The Shirt
Title: The Shirt
Characters/pairing: Sylar/Gabriel Gray, Peter Petrelli (implied Petlar)
Rating: PG/PG-13 (some language and m/m innuendo)
Setting: After the appearance of the Wall, S4.
Beta: Game_byrd
A/N: Inspired by More Between Us, but not canon for that series.
Written for: heroes_contest #33 “Dressed to Kill”
That tight, black, long-sleeve shirt.
Peter’s idea of work-attire. Peter’s idea of athletic wear.
Peter’s idea of a practical joke, ongoing.
Peter’s idea of teasing.
Peter’s idea of lingerie.
(Peter had a lot of ideas. None of them were centered or even aimed in the vague direction Sylar wished they were).
Every day. That shirt. That hair. Those jeans. Those boots.
Peter was a filthy boy who did not believe in changing his clothes.
Sylar doubted he washed them. The Wall appeared and Peter’s stubborn, rebellious insistence that this was all a mental Candyland went into fucking overdrive - eating, sleeping, clothes (washing them, because he still, sadly, wore them), hobbies, breaks, all out the window.
Sylar was pretty sure Peter knew all about the Shirt and wore it just because.
Peter had seriously toned up since last Sylar saw him years ago at Mercy. The Shirt, in evil collaboration with the Wall, was a screaming mime of excuses to show off every muscle the guy owned. Watching Peter pound away at something with such fervor was entertaining and arousing most days. The passion and sheer lust for life was something Sylar observed, pondered and envied. It just leaked out from every frustrated motion the man made. To have that kind of energy directed at himself…well, Sylar made up excuse after excuse, reason after reason to lure Peter away from the Berlin.
He couldn’t fathom how “getting out”, “save my friend, Emma”, and the fucking WALL of all things could be in competition with Sylar for Peter’s actions and attention. How on earth did those things compare to Sylar? As a real human being, alive, warm, willing and interactive, he just couldn’t see how Peter would prefer to spend his time on inanimate bricks and mortar.
It was really insulting.
But the Shirt. It clung on Peter, laughing at him and mocking him with its presence. It was a barrier for Sylar like the Wall was for Peter - something to be overcome (although the Wall wasn’t going anywhere, Sylar was determined to steal and burn the Shirt and every other one like it). That shirt stood in defiance of everything Sylar wanted. It grabbed onto Peter and rubbed all over him, caressing him, licking away the sweat until it smelled like him. It wrapped around his muscles, aiding them, almost hiding from Sylar in using Peter’s form for protection. If the Shirt had a mind, it would be terrified of Sylar while it whispered in Peter’s ear. Most days, after hours of entertaining himself with the view, Sylar would be forced to shove his hands in his pockets lest he claw that offense from Peter’s body.
Claw it off or grab Peter by it and do such things to him to make Peter freely, eagerly rid himself of it in favor of something better.
Most of the time, Sylar got stunning views of the man’s shoulder blades, back and fabulous ass. Hardly what anyone would call a bad view. He’d catch glimpses of the man’s profile as he swung, but otherwise it was an exercise in futile drooling. If Peter had been buff before, he was going to be positively ripped by the end of it. So maybe the Wall had its high points.
He’d felt the Shirt’s fabric a few times, in passing, and found it to be rougher than it appeared because it looked like it should be soft and inviting - how fitting. (Because, oh, did it ever fit). Peter had that same effect of looking charming, harmless and innocent from a distance. At a distance, Peter could only fling words at him, not fists (or God forbid, the sledge). Sylar wanted that shirt gone - destroyed and only present in long-past memory. Honestly, Sylar so focused on the Shirt because if he started in on the Jeans…those nearly-snug denims, he feared he’d do bad things. Or his mind would collapse; one of the two.
Being teased had never inspired patience or the whole “turn the other cheek” attitude others here swore by. He was being teased on a daily basis, whether on purpose or not, it didn’t matter.
The Shirt existed and that was all.