Broken Connections, Chapter Eight: Put Back Together
Peter waited anxiously in the lobby of Building 26, endlessly thumbing the edge of a Reader's Digest, fanning the pages over and over again. His eyes were fixed on the elevators, waiting for the arrival of the person his life had so strangely become fixed on. The possibility of this being a setup had crossed his mind, but everything had checked out. He could have gotten Sylar out three days ago if he hadn't had Cross and his team crawl all over the deal looking for loopholes. The delay had been almost more than he could stand. But the agreement was sound, basically.
It didn't keep him from worrying. His body kept cycling through elation and despair, hope and fear. He wanted the damn elevator doors to be open already. He wanted Sylar here. He wanted him in his arms again. His gut was a hard knot full of desperate, tortured butterflies - pinned to a board, but still fluttering madly. He'd been told Sylar had been treated well and from what he'd seen of most of the government's other prisoners, ability neutralization and confinement were the extent of their current sins. Medical experimentation, vivisection, and other tortures weren't operating procedure for this branch of the government - something that had made him willing to make the arrangement he had.
The doors dinged. Peter was on his feet before they even began to part. He leaned to one side immediately, looking for the best angle to see because even that fraction of a second of sight was important. And there Sylar was - as simple as that. It seemed like a miracle that Peter hadn't been disappointed, hadn't been ambushed, a deal had been honored, things had worked out (not that it was over - he still had to get Sylar's cooperation in everything). He watched breathlessly as Sylar stepped out of the elevator, in the middle of growling something to one of the guards with him. Then his eyes swept the room and Peter's locked with them. It felt like the floor had fallen out from under him and he was floating, hanging suspended over the abyss. He swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his suddenly dry mouth. Somewhere along the line, he'd dropped the vapid book of self-help truths and aphorisms.
Peter stayed where he was, poised and waiting. Things were going so well … just let them go like this for a little longer, he prayed. Sylar's frame was tense as his guards unlocked his manacles. He kept looking over his shoulder at Peter and every time his expression was different - joy, concern, worry, yearning, doubt. Finally, he was free. The guards trailed Sylar as he started for Peter. Peter moved forward as well, meeting him not with a handshake or a pat or an arm around the shoulder, but with a full embrace, burying his face against Sylar's neck and ignoring the bureaucratic noise from one of the guards that he had to sign for custody. He breathed Sylar in, Peter's forehead pressed to Sylar's cheek, and wrapped him in his arms like he'd never let go. "I thought I'd never get you back." That fear had chilled him to the bone.
A quiver ran down Sylar's spine and his fingers pressed harder into Peter's back. One hand lifted to pet Peter's hair. "What did you have to pay for this? For me?"
"I promised them the sky," Peter answered without answering. He didn't want to talk about the deal right now. He firmly directed his thoughts elsewhere. That could come later. Right now he just wanted to revel in having Sylar back - tangibly, physically, a firm body in his embrace. With an audible, huffy sigh, the two guards wandered off to the receptionist's desk to wait.
Sylar glanced over at them, making sure they were far enough away so they wouldn't easily overhear. His voice melancholy and quiet, he said, "I really did a number on you, didn't I? For you to be willing to do this for me?"
Peter looked up at him. He knew what Sylar was implying, so he stated it outright. "Claire thinks you brainwashed me with Matt's ability. Did you?"
Sylar flinched. "Not … exactly." There was real fear behind his eyes now. Whispering, he said, "I don't want to be alone, Peter. Like you said - thought - before, with nothing but secrets and regrets." He swallowed. "I told you I needed a connection."
"So what did you do? To me?"
Sylar stiffened and stilled, eyes searching Peter's. "I used Matt and Lydia's abilities to find out what you wanted most. Then I gave it to you."
"Hm," Peter hummed. That level of snooping wasn't right, but it wasn't about the letter of the law. The larger context mattered. He moved his hand to Sylar's, palm-to-palm and twined their fingers. He looked at the joined hands. His tingled and glowed as he sought for something Claire had told him Sylar had. Sylar looked down at them as well, knowing what Peter was doing and letting it happen. Finding what he wanted, he looked back to Sylar's eyes. "Is that all you did?"
Sylar made a tiny tilt of his head. "Yes."
"And you think it was wrong to manipulate me like that?"
"Yes." He was much more definite this time.
"Because," Peter said slowly, "you didn't think there was any way I would have fallen in love with you without using an ability or two?"
Sylar swallowed nervously and shifted his weight, squeezing Peter's hand tightly. Once or twice, he started to say something, but stopped short. He looked down, unable to meet Peter's gaze.
"I need an answer," Peter said. The reason why Sylar had done it was more important than anything else. "You know I do." He assumed Sylar was reading his mind.
"Yes," Sylar whispered finally, his expression hardening as he looked up at Peter with a threatening glare born of insecurity.
Undaunted, Peter reached up with his other hand and stroked Sylar's cheek, watching as his touch gave Sylar what he needed. Sylar shut his eyes and gloried at the contact, yearning writ on his features. Peter told him, "I love you. And if I love you because you're willing to give me everything you have, there's nothing wrong or coerced about that."
Sylar's eyes opened, wary. "It's okay?"
Peter nodded solemnly. "Like I said, Claire and I talked about it as a possibility. I told her I didn't care if that was what had happened. And now I'm sure." He swapped lie detection for telepathy, blocking off his mind from Sylar's. Having gotten the answers he'd expected to be true, Peter was satisfied.
He let Sylar seize him and kiss him hard, long and passionately, the man pressing against him like he wouldn't mind taking him right here in the lobby, damn the witnesses. While that had more than a little allure, Peter broke it off eventually, pushing him back. "Hey. Hang on. I've got one more thing to do and then we can get out of here."
"Fuck them," Sylar jerked his head in the direction of the guards. "I'm free. Let's go."
Peter raised his brows playfully. "Free? In your dreams. You belong to me now, Sylar." And with a playful pat to Sylar's arm, he walked over to the guards to sign their paperwork. Once done, Sylar followed him out, silent and watchful and dangerous all over again.
"'You promised them the sky'?" Sylar asked when they were on the sidewalk outside Building 26.
Peter chuckled at how whiny Sylar was when he couldn't read his mind. He paced towards the nearest alley. "Come on. Let's go back to my apartment. I don't want to have the conversation here."
"'The conversation'?," Sylar parroted again as he stalked after Peter.
Peter headed down a quiet, narrow lane bounded by brick, then turned to face Sylar. Sylar walked right up on him, looming over him. Peter didn't mind. He reached up to cup the back of Sylar's head and drew him down for a slow kiss. "The conversation where we discuss what you're willing to do to keep your connection."
Sylar's expression shuttered even further. "Anything. You know that."
Peter nodded, hoping he hadn't gone too far with his agreement with Audrey, but he would do anything to have Sylar with him again. "I think you'll be okay with the deal. Give me flight. We'll go to the apartment and I'll tell you what I worked out."
Sylar offered his hand. Peter took it. A moment later, they were both airborne.
XXX
Their positions were reversed, Peter realized. Sylar leaned against the door frame in Peter's apartment, while Peter sat at the small dining table. It was a mirror of how they'd been only a few weeks ago, the night before Thanksgiving when Sylar (Nathan?) had tried to explain the truth to him. Now it was Peter explaining. He'd traded for telepathy again as soon as they'd landed on the roof, which had provoked an irritated sigh and petulant rolled eyes from Sylar. But it was important. Peter wanted to talk this out, not have Sylar rifle through his memories and stamp the gestalt of his actions with 'accept/reject' as appropriate.
He told Sylar, "You're not free. You have a life sentence. You've been remanded into my custody for the time being." Sylar's brows rose. "I have agreed to take on the administration of the long-term incarceration of specials for the government. When rehabilitation is possible, there will be a parole board and a process - we're still working it out in terms the justice department is happy with - for commutation of sentence and release. But that specifically does not apply to you, given the nature and severity of your crimes."
Sylar frowned, then looked around the apartment. "This hardly looks like a prison cell."
Peter shrugged. "You can start calling me the old ball and chain about now, if you want."
Sylar's brows shot up again. "You're … serious?" He sounded more hopeful than dubious.
"That's the deal."
"What if I leave?"
Peter shrugged. "The deal you worked out with Audrey is still in force. Once she finds out I can't account for you, or that you've re-offended, then any immunity you arranged for me is revoked." That lit a fire in Sylar's eyes. Even though Peter was offering the clear hierarchy Sylar had implied he needed in his life to master the hunger, he was still leaving the choice and control in Sylar's hands. Ultimately, self-control was Sylar's decision to make, not Peter's.
"And in the meantime, what do we do? Bag and tag for the government?"
"No. We don't have any role in that and I don't want any role in it. Those specials who have committed felonies and can't be held in the standard prison population are to be assigned to my care, once we get a facility set up for them. It's not like there are a lot of them. There's going to be an amnesty for actions taken in the past and they're working out guidelines for leniency when the crimes were committed in the course of resisting the government or self-defense, like against the Company."
Sylar snorted. "Who's working out these guidelines? How do you know they won't be a farce?"
Peter tilted his head. "Claire heads the committee."
"What?"
Peter nodded, pleased with Sylar's surprise. It made the no-mind-reading thing worth it. "She's the one working out the government's official policy regarding specials - her and a few others."
"Where's Noah?"
"In jail."
Sylar blinked with another surprised reaction for Peter to savor. "How long is he going to stay there?"
Peter shrugged. "Given what the government has against him, the testimony you've given, and that without powers, he doesn't qualify for the amnesty or leniency? Maybe a long time."
"Serves him right!"
Peter chuckled at Sylar's vehemence. "Claire's going to try to work her own deal. But I don't think he's going to get off as easy as you."
Sylar grinned wickedly.
"What?"
"You always get me off easy, Peter."
Peter's smile was slow, widening to crease his face. He pushed the chair away from the table and stood. He sauntered into his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he passed Sylar.
Sylar, though, was still leaning on the doorframe. He had turned to face into the bedroom now, but wasn't following. His mood seemed to have whiplashed right back to pouty and sullen from the momentary spike of flirtatious. It was like he was disappointed his invitation had been taken. "If you wanted to top," he snarked, "you could have just said so."
Peter tossed his shirt in the corner, looking at how Sylar was managing a tense posture - arms crossed, shoulders tight - even while pretending to be leaning languidly. Peter had not given the least thought to what position they might take. It occurred to him that sexual preferences had been nowhere in the empathic download of Sylar's needs and wants he'd done weeks ago in the airplane. He snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea that they might have their first fight over something so stupid.
But Sylar wasn't done. Jaw clenched, still not having moved from the doorway, he bit out, "Are you going to be a pain in the ass about this?"
Peter pulled off his undershirt and tossed it after the other garment. He lifted his head, flexing his back. "You've already been a pain in my ass, Sylar. Remember?"
Sylar's eyes blazed. Peter walked over to him, wondering if he was going to get decked. How much of a danger Sylar really was to him was something he wanted to know, right up there along with what manner of mind control Sylar had been using on him. But he didn't want to provoke more than passion. He put his hands on Sylar's chest, his touch and proximity prompting the man to quit leaning on the doorframe and stand tall, probably so he could loom over Peter in what Peter saw as a flashing neon sign of self-doubt. He suspected Sylar, on the other hand, thought he was being very threatening. To sooth him, Peter said, "And I happen to like it that way." He slid his hands up and around Sylar's neck, standing on his toes to plant a kiss. Sylar didn't relax as much as Peter wanted him to. "What's wrong?"
Sylar sulked. "I don't want you to have telepathy, but I can't tell you to ditch it without you fighting me."
"You could ask," Peter teased.
Sylar tilted his head a little and narrowed his eyes. It was an assessing look that Peter took as a warning to prepare him for what happened next. Sylar grabbed the hair on the back of his head and wrenched his head backwards. He snarled wordlessly into Peter's face, lips barely brushing across Peter's.
Arousal surged through Peter. "Hah," he breathed out. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the guy had a sensitive ego. "Or not," he said, lifting to press his lips a little more into Sylar's, a tingle tickling along the sensitive flesh and pulling a surprised, pleased noise from Sylar's chest. Peter borrowed at random, ending up with telekinesis.
Sylar made a second, more thorough moan of pleasure as Peter felt a slight buzz in his mind. Peter was left looking at the ceiling as Sylar pulled Peter's head back further and worked slowly down his exposed neck. Sylar covered it with tiny, delicate bites. Bits of memory flashed through Peter's brain as though lit by strobe lighting, but it was enough to show him that Sylar was chronologically reviewing what Peter had been up to since they'd parted ways after Claire's rescue. When he was done, he brought Peter's head back upright. Sylar put both hands on either side of Peter's face and Peter tilted so their foreheads met.
"Mm," Sylar hummed like a man satisfied after a good meal. "You've been busy."
"I wouldn't mind the chance to unwind," he said, tugging Sylar's skimpy, government-issue, pullover t-shirt out of his pants and pushing it up his torso. Sylar took the hint and pulled it off. "I was thinking of you the whole time," Peter added, unbuttoning his own slacks and dropping them along with his boxer briefs, kicking them both off to the side. Sylar copied him, though the drawstring pants were easier to discard. If he had underwear, Peter didn't see them. He started by kissing Sylar's chest, rubbing his cheek against the wiry hairs as his hands stroked along firm obliques. Sylar was quite fit. He had a gorgeous body to go with everything else and this was Peter's first chance to really revel in how lovely it was. Peter worked downward, exploring the softer skin of the man's belly with the tantalizing trail of dark hair leading him further down. His hands smoothed over hips and buttocks. He glanced up at Sylar's face. It was smiling slightly in anticipation. Then Peter got his first close look at Sylar's goods.
He was longer than average and partly erect, as perfectly formed as the rest of him. Peter kissed the end gently, like it was a lover and despite his tenderness, Sylar jumped and put a hand on the side of his head. Peter licked and tasted - no, Sylar hadn't been wearing underwear. There was none of the close, stifled taste of a penis locked away in confining garments. He'd been hanging free in those thin pants and every bulge against the fabric as he'd walked had been him, unfettered and swinging loose. It made Peter smile to imagine it. He wished he'd paid a little more attention as they'd walked and flown. He took Sylar's member into his mouth, sucking slowly and swirling his tongue over it as it stiffened further. Sylar's hand tightened into a fist, then released and petted, then fisted again. Peter's hands kneaded his buttocks at first, but then he moved one to Sylar's hips for balance and the other dropped to his own full cock. He jerked in time with the sucking and bobbing, his lips brushing against the dark, wiry hairs when he took as much inside him as he could. Sylar groaned and shuddered.
Peter's head was pulled back, leaving the wet dick bobbing as Sylar pulled him to his feet. Sylar growled, "I want to fuck you, not be serviced by you." He shoved Peter at the bed.
Peter climbed on, using his borrowed telekinesis to bring the lube to his hand. It was a good quality one he'd bought special for this, not the lotion they'd used the first time or the medical-grade gel they'd had in the jet. He opened it as Sylar joined him, snatching the bottle from him and slapping his hands away. He grabbed Peter by the back of the neck with his free hand and pushed his face into the pillow. Peter squirmed at the delicious manhandling. He turned his face to pant against the pillow, leaving his rear end up. Sylar let him go and bit his ass, sinking his teeth so firmly into Peter's buttock that he gasped, fingers tightening. "Hurts! Fuck," he got out as Sylar let go. He wondered if that had drawn blood. If nothing else, he was going to have a hell of a bruise.
"When have I not hurt you, Peter?"
He turned his head, brows drawing together darkly as he looked back - but he couldn't deny the danger was part of the attraction. Sylar squirted lube on his fingers and pushed two of them inside of him almost immediately. Peter was gasping again, arching against the intrusion.
"I'm going to take what I want of you," Sylar rumbled at him. "I'm going to open you to my mind, my fingers, and my cock until every part of you is mine!" He ended with a snarl and a hard thrust and twist of his fingers inside of Peter's body, pulling a groan from his throat. Peter's eyelids fluttered and he shivered, reaching under himself to squeeze the tip of his dick.
It was no surprise when Sylar removed his fingers and moved in closer behind him, lining up and taking him in a single, savage thrust. Peter called out loud and inarticulate, his hand moving faster on himself, his whole universe consisting only of his body and the one fucking him.
"Should I make some prison rape jokes now?" Sylar snarked.
Peter choked out a laugh at the sick humor. That was in the worst possible taste, but he kind of needed the jolt or else he would have come right then. Sylar laid down atop him, pushing him flat to the bed. He pulled Peter's arm out to the side, denying him the opportunity to jerk himself off. Taller, Sylar snaked his other arm around Peter's throat, cradling it in the crook of his elbow. Peter felt pinned, held, and captured. He felt helpless, powerless, and yet so desired. Sylar was consuming him like he was a feast. The man pistoned him slowly, shallowly, the head and shaft of his cock stretching and rubbing Peter's sensitive opening as Sylar savored him one bite at a time.
"I have an idea," Sylar purred in his ear. "I saw in your mind that the government seized the Petrelli mansion. I'm going to take you there, lay you down on your parent's bed, and fuck you so soft and tender that you'll be screaming my name begging for more. Then I will violate you until your blood, sweat, and come shed in my name stains every sacred thing of theirs. I want them to know, if any of them are still alive, that if they ever try to hurt you again, they'll have to deal with me. You. Are. Mine." He punctuated his last words with harder thrusts and by successively tightening his arm around Peter's neck.
Peter arched, moaning. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of Sylar's dark hair, tilting his hips into the rolling thrusts. He felt completely covered, taken, and claimed. He let Sylar have him, body and soul. It was what he'd been aching for. He turned his head to rasp, "I'm yours. You want me - I'm yours."
Sylar nipped at his cheek, then let him go, pulling out and sitting up. He pulled Peter's ass up as well, leaving the rest of him down. His second entry glided inside like a hand into a familiar glove. Peter groaned in pleasure, feeling complete and filled. Sylar pounded him, socketing all the way inside time after time. Peter reached under himself again, reaching past his own precome smeared erection to touch Sylar's penis as it moved in and out of him. Sylar jumped, fingers tightening on Peter's hips. He slowed a little as Peter felt along him. Sylar leaned forward over him, putting a hand to the back of Peter's neck and pushing him into the pillow. He shoved into him harder, balls swaying against Peter's knuckles.
Peter moved his hand back to his own needy dick, stroking and pulling at it in time with Sylar's motions. He loved the feeling of being held down and the illusion of being used and abused. He gloried in it. He could let the world fuzz out, his worries dissipate. He wasn't in control now. He didn't need to be in control now. There was no one to help, no one to save. He belonged to Sylar, Sylar was plowing him, and that was just how it needed to be. It was perfection. He felt it when Sylar unloaded inside of him, the hand at Peter's hip clenching and the one on the back of his neck releasing to splay flat on his back between his shoulder blades. It gave Sylar balance for his last, stuttering thrusts.
The knowledge that Sylar had come inside of him, lost control, and came first was so hot that Peter came seconds later, squeezing the tip of his dick and feeling the hot come leaking out around his fist. He panted hard, struggling to get enough breath. Sylar stroked his back gently. A few moments later, Peter flopped to the side, clumsily summoning his undershirt from the corner and using it to clean his hand. He offered it back to Sylar, who used it and made a few swipes at Peter's crack. Sylar rolled him onto his side on the far side of the bed, settling behind him. An arm wrapped firmly around his middle, Peter felt possessed, loved, and protected. It was everything good. He tugged up the blankets over both of them and drifted off to sleep.