Last Man on Earth
Title: Last Man On Earth
Characters: Sylar and Peter
Rating: PG-13 (some swearing, kissing)
Setting: Inside the Wall/S4
A/N: Shamelessly inspired by Game_byrd’s Wall Short Series (a drabble), Walled In/Seeing Stars, The Touch of Your Lips and a few other of her pieces including MBU.
A/N 2: A prequel to game_byrd's " Things Unsaid". And first entry of the new year!
“…Because I may be the last guy on earth, but I’m not cheap amusement,” Peter finished his strong oration, his self-respect oozing through even though Sylar thought it almost over-played. Typical.
The man’s passion was evident, his drive to be taken as something of serious value. Sylar wondered as he did many times…what Peter did to earn that heart-felt right to be respected like that. Clearly it wasn’t saving lives because Sylar had done his share. Perhaps it was that he hadn’t devoted his life to it or saved *enough* lives. Wouldn’t irony just be a bitch that way and use a number to put a limit on respect earned? Peter must have been one awfully cute baby to garner the things he did, and Sylar a very ugly infant.
“You’re just easy,” Sylar said mildly, earning himself a suspicious glare.
They sat on the intuitive’s couch, on polar ends of course; but it was a piece of furniture they were sharing. Sylar was optimistically counting that as a good thing, a step in the right direction. Both Peter’s legs were in their socially correct positions, his feet on the floor even though his knees and torso were tilted towards Sylar whose left leg was curled underneath himself as he faced his guest. So what, it was his couch anyway; he’d do what he wanted.
After a seriously uncomfortable silence during which Peter pointedly looked away, his expression grumpy at being ignored and dismissed, Sylar cleared his throat, which went unnoticed. He tried shifting positions about an inch. Still no success.
Evidently, Peter was pissed that his main points had gone unheard (or so the empath thought). So Sylar considered how to inform Peter that those assumptions on that were wrong about him because Sylar was actually a good listener.
It took him a few moments, opening his mouth once in a false start. “I don’t…You’re not cheap amusement, Peter. I can’t say I know anything about you being easy, but the other empath I know- knew was….over-amorous. I still think she’s special.” Because of her ability, he didn’t say; it made her very special even if she had tried to use him as her own booty-call-assassin.
Peter didn’t turn to look at him fully, but he looked nonetheless, his bangs providing a partial cover until he straightened and pushed them back with a practiced hand. The sight instantly distracted Sylar. Those hands…
Sylar had never found a man’s hands erotic as such. He’d never found men “erotic” in so many words, either. But hands…Sylar knew lots about those. Wonderful instruments of creation they were. Or instruments of destruction, of fixing, protection, healing or lust.
As he had spare time, Sylar had watched Peter’s hands (when he wasn’t watching that cute face) doing everyday tasks. He watched the gripping and touching, the gestures Peter made - how soft, how tense, how strong, how gentle or vicious, how pointed or rounded, how close or far, even what direction they traveled. Peter’s hands were easier to read than Peter was - Peter’s hands were honest in everything they did.
Peter had very masculine hands, a little small, but maybe that was just in comparison to his own which was entirely possible, nearly everyone looked small in comparison. The skin covering them was a most interesting mixture of rough, textured, soft and worn. Some scars here and there, but they did nothing to detract.
Of course he imagined how Peter would use them…intimately, even how Peter used them on himself. Perhaps Peter’s hands would tell him more about the empath than the empath would. Wouldn’t that be something? Those hands would tell him each and every pleasurable spot in the man’s body because Peter was confident and he undoubtedly knew what his body needed.
Of course Sylar wondered which pressure he would feel when Peter applied those hands on him - soft and caring, firm? Or rough and handling? What texture would he feel from tip to heel, the palm or the back of those hands? They all held their appeal and Sylar did want to try them all.
Peter had been listening, though, so Sylar went on after he’d snapped himself back on the appropriate topic, “That’s the thing no one realizes…brain’s aren’t ugly and disgusting - they’re beautiful. Unique. Just like no two abilities are the same, no two snowflakes…” he shrugged, realizing that his attempts had turned far more personal and poetic than he’d intended and he’d probably just lost his audience to ‘ick factor’.
The empath was now looking at him dead on with a serious, intent expression, a little puzzled. Sylar looked back as innocently as he could, expecting to be ‘in trouble’ by mentioning brains, expecting some comment along the lines of ‘You didn’t get out much, did you?’ Neither trouble nor snide remark came.
Their eye contact continued. Strange. Peter’s eyes widened a little, gradually, relaxing, the green in them showing up more clearly as Sylar watched attentively.
It was odd for Peter to gaze at him like this, almost unheard of. The medic only did that when confused and really searching or whenever Sylar’s face managed not to wound his retinas; Sylar figured with a whole couch cushion between them, Peter must feel safe enough although he couldn’t vouch for his own questionably average appearance.
Sylar knew what he’d been trying to say; the meaning may have missed Peter, but he hoped above hope that it hadn’t. At first Sylar had offered sex casually, declaring No Strings Attached because…well, he didn’t know what he was doing.
He didn’t know how to proposition someone without seduction or powers or usefulness. He didn’t know how men propositioned men! As Nathan Petrelli’s murderer surely Sylar was not going to make Peter’s Bachelor of the Year list for date potential. (And seriously, a relationship? Here? Now? Like this? Intimacy; caring; feelings…problems. Sylar had plenty of those and sadly he had no usefulness to combat them; he had none of the bargaining tools - his abilities - to tempt a man like Peter into anything even vaguely labeled a “healthy, satisfying” sexual relationship).
Peter clearly had hang-ups with the idea of casual sex on general principal. Funny because Peter was just a big easy slut to begin with; and Sylar had yet to figure out how that was logical and non-hypocritical. Peter had to be the center of attention, probably deserved to be, near as Sylar could tell.
Sylar knew a thing or two about that desire. It wasn’t like Gabriel hadn’t known how to shine the eternal spotlight of his attentions and affections, forsaking all his own needs to please another. As much as Sylar abhorred (and really his skin just crawled away to hide in a dark crack somewhere) comparing a relationship to that of his relationship with Virginia…it was true. And he could do it because he had done so before.
“Peter…I want to try something,” Sylar whispered, waiting until that sunk in to scoot over his half of the couch cushion named Switzerland, neutral territory. “It won’t hurt,” I hope it won’t hurt! "Just..." He'd lost focus on the words as he now stared at the empath's pink, lush mouth, his eyes obvious and desirous. It took less time than he'd thought before Peter caught on, his mouth opening, his eyes widening still further, straightening up in preperation.
Another move across the cushion, Peter’s nearest knee bumping into his farthest inner thigh with their positioning. Sylar’s gaze traveled between the man’s open pupils and his parted lips. Ever so slowly he reached out to touch, a dangerous, potentially unforgiveable act breaching male etiquette, their current relationship (whatever that might be), host/guest rules, trying to make a bridge over their vast history.
His fingers slid most comfortably into Peter’s long hair, inching back behind his ear until he held the man’s face in his palm. Perfect, he thought, but tried not to let himself give in to the shakes.
Peter looked dazed and, Jesus, it was a sexy look on him. If he guessed correctly, and that’s what he was doing here, guessing, Peter’s firm pecs were rising and falling faster as he breathed. It might have been fear or nervousness, but the man’s eyelids were relaxed enough, the man’s eyes getting deeper - Peter seemed closer than he’d been a moment before, in ways that Sylar couldn’t account for with his own movements.
One hand successfully in place, he brought the other up to mimic the first on the opposite side of Peter’s head; his digits on fire with feeling, he cupped the man’s head gently, surprised at getting this far without so much as a peep of protest. Applying slight pressure, he turned Peter’s face up and a little to the left in preparation and Peter…Peter went willingly until Sylar could feel his breath on his cheek, warm and alive and human.
Sylar took a quick swallow, checking his own lips as he drew near, shutting his eyes and puckering…
What if Peter didn’t pucker? That was all he could think about as he went in for the kill. It was a agonizing few seconds while he prayed Peter didn’t turn away, didn’t reject, didn’t break the bridge.
He found a funny pair of hot, partly-moist, plump, puckered lips against his own and his breathe left him in a rush so fast his lungs felt empty. His arms shook anyway from the relief instead of fear as heat flushed outward from Peter’s lips and into his. Sylar’s eyes nearly rolled up into his head at the barest touch of lips, tantalizing, precious, utterly breakable.
When it came time to move, how he knew it was time, he didn’t know, but he followed the instinct; he heaved in a breath, parting, briefly, about an inch from his companion. Peter reached out to touch, not push, his bicep and that was the greenest light Sylar had ever seen.
Once they both grasped some oxygen for all of a few seconds, Sylar nudged Peter back in, pressing into him just a little harder, feeling more of lips. Some kind of exploding wave spiraled out from somewhere in his core, between his stomach and his heart, spreading out into his arms and legs, rippling up his spine, making his face burn red. But he wasn’t ashamed, no. It felt good, really, really good.
Just another simple touch of lips, still magnificently closed and soft, demanded that his body make noise to celebrate the feeling, the knowledge of touch so long forgotten. Heartfelt moan, maybe. Not a growl or a rumble, although the noise longed to bubble up from deep in his chest. A telling whimper or a helpless, needy mewl perhaps. If he made a noise, it went unheard by Sylar as his ears were overcome with rushing blood.
Not a tongue or a single tooth was involved, Peter hadn’t even been tasted properly, but dear God…Sylar was hard and aching and loose and hot, tense, sweating and cold.
He broke away, feeling so rough after that mind-numbing moment of feeling either nothing or everything, knowing that if he stayed he would do something one of them would regret. And he wasn’t ready for more, he knew that. Gasping, he panted as quietly as possible to regain some normality, fuck getting air. Slowly, regretfully, his fingers fell from Peter’s hair, his nerves crying out as they begged for another hit. Peter’s hair by nature pleaded to be petted and handled, but he ignored it. For now.
Peter was breathing just as hard, miraculously having sat still and silent throughout it. Wondrously, Peter had responded! Sylar scanned over him as the empath looked down, his face unreadable but for the slight coloring on his cheeks. The best Sylar could hope for was an impasse. As kisses went, it was not what he’d had in mind with Peter, nor their first kiss; hell, it wasn’t even his style. He couldn’t recall kissing someone, anyone with closed lips like *that*.
That had been…“mind-blowing” wouldn’t be amiss to use - he felt pretty blown.
The best part was he had absolutely nothing to say. Not a thing to say in defense; protest; explanation; or desire. Though his body had plenty of ideas, but no words beyond “More!”. The longer he waited, strangely, the less fear he felt acutely, but his anxiety was still present.
Peter licked his lips and finally glanced up, his pupils wider than ever and Sylar nearly jumped him again at that sight. “That was nice,” was all Peter’s husky voice said.