Wall Verse, Chapter 24, Shooting the Elephant in the Room
Ten weeks later …
Peter's POV
In retrospect, Peter should have known that talking about this particular subject would end badly, though at least it was tears rather than blows. Sylar had wanted to know about Nathan's funeral. It was hardly an innocent question, but weeks spent together intimately had expanded their conversations and emboldened Sylar to start asking about things that actually mattered to him. Peter had told him. At first, it was a simple recounting of events and attendees, but eventually Peter's own floodgates had opened on a deluge of emotion he'd kept walled off for far too long.
He had to admit that Sylar had something of a right to know. It wasn't asked out of any twisted desire to gloat. It was a life he'd actually led, if only for a handful of weeks, but that was neither his idea nor his doing. He deserved to know how it had ended, as far as family and friends were concerned - people who were important to the person he had thought he was. Peter knew he had to come to terms with everything that had happened to Sylar, distant past or near present, just as much as Sylar did. But Nathan's death wasn't something Peter could deal with nearly as supportively as Sylar's childhood molestation.
Sylar was the one supporting him now, as Peter pressed his face to the man's neck, back heaving as Peter alternately tried to repress and release his emotions, wishing he knew what he needed to do for himself. He was confused. He felt lost, and alone, and Nathan was gone, and never coming back. When they got out of his world they were in, Nathan would still be gone. He clung harder to Sylar, which was perverse given Sylar's causative role in Nathan's absence. He'd still have Sylar, right, when they got out of here? The guy who killed Nathan; the guy who was holding him now, stroking his back, feeling sad and horny and conflicted right back.
Ha. One dry chuckle escaped amid Peter's rough mouth-breathing, his nose too stuffed at the moment to breathe with. Sylar was aroused by holding him close like this, and if Peter read his emotions right - something that had become easier as time had passed and they'd spent so much of it pressed close to one another - Sylar was just as confused about that as he should be. Peter kissed his neck, because Peter was an idiot, because it was easier and more desirable to feel passion than grief, and because he wanted to be soothed even more actively, to be loved and cherished and made to feel not-alone in the world. He pressed his fingertips into Sylar's back, pulling them together more firmly than the loose embrace they'd been sharing.
He felt the thrilling surge go through his partner, reliable as always when sex was offered. Peter lifted his tear-streaked face and kissed Sylar's lips, open-mouthed, his tongue questing within and answered only a second or two later. Sylar's arms tightened around him and Peter felt himself melt and burn inside as grief welled up along with frustrated anger that he was French kissing Nathan's murderer. Lust tinged it all, blinding him to what he ought to be doing, whatever that was - he had no idea. He panted against Sylar's cheek, fingers fumbling down his front, not sure what he wanted to do and from Sylar's stunned expression, the other man was just as flustered by Peter's passionate turn.
He rubbed his knuckles over the growing bulge in Sylar's jeans, barely processing Sylar's small groan and mumbled, "Peter?" before Peter turned his fingers to rubbing himself. He put his forehead down on Sylar's shoulder, letting his self-stimulation create a moment of distraction from the surging emotions within his heart. He wanted to be thrown down and fucked hard. He wanted to be punched and hurt. He wanted something to be happening that would distract him from the yawning pit of grief he'd never finished processing.
The last few weeks had been so good, a couple months now of surprising, near-honeymoon-quality bliss with Sylar … and now here was the issue of Nathan rearing its ugly head. He'd thought he was over this. That was why he was with Sylar, right? He'd had his cry after the debacle at Mercy Heights; he'd had his suicidal rush after the funeral and equally unconsidered plunge into Sylar's mind. And now here he was, questioning how much of what he was feeling was really love and how much was just emotional desperation, looking for someone, anyone, to fill the hole that Nathan's death had torn in his life.
He pushed Sylar away roughly, new tears joining the old as he fled the guy's apartment. I'm fucking things up. I am using him now. It's not fair. He's not a fucking sex toy. He has feelings. I have feelings. Have I been using him all this time? Is any of this even real?
He didn't even make it to the stairs before Sylar caught up with him, spinning him by his shoulder and shoving him up against the wall, hard. Peter's mouth fell open and he panted in what was either lust or exertion - he wasn't sure which. His face as he looked up at Sylar left no question about it, though, and Sylar crushed his lips to Peter's, pressing him against the plaster wall, tongue probing inside of him as his hips ground against him. Peter shuddered. It was exactly what he wanted, and exactly what he refused to let himself have.
"No!" he cried out, twisting his mouth free and turning his head to the side. "No. No," he repeated.
Sylar froze, breathing hard against his cheek, hard against him lower down, too. Peter could feel the lust surging through his partner, darker emotions bringing out an aggressive, assertive side of Sylar the former killer hadn't let show until now.
"Leave me alone," Peter said, his voice shaking, even as his fingers curled claw-like into Sylar's shoulders. "Let me go," he demanded as he was the one hanging onto Sylar. Everything was a contradiction. He knew it, but he didn't know what to do about it.
His voice deep and gravelly, Sylar said, "That doesn't seem to be what you really want."
"I want to be left alone," Peter rasped, even though it was the last thing he wanted, especially with Sylar's voice shivering over his skin like the lightest caress of velvet. "Let me go," he whispered hoarsely.
Lips tight, face twitching with a suppressed snarl, Sylar lifted away from him stiffly. Peter slunk back to his apartment by himself, feeling as wretched and horrible as he had after Sylar had slugged him, except this time he knew it was his own fault.
Sylar's POV
Sylar carried his book into the recreation room the next day. It was just a prop, so that he'd look like he was doing something other than mooning after Peter. He threw himself on the couch, wishing Peter was looking to see his pique, but sort of glad he wasn't. He adjusted his sprawl, taking up the entire piece of furniture just in case Peter might want to come over here and share it with him. Not that Peter did, or would. Well … he might.
Sylar huffed and turned on his side, sullenly listening as Peter continued playing on the piano with a dejected air. I didn't do anything wrong. He started it. All I did was ask a question! He didn't have to answer. He didn't have to get all freaked out about it. Issues. Fucking issues! Whole Petrelli family has them. Moody pieces of shit. He ought to be glad Nathan's dead! He huffed again, noisily blowing air out his nose so Peter was sure to hear him. And then he came onto me! Perverted little creep.
His angry thoughts did not obscure the fact that he liked Peter - he liked him a great deal, and very deeply. He watched Peter's back and the subtle movements of shoulder blades and spine as his head dipped occasionally and his elbows moved his forearms to different positions on the keys. He enjoyed watching Peter's body move. Even after all the time they'd spent together, every stretch and flex of muscle still caught his eye like an ability on display for the first time. The music was nice; even if he'd already noticed Peter was restarting the same tune he'd been playing when Sylar walked in. He did that a lot when he was upset. Sylar frowned, wondering if Peter even realized it, or if he was just on auto-pilot, letting the same song cycle through his head and his fingers while his subconscious wrestled with whatever demon needed slaying.
Sylar sighed, less noisily this time, and trotted out his exercise of trying to understand where Peter was coming from. He had no siblings that he knew of and his … Virginia's death didn't compare well. There were similarities, of course. She'd been a parent figure and so had Nathan, in a way. She'd betrayed him and Nathan had betrayed Peter (a lot, his mind unhelpfully provided). But despite everything, there had been a strong, healthy bond between the two men that had never, ever been present between Gabriel and Virginia. He'd always been wary of her, and with good reason. He'd known for sure that she wouldn't protect him, whereas Peter seemed to always expect loyalty out of his brother.
He mulled over Nathan's reaction when he thought Peter had died in the explosion over Kirby Plaza - the hopelessness, the despair, crawling into the bottom of a bottle and staying there. Despite having the memories, they didn't reliably stir the emotion. There were some things that a person simply couldn't relate to if they didn't share the basic foundation for the experience. What was lacking for him was the love, but knowing that didn't help. Sylar made a frustrated grunt and opened his book, staring sightlessly at the pages, and then raised his eyes to stare past them, over the top of the paperback. Peter wasn't abused. Well … he didn't have a Norman Rockwell youth, but he didn't have a stepfather like Martin. Or a mother like Virginia. And he's still … he's still been trying to be there for me.
He looked over at Peter again, face serious as he contemplated that. He knew that Peter cut him a lot of slack on a lot of things because of his past. A small frown formed as Sylar considered that to be fair, he probably needed to do the same thing. He let his eyes finally settle on the words on the page as he did the same thing Peter was doing and let his subconscious work on that thought.
When the endless repetition of the same old song finally drove him batty, Sylar rose and walked to the collection of sporting equipment they kept in the corner of the room. His eyes settled on a pair of catcher's gloves and a baseball, Nathan's memories reminding him of the many times when the older sibling had played catch with his kid brother in the back yard, using the time and the diverting physical activity to have meaningful conversations. He wondered if it would reek too much of Nathan and skeeve Peter out, or if it would be a warm and welcome reminder of better times? He took the risk.
Peter's POV
Peter stopped playing when Sylar set the baseball gloves on the top of the piano. The man put his now-empty left hand on Peter's right shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "If all you want is repetition, then come outside and play ball with me."
Peter looked up at him blankly, wondering if that was some kind of joke about Nathan, but Sylar deterred those thoughts by sidling closer at his doubt and running a hand through his hair fondly. Sylar had become almost ridiculously demonstrative of his affection, touching Peter constantly as if to prove and reprove to himself that it was allowed. Peter felt again that surging contradiction - soothe me/don't touch me; show me you love me/get away from me. He pulled his head away from Sylar's hand, earning him a tight-lipped frown and a step away as Sylar physically distanced himself. Peter looked down. He didn't want to see that. He didn't know what to do. He felt knotted up inside.
"Come on, Peter. I want to do something together with you." Sylar reached out and gave him a small nudge on the shoulder, obviously testing to see if Peter was putting new limits in place.
He deserves that much. I'm hurting him for no good reason. Just go play ball, Pete. Do something other than bang on the piano keys. Do it for him. Maybe it will help. Peter scooted the bench back and stood, swiping the gloves off the top as he did.
The first few passes back and forth were quiet, the silence of the street letting them hear the echoes of the ball thunking into hand or glove. Finally, Peter got out in the open something they had to be both thinking: "You know I used to do this all the time with Nathan."
Sylar nodded and said nothing. He knew, obviously.
"Are you doing this just to draw me out?" Peter smiled, because to his surprise, it was working.
Sylar gave a small, answering smile. In a corny, bad accent, he said, "I haff wayz to make you tawk!"
Peter laughed a little and shook his head. "Okay," he said, agreeing to whatever Sylar's terms were. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You miss Nathan?"
Oh, Lord. You're … certainly going for the jugular there, aren't you? Yesterday wasn't bad enough of me? I had a complete fucking breakdown and I'm not far off from it now! Peter waited for a few more throws back and forth before sighing and answering, "Yeah, I do."
"It … it just occurred to me that … I can't really relate to that."
Peter caught the ball tossed to him and stood there for a long beat, thinking about that. The profound isolation of Sylar's life would mean that so many basic interactions were outside of Sylar's experience. What would it be like not to have any loved ones to lose? He nodded and threw the ball back, trying to think of what to say. 'I'm sorry', 'That sucks' and even 'Yeah' seemed out of place. Peter had a strange insight of how lucky he was to have had someone like Nathan that close to him at all. He looked up at Sylar, wondering if this new relationship might end up even closer, if he'd let it.
Winding up for the next throw, Sylar asked, "What should I do for you?"
That was a surprising question. Peter blinked at him and caught the ball that was thrown to him. He returned it, body operating automatically while his mind was busy. What could Sylar do for me? What will I let him do for me? Is it right, to be with him? He knew he wanted to be. His chest ached at the idea of not. "What you're doing is good, I guess … thank you. I'm sorry I was … um … yesterday …"
Sylar shrugged. "Not a big deal."
Peter nodded silently. He wasn't sure how to apologize for being turned on by his lover anyway. "I just wanted to be with someone." I just want to be with someone now, was left unsaid.
Sylar looked off to the side for a moment, fingering the ball before looking back and throwing it a little long, sublimated anger fueling his pitch. "But then you left."
Peter jogged back to catch it, then came back to his previous position. "I don't know what I want. I was … I was just … I don't know." He shook his head, looking down and turning the ball over and over in his hand.
Sylar shrugged. "Okay. Throw me the ball."
Peter nodded, glad he wasn't being pushed to explain. He didn't know if he could, but if anyone would understand how emotions could get twisted up, it would be Sylar. "Are you going to be okay?"
"About what?"
Me crying on you, being indecisive, everything? "Me coming onto you at the wrong moment."
Sylar smiled and chuckled, teasing with, "I'm not sure there is a wrong moment for you to come onto me, Peter."
Peter chuckled back. For a while they lobbed the ball in thoughtful silence, until Sylar said, "I don't really miss anything, back then. When there were people in the world. Or … anyone." He shrugged. "Not anyone who's still alive."
Peter nodded. He looked around at the empty city, thinking that maybe part of the reason why they were stuck here was because Sylar had no reason to leave. Peter contemplated his own motivations - this place was an excuse to hide from the world and all the obligations of it, an opportunity to stay away from his mother and the reality of what she'd done to Nathan … and it was a place to find love. He looked back at Sylar, who had been waiting with the ball for Peter's attention to return. He tossed it over now. Peter caught it neatly. "Yeah, you're not the only one who doesn't really want to leave here."
Now it was Sylar's turn to look around the place. "You still think this is all in my head?"
"Yeah," Peter said simply. He was sure of it.
"Hm," Sylar hummed agreeably. "Maybe so. It's real enough for me."
Peter smiled softly, quietly agreeing with the sentiment.
Sylar's POV
They played catch until their arms were sore and hands stinging, whereupon they ambled down the road to the YMCA. Sylar congratulated himself on how that had worked. Even if Peter remained somber and a little depressed, he was at least communicative now. It did not escape Sylar's thoughts that Peter was an empath and probably needed interaction to stay mentally healthy. He worried, a little: If this is, somehow, all in my head, am I hurting him by not letting him out? Assuming I had the power to let him out? Will he ever be truly happy with just me? And after a moment of reflection, Sylar wondered, Will I ever be truly happy if he has people other than me?
He was surprised that he didn't think Peter would dump him as soon as he had other options. Peter didn't seem the type and Sylar knew that Peter's bond to him seemed just as strong as Sylar's was back. But as they walked, Sylar knocked around the hypothetical situation of how he'd handle things if the two of them teleported, time traveled, woke up or whatever and found themselves back in a populated world. It was an intriguing thought experiment, but one that was derailed by seeing Peter's nude form revealed as they stripped before entry to the hot tub.
Peter scrambled in first, making a happy, exaggerated groan of pleasure as he sank into the hot water. Sylar followed quickly, his feet bumping into Peter's, invisible under the swirling bubbles. Sylar tugged his feet back to his side, not sure what was appropriate after the mixed signals he'd been getting. A moment later, Peter was clarifying by stretching a little and seeking out his feet for a round of footsy. Sylar dropped a little lower in the water, extending his long legs and offering them up to Peter's pedal explorations. Toenails scraped along the underside of his calves and he made little pleased noises, his smile becoming a grin as he watched Peter's face brighten as well. Sylar had been worried (and angry) when Peter had pulled away from him earlier.
It wasn't long before Peter crossed the tub, staying low so just his head was above the churning water. He slid up Sylar's body, straddling him until he came to rest just forward of his knees. Sylar wondered if he should move; what he should do. His hands found Peter's thighs; Peter's hands found his hips. A moment later Peter's hands came rather boldly together in the middle, the fingers of one hand sinking into pubic hair and the other grasping him. Sylar sucked in air, his own fingers tightening on Peter's legs.
Peter jerked him steadily, starting immediately at full pace, staring forward at him so intently that it was creepy. It was like Peter was doing this because he thought he needed to, or otherwise with some sole intent to get Sylar off. There was no attention to his own pleasure, and in that Sylar suddenly recognized himself. You're damaged, he realized of Peter. Sylar, not the most empathetic person in the world, could still see it plain as day. Broken up inside, all jagged shards cutting yourself over and over, wishing someone would take the knife out of your hands.
Sylar cajoled his lover forward by raising his knees and tugging on him with his fingertips. He ran his hand from Peter's sternum down his belly, watching as his lover's lids fluttered and his face went slack before he even got to the prize at the end of the treasure trail. Oh yes, so keyed up. Peter was completely hard and he gasped and briefly choked when Sylar's fingers clasped him. Peter scooted up closer with a sudden whimper, Sylar's pleasure was abruptly forgotten as Peter clung to him. Let me take it all out of your hands, Peter. Give up responsibility. Give up the guilt. That has to be what's cutting you up inside - being with me. And yet here you are.
"I'm going to bend you over the side of this hot tub and fuck you," Sylar whispered into Peter's ear, earning him a quiver and a hurried nod.
With one more parting yank, Sylar shifted Peter off and stood, stroking his cock idly while Peter arranged himself. He worked up as much saliva as he could. It was the only lube he had. He rubbed it over Peter's presented asshole, probing a finger within. Peter moaned wantonly, pushing back at him.
"You are really turned on," Sylar murmured. You've lost Nathan, and all that talk of not having anything to go back to? Yeah, that's it; that's what's going on here. You're desperate. Desperate and just as weak as I am, not wanting to lose what you've got. I'll show you what you've got!
He pushed inside in several hard bucks, knowing it hurt from the strained tone Peter's voice took on. Peter squirmed restlessly, trapped by the sensation, so tight that for the moment, Sylar couldn't progress. Growling, he reached out and caught Peter's wrists, holding them down against the cold tile. He bent next to Peter's head, snarling, "I have a use for you, Petrelli, and I'm going to take you whether you like it or not. Give it up. You're not going anywhere until I get what I want." He bit Peter's shoulder, fingers tightening on his wrists, hips shoving forward as Peter whimpered and put his forehead on the tile. Sylar felt the man open a little around him, letting him move finally, and watched as Peter writhed under him slowly, shifting in his grip and pressing back into him.
Sylar struggled for a moment on getting enough traction to make the hard thrusts he wanted, quickly finding a way to brace himself against a step. Long legs were really useful at times. He proceeded to give Peter the skewering he was begging for, pounding into him hard and fast, feeling him so tight and hot around his shaft.
"Hurt me!" Peter bit out, turning his head.
What? That's new. Sylar hardly missed a beat, though, transferring Peter's wrists to a single hand and burying his other in Peter's lovely hair. He jerked his head back, arching him as Peter shuddered, gasping and mewling roughly as his ass clenched around Sylar. Coming so soon, hm? He pushed Peter's head back forward, not quite hitting the floor, and released his wrists so he could move both hands to his hips, bracing himself to deliver a quick, brutal hammering. Peter's passionate cries intensified as Sylar forced him to stay at his peak, overstimulating him for long seconds until Sylar finished as well.
Panting, he froze in place, letting the aftershocks flow through him, making him twitch at odd moments. Peter, from what he could see of his face, with long, dark hair partially screening it, looked dazed. Sylar pulled out gingerly, having previously felt what he now saw. He grabbed one of the towels they'd intended to use in drying off later and cleaned himself, then dabbed a corner in the water and spread Peter to clean him as well.
"Sorry," Peter croaked about not having been adequately prepared.
Sylar rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer Peter's concern. He'd had people's lifeblood and brain matter on his hands. This sort of minor mess wasn't a big deal. He gave a second check over himself and his partner before tossing away the towel, deciding they were clean enough to sit in the hot tub. As he'd expected, Peter scuttled into his arms straight away, leaning against him and sighing with complete relaxation. Sylar put his arms around him and squeezed a few times, feeling how loose and comfortable Peter was against him. It confirmed all his expectations that Peter wanted, or needed, some manner of mindfuck to make him feel human.
"You matter to me," Sylar rumbled, and Peter immediately buried his face against Sylar's neck, just as he had the day before. "You're not alone," he added, feeling the hot prick of wetness at the corners of his eyes, breathing harder and confused that he was the one comforting Peter, who wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, nodding. "I'm with you," Sylar finished, resting his cheek against Peter's head.