More Between Us Chapter 58/? "Not So Private Time"
More Between Us, Chapter 58/? "Not So Private Time"
Day 15, December 25, Evening.
Immediately, Sylar was both impressed, proud, and disappointed when Peter held his own. He was close enough to smell the booze on Peter’s breath. Perfect, we’re both buzzed. His body was aching for something; he just couldn’t name it. Or he didn’t want to. Hence nearly standing in Peter’s shoes. The man’s head pulled back to gain height and at first glance it looked like he was going to…kiss. Sylar nearly took that as an offer then and there, hesitating to be sure, but he didn’t break eye contact since that seemed to be what Peter was demanding and he wasn’t going to back down from a staring contest. He was so close; his hand literally on a man who wasn’t moving away, fighting, or emoting disgust. This was a test of his self-control and of Peter’s resolve. But, Christ, if temptation wasn’t screaming at him right now. Mind in overdrive to rationalize a way around a direct negative, he appealed with a lilt that was a hinting question, “So…no on the nightcap.”
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He's going to take no for an answer. Peter was sure of it now and that eased a tension inside of him. He relaxed a little, happier, breathing deepening. “No.”
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Sylar didn’t move away. (He said no). I heard him. I heard him and I want to ignore him. (But he said he trusts me! You know this isn’t going to work). But it will feel good…He wants it or he’d move away! His jaw clenched. He glanced at Peter’s mouth then away with some shame. Entertaining fantasies was only going to hurt in him in the long run. He didn’t want to kiss Peter after all; that would be weird; he just wanted…This wasn’t going to be an arrangement that allowed kissing anyway. There was no attraction and his due was retribution, not reward. His hand slid from the man’s shoulder to the wall, which he used to push off from, putting a few inches between them, loath to give any more space; his pride prevented it. Backing off just wasn’t his thing, not when his prey stood still and looked him in the eye, so assured and defiant. That challenge alone ate away at him but he had to leave it…untouched.
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Sylar was still standing there, breathing on him, looking at him, looking at his lips for Christ's sake, respecting his wishes, and looking so damned desirous of him that Peter felt a flash of goose-bumps and a warming across his face that he knew was a blush. He was feeling other things, too, as an awareness of an increased weightiness at his groin impinged on him. Fuck. I'm wearing sweats! They don't conceal shit. Don't look down. Don't look down, Sylar. Don't look down. Peter moved away all of a single step, blinking a few times and glancing past Sylar at the open door to the apartment, trying to mentally will Sylar to go away without any last 'scoping out' that might reveal Peter was tenting his pants like an oversexed teenager. It was just biology, Peter knew, but it was also awkward as hell and he didn't look forward to trying to convince Sylar that a boner did not mean he wanted him.
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Sylar consoled himself as he turned and entered his temporary apartment, I have new information.
Peter didn’t follow him in as Sylar went to the couch to gather his book and pepperoni. He took a pair of beers in case Peter changed his mind. The nurse was gone, unsurprisingly. Turning the reason for the disappearance over in his mind, he hobbled close to the wall down the empty hallway to the elevator, which was returning to his floor. He took Peter’s search and discovery as some kind of invitation and didn’t give it another thought. Moving so much and standing felt good after lying down most of the day (especially to relieve any aroused jitters) and it felt homicidal to his headache. Opening the door was a slight hassle - food, beer cans, and book - but he made it, no thanks to Peter. He couldn’t leave the door op- And then he saw why.
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Relieved beyond measure when Sylar went back into his apartment without incident or southward glances, Peter strode off down the hallway. Good. Fine. That takes care of that. He's okay. I'm okay. He'll sleep down here. I'll sleep up there. It was settled. The elevator doors shut behind Peter and he slumped against the wall, leaning the bat in the corner so he could rub at the unwanted half-staff erection that wasn't nearly so obvious as Peter had feared. But as to what had caused it … oh yeah … Sylar wanting him had tripped over from 'scary' to 'sexy' in a heartbeat when Peter figured out the guy wasn't going to push it. And how long had it been since Peter had jerked off, anyway? Assuming nocturnal emissions didn't count, he hadn't since he'd gotten inside of Sylar's head, which even if subjective, it still felt like more than two weeks. And he hadn't since Thanksgiving, or rather, the day before at the very least. He couldn't remember the last time before that, as the days and weeks had run together with a blur of extra shifts at work, swapping powers, running around with Noah, staying up at night with the police scanner for company, and running out at odd hours to investigate any close-by reports. For an otherwise healthy adult male, that was a long freaking time. He had a metric shit-ton of unreleased, repressed sexual urges and somehow Sylar, someone he didn't think he'd fuck in a million years, had tapped into that.
Well, there was one sure solution to that. He walked into the apartment, dropped the bat over the arms of the wheelchair near the door, and headed for the bathroom. If part of the problem is how long it's been, I can fix that. He snagged a washcloth from the bathroom and walked back into the living area, loosening the drawstring enough to push his pants down some. He freed his now fully-erect cock, stroking it left-handedly as he stood there, mind divided between the image of Sylar's lusting eyes boring into his own, handsome face inches away, and the need to get some lotion - he'd seen some around here somewhere when he'd searched the place, but at the moment he couldn't quite focus enough to- The door opened. Oh fuck.
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Sylar freaked so hard he stood motionless, his eyes feeling like they were about to pop from his skull he was doing ‘deer in the headlights’ so well. That was his dick. What- He was-? Oh my God…When the bathroom door slammed after Peter fled the room, Sylar gracelessly shoved his things onto the table and collapsed in a chair. Oh my God…Breathe. That’s not…um…Wow.
Accidental (or even purposeful) nudity was against the Gray Household Commandments. Not so for nudist Peter Petrelli. He felt dirty just by being in the same room as…that. Sylar rubbed his forehead against the table, lifting it and dropping it lightly several times against the cold surface, pawing at his hair when he thought, I am so fucked up. Why did he get the feeling he’d caught a relative in a compromising position? He’s…He’s never gonna come out of there, he’ll flush himself down the drain or barricade himself in the sink. Part of him desperately wanted to unlive that moment, a smaller part was curious and it wasn’t getting much air time.
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Safely hidden in the bathroom, Peter tied off his sweatpants. In the face of fear and shame, his erection was fading fast. Shakily, he reached over and locked the door as quietly as possible, then put the toilet lid down and sat on top of it. Oh my fucking God, he saw that. HE SAW THAT! I am never going to live that down. 'Oh, yeah, Petrelli, you're not interested in me, huh? Then what were you doing right after all I did was stand too close to you, hm?' Peter could hear it now. Why the fuck didn't he knock?!? What the hell, Sylar? Rude much? I know this is all your head and you think you're king of everything, but what the fucking hell? Knock next time, Goddamnit!
Did I say something that indicated I wanted him back up here? Did I invite him? No! I didn't say shit. He left for his own fucking apartment. And I said … well, I don't think I said anything. I just went down to see if he was alive and okay, but … I said no to a nightcap. That doesn't mean he's got a free pass to come back up here and barge in while I'm … Jesus fucking Christ! Angrily, Peter threw the washcloth in the dirty clothes hamper.
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He’s fucked up. He’s so fucked up. Why would he do that? Just go waltzing around with his…Why would he do that to me? Why can’t he do things in private like a normal person?! Goddamnit! What am I supposed to do now? There is no right response for this, none. (Why was he erect?) Maybe he just does that at night…Unlikely…He hasn’t done that before that I know of. (It couldn’t have been…OhmyGod….) He wanted out. He wanted to curl up into a ball and stay there. Suddenly the whole ‘seduce Peter’ thing was very serious. The guy had been about to jerk off on something he’d done. On purpose.
(You really should have thought that through, Mr. Confidence). I did! I just didn’t think he’d respond at all and so…quickly. I thought…I’d have more time. (Congratulations, it worked. Get pretty because it’s only a matter of time). Shut up, let me think…Is he gonna blame me? I didn’t do that on purpose, how could I know? Its not like there’s a blinking light above his door when he’s…(I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!) Man up! It’s just a little dick. (It wasn’t that little…) Sylar made a muffled moan of distress into the table. He seriously considered leaving, shutting the door loudly on his way out to give the guy some (apparently much needed) privacy. But that was cowardly and it undermined his words of ‘interest’; he was so stuck. What he could do was make plenty of noise - (Should I make sounds like I’m…? He couldn’t work himself up to it) - in the kitchen. He closed cupboards noisily, opened and shut the fridge (to place the beers and pepperoni inside - there was no way he was snacking now). Noticing the bat, given their recent….encounter, Sylar hid the weapon behind the couch for his own safety. When he sat at the table again, he tried to turn the pages loudly.
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A succession of noises outside told Peter two things - Sylar was still there (dammit) and Sylar was noisily announcing that he was otherwise occupied and wasn't going to confront Peter. Because honestly, the worst thing Sylar could have done out there was stay dead silent, making Peter wonder what he'd have to deal with if he came out. If he could have stayed in the bathroom until Sylar left, he gladly would have, but that might take all night. Instead, he took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and into the guest room, which conveniently didn't require him to go out where he was guaranteed to be seen. He didn't look to see if Sylar happened to catch sight of him anyway, as he would if he were standing where he could see down the hall. Peter kept his head ducked and shut the guest room door behind him. A sigh of relief. He took off shoes and socks, then climbed in bed. He huddled alone, cold, bothered, and hyper alert until the stresses of the day combined with the warming of the blankets to send him into sleep.
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Sylar didn’t know what else to do other than go to bed. He didn’t know whether to expect Peter or not, for all he knew they guy was sleeping in the tub tonight. The bathroom door opened but from the sounds of things, Peter went to the guest bed and stayed there. Sylar had stopped reading and had since been zoning out while he waited for Peter to fall asleep. Maybe he was working himself up to fulfill his crazy need to sleep near Peter or maybe he was planning his elaborate suicide, death-by-hero. There was no sound or sight of the younger man - Sylar wondered if he was waiting for him in turn. Forty-five minutes of agonized internalization later, he removed his shoes, snagged a pillow (Peter was a pillow-hog), and padded into the guest room. The only light came from the kitchen and hall, which he stood in, but Peter didn’t move. Placing his book on the nightstand, he lifted the covers slowly and lowered himself into the same bed, facing Peter. With the door somewhat cracked open, he could see fluffy, dark eyelashes peaceful against the man’s cheek, that crooked mouth slack and drooling in sleep, making him look even younger and in need of protection. It killed any wayward perversions he might have had with a tired, ugly churn in his gut. Sylar tensed when Peter shifted away to make room for him and failed to wake as he replaced the covers around them both. Eventually he relaxed to the sound of the other’s breathing.
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Peter's left leg hurt. Ow. He didn't fully wake, though. He shifted, stretching his leg, rolling forward on his right side until he was touching someone, his leg over someone else's. Fingers snagged on cloth and he tried to toy with it. It seemed hard to do for some reason, like his fingers weren't cooperating. Oh … dream. Yeah, dream. He let himself fade back into stupor, ignoring the other incongruous datum about having his leg on somebody. But his subconscious didn't ignore that, industriously spinning a fantasy where he was fucking someone … or trying to … or going to. He wasn't real sure what he was doing or going to do because the dream was still coalescing in his mind with different phantasmal images trying to match themselves to the sensations he was getting. Groggily, he thought about reaching down with his hand, but that seemed like too much effort. He was getting plenty of contact already anyway.
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Something was pressing on Sylar as he slept. Initially it didn’t register as a non-dream contact but it grew closer, more insistent, more rhythmic. Sylar woke with his hands extended against Peter’s stomach and chest, pushing him away. The guy’s face was close to his and he started out of sleep and into wakefulness at the sight, much to the complaint of his skull. “Whummm…?” he protested, stunned into silence when he realized what had been poking and rubbing him. Once again it was Peter’s dick, hard and heat-seeking like a missile. Sleepily, he declined, “Nno.” No. Nope. No thanks. I gave at the office. Sylar pushed, hoping Peter would take the hint, awake or otherwise. When neither happened, Sylar retreated….and clacked his head against the bedside table. “Ow! Oww…” he whined, rubbing his already traumatized head. The whole event was entirely unexpected. Sleeping with someone was strange and clearly perilous. I just want to sleep; can’t it wait? I’ll…figure something out…Later. He stood up because he wasn’t getting any more sleep in a warm, erection-filled, occupied bed. Rubbing his face, he didn’t look at Peter, who was awake after all that, instead he shuffled out to the couch where he couldn’t be joined or prodded further. He curled up there, headache also aware enough to give him grief, attempting sleep again, alone this time, but he was jumpy and worried now.
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Peter stared. He blinked. It was dark, but not that dark that he didn't know what had just happened or who that really was. Besides, the world wasn't exactly overflowing with candidates to be in bed with him. What the fuck is he doing here? A nightmare? Am I having a nightmare? Am I just thinking I'm awake and I'm not? His fingers hooked into the sheets as Sylar stood up and casually moseyed his way out of the bedroom like he hadn't just been in bed with Peter. Like he hadn't very obviously put himself in bed with Peter. Peter was left speechless by the violation. I shut the door, right? I thought I shut the door! What the hell is he doing in here? I was … I was … with him … what was I doing? I was dreaming of sex. What did I do? How far … did I … He did a quick check of himself, but aside from what he suspected was a bit of precome, he was pretty sure he hadn't finished the job. What the hell is he doing in bed with me?!?
Anger suffused through him, shaking away the last dregs of drowsiness. Peter wanted to fight, now. I'm not safe. That asshole thinks he can barge into my room and get in bed with me and … and … I've told him I don't mind my own business! I'm not a platonic bed partner. What the fuck was he thinking? Asshole! He walked out into the hall, moving slowly out of caution, as he didn't know where Sylar had gone. He stared at the rumpled master bed in the dawn light, but it was empty. There! Sylar was on the couch, curled awkwardly in the corner, flashing Peter's mind back to the frightened huddle Sylar had adopted on his own couch shortly after Peter had forced his way into the guy's apartment to take care of him. It took a lot of the heat out of his temper. What if … he was asleep, too, and … and he's not in the mood and … his concussion … and he has that hang-up about sleep sounds or whatever and he didn't come in there to trick me into fucking him?
More of the anger faded. Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. He walked to the master bed, grabbing the last pillow on it and pulling off the top blanket. Wadding it up a bit, he walked over to Sylar, whose face looked particularly wan and pale given the lighting and his ever-darkening beard. Peter offered the pillow and blanket. He felt like he should apologize for molesting the guy, but he also felt like Sylar should apologize for … whatever you called what he'd done. Because Peter felt sort of violated by that, like he'd woke up to find Sylar had made Peter rub his dick on him. But it was complicated and he was still confused. Voice tight, “We're going to talk about this in the morning,” was all he trusted himself to say.
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Sylar’s eyes opened when he felt the other’s presence. He tensed, ready for hell to break loose, but didn’t move other than to track Peter’s approach with his lidded eyes. The relief was palpable when he saw the man held bedding, accepting it carefully when it was offered. “Okay, thanks, Mom,” he said without malice. He put the pillow in place and relaxed under the blanket as Peter left. Wonder why he did that…It was a possibility that Peter was chasing him, maybe to finish off or accuse him but instead he was made comfortable and was going to get a postponed lecture. Don’t think its necessary but whatever, he thought as he snugged in.
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Peter went back to the guest room, locking the door this time. Didn't I tell him something about shutting a door? Didn't we have this argument just a day or two ago? But his head is fucked up. Did he remember it? Maybe, maybe not. Does he sleepwalk? I don't know. Was I having a nightmare earlier and don't remember it and he came in like he did before and that's how he got in here? He climbed back in bed, letting worried questions prowl around in his head for the next hour or so. There was no way he was going back to sleep.
Eventually, he got up quietly, put on his socks and shoes, and left the apartment with as little disturbance as possible.
Peter scouted through other apartments until he found a box of pancake mix. He shaved and showered while he was out. They were both quick affairs. The shower got his brace wet because he'd still been so unsettled as to have forgotten about his need to wrap it. He remembered once he was wet; it was too late. He found a toothbrush to label as his own and used it. Feeling more presentable (if he was going to have a throw-down with Sylar about boundaries, he wanted to feel like a human being for it), he gathered up the pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup, returning to their joint apartment. He knocked and made a point to wait until he heard some form of welcome from within.
Day 16, December 26, Morning
Sylar started. He was warm but the couch wasn’t ideal for sleeping. “Hu- huh?” he croaked at first, then solidified his voice louder. What’s going on? Why the fuck is he knocking? He knows what I’m doing. Opening his eyes the bare minimum, he saw Peter coming into the apartment, carrying things. He scowled and pulled the blanket over his head, signaling his unreadiness.
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Peter put his things down in the kitchen, then leaned on the counter while he took his brace off. He was slow and careful, but still hissed a little on the final removal. It was swollen - that was unavoidable - but it wasn't discolored, which was the main thing he was checking for. Well, it was dirty. He retrieved a clean dishtowel to scrub at the faint lines of soiling that marked his skin around the edges of the brace. He'd had it on continuously for most of a week now. Setting the wet brace aside, he wiggled the fingers he felt were safe to wiggle and then went about one-handedly preparing to cook, assembling ingredients and equipment to make sure he had everything before he got started.
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“Ooh…” A few moments later Sylar complained at the noise and the hovering presence that prevented rest of any kind. Since Peter wasn’t pestering him, he peeled the blanket back, breaking an arm out to cool off a little, too. He watched Peter as he moved about the kitchen, thinking about last night and the possible threat of the impending discussion. He absorbed himself in observing the other man’s motions, being pleasantly lazy. So…I saw his dick, didn’t see it real well, though…I think he got hard after…the hallway. While his memory may have been selective with the concussion, he remembered that quite clearly. He’s not freaking out. Yet; but it’s hard to tell if I’m in trouble.
Shifting to sit up, he felt how dirty his clothes were. He couldn’t remember, and didn’t want to, how long it had been since he’d changed. If he started to smell…As much as he liked to wear what he’d claimed as his own clothes, there would be more in this apartment building. Peter had changed, hadn’t he? The sweat pants now gracing his round backside. Which I’m not looking at. Raising his eyes, he quietly asked, ”Peter, are there- is-is there more clothes in the room?”
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“Yeah. Don’t know if they’ll fit you, but yeah. Men’s stuff in the master bedroom, women’s in the guest.” Peter was pretty sure he had everything he needed to make the meal. He reread the instructions to be sure.
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“’Kay. I’m gonna…get some clothes.” I’ll keep mine. I should take a bath. Sylar didn’t feel like expending the effort and aggravating his head more. Sponge bath. I should tease Peter about it. Instead he went to the dresser in the master bedroom and found the last pair of sweats; they were a ridiculously bright medium blue color but it would do for now. He took those and a white tee-shirt and socks to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet seat and gave himself a lousy sponge bath wipe-down. It ended up riling his headache anyway, leaning down and all. Sylar noticed a pair of Peter’s underwear hanging on the towel rack and stared at them for a moment. He got off anyway, after that? Does getting caught do it for him? That would explain a few things. Ditching his own undergarments and socks, he dressed in the apartment owner’s clothes; they were probably, mostly clean after three years and his skin was now clean. Combing his hair, he reminded himself that they needed a razor of some sort, and toothbrushes because he knew he was an unfit mess and he was extremely unhappy with that. Resigned, he emerged to see about drinks in the kitchen.
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“Hope you like pancakes,” Peter said with a glance over his shoulder as Sylar entered the kitchen. Peter turned forward again to watch the progress of the last cake and blinked a few times. Wait a second … what did I just see? His mind’s eye played over the visual of Sylar in way too tight of a t-shirt and between it and the sweat pants was a jarring, eye-drawing inch of exposed, darkly-furred stomach. Peter’s brain had helpfully taken a snapshot. He pulled his head down a little, forcing himself not to look again. And maybe ogle. It would surely look like ogling, especially after last night and he didn’t want that. Did he dress that way so I’d ogle him? No … I don’t think so. I think he’s just hard up for clothes.
Peter cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off the subject of Sylar’s sartorial choices and what might be under them. “So, uh, how do you feel this morning?”
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Hmm, pancakes sounded good. It had been a while since he’d made them for himself, probably too much a creature of habit. Sylar moved around Peter and the stove, approaching the fridge for the milk, which he poured into respective glasses. He glanced up from placing the glasses on the table. Tired. I was sleeping on someone else’s wood this morning. ‘Not today, honey…’ “I have a headache.” He asked to feel out the other man’s mood and determine how the inevitable discussion would go, “You?” Another kitchen-to-table trip brought back utensils.
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“Still sore, but laying around most of yesterday was a big help. The muscles are tight and they hurt, but it doesn't have that watery, weak feeling anymore.” Peter suspected that was more than Sylar wanted to know, so he stopped there and carried the plate of pancakes over to the table. He still had half the batter left, but he’d already made more cakes than he thought they’d eat. “I want to talk a little about the Zofran,” he said, changing the subject back to Sylar. “It’s for nausea. They use it standard for patients coming out of anesthesia or going through chemotherapy. It will help you eat more. If it would help me convince you to take it, I’ll take some as well. I got injective because when I was at the hospital, I was thinking about your current condition, and not how you’d be in a couple days. It works just the same, but faster.”
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They sat but Sylar tensed at the subject. More drugs. “Come on, Peter. I already let you do the IV…” he protested, because that was seriously pushing the boundaries of his trust. He was fine as near as he could tell but there was such thing as slow poisoning and similar obstructions to his wellness. If he wasn’t sick now, it would still count against Peter if he’d lied and there was something harmful in the solution. Good, Sylar thought when Peter offered to take the same medicine. “If you do it first….I’ll let you.” It’s in his best interest, too. The last time he drugged me…I woke up as his brother, his real brother. Peter made a face but went to get the equipment. When he returned, Sylar teased, “You’re lucky I’m not squeamish - needles might make me lose my appetite before I can eat.” His arm was bare already with the short sleeves of the snug tee-shirt so he had nothing to do but watch as he waited for Peter to load up a pair of syringes, tourniquet and inject himself with one of them. He made sure the plunger depressed. Isn’t he supposed to clean everything before he does that? Sylar had hated giving himself even one injection, Mohinder and Claire’s compound; Peter handled it like it was nothing. He did do drugs for fun.
Trust and truth proven, Sylar proffered his left arm on the table, within easy reach. At least Peter at the decency to use a separate syringe. The nurse went about the same process to inject Sylar, under observation. “One of the techs in Level Five came to give me an IV once; she forgot to cap off the other end so it wasn’t connected to the tube,” he snorted with false humor, “Got blood everywhere. Another one was stupid enough to stick the needle in my hand - she was new; took her ten minutes of rooting and grinding around in my hand before she said it was too swollen and had to get her supervisor. The rest of them mostly poke around a dozen times until they get a vein.” Sylar shook his head, “At least you know what you’re doing.” Peter wasn’t real chatty and Sylar hated being dealt with like an animal at a vet or worse, a prisoner in a Nazi camp, so he did the talking, sharing a minor, relevant story. Perhaps he was trying to avoid the ‘discussion.’ Finished, Sylar turned back to the food, snagging several pancakes covering them with butter that quickly melted before coating them in syrup. He was hungry, his stomach roiling, but the idea of pancakes was one he was going to stomach regardless. “And you can cook,” he praised after his first delicious mouthful.
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Peter's mouth dropped open briefly; his expression softened and cleared. “Thank you,” he said, obviously moved by the double compliment. It made him feel better about the lack of trust Sylar showed by wanting Peter to take the drug as well. A few seconds passed while he forked over a couple of his own pancakes. “The two things they really hammer on for paramedics is IV skills and intubation, under any and all circumstances. You have good veins. Whoever was working on you wasn't competent. I guess, on a somewhat good note, it's nice to imagine the people on Level Five maybe don't have enough patients to get practiced at it.” He added syrup, skipping butter, and ate a few bites in quiet.
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Sylar quirked a brow. I have good veins? Huh. “Needles were not the worst thing they put in me there,” he clarified, knowing he was lucky it hadn’t been a penis or two. Instead it was drugs, wires, tubes and shunts, mainly, maybe the food. On the subject, he held his fork and paused, “Hey, wait, um…does this drug have…side-effects? Do I have to wait to eat or avoid stuff?” It wasn’t like he’d ever had anti-nausea medication before, but basic pill instructions he could remember - because Mom didn’t read the label directions.
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“No. That's one of the reasons why I picked it - it's mild and has no side effects statistically different from a placebo.” Peter held up his own arm, the one he'd injected. “That's why I didn't mind taking it myself. It's safe.” Peter knew he was very slightly distorting reality, but they weren't in reality and more importantly, the difference that existed was significant to statisticians only. The messy truth of medicine was that it rarely cured anything directly - it was just better than the alternative. He was sure there was probably some deep meaning in that, but for now, he devoted his attention to the pancakes, skipping the butter and using syrup alone.
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Assuming the nausea left, he’d only have to deal with the massive headache that still plagued him. The hip, thigh and toe pain lingered, but his back was alright so long as he avoided the couch, which seemed likely. As Peter ate, focused on food, Sylar smirked at him. He really has no idea what I’m capable of, does he? Just…going about his way, eating breakfast like an innocent. But he’s not innocent, is he now? As good a boy as Peter might be, tried to be, thought he was, well, Sylar knew otherwise. Somehow the not-knowing which, angel or demon, he was going to end up with was exciting.
The nausea decreased and he was able to finally eat more as the pancakes tempted him. They were mostly quiet as they ate, either a lingering embarrassment or growing comfort in the other’s company, or maybe it was just the process of eating. Funny how that went easier without nausea and Petrelli disturbances.
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Peter kept an eye on how much Sylar ate - not by staring at him, but by simply watching the stack of pancakes. Sylar put away what for a man of his size was acceptable - assuming he wanted to lose weight, but not a lot. It was enough food that Peter didn't argue it. 'Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this?' drifted through his mind. He tried to ignore it, or at least learn from it. When Sylar made a few of those 'I'm done' motions after finishing his last bite, Peter nodded and stood up, declining to wolf down the last pancake and certainly not trying to force it on his companion. He fetched the bottle of painkillers, taking his own dose before doling out pills for Sylar.
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Sylar took the pills and downed them without fuss. So far Peter hadn’t led him wrong as far as medical treatment, which was surprisingly helping him feel better. Maybe he just doesn’t want me whining about being in pain, that was certainly motive to shut him up. When younger man asked if he was finished; he stood and helped clean up, food and dishes, giving the nurse a pat on the shoulder as he turned away from the sink. Sylar wandered into the living room, trying to kick-start his brain into planning where he should rest and what he should do - what Peter was going to do. Should I read or sleep? Will he let me sleep? Either way, Sylar went to the couch and sprawled there.
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Peter looked back after the shoulder pat, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. That was friendly. What's that mean? Has he … has he ever done something like that before? Touched me, patted, anything? Nothing came to mind, aside from a few less-than-platonic-seeming caresses in the course of helping him with his brace or giving him a clumsy physical exam. Is that because he was in bed with me this morning? Or was he in bed with me because he's feeling friendlier? Peter turned back to the sink with a sharp shake of his head. He wasn't in bed because he felt 'friendly'; he was in bed with me because he was hor- wait, if he was horny, then why did he leave? And stay gone, too? The question of what Sylar was after circled around in Peter's brain as he rinsed dishes, taking his time at it. When he was done, he tucked the still-damp brace under his arm, snagged the dishtowel, and walked over to the living area where Sylar was reclining.
“Hey. I wasn't in a listening mood a couple hours ago. I think I'm in more of one now. Tell me about this morning. I want to understand.”
XXX
That caught him flat-footed. The subject was this morning, not last night. Sylar lifted his head, not liking his position with Peter standing over him. “What about it? I was sleeping,” he defended. “It’s not like that’s abnormal for you.” Sylar looked him over, highly doubting that last part. “There’s nothing to tell.” What could I have to say? Why do I have to explain myself? I don’t know why we have to talk about it.
XXX
That's not abnormal? What's not abnormal - me sleeping, or me waking up snuggling on him? Or more than snuggling, I guess. Peter wasn't keen on admitting to what exactly he'd been doing when he woke, even to himself. “No, when you were in bed with me. What was going on there?” He took a seat in the chair easiest for Sylar to see from his position, pulling out the brace and scrubbing at it with the towel, hoping to dry it a tiny bit more before putting it back on.
XXX
“I don’t know about you, but I was sleeping - trying to. It’s not my fault you picked a small bed.” That sounded lame even to his ears, ‘you didn’t come to bed, dear…’ He had better not try to pin that on me; him….doing that. “I have a concussion and even if I was going to make a move, it wouldn’t be while you’re asleep at oh-dark-thirty in the morning. You wanted some and I said it was fine, no big deal,” he shrugged it off.
XXX
I wanted some? I wanted some!? Peter's head snapped up at that, teeth clenched. With an effort, he pressed his lips shut and went back to dabbing at the brace, using more pressure that was probably necessary. Calm the fuck down, Peter. He's trying to upset you. That's obvious. Also, wait … he said it was fine? No big deal? All I remember him saying is 'ow' and leaving.
XXX
While Peter digested that, working up a reply, Sylar thought to interrogate a little himself, “Did you finish, either time?” A hooked thumb towards the bathroom, “The underwear…”
XXX
“What about the underwear?” Peter asked after a moment to figure out what Sylar was saying. Because yeah, he remembered taking them off the morning after the adventure to the hospital. He glanced in the direction of the bathroom. He figured they were still in there. “What of it? We're practically living together. My underwear has to be somewhere,” he said, declining to address what Sylar was getting at.
XXX
Yeah, but usually your underwear is on you. “I’m just curious,” Sylar worked up a slight one-sided smirk, “Just want to know how easy your trigger is; want to know what I’m dealing with here.”
XXX
Peter's brows rose. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and opened up the brace. Voice tight and teeth a little bared, he said, “How 'easy my trigger is' shouldn't be any of your business. I had the door shut. I didn't invite you in. But I wake up and you're in bed with me.” Peter's jaw clenched and popped audibly, making him wince and nearly derailing the conversation (or at least his side of it). The stab of pain ruined the 'I'm incredibly angry about this' expression he had going there for a moment. He rubbed at it tensely, pulling his thoughts back together.
“Sylar ...” He sighed, rubbing more gently at the corner of his jaw as he let the anger die down and got at the unease that had been fueling it. “I am … you are … Listen, we gotta be safe in our own beds. Beds, sleeping, should be a no-fighting zone. And a no-taking-advantage-of-each-other zone, for both of us. When I first came here, you didn't get to see this, but I was barricading myself in my apartment at night. You want to hear me sleep, or whatever?” He stared at Sylar intently for a few seconds, “Give me some space. Stay out of my bed. Because if I don't think I'm going to stay alone after I fall asleep, then I'm not going to let my defenses down anywhere close to you.”
XXX
Sylar stared back, upset and showing it at the anger directed at him. It was distressing, especially since he was innocent and hearing his companion had barricaded himself away for safety without provocation. Who’s fighting? I didn’t do anything! I can’t even be upset he was…rubbing on me? Giving him space isn’t fair! He gets what he wants and I get nothing! Everything about the last two weeks grew to a head - not being alone, Peter appearing, being real, supposedly; Peter avoiding him, moving away…picking fights…breaking in…taking care of him, seeing him with his pants down, sleeping with him but always holding him at arms length, making excuses, making it out that Sylar was at fault…The mental (and emotional) rings he’d run around Peter had exhausted his barriers. It boiled down to his inability to get his desires met - even the platonic, small ones. It made him feel like so much used trash.
“I didn’t…do anything,” he breathed, feeling something tickling his temple. The boy who cried wolf. Peter was never going to believe he was innocent in anything, not with the evidence and motive stacked behind them both. Inhaling raggedly, he insisted because he had no other choice, “We were both sleeping. Nothing happened. I just wanted to hear you b-breathe…” It was then he noticed his nose was stuffed up, his vision hazy. Brushing a quick hand over his face, feeling the warm moisture trailing to and from his eyes; Sylar blinked in surprise at his hand then stood there, aimless for a moment. “You can’t keep making promises and agreements you’re not going to keep, Peter. It’s hard enough to believe you now.” Trying to, desperate to believe Peter he was. Hand pushing his completely scruffy hair back, he remembered where he’d laid his book.
Continued...
Day 15, December 25, Evening.
Immediately, Sylar was both impressed, proud, and disappointed when Peter held his own. He was close enough to smell the booze on Peter’s breath. Perfect, we’re both buzzed. His body was aching for something; he just couldn’t name it. Or he didn’t want to. Hence nearly standing in Peter’s shoes. The man’s head pulled back to gain height and at first glance it looked like he was going to…kiss. Sylar nearly took that as an offer then and there, hesitating to be sure, but he didn’t break eye contact since that seemed to be what Peter was demanding and he wasn’t going to back down from a staring contest. He was so close; his hand literally on a man who wasn’t moving away, fighting, or emoting disgust. This was a test of his self-control and of Peter’s resolve. But, Christ, if temptation wasn’t screaming at him right now. Mind in overdrive to rationalize a way around a direct negative, he appealed with a lilt that was a hinting question, “So…no on the nightcap.”
XXX
He's going to take no for an answer. Peter was sure of it now and that eased a tension inside of him. He relaxed a little, happier, breathing deepening. “No.”
XXX
Sylar didn’t move away. (He said no). I heard him. I heard him and I want to ignore him. (But he said he trusts me! You know this isn’t going to work). But it will feel good…He wants it or he’d move away! His jaw clenched. He glanced at Peter’s mouth then away with some shame. Entertaining fantasies was only going to hurt in him in the long run. He didn’t want to kiss Peter after all; that would be weird; he just wanted…This wasn’t going to be an arrangement that allowed kissing anyway. There was no attraction and his due was retribution, not reward. His hand slid from the man’s shoulder to the wall, which he used to push off from, putting a few inches between them, loath to give any more space; his pride prevented it. Backing off just wasn’t his thing, not when his prey stood still and looked him in the eye, so assured and defiant. That challenge alone ate away at him but he had to leave it…untouched.
XXX
Sylar was still standing there, breathing on him, looking at him, looking at his lips for Christ's sake, respecting his wishes, and looking so damned desirous of him that Peter felt a flash of goose-bumps and a warming across his face that he knew was a blush. He was feeling other things, too, as an awareness of an increased weightiness at his groin impinged on him. Fuck. I'm wearing sweats! They don't conceal shit. Don't look down. Don't look down, Sylar. Don't look down. Peter moved away all of a single step, blinking a few times and glancing past Sylar at the open door to the apartment, trying to mentally will Sylar to go away without any last 'scoping out' that might reveal Peter was tenting his pants like an oversexed teenager. It was just biology, Peter knew, but it was also awkward as hell and he didn't look forward to trying to convince Sylar that a boner did not mean he wanted him.
XXX
Sylar consoled himself as he turned and entered his temporary apartment, I have new information.
Peter didn’t follow him in as Sylar went to the couch to gather his book and pepperoni. He took a pair of beers in case Peter changed his mind. The nurse was gone, unsurprisingly. Turning the reason for the disappearance over in his mind, he hobbled close to the wall down the empty hallway to the elevator, which was returning to his floor. He took Peter’s search and discovery as some kind of invitation and didn’t give it another thought. Moving so much and standing felt good after lying down most of the day (especially to relieve any aroused jitters) and it felt homicidal to his headache. Opening the door was a slight hassle - food, beer cans, and book - but he made it, no thanks to Peter. He couldn’t leave the door op- And then he saw why.
XXX
Relieved beyond measure when Sylar went back into his apartment without incident or southward glances, Peter strode off down the hallway. Good. Fine. That takes care of that. He's okay. I'm okay. He'll sleep down here. I'll sleep up there. It was settled. The elevator doors shut behind Peter and he slumped against the wall, leaning the bat in the corner so he could rub at the unwanted half-staff erection that wasn't nearly so obvious as Peter had feared. But as to what had caused it … oh yeah … Sylar wanting him had tripped over from 'scary' to 'sexy' in a heartbeat when Peter figured out the guy wasn't going to push it. And how long had it been since Peter had jerked off, anyway? Assuming nocturnal emissions didn't count, he hadn't since he'd gotten inside of Sylar's head, which even if subjective, it still felt like more than two weeks. And he hadn't since Thanksgiving, or rather, the day before at the very least. He couldn't remember the last time before that, as the days and weeks had run together with a blur of extra shifts at work, swapping powers, running around with Noah, staying up at night with the police scanner for company, and running out at odd hours to investigate any close-by reports. For an otherwise healthy adult male, that was a long freaking time. He had a metric shit-ton of unreleased, repressed sexual urges and somehow Sylar, someone he didn't think he'd fuck in a million years, had tapped into that.
Well, there was one sure solution to that. He walked into the apartment, dropped the bat over the arms of the wheelchair near the door, and headed for the bathroom. If part of the problem is how long it's been, I can fix that. He snagged a washcloth from the bathroom and walked back into the living area, loosening the drawstring enough to push his pants down some. He freed his now fully-erect cock, stroking it left-handedly as he stood there, mind divided between the image of Sylar's lusting eyes boring into his own, handsome face inches away, and the need to get some lotion - he'd seen some around here somewhere when he'd searched the place, but at the moment he couldn't quite focus enough to- The door opened. Oh fuck.
XXX
Sylar freaked so hard he stood motionless, his eyes feeling like they were about to pop from his skull he was doing ‘deer in the headlights’ so well. That was his dick. What- He was-? Oh my God…When the bathroom door slammed after Peter fled the room, Sylar gracelessly shoved his things onto the table and collapsed in a chair. Oh my God…Breathe. That’s not…um…Wow.
Accidental (or even purposeful) nudity was against the Gray Household Commandments. Not so for nudist Peter Petrelli. He felt dirty just by being in the same room as…that. Sylar rubbed his forehead against the table, lifting it and dropping it lightly several times against the cold surface, pawing at his hair when he thought, I am so fucked up. Why did he get the feeling he’d caught a relative in a compromising position? He’s…He’s never gonna come out of there, he’ll flush himself down the drain or barricade himself in the sink. Part of him desperately wanted to unlive that moment, a smaller part was curious and it wasn’t getting much air time.
XXX
Safely hidden in the bathroom, Peter tied off his sweatpants. In the face of fear and shame, his erection was fading fast. Shakily, he reached over and locked the door as quietly as possible, then put the toilet lid down and sat on top of it. Oh my fucking God, he saw that. HE SAW THAT! I am never going to live that down. 'Oh, yeah, Petrelli, you're not interested in me, huh? Then what were you doing right after all I did was stand too close to you, hm?' Peter could hear it now. Why the fuck didn't he knock?!? What the hell, Sylar? Rude much? I know this is all your head and you think you're king of everything, but what the fucking hell? Knock next time, Goddamnit!
Did I say something that indicated I wanted him back up here? Did I invite him? No! I didn't say shit. He left for his own fucking apartment. And I said … well, I don't think I said anything. I just went down to see if he was alive and okay, but … I said no to a nightcap. That doesn't mean he's got a free pass to come back up here and barge in while I'm … Jesus fucking Christ! Angrily, Peter threw the washcloth in the dirty clothes hamper.
XXX
He’s fucked up. He’s so fucked up. Why would he do that? Just go waltzing around with his…Why would he do that to me? Why can’t he do things in private like a normal person?! Goddamnit! What am I supposed to do now? There is no right response for this, none. (Why was he erect?) Maybe he just does that at night…Unlikely…He hasn’t done that before that I know of. (It couldn’t have been…OhmyGod….) He wanted out. He wanted to curl up into a ball and stay there. Suddenly the whole ‘seduce Peter’ thing was very serious. The guy had been about to jerk off on something he’d done. On purpose.
(You really should have thought that through, Mr. Confidence). I did! I just didn’t think he’d respond at all and so…quickly. I thought…I’d have more time. (Congratulations, it worked. Get pretty because it’s only a matter of time). Shut up, let me think…Is he gonna blame me? I didn’t do that on purpose, how could I know? Its not like there’s a blinking light above his door when he’s…(I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!) Man up! It’s just a little dick. (It wasn’t that little…) Sylar made a muffled moan of distress into the table. He seriously considered leaving, shutting the door loudly on his way out to give the guy some (apparently much needed) privacy. But that was cowardly and it undermined his words of ‘interest’; he was so stuck. What he could do was make plenty of noise - (Should I make sounds like I’m…? He couldn’t work himself up to it) - in the kitchen. He closed cupboards noisily, opened and shut the fridge (to place the beers and pepperoni inside - there was no way he was snacking now). Noticing the bat, given their recent….encounter, Sylar hid the weapon behind the couch for his own safety. When he sat at the table again, he tried to turn the pages loudly.
XXX
A succession of noises outside told Peter two things - Sylar was still there (dammit) and Sylar was noisily announcing that he was otherwise occupied and wasn't going to confront Peter. Because honestly, the worst thing Sylar could have done out there was stay dead silent, making Peter wonder what he'd have to deal with if he came out. If he could have stayed in the bathroom until Sylar left, he gladly would have, but that might take all night. Instead, he took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and into the guest room, which conveniently didn't require him to go out where he was guaranteed to be seen. He didn't look to see if Sylar happened to catch sight of him anyway, as he would if he were standing where he could see down the hall. Peter kept his head ducked and shut the guest room door behind him. A sigh of relief. He took off shoes and socks, then climbed in bed. He huddled alone, cold, bothered, and hyper alert until the stresses of the day combined with the warming of the blankets to send him into sleep.
XXX
Sylar didn’t know what else to do other than go to bed. He didn’t know whether to expect Peter or not, for all he knew they guy was sleeping in the tub tonight. The bathroom door opened but from the sounds of things, Peter went to the guest bed and stayed there. Sylar had stopped reading and had since been zoning out while he waited for Peter to fall asleep. Maybe he was working himself up to fulfill his crazy need to sleep near Peter or maybe he was planning his elaborate suicide, death-by-hero. There was no sound or sight of the younger man - Sylar wondered if he was waiting for him in turn. Forty-five minutes of agonized internalization later, he removed his shoes, snagged a pillow (Peter was a pillow-hog), and padded into the guest room. The only light came from the kitchen and hall, which he stood in, but Peter didn’t move. Placing his book on the nightstand, he lifted the covers slowly and lowered himself into the same bed, facing Peter. With the door somewhat cracked open, he could see fluffy, dark eyelashes peaceful against the man’s cheek, that crooked mouth slack and drooling in sleep, making him look even younger and in need of protection. It killed any wayward perversions he might have had with a tired, ugly churn in his gut. Sylar tensed when Peter shifted away to make room for him and failed to wake as he replaced the covers around them both. Eventually he relaxed to the sound of the other’s breathing.
XXX
Peter's left leg hurt. Ow. He didn't fully wake, though. He shifted, stretching his leg, rolling forward on his right side until he was touching someone, his leg over someone else's. Fingers snagged on cloth and he tried to toy with it. It seemed hard to do for some reason, like his fingers weren't cooperating. Oh … dream. Yeah, dream. He let himself fade back into stupor, ignoring the other incongruous datum about having his leg on somebody. But his subconscious didn't ignore that, industriously spinning a fantasy where he was fucking someone … or trying to … or going to. He wasn't real sure what he was doing or going to do because the dream was still coalescing in his mind with different phantasmal images trying to match themselves to the sensations he was getting. Groggily, he thought about reaching down with his hand, but that seemed like too much effort. He was getting plenty of contact already anyway.
XXX
Something was pressing on Sylar as he slept. Initially it didn’t register as a non-dream contact but it grew closer, more insistent, more rhythmic. Sylar woke with his hands extended against Peter’s stomach and chest, pushing him away. The guy’s face was close to his and he started out of sleep and into wakefulness at the sight, much to the complaint of his skull. “Whummm…?” he protested, stunned into silence when he realized what had been poking and rubbing him. Once again it was Peter’s dick, hard and heat-seeking like a missile. Sleepily, he declined, “Nno.” No. Nope. No thanks. I gave at the office. Sylar pushed, hoping Peter would take the hint, awake or otherwise. When neither happened, Sylar retreated….and clacked his head against the bedside table. “Ow! Oww…” he whined, rubbing his already traumatized head. The whole event was entirely unexpected. Sleeping with someone was strange and clearly perilous. I just want to sleep; can’t it wait? I’ll…figure something out…Later. He stood up because he wasn’t getting any more sleep in a warm, erection-filled, occupied bed. Rubbing his face, he didn’t look at Peter, who was awake after all that, instead he shuffled out to the couch where he couldn’t be joined or prodded further. He curled up there, headache also aware enough to give him grief, attempting sleep again, alone this time, but he was jumpy and worried now.
XXX
Peter stared. He blinked. It was dark, but not that dark that he didn't know what had just happened or who that really was. Besides, the world wasn't exactly overflowing with candidates to be in bed with him. What the fuck is he doing here? A nightmare? Am I having a nightmare? Am I just thinking I'm awake and I'm not? His fingers hooked into the sheets as Sylar stood up and casually moseyed his way out of the bedroom like he hadn't just been in bed with Peter. Like he hadn't very obviously put himself in bed with Peter. Peter was left speechless by the violation. I shut the door, right? I thought I shut the door! What the hell is he doing in here? I was … I was … with him … what was I doing? I was dreaming of sex. What did I do? How far … did I … He did a quick check of himself, but aside from what he suspected was a bit of precome, he was pretty sure he hadn't finished the job. What the hell is he doing in bed with me?!?
Anger suffused through him, shaking away the last dregs of drowsiness. Peter wanted to fight, now. I'm not safe. That asshole thinks he can barge into my room and get in bed with me and … and … I've told him I don't mind my own business! I'm not a platonic bed partner. What the fuck was he thinking? Asshole! He walked out into the hall, moving slowly out of caution, as he didn't know where Sylar had gone. He stared at the rumpled master bed in the dawn light, but it was empty. There! Sylar was on the couch, curled awkwardly in the corner, flashing Peter's mind back to the frightened huddle Sylar had adopted on his own couch shortly after Peter had forced his way into the guy's apartment to take care of him. It took a lot of the heat out of his temper. What if … he was asleep, too, and … and he's not in the mood and … his concussion … and he has that hang-up about sleep sounds or whatever and he didn't come in there to trick me into fucking him?
More of the anger faded. Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. He walked to the master bed, grabbing the last pillow on it and pulling off the top blanket. Wadding it up a bit, he walked over to Sylar, whose face looked particularly wan and pale given the lighting and his ever-darkening beard. Peter offered the pillow and blanket. He felt like he should apologize for molesting the guy, but he also felt like Sylar should apologize for … whatever you called what he'd done. Because Peter felt sort of violated by that, like he'd woke up to find Sylar had made Peter rub his dick on him. But it was complicated and he was still confused. Voice tight, “We're going to talk about this in the morning,” was all he trusted himself to say.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes opened when he felt the other’s presence. He tensed, ready for hell to break loose, but didn’t move other than to track Peter’s approach with his lidded eyes. The relief was palpable when he saw the man held bedding, accepting it carefully when it was offered. “Okay, thanks, Mom,” he said without malice. He put the pillow in place and relaxed under the blanket as Peter left. Wonder why he did that…It was a possibility that Peter was chasing him, maybe to finish off or accuse him but instead he was made comfortable and was going to get a postponed lecture. Don’t think its necessary but whatever, he thought as he snugged in.
XXX
Peter went back to the guest room, locking the door this time. Didn't I tell him something about shutting a door? Didn't we have this argument just a day or two ago? But his head is fucked up. Did he remember it? Maybe, maybe not. Does he sleepwalk? I don't know. Was I having a nightmare earlier and don't remember it and he came in like he did before and that's how he got in here? He climbed back in bed, letting worried questions prowl around in his head for the next hour or so. There was no way he was going back to sleep.
Eventually, he got up quietly, put on his socks and shoes, and left the apartment with as little disturbance as possible.
Peter scouted through other apartments until he found a box of pancake mix. He shaved and showered while he was out. They were both quick affairs. The shower got his brace wet because he'd still been so unsettled as to have forgotten about his need to wrap it. He remembered once he was wet; it was too late. He found a toothbrush to label as his own and used it. Feeling more presentable (if he was going to have a throw-down with Sylar about boundaries, he wanted to feel like a human being for it), he gathered up the pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup, returning to their joint apartment. He knocked and made a point to wait until he heard some form of welcome from within.
Day 16, December 26, Morning
Sylar started. He was warm but the couch wasn’t ideal for sleeping. “Hu- huh?” he croaked at first, then solidified his voice louder. What’s going on? Why the fuck is he knocking? He knows what I’m doing. Opening his eyes the bare minimum, he saw Peter coming into the apartment, carrying things. He scowled and pulled the blanket over his head, signaling his unreadiness.
XXX
Peter put his things down in the kitchen, then leaned on the counter while he took his brace off. He was slow and careful, but still hissed a little on the final removal. It was swollen - that was unavoidable - but it wasn't discolored, which was the main thing he was checking for. Well, it was dirty. He retrieved a clean dishtowel to scrub at the faint lines of soiling that marked his skin around the edges of the brace. He'd had it on continuously for most of a week now. Setting the wet brace aside, he wiggled the fingers he felt were safe to wiggle and then went about one-handedly preparing to cook, assembling ingredients and equipment to make sure he had everything before he got started.
XXX
“Ooh…” A few moments later Sylar complained at the noise and the hovering presence that prevented rest of any kind. Since Peter wasn’t pestering him, he peeled the blanket back, breaking an arm out to cool off a little, too. He watched Peter as he moved about the kitchen, thinking about last night and the possible threat of the impending discussion. He absorbed himself in observing the other man’s motions, being pleasantly lazy. So…I saw his dick, didn’t see it real well, though…I think he got hard after…the hallway. While his memory may have been selective with the concussion, he remembered that quite clearly. He’s not freaking out. Yet; but it’s hard to tell if I’m in trouble.
Shifting to sit up, he felt how dirty his clothes were. He couldn’t remember, and didn’t want to, how long it had been since he’d changed. If he started to smell…As much as he liked to wear what he’d claimed as his own clothes, there would be more in this apartment building. Peter had changed, hadn’t he? The sweat pants now gracing his round backside. Which I’m not looking at. Raising his eyes, he quietly asked, ”Peter, are there- is-is there more clothes in the room?”
XXX
“Yeah. Don’t know if they’ll fit you, but yeah. Men’s stuff in the master bedroom, women’s in the guest.” Peter was pretty sure he had everything he needed to make the meal. He reread the instructions to be sure.
XXX
“’Kay. I’m gonna…get some clothes.” I’ll keep mine. I should take a bath. Sylar didn’t feel like expending the effort and aggravating his head more. Sponge bath. I should tease Peter about it. Instead he went to the dresser in the master bedroom and found the last pair of sweats; they were a ridiculously bright medium blue color but it would do for now. He took those and a white tee-shirt and socks to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet seat and gave himself a lousy sponge bath wipe-down. It ended up riling his headache anyway, leaning down and all. Sylar noticed a pair of Peter’s underwear hanging on the towel rack and stared at them for a moment. He got off anyway, after that? Does getting caught do it for him? That would explain a few things. Ditching his own undergarments and socks, he dressed in the apartment owner’s clothes; they were probably, mostly clean after three years and his skin was now clean. Combing his hair, he reminded himself that they needed a razor of some sort, and toothbrushes because he knew he was an unfit mess and he was extremely unhappy with that. Resigned, he emerged to see about drinks in the kitchen.
XXX
“Hope you like pancakes,” Peter said with a glance over his shoulder as Sylar entered the kitchen. Peter turned forward again to watch the progress of the last cake and blinked a few times. Wait a second … what did I just see? His mind’s eye played over the visual of Sylar in way too tight of a t-shirt and between it and the sweat pants was a jarring, eye-drawing inch of exposed, darkly-furred stomach. Peter’s brain had helpfully taken a snapshot. He pulled his head down a little, forcing himself not to look again. And maybe ogle. It would surely look like ogling, especially after last night and he didn’t want that. Did he dress that way so I’d ogle him? No … I don’t think so. I think he’s just hard up for clothes.
Peter cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off the subject of Sylar’s sartorial choices and what might be under them. “So, uh, how do you feel this morning?”
XXX
Hmm, pancakes sounded good. It had been a while since he’d made them for himself, probably too much a creature of habit. Sylar moved around Peter and the stove, approaching the fridge for the milk, which he poured into respective glasses. He glanced up from placing the glasses on the table. Tired. I was sleeping on someone else’s wood this morning. ‘Not today, honey…’ “I have a headache.” He asked to feel out the other man’s mood and determine how the inevitable discussion would go, “You?” Another kitchen-to-table trip brought back utensils.
XXX
“Still sore, but laying around most of yesterday was a big help. The muscles are tight and they hurt, but it doesn't have that watery, weak feeling anymore.” Peter suspected that was more than Sylar wanted to know, so he stopped there and carried the plate of pancakes over to the table. He still had half the batter left, but he’d already made more cakes than he thought they’d eat. “I want to talk a little about the Zofran,” he said, changing the subject back to Sylar. “It’s for nausea. They use it standard for patients coming out of anesthesia or going through chemotherapy. It will help you eat more. If it would help me convince you to take it, I’ll take some as well. I got injective because when I was at the hospital, I was thinking about your current condition, and not how you’d be in a couple days. It works just the same, but faster.”
XXX
They sat but Sylar tensed at the subject. More drugs. “Come on, Peter. I already let you do the IV…” he protested, because that was seriously pushing the boundaries of his trust. He was fine as near as he could tell but there was such thing as slow poisoning and similar obstructions to his wellness. If he wasn’t sick now, it would still count against Peter if he’d lied and there was something harmful in the solution. Good, Sylar thought when Peter offered to take the same medicine. “If you do it first….I’ll let you.” It’s in his best interest, too. The last time he drugged me…I woke up as his brother, his real brother. Peter made a face but went to get the equipment. When he returned, Sylar teased, “You’re lucky I’m not squeamish - needles might make me lose my appetite before I can eat.” His arm was bare already with the short sleeves of the snug tee-shirt so he had nothing to do but watch as he waited for Peter to load up a pair of syringes, tourniquet and inject himself with one of them. He made sure the plunger depressed. Isn’t he supposed to clean everything before he does that? Sylar had hated giving himself even one injection, Mohinder and Claire’s compound; Peter handled it like it was nothing. He did do drugs for fun.
Trust and truth proven, Sylar proffered his left arm on the table, within easy reach. At least Peter at the decency to use a separate syringe. The nurse went about the same process to inject Sylar, under observation. “One of the techs in Level Five came to give me an IV once; she forgot to cap off the other end so it wasn’t connected to the tube,” he snorted with false humor, “Got blood everywhere. Another one was stupid enough to stick the needle in my hand - she was new; took her ten minutes of rooting and grinding around in my hand before she said it was too swollen and had to get her supervisor. The rest of them mostly poke around a dozen times until they get a vein.” Sylar shook his head, “At least you know what you’re doing.” Peter wasn’t real chatty and Sylar hated being dealt with like an animal at a vet or worse, a prisoner in a Nazi camp, so he did the talking, sharing a minor, relevant story. Perhaps he was trying to avoid the ‘discussion.’ Finished, Sylar turned back to the food, snagging several pancakes covering them with butter that quickly melted before coating them in syrup. He was hungry, his stomach roiling, but the idea of pancakes was one he was going to stomach regardless. “And you can cook,” he praised after his first delicious mouthful.
XXX
Peter's mouth dropped open briefly; his expression softened and cleared. “Thank you,” he said, obviously moved by the double compliment. It made him feel better about the lack of trust Sylar showed by wanting Peter to take the drug as well. A few seconds passed while he forked over a couple of his own pancakes. “The two things they really hammer on for paramedics is IV skills and intubation, under any and all circumstances. You have good veins. Whoever was working on you wasn't competent. I guess, on a somewhat good note, it's nice to imagine the people on Level Five maybe don't have enough patients to get practiced at it.” He added syrup, skipping butter, and ate a few bites in quiet.
XXX
Sylar quirked a brow. I have good veins? Huh. “Needles were not the worst thing they put in me there,” he clarified, knowing he was lucky it hadn’t been a penis or two. Instead it was drugs, wires, tubes and shunts, mainly, maybe the food. On the subject, he held his fork and paused, “Hey, wait, um…does this drug have…side-effects? Do I have to wait to eat or avoid stuff?” It wasn’t like he’d ever had anti-nausea medication before, but basic pill instructions he could remember - because Mom didn’t read the label directions.
XXX
“No. That's one of the reasons why I picked it - it's mild and has no side effects statistically different from a placebo.” Peter held up his own arm, the one he'd injected. “That's why I didn't mind taking it myself. It's safe.” Peter knew he was very slightly distorting reality, but they weren't in reality and more importantly, the difference that existed was significant to statisticians only. The messy truth of medicine was that it rarely cured anything directly - it was just better than the alternative. He was sure there was probably some deep meaning in that, but for now, he devoted his attention to the pancakes, skipping the butter and using syrup alone.
XXX
Assuming the nausea left, he’d only have to deal with the massive headache that still plagued him. The hip, thigh and toe pain lingered, but his back was alright so long as he avoided the couch, which seemed likely. As Peter ate, focused on food, Sylar smirked at him. He really has no idea what I’m capable of, does he? Just…going about his way, eating breakfast like an innocent. But he’s not innocent, is he now? As good a boy as Peter might be, tried to be, thought he was, well, Sylar knew otherwise. Somehow the not-knowing which, angel or demon, he was going to end up with was exciting.
The nausea decreased and he was able to finally eat more as the pancakes tempted him. They were mostly quiet as they ate, either a lingering embarrassment or growing comfort in the other’s company, or maybe it was just the process of eating. Funny how that went easier without nausea and Petrelli disturbances.
XXX
Peter kept an eye on how much Sylar ate - not by staring at him, but by simply watching the stack of pancakes. Sylar put away what for a man of his size was acceptable - assuming he wanted to lose weight, but not a lot. It was enough food that Peter didn't argue it. 'Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this?' drifted through his mind. He tried to ignore it, or at least learn from it. When Sylar made a few of those 'I'm done' motions after finishing his last bite, Peter nodded and stood up, declining to wolf down the last pancake and certainly not trying to force it on his companion. He fetched the bottle of painkillers, taking his own dose before doling out pills for Sylar.
XXX
Sylar took the pills and downed them without fuss. So far Peter hadn’t led him wrong as far as medical treatment, which was surprisingly helping him feel better. Maybe he just doesn’t want me whining about being in pain, that was certainly motive to shut him up. When younger man asked if he was finished; he stood and helped clean up, food and dishes, giving the nurse a pat on the shoulder as he turned away from the sink. Sylar wandered into the living room, trying to kick-start his brain into planning where he should rest and what he should do - what Peter was going to do. Should I read or sleep? Will he let me sleep? Either way, Sylar went to the couch and sprawled there.
XXX
Peter looked back after the shoulder pat, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. That was friendly. What's that mean? Has he … has he ever done something like that before? Touched me, patted, anything? Nothing came to mind, aside from a few less-than-platonic-seeming caresses in the course of helping him with his brace or giving him a clumsy physical exam. Is that because he was in bed with me this morning? Or was he in bed with me because he's feeling friendlier? Peter turned back to the sink with a sharp shake of his head. He wasn't in bed because he felt 'friendly'; he was in bed with me because he was hor- wait, if he was horny, then why did he leave? And stay gone, too? The question of what Sylar was after circled around in Peter's brain as he rinsed dishes, taking his time at it. When he was done, he tucked the still-damp brace under his arm, snagged the dishtowel, and walked over to the living area where Sylar was reclining.
“Hey. I wasn't in a listening mood a couple hours ago. I think I'm in more of one now. Tell me about this morning. I want to understand.”
XXX
That caught him flat-footed. The subject was this morning, not last night. Sylar lifted his head, not liking his position with Peter standing over him. “What about it? I was sleeping,” he defended. “It’s not like that’s abnormal for you.” Sylar looked him over, highly doubting that last part. “There’s nothing to tell.” What could I have to say? Why do I have to explain myself? I don’t know why we have to talk about it.
XXX
That's not abnormal? What's not abnormal - me sleeping, or me waking up snuggling on him? Or more than snuggling, I guess. Peter wasn't keen on admitting to what exactly he'd been doing when he woke, even to himself. “No, when you were in bed with me. What was going on there?” He took a seat in the chair easiest for Sylar to see from his position, pulling out the brace and scrubbing at it with the towel, hoping to dry it a tiny bit more before putting it back on.
XXX
“I don’t know about you, but I was sleeping - trying to. It’s not my fault you picked a small bed.” That sounded lame even to his ears, ‘you didn’t come to bed, dear…’ He had better not try to pin that on me; him….doing that. “I have a concussion and even if I was going to make a move, it wouldn’t be while you’re asleep at oh-dark-thirty in the morning. You wanted some and I said it was fine, no big deal,” he shrugged it off.
XXX
I wanted some? I wanted some!? Peter's head snapped up at that, teeth clenched. With an effort, he pressed his lips shut and went back to dabbing at the brace, using more pressure that was probably necessary. Calm the fuck down, Peter. He's trying to upset you. That's obvious. Also, wait … he said it was fine? No big deal? All I remember him saying is 'ow' and leaving.
XXX
While Peter digested that, working up a reply, Sylar thought to interrogate a little himself, “Did you finish, either time?” A hooked thumb towards the bathroom, “The underwear…”
XXX
“What about the underwear?” Peter asked after a moment to figure out what Sylar was saying. Because yeah, he remembered taking them off the morning after the adventure to the hospital. He glanced in the direction of the bathroom. He figured they were still in there. “What of it? We're practically living together. My underwear has to be somewhere,” he said, declining to address what Sylar was getting at.
XXX
Yeah, but usually your underwear is on you. “I’m just curious,” Sylar worked up a slight one-sided smirk, “Just want to know how easy your trigger is; want to know what I’m dealing with here.”
XXX
Peter's brows rose. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and opened up the brace. Voice tight and teeth a little bared, he said, “How 'easy my trigger is' shouldn't be any of your business. I had the door shut. I didn't invite you in. But I wake up and you're in bed with me.” Peter's jaw clenched and popped audibly, making him wince and nearly derailing the conversation (or at least his side of it). The stab of pain ruined the 'I'm incredibly angry about this' expression he had going there for a moment. He rubbed at it tensely, pulling his thoughts back together.
“Sylar ...” He sighed, rubbing more gently at the corner of his jaw as he let the anger die down and got at the unease that had been fueling it. “I am … you are … Listen, we gotta be safe in our own beds. Beds, sleeping, should be a no-fighting zone. And a no-taking-advantage-of-each-other zone, for both of us. When I first came here, you didn't get to see this, but I was barricading myself in my apartment at night. You want to hear me sleep, or whatever?” He stared at Sylar intently for a few seconds, “Give me some space. Stay out of my bed. Because if I don't think I'm going to stay alone after I fall asleep, then I'm not going to let my defenses down anywhere close to you.”
XXX
Sylar stared back, upset and showing it at the anger directed at him. It was distressing, especially since he was innocent and hearing his companion had barricaded himself away for safety without provocation. Who’s fighting? I didn’t do anything! I can’t even be upset he was…rubbing on me? Giving him space isn’t fair! He gets what he wants and I get nothing! Everything about the last two weeks grew to a head - not being alone, Peter appearing, being real, supposedly; Peter avoiding him, moving away…picking fights…breaking in…taking care of him, seeing him with his pants down, sleeping with him but always holding him at arms length, making excuses, making it out that Sylar was at fault…The mental (and emotional) rings he’d run around Peter had exhausted his barriers. It boiled down to his inability to get his desires met - even the platonic, small ones. It made him feel like so much used trash.
“I didn’t…do anything,” he breathed, feeling something tickling his temple. The boy who cried wolf. Peter was never going to believe he was innocent in anything, not with the evidence and motive stacked behind them both. Inhaling raggedly, he insisted because he had no other choice, “We were both sleeping. Nothing happened. I just wanted to hear you b-breathe…” It was then he noticed his nose was stuffed up, his vision hazy. Brushing a quick hand over his face, feeling the warm moisture trailing to and from his eyes; Sylar blinked in surprise at his hand then stood there, aimless for a moment. “You can’t keep making promises and agreements you’re not going to keep, Peter. It’s hard enough to believe you now.” Trying to, desperate to believe Peter he was. Hand pushing his completely scruffy hair back, he remembered where he’d laid his book.
Continued...