Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 5: Casual Touches
"Political protest doesn't accomplish anything, Peter. Direct action does."
They were standing on the street talking about nothing, really, just talking to hear each other's voices. Peter frowned at Sylar's pronouncement, but his attention was caught by the man's grimace as Sylar reached back over his shoulder with one long arm, elbow in the air. He scratched at his back briefly, then grunted and gave it up, twisting his arm behind him and reaching up with it. From the half-snarl on Sylar's face, he still wasn't able to reach the annoying patch of skin.
There was that magical spot in the middle of the back that was impossible for most people to reach. When it itched, there was not a lot a person could do about it but endure the irritation. Maybe they could rub themselves on a building, which was even more undignified than Sylar's current struggles, or if they had a backscratcher, they could use that.
Peter walked around behind Sylar, prompting the man to straighten and yank his hand out from behind himself. Maybe he'd thought Peter was going to grab his wrist and wrestle him down, because that position did make it easy to get an immobilizing hold on him. But that wasn't Peter's intention.
Sylar's hands hung loosely at his sides as the other man breathed carefully and turned his head just slightly as Peter moved behind him. He was hyper-alert, but for nothing. Peter matter-of-factly reached up and scratched the center of Sylar's back, curling his fingers enough to get his blunt nails into play. Sylar gave a faint shiver at the frisson of sensation.
"Do I have the right spot?" Peter asked softly, aware that Sylar's reaction was taking this out of the realm of friendly acquaintance and to an intimacy that Peter wasn't quite sure he was comfortable with. Sylar didn't answer, so Peter expanded his circle, scratching thoroughly and a little harder. "I know that really sucks when you can't quite get that spot there in the middle. There's no reason why we can't help each other out sometimes."
Peter paused, his fingers flexing slightly so the pads of his fingertips were against Sylar's back, feeling the warmth of his body through the shirt and undershirt the man wore. Sylar's breath pulled in just a little too fast. Peter felt the urge to touch a lot more than he already was. Instead, he pulled his hand away and walked off several feet, sitting on the curb of the street. "Protesting at least attracts the attention of the media, and sometimes that's all that needs to be done," he said, casually continuing the conversation they'd had before.
Peter had won their latest fight, which he of course felt bad about. Like most of their skirmishes, it had been stupid, but that apparently didn't stop either of them from having them. He tried to tell himself it was the guilt that motivated him when he got up and walked over to the other man, asking, or rather saying, "Let me take a look at you. I want to make sure you're okay."
Sylar frowned up at him, eyes narrowing slightly as he obviously questioned Peter's motives. It was silly, so Peter gave him a warm, friendly smile to put him at ease and casually brushed Sylar's hair back from his forehead. Peter threaded it back, thinking about how nice that felt - all the lovely, silken strands. He crouched a little, ignoring Sylar's sudden shift in expression to forced neutrality and let the fingers of his right hand drift across Sylar's forehead as he brushed the left back through the man's hair a second time, and then a third.
Peter touched the knot over Sylar's eye. It had bled, but it wasn't hot to the touch. "This isn't fevered. I don't think it's going to infect. It seems to be healing fine." His fingers ghosted across Sylar's temple to caress his cheekbone, palpating gently as he petted the man's head with his other hand. "This is definitely not broken. Sometimes I wonder if something about being here makes our faces tougher than they should be. What with the way we beat on each other, we've been lucky nothing worse has happened than that time I broke my hand."
Speaking of which, he let his not-too-long-ago-broken right hand trail down Sylar's cheek to his jaw. There was another bump there, which hadn't directly been Peter's fault. Sylar had fallen and hadn't caught himself well. Aware that it might be sensitive, Peter's touch was light. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he murmured. "We shouldn't be beating on each other." He petted Sylar's hair again.
He looked at Sylar's eyes, finally, taking in the man's expression. It brought home to Peter that he was a lot physically closer here to Sylar that he'd realized, having leaned in a lot during the examination. He swallowed and pulled back. "I think you'll be fine," he said in a more normal tone of voice, standing. He nodded to Sylar, or to himself, or to no one, and walked off, stopping where he was turned away three-quarters and only barely able to see the other man. Peter's subconscious was screaming at him, but he was pretty good at ignoring that when he wanted to. Right now, he couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he really, really wanted to ignore it.
Sylar sat down on the couch very nearly right against Peter. He was no more than a couple inches away. He was angry about how much Peter had been touching him up and how little he was allowed to respond, and so with the entire other end of the couch and a dozen chairs to sit in, Sylar passive aggressively set himself down on Peter's end and crowded him. Take that, you bastard!
He knew the trick to this was to act casual, like it hardly mattered at all, like Peter wasn't even really there. So he opened up his book immediately, settling back and pretending to begin to read. Two could play at this game.
Peter, for his part, had looked up when Sylar approached, but the lack of eye contact had prevented any comment or address. After Sylar claimed his space, a little too assertively perhaps, Peter held very still for a long moment. Sylar breathed steadily, forcing his eyes along the line of text in his book while he was inwardly poised to respond to the inevitable reaction. Were there positions reversed, if he were dealing with himself, this would be the most dangerous period. Or … no, actually Sylar knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't have waited this long. Pretty much as soon as Peter's ass hit the couch that close he would have been doing something because getting this close and being this obvious about it was crossing a line.
Peter wasn't him though, and his reactions didn't always make sense to Sylar, which was the whole reason why he was over here metaphorically poking at the man. Peter shifted, wriggling almost in his seat - a motion that entailed his knee perhaps accidentally touching Sylar's thigh before Peter sighed, relaxed, and turned back to his own book like nothing at all unusual was going on. Certainly he didn't act like his territory or personal space had just been invaded.
Sylar let his eyes slide to the side and observed the other man. Peter didn't look resentful, uncomfortable or much of anything other than content. Content? He's fucking content? I had the whole fucking room to be in and he's happy that I'm … He thought about all those touches Peter had given him. It occurred to Sylar that what he had intended as revenge was distinctly not.