Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: SLASH. Peter/Sylar slight PWP. That means male/male sex. If you don't like it, don't read it. Consider yourself warned, twice.
A/N: Written as part of the Heroes Exchange on LJ.
"So this is it, huh?" Peter shouted. "You corner me in an alley for empathy that doesn't even work like it should?" He knew forgetting his wallet was just the beginning of a very bad day. He'd walked to work revelling in the warm morning sunshine, but the slate-gray sky at the end of his shift eight hours later had encouraged him to get home as quickly as possible – the heavens had opened and he'd ducked into this alley. It wasn't how he anticipated his day ending – a bloodbath, his scalp removed and his brain matter examined and exposed for all to see (but only one to use).
Sylar stood not fifty feet away in the shadow of the two high-rise apartment complexes that made this little shortcut. The rain was starting to fall and while Peter's waterproof Paramedic zip-up keeping him dry, Sylar's blend jacket beginning to let the damp creep through. "Hardly," Sylar scoffed, advancing, the rain starting to plaster his hair to his forehead. He reached up to slick it back out of his eyes. "You're defective, Peter, and my way is so much more efficient."
"None of those pesky emotions, huh," Peter said under his breath and knowing he could only fly away, which would no doubt prompt swift telekinetic action to pull him back to earth, he considered his options. "So why are you here?"
The killer rolled his eyes. "Maybe it's not all about you, Petrelli."
"I was your brother once. You saved my life," Peter tried, wanting to believe that maybe that man was still in there somewhere. And Sylar stalked forwards then, livid, only a pace or so from Peter so the Petrelli could almost feel the heat of Sylar's anger and hear the ticking of Sylar's watch; the traffic was a mere distant hum.
"I was no brother of yours," Sylar raged. "I was a tool in your parents' petty domestic. I wonder, is that why you want to save the world so badly – you couldn't even save your parents' marriage? How pathetic you are, Peter."
Peter smirked. "Didn't stop you breaking my fall, though, did it, Gabriel."
"Don't," Sylar growled, barely audible, stepping forward, "call me that." A ball of crackling blue electricity bounced in his left palm.
"Well, bless," Peter took a step forwards, not losing eye contact, not even looking at Elle's stolen energy. He and Sylar were barely an arms length from each other now, "Can't you stand the name your mother gave you? Is that why you killed her?"
It was Sylar who threw the punch. It was all the contact Peter needed as the blow caused him to stumble back, and he felt Sylar's unused empathy rush into his system. With it, Peter could feel all of Sylar's acquired powers finding places in his head and heart, and he welcomed some of them like old friends. He grinned as his aches and pains melted away, wondering if Sylar had felt the theft or even noticed it at all, and wiping the blood from his lip he looked at the man he'd come to know first as a faceless adversary, then a superior foe, then a brother and finally an enemy. When faced with Sylar's expressionless eyes and fixed mouth, Peter knew they'd practically come full circle. Why he'd let Sylar throw the first punch, Peter wasn't quite sure, but he quickly addressed the balance with a shot of his own across Sylar's jaw.
It was expected, and a hand came up to stop him. It wasn't telekinetic, and Peter felt Sylar's warm, strong grip on his wrist. "I did save your life; that's some display of gratitude."
Peter barked out a laugh. "Oh, you've no idea how grateful I am I found you in this alley." He used his knee to catch Sylar in the stomach.
Winded, Sylar wheezed for only a few seconds until Claire's gift restored his balance and air capacity. "I found you, remember?"
There was a ringing jingle that made Peter's head spin for a moment, coming with the realisation that Sylar was lying. Sylar hadn't found Peter at all. "You couldn't know I'd turn down here, you couldn't even know I live around here – I pay for my apartment in cash under a different name."
"Well aren't you paranoid," Sylar scoffed, but still apparently unaware of Peter's theft.
"They say it's not paranoia if they are all out to get you," Peter replied. Sylar had yet to use any power on him actively and Peter was beginning to wonder if he would. It wasn't like Sylar favoured physical fights. "People with abilities are going missing, after all."
"And it's your brother's doing. I wonder what you're doing to stay off his radar. You are one seriously fucked up family after all, far too free with the affection. And poor Claire – surely Papa Petrelli isn't couriering favours from her too?"
Peter immediately swung at Sylar, the man speaking his niece's name in such a reverent tone striking every nerve he had. Sylar went straight down with a splash into a puddle, but he dragged Peter down with him. Even so, years of wrestling with Nathan had given him some moves and Peter was lighter and lither than Sylar – he managed to straddle Sylar's chest and deliver another blow. With what had to be a telekinetic assist, Sylar pushed Peter off and their positions were swiftly changed. The water was soaking their jeans, and the punches flying had a wet slap to each contact of skin on skin. Peter couldn't shift from under Sylar, only managing to buck and defend against the raining blows. He wasn't even sure why they were fighting any more, all they'd done was insult each other's families. When did it descend into bludgeoning? Except Sylar's weight was warm against the seeping cold of the rain, and as the killer rained down blows he rocked and suddenly Peter wasn't trying to defend against the blows – his wrists were pinned up above his head but Sylar's hands were at Peter's waist.
For a moment, everything seemed to just stop. The rain continued to smack the ground and they continued to gasp heavily but Peter and Sylar just stared at each other. Peter knew his face must be a bit of a mess of blood, but Sylar clearly hadn't noticed the healing. Peter couldn't move his hands because of telekinetic holds, but something else had Sylar's hands frozen on Peter's flanks. Then Sylar shifted forward Ijust so/i and Peter couldn't do anything to contain the moan that ripped out of him.
Then there was a flurry of activity. Peter's wrists slipped out of their invisible grips and Sylar's hands began to roughly open and pull down Peter's jeans. The intention was oh-so-clear and Peter reached for Sylar's own jeans, getting them down just far enough to free Sylar's erection and begin to stroke. His reward was a broken moan, swiftly swallowed but unmistakable and Peter grinned. "Come on," Peter murmured just above the sound of the rain, "come on, fuck me."
Peter's jeans were suddenly around his ankles and he was sure he'd heard a rip of some kind but there was a fire-warmed hand teasing his entrance. He was a good nurse, and he managed to relax into the intrusion as Sylar began to fuck Peter roughly and brutally with two fingers. The killers eyes blew wide when he felt the undeniable tightening of Peter's tears healing up and suddenly the finger were gone and his hips were being lifted to just the right angle and-
"You little thief," Sylar groaned, more shoving than sliding home, and Peter whimpered, less from pain and more from the sheer warmth and rightness of the stretch. His body healed around Sylar's cock, tightening the sensation all the more.
Peter tried to pull back but he was pinned under Sylar's weight and hips and-
"Oh god," Peter groaned as Sylar began to move. "That's right, just like that, oh god…"
"Should have known," Sylar grunted as he thrust, "that you'd never shut up." He was gripping Peter's hips tightly, and Peter could feel the fingertip-bruises that would never form. Sylar's thrusts were losing their metronomic precision, becoming lusty and erratic. Peter reached his hand down, stroking his own erection as he got closer and closer and closer and then it was all shuddering, white hot pleasure with the rain hitting his face and Sylar was shouting above him, and it was suddenly over and he'd just been fucked in a semi-public alley by a serial killer in the late afternoon downpour.
Sylar was gasping, his forehead on Peter's shoulder and his hands clenching on Peter's hips. Peter would later swear he could feel thumbs circling his hip-bones, and a kiss on his shoulder before Sylar pulled out and up, and it was like they were suddenly dressed, paces apart. The last fifteen minutes could almost have been one hot, fast and dirty hallucination, except Sylar's jacket was come-splattered and his eyes were wary.
"You took my empathy to fix your own," Sylar said, his voice even.
Peter shrugged. "You weren't using it."
"You've made yourself more of a threat to them, you realise?"
"You almost sound as if you care," Peter teased, and noticed Sylar's fists clenching at his sides.
"Hardly," the serial killer replied, "I have more important concerns than your need to satisfy your hero complex."
"Hmm," was all Sylar said, but there was a slight nod there. "You do know every agent your brother sends after me will get killed?"
Peter knew, but part of him couldn't find it in him to care all that much. His brother was about to change their whole world, denying a fundamental part of himself and hunting down his own friends and maybe even his own family. But even he couldn't bring himself to defame his brother, not yet. "I know. He's just doing what he thinks is right."
"Even I could do a far better job than him," Sylar stated. "I'll see you around, Peter." He just had the swift movement of Sylar's arm as warning, and then he was hitting the wall. When he came to, only minutes later, the alley was empty and Sylar was nowhere to be seen. Peter walked home, soaked to the bone but strangely warm.