Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 72: Favorite Arrangements
Title: Favorite Arrangements
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Words: 1,000
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Fighting, fucking - not truly either, but they're certainly mucking around in a gray area.
Peter struggled to stay focused on the piano while Sylar loomed directly over him. He could feel the man's presence as a heat against his back, prickling across his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. When Sylar deliberately blew on his ear, though, Peter knew it was time to throw down. "That's it!" he snapped. Snarling, he got to his feet and clear of the bench. Sylar looked delighted. Peter swung his left fist at the man's smug face, trusting Sylar to make sure it didn't connect. It was only partly a feint, but as he'd expected, Sylar put his main attention into blocking it. Peter's solid kick to the shin went entirely unopposed.
Sylar backed up an unsteady step before swinging a few punches of his own. Peter stayed well out of range now, circling right and sizing Sylar up as though he was considering rushing him. He was obvious enough about it that Sylar gave him a 'come and get it' gesture, so Peter lunged at him … and kicked him in the other shin instead of committing to the bull rush. Sylar made an inarticulate roar at that and cuffed him solidly across the head. Peter jerked back and down, getting hit on the side of the face and then had his shirt grabbed by Sylar's other hand. He wasn't sure what Sylar was planning with that, so he twisted away, the taut fabric slipping out of Sylar's grip before he could tighten it.
Peter got his balance. He should have probably been thinking of a strategy, but instead he was just responding. It turned out to be better that way. Provoked now, Sylar stepped forward and swung at his head with long arms that took a while to unwind. Mind empty and hands lightning quick, Peter grabbed the guy's wrist, side-stepped, and yanked him forward, following the path of momentum just like he'd been taught years ago. Hey, that worked! Sylar fell forward flailing onto the couch. Peter came down with a knee to the back of one calf as Sylar was trying to get back up and slammed his right forearm across the back of Sylar's neck to force him back down. Sylar face-planted on the leather couch and couldn't draw breath for a half-second, long enough to get disoriented in the middle of a fight. Peter grabbed his left wrist with his free left hand, applying pressure with his right to keep Sylar's head down. Sylar thrashed - tried to kick him, roll, heave him off, and turn his head to breathe. They were all useful actions that made sense in context, but none of them stopped Peter from twisting Sylar's left arm around behind his back. That was important.
Peter wrenched the wrist upward and the fight was over. Sylar gasped and involuntarily cowered down away from the pressure. He was stuck. He couldn't twist away forward with the couch blocking him. A moment later, Peter felt him go limp. In response, he lowered the wrist a few inches. One of Peter's knees had ended up between Sylar's legs. He was on his knees behind him, but the sexual connotations of the position hadn't occurred to him until Sylar reached back with his free right hand to brush it up and down against the outside of Peter's thigh.
"Huh," Peter said. The gesture could be read as supplication or as defiance. Peter decided to take it as complimentary in either case. He let go of Sylar's left wrist, letting the arm fall and hoping there was no resumption of hostility. Sylar didn't do anything - he stayed right where he'd been put, his right hand moving up and down the front and now curving around the inside of Peter's thigh. It felt so good after the rush of the fighting that Peter felt light-headed. He put both hands on Sylar's shoulders. Relief, arousal, and satisfaction surged through him. He had Sylar right where he wanted him in a way. It was perfect. He rubbed lightly, feeling the fabric shift, skin flex and muscle firm underneath. It felt good. Sylar's hand made a fist in what he could grip of Peter's jeans. Peter breathed out a slow, deep breath. His head sagged. He could smell Sylar - his hair, his sweat, the back of his neck. Sylar was so close, so present, and so available.
Sylar tugged on his jeans, head turned so he could see Peter out of the corner of his eye. "You like this position?"
"Not my favorite." Peter's voice was strained. He backed away, getting his hands off of Sylar and Sylar's off of him. They were done. This was as far as he would go. But fuck it was tempting!
"What is?" Sylar got to his feet. "Your favorite?"
Peter looked him up and down, noticing and not lingering on the hard-on Sylar appeared to have. Peter would be surprised if he didn't have the same. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't becoming so much of a trend between them. "I like facing the person I'm with." Just like he was facing Sylar now. Peter bit his lip and turned away.
"That can be arranged," Sylar purred, reaching for him but only to touch at Peter's elbow, not to seize or hold.
"No, Sylar, it can't," Peter said, all the reasons why he couldn't do this bubbling up in his mind. "You killed my brother. I loved him, and you killed him. You took him away from me, twice!"
Sylar grimaced. "If I'd known you were so into threesomes, maybe I would have left him alive."