Adventures in Dreamland
Title: Adventures in Dreamland: The Hazards and Rewards of Sleeping with Peter Petrelli
Characters: Peter Petrelli, Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: One nocturnal emission, a couple nonconsensual kisses.
Words: 5,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Scenes of Peter and Sylar sleeping together.
Notes: Written for the 2013 Advent Calendar. To give some context for this - a few months after Peter arrives, Sylar begins to have nightmares of persecution and judgment. The sleep deprivation drives him mad, until Peter finally agrees to sleep with him, since Sylar felt that napping while Peter was around was the only time he was getting any rest. It's true and Sylar recovers, but he and Peter have to deal with Peter's sleeping habits along the way. They sleep clothed, with a layer of blankets between them (at least for now).
Many thanks to means2bhuman, who wrote Sylar's point of view for the first two of these. Some of these scenes will be incorporated into More Between Us Than A Wall.
Night 1
The sound of Peter's own voice woke him up from his dream. "It has glitter on it," he heard himself say. A moment later, he sat up, bleary-eyed, hands flexing in memory of kneading the squishy material he wasn't handling now. Bemused, he looked over the side of the bed, but there was no box there.
XXX
Sylar awoke to an odd sensation, a sound. He caught the end of something (somehow aware it was the end of a sentence or similar), '…But it has glitter on it.' At first, Sylar, having remained unmoved throughout this wake-up call, couldn't string the words together to make a damn sentence. "Petey?" he grumbled as soon as he identified his bed partner, his tongue heavy and dry. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting off a hallway. Through that, he could see Peter's hands doing something curled or clutched in front of him. The other man woke and sat up to look around before noticing Sylar. Um…is this bad? was his extremely unprepared response. "Petey?" he asked again.
XXX
"Huh?" Peter looked back. So Sylar really was in bed with him. Weird. He'd thought he was dreaming about that, too, because it was just as nonsensical as the rest. "I was giving your memories back, but they were made of red Play-Doh and one of them had glitter all over it." He laid back down with a sigh, letting Morpheus extend his shroud over him again without being the least troubled by a serial killer being in his bed. He'd never fully woken up anyway. Mumbling now, he added, "I thought the glitter was unsanitary, but you didn't care."
XXX
A weird feeling twisted in Sylar's gut, unrelenting as it spread through him warmly. Peter wanted to give him his memories back. It made all the difference in the world, that unrehearsed and unexpected admission. It was a very nice thought to snuggle up with, glitter or unsanitariness notwithstanding.
Night 2
Peter was not awake, but regardless, he was aware there might be someone in bed with him. He could smell them; he could feel their weight; he could hear them breathing. Still asleep, he tried to find them. It was involuntary and visceral. His hand groped blindly, finding a warm lumpiness in the blanket and something firmer and more irregular than the mattress underneath. This - this must be what he'd been sensing! The blanket, though, confounded him. He tugged at it, his face taking on a distressed expression and his breathing changing to include little huffs of frustration and disappointment. He pawed at the covering, trying in vain to move it out of the way. He wanted to touch. It was important, biological. He wanted the contact and his failure to secure it was upsetting.
XXX
Sylar came to with the feeling of being touched somehow, intentionally. During sleep that usually meant something very bad. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting out of the hallway. Through that he could see Peter's hand outstretched, poking and feeling at him, plucking at the comforter between them. Oh, was all his mind had to say. A set of memories not his own classified this as familiar and requiring no questions. He knew instinctively that touching the young man would calm him and result in more, this time unbothered, sleep. Sylar laid his hand atop the searching one, pressing it to his abdomen through multiple layers of bedding and clothing. That was all it took. Peter relaxed and seemed to slip back into a more soundless, genuine rest. Sylar didn't mind at all to give this familial, close contact - in fact, it assisted his own return to sleep with a small smile on his face.
XXX
Peter woke to the feel of hair tickling his nose. "Unng," he grunted, pulling his face back and blinking. Fine hair, richly dark and slightly wavy, was directly in front of him. It was the back of someone's head, but whose? He sank down on his pillow again, puffing out air to blow away the tickling strands. It certainly wasn't Simone. It took him a few groggy moments to place why that wasn't possible. He assumed it must have come from some dream he'd had. But no, this wasn't her and he felt a pang of sadness about that. From the bit of neck he could see, he was with someone Caucasian.
Where the hell am I? He started to pull away from the person he was spooning so he could get his bearings, but the hand gripping his, which he hadn't even been aware of until now, tightened. He stopped and looked over the other's shoulder at where their hands were joined, pressed over the covers on the other's belly. Long, thin fingers with masculine nails wrapped around his own. Sylar! Although the appearance of Sylar's hand wasn't something Peter had memorized, it was still him. A look up at the man's face confirmed it. Everything came into focus then for Peter - he was in bed with Sylar, keeping away Sylar's nightmares, and Sylar apparently was okay with Peter's nocturnal wanderings.
He'd warned him - Peter had, that he wasn't a fraternal bed-partner who minded his own business on the opposite side of the bed. And Sylar, racked by nightmares so persistently that he had begun to suffer badly from sleep deprivation, didn't seem to care about the warning. It was enough to make Peter suspicious that Sylar might be exaggerating the night terrors as an excuse to get in bed with him, but he hadn't been faking the dark circles under his eyes, the irritability, increasing paranoia and clumsiness, and other symptoms. He wondered if Sylar was awake at the moment - it seemed possible, likely even - but Peter hadn't been paying attention to the other man's breathing and it seemed steady enough now.
He sighed, decision made instantly, and laid down to doze some more. As Peter drifted off, his conscious mind worked out why his subconscious thought going back to sleep was the best solution: Peter liked being snuggled up to people and this was the only guiltless chance he was going to get here in this crazy world. If Sylar was asleep, then he didn't know Peter was taking liberties and it didn't matter. If Sylar was awake, then as long as Sylar pretended to be asleep, he couldn't blame Peter. It was a win-win, as long as he could keep those dratted hairs out of his face.
Night 3
Peter settled in, turned off the light, and shifted to face away from Sylar as he usually did. And as he usually did, when sleep had settled over him or perhaps only nearly so, he rolled back the other way, an arm this time reaching out to find his companion, locating … touching. Only then did sleep take him fully.
Night 4
He rolled over in his sleep, facing away from Sylar for the moment. His foot snaked back, though, finding the other man's shins. There was a space between them, as they were not neatly and tensely stacked one leg atop the other. Peter pulled in air as he immediately wormed his foot into that space, releasing a small, happy, "Mmm!" of pleasure at being able to nest himself so securely.
Night 5
Sylar woke with Peter's face no more than two inches from his own. Somehow and somewhat concerningly, Peter had managed to get nearly on top of him as well. One leg sprawled possessively across Sylar's and one of Peter's arms held him around the shoulders. Peter seemed quite asleep. Sylar waited, but there was no hunching or fondling or other problematic activity going on. But there was no way he was going to be able to sleep with someone else breathing in his face the whole night. He turned his face, his nose inadvertently brushing Peter's - they were so close. It provoked a slight shift of Peter's body and a small squeeze. Sylar sighed. It was nice, being held like this, even if he knew Peter didn't exactly mean it. It made him feel warm and loved even so. He looked longingly at Peter's peaceful, sleeping face (what he could make out with him at this proximity, in the dimness). Did all of this cuddling mean that at some level, Peter was okay with him? He didn't know. He shifted again, and again, Peter clutched him. Clearly, he didn't want to let go.
Sylar swallowed. He knew that what he was about to do was … wrong, or at least questionable. Morally grey, which for Sylar, was an improvement. But Peter was so close. He could feel Peter's breath on his cheek, holding him so tight. It was like they were lovers. And if Peter was as he had confessed and unaware of what he did while slumbering, then how would he ever be able to accuse? Sylar tilted his head and slowly, gently, pressed his lips to Peter's. Peter drew in breath, made a small noise in his throat, and kissed back. It was uncoordinated, at least on Peter's side, but it was a definite and genuine kiss. Sylar felt a thrill pass through him from head to toe. Peter broke off after a few seconds and nosed the side of Sylar's face, giving him another squeeze and raising his knee, rubbing his thigh over Sylar's.
Sylar could feel himself coming erect. How could Peter expect him to behave under this temptation? Since he'd gotten away with it once, he kissed Peter again, letting his lips pulse against Peter's. He gave a roll of his hips, rubbing them together and discovering he wasn't the only one turned on. Peter made another deep, soft sound of pleasure, before pulling in air and tensing all over as he woke up. Oh shit. Sylar held perfectly still, fully prepared to lie his ass off and say he was the wronged party here.
But he didn't need to. "Um," Peter said, lifting himself away and looking guilty. "Sorry," he whispered, groggily adjusting his crotch as he rolled over and put more than a foot between them. Sylar sighed after the other man resettled himself, far away. It was not so much in relief (although there was a little of that). Mostly it was yearning.
Night 6
Sylar was small. He was hiding in the closet, the one where he'd covered the white walls with red and black letters detailing his sins. The others were looking for him. He knew they'd find him, and soon. He could hear their distant footsteps. There were so many of them, so many people he'd wronged, so many times he'd sinned. He cowered behind the door, thinking maybe he was small enough so that when they opened it, as they surely would, he'd be behind it and unseen. But he knew that wouldn't work. There was too much writing on the walls. They'd stop to look, to read, and then they'd spy him out. It had all been a mistake! So many mistakes! So many bad decisions, one layering on another. He was destined to be the villain, the one everyone hated, everyone hunted. It wasn't what he wanted to be!
Hot tears welled up as he choked to keep himself quiet. He couldn't let them hear. They were already in the apartment, searching. They'd find this place very soon now. But maybe it didn't matter if they found him - they were going to anyway, and he wanted to give up, he wanted to die. He wanted to crawl and squirm and surrender and have it matter. He wanted to be forgiven so badly and yet he knew that was never going to come, because he was bad and people didn't forgive those who didn't have any goodness in them. He wanted to be good. He wished he had been good. A mewling sob fought its way between his lips. The footsteps stopped, right outside his door. They had found him.
"Sylar?"
He gasped and almost choked again, his airway not working as it should. It was Peter's voice, he realized.
"Sylar?" The voice was soft, low, and sleepy, which didn't make sense.
The dubious reality of the closet faded, but it was still dark. Sylar felt something touching him on the hip and grabbed at it reflexively, his grip tightening on nothing more offensive than a pillow. He was in a bed, he saw.
"Hey, buddy." Peter released the pillow to him and went on, "You were having a nightmare, okay?"
Sylar blinked, feeling the wetness around his eyes and the humiliating pounding of his chest. He nodded, though he wasn't sure if Peter could see it or not. He didn't trust his voice yet. It would betray far too much weakness.
"Come here," Peter said, voice clearer now of the grogginess of sleep. He touched at Sylar's shoulder, apparently undeterred by the previous attack on the pillow.
Sylar turned towards him, though he was confused.
"Come here," Peter repeated, scooting himself closer because Sylar wasn't moving. Peter slipped arms around him and Sylar finally figured it out - a hug. Peter wanted to hug him. Maybe that was what Peter did, how he coped. He remembered Peter hugging him after talking him down from an attack of paranoia where he thought Peter was going to end him. It hadn't turned out that way; he'd been wrong. Now, as then, he burrowed his face into Peter's shoulder and upper chest, breathing heavily and unevenly. It might be shameful, but Peter had yet to use any of it against him. He wrapped his arms around Peter in return and shuddered as he accepted the enveloping protection of another. It felt so foreign … and so good.
Night 7
Peter woke, the last shreds of his dream telling him with certainty he was in bed with Nathan. But it was Sylar's face he saw, close and features clear in the pre-dawn light. Peter flashed to the time in the Odessa jail, when his odd, possibly precognitive dream had showed him Nathan replaced by Sylar when Peter glanced away. He had an intense, gut-twisting lurch in his middle that it was happening again and just like the first time, it was terrifying. He made a strangled yelp and scuttled back, pushing, shoving and kicking to get away.
Peter fell off the edge of the bed as he'd expected, bouncing to his feet with stunning alacrity. He staggered, off-balance, against the wall and window, his mind racing as he tried to remember how high off the ground the apartment was and whether he still had regeneration to survive a fall - he was that rattled that leaping out the window was a considered option. He struggled to get his breath. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, but was otherwise silent. For several long moments, nothing happened.
Finally, Peter forced himself to move forward, putting his knee on the edge of the bed as he reached out slowly with his right hand. Sylar watched it come for him. If he so much as says 'boo', I'm going to hit him, Peter thought, his hand finding Sylar's shoulder and gripping it. He was real. Solid. Peter swallowed, let go, and backed up. He raked through his hair with his left hand and shook his head. His heart was still pounding with fear. His fingers and toes felt pins and needles from the adrenalin. He wanted to get out of this room, out of Sylar's sight, away from the bed and the confusing emotions. He bent and swiped his shoes, shuffling out from behind the bed and going to the nearest chair, where he sat to put them on.
Sylar swept back the blankets and stood. "What are you doing?"
Peter didn't answer. He loosened the laces on the tops of his shoes, thinking that he should have just carried the shoes with him out into the hall. He was fortunate that he slept more-or-less dressed with Sylar, so his state of dress wouldn't slow him down from leaving.
"Where are you going?" Sylar moved between Peter and the door.
Peter shoved his feet into his shoes and stood, not taking the time to tie them. He grabbed up his coat.
Alarmed, voice upset, Sylar put his arms out to the sides a little and tried to command him. "Don't leave!"
There was a frightened tremor in Sylar's voice that shook Peter out of his self-centeredness. He thought about how this must look from Sylar's point of view - waking to find Peter fleeing him, refusing to stay in the same room, not even talking to him. How was he to know that all Peter was going to do was go downstairs and work out or maybe take a walk until he felt centered again? As far as Sylar knew, Peter had snapped and didn't want to be near him ever again. Peter sighed heavily and dropped the coat. He brushed past Sylar roughly, more pushing the man out of his way than anything else, proving to himself that Sylar wasn't keeping him from leaving. Peter stalked into the kitchen instead, taking a beer from the fridge and opening it on the edge of the counter, heedless of whether it scratched the finish or not.
He came back, slumped in his seat, and drank the top third of the beer in one long swallow. When he came up for air, he glared briefly at Sylar before looking away. Quietly, Sylar took the opposite seat. Peter swirled the bottle slowly. "You weren't even there. Not really."
"Hm," was all Sylar said as he waited for the inevitable explanation.
Peter wondered if he'd ever told this one to anyone either. He didn't think so. Sylar had quite the collection of 'things Peter had never told another person'. Mainly, he was the only person who listened. Peter wasn't sure if Sylar cared, but he did at least listen and that was nice. "After Odessa, when you and I jumped off the stadium, the cops took me in. They put me in an observation cell, I think. I was covered with blood but they couldn't find any injuries. I told them I was fine, but I was … uh, a little hysterical, maybe. I think they were letting me calm down. But I fell asleep, so I guess that's calm. I either hallucinated or dreamed. I thought Nathan came to save me. He was nice, friendly. I hugged him. He sat next to me. He was supportive, but trying to explain to me why what I was doing wasn't going to work."
Peter took another long drag from his beer, self-medicating his tension since he was blocked from exercising. "I looked away for a moment and when I looked back, it wasn't Nathan. It was you. You were in a … uniform, like a delivery service. UPS or something, wearing a baseball cap. You told me I didn't know anything about power." He grimaced sullenly in Sylar's direction, unhappy with the possible truth of that. "It scared the crap out of me." He drank again, trying to dull the memory that was still too sharp in his mind. There was less than a fourth of the liquid left in the bottle. Peter shook his head and then pulled his feet out of his shoes. "I don't know what it was about waking up right then, but … I ..." He shrugged and looked away, then finished the beer. "You want to go back to bed with me?"
Sylar looked surprised and didn't answer, but he rose and went to the bed with a glance back to make sure Peter was making his way to the other side. Peter fussed with the blankets and climbed on top of the main layer, with Sylar under it.
Peter waited for a moment as Sylar settled in, then asked, "Could you face away?"
Sylar nodded and Peter caught the look of disappointment as he turned. Peter figured Sylar assumed he didn't want any chance of waking up again to the sight of his face, but that wasn't it. Peter scooted closer, his hand lingering on Sylar's back where the blanket didn't cover it. He could see Sylar tilt and raise his head slightly in an 'I'm listening/what are you doing?' pose.
"May I?" Peter asked, timid now because he was asking something Sylar might take the wrong way. Sylar put his head down and might have nodded, but he definitely didn't shake his head. Peter came closer and touched his forehead to Sylar's back, his arms gathered up between them and his knees against what was probably the back of Sylar's thighs. He wasn't thinking of Sylar as Nathan and he hoped Sylar didn't think he was. Peter wasn't expecting that level of comfort from him. He wasn't expecting anything. He just wanted to be close to a human being as he calmed down, as he let the memories drain away, as he tried to let go of the past. But it was Sylar's scent thick in his nostrils and his body Peter was pressed against.
It was no surprise to Peter when he woke an hour or so later that he was truly spooning him, cupped as close as the clothes and layer of blankets would allow. Peter's right arm was wrapped around Sylar's middle with Sylar's hand over Peter's - it wasn't the first time and not even the first time he'd done it more or less intentionally. Peter's face was mashed sideways against the taller man's back. He pulled away slowly, wondering how long it would be before they did away with the barriers of clothing and blankets … and wondering if that would be as wrong as he'd originally thought it was.
Night 8
In his dream, Peter had a headache. That seemed to be the entirety of the dream - pain. It was very specific. If you drew a line vertically down his face, the pain was seated along that line an inch above his brows, just where the supposed third eye would be located. It had been trivial at first, but as minutes passed, it began to ache. It felt like someone were pressing the rounded end of a ball peen hammer to his forehead, pressing relentlessly and he couldn't get away from it. It was doubly frustrating because not only did he want to be free of the pain, but he wanted to move forward. He wanted to be closer. He wanted comfort and warmth and yet the pain was keeping him away from all of that. He made a whimpery noise in protest, but nothing came of it. He still hurt and he was starting to hurt inside, as the physical pain translated to emotional, as it started to take on meaning as a cruel rejection from the opportunity to love.
It was the second sad, plaintive sound from his throat that roused Peter from sleep - that, and the awareness the pain wasn't a fabrication of his mind. It was still there when he woke. His eyes opened sleepily to find himself staring up the length of Sylar's forearm, the point of the man's elbow jammed solidly against Peter's forehead. The weight of Sylar's arm rested on him, as it had for who-knows-how-long. The arm was raised, cocked and bent protectively around Sylar's head. Peter had seen him sleep a few times that way. He couldn't imagine it himself. Wasn't it bad blood flow to keep an arm elevated like that for so long? Didn't it get numb?
With a grimace, he pulled his head back, scowling as he rubbed at the spot that had been afflicted by Sylar's bony elbow. The thing he'd been trying to get closer to but been held at half-arm's distance from was Sylar, he realized. He sighed, wondering if Sylar's defensive head-guarding was an attempt to ward off Peter's somnolent cuddling. Even if it wasn't, Peter felt rejected anyway. He frowned at the uncooperative object of his affections. Sylar's arm dipped and wavered, his elbow seeking the convenient prop that had gone missing. With an angry snort, Peter rolled over the other way, rubbing at his head again and petulantly leaving Sylar alone if that was the way the man wanted to be.
Night 9
There was something about the sound of sex. It was primal, encoded into the deepest reaches of the brain. Sylar made sense of the sounds instantly, lighting up with awareness. He was still, lying on his back on the sheets, blankets bunched around his midsection. To his right was Peter, face pressed to Sylar's shoulder, forehead to deltoid, or so Sylar saw when he finally opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to see. Peter's extra layer of blanket was somewhere around hip level and he was lying on his side facing Sylar. The only place they were touching, though, was where his face rooted against Sylar's upper arm as some dream played out behind closed lids.
But the sex - it was very clear what sort of dream was entertaining Peter. His breathing and the long, low, soft moans gave it away. Sylar had to wonder how similar it would be to the sounds Peter might make while having real, wakeful sex. They were definitely arousing. Peter's head shifted and moved, warm and flushed against Sylar's bare skin. Peter's lips dragged across him, complete with uncoordinated mouthing. So, he does like to kiss, Sylar thought. Just not me. He'd assumed as much. Peter wasn't shy about using his mouth to show affection, as he'd seen in Nathan's memories.
Peter moved an arm forward, the back of his curled fingers brushing against Sylar's forearm. "Mmm, um," he said, but didn't get more articulate than that. Sylar's lips curled. It would be fascinating if Peter would let slip a name and make it well worth being woke up in the middle of the night. Peter's breathing was speeding and becoming strained. His hips made a few jerky, rolling motions. Is he fucking, or being fucked? Sylar wondered, but couldn't tell. Peter's peak came fast as such things often did in dreams. The whole affair had taken no more than a couple minutes. Ah, there it is, Sylar thought as Peter's last, loudest moan cut off in the middle, Peter held his breath for a few seconds, then all the tension bled out of him.
Curious, Sylar fluffed the topmost blanket once, inhaling deeply. Yes, definitely. The scent was heavy and almost as stimulating as the delicious sounds Peter had been cooing into his shoulder. Peter wasn't done yet - no rolling over and falling asleep afterward and Sylar suspected that this, at least, would be consistent even when Peter was awake. Peter continued to move his face against Sylar's arm, trying clumsily to kiss in between soft sighs. His hand moved a few more times, making fitful contact with Sylar's forearm.
Sylar turned, reaching across himself to touch Peter's shoulder and stroke down his arm, petting him soothingly. He knew he probably shouldn't; he'd be safer to just leave it alone and let Peter go back to his slumber, waking none-the-wiser. But something inside Sylar wouldn't let that happen. They'd had a moment, however one-sided, and he wasn't going to let Peter off the hook so easily. So he didn't care when Peter's breathing changed as he woke; Sylar had wanted that. He kept slowly stroking Peter's arm, smiling warmly at him just to fuck with Peter's head.
Brown, puzzled eyes met his, then Peter looked down at the hand smoothing over his arm. He licked his lips uneasily and asked, "What happened?"
"You had an 'emission'," Sylar said, letting his voice adopt a conspiratorial tone. He laid on his back again, using the hand that had been lately stroking Peter's arm to prop his head up.
Peter's glance down at his groin was as comical as it was obvious. He dipped his head as though wanting to hide his face, but he still asked Sylar, "Are you okay?"
Sylar raised his brows. "Have your 'emissions' been known to be dangerous in the past? What kind of strange abilities did you pick up back in the day?"
"Um," Peter coughed. "Um, no, nothing like that." Uncertainly he continued, "I didn't do anything?"
Sylar purred, "You made sweet, sweet love to my arm. The rest of me wouldn't mind a little attention," he invited, letting his voice drop to a rumble.
Peter gulped. "Um … no."
"Hmm, too bad. Maybe I should take matters into my own hands?"
"No." Peter's voice was much firmer, having lost the adorable fogginess of sleep. He finally moved away from Sylar, backing up about a foot.
Sylar looked him over. Peter was stiff, but not in a good way. He was tense now with a defensiveness Sylar could see even in the dark. It wouldn't do to wind him up too much. To the contrary, ultimately Sylar would rather Peter were more comfortable about the whole thing. He realized the teasing had been a bad idea. Soberly he said, "What you did was perfectly natural and it didn't bother me in the least."
"Okay," Peter said, although he sounded unconvinced. He rolled on his side to face away. He pulled up the blanket to his armpits, apparently oblivious to the fresh wafting scent of maleness that released. "I didn't mean to," he said over his shoulder.
Sylar inhaled deeply. "I know." Oh, he knew alright, and that was the bitter part - a waking Peter didn't want him at all, not yet. But eventually.