Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 87: Give Me An Inch
Three connected stories.
Title: Give Me An Inch
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Words: 500
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter gives Sylar a little coaching on how to get him in the mood.
"Look down!" Peter said in desperation. This had gone so far. He couldn't take it anymore, yet even with direct and clear orders, Sylar still stared at him from inches away. But a tiny furrow appeared in the man's brow, so Peter clarified, "Look away! I don't care, just give me an inch here!"
Sylar's eyes made a flicker - half a blink - and then to Peter's surprise, he drew in a breath and dutifully looked down, eyes focused on Peter's upper chest.
Peter stood very still, feeling stupid and angry and exasperated all at once. Seconds passed. Sylar wasn't moving either, not even his eyes, which were fixed on the second button of Peter's flannel shirt. Peter shut his own eyes for a moment, then opened them and relaxed. That was possible now - shutting his eyes, taking a moment, and relaxing. They were things he couldn't do while Sylar was devouring him with his dominating gaze. Peter was in the spotlight then, he was 'on', and there were things he couldn't deal with in that state.
Now, though, he could. He touched Sylar's shoulder, lightly, stroking the outside of it, then the top. Softly, he said, "You don't have to do it all the time. It's just a little thing. Sometimes. It makes me think you trust me enough to take your eyes off me for a moment-" He hadn't been sure Sylar was even listening to him, so immobile was he and his expression, but at these words, Sylar turned his head and looked away pointedly, before turning back much more slowly, eyes rising cautiously to Peter's face.
"Yeah." Peter nodded jaggedly. "Yeah, that's, uh, yeah." He smiled weakly, embarrassed and strangely charmed by the level of coaching Sylar needed on what Peter considered very basic interactions. One did not stare at the subject of one's affections like one was a cross between a socially inept teenager and a half-starved tiger, even if Sylar was, in his own way, both of these things. Peter touched along Sylar's jaw, his own gaze going from his fingers to Sylar's eyes repeatedly, checking in to make sure it was okay. Sylar remained as unreadable as a brick wall. Voice still soft, Peter said, "You don't have to fight me all the time. You don't have to try to … take over. Let me lead a little, okay? That's what I want to do." He paused for a moment, thinking about what Sylar knew of him. "I'm not the little kid Nathan knew. I want to be calling some of the shots in my life. It makes me feel safe." He touched the front of Sylar's chin with his thumb, not firmly, but just a suggestion for him to tilt his face downward. "It makes me feel sexy," Peter murmured as Sylar followed the gentle not-an-order. They kissed.
Title: Let Me Take A Mile
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Words: 1,500
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar makes use of the hints he's been given.
In laying out the ground rules for how Sylar could get with him, Peter had shown his colors even more than usual. He'd always hero-worshipped Nathan, but that was only a symptom of a broader complex, Sylar saw. Peter wanted the easy admiration Nathan had - the public support, people listening to him, the approval of their parents. For all Peter's defiance, he wanted to be his father. He wanted the power, the respect, the instant obedience Arthur so easily commanded from people, even total strangers. Young Peter had seen that, tried to emulate his male role models, and got smacked down for it time after time. He was too young, they'd earned it and he hadn't, and there just wasn't room for two favorites in the family. No wonder he was so angry inside. No wonder Peter had cultivated such a different career and social circle from the rest of the family. There was no other way to be his own man - 'it's my turn to be somebody, Nathan', he'd said, words so clear and meaningful about the thing Peter was willing to die for.
In their circles, among his parent's friends or Nathan's cronies, he was always the disregarded, bratty little brother and although Peter knew how to play that role through long practice, it wasn't the one he wanted. He wanted to be the star. He wanted to be the hero. He wanted to be king of the hill, the leader, a big shot. He wanted to be everything his last name should have entitled him to. He was stamped from top to bottom as a Petrelli, from his rebellious, too-long hair that was nevertheless expertly styled to the higher-end footwear that evened his gait and subtly made his bowlegs a non-issue. Even the workout routine Peter was plowing through at the moment were marks of his wealth and privilege - those less fortunate did not have the free time or the equipment unless they were in prison. As Sylar was, now.
So Petrelli wants me to be his bitch, Sylar thought, trying out the idea. It should have been galling, but Peter had been so transparent that it was mostly amusing. It wasn't as much a threat to his pride when Peter put it as 'I'll be more turned on if you act inferior' than if he'd implied Sylar was actually inferior. It helped, too, to know where it was coming from. Sylar had been Nathan for a little while. The power and prestige had its perks, but they weren't the important things about the identity, any more than abilities defined who Sylar was. That last was something that had taken Sylar years to work out. Perhaps Peter would learn faster. It depended on how good a teacher Sylar was.
Peter finished his workout and toweled the sweat off his face. Sylar closed his book and held it to the side, adopting an attentive posture. He might as well start now. Even that small change from his usual pattern of lounging disinterestedly changed Peter's behavior. Instead of going straight out, Peter rubbed the towel across the back of his neck and stretched a couple times. He was posing for him, Sylar saw with delight. Sylar could see even see Peter watching him in one of the wall mirrors, making sure his audience was paying attention. The moment Peter saw his gaze had been noticed, he looked embarrassed, tossing the towel over one shoulder and turning to leave.
"Wait," Sylar asked, still sitting. "Can you show me?" Lead me.
"Show you what?" Peter stopped at the door.
"How do you pick which weight to start with?" It didn't matter if Sylar knew the answers or not. What mattered was letting Peter tell him, letting him have the attention he so sorely craved.
"Well," Peter said slowly, loitering near the door, "it depends on what you're looking to do. If you want bulk, it's high weights and low reps. If you want strength and maybe sculpting, it's lower weights and higher reps." He looked from the free weight rack to Sylar, who had shown only a passing interest in the past.
Sylar went where Peter's eyes had directed him. Standing over the rack, he asked, "What do you consider a high weight?"
"As high as you can lift without injury." And here Peter came, walking over to stand next to Sylar. Sylar felt a thrill of joy, as he always did at successfully manipulating people. It was such a small thing, but it tickled him in the right places.
Sylar picked up the twenty-five pound dumbbell and hefted it. "This seems light." To demonstrate, he tossed it an inch or so before catching it. He might not have Peter's brawn, but a hard life had not left him a weakling.
"No! Don't do that." Peter's hands were on him now, touching his forearm with one and his hand with the other. "That's really hard on your shoulder. Get something heavier then. Respect the weight. Respect your body."
Sylar was returning the dumbbell as Peter spoke. At the end, he looked up at the man, keeping his somewhat bent-over posture. "Respect my body?" he repeated quietly, just leaving the words hanging in the air for Peter to react to.
Peter's expression changed - brows drew in and his mouth relaxed. His lips parted slightly. He put his hand on Sylar's hip and pressed. "Squat. Don't lean over like that when you're going to lift. You'll strain something." His words were softer.
Sylar squatted. As he handled the weights, Peter fondled his shoulder, short strokes on the outside of his t-shirt. Sylar didn't know how to respond to that, so he just let it happen, enjoying the little touches and taking his time with the dumbbells. He and Peter hadn't even gone so far as to have a serious make-out session yet. They'd managed kissing and getting closer to one another. Sylar had groped him against the wall once, which had earned him an open-handed smack that connected, followed by a left hook that didn't. The smack was sexy. The hook wasn't, which he assumed was why Peter had launched it. He had not missed that Peter didn't try too hard with the hook. It had seemed like a mixed signal at the time. Now it made sense. Peter wasn't objecting to the intimacy. Sylar had been using the wrong approach.
He settled on a weight and stood. "One of them or two?"
"One's good to start with." Peter's hands traveled down Sylar's triceps with a lot of unnecessary contact. He pressed on Sylar's elbow. "Keep this straight and pump up and down." Sylar struggled to keep a straight face at Peter's pornographic directions. "You want to make your biceps do all the work. Keep the muscle isolated. If you have the weight right, you should be able to do ten or fifteen reps before muscle fatigue. Then stop, do the other arm, wait thirty seconds or so, and repeat the set. You do that for three sets and then stop."
"That shouldn't take long," Sylar said, finding the weight already more challenging than he wanted, having mistakenly picked what felt like the limit of his ability to lift even two or three times. His ego did not allow him to show it, but he was relieved to switch at ten repetitions.
"Don't curl your wrist. Keep it straight." Peter reached across him needlessly, as though Sylar wouldn't know which body part Peter was referring to unless he touched it.
Sylar stopped at a single set, hoping Peter wouldn't mind. These weren't the muscles he was hoping to flex. He squatted again to return the weight. He looked up at Peter from below - Peter, who hadn't moved away and was still standing over him, touched his shoulder again. Ah. A light bulb went off in Sylar's head for what that touch was about. He wants a blow job. From the squat on his toes, he turned at the hips and settled forward on his knees. Peter took an immediate step back. Shit. Misjudged. Sylar looked up at him, his wide eyes all innocence and intention. "Too forward?"
Peter swallowed and stammered, "N-no. Well, not- It's- I'm dirty." He gestured at the weight machines. "I just finished. I'm sweaty." He hesitated for a moment. "Unless you're into that?"
Sylar tried to sort out if Peter was really that fastidious (improbable), or if he was just looking for an excuse to turn him down (then why ask if it worked for him?) "What if I am?"
"Uh … kay." Peter scratched nervously at his belly. He just stood there, looking spooked.
Sylar remained on his knees, canted about halfway between facing Peter and facing the weight rack. He put a hand on the weight rack, trying to look casual and unthreatening. "Areyou?"
"Uh, no. I'd feel bad about what I was making you put up with the whole time, unless that was what was doing it for you."
"Ah." An excess of consideration - that fits.
"Come, uh," Peter shifted his weight uneasily, "come take a shower with me?"
I thought you'd never ask. "I'd love to." Sylar rose smoothly to his feet and followed. He kept his distance, remembering that left hook. Crowding Peter and taking what he wanted wasn't the way this relationship was going to go. That made it different from the relationships he'd had with women - all of whom seemed to appreciate him being take-charge. Peter was special. He smiled to himself about that.
Once in the shower, there wasn't going to be much choice about being close. From out in the hall, Sylar watched Peter strip in the penthouse bathroom. Shoes had been left near the front door. Socks came off as soon as Peter entered the bathroom. The shirt came off smoothly … then Peter paused, glancing back at Sylar as he wadded the cloth. Sylar waited, taking in every inch of Peter with his eyes. He knew what was under those shorts in a general way. He'd caught glimpses now and then enough to know Peter was basically normal in size and had so little pubic hair as to make Sylar wonder if he trimmed it. Peter turned to face him, dropping the shirt to the side as he squared up confrontationally. His face was a shut book.
Time to show I was listening yesterday. Sylar strode to him with steady, unhurried steps, never breaking eye contact. Peter's nose wrinkled and the man sucked in breath, trying his damnedest to look bigger. That was amusing. Sylar stopped less than a hand's span apart. He loved being tall. He looked almost directly down at Peter, their height difference exaggerated by Peter being barefoot. Peter's eyes fairly glittered with defiance, anger, and other dark emotions spawned from a lifetime of insecurity and jealousy. Sylar met those eyes, let himself drown in the intensity of the emotions and how it filled Peter's frame with such fire. It connected them. Peter never gave an inch when his back was up. That was another thing Sylar loved - Peter's persistence, his passion, and his spirit.
With deliberate intention, Sylar gave Peter what he wanted. He looked away, down and to the side, hooding his eyes and almost shutting them. He dipped his head and turned it, letting his face take on its most placid expression. He felt Peter's exhale. In his peripheral vision, he could see the man's stance relax. Sylar turned his head back to look at Peter full-on, peering out from under his brows. It was a threatening look, face hard. The intimidation was spoiled by Peter almost playfully touching Sylar's lips, his own expression happy.
"Come on," Peter chirped, all lightness now. He even gave Sylar a quick smooch before shucking his gym shorts and heading into the shower so quickly Sylar didn't see anything but a flash of gloriously rounded, pale cheeks.
Peter turned on the water, hidden now behind the contoured resin surface of the shower door. Sylar stood there with a slowly blooming smile. He was touching his own lips as Peter had. It worked. That thrill of getting someone to act as he wished ran through him from top to bottom, lingering longest in his middle. I'm going to have so much fun with this!
Title: Coming Clean
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Words: 1,400
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Shifting POV per paragraph. Hopefully it's not too disorienting.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: They shower and get off.
Peter took the one step back he could take when Sylar joined him in the shower. He'd begun to wonder if the man would. Sylar had taken long enough for Peter to soap and rinse everything. He'd been thinking about moving on to his hair when the shower door finally opened. Sylar had a presence and dignity even naked. Peter admired him openly for a moment - curly dark hair, pale skin, long and lean body. Then Peter looked around the rest of the shower stall, thinking that was more polite than continuing to ogle. He gestured for Sylar to move to the center and use the spray.
Sylar, for his part, was hyper-aware that he was pasty-white, lanky, and hairy. He tried his best not to be tense or adopt an aggressive posture. It was tough, though, when Peter retreated the moment he approached. He stood for inspection, not sure what it meant when Peter looked away. Is he disappointed? Peter waved him towards the shower spray. That would put him closer to the other man, so he took it, dipping his head into the warm water and rinsing his face.
Peter leaned against the cool tile and traced along Sylar's shoulder, down his upper arm and to the hollow of his elbow. Sylar glanced at him but didn't react otherwise. Instead, Sylar took up the washcloth and soap, setting about cleaning himself while Peter's fingers danced over whatever portion of his body was within reach. Sylar did not stray from him. His skin was soft, incredibly so. Peter recognized the phenomenon from the time when he'd been nearly vaporized in the future. He'd regenerated somehow and among the various consequences, he'd found that his skin had grown back baby-smooth. It was nice to touch, but he wondered what had happened to Sylar so recently as to leave this markless mark on him.
Sylar found many reasons to turn, luxuriating in Peter's light, undemanding touch. He wanted more - he always did - but this was nice and free and intimate. It also gave him an idea of where Peter's mind was. Not in the gutter, apparently, because he didn't linger over nipples, go below the waist, or above the neck. It was almost platonic, making Sylar wonder if he'd completely misread the situation. Given that he was standing in the shower naked with Peter, that seemed unlikely.
When Sylar put up the washcloth, Peter took his nearer upper arm in both hands and rubbed the bicep, manipulating it with a firm but gentle pressure. Then he turned Sylar so he could do the other arm, keeping his eyes on his work even as he could feel Sylar watching him. When done, he rested one palm on each and looked up. Sylar gave him, again, the brief glance down and back up. Sylar's hands rose to cup the back of Peter's elbows, then touch at his sides. Peter smiled as butterflies fluttered in his gut. We're really going to do this? Yeah, we are. His smile turned almost pained and he shifted his weight. He was so tense and uneasy. Sylar was a killer. He was dangerous. He was unstable. His murders had not been accidents. This is such a bad idea. Peter let his hands smooth over the wet, warm skin, sliding to the back of the arms and pulling Sylar forward and against him. He'd worry about consequences later, like he always did.
Yes, yes, yes! a voice was chanting in the back of Sylar's head as he stepped nearer and oh-so-gently gathered Peter into his arms. Peter tilted his head up and to one side. Sylar matched him. They'd done this before, too, just fully clothed and not in a shower. This kiss wasn't as tentative as that one had been. Sylar knew Peter's taste now. He knew the way his skin smelled up close. He knew the way Peter kissed him repeatedly rather than continuously, and how the little man mixed it up by sucking on his lips and teasing with his tongue. Sylar curled his hand behind Peter's head to cradle it and hold him there. The water beat down on Sylar's back and ran down his legs. He had to reach down and adjust himself so he was not trapped to one side, but was fully erect against Peter's lower belly.
Peter hummed with interest when Sylar's hand traveled downward, but the contact was minimal and inadvertent. Peter dropped his own hand, which was neither. He took up his mostly hard penis and gripped it with Sylar's own. Sylar was still for the moment, looking down and watching carefully. It was the kind of thing to watch, so Peter did, too. They were looking down on the heads of two cocks, one hand partly surrounding them, sliding up and down slowly. Peter looked to the side at the rack, pulling down some body wash. It seemed the least likely to cause irritation. A good dollop of it between them made his handful slippery. Sylar took the bottle from him and put it back, letting Peter use both hands.
From Sylar's standpoint, this was very strange sex. But it seemed very safe. It didn't hit any of his problematic buttons, it got him close to Peter, and it was definitely going to get him off. Especially once the lotion or shower gel or whatever was added to the mix and he moved himself to prevent the water from washing it away. Then he just let Peter go to town, giving him a sudsy hand job while rubbing one out himself, in the same … handful. Sylar even smiled as he watched. It was simple, friendly … boyish was another word that came to his mind. He could imagine a couple Boy Scouts or other adolescents helping each other out like this. His mother had always said those organizations were rife with perverted behavior. He chuckled at how right she might have been. Maybe that was where Peter learned all this. Since his hands were free, he began to caress Peter's face and kiss him. It was a welcome distraction from the desire to thrust, which was building fast inside himself.
Peter moaned when Sylar finally began taking some initiative himself, cradling his head, stroking his cheeks, and kissing him deeply and passionately. Sylar's insistent, probing tongue earned several more moans as Peter leaned against the cool tile and pumped his joined hands up and down around their members. He could feel Sylar's hips beginning to hitch, so he changed the timing of his strokes. A second later, Sylar caught on and fucked his hands in sync. "Oh!" Peter pulled away for air, panting in the steamy atmosphere. Sylar's kisses didn't stop. They trailed sloppily across his cheek and licked down his neck, where Sylar stopped to use his teeth. "Ah!" Peter tensed all over, rising up on his toes as nibbles turned into harder, demanding bites. He pumped faster, not caring if Sylar kept up with him. He squeezed their organs together, feeling their ridges sliding up and down, the lather frothy and hot.
Sylar could feel Peter straining and flexing under him. Neck muscles corded and jumped, his hands frigged them together faster and faster. He was right on the cusp of coming, but tried to hold it off until Peter popped. He hooked one arm around Peter's head, pulling it to the side to completely expose his shoulder and neck. Sylar littered it with bites and love marks. "Every time I look at you, I want to see these," he murmured between marks. "I want to know we were together. I want to fuck you and suck on these when I do it-"
"Ah!" Peter tensed all over, the pornographic image from Sylar's words pushing him over and filling him with surging heat. He spurted and dribbled. Sylar turned him, kissed him savagely hard, owning him through his mouth, and came as well. Sylar pressed him against the wall, rubbing his whole body up and down on Peter, smearing them both with lather and ejaculate, while nuzzling at Peter's face affectionately. Peter smiled lazily and returned it, thinking he'd never seen Sylar act quite like that. He liked it. It made him feel warm inside, and connected. "You want to fuck me?" he whispered.
Sylar breathed out heavily. "I have wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you on the road, with that pipe." He rubbed his cheek against Peter's like a cat. "But you're the one calling the shots here."
Peter laughed softly and reached out the let the water wash off one hand before he stroked it through Sylar's hair. "You let me feel sexy and I'll give you anything you want."
Sylar leaned back, smiling slyly as he looked down at Peter's chest, fingers absently circling a dark nipple. "That is the idea."