Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 55: Simple Questions, part 1 of 2
Title: Simple Questions
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Words: 10,000
Summary: Prompted by Peter's questions, Sylar makes a journey to self-acceptance and beyond.
Notes: This started as a 300 word drabble about a hug, but then the story just wouldn't quit! Other than multi-chapter fics, this was written over the longest period of anything I've yet published, at over six months in process. Writing-wise, I wasn't trying to achieve anything in particular, except to make it rich and very focused on what's going on with Sylar, leaving Peter mostly opaque, despite him having almost as great a transformation to make.
It was the gentle pleadings that broke Sylar - Peter begging him for answers when he had none. The recriminations, accusations, and silent treatment had been easier to take, but eventually Peter just wanted to know the truth. Sylar had thought the worst torture of this hell was the oppressive, relentless loneliness of three, long years, but Peter showed him he’d been mistaken. At times, Sylar almost wished for a return of the quiet, measured out by the steady ticking of the clocks. They demanded nothing of him … unlike Peter.
In Peter’s defense, there was nothing else in the world to distract him from the subject of his inquiry. It was his whole point here and sometimes Sylar wondered if Peter really existed, or if he was some demon sent to carry out the next stage of torment. Peter had no friends or family or even complete strangers here who could capture part or all of his attention, so he fixed it entirely on Sylar. His only project was getting closure.
And so: Why? The question was asked over and over in endless variations. It was profoundly irritating in both its simplicity and difficulty. Sylar understood better than he wanted to how annoyed parents became at curious toddlers who learned that cursed word. Like a child, Peter wanted to understand. He was trying to wrap his mind around why a person - any person, but Sylar in particular - would kill another (and in Sylar’s case, another and another and another ...) He understood anger and a desire to hurt, but a desire to end, to terminate? It was foreign and so he asked.
At first, Sylar fended him off with anger and sarcasm, his sword and shield against the emotional assault. Peter would retire to nurse his wounds, but he never gave up. It was like he could sense the weakness underneath Sylar’s armor of indifference and was determined to expose it. Enduring the questioning wasn’t the price of admission to sharing Peter’s company. If it had been, Sylar might have stayed away entirely. Instead, it was the requirement for a different sort of proximity, a more emotional one, something Sylar wanted more than mere presence. Actually, at the bottom of it all, Sylar did want to be understood; he just didn’t want to answer for what he’d done. Yet despite his desire to writhe and twist away from responsibility, he couldn’t figure out how to get the openness without exposing himself.
The real hell began when he genuinely started trying to find the truth Peter wanted. Neither of them was satisfied with glib answers. As much as Sylar would have liked to avoid the subject entirely, if he was going to give an answer, then he was going to give an honest one. But the truth wasn’t simply a matter of speaking it, or as simple as identifying a warped gear within a watch. He couldn't just pick out an isolated thing that had gone wrong and caused the past; there was no stepped-on butterfly he could point to. It was more complicated by far. There were so many times where he hadn’t examined why he’d chosen one act over another. While yes, the exigencies of circumstance favored one path more than the others, there were deeper reasons. His own mind framed his choices and that limited his possible solutions. Why was he comfortable with violence to the level that he had performed? Where did the uncaring come from? How deep did it run? What other aspects of his being did it affect? In the end, was he … salvageable?
The worst were the questions softly spoken, breathed out in cautious whispers like Peter was afraid to speak them too loudly. The answers were often ugly and increasingly, Sylar couldn’t divorce himself from them or pretend that anyone would have done the same in his place. He was special, bitter pill though that was to swallow. His actions had defined the person he was. If they were menacing and evil, then so must he be as well. It wasn’t how he wanted to be and he mourned to be faced with it. He didn’t want to be the kind of person that no one in the world wanted to be near. He tried to fight it, but he was trapped by things that had already happened, impossible to undo. He didn’t want to be … bad, a lost cause, unworthy of everything. He wanted to be good and Peter’s questioning of his soul made him so angry he contemplated murder yet again. Yet he couldn’t lash out without proving the very thing he was trying to disprove about himself. It was his helplessness, the futility of it all, that broke him.
XXX
“I don't know!” Sylar burst out, but the high emotion sounding through his words was desperation and grief, not rage. His hands shook and his shoulders threatened to. He felt so impotent and incompetent, so stupid and dense and uninformed about his own inner workings. He felt like he was crumbling, like a wall that had been battered on for too long, finally giving way at the masonry seams. He was so lost in his own misery that Peter settling next to him on the couch was startling. The cushion dipped and by natural law of gravity, he tilted towards Peter. They were touching all down the thigh and briefly at the shoulder … and then Peter was twisting towards him, not done yet with the Petrelli space invasion. Peter raised his arms and slid them over Sylar's shoulders, ignoring his stiffness as he guided Sylar to turn to match him, and then wrapping around to pull him close.
Sylar stopped breathing entirely for long seconds and when he resumed, his breaths were shallow. What is he doing?!? his mind squeaked about the sudden, unprecedented, and unasked-for-but-wonderful contact. What was happening seemed clear enough, though. It was a hug. A simple hug. Or maybe a complex one, Sylar didn't know. What he knew was that he could feel the warmth of Peter's body through his shirt and smell the oil of his skin in a much more concentrated nasal draught than he was usually gifted by in the closest passage he might make. The reality of Peter's nearness was enough to shock him out of most of his wretched thoughts. He's hugging me. Why would he hug me? Is he attracted to me? Am I sexy this way, almost in tears? Is that it? No, I don't think it is. I must look like a child, like a little boy he wants to comfort. Is that so he can lord it over me and be more powerful?
“It's okay,” Peter murmured. “It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here, I'm listening, I'm paying attention. We can figure it out. No hurry.” Peter's words were always so soft when Sylar was upset - soft on the outside, but still hard on the inside. Peter wasn't going to let him off the hook for a few tears. Taking a break wasn't the same thing as quitting. Sylar knew that and it made him respect Peter all the more for it.
He brought his own hands up to Peter's sides, fingers twiddling senselessly with the seams of Peter's jacket. What the man said was soothing, reminding him of what a relief it was that he had someone who would listen to him at all, despite the frustrating nature of the inquiries. The embrace certainly wasn't brief, either. Peter was stroking his back with firm, steady sweeps of his right hand, the left exerting pressure and letting him know he was right where Peter wanted him to be. Sylar drew in a deep breath and let it out. It's like he's petting me, like a dog. Sylar relaxed. I can play this role. If that's what he wants … if that's what gets me this. He swallowed and leaned into the posture, turning his head and laying it on Peter's shoulder.
In the choice of which direction to face, he opted for maximum intimacy just like the rest of his life was marked with extremes. He put his nose against Peter's neck, facing him rather than the more usual facing away. He could feel the tension that went through Peter at his position - the stroking on his back interrupted for a moment - and Sylar felt a spasm of fear that Peter would shove him away for taking the liberty. Regardless of what Peter did, it sure as hell felt good to be held. It felt nice. It thrummed through his bones and made his heart rattle his chest with all the heavy thumping it was doing. The angles were awkward and his spine was twinging from leaning weird, but it was completely worth it. He sighed, knowing that some of his breath blew hot against Peter's skin. Strangely, that seemed to calm Peter, who tightened his hold and shifted his hips a little to face him more directly, resuming the comforting stroking.
A moment later, they were swaying slightly as Peter rocked him slowly. Sylar snuggled in, all too aware that he might never get another chance at this. He'd been this close to other people, but the truth that Peter was trying to be kind to him was finally filtering through his formidable defenses. He could try to pretend to himself that Peter was dominance-tripping or treating him like a pet or child, but his logical mind had sifting through the probable motivations and kept coming back to one very core to Peter's being - he wanted to help. He was over here hugging Sylar because he wanted to help him.
Peter tolerated the hug far longer than Sylar would have expected. Long minutes, more than a quarter hour. It felt like an eternity to spend arm-locked with someone on the couch. And because he didn't think he'd ever get this again and he might as well go for everything, seizing every experience possible and claiming it for his own, when Peter shrugged his shoulder and went to gently push Sylar away, Sylar lifted his head and swooped in to kiss. Peter was not so slow that he couldn't have reacted. Sylar knew that. He was gambling, going for the long shot, pushing the limits like he always did. He was forcing Peter to choose between shoving him away brusquely or … what Peter did. At the last second, he did nothing. Peter sat there and allowed Sylar plant his lips over his own, for one brief kiss that Peter ended with a more definitive, but still not rough, push.
It had been years since Sylar had had a kiss. It wasn't like it was something he required for survival, but it was something he hungered for - to be close to someone, to be accepted, to have a connection that was real and honest. He'd never had that, not in the way he wanted, not in the way he could almost taste from Peter. All their talking had created this tenuous link between them that was just waiting to become reality. His fingers bunched the fabric at Peter's sides, not wanting to let him get away while knowing he had to eventually.
Peter eyed Sylar warily and stood, forcing Sylar to loose his fingers and let the man slide out of his grip. Peter gave him a parting pat on the shoulder that was nothing like the stern slap of rejection Sylar would have expected. He … he let me! Let me? Jesus, he even started it! What does that mean? Does it mean he wants me? Or just that he doesn't think I'm beyond help? More importantly, can I make him do that again? Yearning eyes followed Peter across the room, hyper-alert to the smallest nuance, not that it helped.
There followed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and the next morning as Sylar struggled to figure out how to replicate the situation where Peter would hug on him and hold still for kissing. He hungered for that shred of approval, that teasing glimpse of acceptance, the hint that his explanations were satisfactory. He tried being forward, imagining things had changed between them and touching was welcome now. It was not; Peter shut him down. He tried being persistent; Peter threatened to leave. Sylar submitted completely and Peter stayed. He tried offering more information about himself, but they'd already covered what came to him easily. The rest was harder. He tried more tears, but they were fake and Peter was on to him. As a result of that last stunt, he was left alone for the night, hoping his bout of acting hadn’t ruined his chances. He hoped Peter understood why he was suddenly all over him. He was an empath, after all, and that was supposed to mean something even if Sylar hadn't been able to puzzle out what.
It was a miserable night, which was fucked up because he'd had more mutual friendliness in that one long hug than he'd had ever. He thought he ought to be happy. He ought to be grateful. He ought to be satisfied. But he wasn't. He tossed and turned and felt his aloneness more keenly than he ever had while Peter was in this world with him. He obsessed over every detail of the day, trying to figure out exactly what he'd done and when, that he could do it again to get the same result, or even anything close to it. It wasn't like Peter ever stayed the night, but he couldn't help but think that Peter's departure had gone badly and that he’d pushed it too far with the false sorrow.
The morning found him itchy-eyed and sweaty-skinned, but the dawn light gave him an excuse to get out of bed and stop wallowing. Peter was often in a better mood after getting away from him for a while (sad commentary though that was, all by itself; Sylar still looked forward to exploiting it). Sylar sought him out at breakfast, nearly falling all over himself to ingratiate himself. His nocturnal cogitations had convinced him that Peter wanted to be in charge, he wanted Sylar submissive and … vulnerable. Not that he wanted Sylar to be weak, but when Sylar was, Peter was most apt to get close to him, lend a helping hand, gentle his words, and handle him carefully. His brain was working feverishly to concoct whatever scheme was necessary to win him a place in the ranks of human beings worthy of friendly association.
“Stop. Stop, Sylar.”
He pulled up short from trying to bus Peter’s side of the table. Was Peter not done eating?
“Is this about the hug yesterday?”
Sylar looked away, trying to think of whether he should agree or not. Peter’s voice was level enough, if a little exasperated, so there wasn’t much clue there about how he felt towards Sylar’s obsession with the embrace. The kiss wasn't being mentioned at all. His eyes darted back to Peter and fixed on him attentively, opting to say nothing and thus reduce his chance of incriminating himself.
Peter stood, pushed his chair in properly, and stepped close. He took the washcloth from Sylar’s hand and dropped it on the table, sliding his hand between Sylar’s side and arm - first the right, then the left. “Come here.” Sylar hugged him back immediately, tucking his head in close to the side of Peter’s, feeling the fine, dark, silky hair bunch and shift under his cheek, the faint smell of shampoo in his nostrils. He trembled and squeezed briefly, feeling a profound sense of relief wash through him as Peter sighed and relaxed against him in turn. He was so solid, like a rock supporting the lighthouse which shone its beacon over turbulent waters and through shroud of fog, guiding those who had wandered astray to safe harbor. His strength seeped into Sylar and showed him peace.
“Hey,” Peter said softly, speaking into his shoulder, “I know you’ve been working really hard, doing a lot of soul-searching. Just want you to know, I’m right here with you. We’ll figure it out.” Sylar squeezed again, wishing he could pull Peter inside of himself, envelope the guy completely so he’d never leave. But too soon, Peter pulled away, gave him a friendly pat, and directed them on to morning errands.
XXX
Twice within twenty-four hours, though - that wasn’t coincidence. Sylar stalked Peter all morning, crowding too close and trying to touch him. Sometimes he covered it as happenstance; sometimes he didn’t bother. Peter gave him a few shy smiles at first, but they faded as Sylar continued to push for as much as he could get. It wasn’t until they returned to the apartment for lunch, well past noon, that he realized he’d taken it a bit too far. Peter stepped to the side and refused to go up the stairs first. Scandalized and concerned that he was ruining the best thing he had going for him, Sylar backed off with an effort. He needed to quit looking at Peter and start looking at himself. It was his change that had drawn Peter near, after all. If he wanted that again, he needed to change more. Lunch was awkward and quiet as Sylar ruminated on the new topic.
After the dishes were cleared away, he returned to his seat and brought up the subject himself, rather than waiting for Peter to ask the usual questions. “I know we’ve gone over this before. A lot. I did it because I could; because I could get away with it. And I know now that’s not the real answer. I thought anyone would do it, everyone wanted to, it was natural selection. None of that is the answer, because the real answer is underneath: why would I think that?
“I can point to stories of bullies in middle school and high school teachers playing favorites - anybody but me; I was ignored by everyone but the bullies. I can talk about the very essence of some of us having extraordinary powers and everyone else not - how it seemed like so many didn't deserve what they'd been gifted with. I could even argue that by virtue of having abilities, we have a moral imperative to use them to their fullest, even if that means abusing other people.”
He looked up at Peter, his patient, attentive audience, for a long moment, then away again. “I know. We’ve been through this already. All that and more - dissected my motivations, cracked open my past, ruptured every flimsy rationalization I’ve used to defend actions that are indefensible. No matter what I say, there are still people dead and others hurt.”
He sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. “If I squinted, I was the archetypical hero, right down to the wise, old mentor who dies in the course of the story, but not after imparting to me the path I was to take - in this case, in the shape of a list. Fate had written everything out already, literally. It was all excused because it was ‘destiny’. It’s easier to take when you let me slap a coat of heroic paint on it and call it good. Hell, easier to talk about if you’d just admit that I’m evil.”
“You’re not evil.”
Sylar looked up at Peter, meeting steadfast eyes that didn’t give an inch on this. Not anymore. At first, Peter had entertained the idea, but even then it had seemed half-hearted. It wasn’t long before he rejected it entirely and refused to countenance it. Sylar was not a bad guy in Peter’s eyes and how he’d made that transformation was a mystery to Sylar. Peter had judged him human and possessed of all human faculties, both the frailties and the strengths. It hadn’t meant the questioning had changed much. Peter still wanted to know why.
“Killing … wasn’t something rare or exotic to my mind. I thought it was something that happened between people no matter how they felt about each other. My earliest memory was of murder - one person I had loved killing another.” He laughed hollowly. “They say that kids always see things as being about them - ‘Mommy and Daddy got divorced because I got bad marks in Math’ - it was about me. That was inescapable. Everyone I cared about was dead or gone. Then it repeated twenty years later - Mommy dead, Daddy gone.
“Why would I care about these people, Peter, when the people who were supposed to love me turned on me like that?” His voice was pleading, looking for a reason, but Peter wasn’t there to give him answers. He couldn’t, anyway. This was Sylar's trial to endure. He stared at the floor, looking for an answer, stumbling through the dark. “I loved them - my parents. I wanted to love … others, anyone, really. I wanted … to love, to be … loved.” Tears threatened again and he pressed the heel of his hand into one eye socket. “But there was no one there who cared. I was meaningless and therefore I thought everyone else was, too. For once in my life, I'd show them that they couldn't ignore me. I was angry at all those people who had things I wanted - more than just the abilities, they had lives and loved ones and jobs and meaning,” he spat out viciously, because that was the core of it. “They thought they were important and I was so sure I wasn’t. I thought killing them made me important. It showed them how powerful I was and how wrong and insignificant they were. I didn’t care about options or alternatives. I didn't look for any other way to get their powers because the bloody way served all my interests. All I cared about was lashing out and getting away with it. I was going to make everyone hurt for ignoring me and that’s the most selfish, stupid, and callous thing imaginable.” He shook his head. “I see that now, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve done what I’ve done. I deserve what I …” He shook his head again, pressing thumbs into tearing eyes. “Someone else in my position would have done something different. They would have tried harder. They wouldn’t have killed. They would have stopped themselves.” He made a dry chuckle. “But it wasn’t someone else; it was me.”
He looked up at Peter, realizing something and wondering why he hadn’t seen it before. “You’re not going to get the answer you want,” he said bleakly. “There’s no explanation, no cause and effect. I was there and someone else wasn’t; I’m the sort of person who turns into a killer under those pressures and other people aren’t.” He looked down and gave a brief loft of his brows, thinking of his biological father, of Arthur Petrelli, Noah Bennet, and various others. “Well, some other people are, too, but that’s just how we are. There’s no ‘why’ to this, Peter. The ‘why’ is … because I am who I am.” He sniffled. “I can apologize for that forever, but it doesn’t change anything. Nothing changes.” His shoulders sagged in resignation. This really was hell.
Long moments ticked by in stalemate. There was nothing left to do, no apology left to make, Sylar realized, and that realization finally lifted the burden from his heart. He'd done everything possible, everything within his power, to explain himself and satisfy his judge. He was sorry for being who he was, but there was nothing he could do to rewrite his past. He blinked at the table, tears clearing, as he realized, too, that acceptance wasn’t something Peter could give him. The only place it could come from was within and somehow in his monologue, he’d come to terms with the motivating forces in his life. Not that he was happy with the events, but he understood them himself, finally, simple and human as they were, stripped bare of rationalizations and justifications. Some people were taller than others; some shorter; some more prone to violence than others; some less. He was both tall and prone to violence. Put in a situation that rewarded that tendency and discouraged other solutions, he’d done things many people (but not all) wouldn’t do. There was no emotion or regret that would make the past right - only the open-eyed acceptance of the past as having happened exactly as it had, for the reasons that it had. If he didn’t want it to happen again, then he had to accept why it had happened in the first place and work to make sure the future didn’t repeat the pattern. That seemed … doable.
The dreamlike quality of the place had never been so strong as when Peter’s voice, even softer and more gentle than he'd ever heard it before, invited, “Come out to the couch with me.” Sylar did, watching as Peter sat to one end of the furniture and gestured for him to join him rather than sit on the opposite end. In the same tone, Peter continued, “Things can change, Sylar. You have.” He took a long, breathless pause, “I have.” Peter leaned to the side, lifted his arm, and made an unmistakeable gesture of ‘come here’. “You are who you are … and … I think that’s okay. Lie with me?”
Sylar blinked in astonishment at what was being offered. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but he laid down, the side of his body against Peter’s, one arm folded underneath him and the other moving tentatively and unrepulsed around Peter’s stomach. His head ended up on Peter’s chest with Peter’s arm laid over his back. He snuggled up like a little boy even though he was longer-limbed than Peter was. Some other time he would work out fine points of geometry. For now, he contact, the gesture, the offer - he didn’t lust for it like he had just hours earlier, but he appreciated it no less. More, even, because now it was something freely given rather than something he’d manipulated Peter into providing. He didn't know why Peter was offering this now, but Sylar hadn't exactly been paying attention as he laid the last of his soul bare. For once, the response of another hadn't mattered as much as his own opinion of himself. He sighed and accepted what Peter gave him, eyes sliding shut in unanticipated bliss.
He could hear Peter being alive. The thrumming thump of Peter’s heart wasn’t that different from the ticking of a watch. After his ability manifested, people’s hearts had bothered Sylar. They unsettled him with their messiness and their irregularity. They raced; they slowed; they skipped beats. It had gotten under his skin and was always there, in the back of his head when dealing with someone, quite a bit worse after getting enhanced hearing. Hearts weren’t quite right - a flimsy, unreliable mechanism that begged to be fixed or scrapped altogether. But he’d never taken the time to listen as closely as he was doing now. He’d never focused on that organ the way he had on the brain. He could hear the rushing whoosh of blood being pumped with more mechanical precision than any other part of the body. Properly stimulated, the heart would continue beating even after removal from the host. It was one of the most durable parts of the body, reliable from cradle to grave even if occasionally erratic. If he could learn to appreciate the brain, Sylar thought, he should be able to comprehend the workings of the heart.
Hundreds of beats passed, Sylar’s mind keeping itself busy with the puzzle. He heard the heartbeat trip faster for a fraction of a second before Peter’s free hand rose. Intention - the heart knows what the body will do before the mind even fathoms it. It’s in there, an intuition, guiding the mind about what’s possible and not. You can’t have one without the other - no brain without the heart to sustain it. Peter moved his hand to Sylar’s cheek, stroking slowly with his thumb rather than his fingertips. He’s … letting me stay with him. Is this … is this the connection I was supposed to find? Sylar rolled his head to look up at Peter. He didn’t look dry-eyed either, no less touched by what was happening between them.
Sylar turned his attention back to Peter’s hand, rubbing his face on it in gratitude and channeling his pent-up desire to climb all over the man in that one, elaborate gesture. Peter rolled his hand so Sylar was putting his cheek and nose alternately to palm and back of hand. Sylar made a barely controlled moan at the sign of reciprocation. Through heavy, half-closed lids, he could see Peter smiling now, as though that one shared motion had changed the questions forever. After a few more caresses, the hand finally settled on his shoulder. Sylar gave him a smile that was hopeful and infatuated all at once.
“It’s going to be okay,” Peter told him. “Between us.”
Sylar looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then lifted himself slowly. Pushing forward, he brought his face to Peter’s, gaze flickering uncertainly between eyes and lips. With Maya, Elle, and Lydia, he’d taken what he wanted just like with every other part of his life - he'd seized it for himself before it could be taken away. This time, he stopped a few inches away and waited, his expression imploring Peter to prove the promise of his words with actions. Peter waited for that pause and when it came, he raised his hand to under Sylar’s chin, drawing him in as he tilted his head, lips sliding into place over Sylar’s, mouth moving definitely and securely against his own.
Energy shot through Sylar - and apparently through Peter, as well, because in an instant they were hurrying to change positions. Sylar broke away to raise himself as Peter rearranged to be directly beneath him, then Peter’s hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a second kiss. Sylar melted over him, easing down on top of him. He felt himself stiffen almost instantly as Peter’s thighs rose on either side of him, Peter's lips parting for his tongue to slip out and tease along Sylar’s. It was ticklish and made him jerk, an all-over twitch that came with a hitch in his breathing and a widening of his eyes. Oh my God … That was as far as Sylar’s thoughts could go, but his body knew what came next. His heart hammered against his ribs, a better instrument than any clock, pounding out a message more important than the passage of time - it was the existence of life.
“I want you,” Peter whispered huskily in his ear. It was verbal ambrosia. What followed was less palatable. “I don’t know if we’re ready for this. Are you?”
Sylar wanted to agree immediately; he wanted to insist he was ready for anything Peter would allow him and the erection Peter was sporting implied Peter’s body, at least, was ready for quite a bit. But the question by itself was sort of staggering. That he was even being asked his desires … It was … respectful, he realized - something he’d had very little of in his life. He was being acknowledged. His opinion, his feelings, mattered. He lifted himself up and off a few inches, getting the distance he needed to give it all of his attention. Were they, truly, ready for this level of intimacy? They were rushing into it; Sylar knew that. He’d rushed with Elle; presumably Peter had with others (Nathan believed as much). Being in a hurry didn’t doom a relationship, but it could complicate it. Yet there was no one else here to make things difficult and no reason to wait until a better time. They’d already covered so much ground between them. Sylar wanted to finalize this, to do something clear and unequivocal that showed the connection between them. He didn’t expect Peter to deny it, but this act would put fears to rest that hadn’t even had a chance to grow yet.
Peter trusted him to know his own mind. That brought a genuine, affectionate smile to Sylar’s lips and a softening around his eyes. Options considered, he answered with firm resolve, “Yes. I’m ready. Are you?”
Peter shifted slightly, eyes skimming up and down Sylar’s frame. He nodded shallowly, “Yeah,” and then wrapped his legs tighter around Sylar’s waist, pulling them back together. Fingers curled into his flesh and thighs clamped around him securely. Peter buried his face against Sylar’s neck, breath hot against sensitive skin. A shiver of rapidly building desire ran through them both. It was really going to happen! The walls around their hearts were torn asunder, light streaming through both of them and setting their souls dancing in the air, spinning away from one another in a strange, reality-twisting vertigo.
Part 2 of 2
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Words: 10,000
Summary: Prompted by Peter's questions, Sylar makes a journey to self-acceptance and beyond.
Notes: This started as a 300 word drabble about a hug, but then the story just wouldn't quit! Other than multi-chapter fics, this was written over the longest period of anything I've yet published, at over six months in process. Writing-wise, I wasn't trying to achieve anything in particular, except to make it rich and very focused on what's going on with Sylar, leaving Peter mostly opaque, despite him having almost as great a transformation to make.
It was the gentle pleadings that broke Sylar - Peter begging him for answers when he had none. The recriminations, accusations, and silent treatment had been easier to take, but eventually Peter just wanted to know the truth. Sylar had thought the worst torture of this hell was the oppressive, relentless loneliness of three, long years, but Peter showed him he’d been mistaken. At times, Sylar almost wished for a return of the quiet, measured out by the steady ticking of the clocks. They demanded nothing of him … unlike Peter.
In Peter’s defense, there was nothing else in the world to distract him from the subject of his inquiry. It was his whole point here and sometimes Sylar wondered if Peter really existed, or if he was some demon sent to carry out the next stage of torment. Peter had no friends or family or even complete strangers here who could capture part or all of his attention, so he fixed it entirely on Sylar. His only project was getting closure.
And so: Why? The question was asked over and over in endless variations. It was profoundly irritating in both its simplicity and difficulty. Sylar understood better than he wanted to how annoyed parents became at curious toddlers who learned that cursed word. Like a child, Peter wanted to understand. He was trying to wrap his mind around why a person - any person, but Sylar in particular - would kill another (and in Sylar’s case, another and another and another ...) He understood anger and a desire to hurt, but a desire to end, to terminate? It was foreign and so he asked.
At first, Sylar fended him off with anger and sarcasm, his sword and shield against the emotional assault. Peter would retire to nurse his wounds, but he never gave up. It was like he could sense the weakness underneath Sylar’s armor of indifference and was determined to expose it. Enduring the questioning wasn’t the price of admission to sharing Peter’s company. If it had been, Sylar might have stayed away entirely. Instead, it was the requirement for a different sort of proximity, a more emotional one, something Sylar wanted more than mere presence. Actually, at the bottom of it all, Sylar did want to be understood; he just didn’t want to answer for what he’d done. Yet despite his desire to writhe and twist away from responsibility, he couldn’t figure out how to get the openness without exposing himself.
The real hell began when he genuinely started trying to find the truth Peter wanted. Neither of them was satisfied with glib answers. As much as Sylar would have liked to avoid the subject entirely, if he was going to give an answer, then he was going to give an honest one. But the truth wasn’t simply a matter of speaking it, or as simple as identifying a warped gear within a watch. He couldn't just pick out an isolated thing that had gone wrong and caused the past; there was no stepped-on butterfly he could point to. It was more complicated by far. There were so many times where he hadn’t examined why he’d chosen one act over another. While yes, the exigencies of circumstance favored one path more than the others, there were deeper reasons. His own mind framed his choices and that limited his possible solutions. Why was he comfortable with violence to the level that he had performed? Where did the uncaring come from? How deep did it run? What other aspects of his being did it affect? In the end, was he … salvageable?
The worst were the questions softly spoken, breathed out in cautious whispers like Peter was afraid to speak them too loudly. The answers were often ugly and increasingly, Sylar couldn’t divorce himself from them or pretend that anyone would have done the same in his place. He was special, bitter pill though that was to swallow. His actions had defined the person he was. If they were menacing and evil, then so must he be as well. It wasn’t how he wanted to be and he mourned to be faced with it. He didn’t want to be the kind of person that no one in the world wanted to be near. He tried to fight it, but he was trapped by things that had already happened, impossible to undo. He didn’t want to be … bad, a lost cause, unworthy of everything. He wanted to be good and Peter’s questioning of his soul made him so angry he contemplated murder yet again. Yet he couldn’t lash out without proving the very thing he was trying to disprove about himself. It was his helplessness, the futility of it all, that broke him.
XXX
“I don't know!” Sylar burst out, but the high emotion sounding through his words was desperation and grief, not rage. His hands shook and his shoulders threatened to. He felt so impotent and incompetent, so stupid and dense and uninformed about his own inner workings. He felt like he was crumbling, like a wall that had been battered on for too long, finally giving way at the masonry seams. He was so lost in his own misery that Peter settling next to him on the couch was startling. The cushion dipped and by natural law of gravity, he tilted towards Peter. They were touching all down the thigh and briefly at the shoulder … and then Peter was twisting towards him, not done yet with the Petrelli space invasion. Peter raised his arms and slid them over Sylar's shoulders, ignoring his stiffness as he guided Sylar to turn to match him, and then wrapping around to pull him close.
Sylar stopped breathing entirely for long seconds and when he resumed, his breaths were shallow. What is he doing?!? his mind squeaked about the sudden, unprecedented, and unasked-for-but-wonderful contact. What was happening seemed clear enough, though. It was a hug. A simple hug. Or maybe a complex one, Sylar didn't know. What he knew was that he could feel the warmth of Peter's body through his shirt and smell the oil of his skin in a much more concentrated nasal draught than he was usually gifted by in the closest passage he might make. The reality of Peter's nearness was enough to shock him out of most of his wretched thoughts. He's hugging me. Why would he hug me? Is he attracted to me? Am I sexy this way, almost in tears? Is that it? No, I don't think it is. I must look like a child, like a little boy he wants to comfort. Is that so he can lord it over me and be more powerful?
“It's okay,” Peter murmured. “It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here, I'm listening, I'm paying attention. We can figure it out. No hurry.” Peter's words were always so soft when Sylar was upset - soft on the outside, but still hard on the inside. Peter wasn't going to let him off the hook for a few tears. Taking a break wasn't the same thing as quitting. Sylar knew that and it made him respect Peter all the more for it.
He brought his own hands up to Peter's sides, fingers twiddling senselessly with the seams of Peter's jacket. What the man said was soothing, reminding him of what a relief it was that he had someone who would listen to him at all, despite the frustrating nature of the inquiries. The embrace certainly wasn't brief, either. Peter was stroking his back with firm, steady sweeps of his right hand, the left exerting pressure and letting him know he was right where Peter wanted him to be. Sylar drew in a deep breath and let it out. It's like he's petting me, like a dog. Sylar relaxed. I can play this role. If that's what he wants … if that's what gets me this. He swallowed and leaned into the posture, turning his head and laying it on Peter's shoulder.
In the choice of which direction to face, he opted for maximum intimacy just like the rest of his life was marked with extremes. He put his nose against Peter's neck, facing him rather than the more usual facing away. He could feel the tension that went through Peter at his position - the stroking on his back interrupted for a moment - and Sylar felt a spasm of fear that Peter would shove him away for taking the liberty. Regardless of what Peter did, it sure as hell felt good to be held. It felt nice. It thrummed through his bones and made his heart rattle his chest with all the heavy thumping it was doing. The angles were awkward and his spine was twinging from leaning weird, but it was completely worth it. He sighed, knowing that some of his breath blew hot against Peter's skin. Strangely, that seemed to calm Peter, who tightened his hold and shifted his hips a little to face him more directly, resuming the comforting stroking.
A moment later, they were swaying slightly as Peter rocked him slowly. Sylar snuggled in, all too aware that he might never get another chance at this. He'd been this close to other people, but the truth that Peter was trying to be kind to him was finally filtering through his formidable defenses. He could try to pretend to himself that Peter was dominance-tripping or treating him like a pet or child, but his logical mind had sifting through the probable motivations and kept coming back to one very core to Peter's being - he wanted to help. He was over here hugging Sylar because he wanted to help him.
Peter tolerated the hug far longer than Sylar would have expected. Long minutes, more than a quarter hour. It felt like an eternity to spend arm-locked with someone on the couch. And because he didn't think he'd ever get this again and he might as well go for everything, seizing every experience possible and claiming it for his own, when Peter shrugged his shoulder and went to gently push Sylar away, Sylar lifted his head and swooped in to kiss. Peter was not so slow that he couldn't have reacted. Sylar knew that. He was gambling, going for the long shot, pushing the limits like he always did. He was forcing Peter to choose between shoving him away brusquely or … what Peter did. At the last second, he did nothing. Peter sat there and allowed Sylar plant his lips over his own, for one brief kiss that Peter ended with a more definitive, but still not rough, push.
It had been years since Sylar had had a kiss. It wasn't like it was something he required for survival, but it was something he hungered for - to be close to someone, to be accepted, to have a connection that was real and honest. He'd never had that, not in the way he wanted, not in the way he could almost taste from Peter. All their talking had created this tenuous link between them that was just waiting to become reality. His fingers bunched the fabric at Peter's sides, not wanting to let him get away while knowing he had to eventually.
Peter eyed Sylar warily and stood, forcing Sylar to loose his fingers and let the man slide out of his grip. Peter gave him a parting pat on the shoulder that was nothing like the stern slap of rejection Sylar would have expected. He … he let me! Let me? Jesus, he even started it! What does that mean? Does it mean he wants me? Or just that he doesn't think I'm beyond help? More importantly, can I make him do that again? Yearning eyes followed Peter across the room, hyper-alert to the smallest nuance, not that it helped.
There followed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and the next morning as Sylar struggled to figure out how to replicate the situation where Peter would hug on him and hold still for kissing. He hungered for that shred of approval, that teasing glimpse of acceptance, the hint that his explanations were satisfactory. He tried being forward, imagining things had changed between them and touching was welcome now. It was not; Peter shut him down. He tried being persistent; Peter threatened to leave. Sylar submitted completely and Peter stayed. He tried offering more information about himself, but they'd already covered what came to him easily. The rest was harder. He tried more tears, but they were fake and Peter was on to him. As a result of that last stunt, he was left alone for the night, hoping his bout of acting hadn’t ruined his chances. He hoped Peter understood why he was suddenly all over him. He was an empath, after all, and that was supposed to mean something even if Sylar hadn't been able to puzzle out what.
It was a miserable night, which was fucked up because he'd had more mutual friendliness in that one long hug than he'd had ever. He thought he ought to be happy. He ought to be grateful. He ought to be satisfied. But he wasn't. He tossed and turned and felt his aloneness more keenly than he ever had while Peter was in this world with him. He obsessed over every detail of the day, trying to figure out exactly what he'd done and when, that he could do it again to get the same result, or even anything close to it. It wasn't like Peter ever stayed the night, but he couldn't help but think that Peter's departure had gone badly and that he’d pushed it too far with the false sorrow.
The morning found him itchy-eyed and sweaty-skinned, but the dawn light gave him an excuse to get out of bed and stop wallowing. Peter was often in a better mood after getting away from him for a while (sad commentary though that was, all by itself; Sylar still looked forward to exploiting it). Sylar sought him out at breakfast, nearly falling all over himself to ingratiate himself. His nocturnal cogitations had convinced him that Peter wanted to be in charge, he wanted Sylar submissive and … vulnerable. Not that he wanted Sylar to be weak, but when Sylar was, Peter was most apt to get close to him, lend a helping hand, gentle his words, and handle him carefully. His brain was working feverishly to concoct whatever scheme was necessary to win him a place in the ranks of human beings worthy of friendly association.
“Stop. Stop, Sylar.”
He pulled up short from trying to bus Peter’s side of the table. Was Peter not done eating?
“Is this about the hug yesterday?”
Sylar looked away, trying to think of whether he should agree or not. Peter’s voice was level enough, if a little exasperated, so there wasn’t much clue there about how he felt towards Sylar’s obsession with the embrace. The kiss wasn't being mentioned at all. His eyes darted back to Peter and fixed on him attentively, opting to say nothing and thus reduce his chance of incriminating himself.
Peter stood, pushed his chair in properly, and stepped close. He took the washcloth from Sylar’s hand and dropped it on the table, sliding his hand between Sylar’s side and arm - first the right, then the left. “Come here.” Sylar hugged him back immediately, tucking his head in close to the side of Peter’s, feeling the fine, dark, silky hair bunch and shift under his cheek, the faint smell of shampoo in his nostrils. He trembled and squeezed briefly, feeling a profound sense of relief wash through him as Peter sighed and relaxed against him in turn. He was so solid, like a rock supporting the lighthouse which shone its beacon over turbulent waters and through shroud of fog, guiding those who had wandered astray to safe harbor. His strength seeped into Sylar and showed him peace.
“Hey,” Peter said softly, speaking into his shoulder, “I know you’ve been working really hard, doing a lot of soul-searching. Just want you to know, I’m right here with you. We’ll figure it out.” Sylar squeezed again, wishing he could pull Peter inside of himself, envelope the guy completely so he’d never leave. But too soon, Peter pulled away, gave him a friendly pat, and directed them on to morning errands.
XXX
Twice within twenty-four hours, though - that wasn’t coincidence. Sylar stalked Peter all morning, crowding too close and trying to touch him. Sometimes he covered it as happenstance; sometimes he didn’t bother. Peter gave him a few shy smiles at first, but they faded as Sylar continued to push for as much as he could get. It wasn’t until they returned to the apartment for lunch, well past noon, that he realized he’d taken it a bit too far. Peter stepped to the side and refused to go up the stairs first. Scandalized and concerned that he was ruining the best thing he had going for him, Sylar backed off with an effort. He needed to quit looking at Peter and start looking at himself. It was his change that had drawn Peter near, after all. If he wanted that again, he needed to change more. Lunch was awkward and quiet as Sylar ruminated on the new topic.
After the dishes were cleared away, he returned to his seat and brought up the subject himself, rather than waiting for Peter to ask the usual questions. “I know we’ve gone over this before. A lot. I did it because I could; because I could get away with it. And I know now that’s not the real answer. I thought anyone would do it, everyone wanted to, it was natural selection. None of that is the answer, because the real answer is underneath: why would I think that?
“I can point to stories of bullies in middle school and high school teachers playing favorites - anybody but me; I was ignored by everyone but the bullies. I can talk about the very essence of some of us having extraordinary powers and everyone else not - how it seemed like so many didn't deserve what they'd been gifted with. I could even argue that by virtue of having abilities, we have a moral imperative to use them to their fullest, even if that means abusing other people.”
He looked up at Peter, his patient, attentive audience, for a long moment, then away again. “I know. We’ve been through this already. All that and more - dissected my motivations, cracked open my past, ruptured every flimsy rationalization I’ve used to defend actions that are indefensible. No matter what I say, there are still people dead and others hurt.”
He sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. “If I squinted, I was the archetypical hero, right down to the wise, old mentor who dies in the course of the story, but not after imparting to me the path I was to take - in this case, in the shape of a list. Fate had written everything out already, literally. It was all excused because it was ‘destiny’. It’s easier to take when you let me slap a coat of heroic paint on it and call it good. Hell, easier to talk about if you’d just admit that I’m evil.”
“You’re not evil.”
Sylar looked up at Peter, meeting steadfast eyes that didn’t give an inch on this. Not anymore. At first, Peter had entertained the idea, but even then it had seemed half-hearted. It wasn’t long before he rejected it entirely and refused to countenance it. Sylar was not a bad guy in Peter’s eyes and how he’d made that transformation was a mystery to Sylar. Peter had judged him human and possessed of all human faculties, both the frailties and the strengths. It hadn’t meant the questioning had changed much. Peter still wanted to know why.
“Killing … wasn’t something rare or exotic to my mind. I thought it was something that happened between people no matter how they felt about each other. My earliest memory was of murder - one person I had loved killing another.” He laughed hollowly. “They say that kids always see things as being about them - ‘Mommy and Daddy got divorced because I got bad marks in Math’ - it was about me. That was inescapable. Everyone I cared about was dead or gone. Then it repeated twenty years later - Mommy dead, Daddy gone.
“Why would I care about these people, Peter, when the people who were supposed to love me turned on me like that?” His voice was pleading, looking for a reason, but Peter wasn’t there to give him answers. He couldn’t, anyway. This was Sylar's trial to endure. He stared at the floor, looking for an answer, stumbling through the dark. “I loved them - my parents. I wanted to love … others, anyone, really. I wanted … to love, to be … loved.” Tears threatened again and he pressed the heel of his hand into one eye socket. “But there was no one there who cared. I was meaningless and therefore I thought everyone else was, too. For once in my life, I'd show them that they couldn't ignore me. I was angry at all those people who had things I wanted - more than just the abilities, they had lives and loved ones and jobs and meaning,” he spat out viciously, because that was the core of it. “They thought they were important and I was so sure I wasn’t. I thought killing them made me important. It showed them how powerful I was and how wrong and insignificant they were. I didn’t care about options or alternatives. I didn't look for any other way to get their powers because the bloody way served all my interests. All I cared about was lashing out and getting away with it. I was going to make everyone hurt for ignoring me and that’s the most selfish, stupid, and callous thing imaginable.” He shook his head. “I see that now, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve done what I’ve done. I deserve what I …” He shook his head again, pressing thumbs into tearing eyes. “Someone else in my position would have done something different. They would have tried harder. They wouldn’t have killed. They would have stopped themselves.” He made a dry chuckle. “But it wasn’t someone else; it was me.”
He looked up at Peter, realizing something and wondering why he hadn’t seen it before. “You’re not going to get the answer you want,” he said bleakly. “There’s no explanation, no cause and effect. I was there and someone else wasn’t; I’m the sort of person who turns into a killer under those pressures and other people aren’t.” He looked down and gave a brief loft of his brows, thinking of his biological father, of Arthur Petrelli, Noah Bennet, and various others. “Well, some other people are, too, but that’s just how we are. There’s no ‘why’ to this, Peter. The ‘why’ is … because I am who I am.” He sniffled. “I can apologize for that forever, but it doesn’t change anything. Nothing changes.” His shoulders sagged in resignation. This really was hell.
Long moments ticked by in stalemate. There was nothing left to do, no apology left to make, Sylar realized, and that realization finally lifted the burden from his heart. He'd done everything possible, everything within his power, to explain himself and satisfy his judge. He was sorry for being who he was, but there was nothing he could do to rewrite his past. He blinked at the table, tears clearing, as he realized, too, that acceptance wasn’t something Peter could give him. The only place it could come from was within and somehow in his monologue, he’d come to terms with the motivating forces in his life. Not that he was happy with the events, but he understood them himself, finally, simple and human as they were, stripped bare of rationalizations and justifications. Some people were taller than others; some shorter; some more prone to violence than others; some less. He was both tall and prone to violence. Put in a situation that rewarded that tendency and discouraged other solutions, he’d done things many people (but not all) wouldn’t do. There was no emotion or regret that would make the past right - only the open-eyed acceptance of the past as having happened exactly as it had, for the reasons that it had. If he didn’t want it to happen again, then he had to accept why it had happened in the first place and work to make sure the future didn’t repeat the pattern. That seemed … doable.
The dreamlike quality of the place had never been so strong as when Peter’s voice, even softer and more gentle than he'd ever heard it before, invited, “Come out to the couch with me.” Sylar did, watching as Peter sat to one end of the furniture and gestured for him to join him rather than sit on the opposite end. In the same tone, Peter continued, “Things can change, Sylar. You have.” He took a long, breathless pause, “I have.” Peter leaned to the side, lifted his arm, and made an unmistakeable gesture of ‘come here’. “You are who you are … and … I think that’s okay. Lie with me?”
Sylar blinked in astonishment at what was being offered. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but he laid down, the side of his body against Peter’s, one arm folded underneath him and the other moving tentatively and unrepulsed around Peter’s stomach. His head ended up on Peter’s chest with Peter’s arm laid over his back. He snuggled up like a little boy even though he was longer-limbed than Peter was. Some other time he would work out fine points of geometry. For now, he contact, the gesture, the offer - he didn’t lust for it like he had just hours earlier, but he appreciated it no less. More, even, because now it was something freely given rather than something he’d manipulated Peter into providing. He didn't know why Peter was offering this now, but Sylar hadn't exactly been paying attention as he laid the last of his soul bare. For once, the response of another hadn't mattered as much as his own opinion of himself. He sighed and accepted what Peter gave him, eyes sliding shut in unanticipated bliss.
He could hear Peter being alive. The thrumming thump of Peter’s heart wasn’t that different from the ticking of a watch. After his ability manifested, people’s hearts had bothered Sylar. They unsettled him with their messiness and their irregularity. They raced; they slowed; they skipped beats. It had gotten under his skin and was always there, in the back of his head when dealing with someone, quite a bit worse after getting enhanced hearing. Hearts weren’t quite right - a flimsy, unreliable mechanism that begged to be fixed or scrapped altogether. But he’d never taken the time to listen as closely as he was doing now. He’d never focused on that organ the way he had on the brain. He could hear the rushing whoosh of blood being pumped with more mechanical precision than any other part of the body. Properly stimulated, the heart would continue beating even after removal from the host. It was one of the most durable parts of the body, reliable from cradle to grave even if occasionally erratic. If he could learn to appreciate the brain, Sylar thought, he should be able to comprehend the workings of the heart.
Hundreds of beats passed, Sylar’s mind keeping itself busy with the puzzle. He heard the heartbeat trip faster for a fraction of a second before Peter’s free hand rose. Intention - the heart knows what the body will do before the mind even fathoms it. It’s in there, an intuition, guiding the mind about what’s possible and not. You can’t have one without the other - no brain without the heart to sustain it. Peter moved his hand to Sylar’s cheek, stroking slowly with his thumb rather than his fingertips. He’s … letting me stay with him. Is this … is this the connection I was supposed to find? Sylar rolled his head to look up at Peter. He didn’t look dry-eyed either, no less touched by what was happening between them.
Sylar turned his attention back to Peter’s hand, rubbing his face on it in gratitude and channeling his pent-up desire to climb all over the man in that one, elaborate gesture. Peter rolled his hand so Sylar was putting his cheek and nose alternately to palm and back of hand. Sylar made a barely controlled moan at the sign of reciprocation. Through heavy, half-closed lids, he could see Peter smiling now, as though that one shared motion had changed the questions forever. After a few more caresses, the hand finally settled on his shoulder. Sylar gave him a smile that was hopeful and infatuated all at once.
“It’s going to be okay,” Peter told him. “Between us.”
Sylar looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then lifted himself slowly. Pushing forward, he brought his face to Peter’s, gaze flickering uncertainly between eyes and lips. With Maya, Elle, and Lydia, he’d taken what he wanted just like with every other part of his life - he'd seized it for himself before it could be taken away. This time, he stopped a few inches away and waited, his expression imploring Peter to prove the promise of his words with actions. Peter waited for that pause and when it came, he raised his hand to under Sylar’s chin, drawing him in as he tilted his head, lips sliding into place over Sylar’s, mouth moving definitely and securely against his own.
Energy shot through Sylar - and apparently through Peter, as well, because in an instant they were hurrying to change positions. Sylar broke away to raise himself as Peter rearranged to be directly beneath him, then Peter’s hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a second kiss. Sylar melted over him, easing down on top of him. He felt himself stiffen almost instantly as Peter’s thighs rose on either side of him, Peter's lips parting for his tongue to slip out and tease along Sylar’s. It was ticklish and made him jerk, an all-over twitch that came with a hitch in his breathing and a widening of his eyes. Oh my God … That was as far as Sylar’s thoughts could go, but his body knew what came next. His heart hammered against his ribs, a better instrument than any clock, pounding out a message more important than the passage of time - it was the existence of life.
“I want you,” Peter whispered huskily in his ear. It was verbal ambrosia. What followed was less palatable. “I don’t know if we’re ready for this. Are you?”
Sylar wanted to agree immediately; he wanted to insist he was ready for anything Peter would allow him and the erection Peter was sporting implied Peter’s body, at least, was ready for quite a bit. But the question by itself was sort of staggering. That he was even being asked his desires … It was … respectful, he realized - something he’d had very little of in his life. He was being acknowledged. His opinion, his feelings, mattered. He lifted himself up and off a few inches, getting the distance he needed to give it all of his attention. Were they, truly, ready for this level of intimacy? They were rushing into it; Sylar knew that. He’d rushed with Elle; presumably Peter had with others (Nathan believed as much). Being in a hurry didn’t doom a relationship, but it could complicate it. Yet there was no one else here to make things difficult and no reason to wait until a better time. They’d already covered so much ground between them. Sylar wanted to finalize this, to do something clear and unequivocal that showed the connection between them. He didn’t expect Peter to deny it, but this act would put fears to rest that hadn’t even had a chance to grow yet.
Peter trusted him to know his own mind. That brought a genuine, affectionate smile to Sylar’s lips and a softening around his eyes. Options considered, he answered with firm resolve, “Yes. I’m ready. Are you?”
Peter shifted slightly, eyes skimming up and down Sylar’s frame. He nodded shallowly, “Yeah,” and then wrapped his legs tighter around Sylar’s waist, pulling them back together. Fingers curled into his flesh and thighs clamped around him securely. Peter buried his face against Sylar’s neck, breath hot against sensitive skin. A shiver of rapidly building desire ran through them both. It was really going to happen! The walls around their hearts were torn asunder, light streaming through both of them and setting their souls dancing in the air, spinning away from one another in a strange, reality-twisting vertigo.
Part 2 of 2