Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 99: Pillory
Title: Pillory
Characters: Peter Petrelli, Sylar
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Non-sexual, consensual corporal punishment
Word count: 2,500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar has invited Peter to vent his anger on Sylar's body and they jointly settled on a standard whipping.
Peter wound, unwound, and wound again the flat leather strap around his hand. "You do not know how much I've fantasized about this for the last few months. Ever since I found out what you'd done." Sylar eyed him without comment, his face blank and unreadable. Peter gave him a cruel smile, jerking the leather tight between his hands. If he could scare Sylar into backing out, this was the time to do it. "Still ready?"
In answer, Sylar turned, presenting his bare back. He leaned over and braced himself against the pool table.
Peter uncoiled the strap. It was a little over a yard long, originally intended as a belt. He'd removed the buckle and wrapped that end with gaffer's tape to make a handle. The other end trailed along the floor. "When do I stop?"
Sylar looked over his shoulder at him. "When you're done."
Peter tilted his head and frowned. It wasn't the answer he wanted, so he substituted his own. "Then I'll be done whenever you say 'stop', whenever you let go of that pool table for any reason, or when I get tired of hitting you." Sylar's expression stayed just as unreadable as before. He looked steadily at Peter for a long moment before turning away. Peter stepped up close him to him, putting a gentle hand on Sylar's shoulder. In a low voice, he said, "I need something from you here. Are you sure you're okay with this?"
Sylar looked at him again and this time Peter saw something flicker across the man's features. It looked like gratitude, if Peter had to label it. "I'm ready," was all Sylar said.
Peter rubbed Sylar's shoulder a few times - bare, warm, smooth skin that would soon be hot, angry, and welted. He'd chosen the back because it provided the smallest chance of injuring Sylar in any serious way, while allowing Peter to really put his strength into it. He studied Sylar, meeting his eyes for a very long count of seconds. As much as he wanted to hurt Sylar, he didn't want Sylar to think less of him for this, or fear him, or hate him more than Sylar probably already did. Those were damages Peter didn't want to inflict, not even now. Sylar did not flinch from his gaze or anything behind it. It was like he knew what was going on in Peter's head and didn't blame him for it - at least, that was what Peter hoped he was seeing. Peter gave Sylar's shoulder a squeeze before taking a few steps back. Slowly, reluctantly, he allowed his long-suppressed wrath to fill him as he flicked the end of the belt behind him, into position for the first lash. "Then I'm ready, too."
When he first swung the belt, two things struck Peter. First was the sound. The dull smack made by the leather strap against Sylar's exposed back sounded … off. Like it hadn't hit right, or on edge instead of the flat, or something. He didn't know exactly how such things were supposed to sound, having only movies to guide him. He'd never even been spanked as a child, although he'd been hit plenty (both as a child and an adult) with hands. The sharp whack made by a fist in real life wasn't anything like the ridiculous smashing sound given to such strikes on film, so he supposed the lash, lacking the crack he'd expected of it, was just as different.
The second thing was how much it hurt his shoulder. He'd put a lot into the swing and damned if it didn't feel like he's sprained or torn his rotator cuff on the very first blow. With a perturbed look, he rubbed at his shoulder joint and wondered if this would end up hurting him worse and more permanently than Sylar. Wouldn't that be ironic? Sylar, for his part, had virtually no reaction - a tense exhale upon being hit and nothing else. His skin told a different story, though - a white stripe had appeared instantly. It was reddening now.
Peter swapped the belt to his left hand and gave it a few practice waves in the air. When he brought it down on Sylar, he did so clumsily, hitting the man on the back of the head with the end of it, which broke nearly all the force before it ever hit his back. It didn't even make the weird smacking noise. It just sort of thudded against him. "Sorry," Peter muttered compulsively. Sylar shifted his weight, which was more of a reaction than he'd given the first time, when it had probably truly hurt.
The next blow, Peter focused solely on technique and targeting. It landed where he'd aimed, the end licking over the top of Sylar's shoulder simultaneous with the rest of it slapping diagonally across his back. This time, Sylar tensed slightly, shifted his grip, and let his head fall forward.
The silence was unnerving. This whole world was too quiet even under normal conditions, but now, with nothing but the occasional whap of leather on flesh and Peter being hyperaware of Sylar's every puff and gasp and shift, it was deeply unsettling. He wanted to throw down the lash and pull Sylar away from the pool table, apologize for doing something so sadistic, and fill the air with better sounds, maybe music while Sylar healed or at least the tones of their voices in friendly conversation.
After a few more blows, he realized he couldn't continue this without feedback. "Tell me about Nathan's death." With a roll of his right shoulder, he passed the lash back to that hand. It felt better now. He didn't think he'd done any permanent damage to it. He'd just need to be careful.
"Old news," Sylar said, voice tight. "I already have."
"Tell me again," Peter bit out, giving Sylar a light stroke of the whip that nonetheless made the man twitch.
"What?" Sylar shot back. "I killed him, alright? You know that!" Peter hit him again for being insubordinate, then just stood there, hands on hips, letting his shoulder rest. Sylar's back was a crisscross maze of red, welted lines. After a few more seconds of silence, Sylar got the message that continuing was mandatory. "You and he came into the suite at the Stanton Hotel. I threw Claire out so she'd be safe." Peter cocked his head, wondering why the hell Sylar cared about Claire's safety (especially given that she was nearly indestructible), but he didn't interrupt. Sylar was speaking quickly, getting the story out efficiently. "We fought - the three of us. I had you down. I was electrocuting you. Nathan bull rushed me out the window. He and I fought in the air, then I blasted him into another window a few stories down. I followed him into the room. He picked himself up and I slit his throat before he could get to me. That's what happened." Sylar's voice was rough.
Peter hefted the lash, then struck with it once, twice, and a third time, alternating sides. Sylar gasped and trembled. The swollen flesh was far more sensitive than it had been when they started. Peter could see that he'd broken the skin in a spot over Sylar's right shoulder blade. He wondered if he should stop. "If you cut his throat, then you could have held him there just as easily."
"I can't hold people who can fly."
"What?" Peter stared at the back of Sylar's head, feeling stupid. He remembered heading into the hotel room with the expectation that Sylar would just swat them both out of the air. He'd never known there was a reason why the man didn't bother, and had preferred to hit them both repeatedly with lightning.
"His ability allows movement regardless of gravity, air pressure, or any other resistance. That's how it works. I couldn't have held him; I can only interfere a little. But that's not why. I cut his throat because I wanted him dead."
"Why?" This, too, Sylar had answered before, but Peter still couldn't fathom it. He knew Nathan was an asshole, he was selfish, flawed, had to be stopped sometimes, but he didn't deserve to die and so Peter couldn't get his mind around Sylar's reasons.
"Because I didn't like him!" Peter could hear the snarl in Sylar's voice, the frustration at having to explain this again and again. "He had everything and he threw it away, spat on it, tried to destroy it!" Peter lifted the belt to swing, moved by how petty Sylar's motivation seemed, but Sylar was still speaking. "It was all given to him free - the name, the title, the money, the political office, even his ability was a gift! And what did he do with any of it? He tore apart his family, sent the government after you and his mother and his daughter! He betrayed everyone who was ever close to him - you don't know the half of it! He wasn't even a good fucking politician! He was going to kill millions, just to secure his career; and later blot out an entire sub-species of humanity because he was disgusted to be different from what anyone expected of him. He didn't deserve his pathetic little life and you're better off without him, Peter!"
Peter brought down the belt as hard as he could. Sylar staggered and blood ran. He hit him again and again until his arm ached and Sylar's knees finally buckled. The man still clung to the pool table, but it was enough for Peter. It wasn't really Sylar he was angry at anyway. He screamed wordlessly and flung the piece of leather across the room, his shoulder making a final, blindingly painful ache. Tears ran down his face and for once, he didn't want to hit Sylar, throttle him, or beat him senseless. There was no target for his grief or his rage. Everything Sylar had accused was true, even the last of it, and what Peter wanted to rail against was how damnably accurate it all was. The world was not as he wanted it to be. His brother was not the 'most likely to' man of honor and conviction Peter had always tried to make him be, wanted him to be, pretended he was.
No. Nathan was dead. Peter was trembling. And Sylar was watching him out of the corner of his eye, otherwise immobile where he knelt next to the pool table, breathing hard and waiting. Blood dribbled down the man's back, disappearing into the black elastic waistband of his underwear, beneath his jeans.
Peter looked up at the ceiling and slowly raised his hands to scrub at his face. Nearly staggering himself, he moved to the bag of supplies he'd prepared earlier. With difficulty (his hands didn't seem to want to work right, aside from the residual shaking), he got out an aerosol can and took it to Sylar. "This is going to feel cold. It might sting just a little, then it will numb … numb the skin. It should … help." He exhaled heavily, waiting for a sign of understanding from Sylar, who only turned away and rested his forehead against the table. Peter decided that was good enough and sprayed the man's back, neck, and shoulders with even, overlapping passes. Sylar shuddered slightly.
Peter tossed the can at the bag and slipped an arm under Sylar's. "Come on. Up. Let's move you to the couch."
"I'm fine," Sylar said quietly, clearing his throat. He got to his feet with only token assistance from Peter. Peter stayed with him and guided him anyway. "I'm fine," Sylar repeated at a normal tone now. "I've had worse."
"Right," Peter tried to joke. "I don't measure up. I get it. Way to tell a guy his performance sucks." He wasn't sure that was funny. He was trying to make an analogy between sex and torture. They weren't things he wanted to be drawing a comparison between. Sylar apparently agreed. At least he gave Peter a very odd look. But then they were at the couch and where Sylar wanted to go wasn't where Peter wanted him to be. Peter told him, "You need to lie face down."
"I'll take up the whole couch then," Sylar complained. There was enough strain in his voice that Peter was sure he was still hurting bad.
"Good. Do it. I'll pull up a chair and sit right next to you."
Sylar looked at him again, sharply this time. They'd discussed aftercare in only the most general terms, with Sylar's sole condition being that Peter not abandon him. Now, apparently he had other conditions. "I want you on the couch."
"I want you to lie down," Peter countered, nudging Sylar to turn and follow his instructions.
"Those aren't exclusive," Sylar said. With surprising strength, the man spun him and pushed, with Peter ending up sitting at the end of the couch whether he wanted to or not. Under other circumstances, Peter would have taken that as the start of a fight and bounced up off the furniture swinging as he went. As it was, he merely gaped at Sylar, who was stiffly climbing on the couch by hands and knees. Sylar settled himself facedown as Peter had specified, except that his head was on Peter's lap, face turned to the side. Peter swallowed and tried to figure out where to put his hands. One went on his thigh. The other ended up on Sylar's folded elbow, the one wedged between Sylar's body and the back of the couch sticking out from where Sylar's forearm was folded under his upper chest.
It was calm after that. Sylar's words kept running through Peter's mind, but the rage had worn off. He just felt tired now, so very tired and depressed about it all. Even if Nathan had been a lousy brother, he was the brother Peter had had. Now he was gone forever. Peter would have cried, but he was too wrung out. Instead, he sat with Nathan's murderer, a gaping hole torn in his soul that no balm seemed able to soothe.