body, firm and powerful. "Anything at all," Sylar promised.

Peter huffed out a breath in half a laugh, almost said something, then changed his mind and blurted out, "Bend over then!" like it was a joke.

Sylar tilted his head, his expression serious. He cringed a little inside at how quickly Peter was taking him up on it and how laughable the man seemed to think it was. The approach had been spontaneous – Sylar hadn't harbored a single sexual thought about the younger Petrelli until just moments before. If the spandex was any indication, Peter wasn't aroused in the least. Nevertheless, Sylar put his hands to his waistband, unfastening the top button. "Right here?" He glanced around at the various pieces of exercise equipment. It seemed equally likely that Peter would back out as proceed, or perhaps he'd just humiliate Sylar in some way, like demanding he drop trou and then not carrying through as though the goods were not up to par. Sylar had no idea if Peter even had any homosexual experiences, despite racking his brain (and Nathan's broken memories) for information on the topic.

Peter was staring at him with intensity, humor gone. "No," he said shortly. Shaking his head as though he still didn't believe what Sylar had offered, he added, "I have to clean up." Peter tossed the towel at Sylar and left the room through a door next to the men's sign, leaving Sylar not sure what he should do. He caught the damp towel, then sniffed at it when the door had shut behind Peter. He supposed he could jerk off to the scent and imagine what Peter might have done to him. He stood there for a moment longer, until it occurred to him that the mention of getting clean might be an invitation rather than a good-bye. He kicked himself into gear and went to find out.

Peter was nearly naked when Sylar walked in, having obviously wasted no time in taking off his workout clothes. Sylar stood blinking, looking back. Mostly he was startled at how unfazed Peter was. The man stood there like he'd been seen in the buff by hundreds and never suffered the least reproach for it. Sylar admired that degree of comfort in one's own skin. After a few beats, Sylar let his eyes drop, roaming over the parts of Peter's body that had been concealed under clothing before. The man was indeed not aroused. He was normally proportioned as far as Sylar could tell in the flaccid state. Grudgingly taking his eyes off Sylar, Peter bent to finish undressing, stripping off his socks to complete his nudity.

Sylar still wasn't sure if this was an invitation, but he certainly hadn't been told to get lost. That was something Peter had never shied from before and he'd taken plenty of previous opportunities to say it. Sylar stripped off his t-shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He'd expected to see Peter ogling him when done, but instead saw only Peter's pert butt disappearing through the hazy plastic curtain that screened off the shower area. He finished disrobing quickly. Sylar's feet slapped against the cold tile as he followed.

There were four shower heads in a communal setup. Peter had taken the one on the far left, leaving Sylar two out of three choices which weren't an invasion of Peter's space and violation of commonly accepted locker room etiquette. Sylar naturally took the one he wasn't supposed to be at – the second to the left, immediately next to Peter. Peter glanced at him a few times, brief, sly looks out of narrowed eyes followed by looking away. But again, he didn't tell Sylar to fuck off. He didn't tell him anything at all, which Sylar considered quite revealing. Sylar stepped under the water and soaped up thoroughly using the wall-mounted soft soap dispenser. He wanted to get clean as soon as possible, just in case something was about to happen. Peter did nothing but mind his own business and occasionally look his way. When he was done with the preliminaries, Sylar made a show of stretching and running his hands down his body in a manner he hoped was seductive. He would have found it seductive if Peter had done it, that was for sure. It gained him a few more looks. Gratifyingly, they were more lingering than the ones before.

Sylar slicked his hair out of his face, letting the water beat down on his chest as he did his best wet-hair-flip. He was considering how to show off further when Peter asked, "What are you offering?"

Sylar gave Peter a once-over look. The man was facing him, water hitting his back and side. Peter's right hand was near his hip. His left scratched idly at his belly. Sylar gestured simply at his own body. "This." It was flesh. He'd been immolated, electrocuted, experimented on and drugged to death, and had carved his name into his skin like it was wood. Whatever puerile use Peter wanted to put his body to was fine with him if it bought him time and attention from the world's only other resident. It was the first and only thing he could think to offer that might make up for a few of the lesser wrongs he'd committed to Peter over the years. The greater wrongs couldn't be fixed even if he gave everything he was, inside and out. But maybe Peter would find him more tolerable if he was getting something out of it.

Peter's eyes strayed from his face, gaze trailing down and back up. He took a half step closer to Sylar, reaching out between them with his left hand. Sylar froze at first, but when Peter didn't close the distance, Sylar took a half step of his own. His body was nearly in Peter's reach. He put his hand out where Peter could touch it. Peter did, fingers lightly skimming over the back of his hand. The small, fleeting contact made Sylar's face contort in either a grimace or a smile. He wasn't sure. His eyes burned. He was very glad his face was already so explainably wet from the shower. He struggled not to breathe out a sob of air. He didn't know, in his own head, why that voluntary contact meant so much to him, but it did. Peter wasn't acting especially lewd (aside from the basics of standing naked in the shower touching another man's hand). Given his expression and body language, it wasn't step one in 'throw Sylar to the floor and butt-fuck him until he bleeds'. It was gentle. Careful. Exploring. It was a delicacy Sylar knew he didn't deserve.

Peter moved on to touch along his lower arm, stirring the pattern of dark hairs that the water had turned into parallel lines. Peter mussed them with a half shrug and an equally halfway smile. He looked amused. His expression was warmer than Sylar had yet seen it since Peter's surprising arrival. Sylar's own expression loosened as some of the tension fell away from him. Obviously, he was not barking up the wrong tree here. Peter stepped closer, his interest clear. His hand drifted from Sylar's arm to his hip, then ticklishly crossed the sensitive flesh in a horizontal line from one hip to the other. If Sylar had been erect, the hand would have bumped into it. As it was, Peter's fingers trailed through a generous amount of pubic hair. Sylar shuddered, mouth opening as he breathed out in a rush. He wasn't sure what to say … or do. Peter's other hand went to his shoulder and he was suddenly pushed back against the wall, out of the warm spray of the shower. The shock of the chilly tile against his back and buttocks dispelled the dangerously vulnerable emotion he'd been feeling. More than a little, the roughness of the handling aroused him.

"Why?" Peter still had that half-smile on his lips. Generous lips. Well-formed in a handsome face with wet hair plastered across his forehead just like it had been after running on the treadmill. Moisture was beaded all over the man's face. He smelled so good. Peter was right up in his face, challenging him. The hand that had been on his shoulder caught Sylar's wrist as he raised it with the intention of touching. Peter pinned it to the wall. Along with the pressure of his other hand on Sylar's hip, it was keeping him where Peter wanted him, controlling him. Judging from Peter's face, he still seemed to think Sylar was joking, even with Sylar's half-full dick prodding against some portion of Peter's anatomy.

"Because," Sylar stated insistently, in the same motion that he leaned in and captured Peter's mouth, going for it entirely. His lips sealed over Peter's, stifling an objecting noise as he quickly grabbed the back of Peter's neck with his free hand. Peter tried to pull back. Sylar didn't allow it, following him away from the wall, sucking greedily at his mouth. His tongue made entrance, slipping between Peter's lips despite the very real danger of getting badly bitten. His hand turned upward, cradling the back of Peter's head for a better grip, making a fist in the man's hair to better hold him. Peter made another noise and this time it was so deliciously far from objecting.

Petrelli stopped trying to get away and instead pushed back, shoving Sylar against the tile once more. Peter's body pressed fully into him when they hit the wall, making it apparent by Peter's hardness that Sylar wasn't the only one seriously turned on by this point. Peter's tongue slid over Sylar's. The shock of sensation was as exquisite as it was unexpected. Sylar's eyes rolled back in his head as he reveled in Peter's newly-kindled enthusiasm for him.

Peter twisted, breaking free from the kiss and yanking away from the grip to his hair at the same time. Sylar grappled with him, trying to keep the man from getting away, but Peter's shoulder slammed into Sylar's chest, knocking some of the breath out of him. He was as surprised by the violence as he was turned on by it. Freed now, Peter didn't flee. Instead, he grabbed both sides of Sylar's head and jerked his face down for another consuming kiss, making a slow thrust that drove the tip of his dick up the lower part of Sylar's wet belly. Thrilled the encounter was far from over, Sylar reached down for both butt cheeks of that glorious ass he'd admired in the spandex earlier. He dug in his fingers and kneaded the firm muscles, pulling their bodies together so he felt Peter's hot hardness pressed into him, so he felt his own dick against the other's body. It was perfect. Peter moaned into his mouth. He tasted as perfect as he smelled.

Sylar boldly ran the fingers of one hand down Peter's crevice, stretched open and to one side by his other hand. He'd never felt this part of another person, nor even wanted to until now. Now he wanted every part of this man to be his. Peter shuddered against him, trailing kisses across Sylar's cheek and down to his neck. "Oh yes," Sylar whispered. "Such a dirty boy." His fingers probed. Would Peter allow this? Was he crossing a line? Sylar had never been one to hesitate – he didn't now.

Peter dropped a hand and wedged it between them, wrapping it around their dicks and pulling them up and down together. Sylar had given himself better hand jobs, but never before with another penis sliding along next to his, nor a stranger's hand doing it instead of his own. It felt so good this way. He prodded with his fingers, knowing he'd found Peter's opening when the man gasped against him and bit the skin over his collarbone. Sylar groaned, stiffening even further if that were possible.

Neither one of them was going to last. Even wet, there was enough resistance in Peter's asshole that Sylar could only make entry with the wriggling tips of two fingers, but even that much caused Peter to redouble his efforts in jerking them off. He bit Sylar's upper chest hard enough to bruise. The idea of being marked by Peter, used by him for Peter's satisfaction, and the knowledge that he was getting Peter off shot all through him. He might not have fucked Peter, but he'd penetrated him sexually and with his partner's enthusiastic consent. This was real. It was real no matter what happened between them, no matter what denials Peter wanted to throw out later – Sylar would know he'd had Peter Petrelli and been wanted by him in a way that could never be taken away.

He felt himself light up inside with a fire that spread until he boiled over, hot spunk jetting and surging out of both of them. He could feel Peter's ass clenching around his fingers with the orgasm. Sylar grinned savagely at the victory of making Peter come with him. He released the man so he could push him back enough to claim his mouth as the aftershocks coursed through both of them. Peter was so delightfully compliant, bending to his will and tonguing him in return in an easy fashion. Sylar kept at it, his kisses getting gentler as the hot fire of lust gradually blew itself out. In the aftermath, the tile across his shoulder blades seemed colder. He saw Peter's skin prickle with gooseflesh.

Sylar steered them both, still embracing, into the continuing warm spray of the shower. It washed them clean, pouring over their bodies in scores of complicated rivulets. Sylar pushed Peter's hair out of the way only to have it stubbornly wash back across the man's face. He smiled in lazy amusement and kissed a batch of bare skin, flicking the tip of his tongue between his lips to taste his partner one more time.

Peter's half-smile came back, more relaxed than before. "Okay," he said with a sigh, nestling against Sylar for the moment. "That was a good answer. You win that one."

A week later …

It shouldn't have taken most of a week to find Peter again, but it did. The man had dressed and disappeared after the shower, gone by the time Sylar had his shoes on and tried to follow. Peter wasn't in the streets around the building, so he must have hidden inside. But a search of the building turned it up empty. By that time, Peter was long gone, either from Sylar accidentally missing him (it was possible) or Peter intentionally ducking him (which seemed more likely). The time that followed wasn't the first time since Peter had turned up in the world that Sylar had gone days without seeing him. At least now he had souvenirs – a bite mark on his chest and a towel he'd subsequently been more intimate with than most people were with their lovers. He would have thought the fooling around with Peter would have bought him something more personal – a few words, maybe some time.

Finally, his roving eye caught motion through the big glass front of a bar he was about to blithely walk past. Inside, Peter was playing pool, his back to the street and showing no signs of being aware Sylar had found him. Bells over the door chimed to announce his presence when Sylar walked in. Peter looked up at him with a long, steady, unwelcoming gaze, making Sylar wonder if Peter had known he was out there and just been ignoring him. Sylar looked back to make it clear he wasn't going to be scared away. Eventually Peter returned to his billiards and took his shot, sinking the second-to-last ball in play.

Sylar leaned against the wall next to the windows, watching as Peter disregarded him in favor of the game. The last ball went in shortly. Peter racked up the next set, then walked over to hand his cue to Sylar. "Your game."

"What?"

Peter gestured at the table. "It's your game. You play."

Sylar looked at the cue stick, then the pool table, wondering if Peter was being literal or metaphorical. In either case, he moved to the top of the table, lined up the ball, and took his stroke. Peter wandered over to a nearby chair, taking a seat. There was a six pack of long neck bottles on the table next to him. He took a drag from an open one and sprawled back lazily, watching.

"It's your turn," Sylar said. He'd put the fourteen ball in the back right corner pocket on the break.

Peter shook his head, waving at the game with his beer. "Table's yours. Play it out."

Sylar grit his teeth uneasily, but Peter was at least not leaving. The simple act of staying in the same room was an improvement. Sylar went back to the game, realizing shortly that Peter's eyes were following him wherever he went. It changed the game completely. All Sylar's shots from then on required a lot of bending over, excessive cue stick stroking, and just had to be made from Peter's side of the table. Peter opened a second beer and studied him like a diehard fan intent on watching the home team best their traditional rivals.

When Peter started in on his third bottle, Sylar came to the side of his chair. He bent over him, reaching for the open beer as he announced, "I'm thirsty." He claimed Peter's drink for himself without so much as a twitch of objection. Still leaning over Peter with one hand braced against the table, Sylar tilted the bottle up even though he drank no more than a sip – just enough to get the flavor in his mouth. It was some dark, Irish brew. Sylar didn't care for it, but he was finally getting the kind of attention he'd been craving since that encounter in the shower. Peter touched his hip and looked up at him as though checking for permission. Sylar acted like he hadn't noticed and mimed another drink. Then he felt Peter's hand slide over his ass, caressing the seat of his pants and lightly scratching down his nearer leg.

"Mm," Sylar crooned, setting the bottle aside. He looked back at Peter with something akin to relief. Peter gave him that half-smile. It was knowing this time. Peter let his hand trail up Sylar's inner thigh until it came to his crotch. It traveled up the seam to the small of his back. He wrapped his fingers into the waistband and tugged.

Sylar straightened and Peter sighed, looking up at him with bedroom eyes. He still held the back of Sylar's jeans, fingers curled around the waistband possessively. Peter said, "It's too bad we keep doing this in places that don't have any proper lube."

Sylar stuffed his hand into a pocket, fishing out a black foil packet with silver lettering. He presented it to Peter, who took it and studied the writing. It was premium-grade stuff. Sylar hadn't been looking for Peter this long without being ready in case he found him. Peter was still reading the label when he told Sylar, "Take your pants off." Peter set the tube aside, unfastened his own pants, and pushed pants and underwear to mid-thigh. Sylar stripped down to his socks before he realized this time Peter wasn't actually taking anything off. Sylar stood there uncertain and suspicious, wondering if he should put something back on to keep things fair.

Peter had opened the lube and put half the packet on his fingers. "Come here," he said, patting the end of the seat next to his leg. "Put one of your feet here. The other on the floor, there."

Sylar sidled up and did as he was bade, even if that put his junk embarrassingly close to Peter's face. He worried that he smelled, because even though he'd brought the lube (and condoms, not that Peter had mentioned those), there was nothing he could do about the build-up of crotch funk after roaming the streets for hours looking for Petrelli's latest hideout. He hoped Peter would politely ignore it, or have him turn around so Peter had better access to what he was undoubtedly more interested in.

Peter positioned his hand palm up, thumb and pinkie finger extended slightly to either side, lubricant piled on the three fingers in the middle. His hand went between Sylar's legs, where Sylar supposed the thumb and pinkie finger helped guide it. He really didn't notice, so thoroughly distracted was he by Peter putting his mouth directly on the head of Sylar's dick.

"Uhh," Sylar grunted, looking down at the dark-haired top of Peter's head. Peter's other hand was wrapping itself around his still limp shaft, picking it up and kneading it with a milking motion. Peter pulled the loose skin back and sucked on the glans, provoking another surprised groan. Sylar put his hands on Peter's shoulders, gripping him. Peter's other hand had unerringly found its destination. Fingers and cool lube met his asshole, swirled around, and then teasingly began to penetrate him. Sylar leaned forward slightly, unintentionally pushing his rapidly stiffening dick deeper into Peter's mouth. He couldn't believe he was actually getting head from the guy, but that was precisely what was happening.

"You filthy, filthy boy" he breathed, rubbing at the man's shoulders. There wasn't much else he could do but stand there and be pleasured. Two fingers breached his ass almost simultaneously. Sylar groaned again, then whimpered. He couldn't figure out how to move, which he dearly wanted to do. Peter had his entire penis in his mouth now. The hand which wasn't pumping slowly at his ass was cupping Sylar's balls, gently rolling and tugging at them. So many buttons were being pressed at once that Sylar was finding it hard to breathe. The blow job was hot, wet, and incredibly stimulating. He could feel Peter's tongue laving over him, licking him and pressing the head of his dick against the roof of Peter's mouth where he could better suck on him. The fingers in his ass moved in and out and were joined by a third, stretching him with a delicious feeling of fullness. Sylar was amazed he'd managed to accommodate them so easily, especially after how difficult it had been to get inside of Peter. Maybe, Sylar thought, he was a slut or his ass was loose or he was defective somehow. Used. Damaged goods.

He worried Peter would notice. He worried Peter would think he wasn't worthwhile and resent Sylar for whatever others had been there first. He worried this even while Peter had three fingers buried in his ass stroking his prostate as he deep-throated Sylar's cock from the front. Sylar moved his hands from Peter's shoulders to his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it as he panted and shuddered, his emotions twisting up inside with guilt, shame, and rapidly building ecstasy. Sylar looked to the ceiling. For the first time in many years, he prayed. There were no words to it. No thoughts brought it into form. It was nothing but a plea for mercy, for grace, for protection, for forgiveness. There was an acknowledgement of his sin, that he was filthy, that he was undeserving … and that he was about to come anyway, which he did with a spasmodic jerking of his hips that Peter rode out like a pro.

"Ah yeah. Fuck yeah," Peter said when he finally lifted away. Sylar wondered belatedly how the man had managed to breathe through all of that. Peter pushed Sylar's foot off the chair. "Turn around." The other half of the lube went into his hand, then Peter stroked it up and down over his very erect dick. Sylar turned, feeling spent and a little dazed. He didn't understand what was happening until Peter took his hips and pulled him backwards, bringing his ass down into Peter's lap.

Oh. Oh! Now he understood. He felt the slicked up tip of Peter's penis find his lubed and prepped hole on the first try. Peter nudged at his hip and so he squatted deeper, feeling it slip inside him. Just like with the fingers, it was too easy. Sylar could only conclude he had a whore's ass. Maybe something had happened to him when he was in the clutches of the Company, when he'd been unconscious or too drugged to remember. Maybe they'd amused themselves with him until he was worn out, permanently slack. And now Peter knew. Peter, who was busily thrusting into Sylar's body, the chair squeaking madly under him.

Sylar panted, trying only slightly to help out with his motions. Mostly he let Peter bugger him however Peter wanted. That was the deal, after all. Sylar's now-limp dick flopped between his legs. He rested his hands on his knees to better brace himself. It wasn't that bad … really. It didn't hurt, despite Peter plunging into him in the most unnatural of violations. Sylar stared forward, his gaze a hundred-yard stare out the windows and into the empty street as Peter vigorously pounded away at him.

He felt it when Petrelli orgasmed. Despite how long it felt like it had taken, Sylar knew the process hadn't been much time in actuality. They were both hard up. Coupling was a release sorely needed. Peter pulled him down on him so fully that Sylar was literally sitting on his lap. Peter's dick was buried to the hilt up his ass, still throbbing faintly as Petrelli emptied the contents of his balls inside of Sylar. Sylar was still panting. His skin was clammy. His stomach was a knot of tension. He tried to control the shivers, but they happened anyway.

Peter wrapped his arms around him and drew him back on top of him. He held him firmly, like a reassuring hug. He'd stopped moving his hips entirely. The man had become quiet, the heavy breathing of before was controlled now, like he was listening intently. "Sylar?" Peter said softly.

"Yes," Sylar got out. His teeth were clenched as he tried to hold himself together. He put one hand over Peter's forearms, holding them to him and keeping him from touching anywhere else.

"Was that your first time?" There was a tone to Peter's voice that made it clear he had only just now figured that out and that it wasn't really a question.

"Obviously not." Sylar felt some of the tension bleed away as he regained some self-control. Very slowly, he moved Peter's hands up and down his front, petting himself with them. Peter let him. Sylar felt the man's lips begin kissing his back as though Sylar's answer had no bearing on Peter's affections. Sylar's breathing slowed. It looked like it might be okay. Peter didn't ask further stupid questions. Peter knew the damage he was dealing with now. Whether he discarded Sylar or not was out of Sylar's hands. If Peter's current caresses and soft kisses were any indication … then that might not be in the cards.

Sylar looked back at Peter as much as he could, but he was too tall to kiss from the position. Peter gave him a nudge that he interpreted as permission to move. He rose, feeling the bizarre, wet disengagement of their bodies. Sylar turned and climbed right back on Peter's lap, settling on him as much as possible given the configuration of the chair. Sylar hugged him close.

Peter returned the hug. "Easy, buddy." He snugged his arms around Sylar, his face against Sylar's shoulder. Sylar's face was against the side of Peter's head, hair tickling against him. He ignored it, valuing the closeness more. He picked at the fabric of Peter's shirt for a moment, wishing it were gone so they had more skin contact, then accepted it as it was. He felt Peter give him a tiny, sweet kiss on the shoulder.

"I could get used to this," Sylar murmured. It wasn't that bad. The more he sat here and considered what had just happened, the more he decided the act had been not just endurable but actually pleasant. Maybe even pleasurable, if he could relax and let himself enjoy it next time.

"I hope you do," Peter said back in the same quiet tone.

Sylar felt his eyes burn and his nose get stuffy. This time there was no handy shower to hide his stupid, overly emotional reaction to the inexplicable kindness Peter kept offering him. "I don't deserve to." He hid his face in Peter's hair.

Peter reached up and petted Sylar's hair, finger-combing it back and gathering it at the nape of Sylar's neck. "You probably don't," Peter said, sounding tired. "But you're lucky. I don't care about what you do and don't deserve, Sylar. You lost that from me after what you did." He pulled back on the hair he'd been stroking into a ponytail. Sylar's head was obliged to follow the pressure, sitting up and leaning away from his lover. He blinked, knowing there were tears on his face.

Peter reached up and dried the tracks of moisture with the back of his hand. He let go of Sylar's hair. "Did I hurt you?" Sylar shook his head immediately. "Are you okay?" Sylar nodded. Peter didn't look like he believed him, but he gave him a push anyway. "Get up then. Get dressed. I need to clean up."

Sylar stood, grabbing up some of his clothes and watching Peter warily in case Petrelli made a run for it. Peter pulled up his pants and was ready to go, but the only place he went was behind the bar to make use of the sink. Despite Sylar knowing there was an exit back there, he took his time getting dressed. He couldn't make Peter stay. That he was sure of. He was deeply relieved when Peter came back to retrieve his drink. Sylar finished lacing up his shoes while Peter downed half of it, swished a few times, and then finished it off. He stared across the pool table and out into the street. Sylar stood to his side, watching him. Peter asked, "Is this going to be a regular thing – the fucking?"

"I am at your service."

Peter bobbed his head in a single nod. He looked at his empty bottle, then said, "Last time, I asked a question about why. I assumed from your answer that you were horny. Or bored. Or both." Peter rolled the bottle between his hands, looking at it. "That's not what was going on. Do you understand that I'm not here to spend time with you?"

Shamed, Sylar shut his eyes and nodded. Peter's boundaries were not where Sylar wanted them to be, even if they were far more generous than he had a right to expect from someone whose brother he'd murdered.

"If we're fucking," Peter went on, "fine, then we're fucking, but that doesn't change the past. You got that?"

Sylar winced and looked away. He didn't answer, or look back when he heard the bottle clink on the table, or when the bells chimed over the door as Peter walked out. He stayed in the empty bar until the stupid tears quit flowing, then made himself presentable and went back to fixing watches.

Four weeks later …

There was a polite knock at his door. Sylar looked out the peephole, surprised and unsurprised to see the world's only other resident. He opened the door, puzzled at why Peter would come visiting him. A second later he realized – after weeks apart, no doubt Peter had grown restless. Sylar shrank a little and resigned himself – not that he expected the sex would be bad (the man had been faultlessly kind on that front), but it was a reminder that he couldn't make Peter want to be around him for any reason other than allowing himself to be used in one way or another. On the threshold, Peter extended a wrapped package. Sylar took it automatically. It felt like a book. He raised his brows in question at Peter.

"Birthday present."

"It's not my birthday."

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a present. Like, the present." At a loss, Sylar looked from the package to Peter. Peter shook his head and walked past Sylar, finding the couch and settling on it. "Never mind. I thought it might help you pass the time. I hadn't seen you around much."

Sylar shut the door. He looked at the package, then unwrapped it. It was indeed a book. Peter had somehow correctly guessed his reading preferences despite limited information. It was either blind luck, or he'd put a lot of thought into it and perhaps some detective work. "Thank you," Sylar said sincerely. He set it on an end table and gestured at the side of the room where he slept. "I have a bed, if you'd prefer."

Peter looked over at it blankly for a moment, then chuckled. "Yeah, okay, maybe later." He didn't budge from the couch. "I, um, I want to get to know you." He waved a hand at the gift tome. "When I saw you last, we talked about the past. Or at least I did. This is the present."

Sylar looked to the book, getting the double entendre, realizing there was at least one additional layer of thought in Peter's actions tonight. Thought that Peter had had because of him. Something warm and hopeful stirred inside him. He rubbed his fingers across the light embossing of the hardcover.

Peter went on, "What have you been doing? What do you do? It's been a while. You've been here for years overall." Peter shrugged. "How do you spend your time usually?"

Sylar swallowed, nervous now as he began to realize Peter hadn't come here to get laid. Or if he had, he wanted more than just fucking. "I fix watches," he said defensively.

Peter nodded. "Okay. Cool. What kind?"

"Analog."

"As opposed to digital?"

Sylar nodded slowly, feeling himself relax a little. Peter wasn't attacking him. He was just asking questions. Silly questions, but they weren't painful or embarrassing. Maybe he could get through this without looking like a complete doofus. Slowly he said, "I was trained to repair chronographs of all kinds."

"Really?" Peter bobbed his head once. "Trained? Was that a job or a hobby?"

"Both."

When Sylar didn't continue, Peter prompted him again. "What's a chronograph?"

"It's a timepiece: watches, pocket watches, clocks, grandfather clocks, and others. I can also repair any of a variety of related clockwork devices similar enough in design and function that the principles are the same." He had no idea how to answer in a conversational manner, so the words came out more like a stilted entry on a resume. If Peter didn't like it, Sylar figured he could stop asking questions.

"Cool. But not digital stuff because of the circuitry?"

Sylar nodded, relaxing a little more as none of the judgment he'd expected materialized. "I'm not an electrician."

Peter picked up on the faint whiff of disdain. He tilted his head. "Is there something wrong with digital stuff?"

Sylar shook his head, moving restlessly over to his workbench as though to protect it. "No, of course not. Digital is fine. It serves its purpose. It tells the time. But it's not a work of art – not the same way."

"Yeah? Tell me about that."

Sylar cocked his head, regarding Peter like he was the strangest sort of person. The interest looked genuine, which was so odd. He answered more thoroughly, letting a little of his actual passion bleed through. "True chronographs are intricate, precise, a mastery of the mind over matter, taking base materials and crafting them with such care and skill that they interlock exactly, performing complicated functions as designed. It's like an orchestra – every piece has its place. You wouldn't go to a concert just to hear a recording. That's what digital devices are – a recording, a facsimile of true art and talent. They have a function, but ..." Sylar leaned against his work bench, frowning. "These days people who want a watch go to Wal-Mart and buy whatever's cheap. Then when it quits working, they throw it away and buy another. Or they just use their phone. It's stupid – what I do. No one needs that anymore."

"That's not true." Peter snorted. "We've had photography for over a hundred years, Sylar, and yet people still appreciate paintings. Some pay millions of dollars for them, even new stuff. We have recordings all over the place, and yet good concerts are still packed. What you're describing is rare. That makes it valuable."

Sylar looked back and forth between Peter's eyes. Was he really saying that being a watchmaker was something special? "It's boring," he said, his voice faltering, remembering some of the dismissive things his mother had said of his occupation. "It's not sensible. I would be better off working in a bank."

Peter shook his head earnestly. "That's not true either. Listen, I had your ability once. I remember looking at a watch, seeing it come apart, seeing it go back together, and really understanding what made it work, how all the parts went together. That was fantastic, Sylar! It felt incredible. It was like the first time in my life that things made sense. I liked that."

"You … liked my ability?" He felt warm, not just inside, but on his skin as well. He hoped he wasn't blushing.

"That part of it, yeah. That was cool."

Sylar blinked at him. "You're telling the truth, with all this?"

"Yes." Peter tilted his head and gave Sylar a steady, honest gaze.

"Why?"

"Because."

It took Sylar a moment to realize Peter was feeding his own words (or word) back to him. He scoffed, frowned, and looked away, then back at Peter as hope nagged at him. Petrellis were born liars, but there was no reason for Peter to lie to him. He already had access to Sylar's pants. The only reason he might be sitting there running his mouth and prompting Sylar to run his was because he liked what he was hearing.

In a soft tone, Peter said, "You've been a lot of different people. Maybe the guy who saves everybody at the carnival isn't the same one who killed my brother."

"What if I am – that same person?"

Peter sighed. "You are who you are, Sylar."

Sylar drew in a deep, unsteady breath at the cryptic answer. He looked at Peter's brown eyes, fixed on him with a calm confidence that hadn't been there weeks earlier, when Peter had avoided his gaze most of the time and refused to give him the time of day. "Yes. Who I am is my business and no one else's. I'm not going to be that person – the one I used to be – if I have any choice in it. I know what I want now."

"What's that?"

"A genuine human connection. Can you give me that? Or are you just going to walk away when you're done with me?" Sylar sneered, finding himself suddenly hot and breathing harder. Peter met his eyes for a few moments, then dropped his gaze. Sylar went on, his voice getting embarrassingly choked with emotion, "Because if you can't, then go. And I'll stay here fixing my watches!" Just like that, the offer was off the table. He was available on his own terms only – and if Peter would not give him basic human consideration, then Peter could fuck off.

Peter drew his shoulders in and moved his feet closer together. "I don't want to go." He was still looking down.

Sylar blinked at the top of Peter's head. He realized he hadn't been able to find the bravery to stand up for himself until he'd been convinced Peter was already giving him the respect he was demanding. It was cowardly. And now he was berating Peter for something Peter clearly wasn't doing anymore. Sylar swallowed, looked away, and took a few deep breaths to center himself. He said, essentially to himself, "Like I told Luke, 'Emotions make you sloppy'."

"There's nothing wrong with your emotions." Peter said slowly. He looked up at Sylar. "What we did together made me feel some things, too. And no matter how much I tried to tell myself it would never work because I wouldn't be doing right by Nathan, it wasn't what I was here for, people's lives depended on me staying focused, and I'd shut that door after Caitlyn anyway … I still felt my anger slipping away."

Sylar cocked his head, eyes widening as he considered Peter's admission. There was even more on the line than a simple connection. Peter was hinting at feelings deeper than Sylar had dared hope. "Then I have a chance." Swiftly, he knelt and took Peter's face in both hands, kissing him soundly. "Let go, Peter." Then he went back to kissing. Peter didn't respond for long moments, probably having recognized the obvious allusion to him clinging to what he thought was Nathan on the roof of Mercy Heights. That was exactly what Sylar had in mind, but sex twice had clearly been enough to make Peter's grip on his convictions waver. Third time was the charm.

Sylar worked his mouth determinedly, his tongue skirting the inside edge of Peter's lips, his hands holding Peter firmly where he wanted him while his thumbs moved in short caresses. Not that Peter was fighting it – he just wasn't going along at first. Peter finally began to respond, eyes shut and breath puffing against Sylar's cheek. His mouth moved slowly. Sylar immediately slowed to match. They kissed together, jointly, until Peter twisted his head to the side. "You fucker," he said resentfully, but he was panting with desire.

"Yes," Sylar agreed decisively. "And I am going to throw you on that bed and fuck you so hard that the only thing you'll be hanging onto are my sheets."

Peter looked back to him with a surprised expression, but Sylar was hauling him to his feet before he could reply. Sylar herded him to the bed while unbuttoning his own shirt. "Strip," he ordered as he took his dress shirt off and cast it aside.

"What?" Peter turned, his back to the bed. He shoved Sylar's arm. "Make me."

It took Sylar a moment to process that wasn't a 'no'. When he did, he snorted and gave Peter a shove in return, but harder, and to center of mass. It sent Peter backwards, floundering onto the bed. Sylar yanked his t-shirt off over his head and climbed on top of Peter, shoving him back down flat on the mattress from where he was trying to get up.

"Hey! You fuck!" Peter hit him in the chest with a fist and flexed like he was trying to roll over towards the edge of the bed. Sylar ignored the blow (it wasn't all that hard anyway) and grabbed Peter's shirt and t-shirt, pulling the hem out of his pants and yanking the fabric up to Peter's armpits. Now he had a struggle as Peter rolled onto his back again and flailed up at him, pushing and grabbing at his arms, interfering. He was flopping around with his hips as well, making Sylar 'ride' him … which was actually kind of fun. With difficulty (and possibly a few snapped buttons and damaged seams), Sylar managed to get the joined shirts over Peter's shoulders and head. After that, it was easy to jerk them down his arms and twist the bunched fabric together to tighten it around Peter's wrists.

"This would be so much easier with telekinesis," Sylar growled, reaching over to snatch up his t-shirt that he'd discarded earlier.

Peter stopped fighting for the moment, craning his head to watch as Sylar knotted the t-shirt around the twisted mass of his shirts and the bedpost. "I didn't come back for your powers, you know."

Sylar blinked at him, not sure if Peter was referring to coming to this world to start with, or coming to his apartment tonight specifically. The tone was unaccountably fond. Before he could ask, Peter bridged, flinging Sylar off and to the side. Sylar caught himself against the wall and grabbed the front of Peter's pants with one hand, gripping firmly enough to stop Peter in his tracks.

He pinned Peter to the bed by shoulder and groin, leaning in to kiss his mouth while he held his junk hostage for Peter's good behavior. Peter was a good boy. He kissed passionately, his arms still held above his head, strung up by their combined clothing. Although, Sylar glanced at that. Peter's fists were balled, which meant the buttoned cuffs kept his hands from sliding out. Was he so dumb he didn't know that he could flatten his hands, fold in his thumbs, and probably slip out? Even if he didn't, Sylar believed Peter was easily strong enough to yank himself free, should he be willing to destroy his shirt further than it had been. No, it seemed most likely that Peter was voluntarily allowing himself to remain bound.

"You kinky little pervert," Sylar grinned at him, thoroughly delighted with his partner.

"Pervert?" Peter scoffed. "You're the one who tied me up!" He rolled his hips a few times, thrusting against the hand holding him. He was mostly erect, but not entirely. Being tied up wasn't such a fetish that it did it for Peter all by itself. Sylar kneaded him steadily and kissed more, feeling the flesh firm up very satisfactorily in his grip. He unfastened Peter's pants and dropped the zipper. Peter whined and pushed at him in such a demanding way that Sylar let go and changed tactics. He chuckled at the frustrated sound his victim made.

Peter snapped at his face as he drew away from the kissing, making Sylar's brows rise in surprise. "Oh really?" Sylar said of the mock attack. Peter bared his teeth in response, flexing his body.

Sylar slid a hand under Peter's chin to direct his face safely away (just in case Peter wanted to make things too real), then bent to bite him over the collarbone, just as Peter had marked him their first time. Peter called out and writhed. Half the noise sounded like genuine pain, but Sylar noted as he lifted away that Peter was at least now fully erect and straining at the fabric of his underwear.

"You liked that," Sylar gloated.

"Fuck me, you bastard."

"With pleasure."

Sylar peeled down Peter's pants and underwear, leaving them bunched around the man's ankles as he moved to get rid of his own lower clothing. Peter grimaced and twisted on the bed, his feet working in vain to try and kick off a firmly-laced shoe and get his pants entirely off. Sylar smirked. But at least it kept Peter busy. Once Sylar was naked, he yanked the lacings free from one shoe, pulling off the pant leg. He left the other shoe on, bunched pants and underwear hanging from it. It wouldn't impede his access and there was no reason to take the time. He liked the hurried, rapey vibe of it all anyway.

He was equipped with the lube he'd kept ready at his bedside for weeks now. He used Peter's pants to control the one leg while he used his other forearm to lever the free leg out of his way. Once between Peter's legs, it was easy. Any attempt of Peter's to raise his knees (of which there were several as Sylar moved forward to situate himself where he wanted to be) saw them summarily pushed back down. He grabbed Peter's balls to calm down the Italian stallion, gaining enough compliance that he was able to tear off the top of the lube packet with his teeth. He rolled Peter's testicles in his hand, tugging lightly as Peter watched him closely, body moving only a little. Sylar smirked at him, enjoying the control that was so easily given.

He emptied half the tube across his fingers and sent them lower, easing down Peter's crack, greasing him up along the way. Peter exhaled heavily and put his head back, looking up at the ceiling as Sylar's digits slid inside of him. This time, Peter's ass wasn't so impossibly tight. Sylar made the logical connection to the lubricant immediately. For their first time in the locker room shower, Peter had been squeaky clean and wet with water – the very opposite of slippery. Properly oiled up, just like Peter had made Sylar their second time, and he was now easy to enter. Sylar's smirk changed to a genuine smile – quite possibly, there was nothing at all wrong with his own ass. He put a third finger inside of Peter, feeling the man's hole stretch around his hand and watching Peter arch in pleasure. If anything, Peter was more of a slut for this than he was.

Sylar explored the anatomy, using his other hand to palm over Peter's rock-hard dick. He took his time, working out Peter's reactions – what made him twitch, what made him moan, what the man seemed to ignore or not notice. When Peter's breath began to catch and his knees restlessly crept up Sylar's sides, he removed his hand and idly stroked his own erection with it, emptying the rest of the lube on himself as Peter panted, his body easing down from the aroused, near-orgasmic high Sylar had brought it to with only his fingers.

Sylar wiped his hand off on Peter's leg, then leaned forward to receive eager kisses from his oh-so-receptive partner. Still very stimulated, Peter's body trembled slightly under him. Sylar trailed kisses over his cheek and down his neck, tonguing over the reddened mark he'd left earlier with his teeth. "All of this, on offer, just for me," he murmured, then bit the spot again just hard enough to make Peter gasp and squeak in reaction. "Ah," Sylar breathed. He sat up again, letting his hands slide down Peter's sides, then grasping his hips and shifting him up so his ass was in Sylar's lap. Sylar adjusted himself and thrust inside, a quick, decisive penetration that had Peter inhaling sharply again with a groan. Peter's hands twisted into the fabric, gripping it for stability.

Sylar bared his teeth, holding Peter's hips as he worked out the best geometry of his motion. He knew the spots he needed to hit to get Peter off the hardest. He could feel the hot, wet, slippery flesh encasing his shaft, caressing it snugly. It was a perfectly tight sleeve clasping his member. He started thrusting, hitting Peter's buttons relentlessly, watching as the other man's eyelids fluttered and he called out in passion. Peter's hips bucked against him. He was a muscular brat, and strong. Sylar had to keep a hand on him to keep him where he wanted him. He loved the feeling of those cheeks flexing against his thighs as Peter rode his cock.

Sylar plunged into him, burying himself in the other man's body, very glad he'd already brought Peter nearly off, because the actual fucking was going to last no more than a minute. Everything was perfect; their bodies fit together hand-in-glove. Sylar was on his knees pounding Peter's ass, one hand holding the man's butt cheek, the other holding the wall for balance. Peter's legs were wrapped around him, hands still bound and showing off the lovely lines of his body. Peter's face was in a transport of rapture, his crooked mouth pulled to one side in ecstasy, brows raised, as he gasped out a sort of croaked whimper. Come spurted onto his belly from his bobbing dick. A few seconds later, Sylar slammed himself home in a few stuttering thrusts, filling Peter with his seed.

They panted, holding position where they'd both come, despite it being somewhat awkward when not in motion. Finally Peter moved with a slow undulation of his hips, rocking Sylar's still partly erect dick around his insides.

"Ohh," Sylar nearly purred at the strange sensation. He let go of the wall – not so much need for balance when not burying his dick over and over into an energetic partner – and petted Peter's softening penis. Due to the angle, Peter's come had ended up pooled on his stomach. Some was running to one side on its way to drip on the sheets. Sylar wiped his finger over the tip of the penis, then tasted the thick bead of moisture he collected. It was very slightly salty and maybe alkaline, at least when compared to his mouth. Peter let go with his legs, unwrapping them from around Sylar's waist. Their bodies separated. Sylar crawled over him to lie on the cleaner side, turning Peter's face to his for a kiss.

Peter slid his hands out of the sleeves almost effortlessly (much to Sylar's internal amusement) and caressed his face as they kissed.

"Well," Sylar said, "now we know each other in the most biblical sense, each with carnal knowledge of the other." He recovered his t-shirt from the cluster of clothing above them and used it to swab Peter clean. He wondered if he could believe Peter's change of heart. He hoped Peter believed in Sylar's.

Peter rolled to face him with a soft snort at Sylar's comment. He pressed his forehead to Sylar's, which Sylar found confusing for a moment and attempted to tilt his head as though Peter was trying to kiss him. Then he figured it out and relaxed. Through Nathan's memories, he'd seen Peter do this before with Angela. But it had never been done to him, or to Nathan. Peter was defining their relationship. They had a relationship to be defined. This was intimate, supportive, and familial – something beyond just the sex. Sylar's hands curled around Peter's shoulders. He shut his eyes and breathed in the moment, daring to believe there might be something more between them.

"A lot of crazy things have happened in my life," Peter said quietly, "especially to the people I've loved. I can promise you that I will do everything I can to stay with you, and give you that connection – this connection." He pressed his forehead against Sylar's just a tiny bit more in emphasis.

Sylar gave the smallest of nods, keeping contact with Peter the whole time. "It's all I ever wanted."