Broken Connections, Chapter 9: Connected
Sylar stretched, wallowing in the strange feeling of safety he had with Peter at his side. This should have been the man most intent on killing him (again, and more permanently). Instead, Peter's ass was his. And the rest of him, too - knowingly, willingly, and even, amazingly, eagerly.
Peter rolled onto his side facing Sylar, a dreamy, sleepy smile brightening his face. Sylar felt so … indulgent. Or indulged, perhaps. Peter had such a nice face to look at. Knowing Peter enjoyed the attention, Sylar looked. He reached out and slicked down some of Peter's errant eyebrow hairs, smirking at how he was allowed to do something so familiar and comfortable. Peter did not do things halfway - that was a life-saver for Sylar, who would have been torn apart by hesitancy and uncertainty, never quite knowing when his partner would make up their mind about him and what the decision would be when it came down. No - Peter was much more definite.
He wasn't being very definite at the moment. Whatever was on Peter's mind, it was not very articulately thought out. It had something to do with more sex. He pushed Sylar on his back and climbed between his legs. If Sylar hadn't been reading his mind, he would have thought he was about to get fucked. As it was, he still breathed in tensely and stilled. Peter called the lube to him, wetting his dick with a few drops and then Sylar's. Sylar relaxed slowly as he made out Peter's intention. Peter had not missed the meaning of his comments last night - Sylar would put up with being penetrated only as a last resort, only if it was that or have no connection at all. And so, more thoughtfully than Sylar thought he deserved, Peter was going to 'frot' him. That was, at least, the word Peter called it in his head.
Sylar followed the mental suggestions that Peter was now giving more clearly, as he'd settled on a course of action. It involved Sylar cupping his hands around their hardening dicks as Peter braced himself and thrust in a mimicry of sex. Or, well, Sylar supposed this was sex. It just wasn't sex as he'd thought of sex. He wondered idly how many partners and how much sex Peter had had in his life. After all, Peter was very comfortable with what he was doing. It certainly felt good. Sylar was slippery and hard and very in control of things. He could hold tight or loose, both at once or separate. He lifted his knees and enjoyed the feeling of Peter's hips rubbing against them as Peter thrust. He watched Peter's face and enjoyed his kisses, though they interfered with his grip enough that Peter did them infrequently. Best of all, he didn't feel threatened and this was very new. Peter was going to be a lot of fun.
He held tighter and started jerking them both off, moving in counterpoint to Peter's motions. Peter gave a guttural groan and moved faster. Sylar watched as Peter's thoughts spun off into incoherence to be replaced by a rising, blazing light of pleasure and orgasm. It was the ultimate porno. It was porn from the inside and Sylar had no trouble getting himself to his own peak a few moments later. As soon as his hand stopped moving, Peter was on his mouth, kissing and licking and then nuzzling his cheek affectionately. Peter was so nice to him. There were no reservations to it, either.
They rolled apart and he cleaned up with the same shirt they'd used the night before. It was amusingly stiff in spots - now it would be more so. Sylar was thrilled. He was sure he was smiling sappily at Peter, sure of it because Peter thought it was a sappy expression, but Sylar didn't change it. It was vastly reassuring to be able to read Peter's thoughts. There was no plotting or scheming going on. Peter's manipulations were obvious. The use he put Sylar to was straightforward. He was fundamentally honest, which Sylar had doubted even existed in a person. Had he not had this window to Peter's mind, he would have never believed it. But he did. Matt Parkman finally had a use.
Peter also wasn't stupid. A little slow maybe, at times, but Sylar had seen what he'd done with his time while Sylar had been locked up in Building 26. He was sharp enough to be a lawyer. He could have gone on to be a doctor in college, but had chosen nursing because of his empathy, not because he was scared off by the course load or intellectual requirements. He had the most important attribute of intelligence - he was dedicated and diligent. Brilliance and quick wit couldn't get you half as far as determination and stubbornness. Peter was plenty smart enough for Sylar. Dense - maybe, yes - but adorable for it.
Peter was stroking Sylar's arm from elbow to deltoid, fingers skimming over the skin so softly as to be ticklish. Sylar's smile deepened. He blushed at how appreciative Peter was of the expression. He reached out to do the same, except his stroking was of Peter's side and the front of his chest. It was muscular and curiously hairless. But he found a few hairs, short ones around a nipple, the fondling of which (hairs or nipple) was apparently more ticklish than Peter's stroking of his arm. Peter chuckled and wriggled back an inch. Sylar raised his hand to Peter's neck, intending to circle it and prevent him from getting away, but he paused there and changed his mind. Peter's eyes had widened and something in his mind had switched to an interestingly different gear. There was no need to pull him close.
Sylar stroked over the irregular stubble on Peter's cheek, to the beautiful imperfection of his lips. Peter's eyelids fluttered and his mouth opened slightly. Sylar ran a fingertip over those lips, over and around, feeling Peter's breath hot against it. Peter had another gear switch and to Sylar's surprise, Peter pushed him over on his back again and straddled him. Peter kissed him. Sylar buried his hands in Peter's hair, both of them carding through it. Peter braced himself with one hand as the other groped for himself. He started to masturbate. Sylar thought about fucking him in this position, but he didn't feel any rush. It was surprising that Peter was so turned on by no more than a little touching. But it wasn't just that - it was so much more than that. Peter was turned on by him, by the affection, by the … the love, Sylar had to haltingly admit to. Yes, that was what Peter was seeing and responding to and it was true, even if Sylar was embarrassed at how obvious he was.
Cradling Peter's head with one hand, the other skimmed down his bowed back to cup his ass. There was a warm patch on it. Sylar had been looking for that, thinking perhaps Peter had swapped for regeneration when he hadn't been paying attention. But if he had, he had even more finesse than Sylar could imagine, to have stealthed the transfer, guarded it from his thoughts, and then been so precise in applying it that he cut his refractory time yet didn't heal the bite mark on his butt. Sylar rubbed it; Peter gasped. No, it was merely being in bed and touched intimately by Sylar that was enough to rouse Peter to coming twice in an hour.
He made a fist in Peter's hair, feeling in his mind how high the man was flying. It wouldn't take long. He positioned Peter so Sylar's mouth was at the base of his neck, just above the collar line. He bit him again, pressing on the bruise on Peter's ass as he did, feeling the plaintive whimper-moan of pleasure and pain shudder through his lover and finally choke off as Peter came, gasping and twitching on top of him. Sylar grinned and licked his lips at how easy that had been. Buttons found, buttons pushed, and Peter spilled. He ran his fingers over the new mark, wondering if Peter would heal it or leave it there for all to see. It was clearly a bite. And it was just as clear that Peter's sexual desire for Sylar had not been kept secret from anyone - not Claire, or Peter's attorneys, or Audrey. It seemed so strange to Sylar that Peter had been so open about it. Even Peter's mother knew, though Sylar gathered she wasn't happy. How could she be? Her son was fucking the murderer of the other son.
Said fucked son sighed heavily and laid himself over Sylar, snuggling weakly, smearing come between them, and very shortly falling asleep. Sylar stifled a laugh at that, but then he wrapped his arms around Peter and let him rest where he lay. It didn't last very long - a little more than a quarter hour passed before Peter grunted, shifted, and slid off him. Peter looked down with pursed lips at the wet, cool smear between them, sticky in the line of hair on Sylar's belly. Sylar handed him the very dirty shirt and got up. "Stay there," he told Peter, and went to the bathroom.
He used the facilities while the water ran in the sink. When he was done, it was warm. He wet a towel, wrung it, and cleaned himself thoroughly, before rinsing it out and returning to the bed, towel in hand. Peter was still zoned out, watching Sylar with heavy lids, thinking about how happy he was to have someone like this in his bedroom, in his bed, in his heart. Sylar smiled and felt his face heat again. He wanted to get used to this, to bask in someone liking him so much. He sat next to Peter and cleaned him, flicking away Peter's hands when he tried to interfere. Peter got the message, remembering how Sylar had told him early on that he wanted to take care of him.
And yes, Sylar did. He wanted to be allowed to take care of someone and not have his attempt at intimacy rebuffed or met with revulsion. Not that he'd tried much over the years, not that Sylar considered himself a smooth operator or well versed in such things, but he knew he wanted to be welcome. He wanted to be desired, appreciated, and … loved. He wanted to connect with someone as deeply as they'd allow and it had to be deep enough to override every other hunger and ambition he had. He was pretty sure he had that, right now, with Peter.
He finished cleaning chest and stomach, going now to Peter's soft penis. He touched it gingerly at first. Peter was wondering if Sylar had been a virgin before him. Sylar ignored the thought and let it pass without defensively correcting it. He didn't want to discuss the fate of his female lovers nor the circumstances of the other sexual contact he'd had. He cleaned carefully, noting Peter's dimensions, coloration, contours, and sensitivity, as thoroughly as he'd ever examined any timepiece of a design new and unfamiliar to him. This one was a masterpiece … and Peter was giving himself to him.
"Roll over," he said curtly. Peter obeyed.
Sylar spread Peter's legs and knelt between them, pulling apart cheeks with one hand. The other hand wiped him down. By now the towel was cool and he could sense Peter's discomfort with it in his mind. Not that Peter complained. Cool or not, Sylar could and did do a much better job of cleaning him with a damp towel than he had the night before with the dry and crusty shirt. He wiped up and down thighs and over buttocks and hips, making sure he cleaned any places his own dirty fingers might have touched, either last night or this morning. When he was content with Peter's decontamination, he floated the towel to the bathroom and then turned back to his subject. Sylar was still crouched behind Peter. It was a nice view - Peter had a firm, perfectly proportioned bubble butt, a lovely, deep curve of spine, and well-defined muscles on either side of it. His body was topped with a strong neck and a mussed mop of almost black hair. Peter's arms were bent to the sides, hands slipped under the pillow with elbows akimbo.
Downward, he could see the seam of Peter's ass with the faint indentation where his asshole was. Beyond that was a small view of dark scrotum, with a few very kinky, curled hairs. What pubic hairs Peter had were … very tightly wound. Thinking of them like that made Sylar smile. Peter made him smile a lot, he realized. He petted Peter's rump, then spread him with both hands. Peter made a grunt, wondering what this was leading to. "Shush," Sylar commanded, getting the obedience he wanted as Peter submitted to his will so easily that Sylar had to take a moment, shut his eyes, and focus on breathing.
When he opened them, he went back to his explorations. With the spread fingers of one hand holding Peter's cheeks open, he touched with the other - first butt cheek, then sliding down into the cleft. There were a few hairs. The skin was darker here and then it wrinkled as he touched closer to the center. And here was the anus itself. It was mostly dry at the moment. Peter made another noise at the touch, but it was in no way a complaint. Sylar spat on his finger and used the wet digit to circle the opening slowly. Peter squirmed because it felt good and he wasn't sure what was coming next, or even what he wanted to come next. Sylar knew that, though. Peter might not be thinking it, but Lydia's ability gave him insights beyond surface thoughts.
He got off the bed, stood next to it and summoned the bottle of lube to his hand. Peter looked up at him through a screen of overlong bangs. Sylar told him, "Come over here. Butt on the side of the bed." Peter complied, rolling onto his back. That hadn't been what Sylar had had in mind, but Peter wasn't the mind-reader here. The geometry worked face-up or face-down, and he knew Peter liked seeing him, so he didn't argue the position. Sylar slicked himself and Peter both, not bothering to work him with fingers this time. But he nudged in slow. Peter had proven in all ways that he was Sylar's. He could be gentle now, and he was.
Peter hooked his toes behind Sylar's head, his hand alternating with Sylar's on his dick as Sylar took him. He adopted a leisurely pace for it, watching, listening, and drinking the whole thing in. The reality was sinking in that he had a lover, a connection, a friend, a … everything. And what had Peter said about calling him a 'ball and chain'? That was not normally a euphemism for prison, but for marriage. 'Life sentence'? Catholics didn't believe in divorce. Were they … married? Obviously not literally, but Peter was giving some damn strong signals that he was okay with that level of commitment. His orgasm came on him slow, after he'd seen to it that Peter had peaked. When he was done, he let Peter's cramping legs down and helped pull him upright. Sylar's thought had been to alleviate the spasming in Peter's hamstrings. Peter's thought at the motion was to pull Sylar in for jism-sticky hugs and warm kisses. They were both good.
Peter went off to the shower once he'd had enough of the lovey-dovey stuff he liked. Sylar was happy to give it to him. He followed Peter in and fucked him again just to prove he could - not that it was in contention, but it gave him a thrill to do it. At three times in nearly an hour, Peter wasn't up for coming a fourth time, but he was receptive all the same. Shower sex turned out to be much less romantic and passionate than advertised, what with the water washing away the lube, the tile being hard and cold, and the quarters being a bit cramped, but Sylar got the job done to his satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was making a checklist of 'place I've fucked Peter Petrelli'. Some of them, he planned to revisit over and over. The shower might not be one of those places, but at least he'd done it the once.
They ate brunch. An entire meal of watching Peter's mouth proved to Sylar that regeneration and short recovery periods were really quite special. He straddled Peter's lap and had him finish with a protein cocktail. If it was a bit much, he didn't get that vibe off of Peter, who finished the blow job he'd started the night before and whose only mental reservation was that he was too spent to enjoy it as much as he would when horny. Sylar made his own mental note to allow Peter that opportunity. Several times. Perhaps hundreds of times. When he was done, Sylar stroked Peter's hair as Peter swallowed a few times and eyed his empty orange juice glass, wishing he had something he could rinse with, because most people didn't want to have come-kisses and Peter would like a kiss. Sylar backed up and bent to kiss him anyway, come or not. He tasted something that wasn't just Peter, but he didn't care. That was his load that Peter had taken in his mouth. Peter Petrelli, who had just sucked him down willingly and completely of his own volition. Peter liked him that much. Sylar's chest felt tight and warm. He grinned, fondled Peter's hair lovingly, and kissed over his cheeks and forehead. "I- I-" He knew what he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.
"You love me?" Peter asked, like it was the most natural and innocent thing in the world.
Sylar pressed his face to Peter's, cheek to cheek, and moved his head jerkily in something that was probably a nod. Peter certainly took it that way and Sylar didn't try to lie to him.
The remainder of the day they spent on something that looked like work, or the beginning of work. They met with Peter's legal team. Sylar spent several hours reading through the letter of the agreement and the various communications Peter and the team had had with Hanson's branch. His impression, heavily influenced by Nathan's memories, was that this was authentic and above-board. Assuming they could keep the current administration in charge, it might stick long enough to become its own institution. He told them as much, agreeing with their thinking.
Now the question was how to implement it. The first thing they needed was a location. Peter was adamantly against using any of the Company facilities and all of the government's other options smacked too strongly of 'prison' for Peter's preference. It was Sylar who suggested Angela's house. If it was burned down or blown to pieces in the course of things, then it was hardly any loss. It had been purchased with conjured gold and laundered blood money and the person it rightly belonged to, if not Angela herself (who had fled to France for the time being), was Peter. If Peter wanted a home-like feel and a place big enough to house up to a dozen people at a time without too much trouble, then it was the place. It was inconvenient that it was in the middle of a populated area, but maybe that would encourage their inmates to contain themselves. If not … well, it had a big basement they could convert from the game room and second den into shielded cells and they weren't expecting to house anyone who wasn't a rehabilitation prospect anyway (even if Peter seemed to think everyone was). If Peter could find Samuel to borrow terrakinesis again, then they could even have whatever subterranean chambers they wanted.
Peter bought it. Harvey Cross was left to draw up a proposal to the government about the house while the two of them took off for dinner. Afterward, they dropped by the place. It was dark and empty with the utilities turned off, but still furnished and intact. Sylar couldn't stop touching things and drawing memories out of them. He knew it was Matt Parkman's idiotic command still working at his brain, but knowing about it and controlling it were two different things. Peter noticed, but it wasn't until Sylar was gripping the headboard of Nathan's bed, white-knuckled, that Peter finally said something. "Are you okay?"
"No." He grimaced, tearing his hand away with a pained look. Memories not his own tumbled around inside his head. He knew who he was - Sylar - but it was like he had two pasts.
Peter reached over and touched his elbow, taking an ability.
"Don't-" But Peter hadn't taken telepathy. Sylar didn't have to wonder why he was paranoid Peter might take that and hear the mess going on inside of his head. He hoped Peter hadn't taken Lydia's power, either. But a moment later, he relaxed. Peter put his hand where Sylar's had been and his mind filled with the same images - images of his brother, sleeping in bed, reading a book, jerking off, talking on the phone, cuddling with a much younger Peter while lightning flashed outside. This was the man whose life Sylar had ended and taken out of Peter's life. He looked at Peter with wary, cautious eyes.
Peter turned down the blankets and took off his shoes. He climbed in and by then, Sylar was doing the same. It felt right. The house was cold, but the blankets were thick and they had each other.
"Do you want me to be Nathan?" Sylar asked carefully as they settled into one another's arms.
"You can't be," Peter answered. "But I want you to love me like he did."
"I love you more than he did," he snarked truthfully, surprised at how easily the words came out. "And very differently, I hope."
You competitive bastard, Peter thought with humor, but he didn't say it. He just gave a rough chuckle and nodded. "Then just love me. That's enough."
XXX
The next day, Sylar helped as Peter went through the house and carted off a number of things for donation. Nathan's bed and most of his furniture was among them. His parent's bed and furnishings were not. Nor did he deny Sylar his promises, pleasures, or revenges against Angela and the memory of Arthur. Sylar had him begging and eventually, screaming, for his fulfillment. He could only hope Fate was so kind as to give Angela a dream of that.
Eventually, they got the house. They started with Aviv, Pearl, and Amanda. They weren't the only ones wanting to help specials. Mrs. Comey from the carnival had volunteered, although her condition was that they give a home to Jennie Bowman, too, and let her work with the other children from the carnival on an outplacement basis. Since Jennie and Amanda shared the same ability and were already tentative friends, it was a good match. Mrs. Comey became their house mother - steady as a rock, and immune to fire to boot.
Sylar worried over living with others who had abilities, but Peter, from his own experiences with Sylar's ability, knew something of the difficulties Sylar faced. He kept Sylar distracted. He talked with him about it. They worked on control together.
The worked on a lot of things together. 'Together' was what Sylar wanted. He'd finally connected with the person willing to share it with him.