Wall Verse Chapter 11, Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
Title: Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
Characters: Peter/Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence
Word count: ~1,600
Setting: The Wall, part of the series Wall Verse Shorts
Summary: After their first time together sexually, Sylar reacts badly.
Sylar had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Peter lay against him, warm and boneless and completely relaxed. The smell of their combined musk and sweat was thick in the air. It was an embarrassing odor that brought to mind mysteriously stained sheets and whippings for his shameful emissions. The scent was nothing of female, of that distinctly different and alluring aroma of the other. Being with Peter smelled a lot like just being 'with' himself - solitary experiences he did his best to curb, for he was no onanist. Peter, more experienced by far in being with men, seemed unfazed by the funk or the mess that must be lurking in his pants. Sylar was hyper-aware of his own mess and held perfectly still, praying it would go unnoticed, or at least unremarked.
Sylar was waiting tensely for the other shoe to drop. Surely it would. Someone would get angry; he'd get hurt. At least it was pretty unlikely that he'd be shot at this time, or have to confront Matt Parkman's angry consciousness over schtupping his wife, or have to face Lydia's all-too-incisive understanding of him. Was it even possible that for once he'd had something sexual with someone and it wouldn't end badly? He didn't think so.
He thought about his first time and how he couldn't stop kissing Elle after the sex. He had such mixed emotions about them, about her. His face made a hopeless smile. Peter would probably turn out the same way - one or, maybe if he was lucky, two heavenly couplings and then something awful; probably death. He'd begun to hope it was his own this time, permanently.
He turned his head away, looking at the piano, feeling so strange and out of place in his own skin. His body was still awash in endorphins and the faintest shuddering aftershocks: too sensitive in spots, pleasantly sore in others. His emotions were a mishmash. He was happy; he was resentful. He felt possessive and needy, with opposing desires to cling to this person who had made him feel good, or to get away and be separate. His longing made him powerless and weak, yet he had just brought Peter off with his touch, his body and his presence - surely that was a form of power, too? Was he special, or just some masturbatory tool for another? He didn't know how to feel about that. He hadn't gone into this thinking about what anyone wanted but himself, but now that they'd done … it (though really he was at a loss as to how to characterize what they'd done), all he could think about was what Peter wanted out of this.
Speaking of which, Peter made a disconsolate noise and let his head loll back on Sylar's shoulder. He rubbed Sylar's knees restlessly. He needed something, wanted something. Sylar looked back to him apprehensively, trying to guess what he was supposed to be doing and feeling resentful that he didn't know. Well, Elle seemed real happy when I kissed her so much.
He canted his head to the side and bent to kiss Peter on the neck. He wouldn't deny he was surprised and thrilled that Peter hadn't moved away yet. It made it seem like it wasn't really over. Maybe he could pretend a little longer. All the patterns would fall, momentarily, into place before they came to their inevitable conclusion. Peter made a pleased sound at Sylar's kiss and so Sylar gave another one, earning a second, even happier noise. Sylar's mouth formed a gentle smile and he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with lust or passion. He was pleasing someone. He was doing something that was making someone happy. Even if he was being used, it made him feel good. At least I'm useful, at least he wants this, enjoys it. That's something, isn't it?
Peter slowly rolled his head to one side, exposing the length of his neck to Sylar without a shred of fear. Suspicion coiled in Sylar's gut and gooseflesh marched across his skin. Why would Peter do this? How could Peter do this? How could he put aside everything that had ever happened between them and be so fearless as to be with Sylar this way? The whole seduction flashed through Sylar's mind. He knew he wasn't hard on the eyes, but he couldn't fathom the attraction. Personality and history had to count for something, didn't it? He understood needing the sex and the contact, but Peter was giving him affection and kindness as well, or at least a very convincing illusion of it. It didn't fit. It had to be fake.
Sylar gave Peter what he was asking for and cooperatively kissed up the man's neck an inch at a time, considering this was a Petrelli his lips were caressing - a family of betrayers and liars, kinslayers who were above nothing, manipulators of the highest order. Even if Peter generally seemed better than most, Peter was the one who was here, his mouth opening slightly and his hands beginning to trail up and down Sylar's thighs, stroking lightly. Sylar reached Peter's jaw as he considered there had to be an ulterior motive. Peter had gotten off - he should be done, shouldn't he? What else was there for him here? Sylar kissed his cheek and Peter shifted. Sylar pulled back with a quick, wary inhalation.
Peter ignored the reaction, or at least pretended like it hadn't happened. He tilted up his chin and jutted out his lips, shutting his eyes with an entitled expectation of being serviced. Sylar blinked, caught between feeling grateful Peter would allow him to touch, and offended by the arrogant assumption that he would. Peter knew what Sylar wanted so desperately - so why would a Petrelli offer to give Sylar something without a price?
Sylar leaned back in slowly to give Peter the kiss he was obviously asking for. Peter vocalized a faint whine as soon as their lips touched and kept it up the entire kiss. That sound made something weird twist and curl in Sylar's gut, drowning out his fears and suspicions and theories. Sylar's desire fogged out every other rational thought in his head. He was breathing harder when he finally pulled away. A moment later, stark fear replaced the blinding lust. He didn't know what Peter was doing to him, but he was doing something. He couldn't think when the man was kissing him, touching him. Maybe that was Peter's goal? Sylar couldn't take it. He started disengaging and moving away.
"Hey, hey! Wait!" Peter tried to hang onto him, but his grabbiness only fueled the paranoia. Sylar shoved him away, scooting backwards off the piano bench.
Sylar scrambled to his feet, trying to think of what Peter got out of doing this to him. He got off, obviously, but there had to be some other advantage, perhaps a power and control he intended to exert over Sylar. It wouldn't be the first time a Petrelli had sunk their hooks into his heart and tried to manipulate him with whispers of love. Even if Peter was generally honest and good-hearted, that only underscored how desperate he'd have to be to do what he'd just done with Sylar, of all people. If he'd go this far, then there was no telling what depths he might fall to. Sylar regarded him with his lips slightly parted and teeth clenched, the beginnings of a snarl on his face.
Peter looked confused, but he would, wouldn't he? He'd act completely innocent right now and do anything, anything at all to smooth things over. Sylar shook his head, ignoring the soothing idiocy Peter was starting to spew as he stepped closer. Taunting me, mocking me, showing me what I could have just so he can tear it away from me …
"Stay away from me," Sylar growled, putting every shred of hate and rage into his words. He turned and went to stride out of the room, fists balled. How could I have been so blind?
"Hey, Sylar … No!" Peter ran after him and the white-hot heat inside of Sylar surged into a roaring flame. He turned and swung with everything he had. Peter's forward momentum carried him right into the blow. Sylar's roundhouse smashed his fist squarely into Peter's cheek. Peter made a strange choked noise and fell flat on his back, his head hitting the hard floor and bouncing once, one leg folded under at the knee.
Sylar stood over him, thinking about kicking him, too, while he had the chance, but Peter was perfectly still. He didn't even seem to be breathing. After a few seconds, Sylar's brows drew together. He'd hit him hard, probably harder than he'd ever hit anyone in his life, without powers. Did I kill him? Oh no … Please, no. Panic clutched at his heart, but then Peter sucked in a breath and groaned in pain. The empath's hands moved erratically, twitching more than anything else. His lids fluttered and Sylar let out the breath he'd been holding. Sylar shook his head. He'll be fine. Bastard! He deserves worse. He stalked out, leaving Peter on the floor.