Sleeping Beauty, Chapter 4: Fourth Base
Peter sat naked on the edge of his empty bed, a damp towel in his hand. He was freshly showered, clean now, and should have been thinking about getting some sleep. Instead, he was absorbed with thoughts of earlier that evening, when they'd sat entwined together on the bench … that kiss, the taste of Sylar's mouth that he still imagined on his tongue, the feel of his body against Peter's, the clutching of his hand at his waist, the sweet way Sylar had nuzzled at his chest. His heart ached. He felt empty, lonely, and incomplete, like Sylar's emotions had somehow stamped themselves onto Peter's heart. Maybe they weren't ready, but what if they were? He couldn't stand that it was him holding things back, that it was Sylar being patient and steady while Peter was dragging his feet, being suspicious and small. It wasn't the person he wanted to be. Peter stood up abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, but the activity didn't help. The door. He stopped and stared at it. Yes, that was one way to settle it - taking action had always been his go-to response. Quickly, he dressed.
Standing outside of Sylar's door, Peter tried to entertain all the possible reasons why he shouldn't go through with this. He had to be sure. 'It was Sylar' was no longer valid. Of course it was Sylar! It was Sylar he saw every day; whom he joked with and played piano for and shot pool with. It was Sylar who had started exercising with him; who tagged along on his pointless walks and explorations, who played basketball with him and kept him company. It was Sylar who listed the parts of a chronograph for him (and who taught him what a 'chronograph' even meant); who listened raptly to his endless paramedic stories. It was Sylar who had taken to holding him when Peter was upset, and it was Sylar whom Peter so enjoyed tucking in at night. Yes, it was Sylar.
Then there was Nathan. Sylar had killed him, murdered him, cut him down, and personally wronged Peter. But for every moral burden Sylar might carry for that act, Peter carried the exact same weight. Sylar had at least the excuse of being confronted and attacked by Nathan, however flimsy that was. Peter had the excuse of being overwhelmed by the drive and hunger that came with Sylar's ability, however flimsy Peter himself found that to be. Sylar was right - 'join the club' - they'd both done it and being in different timelines didn't make it any better. Every apology Sylar needed to make, Peter needed to make as well. Sylar at least had someone to apologize to. For Peter, it was just a void, a weight he might never be able to put down, a wound that was festering inside and slowly bleeding him dry.
He swallowed roughly, shuffling his feet on the thin carpet. Given their pasts, was it fair to do what he was contemplating and find pleasure in one another's company? They already had, Peter knew. Sex was only a matter of scale, sort of like coveting being morally equivalent to adultery. Not that he thought what he was contemplating doing was a sin. It wasn't sinful to make people happy. It wasn't sinful to make himself happy. But could he allow that? Could he do it? Could he give himself to the moment and really enjoy it? He looked up and down the hallway, huffing. The question was whether he wanted to spend more time like they had on the bench, or whether he wanted to remain miserable and lonely like he had since calling off their nighttime ceremonies for fear of going further. Was strained solitude, perhaps, what they both deserved? Did he want to be that calloused, hardened version of himself he'd seen in the future, with no one and nothing to lose, isolated from everyone and so cold inside that he shot down Nathan in a premeditated assassination? What he deserved be damned - that wasn't who he wanted to be!
The door opened towards the end of these internal considerations and Peter nearly jumped out of his skin at being discovered. His eyes like saucers, he stammered out, "Wh-what are- where are you going? It's the middle of the night." He realized the same might be asked about what he was doing standing in Sylar's hall. "I mean …" He shrugged weakly, mortified at having been caught lurking out here.
Sylar eyed him, then smiled, a slowly increasing grin that beamed at him. He chuckled and said, "Peter, it's quiet here. There's no TV or radio. I heard you walk up five minutes ago." He shrugged. "I got tired of waiting for you to knock." Sylar gave him an inquiring look, waiting for an explanation. He had changed to pajamas, but his hair looked unrumpled. Peter doubted he'd woke if he'd heard Peter coming down the hall. That was good.
"I've, um, reconsidered." Have I? "Yeah," he answered himself, so jittery inside it was amazing his voice didn't shake. Then he chewed his lip, looking up into Sylar's face and hoping the answer was still affirmative.
It took Sylar a beat to figure out what Peter was talking about. When he did, he jerked visibly and blurted, "Now? Yes! Come in!" His eyes had widened and he looked around his apartment from the door, as if only now realizing it wasn't the posh bachelor pad it needed to be and that he, in his worn and comfortable pjs, wasn't the traditional picture of seduction. Peter thought he'd never looked sexier.
Peter looked in from the doorway, asking gently, "Would you like to come to my place? I've got a bigger bed."
Sylar stared at his own narrow bed, imagining the uses being implied, then snapped his head to Peter. "Yes," he answered crisply, adding, "Shoes," to explain what he was doing as he went for the items he'd mentioned. With his long pajama pants and short-sleeved shirt, Peter figured he'd be cool on the short walk to Peter's apartment, but it was a warm night - he'd be fine. Plus, Peter was flattered and thrilled by Sylar's haste and interest.
Peter smiled to himself as they walked down the deserted sidewalk, the whole city looming up above them in the darkness. Lights were sparse, but the moon they'd watched rising now hung above them, illuming the way. Sylar cleared his throat once, then again, and finally a third time. Peter glanced up at him, warmed and excited. His nerves were like a constant, high-energy hum deep in his gut. Sylar finally said, "Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?" It came out adorably dorky and although Peter couldn't see the blush, he could see the stiff way Sylar was holding himself, anticipation making him awkward.
"Yeah," Peter said simply, reaching out to find Sylar's hand and take it. "That's the idea." Sylar gripped hard, then eased off to nearly limp, then gripped harder by degrees until he found the right level of firmness. Peter was left to wonder how much of a virgin Sylar was. The man had denied it in their conversations previous, but he hadn't given any substantiating details and had shown what in retrospect was a too-intent interest in Peter's experiences. What if Sylar's claim was just typical swagger? If there was any chance he was Sylar's first, Peter vowed to be especially careful. By the time they reached Peter's floor, they were playing handsie, tickling and pinching and jabbing at each other as they left the elevator. "Stop, stop!" Peter squawked, trying to dig out his key while evading Sylar's latest assault.
Sylar stopped, leaning cutely against the wall as he watched him. "You lock your door?" he asked curiously, his voice just a little hurt by the implication.
"Yeah," Peter grunted. He turned the bolt, adding, "I'm sure it says more about how much I've been trying to keep people out of my life than it does about my opinion of the neighbors."
"Have you changed your mind about that - keeping people out of your life?"
Peter swung the door open in mute answer, tilting his head towards the interior.
Sylar gave him an appraising look before passing inside, walking past the small kitchen and into the living room that took up a third of the one-bedroom apartment. Sylar had never been in it before. When Peter said he'd been keeping people out of his life, he was serious - just as inviting Sylar back to his apartment wasn't merely a lark. He wanted to show Sylar how much this meant to him. On the other hand, the place was embarrassingly empty. Peter had moved all the furniture out shortly after coming to the world. Now that he looked at it, he felt like a mental defective who couldn't even furnish his apartment appropriately.
He and Sylar were on two different ends of the spectrum - Sylar's place was so cluttered that Peter lived in fear he'd accidentally bump a table and cause things to come crashing down; Peter's place didn't even have a table, much less things to come crashing down. But the bedroom did at least have a double bed. And the kitchen had a single barstool at the tiny bar that separated part of the kitchen from the living room. Peter sat on it, watching as Sylar looked out the windows and oriented himself. He hoped the place wasn't too off-putting. It was clean, at least. Peter tried to avoid mentally listing all the things that might go wrong, and focused on Sylar's backside instead - the proportion of his shoulders, the inset of his waist, the slender outline of his hips, and long, lean legs that went on forever. Yes, that was a good distraction from worrying about his apartment.
After turning from the window, Sylar's eyes fell upon him and his countenance changed immediately, attention sharpening his gaze and quickening his step as he stalked across the apartment. Peter straightened as Sylar reached him, the barstool giving him the extra couple inches that put their faces even. Sylar came close, looking like he'd intended to loom over Peter but was given pause by Peter's sudden equal height. Peter reached out without hesitation to curl his hand around the back of Sylar's head, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. It was only the third time they'd touched lips. Sylar sucked in air in surprise; Peter slipped his arms down around his back and pulled him even closer. Sylar's arms wrapped around him in turn, the two of them pressing together, trying to get as much contact as possible, as though both of them were starving for it. Peter was becoming more and more confident of himself, shedding his inhibitions by the second. A hungry growl escaped Peter's throat and his fingers pressed into Sylar's firm back on either side of his spine. He wanted closer; he wanted more. He wanted to climb inside the man if he could.
Peter scooted forward, hooking his legs behind Sylar's thighs and bringing their groins against each other. Peter moaned, low in his throat. It was perfect. They were both hard and ready. His rising hunger was making him dizzy with desire. He could feel Sylar trembling as Sylar's hands were sliding up and down Peter's back restlessly, mouth working over Peter's in devouring motions. There was no way Peter could grind the way he wanted in this position, and anyway, there was something he wanted his mouth on even more than Sylar's lips. Peter pushed him back, slithering off the barstool and going to his knees. Thin pajama bottoms were no barrier. Peter outlined Sylar's rod with his hands, stretching the fabric taut over it. Then he licked and sucked through the fuzzy cotton, nibbling and teasing as Sylar groaned and sank a hand into his hair, making a fist over and over again. Peter loved being needed, wanted, desired and that grabbing was just what Peter wanted to feel. When he could wait no longer, he tugged at the elastic waistband, slipping it down to reveal the real deal.
Despite his rush, he took a moment to admire what he'd uncovered in the light from the kitchen. Sylar was more generously endowed than most and lovely in proportion, pointing upward as his glorious organ stood at attention. Sylar was still, hardly breathing, the hand on the side of Peter's head frozen in place. Peter could feel the man's insecurity lancing through him like stabs from a knife. To reassure, Peter murmured, "It's beautiful," leaning in to rub the tip of his nose across the erect flesh, going from base to flange and inhaling that recently showered, masculine scent all the way up. He loved that smell - it was so human, so base, so carnal and yet so clean and delicious. He could feel his own cock straining against his jeans, all but forgotten as he worshipped the one before him.
When he came to the top of the shaft, he shifted slightly and let his mouth envelope the head. That was when Sylar finally reacted with a grunting expulsion of air, his knees jerking forward a little and his hand gripping once more at the side of Peter's head. Peter couldn't get enough of the meaty, manly taste of it. He sucked it and savored it, breathing it in until nothing filled his lungs but the aroma. He ran his lips around the hot glans, tasting delicious precome and settling his lips around the flaring edge of it. He gave it a hard suck, rewarded by a whimper this time and another twitch of Sylar's weak knees. Peter put a hand to the base of Sylar's cock, tilting it down so he could slide its length deeper into his mouth, tongue massaging the underside of it.
Sylar mumbled out some inarticulate appeal to divinity, his hand shaking where it had fisted Peter's hair. Scalding hot desire was running rampant in him, along with a gratitude that made Peter unbelievably eager to please. He would do anything for those emotions; the channel between them was open loud and clear - he knew what Sylar was feeling. Sylar started fucking his face in short prods, shallow enough not to choke at first. If his breathing was any indication, he wasn't going to last long. Peter shifted, sucking hard on each stroke, keeping one hand on Sylar's cock and the other on the man's hip, both subtly guiding and directing. Sylar whimpered, riding him backwards until the back of Peter's skull was bumping against the seat of the barstool. Now the cock was starting to choke him, nudging against the back of his throat with every thrust. It was perfect; Peter wanted that shaft in his throat more than air. His own dick was aching with need. He usually had a hand to spare for himself, but his entire focus was on pleasing Sylar right now.
Peter rolled his eyes upward, past the dark, curly hairs on Sylar's stomach so he could see the man's face. Sylar's eyes were shut, mouth open for ragged breaths, brows drawn together as if in pain or ecstasy. Peter moaned, so turned on by seeing him so close. He worked the base of Sylar's cock with his hand and moved his other from the man's hip to his balls, rolling them in his palm and then gripping them rhythmically. Sylar's hips hitched and he tensed all over. Oh yeah! Peter thought, sucking and working him harder. He wanted Sylar to be thankful, grateful, and appreciative of getting the best blow-job on Earth and to know Peter Petrelli could get him off like no one else. Being a hero and wanting people to look up to him wasn't a trait that Peter left at the bedroom door. He would swallow Sylar down as liquid proof that he'd mattered to someone. A faint whine came from Sylar and a moment later his organ throbbed and his hips jerked convulsively. Come pulsed into Peter's mouth and he sucked it greedily, his own dick weeping behind the constricting fabric of his jeans.
After drinking in the last of Sylar's essence, Peter pulled off to breathe deep and rough, his forehead resting on Sylar's hip. Sylar stroked and petted his hair with an appreciation that lit Peter up from the inside. He could jerk himself off right here at Sylar's feet for that. It was exactly what he wanted, a transcendent fulfillment. His hands encircled Sylar's ass, kneading his butt cheeks while Peter rubbed his face against the hot, soft skin of Sylar's lower abdomen. It was a sublime gesture of supplication, begging for release, but Sylar only continued to languidly pet him. It came to Peter that although he could sense Sylar's emotions, so strongly that he could feel them burning through his skin and singing along his nerves, Sylar could not feel Peter's. He made a small, helplessly frustrated noise against Sylar's belly, nipping him hard enough to make the man jump, hand clenching in Peter's hair.
Peter rose to his feet. He needed a moment to gather himself, to separate his still-fervent needs from Sylar's contented satiation. It wasn't Sylar's fault. He was all tenderness now, holding Peter's face and kissing over it carefully - and just as carefully avoiding his mouth. Peter saw what he needed to do. Giving the man several loving strokes along his sides, Peter nuzzled Sylar's chin and said, "Let me go brush my teeth. Can I see you in the bedroom?"
Sylar kissed his forehead in answer and with a parting pat Peter headed to the bathroom. Once cleaned up, he returned to the bedroom to a scene right out of a porn magazine. Sylar was naked in the middle of Peter's bed, lying on his side with his upper knee raised enough to conceal his business, his lower arm crooked under his head to lift it slightly. His expression was smoldering. Peter's passions ignited. He stripped hurriedly, eyes leaving Sylar only for the brief, necessary moment when Peter lifted his shirt over his head. Then he was on the bed, his headlong rush slowing the instant his knees hit the mattress. 'Jumping' Sylar was supposed to be figurative, after all, not literal. Peter forced himself to slow down, to breathe, and to take in everything about the gorgeous scene in front of him. He crawled, hands and knees, towards the man.
Sylar waited for him, holding the same pose for the most part. His butt was raised by the arching of his back. Peter skimmed one hand over it, his eyes snapping from Sylar's rump to his face when he felt the twisted emotions of dread and desire burning through him at the touch. Dread? Sylar looked away towards the headboard and started to turn, shifting so he would be lying face down for the act he so clearly anticipated. No way, Peter thought, repulsed by the idea of having sex with someone whose expectation of him was so laden with fear and uncertainty.
Peter moved up next to him, taking Sylar's shoulder and turning him back onto his side. Peter lay down on his side as well so they faced one another. For a moment, that was all they did - look. Then Peter reached out a hand and touched the bare skin under Sylar's nipple, smoothing down towards his abdomen, then laterally over his belly towards the mattress. Sylar sighed in response, relaxing and calming as true interest stirred in him, along with affection and what Peter interpreted as generosity. Sylar was not short on being a giving spirit, despite his history of taking.
Sylar touched Peter's hip tentatively, then stroked down his upper thigh. "Mm," Peter hummed in approval, raising his leg and hooking it loosely over Sylar's. Sylar slipped his hand around Peter's leg, tugging it into position so he could run his nails up and down the back of the thigh. Peter chuckled and squirmed. It tickled a little, the odd sensation giving him a frisson of erotic energy. Sylar did it again, expanding his range to scratch lightly up over Peter's buttocks and then to the back side of his knee. That more than tickled, setting off amorous instincts Peter wasn't about to deny. He moved forward for a sudden kiss, deepening it when Sylar rubbed a slow, experimental circle at the back of Peter's knee.
Peter moaned. He couldn't stand that - it was simply too much. Panting now, he grabbed Sylar's hand away from the back of his knee and put it on his cock. He kissed rapidly along Sylar's cheek, nosing at him enthusiastically as Sylar gripped him, feeling his heft and adjusting to the angle of jerking off someone other than himself. Into his ear, Sylar chuckled and whispered huskily, "Ah, Peter. I will find what makes your gears turn and you will never want for service."
"Yeah?" Peter breathed, scooting even closer, worming one arm under Sylar's head while the other snaked around his back. He hooked his leg tighter around Sylar's. He would have climbed all over the guy except that Sylar had hold of his dick and that gave him a large ability to steer. Sylar didn't resist the proximity (seemed to love it, in fact), but he liked Peter where he was - next to him, where he could stroke him easily.
Stroking; Sylar was good at that, pumping Peter like clockwork at a pace fast enough to meet Peter's needs and slow enough that he wanted to strangle the guy for not going faster. But Peter wasn't in control of things anymore. He let slip the limits and constraints he'd held them to for so long, letting go of the last reasons to confine himself in this hell, to trap Sylar here with him, and condemn them both. He was done with the thankless burden he'd been carrying for so long. He gave himself up wholly to Sylar's ministrations, releasing himself from guilt and pardoning them both.
Maybe Sylar sensed that. He certainly gathered that things had gone past the point of backing out. Peter's eyes were glazed, his responses primitive; he whimpered under the onslaught of the stimulation. Sylar got his free hand into Peter's hair, bunching it and using it to direct him. He pushed Peter onto his back, putting one knee between Peter's thighs, pinning it against Sylar's other knee. He climbed over Peter with an intent expression Peter would have found frightening if he'd had his wits about him more. Instead, he called out, "Yeah! Yeah!" encouraging more domination. He touched at Sylar's sides, keeping contact but not interfering. He left Sylar to do as he would.
Sylar stooped, mouth opened as though to kiss and Peter tried to rise to him. He was trapped, though, hair still pinned. Sylar did not kiss him. He just hung a half inch over Peter, poised so close Peter could breathe in his exhalations. Peter squirmed under him, whining at the denial. Sylar's hand slowed on Peter's cock, the grip tightening and the strokes becoming longer. It focused Peter's attention on his words. "You have no idea how much of a torment it's been to me, Peter, to see you for all this time and not be able to have you. I want to take my revenge like this every," stroke, "night," stroke, "that you'll have me." stroke and a twist at the end.
"Hrg. Please!" Peter bucked his hips, wanting more and faster and not getting it.
"Please this?" Sylar moved down like he was offering a kiss again, but once more, stopped short, leaving Peter's lips warmer for his nearness, but without actual contact. Peter made a shameless, plaintive cry, pulling against his confinement, far beyond guarding his dignity. His hands clutched at Sylar's hips now. He wanted to pull him down on top of him but he didn't. He would take what Sylar gave him - he just knew he wanted more than he was getting. Lifting away slightly, Sylar squeezed the very tip of Peter's dick between finger and thumb. "Or please that?"
"That," he said immediately, desperate as he was. He was so close already.
Sylar began pumping him fast and hard, focusing on the tip. He dipped to maul Peter's exposed neck, drawing it back with his fist in Peter's hair until Peter's back arched and his scalp stung. His throat hurt with the bites and suction, but he was beyond caring if Sylar marked him up or even drew blood. When he was this far gone, every bit of stimulation was good - pleasure and pain blended together until he couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. His cock felt like it was going to explode in the tightening, shifting grip, rasping against him without lube in a way that was almost cruel. He knew he'd be sore as hell later but right now he wanted everything he could get. His dick was so hard, so hot, and he could feel every detail of Sylar's hand sliding over it, squeezing and molding him with relentless pressure. Peter started crying out, thrashing his legs, begging for release. His cock hurt, his balls hurt, his throat hurt, and every fiber of his being was crying out for more. He was right at the cusp, his body assaulted by overwhelming stimulation, but missing some critical component he couldn't even imagine right now.
Sylar lifted his face from his neck, his own hovering over Peter's pleading one. His hand stopped entirely, holding the head of Peter's straining dick in his hand, forefinger and thumb in an 'o' shape around the flange. "Now come," he whispered, sinking to press his lips tenderly against Peter's. Peter's whole body surged, every nerve ending aflame. The kiss was exactly what he needed - arousal without some form of affection wasn't enough. Without Sylar's hand moving a millimeter, Peter's dick throbbed and he spurted hot come over his stomach.
"Such a good boy," Sylar crooned to him, releasing his hair and petting him now, flopping down to lie on his side and marveling openly at Peter. Peter looked at him, brain too fuzzy to figure out how to take that. After no more than a few seconds, he gave up the attempt. He rolled to push himself against Sylar, pressing his face to the crook of Sylar's neck and hugging him gently, hands light on Sylar's sides. To say he felt vulnerable after having given up control and allowed Sylar to usurp it, surrendering every bit of his dignity then ejaculating on command and being praised like an exceptionally clever dog - yeah, very vulnerable. He desperately needed the protective, enveloping embrace Sylar gave him, as much as he needed the unmitigated adoration he could feel inside of Sylar. There was no disrespect - quite the contrary. Peter hid himself in Sylar's sheltering arms until sleepiness began to call to him.
At that, Peter finally roused himself. He wanted to sleep together all night, which this wouldn't accomplish, lovely though it was in the short-term. "Get up," Peter said, sitting up in the bed. Sylar looked at him blankly, like Peter was speaking a foreign language. He'd nodded off, too, during their post-coital cuddling. Peter nudged him towards the edge of the bed. "Go on." Sylar's expression shifted as he finally moved to obey, and what little of it Peter saw stopped him in his tracks. It had looked … shamed, humiliated, angry, and hurt. Peter shuffled off the bed on his side, watching Sylar intently the whole time. What the hell was that? He mentally reviewed what he'd said and did, but didn't see any fault with it. 'Get up' did not in any way translate to 'I hate you', 'you suck', or 'that was the worst sex of my life'. But there Sylar was, scrambling to pick up his clothes and get them on as quickly as possible. He didn't need to touch him to know the emotional read he'd had was accurate.
Peter circled to the end of the bed. "What are you doing?" he asked, even though it was perfectly obvious what Sylar was doing - he was acting like he'd been kicked out, like Peter's simple request had been interpreted in the worst possible way.
"Fine!" Sylar snapped, voice trembling. He had on his underwear and pants now. Grabbing his shirt and shoes, he strode towards the exit like he'd leave half-dressed, but Peter put himself in the doorway and didn't budge an inch.
"I said," Peter repeated firmly, "what are you doing?"
Shaking in fury and shame at having been confronted and forced to answer, Sylar ground out, "You tell me to go, I will go. I know how it is," he added snidely.
Raising his brows in exaggerated disbelief, Peter said, "You don't know anything, Sylar." When the man looked ready to boil over at that, Peter, who was never one to back down anyway, doubled down by pointing at the far side of the bed and saying, "You say you'll go? Then GO … to the other side of the bed, and help me turn down the freaking covers so we can sleep together more comfortably, you big drama queen!"
For a second there, it looked like Sylar managed to somehow grow an inch, looming over him in his most intimidating fashion, which was terrifying, but Peter didn't flinch. He knew he was right and he wasn't going to let Sylar's insecurities ruin this. The next moment, Sylar deflated entirely. His hands fussed with the shirt he was holding and looked at a loss, eyes darting between the bed and Peter. His lips moved a little, but it was clear he couldn't settle on what to say.
Peter touched his forearm and stroked down it to his wrist. Sylar stilled, looking down at the comforting gesture and then back up at Peter with eyes large and dark. They stayed focused on Peter, waiting for guidance. Very softly, Peter said, "If you want to stay, I'd love to have you." He stroked Sylar's arm again, more slowly, and raised his brows as he tilted his head in invitation. "Tuck you in, maybe?"
At that, Sylar melted. He dropped his things to the side and pulled Peter close in a grateful embrace that said more than words ever could.