Fic: Every Guilty Stain
Um... hi! So, I haven't posted fic in forever. This was actually one of the first Heroes fics I started writing, but I was never able to finish it. Now, here she be. Mind the warnings, and send good, muse-y thoughts my way, because I need to finish two Heroes-fest fics and one remix-redux fic in the next few weeks, plus I have a few other things that I'm playing with. There might even be something (shhhh) Supernatural coming down the pipe... Mwah ha ha!
Title: Every Guilty Stain
Pairing: Sylar/Peter, implied Nathan/Peter
Word count: 4,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence, slash, angst, implied incest, spoilers through .07%
Notes: As usual, thanks to redandglenda for the beta
Summary: A “missing scene” from .07%. Sylar sees Peter’s weakness, and knows how to use it.
---Peter Petrelli---
I'm not actually sure if Suresh can help me. He hasn’t been much help before, after all. But Nathan seems to think he could help and, no matter how misguided it might be, I have a long history of taking Nathan’s advice. He might think to look for me here, so I’ll have to make this quick.
No one answers, even though I’m knocking loudly enough. I try the door: unlocked. Strange. I push my way inside. It’s dark in here, and the place is in bad shape. “Suresh?” No one answers. That’s not a good sign. “It’s Peter Petrelli.” Nothing. I move further into the apartment, cautiously. Whoever trashed the place-and it could have been anyone, really-might still be around. “Mohinder?”
I flinch as I feel something on my head, and move my hand reflexively to brush it off. It’s sticky. Then something drips on my face. I wipe it with the back of my hand: it’s red. My eyes are drawn, almost unwillingly, to the ceiling.
---Sylar---
Mohinder’s not badly hurt. Not yet, anyway. I’m not finished with him. But I’m sure that he looks bad to Peter, pinned against the ceiling like a bug. While Peter stares, I slide into place behind him. Mohinder gasps my name, and Peter whirls to face me.
Looking into his face, I realize who Peter Petrelli is: the man who stopped me in Texas, who started the whole miserable chain of events that led me to fall into Bennet’s hands, to undergo torture. How wonderful to see you again, Mr. Petrelli. I like the wide-eyed panic in his face as he recognizes me, too.
“I remember you,” I growl. I slam him against the wall the easy way, with a mere thought, and take hold of his chin. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course, and I’m glad he doesn’t answer. I turn his head to the side, admiring the aristocratic bone structure, the smear of blood on his face. “I’d like to see how that works.”
He screams when I raise a finger to slice into his forehead. There’s fear in his eyes, reducing him to animal panic, like all the others. I’m hit by a pang of disappointment as I realize I may have overestimated him. Before I’ve even finished the cut, however, I notice that his skin is pulling itself back together-healing almost instantly. Oh yes. Borrowed power, from the cheerleader. Such a useful skill. It should already be mine. And maybe it will be, sooner than I’d hoped.
---Peter Petrelli---
I’ve never had a very high pain threshold. I know my hysterical screaming is pathetic, but I can’t think, can’t stop myself as Sylar slices into my skull. Then the pain stops getting worse as Claire’s healing kicks in. It doesn’t take the pain away entirely, but enough for me to concentrate. I push Sylar away, hard, using his own power against him, and he flies across the room, crashing into a bookshelf on the far wall.
As he hits the wall, I drop to the floor, and so does Suresh. I go to check on him: he’s not moving. I put one hand to his neck to feel for a pulse, but then movement from the other side of the room catches my eye: Sylar is back up.
“Oh no. I’m not done with him yet,” he says, taking a threatening step toward me. I try to gauge the distance between me and the door. I think I could make it past Sylar… But no. I can’t leave Suresh here. He’ll be killed.
I try to focus my thoughts, to concentrate on how I felt when I used Sylar's telekinesis, but all I really feel is fear. Sylar grins at me, and then I'm flying through the air, slamming into the wall and down. My head bounces painfully off the floor, but I shake it off. I won't-can’t-die from that, after all, I have to get up.
I fumble to my hands and knees, but an invisible force slaps me down. I try again, and I suddenly feel cold as I realize I'm pinned to the floor, somehow, Sylar holding me down without touching me--damn telekinesis again-and sure, I should be able to fight fire with fire, like I had just a moment ago, but all of Claude's tough love hasn't prepared me for something like this.
From where I lie, face pressed into the floorboards, I can see Suresh sprawled, unmoving, on the other side of the room. I wonder idly if he is dead. Like I'm about to be.
--Sylar--
The beat of his heart, rabbit-fast, is delicious. He struggles against my telekinesis until I come plant a foot against his back. "Is that all you've got, Peter Petrelli?" He squirms under my foot, but he can't get up: whatever control he had over my ability is gone now. Apparently little Peter shares the same lack of discipline as all the others from whom I've taken my powers. A disappointment again.
"In some ways, we’re the same. But one of us is better than the other. More effective. ” I use my foot to roll him onto his back--the better to see the fear in his eyes. Careful to keep him pinned with my mind, I lean down to brush my fingers lightly across his forehead, where the cut has already healed, leaving a line of drying blood. Amazing. Special. “How does yours work?”
Peter struggles against his invisible bonds. His skin is warm against my fingertips. "Help!" he screams. My hand darts from his forehead to close around his throat. Suresh has neighbors, after all, and I don't wish to be rushed.
“Do you think if I take your power, I get all of it? Or will I have to hunt them down, one by one?" I'm actually curious. I let up on Petrelli's throat, in case he has an answer, but he says nothing. "Where’s the cheerleader? The one you took from me in Texas.”
"She's safe," Peter snaps. "You'll never get her."
I shrug. "Never's a long time. I guess I'll have to be content with others until then." I call up the names I know from Suresh's list--stored away with that wonderful memory I borrowed from that waitress in Texas--looking for someone else who might be connected to Peter. That's when I remember the name Petrelli. Of course. There was another Petrelli on the list: Nathan. Not only that, but I realize the name is more familiar still: the man's face is plastered all over the city, his shark grin beaming from a thousand election posters.
I smile down at Peter. "Your brother’s got to have some power. I wonder which of yours belongs to him.”
“Stay the hell away from Nathan.” Peter's defiance is fierce, and more passionate than any resistance he's shown yet. It's strange that his reaction is so strong. Strange, and a little suspicious.
"Why defend him?” I prod. “He doesn’t care for anyone but himself.” I know nothing about the Petrelli brothers, but it doesn't take much intuition to recognize Nathan Petrelli as a predator. We probably have a lot in common, and I can't imagine he'd have much patience for a sniveler like Peter.
“Nathan loves me,” Peter spits defiantly. The slightest twist of his eye, a slight retreat, the instant after it is out of his mouth, and I see Peter’s fear that he had revealed too much.
---Peter Petrelli---
Sylar's smile twists, and my heart pounds against my ribcage even faster. I shouldn't have said that, but... I can't help being extra stupid when it comes to my brother. Even laying here, trapped by Sylar's telekinesis, I can't believe I'm really going to die. Even if that happens, I won't let this monster go after Nathan.
"You do love your brother, don't you." There wasn't so much a question--just curiosity in Sylar's voice as he rocks back on his haunches. I blush at that, although there's no way Sylar could possibly know what he's talking about. Shame and fear have become so mixed in with my feelings about Nathan that I can't turn them off.
Sylar's grin widens as color spreads up my cheeks. "I think I get the picture.” He stands and crosses his arms. “It’s a sin, Peter.”
“What?” There's a horrible sinking feeling in my gut, heavy and sick.
“You. With your brother," Sylar says. "A sin.”
“What?”
Whatever Sylar sees in my face must convince him that he's right, because he nods sagely. “Evil.”
There's nothing to say to that. There's nothing to say to any of this. Everything's wrong on so many levels. I close my eyes to escape Sylar's knowing glare. It doesn't make the nausea go away.
“You look to him for approval. I guess I can understand it. You’re weak. He leads you.” Sylar's pacing: I can hear him circling. I try to block it out so I can concentrate. If I can just get control of the telekinesis again, I can get Suresh out of here and run away, run to Nathan.
“Want to hear my theory, Peter?”
“No,” I grind out from between clenched teeth.
Sylar backhands me, an abrupt, precise strike. My eyes snap open to see him kneeling next to me. “It’s a sin, Peter,” he says seriously. “I’d hoped that one, just one out of all of you might actually be part of the my plan. I even thought for a while that it might be you. And now…” He shakes his head, seeming personally affronted. “You have no control at all.” To prove it, he uses his telekinesis to press down on my throat, watching as I struggle helplessly. “And now there’s this thing with your brother. It’s disappointing.”
He lets up on my throat, and as I suck in lungfulls of air, he studies me quietly. It seems like forever before I have breath enough to form a retort. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
--Sylar--
Except that I do, now. Watching him fight me, I think I have it figured out. “It’s not about the mind with you at all. That’s why you have such a hard time with control. It must be about feelings. You’re some sort of empath.” From the way he startles at the word, I know someone must have used the term for him before. I wonder who’s been teaching him, and make a mental note to look into it when I’m done here.
I brush the blood off his cheek with the back of my hand, and he doesn’t flinch. “You feel things too much.” He closes his eyes at that, and I can’t help but shiver. Maybe I don’t want his ability after all. It makes him so vulnerable. That’s the last thing I want: to be bound by caring for the people around you - choking on their fear and their sadness and their judgment and their disappointment in you.
I wrench my thoughts away from that sickening possibility to find Peter looking up at me with something like pity. Maybe he’s feeling the sick stab of fear I just felt, or maybe mind-reading is one of his tricks, too. Either way, he somehow knows circumstances have changed. “I’m not like you,” he says, raising his chin defiantly. “So kill me, if you’re going to, but I’m pretty sure it won’t help.”
I hit him again, but it doesn’t wipe the smug little smile off his face, and it doesn’t make me feel better. After being harassed and tortured for the last few hours by Mohinder-Mohinder who was supposed to understand, supposed to help me-I can not let him cut me like this. I want to hurt him, and-I smile at the thought-knowing how things work also means knowing how to break them.
--Peter Petrelli--
For a moment I think he is going to kill me, his eyes hold such insane anger. Then it evaporates as suddenly as it came, replaced by a knowing smile.
“Peter,” he says, so gently it sends a shiver down my spine. “I think I understand why you can never quite succeed at anything. On your own, you’re nothing.” I catch a stray thought - Like I used to be - before Sylar waves an accusing finger at me. “That’s why you’re with your brother. You need somebody to tell you who to be-and he’s the one who can keep you under control.”
“What are you--,” I begin, but I never finish the thought. Instead I’m distracted by a phantom touch, a brush of telekinesis which grazes my ankle and travels up my leg, circling the inside of my thigh. I yelp and try to pull away, but Sylar’s hand is pressing down on my shoulder, holding me in place. I realize where this is going; I should have realized it sooner.
“You’re pathetic,” Sylar growls.
I start to protest, but suddenly Sylar’s other hand is following the telekinetic touch up my thigh and coming to rest on the crotch of my jeans. I gasp, and then Sylar’s tongue is in my mouth, at once violent and awkward. Suddenly it’s very hard to breathe. He’s so close, his hands all over me, his breath hot against my face, and I can’t think at all.
“Pathetic,” he repeats, so close the word hits my face like a slap. “So hungry for love you take what your brother gives you, and you love him for it.” His hand squeezes my dick through my jeans, and I squirm against him. “I don’t think it’s just your ability that makes you weak, Peter Petrelli.”
“Stop.” The word is lost in his mouth as he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head back and sealing his mouth over mine. It hurts, but I can’t shake him off. He pulls away for a moment, efficiently undoing my pants, shucking them and my briefs down as I lay pinned. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, telling myself that this isn’t happening, but I hear-or imagine I can hear-every little tooth on the zipper pull apart when Sylar sheds his own clothes.
His flips me over effortlessly, and the wrecked apartment spins in my vision. He’s a heavy weight on top of me. His skin is hot against mine, and I can feel his cock hard against the back of my thigh. “Stop.” It comes out a whisper, but at least it comes out.
“Why?” Sylar pulls my hips up, like manipulating a doll. “You’ll heal, won’t you? So why are you afraid?” One hand slides down my back until a finger is pressing at the entrance to my ass. “Why are you always afraid?”
I have nothing to say to that, but I curse myself for whimpering when he shoves his finger in. I can feel him smile against my back, and then it’s more fingers, too much, too fast, two and then three. When I try to pull away he grabs my shoulder with his free hand, slamming me back, spreading and twisting his fingers inside me, and the sensation changes from discomfort to white-hot pain in the space of a few seconds.
I must have screamed, because his hand goes from my shoulder to cover my mouth. “Shhhh,” he whispers as he forces his other fingers into me. I’m fairly sure I catch the coppery scent of blood. “Shhhh.” He turns his wrist, and then pulls out, leaving me trembling.
There is something slick-blood, probably-on my thighs, and Sylar runs his hand through it. “You really don’t deserve this power,” he sighs, and then I feel a dull pressure against my ass. After I’ve been torn open by his fingers, it’s not difficult for the head of his cock to pop past the first ring of muscle. Sylar keeps pressing in slowly, but firmly. My breath is coming in painful, ragged pants as I try to zone out the pain.
Then Sylar is still, flush against me, and I’m surprised to feel him stroke my back, almost tenderly. “Is this the way your brother does it? Gently?” he asks. “No, I bet he doesn’t care too much about your pleasure, when you fuck. He’s in charge, isn’t he? More like this?” He punctuates his questions with a sudden thrust of his hips, which I answer with a pained grunt. I try not to think about Nathan, of how it feels when he’s inside me. Of how damn good it feels-nothing like this.
“Perversion,” Sylar hisses. He starts to move, pulling out and slamming back in, his way slicked by blood. His thrusts are punishing, meant to hurt, and they do, but worse than that is his anger: pouring out his hate and his rage and his distain, the sharp disgust that he feels at my sin, the revulsion that anyone would feel, must feel, at so unnatural and evil an act. The weight of Sylar’s condemnation is crushing, overwhelming the physical pain. I think I scream.
**************
Then suddenly, the pain vanishes. The ground is rocking, gently. I venture to open one eye. The room is dim, and stuffy. And I’m not on the floor at all, but on something soft. The rocking increases momentarily, then calms again. There’s salt in the air. I sit up abruptly, knocking my head on the low ceiling. Then I know where I am. The family yacht. The one that Dad used to keep at the beach house on Cape Cod, small enough to take out by himself when he wanted to be alone.
I worm my way out of the bed, not much more than a ledge recessed into the bow of the boat, and push through the little door that leads to the main cabin. Here, the stairway shows a patch of bright sky, and I hurry up it, emerging onto the back deck.
Nathan is there, only slightly dressed down in a collared shirt and khaki shorts, leaning against the rail of the boat, cell phone in hand. When he notices me, he smiles guiltily. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “I’ve got to go.” He snaps the cell phone shut and slides it into a pocket, then turns to address me. “I know, I know I promised. No more business. Just you and me this weekend.” He takes two beers out of the mini-fridge, keeps one for himself, and hands the other to me. “To the Petrelli brothers,” he says, clinking our bottles together.
It’s then that I realize what this is, when this is. This is the start of me and Nathan. Not the beginning of the beginning, of course, because who could say who really started it, and when? But this particular weekend, just after I graduated high school, Nathan was celebrating his appointment to assistant district attorney. The family had planned to spend the weekend on Cape Cod together. Dad had made his excuses, predictably, but Ma got held up at the last minute. Nathan had insisted that we go anyway, without her. Alone together.
I walk to the rail to join Nathan, and we look out at the not-too-distant shore, with the sun setting over it. “I’m glad we decided to come,” I say, because I know it’s what I said at the time, but I have a feeling that something has happened I should tell Nathan about. Hadn’t I been worried, just a moment before? I can’t recall.
“Me too.” Nathan drapes an arm around my shoulder, all swaggering, genial affection. “I know I haven’t been around as much since this new position, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you.” His voice is silky in my ear. “I think about you a lot.”
A shudder runs through me, and I duck my head so Nathan doesn’t see it. “I think about you, too, Nathan.” I feel, rather than see my brother smile as he pulls away.
Nathan takes a long pull of his beer, and leans languidly against the side of the boat, uncharacteristically casual. “So what do you want to do this weekend?”
“Besides drink and soak up the sun?”
“You’re not twenty-one,” Nathan mutters, but when I hold up the beer he’s given me, he can’t help but smile. “But who’s counting?”
“Me,” I reply. I lean a little bit closer. “But at least I’m eighteen now.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Nathan concedes. His face is unreadable, and I remember how nervous that made me. I had wanted so badly not to screw up this conversation, and he hadn’t given me any clues. Still, I supposed it had all worked out in the end. I remember the whole conversation, so it’s no hardship to re-enact it now, especially knowing how sweet the outcome will be.
“And we’ve got the whole weekend.” I snuggle closer, and Nathan’s arm tightens around me.
“I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves entertained.”
“Yeah. Entertained.” Nathan takes another swig of his beer, and I do the same. It’s now or never. I remember the buzzing anticipation I felt at this moment, not sure of what Nathan would do. At least this time around I know everything will be alright. Quickly, before I can lose my nerve, I lean up, wrap a hand around the back of Nathan’s neck, and kiss him on the lips.
It is not an innocent kiss, and there’s no mistaking what I mean by it. When I finally pull back a fraction, it’s hard to breathe. When I open my eyes, Nathan’s face is dark and cloudy. “Nathan…”
Nathan pushes past me, and the boat shifts with his passing. Confused, I turn to look see him standing at the other railing, arms crossing, glaring at me. I don’t remember this part.
“What are you doing?” he asks, in the disgusted tone that always makes me feel about two feet tall.
I smile nervously. “What?”
Nathan is wearing a look of utter revulsion. “I’m your brother. How could you?”
That wasn’t what Nathan said. That wasn’t how this happened. "Nathan, what's wrong?" I take a step toward Nathan, and he takes a step sideways, maintaining his distance.
"What’s wrong? My brother just kissed me, that’s what’s wrong. What the hell is wrong with you?"
I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, to say he’s kidding. "I thought you wanted-."
Nathan interrupts me. "It's a sin."
I suddenly feel nauseous, and it had nothing to do with the tossing of the boat. I’ve heard that before, recently. "Nathan..."
"Evil, Peter.”
And then I remember where I’ve heard that, remember the look in Sylar’s eyes as it occurs to him what my secret it. I back away from Nathan. This isn’t a real memory, and that isn’t my real brother. He stalks the few steps across the deck to grab me by the back of my neck, throwing me face-down on the floor.
When I hit, the floor is no longer rocking, the gentle light of a Cape Cod morning is only the glow of an overturned lamp, and the smell of salt has been replaced by the tang of blood. “Welcome back,” says Sylar.
--Sylar--
I’m fairly sure he’s broken. He went very still and quiet about halfway through. He’s back now, though, stirring groggily. I give his head a little pat before getting up to put my clothes to rights.
He groans, and curls up on himself, clutching at his pants. His flesh must be mended by now, but, as I suspected, his weakness runs much deeper than flesh. Pitifully, he begins to crawl.
I just watch him crawl for a moment, admiring his ass, his thighs streaked with blood. “Where are you going, Peter?”
He manages to pull himself to his feet, fumbling for a moment before he manages to fasten his jeans. Then a look of concentration mars his face. He disappears.
Interesting. “I can’t wait to try that one,” I call out. Raising his hand, he called a bevy of broken glass to hover before him. I hold still, listening until I can pinpoint Peter’s heartbeat, and then I strike, sending the shards flying into what looks like empty space.
Suddenly, Peter reappears, a piece of glass lodged in the back of his head, and he falls to the ground gracelessly. I feel a stab of disappointment stronger than I expected. Is that all? It shouldn’t have been so easy, so fast. I’m not sure I was even done with him. Maybe he’s not really dead. I take a step toward his prone form, but then I hear a sudden clatter. I turn too late to stop the map board’s forward motion, and then there’s only blackness.
Title: Every Guilty Stain
Pairing: Sylar/Peter, implied Nathan/Peter
Word count: 4,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence, slash, angst, implied incest, spoilers through .07%
Notes: As usual, thanks to redandglenda for the beta
Summary: A “missing scene” from .07%. Sylar sees Peter’s weakness, and knows how to use it.
---Peter Petrelli---
I'm not actually sure if Suresh can help me. He hasn’t been much help before, after all. But Nathan seems to think he could help and, no matter how misguided it might be, I have a long history of taking Nathan’s advice. He might think to look for me here, so I’ll have to make this quick.
No one answers, even though I’m knocking loudly enough. I try the door: unlocked. Strange. I push my way inside. It’s dark in here, and the place is in bad shape. “Suresh?” No one answers. That’s not a good sign. “It’s Peter Petrelli.” Nothing. I move further into the apartment, cautiously. Whoever trashed the place-and it could have been anyone, really-might still be around. “Mohinder?”
I flinch as I feel something on my head, and move my hand reflexively to brush it off. It’s sticky. Then something drips on my face. I wipe it with the back of my hand: it’s red. My eyes are drawn, almost unwillingly, to the ceiling.
---Sylar---
Mohinder’s not badly hurt. Not yet, anyway. I’m not finished with him. But I’m sure that he looks bad to Peter, pinned against the ceiling like a bug. While Peter stares, I slide into place behind him. Mohinder gasps my name, and Peter whirls to face me.
Looking into his face, I realize who Peter Petrelli is: the man who stopped me in Texas, who started the whole miserable chain of events that led me to fall into Bennet’s hands, to undergo torture. How wonderful to see you again, Mr. Petrelli. I like the wide-eyed panic in his face as he recognizes me, too.
“I remember you,” I growl. I slam him against the wall the easy way, with a mere thought, and take hold of his chin. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course, and I’m glad he doesn’t answer. I turn his head to the side, admiring the aristocratic bone structure, the smear of blood on his face. “I’d like to see how that works.”
He screams when I raise a finger to slice into his forehead. There’s fear in his eyes, reducing him to animal panic, like all the others. I’m hit by a pang of disappointment as I realize I may have overestimated him. Before I’ve even finished the cut, however, I notice that his skin is pulling itself back together-healing almost instantly. Oh yes. Borrowed power, from the cheerleader. Such a useful skill. It should already be mine. And maybe it will be, sooner than I’d hoped.
---Peter Petrelli---
I’ve never had a very high pain threshold. I know my hysterical screaming is pathetic, but I can’t think, can’t stop myself as Sylar slices into my skull. Then the pain stops getting worse as Claire’s healing kicks in. It doesn’t take the pain away entirely, but enough for me to concentrate. I push Sylar away, hard, using his own power against him, and he flies across the room, crashing into a bookshelf on the far wall.
As he hits the wall, I drop to the floor, and so does Suresh. I go to check on him: he’s not moving. I put one hand to his neck to feel for a pulse, but then movement from the other side of the room catches my eye: Sylar is back up.
“Oh no. I’m not done with him yet,” he says, taking a threatening step toward me. I try to gauge the distance between me and the door. I think I could make it past Sylar… But no. I can’t leave Suresh here. He’ll be killed.
I try to focus my thoughts, to concentrate on how I felt when I used Sylar's telekinesis, but all I really feel is fear. Sylar grins at me, and then I'm flying through the air, slamming into the wall and down. My head bounces painfully off the floor, but I shake it off. I won't-can’t-die from that, after all, I have to get up.
I fumble to my hands and knees, but an invisible force slaps me down. I try again, and I suddenly feel cold as I realize I'm pinned to the floor, somehow, Sylar holding me down without touching me--damn telekinesis again-and sure, I should be able to fight fire with fire, like I had just a moment ago, but all of Claude's tough love hasn't prepared me for something like this.
From where I lie, face pressed into the floorboards, I can see Suresh sprawled, unmoving, on the other side of the room. I wonder idly if he is dead. Like I'm about to be.
--Sylar--
The beat of his heart, rabbit-fast, is delicious. He struggles against my telekinesis until I come plant a foot against his back. "Is that all you've got, Peter Petrelli?" He squirms under my foot, but he can't get up: whatever control he had over my ability is gone now. Apparently little Peter shares the same lack of discipline as all the others from whom I've taken my powers. A disappointment again.
"In some ways, we’re the same. But one of us is better than the other. More effective. ” I use my foot to roll him onto his back--the better to see the fear in his eyes. Careful to keep him pinned with my mind, I lean down to brush my fingers lightly across his forehead, where the cut has already healed, leaving a line of drying blood. Amazing. Special. “How does yours work?”
Peter struggles against his invisible bonds. His skin is warm against my fingertips. "Help!" he screams. My hand darts from his forehead to close around his throat. Suresh has neighbors, after all, and I don't wish to be rushed.
“Do you think if I take your power, I get all of it? Or will I have to hunt them down, one by one?" I'm actually curious. I let up on Petrelli's throat, in case he has an answer, but he says nothing. "Where’s the cheerleader? The one you took from me in Texas.”
"She's safe," Peter snaps. "You'll never get her."
I shrug. "Never's a long time. I guess I'll have to be content with others until then." I call up the names I know from Suresh's list--stored away with that wonderful memory I borrowed from that waitress in Texas--looking for someone else who might be connected to Peter. That's when I remember the name Petrelli. Of course. There was another Petrelli on the list: Nathan. Not only that, but I realize the name is more familiar still: the man's face is plastered all over the city, his shark grin beaming from a thousand election posters.
I smile down at Peter. "Your brother’s got to have some power. I wonder which of yours belongs to him.”
“Stay the hell away from Nathan.” Peter's defiance is fierce, and more passionate than any resistance he's shown yet. It's strange that his reaction is so strong. Strange, and a little suspicious.
"Why defend him?” I prod. “He doesn’t care for anyone but himself.” I know nothing about the Petrelli brothers, but it doesn't take much intuition to recognize Nathan Petrelli as a predator. We probably have a lot in common, and I can't imagine he'd have much patience for a sniveler like Peter.
“Nathan loves me,” Peter spits defiantly. The slightest twist of his eye, a slight retreat, the instant after it is out of his mouth, and I see Peter’s fear that he had revealed too much.
---Peter Petrelli---
Sylar's smile twists, and my heart pounds against my ribcage even faster. I shouldn't have said that, but... I can't help being extra stupid when it comes to my brother. Even laying here, trapped by Sylar's telekinesis, I can't believe I'm really going to die. Even if that happens, I won't let this monster go after Nathan.
"You do love your brother, don't you." There wasn't so much a question--just curiosity in Sylar's voice as he rocks back on his haunches. I blush at that, although there's no way Sylar could possibly know what he's talking about. Shame and fear have become so mixed in with my feelings about Nathan that I can't turn them off.
Sylar's grin widens as color spreads up my cheeks. "I think I get the picture.” He stands and crosses his arms. “It’s a sin, Peter.”
“What?” There's a horrible sinking feeling in my gut, heavy and sick.
“You. With your brother," Sylar says. "A sin.”
“What?”
Whatever Sylar sees in my face must convince him that he's right, because he nods sagely. “Evil.”
There's nothing to say to that. There's nothing to say to any of this. Everything's wrong on so many levels. I close my eyes to escape Sylar's knowing glare. It doesn't make the nausea go away.
“You look to him for approval. I guess I can understand it. You’re weak. He leads you.” Sylar's pacing: I can hear him circling. I try to block it out so I can concentrate. If I can just get control of the telekinesis again, I can get Suresh out of here and run away, run to Nathan.
“Want to hear my theory, Peter?”
“No,” I grind out from between clenched teeth.
Sylar backhands me, an abrupt, precise strike. My eyes snap open to see him kneeling next to me. “It’s a sin, Peter,” he says seriously. “I’d hoped that one, just one out of all of you might actually be part of the my plan. I even thought for a while that it might be you. And now…” He shakes his head, seeming personally affronted. “You have no control at all.” To prove it, he uses his telekinesis to press down on my throat, watching as I struggle helplessly. “And now there’s this thing with your brother. It’s disappointing.”
He lets up on my throat, and as I suck in lungfulls of air, he studies me quietly. It seems like forever before I have breath enough to form a retort. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
--Sylar--
Except that I do, now. Watching him fight me, I think I have it figured out. “It’s not about the mind with you at all. That’s why you have such a hard time with control. It must be about feelings. You’re some sort of empath.” From the way he startles at the word, I know someone must have used the term for him before. I wonder who’s been teaching him, and make a mental note to look into it when I’m done here.
I brush the blood off his cheek with the back of my hand, and he doesn’t flinch. “You feel things too much.” He closes his eyes at that, and I can’t help but shiver. Maybe I don’t want his ability after all. It makes him so vulnerable. That’s the last thing I want: to be bound by caring for the people around you - choking on their fear and their sadness and their judgment and their disappointment in you.
I wrench my thoughts away from that sickening possibility to find Peter looking up at me with something like pity. Maybe he’s feeling the sick stab of fear I just felt, or maybe mind-reading is one of his tricks, too. Either way, he somehow knows circumstances have changed. “I’m not like you,” he says, raising his chin defiantly. “So kill me, if you’re going to, but I’m pretty sure it won’t help.”
I hit him again, but it doesn’t wipe the smug little smile off his face, and it doesn’t make me feel better. After being harassed and tortured for the last few hours by Mohinder-Mohinder who was supposed to understand, supposed to help me-I can not let him cut me like this. I want to hurt him, and-I smile at the thought-knowing how things work also means knowing how to break them.
--Peter Petrelli--
For a moment I think he is going to kill me, his eyes hold such insane anger. Then it evaporates as suddenly as it came, replaced by a knowing smile.
“Peter,” he says, so gently it sends a shiver down my spine. “I think I understand why you can never quite succeed at anything. On your own, you’re nothing.” I catch a stray thought - Like I used to be - before Sylar waves an accusing finger at me. “That’s why you’re with your brother. You need somebody to tell you who to be-and he’s the one who can keep you under control.”
“What are you--,” I begin, but I never finish the thought. Instead I’m distracted by a phantom touch, a brush of telekinesis which grazes my ankle and travels up my leg, circling the inside of my thigh. I yelp and try to pull away, but Sylar’s hand is pressing down on my shoulder, holding me in place. I realize where this is going; I should have realized it sooner.
“You’re pathetic,” Sylar growls.
I start to protest, but suddenly Sylar’s other hand is following the telekinetic touch up my thigh and coming to rest on the crotch of my jeans. I gasp, and then Sylar’s tongue is in my mouth, at once violent and awkward. Suddenly it’s very hard to breathe. He’s so close, his hands all over me, his breath hot against my face, and I can’t think at all.
“Pathetic,” he repeats, so close the word hits my face like a slap. “So hungry for love you take what your brother gives you, and you love him for it.” His hand squeezes my dick through my jeans, and I squirm against him. “I don’t think it’s just your ability that makes you weak, Peter Petrelli.”
“Stop.” The word is lost in his mouth as he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head back and sealing his mouth over mine. It hurts, but I can’t shake him off. He pulls away for a moment, efficiently undoing my pants, shucking them and my briefs down as I lay pinned. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, telling myself that this isn’t happening, but I hear-or imagine I can hear-every little tooth on the zipper pull apart when Sylar sheds his own clothes.
His flips me over effortlessly, and the wrecked apartment spins in my vision. He’s a heavy weight on top of me. His skin is hot against mine, and I can feel his cock hard against the back of my thigh. “Stop.” It comes out a whisper, but at least it comes out.
“Why?” Sylar pulls my hips up, like manipulating a doll. “You’ll heal, won’t you? So why are you afraid?” One hand slides down my back until a finger is pressing at the entrance to my ass. “Why are you always afraid?”
I have nothing to say to that, but I curse myself for whimpering when he shoves his finger in. I can feel him smile against my back, and then it’s more fingers, too much, too fast, two and then three. When I try to pull away he grabs my shoulder with his free hand, slamming me back, spreading and twisting his fingers inside me, and the sensation changes from discomfort to white-hot pain in the space of a few seconds.
I must have screamed, because his hand goes from my shoulder to cover my mouth. “Shhhh,” he whispers as he forces his other fingers into me. I’m fairly sure I catch the coppery scent of blood. “Shhhh.” He turns his wrist, and then pulls out, leaving me trembling.
There is something slick-blood, probably-on my thighs, and Sylar runs his hand through it. “You really don’t deserve this power,” he sighs, and then I feel a dull pressure against my ass. After I’ve been torn open by his fingers, it’s not difficult for the head of his cock to pop past the first ring of muscle. Sylar keeps pressing in slowly, but firmly. My breath is coming in painful, ragged pants as I try to zone out the pain.
Then Sylar is still, flush against me, and I’m surprised to feel him stroke my back, almost tenderly. “Is this the way your brother does it? Gently?” he asks. “No, I bet he doesn’t care too much about your pleasure, when you fuck. He’s in charge, isn’t he? More like this?” He punctuates his questions with a sudden thrust of his hips, which I answer with a pained grunt. I try not to think about Nathan, of how it feels when he’s inside me. Of how damn good it feels-nothing like this.
“Perversion,” Sylar hisses. He starts to move, pulling out and slamming back in, his way slicked by blood. His thrusts are punishing, meant to hurt, and they do, but worse than that is his anger: pouring out his hate and his rage and his distain, the sharp disgust that he feels at my sin, the revulsion that anyone would feel, must feel, at so unnatural and evil an act. The weight of Sylar’s condemnation is crushing, overwhelming the physical pain. I think I scream.
**************
Then suddenly, the pain vanishes. The ground is rocking, gently. I venture to open one eye. The room is dim, and stuffy. And I’m not on the floor at all, but on something soft. The rocking increases momentarily, then calms again. There’s salt in the air. I sit up abruptly, knocking my head on the low ceiling. Then I know where I am. The family yacht. The one that Dad used to keep at the beach house on Cape Cod, small enough to take out by himself when he wanted to be alone.
I worm my way out of the bed, not much more than a ledge recessed into the bow of the boat, and push through the little door that leads to the main cabin. Here, the stairway shows a patch of bright sky, and I hurry up it, emerging onto the back deck.
Nathan is there, only slightly dressed down in a collared shirt and khaki shorts, leaning against the rail of the boat, cell phone in hand. When he notices me, he smiles guiltily. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “I’ve got to go.” He snaps the cell phone shut and slides it into a pocket, then turns to address me. “I know, I know I promised. No more business. Just you and me this weekend.” He takes two beers out of the mini-fridge, keeps one for himself, and hands the other to me. “To the Petrelli brothers,” he says, clinking our bottles together.
It’s then that I realize what this is, when this is. This is the start of me and Nathan. Not the beginning of the beginning, of course, because who could say who really started it, and when? But this particular weekend, just after I graduated high school, Nathan was celebrating his appointment to assistant district attorney. The family had planned to spend the weekend on Cape Cod together. Dad had made his excuses, predictably, but Ma got held up at the last minute. Nathan had insisted that we go anyway, without her. Alone together.
I walk to the rail to join Nathan, and we look out at the not-too-distant shore, with the sun setting over it. “I’m glad we decided to come,” I say, because I know it’s what I said at the time, but I have a feeling that something has happened I should tell Nathan about. Hadn’t I been worried, just a moment before? I can’t recall.
“Me too.” Nathan drapes an arm around my shoulder, all swaggering, genial affection. “I know I haven’t been around as much since this new position, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you.” His voice is silky in my ear. “I think about you a lot.”
A shudder runs through me, and I duck my head so Nathan doesn’t see it. “I think about you, too, Nathan.” I feel, rather than see my brother smile as he pulls away.
Nathan takes a long pull of his beer, and leans languidly against the side of the boat, uncharacteristically casual. “So what do you want to do this weekend?”
“Besides drink and soak up the sun?”
“You’re not twenty-one,” Nathan mutters, but when I hold up the beer he’s given me, he can’t help but smile. “But who’s counting?”
“Me,” I reply. I lean a little bit closer. “But at least I’m eighteen now.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Nathan concedes. His face is unreadable, and I remember how nervous that made me. I had wanted so badly not to screw up this conversation, and he hadn’t given me any clues. Still, I supposed it had all worked out in the end. I remember the whole conversation, so it’s no hardship to re-enact it now, especially knowing how sweet the outcome will be.
“And we’ve got the whole weekend.” I snuggle closer, and Nathan’s arm tightens around me.
“I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves entertained.”
“Yeah. Entertained.” Nathan takes another swig of his beer, and I do the same. It’s now or never. I remember the buzzing anticipation I felt at this moment, not sure of what Nathan would do. At least this time around I know everything will be alright. Quickly, before I can lose my nerve, I lean up, wrap a hand around the back of Nathan’s neck, and kiss him on the lips.
It is not an innocent kiss, and there’s no mistaking what I mean by it. When I finally pull back a fraction, it’s hard to breathe. When I open my eyes, Nathan’s face is dark and cloudy. “Nathan…”
Nathan pushes past me, and the boat shifts with his passing. Confused, I turn to look see him standing at the other railing, arms crossing, glaring at me. I don’t remember this part.
“What are you doing?” he asks, in the disgusted tone that always makes me feel about two feet tall.
I smile nervously. “What?”
Nathan is wearing a look of utter revulsion. “I’m your brother. How could you?”
That wasn’t what Nathan said. That wasn’t how this happened. "Nathan, what's wrong?" I take a step toward Nathan, and he takes a step sideways, maintaining his distance.
"What’s wrong? My brother just kissed me, that’s what’s wrong. What the hell is wrong with you?"
I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, to say he’s kidding. "I thought you wanted-."
Nathan interrupts me. "It's a sin."
I suddenly feel nauseous, and it had nothing to do with the tossing of the boat. I’ve heard that before, recently. "Nathan..."
"Evil, Peter.”
And then I remember where I’ve heard that, remember the look in Sylar’s eyes as it occurs to him what my secret it. I back away from Nathan. This isn’t a real memory, and that isn’t my real brother. He stalks the few steps across the deck to grab me by the back of my neck, throwing me face-down on the floor.
When I hit, the floor is no longer rocking, the gentle light of a Cape Cod morning is only the glow of an overturned lamp, and the smell of salt has been replaced by the tang of blood. “Welcome back,” says Sylar.
--Sylar--
I’m fairly sure he’s broken. He went very still and quiet about halfway through. He’s back now, though, stirring groggily. I give his head a little pat before getting up to put my clothes to rights.
He groans, and curls up on himself, clutching at his pants. His flesh must be mended by now, but, as I suspected, his weakness runs much deeper than flesh. Pitifully, he begins to crawl.
I just watch him crawl for a moment, admiring his ass, his thighs streaked with blood. “Where are you going, Peter?”
He manages to pull himself to his feet, fumbling for a moment before he manages to fasten his jeans. Then a look of concentration mars his face. He disappears.
Interesting. “I can’t wait to try that one,” I call out. Raising his hand, he called a bevy of broken glass to hover before him. I hold still, listening until I can pinpoint Peter’s heartbeat, and then I strike, sending the shards flying into what looks like empty space.
Suddenly, Peter reappears, a piece of glass lodged in the back of his head, and he falls to the ground gracelessly. I feel a stab of disappointment stronger than I expected. Is that all? It shouldn’t have been so easy, so fast. I’m not sure I was even done with him. Maybe he’s not really dead. I take a step toward his prone form, but then I hear a sudden clatter. I turn too late to stop the map board’s forward motion, and then there’s only blackness.