Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 4: Paint the Town Red & Second Base Coat
Title: Paint the Town Red
Characters: Sylar/Peter
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter and Sylar are relaxing after a fun project when Peter does something unexpected
Notes: Sylar's POV
Sylar and Peter were leaned up against a concrete planter, admiring their morning's work. They'd been painting - Peter's idea, of course, but Sylar was far more pleased with the outcome than he'd expected. He'd grumped about it at first, but followed along because why the hell not? He might as well. Neither of them tried to paint people, not wanting to test the world's limits, but they happily painted something abstract. It was different and way more interesting to look at than a blank wall.
Sylar had helped Peter hump the paint cans, brushes, rollers and ladders out to the smoothest wall they could find and then they'd gotten started. Peter's portion of the 'art' had ended up as a series of jagged, vivid green lightning bolts and irregular, blue stars. Despite the raging asymmetry of Peter's accomplishments, Sylar found himself liking them. His mood had lightened as the project had worn on and his own carefully plotted spirals, arcs and cubist shapes had taken form in red and yellow and black. They'd started joking with each other. Even Sylar's snark had become friendly.
At the moment Sylar was smiling up at the mural, pleased and relaxed for the first time in a very long time. When they had finished, at least with the first coat, they'd fetched sandwiches and returned. Food eaten, at the moment they were still resting and appreciating the results of their joint labor. Or at least Sylar was. Peter's attention had strayed to his companion. He was looking at Sylar rather intently. Of course it caught Sylar's attention to be looked at, with that creepy out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye awareness of being observed.
Sylar kept looking forward at the wall though, until he saw Peter's hand lift towards him. At that, Sylar's head turned fractionally and his eyes shifted to Peter. The beginnings of a gesture towards Sylar's face warranted a direct look, but Peter demurred immediately. He blinked and dropped his hand, but kept regarding Sylar - just a little less intently than before. He was certainly being open about it. Sylar let his face look questioning, wondering what Peter had been about to do. Peter's lips thinned and he leaned away a little, his eyes tracking over Sylar's hair and the side of his face with an expression that looked a lot like … longing?
He was about to touch me. Touch my face, maybe, I think. Do I have paint on my face? He could feel his skin was tight in a few places, so actually he'd be surprised if he didn't have paint on him, but what the hell was Peter intending to achieve by touching him? It was way more familiarity than they had between them, ebullient mood or no. Confused by Peter's withdrawal and with the intention of forcing the issue, Sylar snorted and said, "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Peter finished drawing away, breathing out something that sounded an awful lot like, 'yeah', but was so quiet Sylar wasn't completely sure. He didn't think Peter had meant it to be overheard. What was he going to do? He wouldn't be acting strange if he was just going to point out some paint in my hair. He let his eyes burn holes in the side of Peter's head while Peter tried to act like Sylar wasn't staring. What if he was going to touch me? Shouldn't I … let him? Sylar dropped his gaze as he thought about how to arrange that, then glanced back up briefly. "Permission granted, then." He said it softly, but they were right by each other. He used an intimate tone, almost a whisper.
Peter kept looking at the mural for long enough that under other circumstances Sylar would have become bored and given up. But this … if Peter had been about to touch him, make a pass at him, whatever … that gained Sylar's sharp attention for however long it took. Was Peter's incredible resistance finally crumbling? Sylar had made offers and motions, each more overt than the last. Peter had acted tempted from time to time, but he'd ultimately always declined. Clearly it wasn't that Peter didn't want.
Eventually, Peter turned slowly, shifting his weight forward and putting his legs down, twisting his body so that he sort of faced Sylar. Peter's eyes drew up even with Sylar's with an expression that was unmistakably … interested. He wanted all right.
Oh! Fuck me. He IS going to touch me! Sylar held perfectly still as Peter lifted his hand again and reached for him, slowly … and hesitantly. Sylar kept his gaze steady, letting his eyes widen and his face relax into what looked calm or neutral. He didn't want to look too interested or desperate - that would make Peter self-conscious. He didn't want to look challenging or judgmental or upset, much less hostile. Peter's green-stained fingertips, just the very tips of them, touched Sylar's hair over his forehead. Peter swallowed nervously, eyes flitting between the tentative contact and Sylar's face.
Oh please God, Peter, don't freak out on me. I don't know what the fuck I did today to make you feel friendly enough towards me to do this … Sylar leaned his head forward slightly, tilting it slowly into Peter's touch, and dropping his gaze so Peter wouldn't feel 'watched'.
Peter's fingers skimmed so lightly over Sylar's hair, hardly displacing it at all - just … feeling it. Sylar realized his breathing had accelerated quite on its own, something that wasn't allowed. He tried to ramp it back down. Don't look too interested. Just look neutral, sort of neutral-pleased, like this is normal. Let him do it. Please do it, Peter. But why now? I just don't get it. How do I make you do this in future? What is it I did today that made this okay for you? But Sylar was getting touched and that was what mattered more than the mystery. Peter's fingers came to the side of the nape of Sylar's neck and he toyed, just for a moment, with the ends of Sylar's hair, brushing them back and forth.
Sylar's chest was tight. Goose flesh pimpled his forearms and frankly, he wanted to moan. To have gone for years without seeing anyone at all, and then so long trapped here with Peter as an enemy, to have suddenly catapulted to the status of being an object of something like affection, or at least someone Peter was willing to use as a distraction, a friendly distraction … it was a big deal. It was huge. Sylar was embarrassed at how desperate he was, that the lightest petting made him ache inside. Sylar fought the urge to swallow noisily and even pant, because he had a role to play here if he wanted this to continue and oh my God did he ever want this to continue, for as far as Peter was willing to take it.
Peter's hand swept forward slowly, letting just the pads of his index and middle finger touch Sylar's cheekbone. It was skin-to-skin contact and this time Sylar didn't completely stop the sucking in of breath that he did. He leaned into it just a bit more, trying to gauge how responsive he should be and walk that fine line between 'enough and encouraging' and 'too much and off-putting'.
Peter's hand dropped to under Sylar's jaw and touched with a little more pressure, urging him to lift his head. Sylar did, bringing his eyes up as well. He adopted an open, vulnerable expression that was maybe even a little needy. He'd used it a time or two with Peter before and it had never failed to move the empath. That it hadn't moved him enough wasn't so much that Sylar would risk trying something else.
Peter chewed his lower lip as though with indecision. All or nothing, Sylar thought, letting his lips part slightly, trying to make the invitation as clear as he could. Come on, Peter. Come on. I won't bite unless you want me to. Peter shifted and turned further, coming onto his knees with one hand on the planter. Sylar felt somewhat trapped and uncomfortable with Peter looming over him as he was now, but he swallowed that down and tilted his face up to meet Peter's. The other man came in slowly, face nearing his, eyes darting across Sylar's visage, alert, it seemed, for the least sign of threat. He's still afraid of me. He doesn't know how I'll take this. It was kind of flattering. Peter was making a lot of assumptions and in a way he was throwing caution to the wind, but he was still hesitant, trying over and over to read Sylar's receptivity and mood.
Sylar puckered a little, hoping Peter actually carried through, because if he didn't, this was going to be crushingly embarrassing. But no, Peter seemed pretty fucking determined and it wasn't like Peter would get out of it unscathed if he did back off now - unscathed ego-wise, that is. Sylar wouldn't "do" anything to him, because anything retaliatory would make it less likely that Peter might try this again later.
As Peter's face neared his, Sylar noticed Peter was breathing harder, his chest rising and falling as fast as though he'd been running. Peter was tense, uncertain, and afraid, but he was doing it anyway. Peter's brows quirked and drew together in an expression that trumped Sylar's hands-down for 'vulnerable' and added a healthy dollop of 'scared' to go with it. Sylar made absolutely no other motions, whatsoever. He let Peter set the pace entirely.
Their lips touched with a light brush that was so faint it was ticklish. Sylar suppressed his urge to twitch his lips away and instead parted them even more. Peter turned his head so their noses didn't bump as he came in a second, more definite time. His lips pressed against Sylar's. They were warm and soft and gentle, moving only slightly, but it was a real kiss even if it seemed like Peter was petrified to be giving it. And then Peter made a tiny sound in the back of his throat, like an abbreviated sigh, or the word 'huh' at a high pitch. That sound shot through Sylar like electricity, prompting life in all sorts of places. It was a sound of barely restrained desire and there seemed to be no reason why Peter would make that noise unless he was a lot more turned on than Sylar had suspected.
Is he about to come in his pants over … this? (Me? Over me? Seriously?) Peter kissed him again, kind of forced and hurried, then backed off suddenly with a nervous, but happy smile. He chewed at his lip again and rocked back onto knees and the curled-under soles of his feet. Sylar let his eyes drop, discreetly checking out the obvious fullness at the front of Peter's jeans. Oh yes. That … that is an erection. Oh. My. God. I've got him!
Sylar's eyes shifted up to Peter's face. The empath was looking over at their collection of paint cans, breathing deeply and clearly trying to calm down. A look of pure, predatory glee swept across Sylar's face, but only for a moment.
Title: Second Base Coat
Characters: Peter/Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter and Sylar are relaxing after a fun project when Peter acts on an invitation
Notes: Peter's POV
Peter and Sylar reclined in front of their masterpiece - a mural that was an impressive six feet high and twenty feet long. It had taken an outrageous amount of paint, but less time than Peter had expected. So far they'd only applied the one coat to it. It would need another or two to be really vibrant. Peter was looking forward to it, having found his partner in crime to be especially friendly, warm and engaged through the process of their vandalizing. Peter had really enjoyed the day so far and the easy camaraderie they'd managed to share during painting.
He breathed deeply, thinking about the goofy smile Sylar had sent his way as Peter had outlined where he would put a three foot wide bolt of green lightning. He recalled the absorbed, utterly focused look Sylar had given his own project, carefully measuring and marking off precise lines and arcs with a seriousness that far exceeded that required of their morning lark. Sylar's full, unadulterated attention was definitely something to see. His focus was complete and pure, blocking out all the rest of the world except for this one thing, or person.
Sylar was usually focused on Peter with a laser-beam intensity that made Peter defensive and off-balance. But today had been different. Sylar's eyes were on the mural still, taking it in as they let their lunches settle before working on the second coat. Peter glanced down at the orderly pile of sandwich wrappers weighted with a stone between them. When he raised his eyes, he let them run from Sylar's paint-speckled forearms over the curled up sleeves of his shirt, thence on to his strong jaw, already darkening with faint stubble.
Peter exhaled slowly, indulging his gaze with the scenic route. Sylar had well-defined cheekbones even if one was smeared with white paint; a big, masculine chin; generous lips the likes that Peter had seen on very few men, but would have looked totally out of place on a woman; a nose whose dimensions lent prominence to Sylar's features and balanced out the striking, devilishly handsome brows that shadowed Sylar's most astonishingly handsome trait: his eyes. Those eyes were gorgeous. Peter had seen them so dark as to be made of coal and once so brightly lit that they looked almost golden. Usually they were a rich brown and so alive, so clear, so attentive and alert and perceptive. If they were windows into the soul, then Sylar's soul was a vast and multi-faceted thing.
Sylar had noticed. What Peter registered was 'Sylar has noticed me', even though what he discerned less consciously was that Sylar's breathing had become shallower, his body had stiffened just a tiny bit, his face had lost the mobility it had held a moment before, and his eyes, that had previously been sweeping the painting at will, now confined themselves to a small area. Sylar was pretending not to have noticed, yet his pretense was clear. Peter couldn't have told someone exactly how he knew this, but he knew it.
He's letting me look at him. It was generous of him, of Sylar, to allow that. Peter appreciated it. He didn't get the opportunity very often - hardly at all, really. No, actually he couldn't off-hand remember a time when Sylar had been aware of his observation and not challenged Peter over it, one way or the other. Generally it was just a look in return with eyes slightly narrowed and brows pulled down in promise of a threat that would get stronger if Peter did not immediately defer. So Peter did. It wasn't his place to be looking at Sylar like that, despite Sylar's approaches and flirting and overt invitations. He invited, but then the slightest action on Peter's part - even just looking at Sylar 'wrong' - provoked a defensive or even apprehensive response that had Peter back-pedaling as fast as he could.
But now Sylar was letting him look. Peter looked at the man's hair - long, fine and changeable with the light just like his eyes. Right now the noon sun brought out the golden highlights and made apparent every strand. It was a bit of a mess at the moment. Peter wondered what it felt like and just how far Sylar's generosity extended. Oh, but if he could have a fantasy come true, Sylar would be asleep and unaware and Peter could touch him without suffering for it, without waking the man. His hand rose without him thinking about it, and the spell broke. Sylar's eyes swiveled in that creepy way he had, without moving any other part of his body.
Peter dropped his hand immediately, but other than a brief glance to meet Sylar's eyes and acknowledge him (also to subconsciously note Sylar's constricted pupils - a clear sign of 'back off' even if Peter chose to ignore it), he kept looking. The looking had been allowed. Maybe Sylar would just look away and let Peter go back to it. Sylar did not. Disappointment thinned Peter's lips and he sighed a little at what he could look at and not touch, and, apparently, not even look at for too long without causing a problem, because Sylar was still staring at him for having the boldness to not turn away.
Peter leaned back and turned to look at the mural, face blank of interest in it. Sylar snorted disdainfully at having successfully asserted who got to look at who around here and sneered, "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Peter's brows lifted slightly and he shifted back to face straight ahead. Dejected and frustrated, he breathed out, "Yeah," not caring if Sylar heard him or not. It was rhetorical anyway. Sylar glared at him. Peter could sense the stare and feel the way it made his skin prickle, like it always did. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, all the more because they were less than an arm's length from one another, proximity forced by the narrowness of the concrete planter they were leaning against. Before, the closeness had felt warm and companionable. Now it felt claustrophobic, but Peter refused to move away. Yet.
He was aware of the shift in Sylar's posture, breathing and sightline as Sylar backed down from the aggression he was emoting. Just like before, it was something Peter sensed organically rather than intellectually. He just knew the pressure had lifted. A moment later, Sylar said quietly and gently, "Permission granted, then."
Peter thought about that, his eyes unfocused and straight ahead. He tried to weigh whether to take Sylar seriously or not. He rolled around in his head that soft tone of voice and the more relaxed posture Sylar had adopted - Peter could see it out of the corner of his eye, the way Sylar's feet moved a little now, the micro-sounds of his deeper breathing, the faint shift of fabric against the sidewalk. Sylar wasn't as still and tightly coiled as he had been a few moments before. It translated to 'serious' in Peter's head.
Having reached that conclusion, he worried over what to do about it. It was an offer. Sylar had made a number of those, usually with an attitude like he was throwing down a gauntlet or presenting Peter with a prize - neither of which provoked the least interest in Peter. It had never been quite like this. This was … more open, more relaxed, less likely it seemed to get Peter popped in the mouth, strangled to death, or whatever other intense emotional reaction an over-agitated Sylar might have.
It didn't read so strongly of 'danger', like all the other times had. Peter focused on the painting and on an intricately interlocking set of spirals that made something of an infinity symbol now that he looked at it. He thought about the way Sylar had held his brush over that part, making short, careful strokes. Peter wanted that attention on him. He wanted to matter. He wanted.
Summoning his courage, he turned slowly to face Sylar again, letting his own interest show through as clearly as he could and watching for Sylar's response to that. Aggression? Indifference? Contempt? Fear? Even the least reluctance would have put Peter off and he scanned for it assiduously. Sylar went still again, but his skin pinked a bit and his pupils dilated. That was definitely not a 'back off' signal.
Peter's own breathing was speeding up fast as tension coiled inside of himself. He raised his hand once more and extended it slowly, still watching for response. Sylar's eyes widened as Peter reached for him and his face relaxed, brows lifting slightly. Peter wasn't thrilled at being stared at, but he took Sylar's expression as a qualified invitation - assuming Peter understood the qualifications, which he didn't, but he kept on anyway. He swallowed nervously as he touched just the very tips of his fingers to Sylar's hair, just enough to make contact. He looked to Sylar's face, because he'd now taken an irretrievable step - touching with interest. He'd established, definitely, that he was willing to touch. Did the invitation include that?
Very slowly, Sylar tilted his head into the petting. More importantly, he looked down, accepting the contact and asking for more. Peter breathed more heavily, feeling almost light-headed with tension, and blinked. He let his fingers follow the course of Sylar's hair back, shifting a little to lean closer, noting that Sylar didn't pull away. On the contrary, Sylar's own breathing was coming faster.
Peter toyed with the ends of Sylar's hair. It felt lovely even if it still carried the residual stiffness from his hair gel. Peter brought his hand back to Sylar's cheek, touching along the upper edge of a smear of white paint. Sylar sucked in a short gasp and leaned into it more, still looking down. Peter could feel himself stiffening within his jeans. Sylar's responsiveness was totally doing it for him. He was barely touching the man and yet Sylar acted like it was the most sensual of caresses. Plus, he wasn't pinning Peter with his gaze anymore. He was submitting himself to whatever Peter would provide, without Sylar making demands, setting conditions or issuing challenges.
Peter dropped his hand under Sylar's chin and lifted it. Sylar's face was open, beseeching and begging. He'd used that expression before and it always got to Peter even though he knew it was false. False insomuch as it was an assumed expression, deliberately cultivated for effect. What got to Peter today was knowing why Sylar was using it. Fake or not didn't matter - Sylar was communicating to Peter that he wanted him and the message was coming through loud and clear.
Peter was hard, feeling heavy in his groin. He chewed his lower lip, doubt creeping in about the wisdom of what he was about to do. He was terrified of the man and he had to admit he wasn't sure how he'd feel about this later, when he wasn't looking into Sylar's plaintive face. But Sylar wasn't the only one with needs. They drove Peter on now, without any of the usual speed bumps and full-stops that Peter experienced when Sylar was the one initiating.
Sylar's mouth opened slightly and Peter was decided. That was just too much of an invitation to pass up in his current state. That was all it was - an invitation, not a demand. Peter rose to his knees and caught his weight with a hand on the planter, over Sylar's head. That Sylar didn't flinch from that, from Peter so clearly taking the dominant role, heartened him. Peter bent to bring his lips to Sylar's, going slower as Sylar turned his face up to meet him. Peter paused for a last moment, feeling Sylar's breath against his face, giving a last second for Sylar to demand the control that was so important to Sylar. Peter had no idea how they were going to negotiate that between them because Peter was so fucking scared of what Sylar might do if he had it.
But Sylar looked genuinely willing to surrender that for the moment, in exchange for what Peter was promising. He puckered his lips as though to reach for Peter's, but refrained from moving his head up. He left it to Peter to pick when and if they kissed. Peter's lips felt hot to himself and he could feel every puff of Sylar's breath against them. He felt like he was straining at his pants. He felt dizzy and like he was beginning to sweat. Fear and desire warred within him but he closed those last few inches and thank God Sylar did not so much as twitch because Peter would have bolted if he had.
His first attempt at a kiss was more attempt than kiss, with Peter pulling back immediately. He felt like every muscle in his body was being contracted all at the same time. He was so tense it was painful. He took a deep breath, tried to calm his nerves, and did it right the second time. He still kissed only lightly. He was so wound up he wondered if, for the first time in his life, he might come from doing no more than kissing someone. His throat made a noise without consulting him at all, prompting him to clamp down immediately on what was almost a whimper.
Sylar jerked slightly at the sound and kissed back with desire. Peter pulled away, then changed his mind. Worried that Sylar might interpret the withdrawal as a disapproval of Sylar's response, he kissed him again, quickly and nervously, then pulled back with an awkward, semi-relieved smile. Peter rocked back onto his knees and feet, looking off to the side and trying to calm himself. I did it. I did it. I did it. It's okay. He's not mad. It's okay. Everything's okay.
He was breathing hard like he'd run a race. Sylar was looking up at him - he could see that in his peripheral vision, along with a brief flash of white as Sylar grinned and then fixed his face. Peter smiled slowly, glad that Sylar was happy. He imagined Sylar was thinking something along the lines of 'Score!' or 'I'm going to get laid for sure, now!', neither of which seemed all that inappropriate or insulting to Peter.
Thinking himself sufficiently calmed to at least talk, Peter glanced down at his companion and said, "So, do you want to do that second base now?" Sylar froze completely, eyes fixed on Peter, who mentally reviewed what he'd said. "Coat! Coat! I meant that second coat of paint! Jeez!"
Characters: Sylar/Peter
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter and Sylar are relaxing after a fun project when Peter does something unexpected
Notes: Sylar's POV
Sylar and Peter were leaned up against a concrete planter, admiring their morning's work. They'd been painting - Peter's idea, of course, but Sylar was far more pleased with the outcome than he'd expected. He'd grumped about it at first, but followed along because why the hell not? He might as well. Neither of them tried to paint people, not wanting to test the world's limits, but they happily painted something abstract. It was different and way more interesting to look at than a blank wall.
Sylar had helped Peter hump the paint cans, brushes, rollers and ladders out to the smoothest wall they could find and then they'd gotten started. Peter's portion of the 'art' had ended up as a series of jagged, vivid green lightning bolts and irregular, blue stars. Despite the raging asymmetry of Peter's accomplishments, Sylar found himself liking them. His mood had lightened as the project had worn on and his own carefully plotted spirals, arcs and cubist shapes had taken form in red and yellow and black. They'd started joking with each other. Even Sylar's snark had become friendly.
At the moment Sylar was smiling up at the mural, pleased and relaxed for the first time in a very long time. When they had finished, at least with the first coat, they'd fetched sandwiches and returned. Food eaten, at the moment they were still resting and appreciating the results of their joint labor. Or at least Sylar was. Peter's attention had strayed to his companion. He was looking at Sylar rather intently. Of course it caught Sylar's attention to be looked at, with that creepy out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye awareness of being observed.
Sylar kept looking forward at the wall though, until he saw Peter's hand lift towards him. At that, Sylar's head turned fractionally and his eyes shifted to Peter. The beginnings of a gesture towards Sylar's face warranted a direct look, but Peter demurred immediately. He blinked and dropped his hand, but kept regarding Sylar - just a little less intently than before. He was certainly being open about it. Sylar let his face look questioning, wondering what Peter had been about to do. Peter's lips thinned and he leaned away a little, his eyes tracking over Sylar's hair and the side of his face with an expression that looked a lot like … longing?
He was about to touch me. Touch my face, maybe, I think. Do I have paint on my face? He could feel his skin was tight in a few places, so actually he'd be surprised if he didn't have paint on him, but what the hell was Peter intending to achieve by touching him? It was way more familiarity than they had between them, ebullient mood or no. Confused by Peter's withdrawal and with the intention of forcing the issue, Sylar snorted and said, "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Peter finished drawing away, breathing out something that sounded an awful lot like, 'yeah', but was so quiet Sylar wasn't completely sure. He didn't think Peter had meant it to be overheard. What was he going to do? He wouldn't be acting strange if he was just going to point out some paint in my hair. He let his eyes burn holes in the side of Peter's head while Peter tried to act like Sylar wasn't staring. What if he was going to touch me? Shouldn't I … let him? Sylar dropped his gaze as he thought about how to arrange that, then glanced back up briefly. "Permission granted, then." He said it softly, but they were right by each other. He used an intimate tone, almost a whisper.
Peter kept looking at the mural for long enough that under other circumstances Sylar would have become bored and given up. But this … if Peter had been about to touch him, make a pass at him, whatever … that gained Sylar's sharp attention for however long it took. Was Peter's incredible resistance finally crumbling? Sylar had made offers and motions, each more overt than the last. Peter had acted tempted from time to time, but he'd ultimately always declined. Clearly it wasn't that Peter didn't want.
Eventually, Peter turned slowly, shifting his weight forward and putting his legs down, twisting his body so that he sort of faced Sylar. Peter's eyes drew up even with Sylar's with an expression that was unmistakably … interested. He wanted all right.
Oh! Fuck me. He IS going to touch me! Sylar held perfectly still as Peter lifted his hand again and reached for him, slowly … and hesitantly. Sylar kept his gaze steady, letting his eyes widen and his face relax into what looked calm or neutral. He didn't want to look too interested or desperate - that would make Peter self-conscious. He didn't want to look challenging or judgmental or upset, much less hostile. Peter's green-stained fingertips, just the very tips of them, touched Sylar's hair over his forehead. Peter swallowed nervously, eyes flitting between the tentative contact and Sylar's face.
Oh please God, Peter, don't freak out on me. I don't know what the fuck I did today to make you feel friendly enough towards me to do this … Sylar leaned his head forward slightly, tilting it slowly into Peter's touch, and dropping his gaze so Peter wouldn't feel 'watched'.
Peter's fingers skimmed so lightly over Sylar's hair, hardly displacing it at all - just … feeling it. Sylar realized his breathing had accelerated quite on its own, something that wasn't allowed. He tried to ramp it back down. Don't look too interested. Just look neutral, sort of neutral-pleased, like this is normal. Let him do it. Please do it, Peter. But why now? I just don't get it. How do I make you do this in future? What is it I did today that made this okay for you? But Sylar was getting touched and that was what mattered more than the mystery. Peter's fingers came to the side of the nape of Sylar's neck and he toyed, just for a moment, with the ends of Sylar's hair, brushing them back and forth.
Sylar's chest was tight. Goose flesh pimpled his forearms and frankly, he wanted to moan. To have gone for years without seeing anyone at all, and then so long trapped here with Peter as an enemy, to have suddenly catapulted to the status of being an object of something like affection, or at least someone Peter was willing to use as a distraction, a friendly distraction … it was a big deal. It was huge. Sylar was embarrassed at how desperate he was, that the lightest petting made him ache inside. Sylar fought the urge to swallow noisily and even pant, because he had a role to play here if he wanted this to continue and oh my God did he ever want this to continue, for as far as Peter was willing to take it.
Peter's hand swept forward slowly, letting just the pads of his index and middle finger touch Sylar's cheekbone. It was skin-to-skin contact and this time Sylar didn't completely stop the sucking in of breath that he did. He leaned into it just a bit more, trying to gauge how responsive he should be and walk that fine line between 'enough and encouraging' and 'too much and off-putting'.
Peter's hand dropped to under Sylar's jaw and touched with a little more pressure, urging him to lift his head. Sylar did, bringing his eyes up as well. He adopted an open, vulnerable expression that was maybe even a little needy. He'd used it a time or two with Peter before and it had never failed to move the empath. That it hadn't moved him enough wasn't so much that Sylar would risk trying something else.
Peter chewed his lower lip as though with indecision. All or nothing, Sylar thought, letting his lips part slightly, trying to make the invitation as clear as he could. Come on, Peter. Come on. I won't bite unless you want me to. Peter shifted and turned further, coming onto his knees with one hand on the planter. Sylar felt somewhat trapped and uncomfortable with Peter looming over him as he was now, but he swallowed that down and tilted his face up to meet Peter's. The other man came in slowly, face nearing his, eyes darting across Sylar's visage, alert, it seemed, for the least sign of threat. He's still afraid of me. He doesn't know how I'll take this. It was kind of flattering. Peter was making a lot of assumptions and in a way he was throwing caution to the wind, but he was still hesitant, trying over and over to read Sylar's receptivity and mood.
Sylar puckered a little, hoping Peter actually carried through, because if he didn't, this was going to be crushingly embarrassing. But no, Peter seemed pretty fucking determined and it wasn't like Peter would get out of it unscathed if he did back off now - unscathed ego-wise, that is. Sylar wouldn't "do" anything to him, because anything retaliatory would make it less likely that Peter might try this again later.
As Peter's face neared his, Sylar noticed Peter was breathing harder, his chest rising and falling as fast as though he'd been running. Peter was tense, uncertain, and afraid, but he was doing it anyway. Peter's brows quirked and drew together in an expression that trumped Sylar's hands-down for 'vulnerable' and added a healthy dollop of 'scared' to go with it. Sylar made absolutely no other motions, whatsoever. He let Peter set the pace entirely.
Their lips touched with a light brush that was so faint it was ticklish. Sylar suppressed his urge to twitch his lips away and instead parted them even more. Peter turned his head so their noses didn't bump as he came in a second, more definite time. His lips pressed against Sylar's. They were warm and soft and gentle, moving only slightly, but it was a real kiss even if it seemed like Peter was petrified to be giving it. And then Peter made a tiny sound in the back of his throat, like an abbreviated sigh, or the word 'huh' at a high pitch. That sound shot through Sylar like electricity, prompting life in all sorts of places. It was a sound of barely restrained desire and there seemed to be no reason why Peter would make that noise unless he was a lot more turned on than Sylar had suspected.
Is he about to come in his pants over … this? (Me? Over me? Seriously?) Peter kissed him again, kind of forced and hurried, then backed off suddenly with a nervous, but happy smile. He chewed at his lip again and rocked back onto knees and the curled-under soles of his feet. Sylar let his eyes drop, discreetly checking out the obvious fullness at the front of Peter's jeans. Oh yes. That … that is an erection. Oh. My. God. I've got him!
Sylar's eyes shifted up to Peter's face. The empath was looking over at their collection of paint cans, breathing deeply and clearly trying to calm down. A look of pure, predatory glee swept across Sylar's face, but only for a moment.
Title: Second Base Coat
Characters: Peter/Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter and Sylar are relaxing after a fun project when Peter acts on an invitation
Notes: Peter's POV
Peter and Sylar reclined in front of their masterpiece - a mural that was an impressive six feet high and twenty feet long. It had taken an outrageous amount of paint, but less time than Peter had expected. So far they'd only applied the one coat to it. It would need another or two to be really vibrant. Peter was looking forward to it, having found his partner in crime to be especially friendly, warm and engaged through the process of their vandalizing. Peter had really enjoyed the day so far and the easy camaraderie they'd managed to share during painting.
He breathed deeply, thinking about the goofy smile Sylar had sent his way as Peter had outlined where he would put a three foot wide bolt of green lightning. He recalled the absorbed, utterly focused look Sylar had given his own project, carefully measuring and marking off precise lines and arcs with a seriousness that far exceeded that required of their morning lark. Sylar's full, unadulterated attention was definitely something to see. His focus was complete and pure, blocking out all the rest of the world except for this one thing, or person.
Sylar was usually focused on Peter with a laser-beam intensity that made Peter defensive and off-balance. But today had been different. Sylar's eyes were on the mural still, taking it in as they let their lunches settle before working on the second coat. Peter glanced down at the orderly pile of sandwich wrappers weighted with a stone between them. When he raised his eyes, he let them run from Sylar's paint-speckled forearms over the curled up sleeves of his shirt, thence on to his strong jaw, already darkening with faint stubble.
Peter exhaled slowly, indulging his gaze with the scenic route. Sylar had well-defined cheekbones even if one was smeared with white paint; a big, masculine chin; generous lips the likes that Peter had seen on very few men, but would have looked totally out of place on a woman; a nose whose dimensions lent prominence to Sylar's features and balanced out the striking, devilishly handsome brows that shadowed Sylar's most astonishingly handsome trait: his eyes. Those eyes were gorgeous. Peter had seen them so dark as to be made of coal and once so brightly lit that they looked almost golden. Usually they were a rich brown and so alive, so clear, so attentive and alert and perceptive. If they were windows into the soul, then Sylar's soul was a vast and multi-faceted thing.
Sylar had noticed. What Peter registered was 'Sylar has noticed me', even though what he discerned less consciously was that Sylar's breathing had become shallower, his body had stiffened just a tiny bit, his face had lost the mobility it had held a moment before, and his eyes, that had previously been sweeping the painting at will, now confined themselves to a small area. Sylar was pretending not to have noticed, yet his pretense was clear. Peter couldn't have told someone exactly how he knew this, but he knew it.
He's letting me look at him. It was generous of him, of Sylar, to allow that. Peter appreciated it. He didn't get the opportunity very often - hardly at all, really. No, actually he couldn't off-hand remember a time when Sylar had been aware of his observation and not challenged Peter over it, one way or the other. Generally it was just a look in return with eyes slightly narrowed and brows pulled down in promise of a threat that would get stronger if Peter did not immediately defer. So Peter did. It wasn't his place to be looking at Sylar like that, despite Sylar's approaches and flirting and overt invitations. He invited, but then the slightest action on Peter's part - even just looking at Sylar 'wrong' - provoked a defensive or even apprehensive response that had Peter back-pedaling as fast as he could.
But now Sylar was letting him look. Peter looked at the man's hair - long, fine and changeable with the light just like his eyes. Right now the noon sun brought out the golden highlights and made apparent every strand. It was a bit of a mess at the moment. Peter wondered what it felt like and just how far Sylar's generosity extended. Oh, but if he could have a fantasy come true, Sylar would be asleep and unaware and Peter could touch him without suffering for it, without waking the man. His hand rose without him thinking about it, and the spell broke. Sylar's eyes swiveled in that creepy way he had, without moving any other part of his body.
Peter dropped his hand immediately, but other than a brief glance to meet Sylar's eyes and acknowledge him (also to subconsciously note Sylar's constricted pupils - a clear sign of 'back off' even if Peter chose to ignore it), he kept looking. The looking had been allowed. Maybe Sylar would just look away and let Peter go back to it. Sylar did not. Disappointment thinned Peter's lips and he sighed a little at what he could look at and not touch, and, apparently, not even look at for too long without causing a problem, because Sylar was still staring at him for having the boldness to not turn away.
Peter leaned back and turned to look at the mural, face blank of interest in it. Sylar snorted disdainfully at having successfully asserted who got to look at who around here and sneered, "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Peter's brows lifted slightly and he shifted back to face straight ahead. Dejected and frustrated, he breathed out, "Yeah," not caring if Sylar heard him or not. It was rhetorical anyway. Sylar glared at him. Peter could sense the stare and feel the way it made his skin prickle, like it always did. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, all the more because they were less than an arm's length from one another, proximity forced by the narrowness of the concrete planter they were leaning against. Before, the closeness had felt warm and companionable. Now it felt claustrophobic, but Peter refused to move away. Yet.
He was aware of the shift in Sylar's posture, breathing and sightline as Sylar backed down from the aggression he was emoting. Just like before, it was something Peter sensed organically rather than intellectually. He just knew the pressure had lifted. A moment later, Sylar said quietly and gently, "Permission granted, then."
Peter thought about that, his eyes unfocused and straight ahead. He tried to weigh whether to take Sylar seriously or not. He rolled around in his head that soft tone of voice and the more relaxed posture Sylar had adopted - Peter could see it out of the corner of his eye, the way Sylar's feet moved a little now, the micro-sounds of his deeper breathing, the faint shift of fabric against the sidewalk. Sylar wasn't as still and tightly coiled as he had been a few moments before. It translated to 'serious' in Peter's head.
Having reached that conclusion, he worried over what to do about it. It was an offer. Sylar had made a number of those, usually with an attitude like he was throwing down a gauntlet or presenting Peter with a prize - neither of which provoked the least interest in Peter. It had never been quite like this. This was … more open, more relaxed, less likely it seemed to get Peter popped in the mouth, strangled to death, or whatever other intense emotional reaction an over-agitated Sylar might have.
It didn't read so strongly of 'danger', like all the other times had. Peter focused on the painting and on an intricately interlocking set of spirals that made something of an infinity symbol now that he looked at it. He thought about the way Sylar had held his brush over that part, making short, careful strokes. Peter wanted that attention on him. He wanted to matter. He wanted.
Summoning his courage, he turned slowly to face Sylar again, letting his own interest show through as clearly as he could and watching for Sylar's response to that. Aggression? Indifference? Contempt? Fear? Even the least reluctance would have put Peter off and he scanned for it assiduously. Sylar went still again, but his skin pinked a bit and his pupils dilated. That was definitely not a 'back off' signal.
Peter's own breathing was speeding up fast as tension coiled inside of himself. He raised his hand once more and extended it slowly, still watching for response. Sylar's eyes widened as Peter reached for him and his face relaxed, brows lifting slightly. Peter wasn't thrilled at being stared at, but he took Sylar's expression as a qualified invitation - assuming Peter understood the qualifications, which he didn't, but he kept on anyway. He swallowed nervously as he touched just the very tips of his fingers to Sylar's hair, just enough to make contact. He looked to Sylar's face, because he'd now taken an irretrievable step - touching with interest. He'd established, definitely, that he was willing to touch. Did the invitation include that?
Very slowly, Sylar tilted his head into the petting. More importantly, he looked down, accepting the contact and asking for more. Peter breathed more heavily, feeling almost light-headed with tension, and blinked. He let his fingers follow the course of Sylar's hair back, shifting a little to lean closer, noting that Sylar didn't pull away. On the contrary, Sylar's own breathing was coming faster.
Peter toyed with the ends of Sylar's hair. It felt lovely even if it still carried the residual stiffness from his hair gel. Peter brought his hand back to Sylar's cheek, touching along the upper edge of a smear of white paint. Sylar sucked in a short gasp and leaned into it more, still looking down. Peter could feel himself stiffening within his jeans. Sylar's responsiveness was totally doing it for him. He was barely touching the man and yet Sylar acted like it was the most sensual of caresses. Plus, he wasn't pinning Peter with his gaze anymore. He was submitting himself to whatever Peter would provide, without Sylar making demands, setting conditions or issuing challenges.
Peter dropped his hand under Sylar's chin and lifted it. Sylar's face was open, beseeching and begging. He'd used that expression before and it always got to Peter even though he knew it was false. False insomuch as it was an assumed expression, deliberately cultivated for effect. What got to Peter today was knowing why Sylar was using it. Fake or not didn't matter - Sylar was communicating to Peter that he wanted him and the message was coming through loud and clear.
Peter was hard, feeling heavy in his groin. He chewed his lower lip, doubt creeping in about the wisdom of what he was about to do. He was terrified of the man and he had to admit he wasn't sure how he'd feel about this later, when he wasn't looking into Sylar's plaintive face. But Sylar wasn't the only one with needs. They drove Peter on now, without any of the usual speed bumps and full-stops that Peter experienced when Sylar was the one initiating.
Sylar's mouth opened slightly and Peter was decided. That was just too much of an invitation to pass up in his current state. That was all it was - an invitation, not a demand. Peter rose to his knees and caught his weight with a hand on the planter, over Sylar's head. That Sylar didn't flinch from that, from Peter so clearly taking the dominant role, heartened him. Peter bent to bring his lips to Sylar's, going slower as Sylar turned his face up to meet him. Peter paused for a last moment, feeling Sylar's breath against his face, giving a last second for Sylar to demand the control that was so important to Sylar. Peter had no idea how they were going to negotiate that between them because Peter was so fucking scared of what Sylar might do if he had it.
But Sylar looked genuinely willing to surrender that for the moment, in exchange for what Peter was promising. He puckered his lips as though to reach for Peter's, but refrained from moving his head up. He left it to Peter to pick when and if they kissed. Peter's lips felt hot to himself and he could feel every puff of Sylar's breath against them. He felt like he was straining at his pants. He felt dizzy and like he was beginning to sweat. Fear and desire warred within him but he closed those last few inches and thank God Sylar did not so much as twitch because Peter would have bolted if he had.
His first attempt at a kiss was more attempt than kiss, with Peter pulling back immediately. He felt like every muscle in his body was being contracted all at the same time. He was so tense it was painful. He took a deep breath, tried to calm his nerves, and did it right the second time. He still kissed only lightly. He was so wound up he wondered if, for the first time in his life, he might come from doing no more than kissing someone. His throat made a noise without consulting him at all, prompting him to clamp down immediately on what was almost a whimper.
Sylar jerked slightly at the sound and kissed back with desire. Peter pulled away, then changed his mind. Worried that Sylar might interpret the withdrawal as a disapproval of Sylar's response, he kissed him again, quickly and nervously, then pulled back with an awkward, semi-relieved smile. Peter rocked back onto his knees and feet, looking off to the side and trying to calm himself. I did it. I did it. I did it. It's okay. He's not mad. It's okay. Everything's okay.
He was breathing hard like he'd run a race. Sylar was looking up at him - he could see that in his peripheral vision, along with a brief flash of white as Sylar grinned and then fixed his face. Peter smiled slowly, glad that Sylar was happy. He imagined Sylar was thinking something along the lines of 'Score!' or 'I'm going to get laid for sure, now!', neither of which seemed all that inappropriate or insulting to Peter.
Thinking himself sufficiently calmed to at least talk, Peter glanced down at his companion and said, "So, do you want to do that second base now?" Sylar froze completely, eyes fixed on Peter, who mentally reviewed what he'd said. "Coat! Coat! I meant that second coat of paint! Jeez!"