(no subject)
Friday Nights
Heroes | Sylar, Peter
PG13 | 520 words
He pulls back, hands trembling as he balls them into fists around the cold metal beads. The man below him is motionless; his back a rigid slate between his legs as he watches the purple blotches dotting his neck turn yellow and disappear.
A gasp echoes in the room, followed by a moan as Peter shifts and Sylar pushes off of him to let him turn over.
“You’re starting to slow down.” he drawls, wrapping a blood caked arm around his bent knee. Peter stays silent for a few seconds, his chest rising slowly to intake the oxygen he had lost minutes before as the man sitting besides him chuckles.
The laugh morphs slightly and Peter cringes at the sound, his voice coming out in a ragged pant, “Shut up.” He pushes himself up, his dark eyes surveying the chaos of the room before resting on Sylar’s hunched form. The taller man’s body is almost completely covered in blood, long slashes caked in gruesome patterns on his pale skin as he opens his eyes and locks gazes with his brother.
“You look like hell.” A pair of red-tinged lips replies, braking into a wide grin as Peter growls, throwing out a hand as a crackle of electricity shoots through the room.
A piercing scream bounces off the walls, the overpowering scent of burnt flesh rushing to Peter’s nostrils as a smile curves his lips and he drops his hand. Sylar lay slumped against the wall, his dark eyes half-lidded and vacant as deformed skin blossoms against his neck and chest.
Peter stares at him, eyes narrowed as he counts the time, two minutes passing before the lifeless orbs blink slowly and the man’s skin begins to smooth. Six more minutes drift by and he coughs, weakly pushing away from the wall as the last of his wounds heal. “8 minutes…” Peter begins, tilting his head slightly in arrogance, “looks like you’re the one who’s slowing down.”
“Touché.” Sylar counters, drawing calloused fingertips across his neck as he leans back against the wall. Peter frowns, kicking his foot out as it clashes against the remains of his bookcase, scattering it across the hallway, “Are we done here?”
The man shrugs absently, muffling a small laugh as he lifts an eyebrow mischievously, “Waving the white flag early tonight, huh?” He begins to button his shirt back up, covering the rust coloured marks marring his chest, “…got to say you lasted a lot longer last week…”
His statement was met with a lethal glare, his voice a harsh snarl “Get out!” A smile graces the killer’s face as he pushes up off the ground, turning only after the front door is halfway open, “By the way… the impromptu heart surgery was a nice touch… keep it up.”
“I said get out…” Peter repeats, his voice much lighter as he glances down the hallway. He finds the door shut and the man gone, allowing a loud sigh to exhale from his lungs as he lulls his head against the wall.
They play these games every Friday night… maybe one of these days it’ll actually stick.
Heroes | Sylar, Peter
PG13 | 520 words
He pulls back, hands trembling as he balls them into fists around the cold metal beads. The man below him is motionless; his back a rigid slate between his legs as he watches the purple blotches dotting his neck turn yellow and disappear.
A gasp echoes in the room, followed by a moan as Peter shifts and Sylar pushes off of him to let him turn over.
“You’re starting to slow down.” he drawls, wrapping a blood caked arm around his bent knee. Peter stays silent for a few seconds, his chest rising slowly to intake the oxygen he had lost minutes before as the man sitting besides him chuckles.
The laugh morphs slightly and Peter cringes at the sound, his voice coming out in a ragged pant, “Shut up.” He pushes himself up, his dark eyes surveying the chaos of the room before resting on Sylar’s hunched form. The taller man’s body is almost completely covered in blood, long slashes caked in gruesome patterns on his pale skin as he opens his eyes and locks gazes with his brother.
“You look like hell.” A pair of red-tinged lips replies, braking into a wide grin as Peter growls, throwing out a hand as a crackle of electricity shoots through the room.
A piercing scream bounces off the walls, the overpowering scent of burnt flesh rushing to Peter’s nostrils as a smile curves his lips and he drops his hand. Sylar lay slumped against the wall, his dark eyes half-lidded and vacant as deformed skin blossoms against his neck and chest.
Peter stares at him, eyes narrowed as he counts the time, two minutes passing before the lifeless orbs blink slowly and the man’s skin begins to smooth. Six more minutes drift by and he coughs, weakly pushing away from the wall as the last of his wounds heal. “8 minutes…” Peter begins, tilting his head slightly in arrogance, “looks like you’re the one who’s slowing down.”
“Touché.” Sylar counters, drawing calloused fingertips across his neck as he leans back against the wall. Peter frowns, kicking his foot out as it clashes against the remains of his bookcase, scattering it across the hallway, “Are we done here?”
The man shrugs absently, muffling a small laugh as he lifts an eyebrow mischievously, “Waving the white flag early tonight, huh?” He begins to button his shirt back up, covering the rust coloured marks marring his chest, “…got to say you lasted a lot longer last week…”
His statement was met with a lethal glare, his voice a harsh snarl “Get out!” A smile graces the killer’s face as he pushes up off the ground, turning only after the front door is halfway open, “By the way… the impromptu heart surgery was a nice touch… keep it up.”
“I said get out…” Peter repeats, his voice much lighter as he glances down the hallway. He finds the door shut and the man gone, allowing a loud sigh to exhale from his lungs as he lulls his head against the wall.
They play these games every Friday night… maybe one of these days it’ll actually stick.