Fic: Unspoken
Title: Unspoken
Rating: R
Genre: Slash(ish)
Pairings or Characters: Sylar/Luke suggested
Warnings: implied underage sexual activity
Author’s note: Written for heroes_contest drabble prompt “freedom.” Ohaithar, special hell!
Summary: Luke can’t get what he wants.
Montana. Big sky country. Luke thinks it a fitting name. Here, the blue vault of the sky stretches out its arms to embrace the edges of the plains. Everything here looks open and empty and free. It isn’t.
Sylar taps his fingers against the steering wheel nonstop. Luke tries to speak; Sylar turns the music up. He glances between his stolen computer, the rearview mirror, and the road ahead. The car seems much too small to hold all his energy. Luke thinks he might vibrate out of his skin.
--
Luke lies on top of the itchy hotel duvet with his hand in his boxers. He stares brazenly at Sylar. In the lamp light, Sylar’s features seem softer, somehow. Gentle. Luke makes a needy noise in the back of his throat. Still Sylar doesn’t look up from his book.
When Luke comes, his eyes squeeze closed. He spurts onto his belly and over his hand and lets Sylar’s name pass his lips. He opens his eyes.
Sylar is watching him-finally, finally-with an unreadable look on his face. “Clean up,” Sylar says. “Go to sleep.”
The light clicks off.
--
Three hundred twenty-two miles without speaking. Luke starts it to test himself. Then to see if Sylar will notice. Too late, he realizes the childishness of it: the silent treatment. Sylar is probably relieved to be spared Luke’s banal chatter. Now, seven hours later, Luke’s pride prevents him from breaking the silence.
Outside another motel, again. Sylar peels off five twenties from the roll of cash in his pocket, shoves it at Luke. “Get us a room.”
Luke looks at Sylar. Wonders if this is it. If Sylar is leaving.
“I’ll be back.”
Luke takes the money. Gets out of the car.
--
Luke hovers outside the room. The key digs into his sweaty palm. Sylar threads his way across the parking lot with the laptop case clasped in his hand. His whole bearing, his very existence speaks of confidence and power. Luke thinks he looks like a god.
Luke fumbles the key into the lock. He pushes the door open for Sylar to go first.
Three steps into the room, Sylar stops. The single king bed stretches across one whole wall. Luke tries to read a response the stiff line of Sylar’s body and the tense set of his shoulders.
Slowly, Sylar sets down the laptop. Luke closes the door.
--
At the foot of the bed, Luke is curled up. Waiting. In the bathroom, the shower rattles to a stop. Sylar emerges in a cloud of steam. The vibrating energy, shaking him apart from the inside, is gone for the moment.
Sylar flips down the sheets. He looks at Luke. Looks at him.
The light clicks off.
Rating: R
Genre: Slash(ish)
Pairings or Characters: Sylar/Luke suggested
Warnings: implied underage sexual activity
Author’s note: Written for heroes_contest drabble prompt “freedom.” Ohaithar, special hell!
Summary: Luke can’t get what he wants.
Montana. Big sky country. Luke thinks it a fitting name. Here, the blue vault of the sky stretches out its arms to embrace the edges of the plains. Everything here looks open and empty and free. It isn’t.
Sylar taps his fingers against the steering wheel nonstop. Luke tries to speak; Sylar turns the music up. He glances between his stolen computer, the rearview mirror, and the road ahead. The car seems much too small to hold all his energy. Luke thinks he might vibrate out of his skin.
--
Luke lies on top of the itchy hotel duvet with his hand in his boxers. He stares brazenly at Sylar. In the lamp light, Sylar’s features seem softer, somehow. Gentle. Luke makes a needy noise in the back of his throat. Still Sylar doesn’t look up from his book.
When Luke comes, his eyes squeeze closed. He spurts onto his belly and over his hand and lets Sylar’s name pass his lips. He opens his eyes.
Sylar is watching him-finally, finally-with an unreadable look on his face. “Clean up,” Sylar says. “Go to sleep.”
The light clicks off.
--
Three hundred twenty-two miles without speaking. Luke starts it to test himself. Then to see if Sylar will notice. Too late, he realizes the childishness of it: the silent treatment. Sylar is probably relieved to be spared Luke’s banal chatter. Now, seven hours later, Luke’s pride prevents him from breaking the silence.
Outside another motel, again. Sylar peels off five twenties from the roll of cash in his pocket, shoves it at Luke. “Get us a room.”
Luke looks at Sylar. Wonders if this is it. If Sylar is leaving.
“I’ll be back.”
Luke takes the money. Gets out of the car.
--
Luke hovers outside the room. The key digs into his sweaty palm. Sylar threads his way across the parking lot with the laptop case clasped in his hand. His whole bearing, his very existence speaks of confidence and power. Luke thinks he looks like a god.
Luke fumbles the key into the lock. He pushes the door open for Sylar to go first.
Three steps into the room, Sylar stops. The single king bed stretches across one whole wall. Luke tries to read a response the stiff line of Sylar’s body and the tense set of his shoulders.
Slowly, Sylar sets down the laptop. Luke closes the door.
--
At the foot of the bed, Luke is curled up. Waiting. In the bathroom, the shower rattles to a stop. Sylar emerges in a cloud of steam. The vibrating energy, shaking him apart from the inside, is gone for the moment.
Sylar flips down the sheets. He looks at Luke. Looks at him.
The light clicks off.