Title: Frenemies: Greenhouse
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Sylar
Summary: Peter goes to warn a special that she's on Sylar's list, but finds Sylar got there before him. Sylar gives him a simple choice: join me, or not. Peter can't say no.

Warnings: Slash, explicit sexual content, some swearing, generic violence, blood with kissing, limited masochism, rough sex, unbeta'd.

Notes: This is so not the chapter I sat down expecting to write. I expected the scene below to take half a page at most - you know five or six paragraphs and that's it. Then I was going to write a handful of other similar scenes to establish depth of relationship before Lornrocks' chapter. So, now I need to write all those other scenes because this one took on such a life of its own.

Peter walked through the house. It was empty, but the coffee pot was still warm; the television was on. Sarah should be around here somewhere. She'd been expecting him since he'd called to warn her about Sylar. Movement out the kitchen window caught his eye. There was a long greenhouse out back. Someone was in it. He opened the back door and walked out.

He didn't bother trying to call out. Next to the greenhouse door was a water cooler running on full, rattling and whirring and making a tremendous racket. He opened the door and saw a familiar form at the other end of the greenhouse, washing his hands of blood in a bucket of water. On the floor between them lay Sarah's body. Sylar had already struck.

Peter bared his teeth and strode forward decisively, stepping past the corpse. With all the noise, even with his enhanced hearing, Sylar didn't hear him until Peter was grabbing his shoulder and swinging him around, hitting him across the face with his fist. Peter still had regeneration, but it wasn't what he wanted right now. As Sylar staggered, he took his shoulder and stole a different ability from him.

Sylar didn't realize that, or perhaps he didn't know Peter had been still carrying that so-useful self-healing power. He lashed out with telekinesis, slashing Peter across the face from cheekbone to jaw, a cut deep enough to scrape bone and penetrate his mouth.

Peter fell back with a cry, then struck out in return, also with telekinesis. Sylar was slammed against a shelf of garden supplies, with pots and soil and hand tools raining down around him. He lurched off of it and into Peter, grabbing him with both hands. He began to freeze him. Peter brought his hands up to Sylar's wrists and then made a rapid motion from Sylar's wrists to shoulder, using the telekinesis to cut flesh and clothing all the way up.

Sylar recoiled, trying to give himself a moment to heal. He fell over a wheelbarrow. It and him went to the ground. Peter yanked him up with the ability, holding him an inch or two off the ground. Sylar started to try something else, but Peter snapped, "Don't!" and Sylar didn't. His arms finished healing.

Peter looked over at the dead woman, his chest rising and falling. He looked back at Sylar, who of all things, gave him an apologetic smile. Peter demanded, "What did she have that you wanted so bad you murdered her?"

Sylar tried to shrug, but he couldn't manage it. "The ability to decompose things rapidly. She was making compost. I don't really think it's an ability I'll use much. But it's nice to have."

Peter's hand shook with anger and he put Sylar back on the floor, releasing him. He touched his forehead. "You murdered her for something that's 'nice to have'? That you might never even use?"

"I've killed people for less reason."

Peter stared at him, disbelieving.

Sylar raised a hand off to one side and Peter watched it warily. His finger twitched and the water cooler cut out suddenly. In the resulting quiet, Sylar spoke softly in a sudden change of manner. "Peter, do you remember when you first got your ability? The original one, the good one?"

Peter blinked at the change, then nodded.

"Do you remember how wonderful that felt? How alive you felt? How it made you complete? How much it seemed like you had a purpose, like there was a meaning in your life, maybe even something… something that a religious person would describe as divine?"

Peter frowned and exhaled. Yes, he remembered that. He remembered it clearly. He ached for it. It was gone though, stolen when his father drained him. His family had betrayed him so many times…

Sylar searched his expression for a moment, as Peter didn't answer, then Sylar nodded as if all of Peter's mental cogs and gears and flywheels suddenly made sense. "Peter," he said, voice deepening. Even softer, Sylar said, "Every time it's like that. Every time."

Peter swallowed. What would I be willing to do to have that feeling back? Over and over again… every time. His chest was still rising and falling.

"Fuck me," Sylar said, his voice still soft.

"What?" Peter wasn't nearly as shocked or dismayed as he thought he should be.

"I asked you to fuck me, Peter. Now. While I'm still feeling it. You're not going to take me in. We both know that. You can either leave here and be jealous of me and my power forever, or you can join me. It's not like I haven't been looking for allies. Haven't you been looking for someone? You said there was no one else."

There was a long pause and Peter's mind seemed full of nothing but static. He couldn't think. He couldn't decide to leave, but he wanted to. He needed to. But he couldn't do it.

As if on autopilot, Peter walked over to the other man. He touched Sylar's hip, his mouth opening to say something. Peter didn't know what he wanted to say. After a beat, Sylar leaned down and kissed him, making his face hurt, tasting the blood in his mouth from the cut on his cheek. It hurt, but Peter didn't bother to swap for regeneration and heal it. He deserved the pain if he wasn't going to take him in. For murder, for Christ's sake.

When they parted, all Peter could think to say was, "Are you still carrying around that lube?"

Sylar nodded and smiled sheepishly, producing a single-use sized packet from his jeans. He handed it to Peter and opened his jeans, shoving them down his legs and stepping out of one side. He turned and spread his legs, leaning on the high wooden counter of the greenhouse. Peter opened his own pants and pushed them down enough for what he wanted. He looked back over his shoulder at Sarah's body. I'm going to hell for this. I am. I've gone crazy. I have.

He turned back and cupped one side of Sylar's ass. It felt so perfect - taut and firm and soft and yielding all at the same time - so very alive. He coated himself with lube and sent an exploring finger into Sylar's body, relishing the man's responsive sounds and wriggles of movement. He worked in a second, then hooked them downward, probing and finding what he was looking for. They didn't teach prostate exam procedures in nursing school or paramedic training, but a thorough knowledge of anatomy did come in useful at times.

Sylar's head came up as his back arched and he groaned, his voice loud in the now-quiet greenhouse. Peter stroked that soft, tender bulb of sensitive flesh over and over again until Sylar was whimpering and inarticulately begging for mercy. He stopped, letting the other man get some of his sense back. He wanted to hear what he was saying - it was coming out so garbled.

"Oh God, please Peter, please, that's fantastic, please, do me, I want you, I can't stand it, that's great, please…" Sylar paused for several ragged breaths. "I need you," he whispered.

Peter gave him a last internal touch, cementing in his mind where that spot was, memorizing what he'd been doing. Sylar's whole body jerked. Peter lined himself up and began to ease inside, reminding himself this was only the second time Sylar had ever had anything in his ass like this. Like before, he felt the other man's body begin to resist him reflexively, since he didn't have the experience to do otherwise. Stimulation would help distract him.

Peter focused the telekinesis, replicating his touch of before. For a moment he thought he was overdoing it as Sylar stiffened and rose up, but then he settled back with the most wanton, guttural, open-mouthed cry of pleasure Peter had ever heard. Peter slid in unimpeded.

"Oh yeah," he murmured. He couldn't go fast while he was keeping up the steady stroking, touching Sylar inside with his own signature ability, caressing and prodding and arousing him. Sylar made insensible sounds, trying to hunch forward and back, fucking himself on Peter's cock, whining at the use he was being put to. He couldn't get enough; he couldn't get it fast enough. He came in a rush, crying out and shuddering, lowering himself limply on the counter when the last aftershock had passed, head turned and cheek down, whimpering in total submission.

It hit Peter really clearly at that point who he was fucking and how. He grinned and shook his head. The smile hurt. His face hurt. He liked the pain. He dropped the telekinesis and started to shove hard, fast and bruisingly into Sylar's body.

"You're a fucking killer, you know that?" Peter told him, gripping Sylar's hips the better to yank him back into the thrusts. "A psychopath. You're crazy. You disgust me. You make me disgust myself. There is something seriously sick with me for being with you, for doing this. Something wrong with both us, with everything here. Whole world's fucking fucked up. Ah!" He rammed into Sylar as hard as he could, rocking the entire counter. A potted succulent fell off the end. He didn't give a damn. Sylar mewled at the rough treatment and it was definitely an encouraging sound.

Peter kept talking, insulting and foul-mouthed, giving vent to his anger at himself, Sylar, his life and the world at large. He slammed all the hate and fury into his actions, channeling it through his hips, fucking Sylar until the other man was making sounds like sobs, unable to get enough of a breath, clinging to the wood of the counter with white knuckles, letting Peter have him as an outlet for his rage and passion and frustrated dreams of a better world and making a difference in it.

When Peter finally came, it was with a growling sense of satisfaction and dominance. He reached out and grabbed the back of Sylar's neck, jerking him around, watching him flinch at the sudden disengagement of their bodies. He re-engaged at the mouth though, kissing him deep and hard even though it hurt, because it hurt. Sylar took him slackly at first, accepting the oral violation as willingly and openly as he'd taken the anal. Then Sylar began to press harder against him, his tongue fighting back and probing into Peter's mouth, bringing little shocks of pain with each probably-intentional swipe at his cheek. He could taste the blood.

He pushed Sylar away when it became too overpowering, when the taste began to revolt him. He staggered back, trying to regain himself. What the hell is happening to me? Peter… I'm Peter… this isn't who I am… is it? He stared at Sylar, who looked so thoroughly tousled and fucked and sexy that Peter actually entertained thoughts of doing him again before he caught himself.

He wheeled and looked at the body on the ground. He couldn't process. He put his clothes to rights and stumbled out. He thought he needed to be sick, or at least he should be. Instead he felt more alive than he had in years… the only thing that compared was when he'd thrown himself off that building, hoping that Nathan would catch him, hoping that he'd fly.

Sylar was going to catch him. He was just as sure of Sylar now, as he had been of Nathan then. The man had gotten under his skin somehow, into his blood. Even now he could feel it running hot through him, like he was on fire from the inside out. He had no idea what it meant. He went home.