Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 49: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Title: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 1,000
Summary: Peter and Sylar, in the Wall, are drunk and have been playing Truth or Dare. Sylar winds up the evening by fondling Peter’s hair.
Notes: This was a spinoff of MBU chapter 66ish.
Peter sat in the middle of the couch, a blanket draped over his bare shoulders. Sylar still wouldn’t give him his shirt back, not that he cared too much at this point. It was late; he’d lost track of how many of the high-alcohol beers they’d downed. Sylar flopped next to him, close by necessity - if Peter was in the middle of the couch, Sylar couldn’t be all that far away and still be on the same piece of furniture. Peter could have moved, he supposed, but he didn’t bother.
“You’re okay.” Sylar reached out and tousled his hair. It was a friendly, brotherly gesture that had Peter’s head snapping around despite the mild compliment, which was one of the few nice things Sylar had ever said about him. He stared at Sylar, eyes intent as his mind derailed from objecting to the familiarity and into trying to remember anything else like that Sylar had said about him. Surely there’d been something. His eyes dropped and expression loosened as he thought. He didn’t notice that Sylar hadn’t stopped touching him.
Fingers slid along his forehead, gently carding hair back from his face. Peter twitched a little in realization, looking up with wide eyes to see Sylar’s face. He looked absorbed and pleased, gaze dipping to Peter’s for a brief moment to acknowledge the awareness, before going back to what he was doing - running his hands through Peter’s hair, one after another. It felt sublime.
Peter blinked. Oh. Um … He tried to cast his inebriated mind around to figure out what he was supposed to do about that. He didn’t feel molested or violated, just weird. They’d never done this before. Sure, Sylar had asked to do it during Truth or Dare and Peter had let him, but this was just Sylar doing it without any reason. Well, any reason aside from wanting to do it. It felt fantastic, now just as it had earlier during the game. It seemed like a comforting way to wind down from the high tension that had run between them as they’d asked uncomfortable questions and coerced one another into questionable acts.
Peter turned his face down and to the side, tilting so the crown of his head was presented to Sylar’s attentions. Sylar moved on to combing it back and then playing with the longest part of it at the back of Peter’s head. He was fluffing it, Peter assumed, maybe raising it and letting it fall. Something. The contact was soothing, relaxing, proof that he didn’t need to be on guard at all points in time. His shoulders sagged and the blanket slipped. He could feel the ends of his hair shifting against the bare skin. It gave him goose bumps and a shiver.
Sylar scooted closer, turning so that his shin was pressed against Peter’s thigh and hip. The heel of his hand brushed across the top of Peter’s shoulder and Peter found himself making a small noise, breathing faster. Hm? He took stock of his reactions. He was aroused - not exactly bursting at the seams yet, but his skin felt tight and warm, nipples erect, other parts getting there. He could feel Sylar’s breath on his upper back and hear the man … sniffing?
“Are you smelling of me?”
He’d expected denial or dissembling. Instead, Sylar answered simply, “Yes.”
Peter sat there dumbly, a lot of static in his brain where he was sure he should be thinking coherently and rationally about what was going on. Shouldn’t have had so many damn beers. Sylar had his hair in both hands and now was unmistakably rubbing his face in it. His forearms nudged against Peter’s upper back as he fondled his hair.
“That’s, uh, kinda erotic, don’t you think?” Peter said conversationally.
“Yeesss.” Separate from the drawn-out, charged word, Sylar purred. He goddamn purred into the back of Peter’s head.
“Unn.” Peter shivered again at the barest brush of hot lips against the nape of his neck. That was one of the sexiest things he’d ever had done to him. He wanted, more than almost anything else, to turn around and respond, participate, engage and kiss and caress and … He stood up, abandoning the blanket and pulling away. There was one thing he wanted more than even this, and that was his integrity. Sylar was not an option, no matter how much he purred into Peter’s scalp and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. “I gotta go.” He went for his jacket, not about to stop and argue with Sylar about the stolen shirt.
Sylar looked bereft, stricken, and immensely frustrated. Mouth gaping, he looked like he was trying to find words. Peter didn’t wait for that to happen. Jacket on but still unbuttoned, he was out the door before Sylar could do more than call his name and order him not to leave. The order made the departure easier. Peter rattled down the stairs, rapidly waking up from the alcoholic fugue he’d fallen into. The cold air outside snapped him to his senses even more. What would Nathan think if he knew about what had just happened?
The scalding thought was followed by one quite different - Claude telling him, ‘Your friends, your mother, your brother. No wonder your head’s all clogged … You still see yourself through their eyes, is that it?’ But what if I didn’t? It was radical enough that Peter stopped, turned, and looked back at Sylar’s lit window. The idea of casting aside the past and taking Sylar as he was today, free of the baggage, ran through his mind. It would be a true, genuine second chance for the man. Maybe that was what Sylar needed …
Peter shook his head and resumed walking. Claude had been wrong about almost everything.
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 1,000
Summary: Peter and Sylar, in the Wall, are drunk and have been playing Truth or Dare. Sylar winds up the evening by fondling Peter’s hair.
Notes: This was a spinoff of MBU chapter 66ish.
Peter sat in the middle of the couch, a blanket draped over his bare shoulders. Sylar still wouldn’t give him his shirt back, not that he cared too much at this point. It was late; he’d lost track of how many of the high-alcohol beers they’d downed. Sylar flopped next to him, close by necessity - if Peter was in the middle of the couch, Sylar couldn’t be all that far away and still be on the same piece of furniture. Peter could have moved, he supposed, but he didn’t bother.
“You’re okay.” Sylar reached out and tousled his hair. It was a friendly, brotherly gesture that had Peter’s head snapping around despite the mild compliment, which was one of the few nice things Sylar had ever said about him. He stared at Sylar, eyes intent as his mind derailed from objecting to the familiarity and into trying to remember anything else like that Sylar had said about him. Surely there’d been something. His eyes dropped and expression loosened as he thought. He didn’t notice that Sylar hadn’t stopped touching him.
Fingers slid along his forehead, gently carding hair back from his face. Peter twitched a little in realization, looking up with wide eyes to see Sylar’s face. He looked absorbed and pleased, gaze dipping to Peter’s for a brief moment to acknowledge the awareness, before going back to what he was doing - running his hands through Peter’s hair, one after another. It felt sublime.
Peter blinked. Oh. Um … He tried to cast his inebriated mind around to figure out what he was supposed to do about that. He didn’t feel molested or violated, just weird. They’d never done this before. Sure, Sylar had asked to do it during Truth or Dare and Peter had let him, but this was just Sylar doing it without any reason. Well, any reason aside from wanting to do it. It felt fantastic, now just as it had earlier during the game. It seemed like a comforting way to wind down from the high tension that had run between them as they’d asked uncomfortable questions and coerced one another into questionable acts.
Peter turned his face down and to the side, tilting so the crown of his head was presented to Sylar’s attentions. Sylar moved on to combing it back and then playing with the longest part of it at the back of Peter’s head. He was fluffing it, Peter assumed, maybe raising it and letting it fall. Something. The contact was soothing, relaxing, proof that he didn’t need to be on guard at all points in time. His shoulders sagged and the blanket slipped. He could feel the ends of his hair shifting against the bare skin. It gave him goose bumps and a shiver.
Sylar scooted closer, turning so that his shin was pressed against Peter’s thigh and hip. The heel of his hand brushed across the top of Peter’s shoulder and Peter found himself making a small noise, breathing faster. Hm? He took stock of his reactions. He was aroused - not exactly bursting at the seams yet, but his skin felt tight and warm, nipples erect, other parts getting there. He could feel Sylar’s breath on his upper back and hear the man … sniffing?
“Are you smelling of me?”
He’d expected denial or dissembling. Instead, Sylar answered simply, “Yes.”
Peter sat there dumbly, a lot of static in his brain where he was sure he should be thinking coherently and rationally about what was going on. Shouldn’t have had so many damn beers. Sylar had his hair in both hands and now was unmistakably rubbing his face in it. His forearms nudged against Peter’s upper back as he fondled his hair.
“That’s, uh, kinda erotic, don’t you think?” Peter said conversationally.
“Yeesss.” Separate from the drawn-out, charged word, Sylar purred. He goddamn purred into the back of Peter’s head.
“Unn.” Peter shivered again at the barest brush of hot lips against the nape of his neck. That was one of the sexiest things he’d ever had done to him. He wanted, more than almost anything else, to turn around and respond, participate, engage and kiss and caress and … He stood up, abandoning the blanket and pulling away. There was one thing he wanted more than even this, and that was his integrity. Sylar was not an option, no matter how much he purred into Peter’s scalp and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. “I gotta go.” He went for his jacket, not about to stop and argue with Sylar about the stolen shirt.
Sylar looked bereft, stricken, and immensely frustrated. Mouth gaping, he looked like he was trying to find words. Peter didn’t wait for that to happen. Jacket on but still unbuttoned, he was out the door before Sylar could do more than call his name and order him not to leave. The order made the departure easier. Peter rattled down the stairs, rapidly waking up from the alcoholic fugue he’d fallen into. The cold air outside snapped him to his senses even more. What would Nathan think if he knew about what had just happened?
The scalding thought was followed by one quite different - Claude telling him, ‘Your friends, your mother, your brother. No wonder your head’s all clogged … You still see yourself through their eyes, is that it?’ But what if I didn’t? It was radical enough that Peter stopped, turned, and looked back at Sylar’s lit window. The idea of casting aside the past and taking Sylar as he was today, free of the baggage, ran through his mind. It would be a true, genuine second chance for the man. Maybe that was what Sylar needed …
Peter shook his head and resumed walking. Claude had been wrong about almost everything.