Fic: One
Title: One
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter Petrelli x Sylar
Length: 871 words
Rating: 15 for swearing and a mild lemon at the end.
Status: Complete
Warning: None, really, just some power spoilers.
One
There was only one person.
Sure, his hair bugged him to hell. Sure, he was supposed to be killing the stupid little kid. Hell, he was supposed to be killing everyone. But, dammit…
He snorted. If his mother could hear him now, she’d disown him all over again. But his mom wasn’t here, and she wouldn’t ever be.
And Peter knew that far too well. It really pissed him off, actually, because… well, he’d love to say it was because Peter never stopped bugging him about it. But the only time he’d mentioned it… it was late, and he was tired, and it was dark, and he wanted to curl up and sleep - sleep - but Peter, (his Peter, always so fucking gentle) wrapped an arm around him and murmured he was sorry. They had both known what he was talking about.
The first time he’d died (or was it nearly died? He couldn’t remember) he wasn’t sure, even then, whether he’d be saved. He’s still not sure whether he really was. The strange ability (healing? Resuscitation?) Peter had hunted down for him - solely for him - and the life he’d given him was utter euphoria in his veins.
It had left its mark on Peter, too. Most of all, most of all he hated that fucking scar.
Now… now it was okay. If Peter got hurt, he could regenerate. If he did, then Peter would heal him. It didn’t stop him being scared out of his fucking mind every time Peter walked away. There were other ways to get hurt. He should know.
There was only one place.
The concept of Isaac’s loft scared the hell out of him. But he’d left it up to Peter - this was his choice, which meant sticking with him. No matter where the kid insisted on staying.
Truth be told, it was a guilty conscience that kept him from Isaac’s Mendez’s loft. And he didn’t really know why, but his insides would crawl when he was in there. Maybe it was just that bed creaked like hell, and he still couldn’t forget the first time he’d seen Peter in it.
Not with him.
At least they weren’t alive anymore. Not that Peter ever spoke about them. There were some things with Peter Petrelli you didn’t push.
He often thought Peter was too like him for his own good.
There was one moment.
He himself hated the snow. It reminded him of certain moments - certain… people - he’d rather forget. But for Peter he found he was willing to go to ridiculous lengths. Peter hated his birthday in a similar way (and for similar reasons) that he hated snow. Peter had decided they were not going to make a fuss, and nothing he could say would change that. He knew Peter well enough to know that to be utterly true.
So he did what he was told - for the large part of it. The only indications Peter could have had that the white fluff was his creation was that firstly it was the middle of July, and secondly that his forehead was ever so slightly furrowed in concentration during the whole evening. Hey, it was difficult to freeze a whole goddamn city without actually harming anyone.
Oh… and his mind-reading capabilities helped a little, too.
Peter didn’t get as mad as he’d thought he would. He’d just stood on that rooftop and smiled, and glowed in a way that was nothing to do with radioactivity. He gleamed in the sun, and the sight reminded him of why he’d abandoned it.
This man, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his arms spread as the little flecks danced oh so slowly around him. This man was the true angel.
There was one person, one place, one moment, and this was it.
Peter shuddered, his whole body rippling. He found himself gasping, moaning, close to crying. The rawness in his spine made his feelings raw as well, and the one that consumed him utterly wasn’t anger, or hate, it was pure sunshine, pure gold -
Love. He never thought he’d be worthy of love again.
He still wasn’t sure whether he was.
But Peter didn’t think it. His Peter, holding him as they made love for the fifth - fiftieth - what did it matter? - time, and it was every bit as beautiful, as special, as goddamn painful as the first, and no matter what, what the other said he’d grip onto his back, and hold him so goddamn hard because he was so damn afraid it would be the last.
It was coming, and he found himself longing for it, wishing for it, craving it, and he almost begged for it - and it came - “Gabriel - ” Peter gasped, and heat flooded his insides, and he knew he was flying, and there were hot, scalding tears freezing onto his face as everything came to a tumult, and he whispered his name, and again, and again and again and then screamed, and he broke, utterly broke, and he dug his nails into him to make sure he couldn’t ever, ever go.
There was one person, one place, one moment, when he loved his name, and it was when Peter said it.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter Petrelli x Sylar
Length: 871 words
Rating: 15 for swearing and a mild lemon at the end.
Status: Complete
Warning: None, really, just some power spoilers.
One
There was only one person.
Sure, his hair bugged him to hell. Sure, he was supposed to be killing the stupid little kid. Hell, he was supposed to be killing everyone. But, dammit…
He snorted. If his mother could hear him now, she’d disown him all over again. But his mom wasn’t here, and she wouldn’t ever be.
And Peter knew that far too well. It really pissed him off, actually, because… well, he’d love to say it was because Peter never stopped bugging him about it. But the only time he’d mentioned it… it was late, and he was tired, and it was dark, and he wanted to curl up and sleep - sleep - but Peter, (his Peter, always so fucking gentle) wrapped an arm around him and murmured he was sorry. They had both known what he was talking about.
The first time he’d died (or was it nearly died? He couldn’t remember) he wasn’t sure, even then, whether he’d be saved. He’s still not sure whether he really was. The strange ability (healing? Resuscitation?) Peter had hunted down for him - solely for him - and the life he’d given him was utter euphoria in his veins.
It had left its mark on Peter, too. Most of all, most of all he hated that fucking scar.
Now… now it was okay. If Peter got hurt, he could regenerate. If he did, then Peter would heal him. It didn’t stop him being scared out of his fucking mind every time Peter walked away. There were other ways to get hurt. He should know.
There was only one place.
The concept of Isaac’s loft scared the hell out of him. But he’d left it up to Peter - this was his choice, which meant sticking with him. No matter where the kid insisted on staying.
Truth be told, it was a guilty conscience that kept him from Isaac’s Mendez’s loft. And he didn’t really know why, but his insides would crawl when he was in there. Maybe it was just that bed creaked like hell, and he still couldn’t forget the first time he’d seen Peter in it.
Not with him.
At least they weren’t alive anymore. Not that Peter ever spoke about them. There were some things with Peter Petrelli you didn’t push.
He often thought Peter was too like him for his own good.
There was one moment.
He himself hated the snow. It reminded him of certain moments - certain… people - he’d rather forget. But for Peter he found he was willing to go to ridiculous lengths. Peter hated his birthday in a similar way (and for similar reasons) that he hated snow. Peter had decided they were not going to make a fuss, and nothing he could say would change that. He knew Peter well enough to know that to be utterly true.
So he did what he was told - for the large part of it. The only indications Peter could have had that the white fluff was his creation was that firstly it was the middle of July, and secondly that his forehead was ever so slightly furrowed in concentration during the whole evening. Hey, it was difficult to freeze a whole goddamn city without actually harming anyone.
Oh… and his mind-reading capabilities helped a little, too.
Peter didn’t get as mad as he’d thought he would. He’d just stood on that rooftop and smiled, and glowed in a way that was nothing to do with radioactivity. He gleamed in the sun, and the sight reminded him of why he’d abandoned it.
This man, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his arms spread as the little flecks danced oh so slowly around him. This man was the true angel.
There was one person, one place, one moment, and this was it.
Peter shuddered, his whole body rippling. He found himself gasping, moaning, close to crying. The rawness in his spine made his feelings raw as well, and the one that consumed him utterly wasn’t anger, or hate, it was pure sunshine, pure gold -
Love. He never thought he’d be worthy of love again.
He still wasn’t sure whether he was.
But Peter didn’t think it. His Peter, holding him as they made love for the fifth - fiftieth - what did it matter? - time, and it was every bit as beautiful, as special, as goddamn painful as the first, and no matter what, what the other said he’d grip onto his back, and hold him so goddamn hard because he was so damn afraid it would be the last.
It was coming, and he found himself longing for it, wishing for it, craving it, and he almost begged for it - and it came - “Gabriel - ” Peter gasped, and heat flooded his insides, and he knew he was flying, and there were hot, scalding tears freezing onto his face as everything came to a tumult, and he whispered his name, and again, and again and again and then screamed, and he broke, utterly broke, and he dug his nails into him to make sure he couldn’t ever, ever go.
There was one person, one place, one moment, when he loved his name, and it was when Peter said it.