More Between Us Chapter 76/? "Pulse II"
More Between Us, Chapter 76/? "Pulse II"
Day 26, January 4, morning.
Peter pulled in a few breaths, feeling Sylar's pulse reassuringly present under his left hand, which was still in place but no longer bearing down. He waited as the man roused enough to hear him. Teeth clenched and jaw aching with a constant pain, Peter leaned close to growl, “Yeah, life sucks - real funny. You know that thing you said earlier about killing me if I tried to take Nathan's memories from you? Well, I've got something I care about that strongly myself. As long as I'm alive, you will show some respect for what you did to him and what that means to me.” Peter wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar refused - kill him, torture him, get inventive, break his word and abandon Sylar entirely? Not knowing, he left the consequence unstated, but there was no way in this hell he was going to allow Sylar to mock his brother's memory - that he was sure of.
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Sylar inhaled deeply. His esophagus and trachea felt fine, if a little pinched or bruised around the edges in a couple spots. He kept gasping; panting just to get his heart to keep up even though Peter’s hand was nowhere near his forehead. That was good. Thoughts were fuzzy, his body felt drugged, sluggish, also fuzzy until the blood began to pound through his skull at massive rates. The reverberation had to be audible to the other man, and God, it was painful. Sylar groaned, not recalling how he got here but happy he was in bed and that Peter was comfort- The angry Italian’s words slowly penetrated his mental fog. What is he- what were we talking about? Is he checking my pulse? Sylar blinked languidly, melting in place despite his bitch of a headache. He could feel his legs splayed around Peter, smelled Peter’s breath on his face, but the intent look he was getting was far from sexual (in fact, it looked pretty berserk). He lifted watery hands and wrapped his fingers lightly around the other man’s wrist, clasping and stroking it sensually. Loopy as hell, he grinned, “Bet you say that to all the boys you choke in bed.” Choke? Where had that come from? It fit the facts and the scenario and it sounded a lot more like Peter behavior than whatever this was. It didn’t overly concern him. ”Whatever you say, Petey,” he purred and slid a few fingers up underneath Peter’s shirtsleeve to caress his forearm.
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What? Did he not hear me? Or … did he not understand it? Peter hesitated, caught between being outraged at the inappropriateness of Sylar’s behavior and confused by it. People often had wacky, disoriented reactions to coming out from under anesthesia. Although he hadn't choked that many people out in his life, he suspected the mechanism worked the same, meaning Sylar's behavior wasn't a continuation of some kind of death wish and Peter's instinctive desire to hit him until he made sense was wrong on several levels. Peter went from fire-breathing righteousness to befuddled helplessness fast enough that it made his head spin. No longer shunting away inconvenient sensory input, Peter’s awareness of the ache in his jaw increased and he winced. He looked down at where Sylar was touching him (that’s nice, though), at a complete loss as to what to do.
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Peter was warm and so close, not reacting to being petted. That acceptance sent a jolt through Sylar, it felt like his breath left him again, this time from arousal. He felt a noise bubble up but it didn’t make it to the surface yet, his desire an overwhelming drug. Since that had gone so well, he wanted more; he wanted everything. Yes, bed. Do it here. Sylar wrapped his legs around the back of Peter’s thighs, one hand sliding up his arm to bury itself in the empath’s beautiful hair, sending the free hand down and around his side, aiming to pull Peter atop him and grope him if it was allowed (and maybe even if it wasn’t). Sylar shifted his hips back and forth in anticipation but Peter wasn’t close enough to make contact.
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Um, uh … wow … no? Peter swallowed, apprehension and unwanted pleasure washing through him. “No!” He said in a strangled voice of his own, putting out his hands to either side to lift himself up and prevent Sylar from pulling him down again. He hadn't expected that, or any of this, really. A few moments ago, he’d been trying to get his angry point across as forcefully as possible. Now he was trying to be gentle with someone who maybe didn’t know what was going on? At the very least, Sylar wasn’t being insulting, disrespectful, or threatening, which removed violence as an option.
Peter tried to extract himself, but Sylar was not cooperative with it. “Sylar, let me go,” he said with an attempt at a calmness he didn't feel. Anxiety and other things coiled in his stomach. His body and certain parts of his mind liked what Sylar was doing way more than he wanted them to. “We were just fighting. I'm still pissed. Let me go.” His voice rose a little with alarm at the end as he realized Sylar was really into this, slow humping included. Does he have an erection?
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By the time Peter reacted, their groins were pressed flush together; Sylar slowly ground against him, every full shift of motion dragging his dick against another live person - this person - was nirvana, pure and simple. He couldn’t think, could barely speak, he just needed and needed it very badly. “Shh, Peter…” he grated out when he was able. He felt weak and heavy with heat.
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There was no doubt Sylar had an erection and if this continued, Peter wouldn’t be far behind. As it was, it felt like his hair was standing on end with tension and excitement. He shuddered and some traitorous part of his brain reminded him of how long it had been since he’d had an intentional and completed sexual moment, even purely masturbatory. That length of time probably wasn’t healthy. Sylar looked good, smelled good, sounded good, and Peter’s brain was overloading with tangled emotions and desires so complicated it made the Gordian knot look like cat’s cradle. Panting, he shifted his weight to his left hand, using his right to push Sylar down and away from him. “No,” he said firmly, hand still on the other man’s shoulder. Voice softening just a little, he added, “Let go of me. This isn’t happening. We are about to have a fight, in your bed, in your apartment. Things will be broken.”
Peter sounded, and was, genuinely unhappy about that prospect. He didn't want to fight in Sylar's bed, nor his apartment. If he hadn't said something to Sylar about beds being a truce area back when they were snowed in at the penthouse, he had meant to (even if sitting on it and provoking him wasn't part of the deal, Peter regarded now, when he wasn't blind with rage, to count). Then there was Sylar's apartment - he was clear that its contents mattered to Sylar and somewhere along the way, that had began to matter to Peter. He didn't want to wreck the place or the things in it. Some of them might be truly irreplaceable - just like his reputation in Sylar's eyes. He didn't want to be known as the guy who destroyed what few personal possessions Sylar had left in the world.
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Again, Peter remained motionless (or close enough to it), allowing Sylar to act on his desires and touch the other man. His hand ghosted over the back of Peter’s waistband and petted and stroked in his hair; he was seconds away from lifting himself up to attack Peter’s neck when the spell was interrupted. Sylar was more swollen and stiff than he’d been in years, panting and flooded with sex, resisting being pulled back, pushed away and told ‘no,’ like he was hearing now, as if he could be turned on and off like an inanimate switch. He made some kind of protesting, hyper-reluctant noise that sounded entirely too needy but he didn’t move away. He doesn’t sound threatening but I know he doesn’t care if he breaks things…He’s giving me an out, I think. Why do we have to fight? Letting go was contrary to Sylar’s urges, contrary to his experience with success, too. Taking things got him what he wanted; a simple ‘no’ wouldn’t stand in his way. Why did he have to stop because someone else said so? Because we’ll fight and break stuff at the very least. And he still won’t fuck me. It was more than a shame, because Peter looked so ready.
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Fuck. Peter was getting hard despite himself. His breathing had deepened, his skin felt warmer, and Sylar was looking so sexy it was absurd. He could barely connect the person he was looking at with the person who had, moments ago, been laughing about Peter's dead brother. Thoughts of any kind were getting difficult to string together sequentially, but he knew he'd have no problem at all in enacting something sexual if he gave himself permission to do it. Which he wasn't doing, even if he couldn't have told anyone why at the moment. It took him longer than it should have to realize Sylar wasn't holding him back anymore - no, that was Peter doing it now. He lifted himself away slowly, very aware of how his leverage to rise came from pressing his knee into the mattress right under Sylar's groin, the heat of Sylar's body riding his thigh and making his pants unbearably tight.
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Sylar could feel the cold and loneliness rushing back over his skin when Peter moved away, teasing him pointlessly with his knee in the process. He inhaled and held his breath to prevent making a reactionary sound to that, not wanting Peter to know how it affected him. He couldn’t even look at Peter, ashamed and enraged in the wake of the sadness. (I can’t throw myself at him any more clearly than that and he still doesn’t want it). He realized Peter had been looking at him throughout most of…it. (Oh. No wonder; my face turns him off…Just like everyone else). Obviously they weren’t in the proper position to engage in anything more. (And I’m hard, I’m turned on and that’s…not arousing. After all, Peter had that no kissing rule). All he knew was that he wasn’t good enough and he disgusted his only companion. God, he felt low and he couldn’t remember why taking this treatment was required, hence his anger. So he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, uncaring of what, if anything, Peter did. He couldn’t move or speak until he had himself more under control, ignoring that reflex to clutch, hold and seek comfort in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
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He shuddered again, more coherent thought becoming possible now that he had some distance. Peter raked his well-mussed hair out of his face, gave Sylar's wantonly displayed form a thorough and hungry once-over with his eyes, and walked stiffly over to the chair next to the door. He stood there silently, hands loose at his sides, letting his breathing slow down and his erection fade. He listened to Sylar's movements as Peter tried to sort out what had just happened, fixing the chronology in his mind. Because he definitely needed to remember all this for later. He was pretty sure there was something about morals and scruples he should be thinking about as well, but that wasn't nearly as important at the moment as remembering every action and touch.
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More in uncomfortable shock than anything else, he acted out the steps anyway, not as interested in them as he’d been before. His stupid kink(s) couldn’t ever be met and that killed a lot of it for him yet he kept on with the script. Quietly, he rasped, “We don’t have to fight. I thought that was the point…” I’m not the one being difficult. His dick didn’t get the time-out message; it was still throbbing away in his tight-as-hell jeans. After rubbing up against someone, he could have rubbed up against something, hell, anything would do, but it lacked appeal. Lewdly, and before he knew if Peter was even looking his way, Sylar was rubbing his hands over his denim bulge, giving himself some kind of stimulation. He was so keyed up it still felt better than it had in a long time. “I know you’re hard, Peter. You’ve been looking to burst ever since you got here. I saw you in that suite and you were happy to fuck against me in bed,” this was said in the voice of temptation, intentionally seductive.
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Peter looked back over his shoulder, the words ‘Fuck off,’ dying in his throat and never making it out. Sylar’s voice was a sex-god’s purr and what he was doing to himself ... Peter’s breath caught, eyes following first one hand (moving up and down across Sylar’s groin), then the other (circling lazily on his chest). If there was a conscious thought in his head, it didn’t make itself known. He just stood there and stared, the animal part of his brain locked in mortal combat with his morals.
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Sylar managed a lazy smirk, feeling another’s eyes on him before he confirmed it himself, looking into Peter’s face. Now that I have your attention…He sent a glance to Peter’s groin, spying the erection he’d hoped to see. Having a better idea of what Peter wanted was helpful and recent; otherwise, Sylar had little idea how to go about seducing a man other than…well, everything he’d already done - bluntly and physically offering sex. Mostly he was recalling some of the things others in the past had tried to ply on him. Acting interested wasn’t too hard at the moment. He gripped his shaft and arched his back slightly, making a calculated writhe, “Hmm. You’re hard now; that made you hard? Finish it.” Finish me!
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Peter made a pained growl and looked away, wanting to leave but finding himself confused by the wheeled chair in front of the door. It didn’t belong over here. It belonged over at the desk, right next to where Sylar was. Maybe I should put it back? He had the feeling he was looking for an excuse and that was wrong. He knew he needed to sort that out before doing anything - figure out what he wanted to do, what he needed to be doing. I need to get out of here. I have to get out of here before I forget what's important. What’s important? What started this? With embarrassing difficulty, he dredged up thoughts of Emma, fingers bloody in the dream; and of Nathan, though the image that came to Peter’s mind was actually Sylar in Nathan’s guise, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and nailed to the stack of plywood at Mercy Heights, right after the change and before Peter had released him. That felt like the last time he’d seen his brother, even if he knew it wasn’t.
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“How long has it been for you? I’m sure we can…work something out,” Sylar fished for more information, if he was doing something Peter didn’t like or if Peter wasn’t getting something he needed. By now his brain had awoken enough to remember that he had been choked out and came to only to get an erection and sort of jump his attacker. That was more than a little awkward - it didn’t say great things about him but choices and options he was short on. It invited…worse things, things he wasn’t a stranger to but he would prefer another approach, another theme. Whatever works with him, he reminded himself.
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The memories Peter had pulled up had had the intended effect. His desire ebbed fast - it was like a cold shower to remember how much this man hated him, laughed at his pain, and shrugged off the needs of others. It made all of Sylar’s enticements right now look so insincere, so hollow - so much easier to dismiss. Glancing back over his shoulder again, he said heavily, “Don't mock Nathan's death.” He pushed the office chair out of his way and reached for the door.
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Talk about another shoe to drop, a bomb in the conversation. It went a long way towards killing Sylar’s southern blood flow, nearly the epitome of boner killers. It made him more angry or upset than sad. Peter acted like Sylar and Nathan were completely divorced from each other, having no interlocking or overlapping areas even now. “I think Nathan would want you to get laid,” he shot back because what did Peter know about Nathan’s mind? It wasn’t the best (or smartest) he could come up with but it was what came out. If it was ‘mocking’ again, maybe Peter would come back and try it again.
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Well, that makes it easy to leave. Peter walked out, not even dignifying Sylar with a response. We started talking about how Nathan died, got some good information (sort of), he made fun of me being upset he died, I choked him out, then he woke up and … yeah. That was not going to work. At all. Asshole. Peter shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders and ignore how close Sylar’s come-on had been to ‘working’ no matter how much he tried to tell himself there hadn’t been a chance in hell. A good long walk sounded like a great idea. Hopefully he’d think of a way to pretend none of this morning had happened.
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No such luck. Peter’s resistance was stronger than he expected. How many people could face something they obviously found sexually arousing at close range and turn away from it? It inspired respect and resentment in Sylar at the same time; of course, his own body’s demands were winning. He still wanted to hit something, maybe scream just to let off the tension. Stuck between anger and the blues, his erection wavered as he tried to decide what to do about it and how to cope. He still thinks he’s better than me; thinks I’ll be here, waiting for him and only his touch. Sylar sneered around the room at nothing in particular. It was true, sick and true. What’s that like - to have someone…wait for you, eagerly? (I’m not eager, I’m just…) Horny. Deprived. Instead of stroking his dick, I’m stroking his ego. With those depressing considerations, his dick finally made up its mind and faded from its upright state. Sniffing, he told himself, I don’t feel like it right now.
(‘Not right now, honey; I have a headache’). Fuck! Sylar did snap this time, burying his fist in his own pillow like he couldn’t seem to strike back effectively against Peter, not even to be treated like everyone else in the empath’s eyes, not even for acknowledgement or a tiny bit of respect. It felt good though he felt a twinge of something unpleasant when he realized he’d struck his own property, an object that had been as close to a comfort as he’d had the past four years. That pillow had seen and heard things, felt his tears, intentional or otherwise, all that time. I’m losing my mind. It’s a goddamn pillow and Peter fucking Petrelli got a fucking hard-on from me.
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Hours later, sometime around noon, Peter knocked, wondering idly if they should talk to each other about a messaging system - some way to tell the other when they were out and planned to be back. One of these days, he’d come back to find Sylar was off on his own errands and it would be … worrying (was he really worried about Sylar? Yeah, he was, a little) not to know where the guy was. Such was the tone of Peter’s thoughts that showed he’d fully compartmentalized the events of the morning, cutting out the parts he didn’t want to think about (again, ever) and retaining the rest. He would have never made it growing up in the Petrelli household if he hadn’t developed a strong ability to ignore unpleasant words and actions directed against himself and continue on like nothing important had happened.
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Sylar blinked at the sound. He hadn’t thought Peter would come back, not today at least. Is he getting…used to me? He was annoyed, relieved and curious. He couldn’t deny it made him feel better that Peter had returned to him or…come back for more…Narrowed eyes greeted Peter upon opening his door - because he wanted to control some part of his environment. A brief check showed the other man wasn’t interested in that way.
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Peter walked in, lifting a plastic bag containing a carton of eggs and a squat, green bottle. He glanced over Sylar, checking his reaction as much as he could under the guise of being casual. “I thought I’d make some egg salad for lunch, or maybe egg salad sandwiches.” They were soft and wouldn’t aggravate Peter’s still-tender jaw. “You okay with that?”
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“Come in,” Sylar remarked with dry sarcasm after Peter had let himself in. He really thinks he owns everything doesn’t he? No wonder he’s jealous when I can do things he can’t. The next part lacked conviction or heat, such a spoiled brat. Eggs were the topic of choice. I- We- Eggs? That’s how he wants to…? (It’s a dodge). Yeah. Rather than answer a straightforward, preference-laden question, Sylar retorted with subtle revenge, not minding his tone, “Don’t you have to refrigerate them first?” Peter might be king of ignoring things he didn’t like but Sylar wasn’t about to let him get away with it, not entirely and certainly not for long.
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Peter looked back at him, perplexed. “Boiled eggs, you mean?” Sylar’s body language was a vague affirmation. Peter shrugged. “If you want them cold, yeah. They’re better warm.” Hot, fresh, done right - they were perfect with the albumen cleaving apart easily and the yolk flaky and yellow all the way through.
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Virginia had always served them cold and quite flavorless, high in protein. They’d been a fun snack as a child, the textures entertaining. Sylar lifted his chin to say ‘oh’ in as many words or gestures. Peter’s presence took a lot of wrath from him; sparking Peter up again could lead to loneliness for the rest of the day if he wasn’t careful. I’ll…play along, he thought as his stomach rumbled. Let him think it’s okay. He was horny and close, so ready. I just need to…warm him up and play his game a little, that’s what he wants, what he’s trying to train me to do. Besides the kitchen was hardly the place to fuck. Any upset about disrespect, treatment or identity was unfortunately nothing new; Peter would continue as he was, doing what he did and Sylar couldn’t change.
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Peter nodded and turned into the kitchen, setting about getting the eggs on to boil. “Could you set the table?” he asked softly when Sylar joined him. So maybe he wasn’t completely ignoring what had happened earlier. He just didn’t know how to deal with it.
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Sylar’s eyes slid to the side, looking at Peter that way. Yess, he remembers. I notice he didn’t tell me not to do that again, just not to ‘mock Nathan.’ Just no kissing. Playing Peter’s game wasn’t even that painful, all choking aside. “Of course,” he murmured in reply. He made sure to brush too close to Peter on his way to get plates.
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Peter gave no more than a cursory glance to Sylar’s close pass. It wasn’t invading his space and he was trying to shut thoughts of Sylar out of his head. Pan filled with water, burner on, he was now worrying over when to add the eggs. Have I ever boiled eggs? Surely I have. If he had, his memory was unhelpfully blank on the subject. He was good at cooking eggs all kinds of other ways - scrambled, fried, omelets, even quiche and poached if he had the right equipment. But boiled was a mystery at the moment. Um, it’s just like pasta, right? I wait until the water boils, then add the eggs. How long do they boil for? Seven, eight minutes like noodles? I guess that’s right. They’re a lot bigger than noodles, though. Bigger things take longer to cook. But how much longer? With a sinking feeling, he remembered hearing something about cooks priding themselves on a perfectly boiled egg, implying it was easy to do them wrong. He frowned into the pan of still, empty water. There was a class held just off the college campus that we made fun of - ‘How to Boil Water 101’. Is there a right way and a wrong way to boil water, too? Trying to shrug off the negative thoughts, he rolled his shoulders and looked over at Sylar. Peter gave him a small smile, maybe friendly, maybe just hoping he didn’t botch the cooking too badly. He went back to watching the pan fixedly because there was nothing else to do.
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He likes the attention. Look at him, soaking it up. Sylar didn’t hurry with the plates - for one thing, water and then eggs had to boil first. He turned with them in hand and eyed Peter with interest, uncaring if he was caught or if it bothered the other man. Sometimes I think he doesn’t understand how much he could have, then…He swallowed reflexively, recalling the man’s relentless grip around his throat - dangerous and driven and quite precise. That much was sexy about the attack. He likes to play rough, too. Sylar continued scanning the profile of Peter’s body until he couldn’t justify standing there with a pair of plates in hand; then he moved to deposit them on the table.
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Peter glanced back after Sylar moved, having been aware of the look (how could he not be?), but not doing anything about it. He went back to trying to disprove the adage about watched pots and boiling. He didn’t mind being looked at - it was the intent behind the gaze that made him uncertain. It was hard to think anything about it without thinking about the events of the morning, so he avoided the subject entirely.
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Cups and silverware were next then Sylar decided to try something. Peter was at the stove; the table and chair restricted the passage behind him, the goal of the fridge was beyond both. So he squeezed in behind the man, acting up that the chair was immobile and the light body-brush was necessary, groin to ass. It made him flush warm that Peter would tolerate this and his dick felt good against Peter once more.
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Peter twitched forward at the contact, light was it was, hips against the stove in a polite attempt to create space. He twisted and looked back because there should have been enough room - and there was. Sylar could have moved the chair, which Peter now reached out with his foot to rudely and pointedly shove into place at the table. He did that on purpose. Peter gave him a nasty look, a ‘what is wrong with you/I’m onto you’ look and then back at the pan on the stove. Since nothing was happening there, he changed position to one more common for him in Sylar’s kitchen - butt leaned against the counter, hands on the edge of the counter on either side. He took the corner with the stove on his left and sink to his right. It gave him an unobstructed view of the entire kitchen and more importantly, of whatever Sylar was up to. He hunched in on himself ever so slightly. Peter eyed Sylar’s faux innocent act for a moment before picking up the egg carton and examining it instead, wanting to have his hands in front of him rather than at his sides. Despite taking these obviously defensive precautions, his conscious thoughts remained firmly in denial mode, trying to ignore the implications of what Sylar was doing. Maybe there are directions for how to cook the eggs printed on the carton, like there are for pasta?
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A glare was all he received, hell; the chair got more action than he did in a retaliatory act. Other than that, Sylar was ignored, at least partially. Peter oriented on him and literally covered his ass, keeping an eye on Sylar as he pretended to read about eggs. Casually, he decided to snoop. He approached and got close alongside Peter, his focus on the pan of water (not yet hot and unlikely to burn him if used as a weapon) but to look in, it brought his shoulder against Peter’s, as well as the sides of their hips and arms. It was a snug fit between them, if not very sexual…for a moment. There were no eggs in the water yet and the next thing he knew, the world was spinning and Peter stood, arm extended from a shove as he glared some more with Sylar now a few feet away. “What the hell?”
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Peter had nothing to say. His teeth were bared, eyes fixed on his antagonist, waiting for a reason to escalate - any reason. He'd switched the eggs to his right hand, the carton held precariously between thumb and forefinger. His left arm, the side Sylar had been on, was coiling for another … whatever he needed to do. Dousing the guy with water sounded like a good idea. So far he'd only shoved rather than slugged. In Peter's opinion, he was being the very model of restraint.
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“Seriously, Petrelli? The silent treatment? That’s mature.” Sylar rolled his eyes, completely dismissing the aggressive vibes that were rolling off Peter. “If you need help boiling eggs, let me know.” To test the empath further, Sylar walked closer to him than he should have, though they didn’t touch per se, under the guise of getting a drink of water.
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“Stay the fuck away from me!” Peter shoved him again, putting the eggs down roughly to free up his right hand. He regretted not having much room to maneuver now, but it sure gave him great leverage to push the guy away. Sylar had him boxed in and kept crowding close, like he didn't have the whole rest of the apartment to be in. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not cool. Cut it the fuck out!”
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The second shove didn’t totally come from behind but it was a near thing; it came as Sylar was passing by, almost sending him into the table and chair, overshooting the sink and stumbling. “What the hell? I was checking the water,” Sylar frowned. He had a legitimate curiosity and since Peter was close by, contact was a natural factor. Right? “You can’t walk around with a five foot perimeter, Peter. It’s just not going to work.” For one thing, I’m not good at keeping my hands to myself, as you already know. “You get in my space all the time and you never ask and sometimes you don’t even have a reason. And this is my kitchen,” but it’s his food, “but I’m sure that means nothing to you. So don’t expect me to roll over and let you do whatever you want.” He did have some limits after all.
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“So that's what this is about?” Peter grabbed onto Sylar's last statement with a verbal attack. “You think I'm going to …” Peter lifted his brows in mock question before supplying the answer, “roll you over and have my way with you?”
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Um…yeah. How else could it possibly go? Sylar thought.
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“No, Sylar. What happened earlier was you, from the beginning. You sat there and egged me on,” his voice was accusatory, though he wasn't following it up with his usual pointing. They were too close. Sylar might grab a limb extended too close to him and Peter didn't want to be short on appendages to hit the guy with if it came to that.
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Oh. No, it still stands. Of course it does. He just wants to blame me. I wasn’t even talking about that part. Whatever. He’s going to talk about whatever he wants. Sylar’s face was annoyed, barely holding back the eye-roll he wished to make.
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“That's why you wanted me on the other side of the room, so you could taunt me and get away with it!” That was pure supposition on Peter's part and probably unfair. He didn't really believe it even, he was just saying vicious things because he felt restrained from expressing his ire physically.
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“What?!” As he protested, Sylar knew that’s exactly how it looked and only his testimony said otherwise.
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Peter made another verbal leap, hoping and guessing he actually had said to Sylar that he considered their beds to be zones safe from ambush or assault. “The thing about being safe in your bed doesn't apply if you sit there and intentionally provoke me. It's not some childish 'I'm on base, you can't touch me' safe zone.” Peter's voice went briefly sing-song-y for the nyah-nyah part. From Sylar's lack of confusion, Peter gathered he was understood - that was helpful, because otherwise explaining it would be weird. “I offered that in good faith - now you're destroying it.”
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Anger and shock were only just held in check, leaking through Sylar's attempt at calm explanation, “You demanded answers. You know how you get when anyone talks about Nathan. I was cooperating until you got rude and insulting. It had nothing to do with sitting on my own bed, you know, where I was sitting before you wanted to ask me questions. I’m not going to move off it if you’re going to….attack me in my own apartment. That was what I was saying: it’s my apartment and none of it is safe, obviously,” he spat the last word. Peter was getting progressively worse, escalating from an unseen punch, to unsettling and handling his things without permission, licking food and now what looked like a murder attempt. I don’t think he has a line where he stops at. That’s what I’ve been saying all along. He’s going to kill me and he’ll think it was an accident after I’m dead. ‘Oops. You shouldn’t have talked back to me.’ “I’m not destroying anything. How was I supposed to know you were serious about the bed thing? You can be safe in yours but mine is a free-for-all?”
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I didn't 'demand' anything! Peter bristled, if such a thing was possible given how worked up he was already. But he let Sylar finish ranting back at him and even tried to listen - tough to do with the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. What made an impression was the 'obviously' and Sylar not feeling safe. It made Peter feel two inches tall, because Sylar was right. Peter did want to beat the crap out of him. For both the mocking things he'd said recently and murderous things he'd done only months ago. Peter wanted to fuck the guy up so bad it hurt (as his jaw was quick to indicate). So yeah, Sylar wasn't feeling safe? It was a realistic observation. With an effort, Peter tore his eyes away from Sylar, looking at the floor to his left. He was panting, a big part of his brain rebelling against even taking his eyes off his enemy. Peter moved his feet restlessly, then turned and looked at the egg carton on his right, managing not to look at Sylar as he turned. He poked it, displacing it a few inches because he could. He still wanted to be pushing Sylar around. It hadn't really occurred to Peter how much of a detriment that lack of balance would be if they fought. But to take advantage of an injured man would be wrong - especially one who was supposedly his patient.
He huffed and griped, “It's not when 'anyone' talks about Nathan. It's when you do.” Nathan's murderer, talking blithely about him, was disrespectful and offensive on the face of it. But you were cooperating earlier. You were answering my questions. Peter put his left hand over his eyes, unwinding a little and sagging against the counter. He shook very slightly from adrenaline. “I was serious about the bed thing,” he said, voice dull.
He dropped his hand, resting it on the counter top next to him. Sylar wouldn't feel so damn unsafe if he wouldn't start shit in his own place. Peter said testily, “Just because it's your apartment doesn't mean you get to make fun of Nathan's death or rub up against my ass. Or any other part of me. Stop crowding me.” He glared at Sylar briefly, then looked at the water on the stove for a long moment, seeing it had bubbles forming on the bottom of the pan.
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Okay, big deal - you were serious about the bed thing. It’s not like that’s much use now. I can’t use it as ‘home base.’ It came as no surprise that he and he alone was barred from mentioning Nathan Petrelli (though Sylar had a feeling Peter was equally uptight when others mentioned him, too). The point was, Sylar was the only one who suffered ill consequences from it and it was all pointless because Sylar was the only person around to mention Nathan. The logic was circular and biased. “It doesn’t matter where we are, it doesn’t mean you get to make fun of what happened to me, attack me or abuse my things.” Even as he said it, he knew he may as well have been talking to a brick wall. Sylar didn’t know why he bothered except that it made him feel a little better to verbalize it. Peter’s assumptions were bringing only trouble. Unlike Peter, Sylar was unable to change his reputation, pattern, past or origin. “If you’re going to ignore that, you should leave,” he stated bluntly, looking to instill the significance of the offenses onto the empath. Far be it from Sylar to declare that anything was over, let alone…almost desire it to be over. But Peter was done taking care of him, tolerating him, and talking wasn’t going well even when he was getting explanations and answers, things Sylar did not want to discuss.
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Peter was trying to work out when he'd made fun of Sylar, and if Sylar was referring to some recent 'abuse' of his things, when Sylar moved on to ordering him out. Or rather, implying he should go if he wasn't going to perform to Sylar's satisfaction. Is that what this is? I won't fuck him so he's throwing me out? He raised his brows, his body language loosening a bit in surprise that Sylar would go that far.
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Sylar gestured at the door when Peter looked at him incredulously.
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“You’re serious?” Peter squawked out, simultaneously offended and thrilled. I get to leave? I'm done? That's all? If Sylar refused his help (despite how much that stung by itself), then it freed Peter of the continual moral dilemma of taking care of him.
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“I’m serious. Go find someone else to play with.” Sylar waved him away. “When you don’t find anyone else, maybe you’ll…play nice with me.” That was treading the line of insulting, parental in tone yet hopeful at the same time.
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Peter hesitated, unsure of Sylar's intent - was this a punishment, or was Sylar seriously thinking it would change Peter's mind about anything between them? He remained incredulous. “You think absence is going to make the heart grow fonder, is that it?” Hardly. Being away from Sylar made him ignorable. Peter didn’t expect to forget him, but what regard he’d gained for Sylar’s humanity had been through association, not separation.
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“Something like that.” If Peter grew fonder in the absence of his presence, great, however Sylar’s goal was different from that. He didn’t know if he should feel some kind of way because Peter either wasn’t getting it (still) or because Peter was purposefully not getting it (still). What made it worse was the ridiculous degrees of respect and care Peter willingly handed out without cost to every other human and non-human being regardless of their worth and deservingness. The medic was clearly capable. Unfortunately for Sylar, just as clear was the reason basic respect of property was being withheld. At the end, he was annoyed, looking to bother Peter right back, “I’d be a lot more inclined to believe you meant that if you hadn’t sat still and let me rub on you,” his voice and body language slid back into deep and deliciously dark again, subtle but present. “I thought you liked that kind of thing, attention and contact.” There was no way Sylar was being Peter’s act. He’d felt and heard the panted breaths, heard the frustrated noises, held the man’s thigh and knee between his legs for a few precious seconds, seen the dilated eyes and straining erection. Yeah, it was all just hot air, living knee-deep in De Nile.
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Anger surged back to the surface and Peter took a half-step towards Sylar, as close as he was likely to get without provoking an attack. Voice raised and eyes glittering, Peter spat out, “I am not interested in you!” Am I? Peter snarled, his left hand making a fist, his frustration at being misinterpreted and his appreciation of Sylar's form, if not the person he was, made violence look better and better as a way to hammer his point home - both to Sylar and himself.
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Voice lowered with seriousness, he told the truth as he saw and understood it, “It’s just that you’re escalating, Peter. You’re not going to stop at choking me next time. I might be used to it but I recognize the pattern. You’re…overt with it.” Which is both refreshing and disturbing at the same time. How difficult is it for him, Mr. World Peace, to see I have a problem with being strangled in my apartment when he’s a guest here and he thought ‘beds were off-limits’? He’s the one violating everything, not me.
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Peter shuddered. There was nothing he could say to something so patently true. Choking Sylar out had not accomplished anything Peter wanted, so it wasn't likely he'd do it again. Next time … next time he'd do something else. And yes, he'd probably escalate, because he was getting desperate. He was desperate to figure out how to get things moving in a direction he wanted, just to be able to hang out without things going to blows or blow jobs, depending on whether it was Peter's demons or Sylar's who got to pick their agenda. There had to be a way to get a better pattern going.
He backed up, reversing that half-step closer to Sylar he'd taken only moments before. There was nothing else where that was his, so he headed to the door. If he couldn't make things better, then he could at least leave. He passed through the doorway, shutting it carefully behind him.
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Continued...
Day 26, January 4, morning.
Peter pulled in a few breaths, feeling Sylar's pulse reassuringly present under his left hand, which was still in place but no longer bearing down. He waited as the man roused enough to hear him. Teeth clenched and jaw aching with a constant pain, Peter leaned close to growl, “Yeah, life sucks - real funny. You know that thing you said earlier about killing me if I tried to take Nathan's memories from you? Well, I've got something I care about that strongly myself. As long as I'm alive, you will show some respect for what you did to him and what that means to me.” Peter wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar refused - kill him, torture him, get inventive, break his word and abandon Sylar entirely? Not knowing, he left the consequence unstated, but there was no way in this hell he was going to allow Sylar to mock his brother's memory - that he was sure of.
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Sylar inhaled deeply. His esophagus and trachea felt fine, if a little pinched or bruised around the edges in a couple spots. He kept gasping; panting just to get his heart to keep up even though Peter’s hand was nowhere near his forehead. That was good. Thoughts were fuzzy, his body felt drugged, sluggish, also fuzzy until the blood began to pound through his skull at massive rates. The reverberation had to be audible to the other man, and God, it was painful. Sylar groaned, not recalling how he got here but happy he was in bed and that Peter was comfort- The angry Italian’s words slowly penetrated his mental fog. What is he- what were we talking about? Is he checking my pulse? Sylar blinked languidly, melting in place despite his bitch of a headache. He could feel his legs splayed around Peter, smelled Peter’s breath on his face, but the intent look he was getting was far from sexual (in fact, it looked pretty berserk). He lifted watery hands and wrapped his fingers lightly around the other man’s wrist, clasping and stroking it sensually. Loopy as hell, he grinned, “Bet you say that to all the boys you choke in bed.” Choke? Where had that come from? It fit the facts and the scenario and it sounded a lot more like Peter behavior than whatever this was. It didn’t overly concern him. ”Whatever you say, Petey,” he purred and slid a few fingers up underneath Peter’s shirtsleeve to caress his forearm.
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What? Did he not hear me? Or … did he not understand it? Peter hesitated, caught between being outraged at the inappropriateness of Sylar’s behavior and confused by it. People often had wacky, disoriented reactions to coming out from under anesthesia. Although he hadn't choked that many people out in his life, he suspected the mechanism worked the same, meaning Sylar's behavior wasn't a continuation of some kind of death wish and Peter's instinctive desire to hit him until he made sense was wrong on several levels. Peter went from fire-breathing righteousness to befuddled helplessness fast enough that it made his head spin. No longer shunting away inconvenient sensory input, Peter’s awareness of the ache in his jaw increased and he winced. He looked down at where Sylar was touching him (that’s nice, though), at a complete loss as to what to do.
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Peter was warm and so close, not reacting to being petted. That acceptance sent a jolt through Sylar, it felt like his breath left him again, this time from arousal. He felt a noise bubble up but it didn’t make it to the surface yet, his desire an overwhelming drug. Since that had gone so well, he wanted more; he wanted everything. Yes, bed. Do it here. Sylar wrapped his legs around the back of Peter’s thighs, one hand sliding up his arm to bury itself in the empath’s beautiful hair, sending the free hand down and around his side, aiming to pull Peter atop him and grope him if it was allowed (and maybe even if it wasn’t). Sylar shifted his hips back and forth in anticipation but Peter wasn’t close enough to make contact.
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Um, uh … wow … no? Peter swallowed, apprehension and unwanted pleasure washing through him. “No!” He said in a strangled voice of his own, putting out his hands to either side to lift himself up and prevent Sylar from pulling him down again. He hadn't expected that, or any of this, really. A few moments ago, he’d been trying to get his angry point across as forcefully as possible. Now he was trying to be gentle with someone who maybe didn’t know what was going on? At the very least, Sylar wasn’t being insulting, disrespectful, or threatening, which removed violence as an option.
Peter tried to extract himself, but Sylar was not cooperative with it. “Sylar, let me go,” he said with an attempt at a calmness he didn't feel. Anxiety and other things coiled in his stomach. His body and certain parts of his mind liked what Sylar was doing way more than he wanted them to. “We were just fighting. I'm still pissed. Let me go.” His voice rose a little with alarm at the end as he realized Sylar was really into this, slow humping included. Does he have an erection?
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By the time Peter reacted, their groins were pressed flush together; Sylar slowly ground against him, every full shift of motion dragging his dick against another live person - this person - was nirvana, pure and simple. He couldn’t think, could barely speak, he just needed and needed it very badly. “Shh, Peter…” he grated out when he was able. He felt weak and heavy with heat.
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There was no doubt Sylar had an erection and if this continued, Peter wouldn’t be far behind. As it was, it felt like his hair was standing on end with tension and excitement. He shuddered and some traitorous part of his brain reminded him of how long it had been since he’d had an intentional and completed sexual moment, even purely masturbatory. That length of time probably wasn’t healthy. Sylar looked good, smelled good, sounded good, and Peter’s brain was overloading with tangled emotions and desires so complicated it made the Gordian knot look like cat’s cradle. Panting, he shifted his weight to his left hand, using his right to push Sylar down and away from him. “No,” he said firmly, hand still on the other man’s shoulder. Voice softening just a little, he added, “Let go of me. This isn’t happening. We are about to have a fight, in your bed, in your apartment. Things will be broken.”
Peter sounded, and was, genuinely unhappy about that prospect. He didn't want to fight in Sylar's bed, nor his apartment. If he hadn't said something to Sylar about beds being a truce area back when they were snowed in at the penthouse, he had meant to (even if sitting on it and provoking him wasn't part of the deal, Peter regarded now, when he wasn't blind with rage, to count). Then there was Sylar's apartment - he was clear that its contents mattered to Sylar and somewhere along the way, that had began to matter to Peter. He didn't want to wreck the place or the things in it. Some of them might be truly irreplaceable - just like his reputation in Sylar's eyes. He didn't want to be known as the guy who destroyed what few personal possessions Sylar had left in the world.
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Again, Peter remained motionless (or close enough to it), allowing Sylar to act on his desires and touch the other man. His hand ghosted over the back of Peter’s waistband and petted and stroked in his hair; he was seconds away from lifting himself up to attack Peter’s neck when the spell was interrupted. Sylar was more swollen and stiff than he’d been in years, panting and flooded with sex, resisting being pulled back, pushed away and told ‘no,’ like he was hearing now, as if he could be turned on and off like an inanimate switch. He made some kind of protesting, hyper-reluctant noise that sounded entirely too needy but he didn’t move away. He doesn’t sound threatening but I know he doesn’t care if he breaks things…He’s giving me an out, I think. Why do we have to fight? Letting go was contrary to Sylar’s urges, contrary to his experience with success, too. Taking things got him what he wanted; a simple ‘no’ wouldn’t stand in his way. Why did he have to stop because someone else said so? Because we’ll fight and break stuff at the very least. And he still won’t fuck me. It was more than a shame, because Peter looked so ready.
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Fuck. Peter was getting hard despite himself. His breathing had deepened, his skin felt warmer, and Sylar was looking so sexy it was absurd. He could barely connect the person he was looking at with the person who had, moments ago, been laughing about Peter's dead brother. Thoughts of any kind were getting difficult to string together sequentially, but he knew he'd have no problem at all in enacting something sexual if he gave himself permission to do it. Which he wasn't doing, even if he couldn't have told anyone why at the moment. It took him longer than it should have to realize Sylar wasn't holding him back anymore - no, that was Peter doing it now. He lifted himself away slowly, very aware of how his leverage to rise came from pressing his knee into the mattress right under Sylar's groin, the heat of Sylar's body riding his thigh and making his pants unbearably tight.
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Sylar could feel the cold and loneliness rushing back over his skin when Peter moved away, teasing him pointlessly with his knee in the process. He inhaled and held his breath to prevent making a reactionary sound to that, not wanting Peter to know how it affected him. He couldn’t even look at Peter, ashamed and enraged in the wake of the sadness. (I can’t throw myself at him any more clearly than that and he still doesn’t want it). He realized Peter had been looking at him throughout most of…it. (Oh. No wonder; my face turns him off…Just like everyone else). Obviously they weren’t in the proper position to engage in anything more. (And I’m hard, I’m turned on and that’s…not arousing. After all, Peter had that no kissing rule). All he knew was that he wasn’t good enough and he disgusted his only companion. God, he felt low and he couldn’t remember why taking this treatment was required, hence his anger. So he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, uncaring of what, if anything, Peter did. He couldn’t move or speak until he had himself more under control, ignoring that reflex to clutch, hold and seek comfort in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
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He shuddered again, more coherent thought becoming possible now that he had some distance. Peter raked his well-mussed hair out of his face, gave Sylar's wantonly displayed form a thorough and hungry once-over with his eyes, and walked stiffly over to the chair next to the door. He stood there silently, hands loose at his sides, letting his breathing slow down and his erection fade. He listened to Sylar's movements as Peter tried to sort out what had just happened, fixing the chronology in his mind. Because he definitely needed to remember all this for later. He was pretty sure there was something about morals and scruples he should be thinking about as well, but that wasn't nearly as important at the moment as remembering every action and touch.
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More in uncomfortable shock than anything else, he acted out the steps anyway, not as interested in them as he’d been before. His stupid kink(s) couldn’t ever be met and that killed a lot of it for him yet he kept on with the script. Quietly, he rasped, “We don’t have to fight. I thought that was the point…” I’m not the one being difficult. His dick didn’t get the time-out message; it was still throbbing away in his tight-as-hell jeans. After rubbing up against someone, he could have rubbed up against something, hell, anything would do, but it lacked appeal. Lewdly, and before he knew if Peter was even looking his way, Sylar was rubbing his hands over his denim bulge, giving himself some kind of stimulation. He was so keyed up it still felt better than it had in a long time. “I know you’re hard, Peter. You’ve been looking to burst ever since you got here. I saw you in that suite and you were happy to fuck against me in bed,” this was said in the voice of temptation, intentionally seductive.
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Peter looked back over his shoulder, the words ‘Fuck off,’ dying in his throat and never making it out. Sylar’s voice was a sex-god’s purr and what he was doing to himself ... Peter’s breath caught, eyes following first one hand (moving up and down across Sylar’s groin), then the other (circling lazily on his chest). If there was a conscious thought in his head, it didn’t make itself known. He just stood there and stared, the animal part of his brain locked in mortal combat with his morals.
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Sylar managed a lazy smirk, feeling another’s eyes on him before he confirmed it himself, looking into Peter’s face. Now that I have your attention…He sent a glance to Peter’s groin, spying the erection he’d hoped to see. Having a better idea of what Peter wanted was helpful and recent; otherwise, Sylar had little idea how to go about seducing a man other than…well, everything he’d already done - bluntly and physically offering sex. Mostly he was recalling some of the things others in the past had tried to ply on him. Acting interested wasn’t too hard at the moment. He gripped his shaft and arched his back slightly, making a calculated writhe, “Hmm. You’re hard now; that made you hard? Finish it.” Finish me!
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Peter made a pained growl and looked away, wanting to leave but finding himself confused by the wheeled chair in front of the door. It didn’t belong over here. It belonged over at the desk, right next to where Sylar was. Maybe I should put it back? He had the feeling he was looking for an excuse and that was wrong. He knew he needed to sort that out before doing anything - figure out what he wanted to do, what he needed to be doing. I need to get out of here. I have to get out of here before I forget what's important. What’s important? What started this? With embarrassing difficulty, he dredged up thoughts of Emma, fingers bloody in the dream; and of Nathan, though the image that came to Peter’s mind was actually Sylar in Nathan’s guise, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and nailed to the stack of plywood at Mercy Heights, right after the change and before Peter had released him. That felt like the last time he’d seen his brother, even if he knew it wasn’t.
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“How long has it been for you? I’m sure we can…work something out,” Sylar fished for more information, if he was doing something Peter didn’t like or if Peter wasn’t getting something he needed. By now his brain had awoken enough to remember that he had been choked out and came to only to get an erection and sort of jump his attacker. That was more than a little awkward - it didn’t say great things about him but choices and options he was short on. It invited…worse things, things he wasn’t a stranger to but he would prefer another approach, another theme. Whatever works with him, he reminded himself.
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The memories Peter had pulled up had had the intended effect. His desire ebbed fast - it was like a cold shower to remember how much this man hated him, laughed at his pain, and shrugged off the needs of others. It made all of Sylar’s enticements right now look so insincere, so hollow - so much easier to dismiss. Glancing back over his shoulder again, he said heavily, “Don't mock Nathan's death.” He pushed the office chair out of his way and reached for the door.
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Talk about another shoe to drop, a bomb in the conversation. It went a long way towards killing Sylar’s southern blood flow, nearly the epitome of boner killers. It made him more angry or upset than sad. Peter acted like Sylar and Nathan were completely divorced from each other, having no interlocking or overlapping areas even now. “I think Nathan would want you to get laid,” he shot back because what did Peter know about Nathan’s mind? It wasn’t the best (or smartest) he could come up with but it was what came out. If it was ‘mocking’ again, maybe Peter would come back and try it again.
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Well, that makes it easy to leave. Peter walked out, not even dignifying Sylar with a response. We started talking about how Nathan died, got some good information (sort of), he made fun of me being upset he died, I choked him out, then he woke up and … yeah. That was not going to work. At all. Asshole. Peter shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders and ignore how close Sylar’s come-on had been to ‘working’ no matter how much he tried to tell himself there hadn’t been a chance in hell. A good long walk sounded like a great idea. Hopefully he’d think of a way to pretend none of this morning had happened.
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No such luck. Peter’s resistance was stronger than he expected. How many people could face something they obviously found sexually arousing at close range and turn away from it? It inspired respect and resentment in Sylar at the same time; of course, his own body’s demands were winning. He still wanted to hit something, maybe scream just to let off the tension. Stuck between anger and the blues, his erection wavered as he tried to decide what to do about it and how to cope. He still thinks he’s better than me; thinks I’ll be here, waiting for him and only his touch. Sylar sneered around the room at nothing in particular. It was true, sick and true. What’s that like - to have someone…wait for you, eagerly? (I’m not eager, I’m just…) Horny. Deprived. Instead of stroking his dick, I’m stroking his ego. With those depressing considerations, his dick finally made up its mind and faded from its upright state. Sniffing, he told himself, I don’t feel like it right now.
(‘Not right now, honey; I have a headache’). Fuck! Sylar did snap this time, burying his fist in his own pillow like he couldn’t seem to strike back effectively against Peter, not even to be treated like everyone else in the empath’s eyes, not even for acknowledgement or a tiny bit of respect. It felt good though he felt a twinge of something unpleasant when he realized he’d struck his own property, an object that had been as close to a comfort as he’d had the past four years. That pillow had seen and heard things, felt his tears, intentional or otherwise, all that time. I’m losing my mind. It’s a goddamn pillow and Peter fucking Petrelli got a fucking hard-on from me.
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Hours later, sometime around noon, Peter knocked, wondering idly if they should talk to each other about a messaging system - some way to tell the other when they were out and planned to be back. One of these days, he’d come back to find Sylar was off on his own errands and it would be … worrying (was he really worried about Sylar? Yeah, he was, a little) not to know where the guy was. Such was the tone of Peter’s thoughts that showed he’d fully compartmentalized the events of the morning, cutting out the parts he didn’t want to think about (again, ever) and retaining the rest. He would have never made it growing up in the Petrelli household if he hadn’t developed a strong ability to ignore unpleasant words and actions directed against himself and continue on like nothing important had happened.
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Sylar blinked at the sound. He hadn’t thought Peter would come back, not today at least. Is he getting…used to me? He was annoyed, relieved and curious. He couldn’t deny it made him feel better that Peter had returned to him or…come back for more…Narrowed eyes greeted Peter upon opening his door - because he wanted to control some part of his environment. A brief check showed the other man wasn’t interested in that way.
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Peter walked in, lifting a plastic bag containing a carton of eggs and a squat, green bottle. He glanced over Sylar, checking his reaction as much as he could under the guise of being casual. “I thought I’d make some egg salad for lunch, or maybe egg salad sandwiches.” They were soft and wouldn’t aggravate Peter’s still-tender jaw. “You okay with that?”
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“Come in,” Sylar remarked with dry sarcasm after Peter had let himself in. He really thinks he owns everything doesn’t he? No wonder he’s jealous when I can do things he can’t. The next part lacked conviction or heat, such a spoiled brat. Eggs were the topic of choice. I- We- Eggs? That’s how he wants to…? (It’s a dodge). Yeah. Rather than answer a straightforward, preference-laden question, Sylar retorted with subtle revenge, not minding his tone, “Don’t you have to refrigerate them first?” Peter might be king of ignoring things he didn’t like but Sylar wasn’t about to let him get away with it, not entirely and certainly not for long.
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Peter looked back at him, perplexed. “Boiled eggs, you mean?” Sylar’s body language was a vague affirmation. Peter shrugged. “If you want them cold, yeah. They’re better warm.” Hot, fresh, done right - they were perfect with the albumen cleaving apart easily and the yolk flaky and yellow all the way through.
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Virginia had always served them cold and quite flavorless, high in protein. They’d been a fun snack as a child, the textures entertaining. Sylar lifted his chin to say ‘oh’ in as many words or gestures. Peter’s presence took a lot of wrath from him; sparking Peter up again could lead to loneliness for the rest of the day if he wasn’t careful. I’ll…play along, he thought as his stomach rumbled. Let him think it’s okay. He was horny and close, so ready. I just need to…warm him up and play his game a little, that’s what he wants, what he’s trying to train me to do. Besides the kitchen was hardly the place to fuck. Any upset about disrespect, treatment or identity was unfortunately nothing new; Peter would continue as he was, doing what he did and Sylar couldn’t change.
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Peter nodded and turned into the kitchen, setting about getting the eggs on to boil. “Could you set the table?” he asked softly when Sylar joined him. So maybe he wasn’t completely ignoring what had happened earlier. He just didn’t know how to deal with it.
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Sylar’s eyes slid to the side, looking at Peter that way. Yess, he remembers. I notice he didn’t tell me not to do that again, just not to ‘mock Nathan.’ Just no kissing. Playing Peter’s game wasn’t even that painful, all choking aside. “Of course,” he murmured in reply. He made sure to brush too close to Peter on his way to get plates.
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Peter gave no more than a cursory glance to Sylar’s close pass. It wasn’t invading his space and he was trying to shut thoughts of Sylar out of his head. Pan filled with water, burner on, he was now worrying over when to add the eggs. Have I ever boiled eggs? Surely I have. If he had, his memory was unhelpfully blank on the subject. He was good at cooking eggs all kinds of other ways - scrambled, fried, omelets, even quiche and poached if he had the right equipment. But boiled was a mystery at the moment. Um, it’s just like pasta, right? I wait until the water boils, then add the eggs. How long do they boil for? Seven, eight minutes like noodles? I guess that’s right. They’re a lot bigger than noodles, though. Bigger things take longer to cook. But how much longer? With a sinking feeling, he remembered hearing something about cooks priding themselves on a perfectly boiled egg, implying it was easy to do them wrong. He frowned into the pan of still, empty water. There was a class held just off the college campus that we made fun of - ‘How to Boil Water 101’. Is there a right way and a wrong way to boil water, too? Trying to shrug off the negative thoughts, he rolled his shoulders and looked over at Sylar. Peter gave him a small smile, maybe friendly, maybe just hoping he didn’t botch the cooking too badly. He went back to watching the pan fixedly because there was nothing else to do.
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He likes the attention. Look at him, soaking it up. Sylar didn’t hurry with the plates - for one thing, water and then eggs had to boil first. He turned with them in hand and eyed Peter with interest, uncaring if he was caught or if it bothered the other man. Sometimes I think he doesn’t understand how much he could have, then…He swallowed reflexively, recalling the man’s relentless grip around his throat - dangerous and driven and quite precise. That much was sexy about the attack. He likes to play rough, too. Sylar continued scanning the profile of Peter’s body until he couldn’t justify standing there with a pair of plates in hand; then he moved to deposit them on the table.
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Peter glanced back after Sylar moved, having been aware of the look (how could he not be?), but not doing anything about it. He went back to trying to disprove the adage about watched pots and boiling. He didn’t mind being looked at - it was the intent behind the gaze that made him uncertain. It was hard to think anything about it without thinking about the events of the morning, so he avoided the subject entirely.
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Cups and silverware were next then Sylar decided to try something. Peter was at the stove; the table and chair restricted the passage behind him, the goal of the fridge was beyond both. So he squeezed in behind the man, acting up that the chair was immobile and the light body-brush was necessary, groin to ass. It made him flush warm that Peter would tolerate this and his dick felt good against Peter once more.
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Peter twitched forward at the contact, light was it was, hips against the stove in a polite attempt to create space. He twisted and looked back because there should have been enough room - and there was. Sylar could have moved the chair, which Peter now reached out with his foot to rudely and pointedly shove into place at the table. He did that on purpose. Peter gave him a nasty look, a ‘what is wrong with you/I’m onto you’ look and then back at the pan on the stove. Since nothing was happening there, he changed position to one more common for him in Sylar’s kitchen - butt leaned against the counter, hands on the edge of the counter on either side. He took the corner with the stove on his left and sink to his right. It gave him an unobstructed view of the entire kitchen and more importantly, of whatever Sylar was up to. He hunched in on himself ever so slightly. Peter eyed Sylar’s faux innocent act for a moment before picking up the egg carton and examining it instead, wanting to have his hands in front of him rather than at his sides. Despite taking these obviously defensive precautions, his conscious thoughts remained firmly in denial mode, trying to ignore the implications of what Sylar was doing. Maybe there are directions for how to cook the eggs printed on the carton, like there are for pasta?
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A glare was all he received, hell; the chair got more action than he did in a retaliatory act. Other than that, Sylar was ignored, at least partially. Peter oriented on him and literally covered his ass, keeping an eye on Sylar as he pretended to read about eggs. Casually, he decided to snoop. He approached and got close alongside Peter, his focus on the pan of water (not yet hot and unlikely to burn him if used as a weapon) but to look in, it brought his shoulder against Peter’s, as well as the sides of their hips and arms. It was a snug fit between them, if not very sexual…for a moment. There were no eggs in the water yet and the next thing he knew, the world was spinning and Peter stood, arm extended from a shove as he glared some more with Sylar now a few feet away. “What the hell?”
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Peter had nothing to say. His teeth were bared, eyes fixed on his antagonist, waiting for a reason to escalate - any reason. He'd switched the eggs to his right hand, the carton held precariously between thumb and forefinger. His left arm, the side Sylar had been on, was coiling for another … whatever he needed to do. Dousing the guy with water sounded like a good idea. So far he'd only shoved rather than slugged. In Peter's opinion, he was being the very model of restraint.
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“Seriously, Petrelli? The silent treatment? That’s mature.” Sylar rolled his eyes, completely dismissing the aggressive vibes that were rolling off Peter. “If you need help boiling eggs, let me know.” To test the empath further, Sylar walked closer to him than he should have, though they didn’t touch per se, under the guise of getting a drink of water.
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“Stay the fuck away from me!” Peter shoved him again, putting the eggs down roughly to free up his right hand. He regretted not having much room to maneuver now, but it sure gave him great leverage to push the guy away. Sylar had him boxed in and kept crowding close, like he didn't have the whole rest of the apartment to be in. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not cool. Cut it the fuck out!”
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The second shove didn’t totally come from behind but it was a near thing; it came as Sylar was passing by, almost sending him into the table and chair, overshooting the sink and stumbling. “What the hell? I was checking the water,” Sylar frowned. He had a legitimate curiosity and since Peter was close by, contact was a natural factor. Right? “You can’t walk around with a five foot perimeter, Peter. It’s just not going to work.” For one thing, I’m not good at keeping my hands to myself, as you already know. “You get in my space all the time and you never ask and sometimes you don’t even have a reason. And this is my kitchen,” but it’s his food, “but I’m sure that means nothing to you. So don’t expect me to roll over and let you do whatever you want.” He did have some limits after all.
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“So that's what this is about?” Peter grabbed onto Sylar's last statement with a verbal attack. “You think I'm going to …” Peter lifted his brows in mock question before supplying the answer, “roll you over and have my way with you?”
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Um…yeah. How else could it possibly go? Sylar thought.
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“No, Sylar. What happened earlier was you, from the beginning. You sat there and egged me on,” his voice was accusatory, though he wasn't following it up with his usual pointing. They were too close. Sylar might grab a limb extended too close to him and Peter didn't want to be short on appendages to hit the guy with if it came to that.
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Oh. No, it still stands. Of course it does. He just wants to blame me. I wasn’t even talking about that part. Whatever. He’s going to talk about whatever he wants. Sylar’s face was annoyed, barely holding back the eye-roll he wished to make.
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“That's why you wanted me on the other side of the room, so you could taunt me and get away with it!” That was pure supposition on Peter's part and probably unfair. He didn't really believe it even, he was just saying vicious things because he felt restrained from expressing his ire physically.
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“What?!” As he protested, Sylar knew that’s exactly how it looked and only his testimony said otherwise.
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Peter made another verbal leap, hoping and guessing he actually had said to Sylar that he considered their beds to be zones safe from ambush or assault. “The thing about being safe in your bed doesn't apply if you sit there and intentionally provoke me. It's not some childish 'I'm on base, you can't touch me' safe zone.” Peter's voice went briefly sing-song-y for the nyah-nyah part. From Sylar's lack of confusion, Peter gathered he was understood - that was helpful, because otherwise explaining it would be weird. “I offered that in good faith - now you're destroying it.”
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Anger and shock were only just held in check, leaking through Sylar's attempt at calm explanation, “You demanded answers. You know how you get when anyone talks about Nathan. I was cooperating until you got rude and insulting. It had nothing to do with sitting on my own bed, you know, where I was sitting before you wanted to ask me questions. I’m not going to move off it if you’re going to….attack me in my own apartment. That was what I was saying: it’s my apartment and none of it is safe, obviously,” he spat the last word. Peter was getting progressively worse, escalating from an unseen punch, to unsettling and handling his things without permission, licking food and now what looked like a murder attempt. I don’t think he has a line where he stops at. That’s what I’ve been saying all along. He’s going to kill me and he’ll think it was an accident after I’m dead. ‘Oops. You shouldn’t have talked back to me.’ “I’m not destroying anything. How was I supposed to know you were serious about the bed thing? You can be safe in yours but mine is a free-for-all?”
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I didn't 'demand' anything! Peter bristled, if such a thing was possible given how worked up he was already. But he let Sylar finish ranting back at him and even tried to listen - tough to do with the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. What made an impression was the 'obviously' and Sylar not feeling safe. It made Peter feel two inches tall, because Sylar was right. Peter did want to beat the crap out of him. For both the mocking things he'd said recently and murderous things he'd done only months ago. Peter wanted to fuck the guy up so bad it hurt (as his jaw was quick to indicate). So yeah, Sylar wasn't feeling safe? It was a realistic observation. With an effort, Peter tore his eyes away from Sylar, looking at the floor to his left. He was panting, a big part of his brain rebelling against even taking his eyes off his enemy. Peter moved his feet restlessly, then turned and looked at the egg carton on his right, managing not to look at Sylar as he turned. He poked it, displacing it a few inches because he could. He still wanted to be pushing Sylar around. It hadn't really occurred to Peter how much of a detriment that lack of balance would be if they fought. But to take advantage of an injured man would be wrong - especially one who was supposedly his patient.
He huffed and griped, “It's not when 'anyone' talks about Nathan. It's when you do.” Nathan's murderer, talking blithely about him, was disrespectful and offensive on the face of it. But you were cooperating earlier. You were answering my questions. Peter put his left hand over his eyes, unwinding a little and sagging against the counter. He shook very slightly from adrenaline. “I was serious about the bed thing,” he said, voice dull.
He dropped his hand, resting it on the counter top next to him. Sylar wouldn't feel so damn unsafe if he wouldn't start shit in his own place. Peter said testily, “Just because it's your apartment doesn't mean you get to make fun of Nathan's death or rub up against my ass. Or any other part of me. Stop crowding me.” He glared at Sylar briefly, then looked at the water on the stove for a long moment, seeing it had bubbles forming on the bottom of the pan.
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Okay, big deal - you were serious about the bed thing. It’s not like that’s much use now. I can’t use it as ‘home base.’ It came as no surprise that he and he alone was barred from mentioning Nathan Petrelli (though Sylar had a feeling Peter was equally uptight when others mentioned him, too). The point was, Sylar was the only one who suffered ill consequences from it and it was all pointless because Sylar was the only person around to mention Nathan. The logic was circular and biased. “It doesn’t matter where we are, it doesn’t mean you get to make fun of what happened to me, attack me or abuse my things.” Even as he said it, he knew he may as well have been talking to a brick wall. Sylar didn’t know why he bothered except that it made him feel a little better to verbalize it. Peter’s assumptions were bringing only trouble. Unlike Peter, Sylar was unable to change his reputation, pattern, past or origin. “If you’re going to ignore that, you should leave,” he stated bluntly, looking to instill the significance of the offenses onto the empath. Far be it from Sylar to declare that anything was over, let alone…almost desire it to be over. But Peter was done taking care of him, tolerating him, and talking wasn’t going well even when he was getting explanations and answers, things Sylar did not want to discuss.
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Peter was trying to work out when he'd made fun of Sylar, and if Sylar was referring to some recent 'abuse' of his things, when Sylar moved on to ordering him out. Or rather, implying he should go if he wasn't going to perform to Sylar's satisfaction. Is that what this is? I won't fuck him so he's throwing me out? He raised his brows, his body language loosening a bit in surprise that Sylar would go that far.
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Sylar gestured at the door when Peter looked at him incredulously.
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“You’re serious?” Peter squawked out, simultaneously offended and thrilled. I get to leave? I'm done? That's all? If Sylar refused his help (despite how much that stung by itself), then it freed Peter of the continual moral dilemma of taking care of him.
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“I’m serious. Go find someone else to play with.” Sylar waved him away. “When you don’t find anyone else, maybe you’ll…play nice with me.” That was treading the line of insulting, parental in tone yet hopeful at the same time.
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Peter hesitated, unsure of Sylar's intent - was this a punishment, or was Sylar seriously thinking it would change Peter's mind about anything between them? He remained incredulous. “You think absence is going to make the heart grow fonder, is that it?” Hardly. Being away from Sylar made him ignorable. Peter didn’t expect to forget him, but what regard he’d gained for Sylar’s humanity had been through association, not separation.
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“Something like that.” If Peter grew fonder in the absence of his presence, great, however Sylar’s goal was different from that. He didn’t know if he should feel some kind of way because Peter either wasn’t getting it (still) or because Peter was purposefully not getting it (still). What made it worse was the ridiculous degrees of respect and care Peter willingly handed out without cost to every other human and non-human being regardless of their worth and deservingness. The medic was clearly capable. Unfortunately for Sylar, just as clear was the reason basic respect of property was being withheld. At the end, he was annoyed, looking to bother Peter right back, “I’d be a lot more inclined to believe you meant that if you hadn’t sat still and let me rub on you,” his voice and body language slid back into deep and deliciously dark again, subtle but present. “I thought you liked that kind of thing, attention and contact.” There was no way Sylar was being Peter’s act. He’d felt and heard the panted breaths, heard the frustrated noises, held the man’s thigh and knee between his legs for a few precious seconds, seen the dilated eyes and straining erection. Yeah, it was all just hot air, living knee-deep in De Nile.
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Anger surged back to the surface and Peter took a half-step towards Sylar, as close as he was likely to get without provoking an attack. Voice raised and eyes glittering, Peter spat out, “I am not interested in you!” Am I? Peter snarled, his left hand making a fist, his frustration at being misinterpreted and his appreciation of Sylar's form, if not the person he was, made violence look better and better as a way to hammer his point home - both to Sylar and himself.
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Voice lowered with seriousness, he told the truth as he saw and understood it, “It’s just that you’re escalating, Peter. You’re not going to stop at choking me next time. I might be used to it but I recognize the pattern. You’re…overt with it.” Which is both refreshing and disturbing at the same time. How difficult is it for him, Mr. World Peace, to see I have a problem with being strangled in my apartment when he’s a guest here and he thought ‘beds were off-limits’? He’s the one violating everything, not me.
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Peter shuddered. There was nothing he could say to something so patently true. Choking Sylar out had not accomplished anything Peter wanted, so it wasn't likely he'd do it again. Next time … next time he'd do something else. And yes, he'd probably escalate, because he was getting desperate. He was desperate to figure out how to get things moving in a direction he wanted, just to be able to hang out without things going to blows or blow jobs, depending on whether it was Peter's demons or Sylar's who got to pick their agenda. There had to be a way to get a better pattern going.
He backed up, reversing that half-step closer to Sylar he'd taken only moments before. There was nothing else where that was his, so he headed to the door. If he couldn't make things better, then he could at least leave. He passed through the doorway, shutting it carefully behind him.
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Continued...