Fic: Hollow (Heroes, Peter/Sylar)
Title: Hollow
Rating: Teen+
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Prompts: darkness corruption; death; I'm what you have made me
Warnings: Spoilers for up to 2x11.
A/N: Written waaay back for the Syler/Peter fan exchange. Thanks to jimmiefearsylar for beta'ing.
“No!” Peter woke to the sound of his own voice echoing in his ears. Sweat soaked sheets felt clammy against his skin. An arm draped heavily over his pounding heart. The nightstand beside him rattled as his cell phone buzzed insistently. The body beside him shifted and hot air puffed against his neck.
“Peter?” Sylar’s voice was rough from sleep.
Peter took Sylar’s hand in his own and carefully laid it between them. “Go back to sleep.” Peter slipped out of the bed, grabbing the phone off the nightstand and headed to the bathroom. He left the door open as he flicked the light switch, wincing as it came on. In the mirror above the sink his reflection glared back at him. He barely recognized himself; shorn hair, unshaved, dark shadows under his eyes. Long gone was the starry eyed kid of a year ago. He flipped the phone open and quietly answered, “Mohinder.”
“Peter? Thank God. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days.”
Peter glanced through the open doorway. Sylar was asleep on the bed. The light from the muted TV flickered across his bare back. “I’ve... been busy.”
“I know what you’ve been doing. You have to stop this, Peter.”
“I can’t. Not until... I’m doing this for Nathan.”
“This isn’t you. It’s Sylar.”
Maybe Mohinder was right, and it really was Sylar. Peter wondered sometimes if, when he absorbed another’s ability, he didn’t absorb a bit of their soul too. Maybe this darkness that permeated his soul was Sylar’s. Maybe Peter had already lost his soul. Maybe he was dead and all that was left was this immortal shell. Maybe, somewhere, he was with Nathan.
“They killed him, Mohinder.”
“I know.”
Peter’s left hand gripped the edge of the counter as he leaned forward. His reflection stared back at him determinedly, eyes dark and full of fury. “They deserve it.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Come see me. Let me help you. There has to be another way, Peter.”
“I’m sorry, Mohinder,” Peter closed his eyes.
“You can’t trust him. He’s using you.”
Peter laughed sharply. “At least he’s never betrayed me.”
“Peter...”
“You were working for them... still working for them.”
“He’s a killer.”
So am I.
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
“No.”
“Then just... Be careful.”
“Goodbye, Mohinder.” Peter flipped the phone shut, setting it down on the counter. There was a bit of blood on Peter’s lip from where Sylar had bitten it. Peter scowled as he wondered why he always attracted mentally unstable people who took pleasure in hurting him. Claude, Elle... Elle had once said that he’d learn to enjoy it. He hadn’t believed her then, but now... He had to admit that sometimes it was good to just feel... anything.
He ducked his head down towards the sink and washed off the blood. When he looked up again, another face had appeared in the mirror behind him. Possessive arms snaked around his chest. Peter let his body fall back against Sylar’s.
“You were talking to Mohinder.” It wasn’t a question.
Peter nodded. “He wants to meet.”
“Mmm, there’s an idea.”
Peter glared at his lover, enemy, ally. Blue light flashed and Sylar jumped back hissing. “We have work to do.” Peter stalked out of the bathroom. He could feel Sylar’s gaze burning into his back. Combustible. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Peter knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Something caught the corner of his eye and Peter glanced at the TV. The news was on. Another glance, at the clock on the nightstand, told him that it was a quarter past eleven. A reporter spoke silently into the camera. A photo appeared, all too familiar, in the top right corner of the screen and Peter quickly turned it off. The story had been running for weeks, seemingly endless. Nathan hadn’t gotten this much coverage when he was running for Congress. Speculation and theories over his murder ran rampant. All of them wrong.
He turned to face the window, staring out at the city. He focused on the bright lights, the noise, how the rough carpet felt against his feet, anything but the hollowness that consumed him whenever he thought of Nathan.
After he lost his brother, Peter had begged for death. When it didn’t come, he went looking for it. That’s when he found Sylar. It had started as a temporary alliance, forged by vengeance against the Company... The Company that had imprisoned Sylar, injected him with the virus, and took his powers... The Company that had taken Peter’s brother.
A hand slid up his back, cool against his hot skin. Peter tilted his head, meeting Sylar’s gaze. Long fingers settled over the back of Peter’s neck, a soft caress at first, but then there was that look in Sylar’s eyes, hungry, and his grip tightened, fingers digging into delicate flesh. Peter gasped against Sylar’s lips. Sylar... Gabriel... The Angel of Death. Sylar would be the death of him, but it was a slow asphyxiation laced with tainted kisses.
Sylar pushed him back onto the bed, crawling on top of him. The red neon lights from the sign outside their hotel room’s window cast a strange ethereal glow across the room. Sylar’s skin was bathed in red. Peter opened his arms to him, drawing him down close. They kissed, slowly, tenderly, and Peter could feel whatever was left of his heart breaking, because it was a lie. A lie he desperately wanted to believe in. If he didn’t have this, then he’d really be alone. Peter was incomplete on his own. Alone, he wasn’t anyone.
Sylar drew back, stared at Peter like he could see right through him. “Who are you, Peter Petrelli?”
Peter didn’t have to read Sylar’s mind to know the answer he was looking for. “I’m yours.”
* * *
Rating: Teen+
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Prompts: darkness corruption; death; I'm what you have made me
Warnings: Spoilers for up to 2x11.
A/N: Written waaay back for the Syler/Peter fan exchange. Thanks to jimmiefearsylar for beta'ing.
“No!” Peter woke to the sound of his own voice echoing in his ears. Sweat soaked sheets felt clammy against his skin. An arm draped heavily over his pounding heart. The nightstand beside him rattled as his cell phone buzzed insistently. The body beside him shifted and hot air puffed against his neck.
“Peter?” Sylar’s voice was rough from sleep.
Peter took Sylar’s hand in his own and carefully laid it between them. “Go back to sleep.” Peter slipped out of the bed, grabbing the phone off the nightstand and headed to the bathroom. He left the door open as he flicked the light switch, wincing as it came on. In the mirror above the sink his reflection glared back at him. He barely recognized himself; shorn hair, unshaved, dark shadows under his eyes. Long gone was the starry eyed kid of a year ago. He flipped the phone open and quietly answered, “Mohinder.”
“Peter? Thank God. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days.”
Peter glanced through the open doorway. Sylar was asleep on the bed. The light from the muted TV flickered across his bare back. “I’ve... been busy.”
“I know what you’ve been doing. You have to stop this, Peter.”
“I can’t. Not until... I’m doing this for Nathan.”
“This isn’t you. It’s Sylar.”
Maybe Mohinder was right, and it really was Sylar. Peter wondered sometimes if, when he absorbed another’s ability, he didn’t absorb a bit of their soul too. Maybe this darkness that permeated his soul was Sylar’s. Maybe Peter had already lost his soul. Maybe he was dead and all that was left was this immortal shell. Maybe, somewhere, he was with Nathan.
“They killed him, Mohinder.”
“I know.”
Peter’s left hand gripped the edge of the counter as he leaned forward. His reflection stared back at him determinedly, eyes dark and full of fury. “They deserve it.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Come see me. Let me help you. There has to be another way, Peter.”
“I’m sorry, Mohinder,” Peter closed his eyes.
“You can’t trust him. He’s using you.”
Peter laughed sharply. “At least he’s never betrayed me.”
“Peter...”
“You were working for them... still working for them.”
“He’s a killer.”
So am I.
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
“No.”
“Then just... Be careful.”
“Goodbye, Mohinder.” Peter flipped the phone shut, setting it down on the counter. There was a bit of blood on Peter’s lip from where Sylar had bitten it. Peter scowled as he wondered why he always attracted mentally unstable people who took pleasure in hurting him. Claude, Elle... Elle had once said that he’d learn to enjoy it. He hadn’t believed her then, but now... He had to admit that sometimes it was good to just feel... anything.
He ducked his head down towards the sink and washed off the blood. When he looked up again, another face had appeared in the mirror behind him. Possessive arms snaked around his chest. Peter let his body fall back against Sylar’s.
“You were talking to Mohinder.” It wasn’t a question.
Peter nodded. “He wants to meet.”
“Mmm, there’s an idea.”
Peter glared at his lover, enemy, ally. Blue light flashed and Sylar jumped back hissing. “We have work to do.” Peter stalked out of the bathroom. He could feel Sylar’s gaze burning into his back. Combustible. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Peter knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Something caught the corner of his eye and Peter glanced at the TV. The news was on. Another glance, at the clock on the nightstand, told him that it was a quarter past eleven. A reporter spoke silently into the camera. A photo appeared, all too familiar, in the top right corner of the screen and Peter quickly turned it off. The story had been running for weeks, seemingly endless. Nathan hadn’t gotten this much coverage when he was running for Congress. Speculation and theories over his murder ran rampant. All of them wrong.
He turned to face the window, staring out at the city. He focused on the bright lights, the noise, how the rough carpet felt against his feet, anything but the hollowness that consumed him whenever he thought of Nathan.
After he lost his brother, Peter had begged for death. When it didn’t come, he went looking for it. That’s when he found Sylar. It had started as a temporary alliance, forged by vengeance against the Company... The Company that had imprisoned Sylar, injected him with the virus, and took his powers... The Company that had taken Peter’s brother.
A hand slid up his back, cool against his hot skin. Peter tilted his head, meeting Sylar’s gaze. Long fingers settled over the back of Peter’s neck, a soft caress at first, but then there was that look in Sylar’s eyes, hungry, and his grip tightened, fingers digging into delicate flesh. Peter gasped against Sylar’s lips. Sylar... Gabriel... The Angel of Death. Sylar would be the death of him, but it was a slow asphyxiation laced with tainted kisses.
Sylar pushed him back onto the bed, crawling on top of him. The red neon lights from the sign outside their hotel room’s window cast a strange ethereal glow across the room. Sylar’s skin was bathed in red. Peter opened his arms to him, drawing him down close. They kissed, slowly, tenderly, and Peter could feel whatever was left of his heart breaking, because it was a lie. A lie he desperately wanted to believe in. If he didn’t have this, then he’d really be alone. Peter was incomplete on his own. Alone, he wasn’t anyone.
Sylar drew back, stared at Peter like he could see right through him. “Who are you, Peter Petrelli?”
Peter didn’t have to read Sylar’s mind to know the answer he was looking for. “I’m yours.”
* * *