Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 34: The Metaphorical Hammer
Title: The Metaphorical Hammer
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content
Word count: 1,800
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter starts off wanting nothing to do with Sylar; ends wanting to do nothing without him. Or, alternately, it's the story of how Sylar worms his way into Peter's life, bed, and heart.
Notes: Inspired by one line of means2bhuman's in MBU. She'll know which one.
It started with hanging out together. At first, upon finding himself equally trapped in the mental prison, Peter had gone off on his own, with no desire to keep company with the man he'd come here to rescue. Rescue was impossible, so there was no reason to interact further with his brother's killer. Peter kept to himself for a very long time, giving only passing greetings and being minimally polite.
Sylar tolerated that for a while, but it soon became apparent he was tracking Peter down and keeping him in sight even if he wasn't always watching. Peter could have avoided him, but that seemed childish, so he just ignored instead. Mere presence evolved quickly into proximity as Sylar would bring his book or project closer until they were in conversational range. Small talk was next - a few polite words that usually dead-ended in awkward silences, but that didn't keep Sylar from trying. Days passed and the silence retreated in the face of quiet talk.
Peter warmed to his companion over days and weeks. He had an audience. Sylar was a good listener. If the man avoided answering a lot of Peter's questions, it didn't bother Peter too much. A part of him didn't want to know what happened to make a person into the killer Sylar had become. It was strange enough to see him as friendly and to find himself used to seeing Sylar waiting for him outside his apartment building.
'Outside' - that didn't last either. One day, Peter needed to go upstairs to fetch something from his room and Sylar tagged along with him, continuing their conversation. Peter didn't want Sylar to know exactly which apartment he slept in, but he couldn't bring himself to be rude about it. It was no big deal, right?
A couple days later, Sylar knocked when Peter slept in, stating so innocently that he wasn't sure if Peter had already left and so he just wanted to check … Well, the cat was out of the bag as to where Peter slept, of course. But Peter probably shouldn't have invited him in for breakfast. They'd eaten together more than a hundred times by now so it seemed routine to ask him in - just like Sylar bringing breakfast to Peter's apartment became the new norm.
For evenings, sometimes they went to Sylar's, sometimes to Peter's, sometimes they parted ways out in the street but that became more and more rare. Sylar kept coming up with one thing after another as the hour grew late, prolonging their stays until Peter was drowsy and ready to drop. An offer of Sylar's couch was turned down and Peter would stagger back to his place. One day of especially hard play in the park was followed by a long evening in Peter's apartment recounting the camping trips of Peter's youth. When he finally turned in, he assumed Sylar would let himself out. The next morning, there the guy was, curled up on his couch under a freaking bath towel.
Sylar had spoken many times about his loneliness, his lack of friends, his desire for a connection. Peter didn't have the heart to kick him out. One couch was much like another, Peter decided, and if Sylar wanted to crash here, it wasn't a problem. Weird, yes, but not worth making a fuss over.
It was only a matter of time until one of Sylar's nightmares disturbed Peter's sleep. Half-awake, Peter stumbled into the living room to see Sylar grappling with his demons, twitching and whimpering in distressed slumber. Peter woke him and Sylar clung to Peter's forearm, tearfully confessing that if he could just hear Peter breathing, that would be enough to keep the terrors away. He just needed to know someone was with him. Would Peter stay?
A tear-streaked face, sad and pitiable, looked up at him beseechingly in the half-light of the moon that leaked in from the living room window. Peter was tired, sleepy, and deeply affected by Sylar's plea. The man was stripped of his defenses in addition to his powers. He was as vulnerable as a child. But Peter didn't want to sit beside the couch to help him sleep. He had a king-sized bed, after all. Maybe if Peter's thinking hadn't been so muddled by sleep he could have suggested something different, but instead of Peter sitting up with him, Sylar was climbing into his bed a few minutes later.
The next morning, drawn by the warmth of another body and a desire for intimacy Peter hadn't had in what seemed like years, Peter woke to find himself on Sylar's side of the bed, snuggling up to the other man's back. It was alarming, but if Sylar minded, he didn't let on. Far as Peter knew, he didn't even wake. After that, a pillow wall was erected between them (because of course Sylar took it as a given that Peter's one-time exception was an open invitation to sleep with him).
Living together brought new closeness. They settled the order of who used the bathroom first and whether it was acceptable to leave out one's toothbrush on the side of the sink. Sylar brought over his hair products because he was particular and didn't care for Peter's. The arguments were never bitter and Peter usually won them. He had the hammer, after all - he could kick Sylar out of his life if he was too much of a pain in the ass. They both knew that, even if it wasn't mentioned.
Peter wouldn't admit to having had a change of heart, but the pillow wall was slowly crumbling. The bed was big enough that they both had plenty of space with it there, but he didn't like it. He'd roll over in the night and find it separating him from what he wanted, and roll back with frustration and anger at himself. Gradually, there were fewer pillows until finally, there was just one. It didn't surprise either of them that Peter woke up the next morning with his arm snugged around Sylar's waist and his face burrowed against the other man's t-shirt-clad back. Peter removed himself carefully - super awkward. Sylar had never looked so pleased.
The next night, Peter resolutely put up the entire pillow barrier as Sylar set aside his house shoes on the other side of the bed. Sylar climbed in and with a grim, determined expression, tossed every one of them off the bed. He glared at Peter's shocked face, and then laid down, pulling the covers up and tucking himself in like he'd done nothing at all strange or defiant. Peter stared after the pillows, now heaped haphazardly near the door, then meekly slipped under the blankets himself. He didn't wait until morning to find Sylar in the big bed and hug him close, although he did at least wait until he could convince himself Sylar was probably asleep. A few nights later, he'd stopped doing even that.
Peter's usual sleep position was spooning behind the other man. Despite Sylar's height making him a better choice for big spoon, Peter claimed that for himself and would nudge Sylar to where he wanted him when the other man tried to sprawl some other way. Sylar didn't seem to mind. He'd been right about hearing Peter breathe - there were no more nightmares. It was Peter who woke him, not a bad dream, with Peter's erection pressed against his buttock and rocking slowly against him. Sylar turned to face him and when Peter woke, shushed his frantic apologies with a few words and a firm hand to his groin. Peter's tongue stilled; Sylar's hand did not.
They didn't speak of it in the morning, nor the next night when it happened again. The morning after that, Peter was so hard and aching that he could barely stand it, guiding Sylar's hand to him and rutting against him noisily. When Sylar retired to the bathroom afterward, Peter waited until he heard the shower kick on before joining him. He went to his knees under the spray and returned the favor.
It was just a thing they did, but they did it a lot. For a while it was just in the bed, but then a flirty word and an invitation and they were doing it in a booth at an empty restaurant, against a post office box on the street, bent over a pool table with the billiard balls scattered to the sides … Peter had started with ass play early on, a few spit-slicked fingers probing gently while he swallowed Sylar's cock. It was on the pool table where he finally graduated to fucking Sylar's ass. Probably a poor choice of location and he should have talked about it more beforehand. Not that they ever talked much about what they were doing with each other.
There was a little blood; Peter had apparently gone too fast and Sylar hadn't known enough to tell him when to take it easy. Peter started to freak out; Sylar grabbed him and jerked him close, saying words that seared Peter's ears to hear them: "It's okay. I don't matter. You're happy. That's all that I care about. I'll be fine. It's okay, Peter. It's okay."
Peter pulled away, staring into Sylar's sad eyes, so vulnerable once more, but as a man and not a child. Numbly, he cleaned Sylar with paper towels. It was only a very small fissure and would be healed in a matter of days. Peter tidied up. They both righted their clothes just like normal. But unlike normal, Peter stepped over to Sylar and turned the man's elegant, expressive face to his own. He drew him in for something long overdue - their first kiss. Sylar whimpered, melting into it, and Peter wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight.
Subtly, their conversations turned and shifted. It was Peter listening to Sylar and now he didn't settle for evasions. He wanted to know. Difficult as the revelations were, Peter drank them in until he understood. He was the one following Sylar, asking the taller man where to go and what they should do for the afternoon. Sometimes Peter ended up sleeping on Sylar's couch until Sylar suggested they rearrange the furniture and get at least a double bed into his apartment. Happy days and satisfied nights blurred by until Sylar finally asked, "Why are you doing all of this? You don't have to."
Peter took a deep breath, feeling the butterflies riot in his stomach as he contemplated taking a plunge. The time was right. "Because you matter to me. I love you."
The wall never stood a chance. Peter still had that hammer, but he was never going to use it on Sylar.