Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 26: Yours
Title: Yours
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 2,100
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar's POV, then Peter's POV. A persistent miscommunication almost ruins the guy's attempts to get what they need from the other.
Notes: Inspired by a line from means2bhuman's "Truth is"
Peter stared him down, or at least tried to. Sylar's offer hung in the air between them and he wasn't about to look away first. He knew Peter wanted him; was willing; and all possible objections were dealt with. But none of that mattered if he couldn't seal the deal. Something was still wrong, because Peter snorted, lip curling a little, and turned his back to walk away.
Sylar could have cried with frustration. He'd been working on this for so long! No one else in the whole world and he still couldn't get a connection with the only other person here! "What do I need to do?" he asked in desperation before Peter could get too far from the building they'd been hanging out in front of.
Peter wheeled immediately. Sylar stiffened; Peter's haste made him worry about an attack - doubly so when Peter's hand came up, but at least it was open, fingers curling as though to grab, not strike. Sylar's eyes blazed and he pulled his head back, doing nothing otherwise. He wouldn't run or quail. Peter seized him by the hair and jerked on his head - not with the intent of inflicting pain, but apparently to position him. Pulled off balance, Sylar stumbled, not sure if Peter was trying to force him to his knees (for a blow job?), or something else. Peter managed to steer his head to where he wanted it, face tilted down, but still on his feet. Sylar didn't understand what was going on, so he went to his go-to and glared death at his assailant.
"Look down!" Peter bit out and Sylar did. He was still confused. The pavement was unremarkable. Their shoes were normal. He started to look up, but that was simultaneous with Peter shifting position to edge a few inches closer to him. A light bulb went off over Sylar's well-gripped head. It was the looking down itself that Peter wanted! Ah-hah! Sylar knew this game, much as he hadn't expected Peter to play it. His spine straightened and his neck relaxed as he assumed the position of a shame-faced child waiting for his lecture.
Peter's hand loosened. "That's what I want." The man was breathing harder, Sylar noted. "I want … some sign of … respect." Peter's voice thickened and strained. His hand slid free of Sylar's hair more slowly than it needed to. "At least the illusion of it. I don't expect it to be real." If Sylar didn't miss his guess, Peter almost choked up there at the end. Peter released him and strode away as before, back stiff, and frame coiled with tension.
No lecture, Sylar thought, relieved and disappointed at the same time. Peter had moved right up next to him there and he'd liked that. It was not the game Sylar had expected, but this one, too, was known. He wasn't sure what all of Peter's emotion was about. It was hardly an unusual requirement. The guy was a Petrelli - demanding obeisance was in his blood. So he needed a little sucking up to get off. Respect my ass. You want subservience. Sylar hurried after him, silent this time, and settled in a few steps behind and to the right, wondering if Peter wanted him to play the whole part of low, unworthy creature - and unsure of how much of that he'd be able to swallow. Was it a connection if it was all one-way?
Peter glanced back and his strides slowed. Sylar paced him. Peter slowed again. Sylar let his longer strides move him next to Peter, who sped up so they were walking together. No 'two steps behind' BS - good sign. Peter looked over at him and Sylar dropped his eyes immediately. Peter gave a small shake of his head and stopped.
Am I doing it wrong? Sylar kept his eyes downcast, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets.
Peter came closer to him, right over to him, reaching out slowly to hook his fingers around Sylar's left forearm. Sylar could see, in his peripheral vision, that Peter was watching his face constantly. Don't blow this, Sylar cautioned himself. It seemed quite possible he'd only get one chance, especially with Peter as wound up as he seemed to be. It would at least be the only chance he got for a long while. Peter shifted closer, just as he had before when he'd managed to man-handle Sylar into a submissive posture. Sylar blinked repeatedly, dipping his head and relaxing. When a small motion of Peter's head indicated he was looking elsewhere (to Sylar's shoulder, which he was now caressing, much to Sylar's delight), Sylar risked a glance up.
This is all it took? All this time? Fuck, Peter! Why didn't you tell me? I train easily. Try me, please! He could smell Peter - a warm, inviting scent that disarmed and excited him at the same time. He assumed Peter could smell him, too. Peter's right hand curled behind Sylar's left shoulder and his left hand reached over to gently tug Sylar's right from his pocket. Sylar dropped his head a little lower, softening his stance and bringing his face closer to Peter's. Peter was holding his hand - it seemed sweet and weird, especially given Sylar's previous offer of himself for use.
Sylar tilted his head marginally, gratified when Peter echoed the motion, bringing their lips inches apart. Peter drew in breath and Sylar held very still, eyes switching between Peter's lips and the generic 'down'. Peter leaned in that last distance and pressed a small, chaste kiss to his lips. The sensation itself was nice beyond description, but it was the emotion that shot through Sylar that really did it - accomplishment, satisfaction, joy, self-esteem. He'd made it; he'd done it; he'd found the right buttons to push and levers to pull to get to this point. It had taken forever and endless hashing out of issues until nothing stood in his way except a trivial aping of a behavior Sylar was more than happy to provide.
Peter smiled and glanced down, as though shy now that he'd gotten what he wanted. Sylar whispered softly in his ear, "I'm yours."
Sylar's words gave everything; his body language denied it all. Peter glared, angry at the contradiction between the two, and angry that Sylar glared right back. It was like offering a gift with a sneer and a contemptuous look. Peter wanted none of it - no matter how attractively Sylar packaged it, the delivery was setting Peter off. He snorted, turned on his heel and walked away, fuming quietly to himself. What is Sylar getting at with these idiotic offers? If he wants me to take him up on something, then he needs to act like it's something other than a challenge to single combat!
Only a few steps into leaving, Sylar called out behind him, "What do I need to do?" His tone was still angry and defiant, but the words he chose had never been so plaintive.
For once, Peter ignored the body language and tone, going strictly off what was being said - a big departure for him, but he felt like he was banging his head against a brick wall here with Sylar's offers. He spun and walked back, grabbing at Sylar's head and getting it easily enough. Peter had half thought his intended action would start a fight, but he was riled enough not to care. He shoved Sylar's head around until it pointed where he wanted, which was tough to do. The guy wasn't cooperating and from the look on Sylar's face, at any moment fists might fly.
Peter didn't care. He was tired of being told one thing while Sylar acted another way entirely. "Look down!" he snapped and Sylar did. Thank God. Peter took two panting breaths, relaxing a little, and shifted closer to Sylar. Sylar seemed to have finally gotten the message, because he didn't look up and he, too, relaxed his posture. Peter let go of the guy's hair.
"That's what I want," Peter said and the simple experience of being right next to the man, touching him, seeing Sylar contrite or at least looking like it did so much to defuse Peter. "I want … some sign of … respect." I count, right? Do I matter to you? I want to feel like I matter. Peter's throat constricted as his most naked of vulnerabilities came to the fore. His hand slid free of Sylar's hair, feeling how nice the strands were as they slipped through his fingers. "At least the illusion of it. I don't expect it to be real." He had to struggle for his voice not to crack on that last. Not with the way you look at me. Just … can I at least pretend I'm something other than the last man on Earth to you?
But Peter knew he wasn't going to get any of that. Even if he did, it was an illusion - fake. How long would that satisfy? Yearning and frustrated, Peter walked away as briskly as he could, trying to hold his head high. He wanted to lash out, but there was nothing and no one available but Sylar. He gnashed his teeth, but quit a moment later when he heard Sylar's steps hurry along behind him.
Fine. Great. So we're walking somewhere together now. I don't even know where the fuck I'm going. Sure, tag along with the guy who you have zilch respect for and who just admitted that he'd sleep with you if all you did was give it good face. Sylar didn't catch up, opting instead to walk several paces behind, like he understood how wound up Peter was.
Still, Peter wasn't going to stroll along with a fucking shadow. He adjusted his pace until Sylar figured it out and fell into step beside him. Peter glanced over and Sylar dropped his gaze to the ground with alacrity. What the fuck? Peter stopped immediately and shook his head. I traded the angry for the … this. He looked at Sylar, who studied his feet with bowed head, meek and accommodating in demeanor. That's ... not what I meant.
What made an impression, though, was that Sylar was trying to give Peter exactly what he had asked for. Peter realized that, along with the certainty that it wasn't actually fake. Well, yes, Sylar was acting, but he was doing it out of sincere desire to win Peter over. Peter stepped closer - intimately close - and Sylar didn't budge. Peter stroked the guy's nearer arm through the long-sleeved shirt Sylar wore, feeling the wrinkles in it and the warmth of flesh underneath. Sylar stood like a statue - a very respectful statue. Peter tried to tell himself he didn't require this sort of passivity, but it was working. The active, aggressive version of Sylar was pretty intimidating. It brought to mind so many moments of being hurt by this guy. Peter wasn't attracted to that. But this … well …
Peter eased one hand behind Sylar's shoulder while the other pulled one of Sylar's hands out of his pocket. Peter just held it, smiling a little at how oddly innocent it seemed. The times he'd imagined them doing something intimate, it had generally been violent - arousing in private, frightening in the flesh. He rubbed his thumb affectionately across the back of Sylar's hand. You're sincere, right? You really mean this? Is that what all the confusion has been about - too defensive to show your hand? The man sidled towards him with a lean and a turn of his torso. Peter could see what he was angling towards and matched him, drawing in a breath to fortify himself.
Lips softly puckered, he pressed them to Sylar's without pausing for thought, because he knew if he did, he'd probably chicken out. As kisses went, it was brief and mild, but very, very sweet. Peter's stomach somersaulted and he tingled all over as he leaned back. That one small act had changed everything. He knew it; could feel it. He'd accepted the gift Sylar had so persistently offered him. It was the greatest gift Sylar had to give: himself. He had accepted … Sylar.
Peter smiled and looked down, still holding the man's hand, feeling deeply honored. As if able to read his thoughts, Sylar leaned close and breathed into Peter's ear, "I'm yours."