Title: Constant Consent
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mention of rape in the abstract
Word count: 600
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar and Peter try to navigate issues of consent and personal damage.

"Hey," Peter said softly, holding out his hand. "Can I touch you?"

Sylar had already stiffened, having seen the gesture. Hearing the words, he relaxed slightly.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, looking seriously at him for a moment. Then he took a seat on the couch with his sketch book and asked, also quietly, "Would you put your feet up here?"

Sylar complied, watching as Peter arranged Sylar's feet next to him, toes tucked under his thigh. "Why do you ask?" Sylar said accusingly. "I said you could do what you wanted with me – whenever, wherever."

Peter raised a querulous brow at him. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to ask. You're not an object. You're not even a dog I could expect to be able to pet when I want. You're a person: you can change your mind, you can put conditions on it, you need a heads-up before I do anything."

"As though I could say no," Sylar scoffed, raising his book between them.

"You can," Peter said with emphasis, although he found himself talking to the spine of Sylar's latest hardcover. "That's why I ask – so you have an opportunity to tell me this isn't the time or that's not what you want."

Sylar kept the book between them, grumbling, "Is this what sex with you will be like, always tediously asking for permission?"

"It's not going to happen," Peter said crossly as he opened his sketch book. "And anyway, with the way you are now, I'd never know if it was rape or sex."

Several minutes passed, with the only sound being their breathing and Peter's pencil making a few faint scratches on the paper. Sylar finally closed his book and set it aside. "Peter." He leaned forward, locking eyes with the other man. "Take off the rose-colored glasses and listen to me." He had Peter's attention, so Sylar continued, "I am not some cute piece of ass you picked up at a college party and brought back to your apartment for a few drinks and traded favors. Consent is meaningless in my case." Sylar paused, but Peter only blinked a few times. With excruciating slowness, Sylar continued, "I am so damaged as a human being that you can do whatever you want to my body and it will never be 'rape'." He paused again. Peter's expression was uncertain, but again, he said nothing and let Sylar speak. "I killed your brother. In another man, I would find your tolerance of me indicative of a dangerous level of naiveté. But despite your blind spots, like the one we're discussing now, I've found you to be more practical than I or Nathan had believed. So I'm asking you to consider how … unsettling it is for you to treat me like something I'm not, as though when it comes to this subject, you somehow forget what I'm guilty of. You wouldn't ask permission to hit me if you were angry. Extend the same rules with this subject – whether it happens or not."

Peter was quiet for a while, his face contemplative. Then he said, "I don't forget, Sylar. That's why I ask. You're the guy who killed my brother, and a lot of other people. I'm being careful with you … because you're 'damaged' – if that's the word you want me to use. I'm not blind; I see it every time I try to reach you. And I'm never going to have the same rules for intimacy as I do for violence, no matter how often you ask me to." Peter put a hand on Sylar's ankle and added very softly, "They're not the same thing for me."