Sleeping Beauty, Chapter 1: First Temptation
Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of the Beatles, 'Carry That Weight,' before turning to face Sylar. He was finished with the piano for now. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but Sylar looked to be asleep, his book collapsed across his chest as he reclined on the couch. Sylar was still suffering from a concussion, the aftereffect of their last fight, and as such he tended to nod off easily. He made for an uncomplaining audience.
Peter sat silently, watching the man breathe with features set in the carefree relaxation peculiar to sleep. He looked so harmless that way. His lashes, doubly thick, looked childlike in the way they gathered at rest. It reminded Peter that once upon a time, the fearsome killer Sylar had been an innocent little boy not unlike the ones he saw regularly as a paramedic - and somewhere inside of the man slumbering on the couch, he still was. Peter sighed. Whether it was that exhalation or merely the continued cessation of the music, Sylar roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, "What would you like to talk about?"
Sylar rubbed over his eyes once, straightening and setting his book aside. He blinked with a small, growing frown as he took in Peter's words. "That's a trick question," he answered suspiciously, breaking the illusion with his unwarranted defensiveness. "What are you going to talk about? Obviously, that's what we'll discuss."
Peter rolled his eyes in irritation. They couldn't even get through the most basic of conversations (though he had to admit that arguing over what to talk about was an improvement over hitting each other with their fists). "It's not a trick question," he said with exasperation. "I just thought we could talk about what we would talk about." Sylar merely frowned. Peter's lips pressed together in a similarly displeased line. He folded down the guard for the piano keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view. Peter found his eyes tracking slowly and probably rudely across Sylar's face, taking him in much as he had while the man was sleeping. He is really, really good-looking. That's bizarre. Just … incredible. Peter sighed, relaxing and staring, ignoring Sylar's affronted expression and crossed arms. If Sylar won't talk … well, there are other options. (Wait, like what? What exactly am I thinking about again?) He twitched as his mind stumbled, unable to consciously process the dirty possibility had just gone through his head, having bypassed his usually diligent internal morality filter. Realizing he was already well into ogling territory, Peter cleared his throat and looked down, studying a random spot in the thin carpet covering the floor between them. Maybe staring at each other was not the best idea after all.
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For Sylar's part, he noticed quite a bit sooner than Peter did, consciously, that Peter's thoughts had wandered outside the bounds of normal politeness. It wasn't like Peter was all that discreet about it, after all. Is he … he's looking at me. Wow, he's really checking me out. Sylar froze himself in place, not giving in to any of the myriad reactions he wanted to have, like blinking or questioning or even waving a hand to see if Peter's eyes tracked the motion. By holding still, he lengthened the time Peter spent with gaze stroking over his face and shoulders, with a few quick flits lower. Sylar could feel himself flushing anyway, heart beating faster, blood hustling around his body at a mad pace. The attention and regard gave him meaning and value in a meaningless, empty world. While Peter was watching him, wanting him, Sylar mattered. Then Peter jerked, seemed to realize what he'd been doing, and turned his eyes to the floor.
No! Look at me! Look at me again, dammit! All the air slowly leaked out of Sylar in frustration and disappointment. The moment of attraction, of being looked at like he was desired and appreciated as something other than a weapon or tool to be manipulated and cast aside, was over. Peter seemed genuinely done with him. The only way to regain his attention was to get him talking again, because he expected that Peter's next step would be to simply leave if no conversation was forthcoming. Sylar had been too long alone to let that happen. He gleaned through his thoughts, pulling out something he'd been wanting to ask Peter about anyway. Might as well be now.
"How do you know that kid you found in the future was mine?" He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, and the topic would both get Peter talking and give Sylar answers.
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Peter drew in a deep breath, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. "The 'kid' was named Noah." When Sylar merely gave him a brief eye roll, Peter went on, "I don't know if he was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He," Peter swallowed and looked down, "went to you when he was afraid." He looked back up at Sylar. "You weren't just a babysitter to him." Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, "Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool - Mr. Muggles - and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him - both of them." Peter smiled softly, warmly. That picture was very set in his mind. It was a window to what Sylar could be and what Peter believed he still had it within him to become. "It was cute."
Wondering about the differences between that man and the one before him, Peter went on, "You know, that wasn't a normal future. Things would have had to have changed a long way back. I would think the change must be that Hiro never met me in that subway, so I never went to Odessa and stopped you at the stadium, so I guess you got Claire's ability, but in the future she was … um …" Peter shrugged one shoulder, remembering her future version's lack of concern about the boy's life and later slicing into Peter when he was tied down. "Not one of the good guys." He frowned. But she was working for Nathan … so he wasn't one of the good guys, either. "Nathan was president," he said absently, still lost in considering all the topsy-turvy changes in that strange future.
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Nathan. The N-word. One of those things they couldn't talk about. But Peter had broached the subject. When Peter had mentioned this future before, he'd been pretty skimpy about the rest of it, saying only that he'd had a really bad day. And apparently he'd killed someone while using Sylar's ability - another thing he wouldn't talk about. It occurred to Sylar that this glimpse of the future was the one thing about Nathan Peter might know that Sylar didn't. That was an interesting thought. "Tell me about him."
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Peter looked up at Sylar blankly for a moment, then visibly drew in on himself, lips folding around his teeth like a politician caught in a scandal, weight shifting towards the support of the piano. "I don't want to talk about Nathan," he whispered hoarsely.
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You're the one who brought him up! And Sylar hesitated. Peter's reaction was very strange. It looked like … guilt. Two things Peter refused to talk about - Nathan, and his victim in the future - suddenly clicked together in Sylar's mind. They were one and the same. He'd assumed, previously, that Peter's quarry had been some innocent as an explanation for why he had refused to discuss it when the subject had come up before, but this fit even better. A smile began to grow on Sylar's face as he realized the full extent of the hypocrisy Peter was indulging in, holding Sylar accountable for a murder Peter himself had committed, and gotten away with consequence-free. He even chuckled. Oh, how me knowing about this will complicate your attempts to paint me as a villain! Got a little of that red paint on yourself, too, I see!
Peter's face was contorting with suspicion and anger. 'Nathan' was not a laughing matter even if he didn't know exactly what Sylar found so amusing. Sylar enlightened him. "So it seems I'm not the only one who's killed him. Welcome to the club," he said with an open-armed flourish.
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He knows. The asshole. There was no doubt in Peter's mind that Sylar would see this as vindication. Indeed, Sylar was probably thinking even now that this justified what he'd done, when Peter saw it as merely revealing that they were both guilty of the same act. But he wasn't going to argue this. He wasn't going to sit there still and reactionless while Sylar laughed in his face over his brother's death.
Peter launched himself across the short distance between them, his left hand lashing out for Sylar's throat, to hold him where he wanted him while he did whatever - punch him, choke him, or just rant at him. Sylar really should have expected that, but it was always a surprise to him that other people had free will and autonomy. Peter, right hand raised like he might strike with it, leaned in close and snarled, "What do you know? Haven't you ever killed anyone you cared about?" Peter knew he had. It had been too clear in the silences of Sylar's stories, the gaps he chose to leave. Sylar didn't speak now, either, but he answered just as surely. His expression flickered, faintly, but enough for Peter to read it at this range. Peter dropped his right hand from attack position. His left released the man's throat and rested on his shoulder, because Sylar understood the burden of this particular brand of guilt. Sylar swallowed roughly, continuing to incriminate himself with silence.
"So you know what it's like." Sylar's chest was warm where his hand rested against it. It heaved slowly in deep, slightly hitching breaths. Peter leaned over him where Sylar sat with one arm gripping the couch arm, the other held loosely to his right. He hadn't grabbed Peter or done anything to stop him from choking him. He'd done nothing. And Peter knew, somehow, this was because they shared that experience of profoundly personal horror, to find out that you were capable of something so vile. Sylar wasn't saying it didn't matter. He felt condemned, but in Sylar's case, without the benefit of people not knowing about it. Sylar could never get away from what he'd done, not even when stranded in a world without people - ironically, someone would find him and hold him accountable anyway. And so when Peter had lashed out, Sylar had opened himself to it.
Peter looked into those beautiful, dark eyes, back and forth between those fathomless portals into Sylar's soul. Sylar hadn't been insulting Nathan's death - either of them. There was no dismissiveness here, only the black humor of someone who had seen the worst of humanity and was struggling to cope without going insane. The bitter reminder of mortality, of killing a loved one, had affected Sylar deeply. He wouldn't be so guarded if there were nothing to guard. Sylar was so human, such a paradox of frailty and resilience. He was-
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-impatient. Sylar couldn't stand it anymore - Peter leaning over him, face inches from his own, the feel of his breath warm against his cheek, scent saturating the air between them, the impression of the clasping hand still felt as a phantom sensation on his neck, with the real hand pressing firmly against him, holding him in his seat for Peter's continued perusal. Not so different from the earlier ogling, except now Peter was even more focused. He was reading Sylar like a book. Just as before, it lifted Sylar up and made him feel wanted. It was like Peter was waiting for him to do something.
He reached up, grabbing the back of Peter's neck and pulling him in those last few inches, planting lips against his. He was desperate to connect and if he couldn't figure out how to do it emotionally, then there was at least the physical route. Maybe this time he wouldn't kill the person he was with (or be killed). Peter had so much more restraint - frighteningly, for all Peter's ups and downs, he was much more stable and predictable than Elle had been. Maybe this time it would work. He yearned for that, something so simple - a meaningful, lasting social relationship - nearly all of the more complex organisms on the planet managed it. It was fundamental to the survival of the species. If he was the more evolved, more perfected form, then why was this so difficult for him to achieve?
And then, although it was only the span of a second or two, it seemed like forever - Peter kissed him back. His lips moved purposefully against Sylar's, a full pulse of motion, every millimeter of movement sending thrills and fireworks through Sylar's form, filling an aching void inside of him that had been empty his entire life. Peter's hand on his shoulder curled into a fist, tightening around the fabric of his shirt as Peter made a hungry noise in his throat. Sylar felt suddenly breathless as Peter did it a second time, or at least most of a second time, before Peter was pulling away. Sylar's air left him in a whine as he struggled to keep Peter to him. That was a mistake. The Italian grunted, ducked his head, and twisted away, coming up with a snarl and a hooking motion of his left hand. Sylar saw it out of the corner of his eye, jerking his head back as Peter's fist zipped in front of his face, tagging his nose sharply as it went by.
A kiss to die for. Sudden thoughts of concussion, head impacts, and possible death flashed through his brain. He might be fine on a moment-to-moment basis, but an extra head injury on top of the one he already had might be something he wouldn't recover from. Act-first, think-later Petrelli was useful when the action was kissing, less so when it came to smacking Sylar in the face. He tried to scramble backwards over the couch, but his foot slipped on the slick leather cushion. It wasn't a lethal misstep, though, because Peter retreated, wiping his mouth angrily to get the taste of Sylar off of him. You were kissing me! Sylar thought in protest. You put that taste there. Why be squeamish about it now?
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Peter ran his hand through his hair, rage etched on his features. He felt betrayed, but it was a good question of who was responsible - Sylar, or himself. He was leaning towards himself at the moment. Sylar might have put them into contact, but it was all Peter who had responded. He knew that full well. The passion of the moment had overwhelmed him and self-control was his responsibility. Too much empathy, too much sympathy, too much everything right there, inches away and then no distance at all. He could have pulled away immediately, should have, but for a second there he wanted that kiss more than his morals. Only for a few seconds, but it was a few seconds he was now beating himself up over. He whirled and stalked off to the other end of the room, pacing furiously. He wanted to beat Sylar's face in for pulling that, but at the same time that had been so sweet and perfect and the real problem was how much he wanted to go continue where he'd left off.
Sylar followed him, quiet and almost meek, being careful. He wanted that closeness - and he showed his interest by risking assault with his proximity. Peter knew how much Sylar wanted him. He'd felt it through whatever extraordinary empathic ability he possessed. Hell, he hadn't even realized he still had that ability. It had been so long and he'd stayed away from people so resolutely, avoiding any meaningful connection for fear he'd endanger people. He'd thought his empathy was lost to him just like the rest of his abilities. He'd felt a glimmer of it with Emma, but … Sylar? He looked over at the guy with tortured disbelief. It seemed perverse that it was Sylar who would awaken this in him, even if only for a moment. It was fading fast now, like a spark dying out, but he'd felt it blaze up inside of him when they'd kissed. It struck Peter as equally bizarre that Sylar's feelings were so genuine. Being stared at, Sylar sunk his hands into the tops of his pockets and rounded his shoulders, leaning against the corner of the Foosball table and trying to look as small and inoffensive as possible.
Peter didn't want to fight. Neither did Sylar. Peter sighed, shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths. When he opened them, Sylar was touching his own mouth gently, massaging his lips as best fingers could to recreate the pressure of another mouth. Air pushed out of Peter as he looked away. That was so sexy, he felt his cock twitch despite himself. He wanted to go over there and help Sylar out with the real thing. With a sudden shake of his head and a snort at his own stupid libido, Peter wheeled and strode out of the room.