"Let me not ... admit impediments"
Title: Taste
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: R for occasional non-explicit references to violence, general creepy-messedup-ness
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Summary: Peter accidentally accesses something he shouldn't have, and has to deal with the consequences. Also, completely unexplained pre-established relationship with Sylar going on here.
Peter gasps himself out of another nightmare of death and blood and power and glory.
All it had been was a stray thought, a momentary flicker of envy for Sylar as Peter tried to work out the Daily Cryptogram in the paper. A moment too much, because the puzzle had become absurdly easy the instant after. When he didn’t go into a coma or feel the need to munch on someone’s grey matter immediately after, he had decided that there wasn’t a problem. Who knew, intuitive aptitude might even come in handy.
The hunger hadn’t found him until he went to visit Nathan a few days later. He hadn’t planned on announcing that he was living with Sylar by attempting to cut Nathan’s head open. He doesn’t know how he had managed to stop before killing Nathan, and that scares him more than the attempt itself. In all honesty, he isn't sure he’d have been able to stop a second time. Afterward, convincing Nathan that he wasn’t some kind of shape shifter/telepath had taken the better part of two hours. Peter wonders if he should have just let Nathan think that he was.
He hadn’t had to tell Sylar what had happened. Sylar knew as soon as he fled home, and nothing quite broke Peter’s heart like the cries for forgiveness that Sylar won’t voice to him for breaking him by fixing him. Sylar just held him, murmured promises and nonsense until he fell asleep. Peter ignored the silent argument in Sylar’s head that cried for Peter’s death before this got any worse.
Peter’s dreams became the only safe place for him to meet those he loves. Over the phone he couldn’t hug his brother, or peck his mother on the cheek, or ruffle Claire’s hair. In person he couldn’t do any of those things without imagining their keening cries under him as he divests them first of everything they love, then everything they hold sacred, then finally everything they have, including their lives. It takes a few tries for them to understand that it’s actually him and that this is the only way, but they accept over time. Just as Peter accepts that more often than not they will remember little, if anything, of his visits.
But even his safe haven is sometimes tainted by the thoughts now as deeply imbedded into him as instincts. Perhaps a careless shift in his sleep places his hand just a little too close to Sylar’s, and they touch. The immediate flood of tactile memories make it hard to eject any visitors before the nightmares creep into control. Blood from previous kills he never made soaks his hands, sweet shrieks of agony surrounding him as he forgets again why he wanted to control this part of himself. Once, he isn’t fast enough, isn’t himself long enough to separate his mind from his mother’s before he is re-written, before she becomes prey.
Ma doesn’t talk to him for two weeks after she gets out of the coma, and Peter stops dreamwalking with her afterward anyway. Almost stops altogether, before Sylar offers to sleep on the couch on days the loneliness haunts Peter’s eyes and his own company is just not enough.
Peter tried not to let it happen often, because even though Sylar won't let on, he never sleeps well on nights he isn’t next to Peter. Peter hates himself because he can’t just make Sylar his everything, can’t make himself only need Sylar and no more. Sylar never says anything about it.
Tonight he hadn't been visiting anyone, hadn't even touched Sylar in his sleep. Had woken from the same dream anyway, because it colors his whole existence now. The urges don't fade with the fading of the dreams any more.
Peter rolls over in bed to face Sylar. Just enough light slants through the window to show him two dark eyes silently watching him struggle. Peter’s hands move, and Sylar doesn’t try to stop him. His right hand drops against the side of Sylar’s neck, implicitly counting the silences between the heartbeats, while his left traces the line across Sylar’s forehead powerlessly.
Sylar doesn’t move, other than the rare blink now and again, watching everything Peter does, everything Peter doesn’t do.
Faith is important, Peter thinks. If only he could remember why, remember how.
Eyes watch him and hands very deliberately do not move to cover his own as Peter slides finally into restful sleep
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: R for occasional non-explicit references to violence, general creepy-messedup-ness
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Summary: Peter accidentally accesses something he shouldn't have, and has to deal with the consequences. Also, completely unexplained pre-established relationship with Sylar going on here.
Peter gasps himself out of another nightmare of death and blood and power and glory.
All it had been was a stray thought, a momentary flicker of envy for Sylar as Peter tried to work out the Daily Cryptogram in the paper. A moment too much, because the puzzle had become absurdly easy the instant after. When he didn’t go into a coma or feel the need to munch on someone’s grey matter immediately after, he had decided that there wasn’t a problem. Who knew, intuitive aptitude might even come in handy.
The hunger hadn’t found him until he went to visit Nathan a few days later. He hadn’t planned on announcing that he was living with Sylar by attempting to cut Nathan’s head open. He doesn’t know how he had managed to stop before killing Nathan, and that scares him more than the attempt itself. In all honesty, he isn't sure he’d have been able to stop a second time. Afterward, convincing Nathan that he wasn’t some kind of shape shifter/telepath had taken the better part of two hours. Peter wonders if he should have just let Nathan think that he was.
He hadn’t had to tell Sylar what had happened. Sylar knew as soon as he fled home, and nothing quite broke Peter’s heart like the cries for forgiveness that Sylar won’t voice to him for breaking him by fixing him. Sylar just held him, murmured promises and nonsense until he fell asleep. Peter ignored the silent argument in Sylar’s head that cried for Peter’s death before this got any worse.
Peter’s dreams became the only safe place for him to meet those he loves. Over the phone he couldn’t hug his brother, or peck his mother on the cheek, or ruffle Claire’s hair. In person he couldn’t do any of those things without imagining their keening cries under him as he divests them first of everything they love, then everything they hold sacred, then finally everything they have, including their lives. It takes a few tries for them to understand that it’s actually him and that this is the only way, but they accept over time. Just as Peter accepts that more often than not they will remember little, if anything, of his visits.
But even his safe haven is sometimes tainted by the thoughts now as deeply imbedded into him as instincts. Perhaps a careless shift in his sleep places his hand just a little too close to Sylar’s, and they touch. The immediate flood of tactile memories make it hard to eject any visitors before the nightmares creep into control. Blood from previous kills he never made soaks his hands, sweet shrieks of agony surrounding him as he forgets again why he wanted to control this part of himself. Once, he isn’t fast enough, isn’t himself long enough to separate his mind from his mother’s before he is re-written, before she becomes prey.
Ma doesn’t talk to him for two weeks after she gets out of the coma, and Peter stops dreamwalking with her afterward anyway. Almost stops altogether, before Sylar offers to sleep on the couch on days the loneliness haunts Peter’s eyes and his own company is just not enough.
Peter tried not to let it happen often, because even though Sylar won't let on, he never sleeps well on nights he isn’t next to Peter. Peter hates himself because he can’t just make Sylar his everything, can’t make himself only need Sylar and no more. Sylar never says anything about it.
Tonight he hadn't been visiting anyone, hadn't even touched Sylar in his sleep. Had woken from the same dream anyway, because it colors his whole existence now. The urges don't fade with the fading of the dreams any more.
Peter rolls over in bed to face Sylar. Just enough light slants through the window to show him two dark eyes silently watching him struggle. Peter’s hands move, and Sylar doesn’t try to stop him. His right hand drops against the side of Sylar’s neck, implicitly counting the silences between the heartbeats, while his left traces the line across Sylar’s forehead powerlessly.
Sylar doesn’t move, other than the rare blink now and again, watching everything Peter does, everything Peter doesn’t do.
Faith is important, Peter thinks. If only he could remember why, remember how.
Eyes watch him and hands very deliberately do not move to cover his own as Peter slides finally into restful sleep