Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 31: User Friendly, Friendly Use
Title: User Friendly, Friendly Use
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Allusions to coerced sex
Word count: 2,700
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Dual-POV. Sylar never imagined anyone could fall in love with him. / Peter never imagined he could fall in love with Sylar.
Sylar was happy with letting Peter use him; glad of it. Everyone he'd ever met had fallen neatly into two categories - those who didn't notice him and those who wanted to use him. It had taken a long time for Peter to notice him as anything other than the reviled and hated murderer of his brother. But loneliness had pressed down heavily on Peter Petrelli and Sylar's methodical, persistent efforts to seduce him had finally succeeded. This was what Sylar knew how to do - find a need that someone else had, and fill it. Or in this case, letting Peter fill him.
Peter was a good lover as far as Sylar could tell. He was attentive. He was gentle. He was passionate and vigorous with terrific stamina. Sylar didn't always know how Peter wanted him to respond to the exquisite stimulation he was given. He did his best. He didn't want to wear out his welcome in Peter's bed, which Sylar shared all the time now. That was how it started, but the chaste sleeping together after a liquor-fueled bender didn't last a night before Sylar pressed his lean body against Peter's warm one and made his availability and willingness known. Some lotion, a few amorous strokes, and some urging of his sleepy bed partner had been all it took. The sex wasn't as bad as he'd expected it to be.
Left to the frequency of Peter's desire (which Sylar did not disturb), Peter fucked him twice a day, morning and night. He liked beds, apparently. Sylar assumed it was due to their convenience. Peter came to be affectionate - that was something that had grown slowly over days and weeks. Increasingly, Peter would pepper him with kisses and nuzzle against him. He picked up the habit of stroking Sylar's skin and straightening the hairs on his forearms and brows. He started touching Sylar's face softly as he kissed him … the kissing had changed a lot. Initially it had been an achingly sweet pressing of lips on his shoulders as Sylar was taken from behind, but it had gradually changed to passionate probing in missionary as Peter thrust inside of him. Maybe it was a claiming. Because, Sylar thought, it couldn't be anything more, could it?
Sometimes, before one of their carnal episodes, but after Sylar would indicate his readiness with strokes and touches, Peter would hug him. That would be it - Peter's cheek to Sylar's, arms around him tightly, body pressed to his, in a single, firm embrace that would last for long seconds while Sylar lay still. Sylar wondered if it was some kind of emotional orgasm, or climax, or whatever. Because afterward, Peter would act a lot like he did after fucking - he'd snuggle and stroke and give him small pecking kisses and rub his nose on Sylar's. Sometimes he'd put his forehead against Sylar's and stare into his eyes … almost like Sylar was really important to him. Sylar would stare back and give enough kisses in return that Peter saw whatever signal he was looking for. Then Peter would fuck him.
They conducted the arrangement almost entirely without speaking of it. Peter had tried talking at first, with fumbling, embarrassed stutterings the morning of that first coupling, claiming he had been so asleep and possibly still drunk he hadn't realized who or what he was doing. It was grossly offensive. Peter seemed to be trying to find some way of saying Sylar had taken advantage of him, but that was ridiculous - just another Petrelli excuse, probably fueled by shame for his lusts towards a kinslayer. Sylar didn't want to hear it and had shut him down viciously. It didn't stop Peter from accepting him into his bed that night, which cemented which category Peter fell into - just another user.
Yet Peter wasn't anything like the others. As time passed, Peter went out of his way to please him. He found the little things he could do to Sylar during sex that made him moan, call out, or shudder. Peter did more of those, repeating them endlessly with inventive variations that showed he was really thinking about Sylar's pleasure. Maybe Peter's ego couldn't be properly stroked until his partner was quivering in satisfaction. That was probably it. It probably also explained the craving Sylar was developing for the man and the strange feelings in his gut when he saw him. They were merely the product of endorphins, a simple, chemically-induced, conditioned response. Like the hard-on he sprouted at the most inappropriate times if he let his mind wander to what Peter might want to use him for that night. Just conditioning.
It was nice conditioning, though. Peter certainly seemed aware of it, because he started lacing their normal, day-to-day interactions with enough sexual innuendo that Sylar could barely wait for evening. It was like Peter got off on seeing Sylar in need. Sylar was tempted, teased, and tortured. Even though Peter would grant him deliverance at the end of the day, the long wait seemed cruel and unnecessary. After all, Peter knew Sylar would allow him at any time, no matter what. So why provoke him and not carry through? Cruelty. Meanness. Arrogance. He was being mistreated. It was all Sylar could imagine. His resentment grew.
Peter felt him up after lunch one day in his apartment, stroked him up and down and caressed his groin. Sylar's arousal was perfectly clear. Peter even remarked on it, then left him wanting with a taunt and a sigh about how long it was until night. Sylar threatened him. Peter laughed, which infuriated him, and told him he didn't have to wait if he didn't want to - the bedroom was only steps away. When Sylar grabbed him and shoved him into the room and onto the bed, Peter didn't resist. He even helped in getting off his clothes and had the foresight to grab at the lube.
Sylar thought it would have served the asshole right to have skipped lube altogether, but he'd never fucked anyone before and Peter always used it, so he assumed it was necessary. Apparently, he didn't use enough, because the sounds Peter made once Sylar rammed inside of him were pained. Sylar knew he was being rough, reveling in every struggling gasp and white-knuckled twitch. He shoved Peter's face further into the pillow briefly, knowing that much pressure would suffocate him. The murderousness of his impulses woke Sylar up. Peter had never done this sort of thing to him. Peter had never fucked him while he made sounds of hurting. On the other hand, Peter fucking him had never hurt. That twisting feeling in his gut came back and he eased his actions. He pulled out, used more lube, and rolled Peter over onto his back so Sylar could see his face. Peter was just as cooperative as before, but his expression was hesitant and wary, like things were out of his control and he was hoping this would turn out okay.
Sylar took him again, much more gently. Sylar kissed him, like Peter had kissed him when they used this position, and Peter kissed back. Peter wound his arms around him and pulled him close, legs wrapping around him in a hug just like the ones he'd given so much more platonically before. Sylar's stomach fluttered and lurched as he realized that similarity and the certainty - the complete and unmistakable certainty - that Peter was emotionally involved with him. All those little gestures and efforts and indications …
For the first time, Sylar realized he wasn't being used like he'd thought he was. He'd been … wrong. Something else was happening. Sylar didn't understand it, but he didn't deny it. He just left it unlabeled to surge around inside of him, a glowing, warm, tingling feeling that intensified with every pleased moan and helplessly happy whimper Peter made. He brought Peter off with his hand between them just as Peter had serviced him so many times. Sylar came moments later, breathless and panting - but that feeling inside of him didn't fade. Peter stroked his hair out of his face and blew across his chest to cool him. Peter was happy, despite the rough start. He was … loving.
And there it was - the label Sylar had been looking for. Peter put his forehead to Sylar's, hugging him tight and staring into his eyes. In love with me, Sylar thought, his heart melting. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being 'use' and started being love.
For a long time, Peter blamed himself. He should have never gotten into the habit of drinking with Sylar. It had started as a beer or two after dinner and progressed into mixed drinks. At the time, it seemed like 'why not?' They even joked about how there weren't any cars. Peter told Sylar things while loosened up with alcohol that he would have never been able to confess to with his defenses up. His defenses were never more down than when he came to himself to realize that he was back in his apartment, fucking Sylar.
Peter didn't finish, didn't give Sylar a reach around, nothing. He just stopped, a bit dumbfounded by the whole thing. He could remember coming home, Sylar in tow and vaguely remembered nonchalantly telling Sylar 'sure, go ahead' when the other man asked if he could sleep over. (It seemed like a harmless thing at the time …) But between sharing a bed with a friend and being intimately involved with them was a huge gulf, as huge as the gap in Peter's memory. Sylar seemed alert enough, which was disturbing and made Peter suspicious that he'd been set up.
They'd fought over it. Hungover and feeling like crap, Peter hadn't been able to defend himself - it had been his dick in Sylar's ass, after all. What stung the most was it wasn't like sex with Sylar wasn't something Peter had fantasized about, dreamed about, even sort of been trying to figure out a moral way that he could get away with it. Yet here it was, a done deal. There was no way he could un-fuck the situation, made all the worse by Sylar's insinuation that Peter was his first. Then Sylar wouldn't talk about it, getting harsh and mean about it. They parted ways, both angry at each other and no doubt both feeling quite entrenched in their positions.
By evening, the anger had faded a little and Peter was feeling guilty. When Sylar knocked, Peter opened the door and leaned on the frame, eyeing him. Sylar didn't look angry anymore, either. He looked needy, scared, and vulnerable. Peter thought about it from Sylar's point of view - he'd gotten drunk with a guy, been invited to sleep with him, fooled around and got badly sexed for what was (probably) his first time, then was rejected, accused of what looked a lot like rape, and kicked out. All in a situation where Sylar couldn't just get on with his life, where he had no other options, no life to get on with. Sylar could no more un-fuck things than Peter could. When they'd been drinking, Sylar had shared some of his life as well. So much of it was made of suck. Peter knew how that felt.
After what seemed like an entire minute, or maybe two, where they stood in absolute silence, Peter nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and gestured for Sylar to come inside. They hardly spoke at all, other than the most strained of small talk. Peter pointedly had water, having already poured out every drop of alcohol in the apartment. When he announced he was going to bed, he didn't accompany it with any mention that Sylar needed to go home. He was unsurprised when the man meekly followed him to bed. Peter tried to talk and was shushed. Instead, hands slid across his skin, an erotic contact that was more intoxicating than any liquor would ever be.
Maybe not everything in Sylar's life had to turn to blood and ashes. Peter kissed him softly, swallowed his misgivings, and gave it a chance. It was hard at first, to get over himself, get past the past and the thoughts of besmirching Nathan's memory, but Peter could feel himself winning through bit by bit, one touch at a time. He resolutely refused to turn Sylar away - morning and night, if Sylar showed interest, Peter returned it. Sylar was alive and here and could hurt. Every now and then, Peter would hug him tightly and remember that - this man was human and fragile, he was being kind and generous, they needed each other.
Sylar became happy. He blossomed. Peter watched over the days and weeks as the man relaxed and opened up. The set of his shoulders eased and the glowers ended. He laughed more. He even dabbled in being playful. The deadly sarcasm transformed into a wicked sense of humor. And Sylar, ever the bad boy, stole Peter's heart. Peter didn't realize it until one day when Sylar made a happy twirl of the sort Peter had seen him do long ago in an impossible future. It took Peter's breath away, which seemed so silly that Peter stopped to think about how he was feeling. Yes - somehow, he'd fallen for his so-called enemy and found love in the unlikeliest places.
Now all he had to do was get Sylar to admit to wanting him. Because he did, of that Peter was confident, and wanting him might be the start of loving him back. He hatched a stupid plan, because Peter had never been good at planning. Peter took to teasing him, giving little reminders of their times and hoping Sylar would admit to his obvious desires. The anticipation made the man more assertive in bed, even though it seemed to be making him grouchy out of it. Then it very nearly went terribly wrong. What looked like it would be rough, passionate sex turned into Sylar breaching him, unprepared, and shoving him hard into the pillow Peter was trying to use to muffle himself. Peter hadn't resisted the positioning and didn't know what to do about what was happening … but Sylar stopped, as though it finally got through his head that this was not going well.
They changed position to face-to-face and this time it was tender love-making instead of being fucked much harder than Peter liked. They kissed passionately. Peter pulled him in, winding himself around the man and hugging him tight, trusting Sylar to treat him right. Powerful, flexing thrusts filled him over and over. They grappled as one until he came in an overflow of fulfilled desire. Peter stroked Sylar's face and cooled them both, tending to him with dutiful affection, charmed by his quirky and largely mute lover. They pressed foreheads, staring into one another's eyes for a long moment, truly in sync.
Peter didn't blame himself anymore. If anything, he gave his heart credit for seeing something that his brain had refused to believe existed. Speaking of things his brain had done badly - this 'plan' of his. Stupid. Why try to get Sylar to say something Peter himself had not yet voiced? "I love you," he said earnestly, smiling at the shocked expression that greeted his words.