More Between Us Chapter 66/? "Strutting One's Stuff"
More Between Us, Chapter 66/? "Strutting One's Stuff"
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Evening
“Tell me honestly how much you hate me. And what you’d do to me if you didn’t think you needed me,” Sylar said bluntly.
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Peter’s mouth fell open and stayed there for a few seconds. His eyes dropped to the desk and his mouth shut as his gaze shifted off to the side. He swallowed; his throat was dry all of a sudden, stomach churning like he’d been sucker-punched. He looked up at Sylar under lowered brows - not a glare, but a short stare, surprised and confused by the change from an engaging topic to one he found repellant. Emotional whiplash. He feels like he can ask that of me? There was a brief mental pause while the situation rotated and realigned in Peter’s head, seeing it from a different perspective. Much less defensively, he thought, He feels like he can ask that of me. That’s something. Honest. And he wants me to be honest. Expects it. That’s … that’s how it should be. Right?
Peter remembered Sylar’s many comments about being lied to. He swallowed again and blinked, looking away. Sylar had been lied to a lot, far as Peter could tell, and about important things, like his own family. That’s two questions, not one. Not that it matters. It’s just a technicality. And he answered all my questions about his family. Probably honestly. Peter shifted in his seat guiltily. He didn’t have any moral wiggle room - at least none he was willing to use. He tried to smile, twice. It came out feeble and turned into a grimace both times. He gave up. There was no way to put a good face on this. None.
My emotions are on parade, but that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what he wants to know. Peter ran his hand through his hair and straightened. Sylar deserved at least … eye contact, tough as it was to manage. “I … hate …” He cleared his throat, swiping his tongue around his mouth like it had a bad taste in it. “I hated you enough to try to kill you.” Peter’s lips tightened, pulling back against his teeth but not parting. It was difficult to say this sort of thing right to someone’s face. It would have been easier if he’d been angry, yelling, and attacking with his words instead of finding himself laid bare by them - his motivations made naked and vulnerable. “I tried to get rid of you.” He looked away, down and to the side. “Mostly I wanted Nathan back, but I didn’t care what happened to … No. I wanted you gone in the process.” He looked up at Sylar sullenly. “That,” Peter cleared his throat again, very unhappy about admitting this, “that was a … a desired outcome.” He took refuge briefly behind stilted, semi-medical language before owning it. “I wanted that.” He sighed. “Didn’t happen. That’s … probably for the best.” Probably? some moral part of him was outraged that he was still ambivalent about whether or not it was okay to murder someone. But the ambivalence was there, whether he found it outrageous or not.
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Sylar just…watched him. The honesty was a relief plain and simple, but the subject matter was painful, whether or not he liked Peter or wanted his approval. Being hated and wished dead was still a fresh agony he had to accept each time. How could hope exist facing that? Everyone he knew, save maybe two or three persons, agreed with Peter and felt the same way about him. Like he had a responsibility to off himself because he was inconvenient, unmanageable and dangerous and life was something he wasn’t entitled to. His life was so worthless it didn’t give people pause to take it. Sylar found it strange that Peter, who’d had his own memory carelessly erased, would equate that to painless, eternal death. Being ‘gone’ and being dead, Sylar knew, were not the same - being ‘gone’ was far, far worse.
‘Probably.’ That word ricocheted in his skull, hitting multiple emotions until he overloaded and couldn’t react for the numbness. Probably. My being alive is ‘probably for the best.’ Give or take. He meant so little that even in his usefulness it was still a probability of odds that being alive was a ‘good’ thing. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m only alive because I’m still useful.
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“Now …” It was really, really hard to keep his eyes on Sylar’s face. It was like trying to force two magnets together, north pole to north pole. “Mostly, I just try not to think about it.” He looked down in his lap, chastised by knowing the cowardice his words implied. “I’m really … still really angry at … I’m really angry.” It wasn’t just Sylar. Sometimes it wasn’t Sylar at all, but that wasn’t something Peter wanted to admit and luckily it wasn’t what Sylar had asked. He picked briefly at the brace. “It just works better if I don’t think about it.”
“If I didn’t need you …” he shut his eyes for several long seconds, “I don’t know what I’d do.” Peter’s shoulders sagged. “I promised you I wouldn’t leave without taking you with me. That means something to me.” Though I’d have to figure out how to put you in jail or a cell or something after we got out. His lips pinched together. He didn’t think he was obligated to explain that. Maybe rehabilitation was possible. He didn’t know. “I … hope I wouldn’t go against that. I gave my word.” He looked up at Sylar. “If you’re asking if I would try to kill you? No. There’s no point. There’s no one here. As long as I didn’t think you were going to hurt me, then,” he shrugged, “why would I? Revenge?” He snorted softly and waved a hand around the place. “Matt’s beat me to it.” Faintly, and with a resigned slump, he said, “Worse than what I was going to do.”
Very quietly, Peter offered, “Truth or Dare.” He hoped like hell Sylar didn’t have any follow up questions for any of this.
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“You didn’t answer the question, Peter,” Sylar intoned seriously. “If you didn’t need me, you wouldn’t be here. You know what you’d do if you saw me on the street somewhere - so what would you do?” He ignored the rest of Peter’s placating attempt; that crap about not leaving him behind. The guy clearly thought Sylar should be here. (He doubted Peter’s unnamed punishment would be easier than being here, apparently, which the nurse attributed to Matt). Sylar didn’t know what to think about Peter ignoring his anger, his issues and therein Sylar’s existence because that’s what it boiled down to.
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Peter pressed his lips together and did an exasperated motion with his head. His voice was clipped, expression intent. “What? What are you talking about? Are you saying like, if I hadn't had the dream and none of that was going to happen, and then one day after a month or two I saw you on the street? Are you asking what I'd do then?” Would he do anything, at all? Sylar was a danger, a menace, but what if he was just standing there minding his own business buying a hot dog from a street vendor?
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Sylar was equally annoyed, “Yes.” That’s what I said.
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“But … I'd …” Peter floundered. He'd only ever known Sylar as someone out to kill him or his, who needed to be opposed and stopped at all costs. What would he do if that didn't seem to be the case? “I'd want to know what you were doing, why you were doing it, if you were after someone. I don't know what it would take to convince me you weren't doing anything. And that's …” Peter shrugged. “If I was convinced, somehow, then ...” he shrugged again, feeling helpless and irritated by the feeling, “there wouldn't be anything to do.” I'd still hate you. Probably.
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Sylar realized he’d not phrased his Truth question to get the answer he wanted and his lips thinned. As it was, unfortunately, Peter was answering the letter of the question and nothing more. The empath couldn’t answer more with what he’d been given. It was his own fault and he couldn’t change his question to gain the intended answer. He’d have to abide by the rules and settle for the limited answer he’d been given. If I was harmless and a nobody you’d leave me be? You’d let me walk? Sylar didn’t believe that for a second. Yeah, you’d ignore me. I can’t convince you. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Sylar waved it away. After a moment, it was clear Peter was waiting on him. “Oh. Truth.”
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Peter sighed and took a long drag out of his beer, nearly emptying it. His impression was that Sylar didn't believe him. After a brief internal debate, he decided not to address it. Let Sylar believe what he wanted to believe. Trying to turn things to a better subject than hate, he asked, “What's the nicest thing you've ever done for anyone?
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That was a painless question. “I died for them,” Sylar said, not having to think about it. “For some people, I’d do it again.”
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Peter grimaced briefly at how tantalizingly incomplete that was. “I need more details than that. A story, a situation, something.” He gestured across the desk. “An example. Tell me about one time you remember well.”
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“Pick one?” Sylar repeated. “Um…” His brain automatically tried to assemble the parameters of the question but the beer was remarkably inhibitory to that process. ‘The one you remember well’ stuck with him and that decided him. “I have a few,” he said shyly, “but the one I remember, probably the first one actually. It was during the eclipse.” //Hazy memories of a dark, heavy jungle, gunfire, worrying desperately about Peter, the slave girl, his family and his father’s plans for the world filtered through him, bringing back memories of being a soldier.// “Uh…” he shook his head to clear it, enjoying and not enjoying the sensation of being buzzed and dizzy. “We were in California, on a mission from…//Dad//, from Arthur, to bring Claire back to Pinehearst. Bennet and I had tried to bag-and-tag this guy, Canfield, at his house - he made black holes…I saved Claire from getting sucked into one. Anyway, I knew Bennet would hide Claire there. Our powers were gone and ran into trouble, Claire got shot…Bennet left her to…Um…” Here he skipped over the sex Peter apparently already knew about. “It was one of those times when your life falls apart completely…” he trailed off. He’d lost a lot that day, parents, a friend, possibly a mate, certainly someone who knew him. “But long story shorter, my shoulder was dislocated and Elle was shot in the leg. We were both kind of concussed but we made it to a supermarket to get medical supplies then hid in the loading bay when Bennet showed up. We…we weren’t going to make it so I shoved her into the loading elevator, held the door down and pushed the button so she’d be away.” The sound of Elle’s voice calling his name, his real name, lingered hauntingly, jolting him and twisting his insides, ’Gabriel, no! Gabriel!’ “And I attacked the guy with the gun. He won; I was just stalling.” Sylar shrugged. “He cut my throat. No powers.” It sounded so much more heroic than it had felt at the time. Even so, it was nothing compared to the daily heroisms of Peter Petrelli.
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Peter listened raptly, leaning forward and very engaged just as he'd been when Sylar had talked about his family. He struggled with the timeline, though. When Sylar was done, Peter looked down, thinking it through. They were on a mission to get Claire, but they stopped to bag and tag some guy? Who's 'we'? Noah and Sylar? But Noah hid Claire from Sylar and … oh! Peter pulled in air. Elle. Sylar and Elle were on a mission to get Claire for Dad. That makes sense. The other stuff must have happened before. It's just how he knew where to look. He gave a short nod to himself as he worked out what Sylar had said.
Now that he knew the context, the rest fell into place. He remembered the dream his (or Sylar's) subconscious had inflicted on him only a few weeks before. Sylar's shoulder pain made sense now. That Elle had had sex after being shot in the leg was hard to believe, but Peter wasn't sure he understood the sequence. There had been shooting at the end of the sex, he recalled. Maybe she got shot then.
He remembered the tenderness and affection Sylar had shown Elle in the dream Peter had had. It had been so jarring, rattling around his view of Sylar as someone who didn't indulge in the softer side. He'd had the same paradigm shift after realizing Sylar had broken his fall from Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for him then, too, and been killed for it. Even though he had regenerated, he couldn't have been certain he'd have the chance. He'd known the risk he assumed by tangling in Arthur's plans and had done it anyway. Dying for Elle, during the eclipse, showed even more nobility.
Peter wanted to ask so much more that it ached. “Have you ever played Truth or Dare before?”
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Locking eyes with Peter, he said, “No. But he has. Truth or Dare?”
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Peter's head pulled back, lips tightening and eyes narrowing. He shut them. The warmth he'd felt, the hope, the possibility, the surprise at seeing the good side of Sylar's soul was all doused by the reminder of his latest murder. Or at least, the latest one Peter happened to know about. Sylar had a habit of leaving a trail of bodies between him and whatever he wanted. That he treated life so carelessly diminished the worth of him sacrificing his own.
Peter opened his eyes, finished off his beer, and swished the flavor around. “Dare.”
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“Give me a lap dance,” Sylar leered shamelessly.
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“Uh … what?” They'd talked about shame, family, hate, and love, and now Sylar wanted a fucking lap dance?!? Peter's mind didn't shift gears that fast.
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“C’mon. I know you know how. I’ll even let you keep your clothes on.” Because he was magnanimous like that. Or more likely that he’d be uncomfortable with a naked man rubbing his naked junk all over him.
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“You're really asking for that?” Peter made a nervous laugh of disbelief, glancing around the room. No. Before blurting anything out, he thought about it. This was a game. He didn't have to do anything, but failing to accept a challenge was a loss of face. Peter didn't like to lose respect, especially Sylar's. He made an unhappy noise at his dilemma. “There's … there's no music. Do you know how hard it is to do a lap dance without music?” He tried to visualize what he'd do based on the few strip clubs he'd been in. The idea of Sylar's hyper-critical eyes on him while he tried to pretend to be sexy … “I don't know what you think you know, but I've never done that, aside from stripping for someone I was with, and that was as a joke.” Well, sort of a joke. The sort of joke where the punch line involved happily tumbling into bed and making love. The punch line for what Sylar was asking for might be months or years of snickering. That was what decided Peter. Better a smaller loss of face now than a continued one forever.
“No. Pick something else.”
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Sylar huffed. “Fine. Take off your shirt, hand it to me and flex for me.” Much more literal payback for that fucking teapot stunt. No way was Peter getting his shirt back.
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Peter waited a long beat. That's it? Um … okay. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned stripping. I kind of brought that one on myself. He pushed his bottle towards Sylar. “Get us another round. I'm going to use the restroom.” He stood up, testing his balance. The room seemed steady enough and it wasn't like he was going anywhere tonight, but he still figured the next drink should be his last.
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Is that a ‘yes’? Sylar raised an eyebrow in general question - beer and bathroom were somehow necessary to the process? He wasn’t even sure how being ordered around fit in either, but if it got the job done. Sylar rose and the world tilted. Oh, good. Another beer. Let’s do that, yeah. That’ll be good. He tried to keep it together in case Peter was watching (in case this was a test or his survival depended on balance and awareness); he thought he only did fairly at making it to the fridge and back without running into anything or swerving too badly. Sitting was a relief, even though the world was still jumping around and his head thumping internally.
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His favorite roommate during college had been a body builder named Kevin. He'd shown Peter around the gym, helped him get a workout routine set up, and gave a lot of pointers on how to bulk up. Peter, at that point, had been hopelessly under-developed. There were fourteen-year-olds more mature looking than he was and his slender frame had attracted a predatory interest from certain people. Kevin had been a big help.
In the bathroom, Peter belched, urinated, worked his stomach and belched again. He washed his hands and gave his face a quick wipe down, then made one last effort to make sure he had all the gas out of his stomach he could get out. Thus satisfied, he walked out. Standing between the desk and couch, Peter set his feet a little more than shoulder width apart. He watched Sylar's face with a semi-resigned smile. Sylar wanted to look at him - Peter could handle that. This was very different for him, mentally, than doing something directly to arouse him. This was something Peter could accept.
He shifted his jeans on his hips and then pinched up the fabric of his shirt on either side. He tugged out one side, then the other, smiling as Sylar's eyes followed the motions. Peter remembered how eye-catching he'd found Sylar's peek-a-boo strip of exposed flesh a few days ago, when Sylar'd worn a shirt way too small for him. Peter's smile broadened at the memory of how silly Sylar had looked … and how much Peter had wanted to look. He pulled up the shirt in silence, the rasp of the cloth across his skin the only sound. He raised it on one side at a time, keeping it taut between his hands so as to see-saw it over his stomach, then his lower chest. He knew Sylar wanted him. He also knew Sylar wasn't getting what he wanted. Peter chuckled lightly.
He flexed, stomach tensing and rippling a little as he brought the shirt over his chest, and then in a steady motion, over his head and off. His left arm slid free of it; his right was next. He started to set it aside.
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Only stripped once, my ass, Sylar thought to himself. He didn’t have to censor his thoughts, just his words. The world was dead quiet, the only noise came from breathing and his heart beating rhythmically. It left him nothing else to focus on but Peter’s movements. He stared intently, not watching his expression as much as he should have been. I’m drunk, I can stare, especially if he’s doing that. Peter’s tummy came into view. Slowly. Firm and soft-looking. Sylar glanced at Peter’s face, wondering if the stalling…the teasing, was on purpose. Is he…making this sexual? That was both understandable (that’s what one was supposed to do when stripping, right?) and confusing (there was no negative stimuli involved to make Peter pretend to be sexy, so why do it, for Sylar of all people?) He expected Peter to hide behind every technicality of the game and…
“No,” he croaked, his voice drier than he thought. He leaned forward, gesturing. “Gimme the shirt.”
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Peter snorted, but he wadded up the garment and threw it in Sylar's face. Okay. What else was I supposed to do? Oh yeah, flex. Hm. He tried to remember the poses Kevin had shown him. Peter had been surprised at the time to learn there was some real showmanship in professional body building. It wasn't just a matter of standing there looking tense and while his current circumstances didn't allow him a chance to prep properly, he could at least strike the right poses to show himself off.
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Sylar was slow to react. It was like his body had decided to mutiny or his brain had subconsciously done it on purpose (he didn’t know which he found more disturbing), but Peter’s shirt planted itself on his face, where it had been directed by Peter’s throw when Sylar’s hands had risen too late. Christ, was all he could think. Peter’s smell was soaked into the shirt and that shirt was draped over his face. (He is not getting this back. Ever). He took his time dragging the shirt away, inhaling the seductive, masculine aroma as it passed. Yes, it was weird to be sniffing another man’s clothes, but he couldn’t help that it instinctively smelled good. His hindbrain was fuzzing out, separate from the effects of alcohol and he cursed himself for wanting to rub the damn shirt onto his skin. So much for it not being sexual…
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Peter sucked in his stomach as much as he could with multiple beers working their way through him and brought up his arms for a double bicep. His feet ended up more correctly centered under him. With jeans on, he didn't have to bother with his legs aside from positioning. He flexed what was bare and didn't feel ashamed of it - Sylar's expression was like pure candy to Peter. He grinned. This was fun.
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When the shirt finally fell to his lap (how convenient), Sylar’s eyes were heavy, a little heated, still intent on the show. Half naked now, Peter’s upper body was flawless as far as Sylar could tell, and that was saying something. Trained to look for flaws and fix-its, not a single blemish, hair or wrinkle marred Peter’s form. It was all tight, smooth skin, defined, fit muscles, the odd mole or two. With a chest and arms like that, Peter was very capable at heroing and being a paramedic - images of Peter caring for the sick and injured and alternately thinking he was doing the right thing by beating and punching Sylar were distracting to say the least. Individually, one could dissect Peter - arms, chest, stomach, sides, neck, face, hair, hips, etc. Each part would be textbook, together they were…quite perfect, overwhelmingly so. Whether or not Sylar felt desire for men, his eyes didn’t lie in telling him Peter Petrelli was a very fine specimen of masculinity. A healthy one, too. Peter’s grin reminded him of his purpose with this. The medic was entirely too comfortable with this. Pointedly, Sylar looked the man over like the piece of meat he was. He then whistled that insulting, derogatory sound full of objectification - the wolf whistle. He remembered not appreciating it from his female shapeshifting adventures. “Yeah!” he called out, clapping briefly. Besides, maybe it was something one might do to strippers…
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He wasn't that good on a front lat spread, so Peter gave the pose only a few seconds - fists on hips, shoulders down, chest tensed. He didn't have the flexibility to carry off the true upside-down triangle torso. He lingered more on the side chest pose, showing off his right side with his left hand holding his right wrist just above the brace. He laughed a little at Sylar's appreciation. He liked being looked at. It made him feel sexy. As he turned away to do the back double bicep, he tugged up the waistband of his pants and shifted his hips side to side, wagging his ass at Sylar and feeling the crotch of his pants ride up against himself. Oh yeah. Bite me, asshole. He put his arms up, flexing, wondering if Sylar was more an ass-man or a front-guy.
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Peter working his brace into the posing was amusing. Then Peter did it…shaking his ass at Sylar. It was suggestive at the least, teasing, or inviting. Sylar’s weakness was in interpreting those kinds of social cues. If they had come from anyone else, he might have considered the possibility that the person was interested, for sex. As it was, his mental faculties spasmed in confusion as his body reacted to the mere improbable possibility that that little wiggle in his direction meant something more when he knew intellectually that Peter couldn’t mean it in any of those connotations. Sylar exhaled through his nose quickly, feeling his face and body heat up. It was such a well-formed butt and Peter’s jeans were marvelously tight…Here he had Peter’s shirt in his lap, the man himself half naked and acting…Did it matter how Peter intended it? “That’s it…” slipped from his mouth. Even he didn’t know how he meant that, either - mocking or interested.
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Peter turned for the side triceps pose, leering over his shoulder at Sylar. His brain was trying to figure out which of the seven poses Kevin had taught him that he was missing. Not that it mattered much - what mattered more was earning more applause from his audience. The cheering made him feel fantastic, tingly and warm and maybe even aroused. He tucked his right arm behind him, reaching across the small of his back with his left to take his right wrist. He leaned back, his right leg crooked back to support him as he puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach. This was a great pose for showing off the line of his body.
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The last side angle of Peter was impressive to say the least, the lines of his body were classic. It was the arching that caught Sylar’s eye. The raised chest led to twisted, brawny arms (looking wonderfully submissive in his pose, already behind his back, wrists together); Peter’s tight ribs and waist, thin stomach, tempting illiacs, jeans…penis…Sylar stared. That’s his dick. He’s hard. Is…is that the beer? No…Is it me? No, why would it be me? I’m looking at him and he’s showing off and…//Recollections of nannies and caretakers having a hell of a time keeping clothes on Peter as a child, then Ma telling him, Nathan, to give Peter a talk about waltzing around naked in the bedrooms and bathrooms of the Petrelli estate, being relieved the kid didn’t make a habit of jerking off with the doors open; the swim team; Peter would have modeled if anyone asked him to…//
After what was surely staring for too long, Sylar raised his eyes to check Peter’s reaction. Peter was giving him a look. Maybe it wasn’t ‘come hither’ or outright sexy, but it was close enough. That look, and what the situation meant, was fantastic. Sylar began to chuckle. Oh my God. Oh my God! “Oh…Oh, Peter.” He didn’t know if he was supposed to be embarrassed or flattered or what. There was a word for that, whatever was opposite of ‘voyeur’… “Oh my God, that explains everything!” He leaned back, laughing now, genuinely amused. The things he could do with this! Molesting Peter was going to be that much easier now. The smile dropped from his face and he quieted, giving Peter his most penetratingly dark stare as he leaned forward, “Oh, you are a filthy little pervert, aren’t you?”
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Sylar’s tone for ‘Oh, Peter’ was so drop-dead sexy that for a moment, Peter thought it was just more appreciation. Then the laughter started. Sylar’s previous stare, which Peter had imagined was at his gut, his overly-alcohol-saturated brain now placed a bit lower. He straightened, realizing the fullness in his groin was making a visible bulge in his jeans. He thought about hiding in the bathroom again, as he had after Sylar had walked in on him jerking off, but that seemed cowardly and pointless. He'd been caught; the damage done. He retreated behind the desk instead, sitting and putting the solid bulk between them.
Peter blushed furiously as he rapidly phased through different emotions: anger and embarrassment at himself for getting a boner, and at Sylar for laughing at him, regret for accepting the stupid dare to start with, and dread that Sylar might take this as a signal of interest. It didn’t have anything to do with him, as Peter well knew. He felt very exposed and not just in the physical sense, but he had to wait until Sylar quit guffawing to ask for his shirt back.
Peter’s face screwed up in anger at Sylar’s ‘accusation’. He wanted so badly to defend himself, but what Sylar was saying wasn’t really … an attack. He assumed Sylar meant it that way, that much was obvious, but Peter wasn’t about to be defensive about possessing a sex drive, functioning genitals, or a proclivity to be aroused by adoring attention. It was normal! Or so he insisted to himself. He blew air out his nose and snapped, “Gimme my shirt, asshole.”
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How am I the asshole, here? Sylar chuckled again briefly. "Nope. Nothing in the rules about that."
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“What? It’s my shirt!”
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“Not any more. You gave it to me.” Simple rules, possession was nine-tenths.
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Peter’s chest was heaving a little, eyes darting between the denied article of clothing and Sylar’s face. It didn’t take but a few seconds to come to a decision - he wasn’t going to pick a fight over a fucking shirt, or over being laughed at. He’d had worse, and Sylar wasn’t taking any other action based on the now-entirely-faded hard-on. Peter slumped back in the chair suddenly, staring off at the ceiling to the left as he ignored Sylar for a few moments, arms crossed defensively over his chest and breathing slowing - long enough to calm down. Options of stealing one of Sylar’s shirts or snagging a blanket from the nearby bed ran through his mind, but he wasn’t actually cold and he felt that was admitting defeat somehow. He sighed into the quiet. “Truth or Dare?” he asked, finally looking back at Sylar.
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Peter was…more upset about the loss of the shirt than anything else? That’s fucked up, Sylar thought blearily. The man literally gave him the cold-shoulder of ignoring, pouting or something so Sylar let him have that much (not sure of what else he’d be allowed). “Truth.” No way was he inviting a reciprocated Dare of the body-comparing nature.
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Peter was still very annoyed and that was what was responsible for his next question: “What's the question you most don't want me to ask?” Sylar had a lot of outs - he could never pick Truth again, he could quit the game if Peter asked it, or he could call the question off-limits. But Peter still wanted to know what the ultimate hot button topic was.
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It was Sylar’s turn for the wide-eyed look of shock. He’d been thoroughly suckered. There were so many ways Peter could (and likely would) abuse the confession, because that’s what it was - a highlighted, spotlighted, signed confession of vulnerability and discomfort. Peter wanted a pressure point. Whether it was a fair exchange for the vulnerability of knowing the medic’s little proclivity wasn’t the point. Sylar felt it beyond the pale. The medic wasn’t asking what subject he should most avoid, no way; not in this context and not with the previous Dare hanging in the air. When he recovered somewhat, he frowned deeply, his head reared back. I don’t want you to ask me if I’m gay. I don’t want you to ask about what happened to my mom. I don’t want you to ask me about Elle. I don’t want you to ask why I kill people. I don’t want you to ask how I got this way. I don’t want you to ask anything about Nathan. At some point, his head had dropped down as he panicked through his thoughts, working his way to thinking about his options.
“That’s not fair,” he hissed, eyeing Peter from underneath his brows. He could feed Peter some lesser ‘disliked’ answer but it wouldn’t be the Truth; it wouldn’t be following the rules and parameters of the game. He’d be cheating and he’d been holding his own thus far. Wasn’t he just talking about ‘rules-doctoring’? Hell, he’d gone for Truth because of Peter’s reaction to his own damn fault of popping wood in the middle of an otherwise normal Dare. He doubly couldn’t back out and ask for a Dare now! Now he had to pick the worst thing Peter could ask of him and reveal it. “You’re going to ask it,” Sylar managed to sum up. He didn’t know how or when, but Peter would trap or force him to answer. (Or maybe, just Peter knowing was the worst part; the actual act of confession and admission itself and the knowledge that someone else knew something). “That has to be against the rules.” The dodge was worth a try.
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Peter gave the slightest exhalation at Sylar's point about fairness. He would have made more of a snort, but it was obvious that Sylar was considering his question very seriously. “It's not against the rules,” Peter said, but that was an evasion. Basically, questions were allowable if they agreed they were allowable. That was it. Usually the game was held in a group and there was more of a consensus to leaven opinions that might otherwise seem purely self-serving. If Sylar rejected the question, then it was rejected. He didn't seem to be rejecting it, but he didn't seem clear that he could, either. Peter could have explained that - it might have been a sign of fairness and honor and being a big man if he did. But he didn't, because he wanted to know - not the information itself (in fact, the question was idiotic because it ruled off an important area from any honest, future discussion), but whether Sylar trusted him that much. That was the real answer he was after. After humiliating himself, he wanted that ego stroke that he was okay and Sylar thought so, too. “I won't ask it in the game. I promise.”
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But you’ll ask it outside the game? Where I don’t have to answer it. But what it you make my life hell until I answer? I know how that goes. Were there any benefits to this disclosure? Keeping Peter Petrelli’s interest, maybe. Sylar grit his teeth. Prioritizing the worst question was difficult. I’m painting a red flag on something…He exhaled a sort of sigh. “I don’t want you to ask…” The rest he mumbled quietly, looking away as he did.
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Peter waited a beat, then said, “It only counts if I can hear you. I couldn't hear that.”
XXX
Sylar looked straight at him, enunciating, “I said: I don’t want you to ask where my mother is.” That wasn’t the most accurate phrase Peter could ask to inflict damage, but with what Peter knew (or rather, didn’t know) this was the worst question he could ask. His face felt hot and loose and he realized he was angry, backed into a corner, humiliated whether or not that was the intention. And he was so, so nervous, like he was afraid of being caught over the body of someone he’d murdered all over again. Back when he used to care, back when prison might have meant something. He clenched his jaw rhythmically, breathing faster before hastily uttering, “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter blinked a little, feeling the ridiculous but very human urge to immediately ask about the forbidden topic. He kept his mouth firmly shut, urge or no, and made a slight nod to respectfully acknowledge what had been said. He watched the range of emotional reaction Sylar was showing - very raw, very genuine, terrified that Peter was going to press him on this. He told the truth. He trusts me - that much. Fuck! Peter was blown away by that, enough that it took him a few moments to register that Sylar had asked him a question.
“Um, Truth.” He supposed he had to. He needed to give Sylar the opportunity to ask the same in return. Since the question wasn't immediately forthcoming, Peter offered, “There's two things I don't want to- well, three, actually, things I don't want to talk about, but my mother would have to be the top of that list. Kind of funny, or ironic or something, that we share that.” His lips pressed together, thinning. He'd given that one to Sylar for free, intentionally, without making him use a turn to find it out. That seemed only fair.
XXX
Sylar frowned at the unprompted ‘admission’ he supposed it was. That Angela was a no-fly zone was no surprise; Peter had said as much before. Sylar had ignored the seriousness of it because, well, it didn’t seem on par with his own issues and Angela had done damage to him and Nathan, not just Peter. Therefor, he had some right to invoke her name and talk about her. That’s nice, but not what I was after. "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"
XXX
“Um.” Peter’s face tried to look surprised and discomforted at the same time. He ended up doing it in sequence - brows alternating up and down a couple times, mouth gaping and then frowning. Caitlyn, not exactly innocent, but depending on him, relying on him - there was a crushing weight of unresolved feelings there. “The worst … I, um, I-“ can’t figure out how to answer that. I want to, but he’s going to want details. He swallowed, shifting in his seat and drawing in on himself. Simone. I could talk about Simone. But she wasn’t the worst. And he didn’t lie to me. I don’t get to lie to him. Not that I should anyway, but … He shook his head, staring down at the desk. If I keep thinking about it, I’m going to get upset, more upset, and- He shook his head again, the movement stiff with tension.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said roughly, coughing to clear his throat of the sudden difficulty he found in speaking. He wanted to answer. He knew he should. It wasn’t like Sylar had had an easy time of it either, but he’d managed. “I mean I-“ He winced and shrugged, but kept his eyes down. “I let someone down. B-betrayed them, maybe? I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t think he could talk about it. His chest was occupied by one huge, hard knot of tension that was starting to make it hard to breathe. Early stages of a panic attack? some portion of his mind observed with detachment. I can’t let that happen. “You have to ask something else. A dare maybe.” With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the desk to glance at Sylar, then away.
XXX
No, you won’t tell me that, you little prick. Sylar’s lips thinned at the lame cop-out in it’s fantastic entirety. Mr. Conscience couldn’t immediately list his worst deed? Of course, Peter probably thought he wasn’t capable or that he got one of those ‘free passes’ because he was…pick a feature. I answered your tough questions. Wuss. It was time to up the ante. “Let me tie your hands behind your back.” It wasn’t a question.
XXX
Peter let his eyes drop slowly back to the desk. Fuck. He couldn’t back out twice in a row. It would make it look like he’d asked his question with a spirit of vindictive manipulation and was now going to demand a pass from anything inconvenient Sylar wanted in return. Sylar probably didn’t know how much being tied up would bother Peter - or hell, maybe he did and he was asking for that precise reason, because Peter had gone too far in what he’d asked, and so Sylar was turning it around on him. Peter had established, clearly, the rules they were playing by. Now he had to play by them. I should have told him he didn’t have to answer it. I should have told him he could have refused it just like I did. I should have, but I didn’t, because I was so stuck on the idea of making him give me something I could hurt him with, so I’d be all ‘big hero’ when I didn’t. The self-serving nature of his question weighed him down. He sagged in his seat, demeanor shifting to guilty resignation. “Okay.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Evening
“Tell me honestly how much you hate me. And what you’d do to me if you didn’t think you needed me,” Sylar said bluntly.
XXX
Peter’s mouth fell open and stayed there for a few seconds. His eyes dropped to the desk and his mouth shut as his gaze shifted off to the side. He swallowed; his throat was dry all of a sudden, stomach churning like he’d been sucker-punched. He looked up at Sylar under lowered brows - not a glare, but a short stare, surprised and confused by the change from an engaging topic to one he found repellant. Emotional whiplash. He feels like he can ask that of me? There was a brief mental pause while the situation rotated and realigned in Peter’s head, seeing it from a different perspective. Much less defensively, he thought, He feels like he can ask that of me. That’s something. Honest. And he wants me to be honest. Expects it. That’s … that’s how it should be. Right?
Peter remembered Sylar’s many comments about being lied to. He swallowed again and blinked, looking away. Sylar had been lied to a lot, far as Peter could tell, and about important things, like his own family. That’s two questions, not one. Not that it matters. It’s just a technicality. And he answered all my questions about his family. Probably honestly. Peter shifted in his seat guiltily. He didn’t have any moral wiggle room - at least none he was willing to use. He tried to smile, twice. It came out feeble and turned into a grimace both times. He gave up. There was no way to put a good face on this. None.
My emotions are on parade, but that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what he wants to know. Peter ran his hand through his hair and straightened. Sylar deserved at least … eye contact, tough as it was to manage. “I … hate …” He cleared his throat, swiping his tongue around his mouth like it had a bad taste in it. “I hated you enough to try to kill you.” Peter’s lips tightened, pulling back against his teeth but not parting. It was difficult to say this sort of thing right to someone’s face. It would have been easier if he’d been angry, yelling, and attacking with his words instead of finding himself laid bare by them - his motivations made naked and vulnerable. “I tried to get rid of you.” He looked away, down and to the side. “Mostly I wanted Nathan back, but I didn’t care what happened to … No. I wanted you gone in the process.” He looked up at Sylar sullenly. “That,” Peter cleared his throat again, very unhappy about admitting this, “that was a … a desired outcome.” He took refuge briefly behind stilted, semi-medical language before owning it. “I wanted that.” He sighed. “Didn’t happen. That’s … probably for the best.” Probably? some moral part of him was outraged that he was still ambivalent about whether or not it was okay to murder someone. But the ambivalence was there, whether he found it outrageous or not.
XXX
Sylar just…watched him. The honesty was a relief plain and simple, but the subject matter was painful, whether or not he liked Peter or wanted his approval. Being hated and wished dead was still a fresh agony he had to accept each time. How could hope exist facing that? Everyone he knew, save maybe two or three persons, agreed with Peter and felt the same way about him. Like he had a responsibility to off himself because he was inconvenient, unmanageable and dangerous and life was something he wasn’t entitled to. His life was so worthless it didn’t give people pause to take it. Sylar found it strange that Peter, who’d had his own memory carelessly erased, would equate that to painless, eternal death. Being ‘gone’ and being dead, Sylar knew, were not the same - being ‘gone’ was far, far worse.
‘Probably.’ That word ricocheted in his skull, hitting multiple emotions until he overloaded and couldn’t react for the numbness. Probably. My being alive is ‘probably for the best.’ Give or take. He meant so little that even in his usefulness it was still a probability of odds that being alive was a ‘good’ thing. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m only alive because I’m still useful.
XXX
“Now …” It was really, really hard to keep his eyes on Sylar’s face. It was like trying to force two magnets together, north pole to north pole. “Mostly, I just try not to think about it.” He looked down in his lap, chastised by knowing the cowardice his words implied. “I’m really … still really angry at … I’m really angry.” It wasn’t just Sylar. Sometimes it wasn’t Sylar at all, but that wasn’t something Peter wanted to admit and luckily it wasn’t what Sylar had asked. He picked briefly at the brace. “It just works better if I don’t think about it.”
“If I didn’t need you …” he shut his eyes for several long seconds, “I don’t know what I’d do.” Peter’s shoulders sagged. “I promised you I wouldn’t leave without taking you with me. That means something to me.” Though I’d have to figure out how to put you in jail or a cell or something after we got out. His lips pinched together. He didn’t think he was obligated to explain that. Maybe rehabilitation was possible. He didn’t know. “I … hope I wouldn’t go against that. I gave my word.” He looked up at Sylar. “If you’re asking if I would try to kill you? No. There’s no point. There’s no one here. As long as I didn’t think you were going to hurt me, then,” he shrugged, “why would I? Revenge?” He snorted softly and waved a hand around the place. “Matt’s beat me to it.” Faintly, and with a resigned slump, he said, “Worse than what I was going to do.”
Very quietly, Peter offered, “Truth or Dare.” He hoped like hell Sylar didn’t have any follow up questions for any of this.
XXX
“You didn’t answer the question, Peter,” Sylar intoned seriously. “If you didn’t need me, you wouldn’t be here. You know what you’d do if you saw me on the street somewhere - so what would you do?” He ignored the rest of Peter’s placating attempt; that crap about not leaving him behind. The guy clearly thought Sylar should be here. (He doubted Peter’s unnamed punishment would be easier than being here, apparently, which the nurse attributed to Matt). Sylar didn’t know what to think about Peter ignoring his anger, his issues and therein Sylar’s existence because that’s what it boiled down to.
XXX
Peter pressed his lips together and did an exasperated motion with his head. His voice was clipped, expression intent. “What? What are you talking about? Are you saying like, if I hadn't had the dream and none of that was going to happen, and then one day after a month or two I saw you on the street? Are you asking what I'd do then?” Would he do anything, at all? Sylar was a danger, a menace, but what if he was just standing there minding his own business buying a hot dog from a street vendor?
XXX
Sylar was equally annoyed, “Yes.” That’s what I said.
XXX
“But … I'd …” Peter floundered. He'd only ever known Sylar as someone out to kill him or his, who needed to be opposed and stopped at all costs. What would he do if that didn't seem to be the case? “I'd want to know what you were doing, why you were doing it, if you were after someone. I don't know what it would take to convince me you weren't doing anything. And that's …” Peter shrugged. “If I was convinced, somehow, then ...” he shrugged again, feeling helpless and irritated by the feeling, “there wouldn't be anything to do.” I'd still hate you. Probably.
XXX
Sylar realized he’d not phrased his Truth question to get the answer he wanted and his lips thinned. As it was, unfortunately, Peter was answering the letter of the question and nothing more. The empath couldn’t answer more with what he’d been given. It was his own fault and he couldn’t change his question to gain the intended answer. He’d have to abide by the rules and settle for the limited answer he’d been given. If I was harmless and a nobody you’d leave me be? You’d let me walk? Sylar didn’t believe that for a second. Yeah, you’d ignore me. I can’t convince you. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Sylar waved it away. After a moment, it was clear Peter was waiting on him. “Oh. Truth.”
XXX
Peter sighed and took a long drag out of his beer, nearly emptying it. His impression was that Sylar didn't believe him. After a brief internal debate, he decided not to address it. Let Sylar believe what he wanted to believe. Trying to turn things to a better subject than hate, he asked, “What's the nicest thing you've ever done for anyone?
XXX
That was a painless question. “I died for them,” Sylar said, not having to think about it. “For some people, I’d do it again.”
XXX
Peter grimaced briefly at how tantalizingly incomplete that was. “I need more details than that. A story, a situation, something.” He gestured across the desk. “An example. Tell me about one time you remember well.”
XXX
“Pick one?” Sylar repeated. “Um…” His brain automatically tried to assemble the parameters of the question but the beer was remarkably inhibitory to that process. ‘The one you remember well’ stuck with him and that decided him. “I have a few,” he said shyly, “but the one I remember, probably the first one actually. It was during the eclipse.” //Hazy memories of a dark, heavy jungle, gunfire, worrying desperately about Peter, the slave girl, his family and his father’s plans for the world filtered through him, bringing back memories of being a soldier.// “Uh…” he shook his head to clear it, enjoying and not enjoying the sensation of being buzzed and dizzy. “We were in California, on a mission from…//Dad//, from Arthur, to bring Claire back to Pinehearst. Bennet and I had tried to bag-and-tag this guy, Canfield, at his house - he made black holes…I saved Claire from getting sucked into one. Anyway, I knew Bennet would hide Claire there. Our powers were gone and ran into trouble, Claire got shot…Bennet left her to…Um…” Here he skipped over the sex Peter apparently already knew about. “It was one of those times when your life falls apart completely…” he trailed off. He’d lost a lot that day, parents, a friend, possibly a mate, certainly someone who knew him. “But long story shorter, my shoulder was dislocated and Elle was shot in the leg. We were both kind of concussed but we made it to a supermarket to get medical supplies then hid in the loading bay when Bennet showed up. We…we weren’t going to make it so I shoved her into the loading elevator, held the door down and pushed the button so she’d be away.” The sound of Elle’s voice calling his name, his real name, lingered hauntingly, jolting him and twisting his insides, ’Gabriel, no! Gabriel!’ “And I attacked the guy with the gun. He won; I was just stalling.” Sylar shrugged. “He cut my throat. No powers.” It sounded so much more heroic than it had felt at the time. Even so, it was nothing compared to the daily heroisms of Peter Petrelli.
XXX
Peter listened raptly, leaning forward and very engaged just as he'd been when Sylar had talked about his family. He struggled with the timeline, though. When Sylar was done, Peter looked down, thinking it through. They were on a mission to get Claire, but they stopped to bag and tag some guy? Who's 'we'? Noah and Sylar? But Noah hid Claire from Sylar and … oh! Peter pulled in air. Elle. Sylar and Elle were on a mission to get Claire for Dad. That makes sense. The other stuff must have happened before. It's just how he knew where to look. He gave a short nod to himself as he worked out what Sylar had said.
Now that he knew the context, the rest fell into place. He remembered the dream his (or Sylar's) subconscious had inflicted on him only a few weeks before. Sylar's shoulder pain made sense now. That Elle had had sex after being shot in the leg was hard to believe, but Peter wasn't sure he understood the sequence. There had been shooting at the end of the sex, he recalled. Maybe she got shot then.
He remembered the tenderness and affection Sylar had shown Elle in the dream Peter had had. It had been so jarring, rattling around his view of Sylar as someone who didn't indulge in the softer side. He'd had the same paradigm shift after realizing Sylar had broken his fall from Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for him then, too, and been killed for it. Even though he had regenerated, he couldn't have been certain he'd have the chance. He'd known the risk he assumed by tangling in Arthur's plans and had done it anyway. Dying for Elle, during the eclipse, showed even more nobility.
Peter wanted to ask so much more that it ached. “Have you ever played Truth or Dare before?”
XXX
Locking eyes with Peter, he said, “No. But he has. Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter's head pulled back, lips tightening and eyes narrowing. He shut them. The warmth he'd felt, the hope, the possibility, the surprise at seeing the good side of Sylar's soul was all doused by the reminder of his latest murder. Or at least, the latest one Peter happened to know about. Sylar had a habit of leaving a trail of bodies between him and whatever he wanted. That he treated life so carelessly diminished the worth of him sacrificing his own.
Peter opened his eyes, finished off his beer, and swished the flavor around. “Dare.”
XXX
“Give me a lap dance,” Sylar leered shamelessly.
XXX
“Uh … what?” They'd talked about shame, family, hate, and love, and now Sylar wanted a fucking lap dance?!? Peter's mind didn't shift gears that fast.
XXX
“C’mon. I know you know how. I’ll even let you keep your clothes on.” Because he was magnanimous like that. Or more likely that he’d be uncomfortable with a naked man rubbing his naked junk all over him.
XXX
“You're really asking for that?” Peter made a nervous laugh of disbelief, glancing around the room. No. Before blurting anything out, he thought about it. This was a game. He didn't have to do anything, but failing to accept a challenge was a loss of face. Peter didn't like to lose respect, especially Sylar's. He made an unhappy noise at his dilemma. “There's … there's no music. Do you know how hard it is to do a lap dance without music?” He tried to visualize what he'd do based on the few strip clubs he'd been in. The idea of Sylar's hyper-critical eyes on him while he tried to pretend to be sexy … “I don't know what you think you know, but I've never done that, aside from stripping for someone I was with, and that was as a joke.” Well, sort of a joke. The sort of joke where the punch line involved happily tumbling into bed and making love. The punch line for what Sylar was asking for might be months or years of snickering. That was what decided Peter. Better a smaller loss of face now than a continued one forever.
“No. Pick something else.”
XXX
Sylar huffed. “Fine. Take off your shirt, hand it to me and flex for me.” Much more literal payback for that fucking teapot stunt. No way was Peter getting his shirt back.
XXX
Peter waited a long beat. That's it? Um … okay. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned stripping. I kind of brought that one on myself. He pushed his bottle towards Sylar. “Get us another round. I'm going to use the restroom.” He stood up, testing his balance. The room seemed steady enough and it wasn't like he was going anywhere tonight, but he still figured the next drink should be his last.
XXX
Is that a ‘yes’? Sylar raised an eyebrow in general question - beer and bathroom were somehow necessary to the process? He wasn’t even sure how being ordered around fit in either, but if it got the job done. Sylar rose and the world tilted. Oh, good. Another beer. Let’s do that, yeah. That’ll be good. He tried to keep it together in case Peter was watching (in case this was a test or his survival depended on balance and awareness); he thought he only did fairly at making it to the fridge and back without running into anything or swerving too badly. Sitting was a relief, even though the world was still jumping around and his head thumping internally.
XXX
His favorite roommate during college had been a body builder named Kevin. He'd shown Peter around the gym, helped him get a workout routine set up, and gave a lot of pointers on how to bulk up. Peter, at that point, had been hopelessly under-developed. There were fourteen-year-olds more mature looking than he was and his slender frame had attracted a predatory interest from certain people. Kevin had been a big help.
In the bathroom, Peter belched, urinated, worked his stomach and belched again. He washed his hands and gave his face a quick wipe down, then made one last effort to make sure he had all the gas out of his stomach he could get out. Thus satisfied, he walked out. Standing between the desk and couch, Peter set his feet a little more than shoulder width apart. He watched Sylar's face with a semi-resigned smile. Sylar wanted to look at him - Peter could handle that. This was very different for him, mentally, than doing something directly to arouse him. This was something Peter could accept.
He shifted his jeans on his hips and then pinched up the fabric of his shirt on either side. He tugged out one side, then the other, smiling as Sylar's eyes followed the motions. Peter remembered how eye-catching he'd found Sylar's peek-a-boo strip of exposed flesh a few days ago, when Sylar'd worn a shirt way too small for him. Peter's smile broadened at the memory of how silly Sylar had looked … and how much Peter had wanted to look. He pulled up the shirt in silence, the rasp of the cloth across his skin the only sound. He raised it on one side at a time, keeping it taut between his hands so as to see-saw it over his stomach, then his lower chest. He knew Sylar wanted him. He also knew Sylar wasn't getting what he wanted. Peter chuckled lightly.
He flexed, stomach tensing and rippling a little as he brought the shirt over his chest, and then in a steady motion, over his head and off. His left arm slid free of it; his right was next. He started to set it aside.
XXX
Only stripped once, my ass, Sylar thought to himself. He didn’t have to censor his thoughts, just his words. The world was dead quiet, the only noise came from breathing and his heart beating rhythmically. It left him nothing else to focus on but Peter’s movements. He stared intently, not watching his expression as much as he should have been. I’m drunk, I can stare, especially if he’s doing that. Peter’s tummy came into view. Slowly. Firm and soft-looking. Sylar glanced at Peter’s face, wondering if the stalling…the teasing, was on purpose. Is he…making this sexual? That was both understandable (that’s what one was supposed to do when stripping, right?) and confusing (there was no negative stimuli involved to make Peter pretend to be sexy, so why do it, for Sylar of all people?) He expected Peter to hide behind every technicality of the game and…
“No,” he croaked, his voice drier than he thought. He leaned forward, gesturing. “Gimme the shirt.”
XXX
Peter snorted, but he wadded up the garment and threw it in Sylar's face. Okay. What else was I supposed to do? Oh yeah, flex. Hm. He tried to remember the poses Kevin had shown him. Peter had been surprised at the time to learn there was some real showmanship in professional body building. It wasn't just a matter of standing there looking tense and while his current circumstances didn't allow him a chance to prep properly, he could at least strike the right poses to show himself off.
XXX
Sylar was slow to react. It was like his body had decided to mutiny or his brain had subconsciously done it on purpose (he didn’t know which he found more disturbing), but Peter’s shirt planted itself on his face, where it had been directed by Peter’s throw when Sylar’s hands had risen too late. Christ, was all he could think. Peter’s smell was soaked into the shirt and that shirt was draped over his face. (He is not getting this back. Ever). He took his time dragging the shirt away, inhaling the seductive, masculine aroma as it passed. Yes, it was weird to be sniffing another man’s clothes, but he couldn’t help that it instinctively smelled good. His hindbrain was fuzzing out, separate from the effects of alcohol and he cursed himself for wanting to rub the damn shirt onto his skin. So much for it not being sexual…
XXX
Peter sucked in his stomach as much as he could with multiple beers working their way through him and brought up his arms for a double bicep. His feet ended up more correctly centered under him. With jeans on, he didn't have to bother with his legs aside from positioning. He flexed what was bare and didn't feel ashamed of it - Sylar's expression was like pure candy to Peter. He grinned. This was fun.
XXX
When the shirt finally fell to his lap (how convenient), Sylar’s eyes were heavy, a little heated, still intent on the show. Half naked now, Peter’s upper body was flawless as far as Sylar could tell, and that was saying something. Trained to look for flaws and fix-its, not a single blemish, hair or wrinkle marred Peter’s form. It was all tight, smooth skin, defined, fit muscles, the odd mole or two. With a chest and arms like that, Peter was very capable at heroing and being a paramedic - images of Peter caring for the sick and injured and alternately thinking he was doing the right thing by beating and punching Sylar were distracting to say the least. Individually, one could dissect Peter - arms, chest, stomach, sides, neck, face, hair, hips, etc. Each part would be textbook, together they were…quite perfect, overwhelmingly so. Whether or not Sylar felt desire for men, his eyes didn’t lie in telling him Peter Petrelli was a very fine specimen of masculinity. A healthy one, too. Peter’s grin reminded him of his purpose with this. The medic was entirely too comfortable with this. Pointedly, Sylar looked the man over like the piece of meat he was. He then whistled that insulting, derogatory sound full of objectification - the wolf whistle. He remembered not appreciating it from his female shapeshifting adventures. “Yeah!” he called out, clapping briefly. Besides, maybe it was something one might do to strippers…
XXX
He wasn't that good on a front lat spread, so Peter gave the pose only a few seconds - fists on hips, shoulders down, chest tensed. He didn't have the flexibility to carry off the true upside-down triangle torso. He lingered more on the side chest pose, showing off his right side with his left hand holding his right wrist just above the brace. He laughed a little at Sylar's appreciation. He liked being looked at. It made him feel sexy. As he turned away to do the back double bicep, he tugged up the waistband of his pants and shifted his hips side to side, wagging his ass at Sylar and feeling the crotch of his pants ride up against himself. Oh yeah. Bite me, asshole. He put his arms up, flexing, wondering if Sylar was more an ass-man or a front-guy.
XXX
Peter working his brace into the posing was amusing. Then Peter did it…shaking his ass at Sylar. It was suggestive at the least, teasing, or inviting. Sylar’s weakness was in interpreting those kinds of social cues. If they had come from anyone else, he might have considered the possibility that the person was interested, for sex. As it was, his mental faculties spasmed in confusion as his body reacted to the mere improbable possibility that that little wiggle in his direction meant something more when he knew intellectually that Peter couldn’t mean it in any of those connotations. Sylar exhaled through his nose quickly, feeling his face and body heat up. It was such a well-formed butt and Peter’s jeans were marvelously tight…Here he had Peter’s shirt in his lap, the man himself half naked and acting…Did it matter how Peter intended it? “That’s it…” slipped from his mouth. Even he didn’t know how he meant that, either - mocking or interested.
XXX
Peter turned for the side triceps pose, leering over his shoulder at Sylar. His brain was trying to figure out which of the seven poses Kevin had taught him that he was missing. Not that it mattered much - what mattered more was earning more applause from his audience. The cheering made him feel fantastic, tingly and warm and maybe even aroused. He tucked his right arm behind him, reaching across the small of his back with his left to take his right wrist. He leaned back, his right leg crooked back to support him as he puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach. This was a great pose for showing off the line of his body.
XXX
The last side angle of Peter was impressive to say the least, the lines of his body were classic. It was the arching that caught Sylar’s eye. The raised chest led to twisted, brawny arms (looking wonderfully submissive in his pose, already behind his back, wrists together); Peter’s tight ribs and waist, thin stomach, tempting illiacs, jeans…penis…Sylar stared. That’s his dick. He’s hard. Is…is that the beer? No…Is it me? No, why would it be me? I’m looking at him and he’s showing off and…//Recollections of nannies and caretakers having a hell of a time keeping clothes on Peter as a child, then Ma telling him, Nathan, to give Peter a talk about waltzing around naked in the bedrooms and bathrooms of the Petrelli estate, being relieved the kid didn’t make a habit of jerking off with the doors open; the swim team; Peter would have modeled if anyone asked him to…//
After what was surely staring for too long, Sylar raised his eyes to check Peter’s reaction. Peter was giving him a look. Maybe it wasn’t ‘come hither’ or outright sexy, but it was close enough. That look, and what the situation meant, was fantastic. Sylar began to chuckle. Oh my God. Oh my God! “Oh…Oh, Peter.” He didn’t know if he was supposed to be embarrassed or flattered or what. There was a word for that, whatever was opposite of ‘voyeur’… “Oh my God, that explains everything!” He leaned back, laughing now, genuinely amused. The things he could do with this! Molesting Peter was going to be that much easier now. The smile dropped from his face and he quieted, giving Peter his most penetratingly dark stare as he leaned forward, “Oh, you are a filthy little pervert, aren’t you?”
XXX
Sylar’s tone for ‘Oh, Peter’ was so drop-dead sexy that for a moment, Peter thought it was just more appreciation. Then the laughter started. Sylar’s previous stare, which Peter had imagined was at his gut, his overly-alcohol-saturated brain now placed a bit lower. He straightened, realizing the fullness in his groin was making a visible bulge in his jeans. He thought about hiding in the bathroom again, as he had after Sylar had walked in on him jerking off, but that seemed cowardly and pointless. He'd been caught; the damage done. He retreated behind the desk instead, sitting and putting the solid bulk between them.
Peter blushed furiously as he rapidly phased through different emotions: anger and embarrassment at himself for getting a boner, and at Sylar for laughing at him, regret for accepting the stupid dare to start with, and dread that Sylar might take this as a signal of interest. It didn’t have anything to do with him, as Peter well knew. He felt very exposed and not just in the physical sense, but he had to wait until Sylar quit guffawing to ask for his shirt back.
Peter’s face screwed up in anger at Sylar’s ‘accusation’. He wanted so badly to defend himself, but what Sylar was saying wasn’t really … an attack. He assumed Sylar meant it that way, that much was obvious, but Peter wasn’t about to be defensive about possessing a sex drive, functioning genitals, or a proclivity to be aroused by adoring attention. It was normal! Or so he insisted to himself. He blew air out his nose and snapped, “Gimme my shirt, asshole.”
XXX
How am I the asshole, here? Sylar chuckled again briefly. "Nope. Nothing in the rules about that."
XXX
“What? It’s my shirt!”
XXX
“Not any more. You gave it to me.” Simple rules, possession was nine-tenths.
XXX
Peter’s chest was heaving a little, eyes darting between the denied article of clothing and Sylar’s face. It didn’t take but a few seconds to come to a decision - he wasn’t going to pick a fight over a fucking shirt, or over being laughed at. He’d had worse, and Sylar wasn’t taking any other action based on the now-entirely-faded hard-on. Peter slumped back in the chair suddenly, staring off at the ceiling to the left as he ignored Sylar for a few moments, arms crossed defensively over his chest and breathing slowing - long enough to calm down. Options of stealing one of Sylar’s shirts or snagging a blanket from the nearby bed ran through his mind, but he wasn’t actually cold and he felt that was admitting defeat somehow. He sighed into the quiet. “Truth or Dare?” he asked, finally looking back at Sylar.
XXX
Peter was…more upset about the loss of the shirt than anything else? That’s fucked up, Sylar thought blearily. The man literally gave him the cold-shoulder of ignoring, pouting or something so Sylar let him have that much (not sure of what else he’d be allowed). “Truth.” No way was he inviting a reciprocated Dare of the body-comparing nature.
XXX
Peter was still very annoyed and that was what was responsible for his next question: “What's the question you most don't want me to ask?” Sylar had a lot of outs - he could never pick Truth again, he could quit the game if Peter asked it, or he could call the question off-limits. But Peter still wanted to know what the ultimate hot button topic was.
XXX
It was Sylar’s turn for the wide-eyed look of shock. He’d been thoroughly suckered. There were so many ways Peter could (and likely would) abuse the confession, because that’s what it was - a highlighted, spotlighted, signed confession of vulnerability and discomfort. Peter wanted a pressure point. Whether it was a fair exchange for the vulnerability of knowing the medic’s little proclivity wasn’t the point. Sylar felt it beyond the pale. The medic wasn’t asking what subject he should most avoid, no way; not in this context and not with the previous Dare hanging in the air. When he recovered somewhat, he frowned deeply, his head reared back. I don’t want you to ask me if I’m gay. I don’t want you to ask about what happened to my mom. I don’t want you to ask me about Elle. I don’t want you to ask why I kill people. I don’t want you to ask how I got this way. I don’t want you to ask anything about Nathan. At some point, his head had dropped down as he panicked through his thoughts, working his way to thinking about his options.
“That’s not fair,” he hissed, eyeing Peter from underneath his brows. He could feed Peter some lesser ‘disliked’ answer but it wouldn’t be the Truth; it wouldn’t be following the rules and parameters of the game. He’d be cheating and he’d been holding his own thus far. Wasn’t he just talking about ‘rules-doctoring’? Hell, he’d gone for Truth because of Peter’s reaction to his own damn fault of popping wood in the middle of an otherwise normal Dare. He doubly couldn’t back out and ask for a Dare now! Now he had to pick the worst thing Peter could ask of him and reveal it. “You’re going to ask it,” Sylar managed to sum up. He didn’t know how or when, but Peter would trap or force him to answer. (Or maybe, just Peter knowing was the worst part; the actual act of confession and admission itself and the knowledge that someone else knew something). “That has to be against the rules.” The dodge was worth a try.
XXX
Peter gave the slightest exhalation at Sylar's point about fairness. He would have made more of a snort, but it was obvious that Sylar was considering his question very seriously. “It's not against the rules,” Peter said, but that was an evasion. Basically, questions were allowable if they agreed they were allowable. That was it. Usually the game was held in a group and there was more of a consensus to leaven opinions that might otherwise seem purely self-serving. If Sylar rejected the question, then it was rejected. He didn't seem to be rejecting it, but he didn't seem clear that he could, either. Peter could have explained that - it might have been a sign of fairness and honor and being a big man if he did. But he didn't, because he wanted to know - not the information itself (in fact, the question was idiotic because it ruled off an important area from any honest, future discussion), but whether Sylar trusted him that much. That was the real answer he was after. After humiliating himself, he wanted that ego stroke that he was okay and Sylar thought so, too. “I won't ask it in the game. I promise.”
XXX
But you’ll ask it outside the game? Where I don’t have to answer it. But what it you make my life hell until I answer? I know how that goes. Were there any benefits to this disclosure? Keeping Peter Petrelli’s interest, maybe. Sylar grit his teeth. Prioritizing the worst question was difficult. I’m painting a red flag on something…He exhaled a sort of sigh. “I don’t want you to ask…” The rest he mumbled quietly, looking away as he did.
XXX
Peter waited a beat, then said, “It only counts if I can hear you. I couldn't hear that.”
XXX
Sylar looked straight at him, enunciating, “I said: I don’t want you to ask where my mother is.” That wasn’t the most accurate phrase Peter could ask to inflict damage, but with what Peter knew (or rather, didn’t know) this was the worst question he could ask. His face felt hot and loose and he realized he was angry, backed into a corner, humiliated whether or not that was the intention. And he was so, so nervous, like he was afraid of being caught over the body of someone he’d murdered all over again. Back when he used to care, back when prison might have meant something. He clenched his jaw rhythmically, breathing faster before hastily uttering, “Truth or Dare?”
XXX
Peter blinked a little, feeling the ridiculous but very human urge to immediately ask about the forbidden topic. He kept his mouth firmly shut, urge or no, and made a slight nod to respectfully acknowledge what had been said. He watched the range of emotional reaction Sylar was showing - very raw, very genuine, terrified that Peter was going to press him on this. He told the truth. He trusts me - that much. Fuck! Peter was blown away by that, enough that it took him a few moments to register that Sylar had asked him a question.
“Um, Truth.” He supposed he had to. He needed to give Sylar the opportunity to ask the same in return. Since the question wasn't immediately forthcoming, Peter offered, “There's two things I don't want to- well, three, actually, things I don't want to talk about, but my mother would have to be the top of that list. Kind of funny, or ironic or something, that we share that.” His lips pressed together, thinning. He'd given that one to Sylar for free, intentionally, without making him use a turn to find it out. That seemed only fair.
XXX
Sylar frowned at the unprompted ‘admission’ he supposed it was. That Angela was a no-fly zone was no surprise; Peter had said as much before. Sylar had ignored the seriousness of it because, well, it didn’t seem on par with his own issues and Angela had done damage to him and Nathan, not just Peter. Therefor, he had some right to invoke her name and talk about her. That’s nice, but not what I was after. "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"
XXX
“Um.” Peter’s face tried to look surprised and discomforted at the same time. He ended up doing it in sequence - brows alternating up and down a couple times, mouth gaping and then frowning. Caitlyn, not exactly innocent, but depending on him, relying on him - there was a crushing weight of unresolved feelings there. “The worst … I, um, I-“ can’t figure out how to answer that. I want to, but he’s going to want details. He swallowed, shifting in his seat and drawing in on himself. Simone. I could talk about Simone. But she wasn’t the worst. And he didn’t lie to me. I don’t get to lie to him. Not that I should anyway, but … He shook his head, staring down at the desk. If I keep thinking about it, I’m going to get upset, more upset, and- He shook his head again, the movement stiff with tension.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said roughly, coughing to clear his throat of the sudden difficulty he found in speaking. He wanted to answer. He knew he should. It wasn’t like Sylar had had an easy time of it either, but he’d managed. “I mean I-“ He winced and shrugged, but kept his eyes down. “I let someone down. B-betrayed them, maybe? I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t think he could talk about it. His chest was occupied by one huge, hard knot of tension that was starting to make it hard to breathe. Early stages of a panic attack? some portion of his mind observed with detachment. I can’t let that happen. “You have to ask something else. A dare maybe.” With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the desk to glance at Sylar, then away.
XXX
No, you won’t tell me that, you little prick. Sylar’s lips thinned at the lame cop-out in it’s fantastic entirety. Mr. Conscience couldn’t immediately list his worst deed? Of course, Peter probably thought he wasn’t capable or that he got one of those ‘free passes’ because he was…pick a feature. I answered your tough questions. Wuss. It was time to up the ante. “Let me tie your hands behind your back.” It wasn’t a question.
XXX
Peter let his eyes drop slowly back to the desk. Fuck. He couldn’t back out twice in a row. It would make it look like he’d asked his question with a spirit of vindictive manipulation and was now going to demand a pass from anything inconvenient Sylar wanted in return. Sylar probably didn’t know how much being tied up would bother Peter - or hell, maybe he did and he was asking for that precise reason, because Peter had gone too far in what he’d asked, and so Sylar was turning it around on him. Peter had established, clearly, the rules they were playing by. Now he had to play by them. I should have told him he didn’t have to answer it. I should have told him he could have refused it just like I did. I should have, but I didn’t, because I was so stuck on the idea of making him give me something I could hurt him with, so I’d be all ‘big hero’ when I didn’t. The self-serving nature of his question weighed him down. He sagged in his seat, demeanor shifting to guilty resignation. “Okay.”
XXX
Continued...