Title: Seeing Stars
Characters/Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Rating: R, maybe NC-17
Words: ~1,900
Warnings: Dub-con (becomes less dubby as things go on – perhaps better to say that it's complicated, like a lot of sexual decisions are)
Setting: The Wall, about three years in.
Summary: Peter and Sylar lie on a rooftop looking at the stars. One thing leads to another.

They were lying on their backs on a thick blanket on top of a skyscraper, looking up into the night sky. After almost three years together and yet alone, here behind the Wall. Peter and Sylar had become, if not friendly, then at least very comfortable with one another. They still fought from time to time, but the arguments had become few and far between. Peter's intense wrath had wound down after the first year. During the second, Sylar finally got it into his thick skull to stop provoking him – really internalized it, not just understood it intellectually. Now they were star-gazing. It was a few months shy of the anniversary of their third year (not that Peter wanted to know, and he was getting pretty damned annoyed at Sylar's too-frequent reminders of how long it had been – sometimes it seemed like they bickered like a married couple).

Sylar had been teaching him about astronomy. It was something to talk about. With all the lights off in the city at night, the sky was often brilliant and spectacular. Astronomy had been one of Sylar's hobbies. Even though Peter knew he should be down there hammering at the Wall, he could still be persuaded away from time to time to take breaks. Sylar had become skilled at such persuasion. It had started with dinner, which was a good enough reason to leave the sledgehammer alone for a little while. Peter didn't need to eat, but he got hungry anyway. His body had wants, even if they weren't actually needs. After a delicious meal (Sylar was a wonderful cook and when he really wanted to persuade Peter, he fixed the man's favorites), stomach full and feeling warm, Peter had felt grateful enough to be cooperative about going up to the roof for a little while – 'until dinner settles', he'd said.

It had been a hot day and he'd swung that damn hammer for most of it. He was full now. The warmth of the asphalt diffused slowly through the quilt they'd brought up. He'd paid attention to Sylar's soft words describing the heavens early on, but finally his attention wandered – stars were Sylar's interest, not Peter's. He drowsed for a while. At first he thought he was dreaming …

A hand rested on his jeans, over the top of his thigh. After a moment, it drifted upwards. He shifted, thinking he must have put his own hand on his leg and it was … no, that wasn't him. He blinked his eyes open and turned to look at Sylar, whose hand had come up to where his leg joined with his abdomen and now dragged slowly up to his waistband. Sylar's eyes were on him intently, his expression positively drenched in lust. Peter had seen the way the man looked at him sometimes. He wasn't ignorant. He'd … well, he'd like to think he hadn't encouraged it, but more than a few times he'd posed, postured, and showed himself off. He'd thought of it as spiteful – 'you can't have this' and 'look but don't touch.'

Peter started breathing harder, blinking rapidly. Sylar's hand drifted over to the button of his jeans. Swallowing, Peter jerked his hand over and grabbed Sylar's before the man could unfasten them. He pushed down a little and let go, intending the gesture to communicate something other than it did, because instead of pulling his hand away, Sylar began touching exactly where Peter had left the man's hand, directly over his groin. He'd already been hardening, but a direct touch – or near-direct, as he was still clothed – ran all through him.

How long had it been? More than three years, that was for sure. He'd broken down eventually and masturbated here in the dream-world they inhabited, hoping like hell Sylar wasn't aware, even on some subconscious level. And yes, he'd posed for Sylar because he'd been flirting, because he'd thought about him in turn, because Peter was teasing and appreciative of the looks and he wanted the attention. It was just that anytime Sylar hinted he wanted more, Peter acted like he didn't understand and changed the subject.

It was hard to misunderstand this and instead of reasserting that he didn't want it, by pushing Sylar's hand away once more, Peter let his own fall to the side and he looked up at the stars again. Sylar's fingers traced the bulge of Peter's erection, caressing him and making a heat rise throughout his body. It felt wonderful. It felt fantastic. His whole being seemed centered on that one part of his body being touched and stroked. It had been almost as long since Peter had experienced any touch at all that wasn't strictly utilitarian. He was so starved for it that he shuddered now, moaning slightly. He bit his lip to stifle himself.

Was this just like masturbation? They were in Sylar's head. Did it matter if he thought dream-Sylar's hand was on him? He didn't want anything to matter. He just wanted to keep feeling this way. He struggled to muffle another moan as the other man shifted his grip and began rubbing up and down with more pressure.

Sylar scooted closer and it wasn't just his hand touching Peter, but now his whole body, shoulder to foot. He lifted his long, thin, jean-clad leg and slipped it between Peter's, rubbing his own groin against Peter's hip, squeezing Peter's thigh between his knees. His erection was a hot, rock-hard lump shoving against Peter's body in time with the motions of his hand.

Peter was being molested. He'd never said yes. He'd never invited this (but the looks, the gestures, the other day when he'd taken his shirt off claiming it was too hot to wear while he worked and the way Sylar had ogled him had made Peter nearly bite through his lip to suppress his grin as he picked up the hammer). This would change everything, wouldn't it? If he let Sylar continue? He'd already done a lot and Peter hadn't stopped him, would it change anything if he just waited a little longer? Wouldn't it confuse the man if he stopped him now? He didn't want to hurt his feelings. They were trapped here, after all …

He could feel that his own precome had wet his underwear. The head of his cock rubbed back and forth across the dampness as Sylar pumped him. Peter reached over and took hold of Sylar's forearm, stopping him, breathing almost too hard to speak. The world was spinning. He clung to the man's arm. Sylar had stopped thrusting against him at his touch and was watching him now.

"No?" Peter asked, said? He wanted it to be firmer. He wanted it to be decisive. It wasn't.

Sylar's face hardened. He knew what Peter was getting at, Peter could see that. He could see the decision made in the other man's eyes. Sylar leaned in and kissed him and Peter didn't jerk his head away, didn't do much of anything. Sylar crawled over him, his eyes begging Peter not to push him away again, because it had been at least as long for him. He had needs, even if, like the eating, they were really just wants, but at the moment they were consuming him. Sylar started rutting their groins together directly, letting his body settle over him, holding himself up only enough not to squash him, but trying to get as much contact as possible.

Peter was watching the other man's face, seeing his desire. The pressure of another body on his was something he had only been able to fantasize about until now. He'd said no. Shouldn't he stop? Shouldn't Peter stop him? If he meant no, then shouldn't he do something since Sylar was still going? Instead of stopping he'd climbed on top of him! (And that was incredible, like main-lining heroin, like feeling swept away with the first flush of love, like having sex for the first time in three years with a man who should be forbidden to you but who wanted you desperately …)

There was no way this was 'masturbation' – this was sex. Peter was rapidly building to a climax, his body very, very happy about being stimulated this way. A tingling began to sweep across his skin, starting from his gut and spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes, and to the roots of his hair, then rebounding back, flooding even stronger to his crotch until he exploded, coming in a series of shuddering jerks, his hands reaching up to grasp Sylar's hips as he made an involuntary whimper.

The other man was still fucking against him, but somehow Peter's orgasm had snapped some sense into Sylar. The repercussions of what he was doing – Peter's lack of consent and even explicit, though tremulous protest – he was trapped in here with this man. What was going to happen when he got off of him? Peter could see the fear creeping over Sylar's face as the other man's motions slowed rapidly.

If Peter did nothing, Sylar would leave, his attentions unreturned, knowing he'd forced himself on Peter. How much more fucked up could life get in here? If Peter let that be between them, then he was sure he'd find out. Or he could accept this and if he didn't want it again, he could say so – and a lot more firmly next time. Because he had wanted it, physically at least. He wasn't sure about the rest. The situation was so screwed up already, Peter was so desperate (and so was Sylar), so alone … and even if Sylar was a killer who promised to do better and Peter didn't really believe him … but he was still human and he was still a warm body, a handsome face, a gentle touch, a funny smile the few times he'd seen it …

Peter reached up just as Sylar began to pull away and tugged him firmly back, bringing Sylar's face to his own and kissing him intently. Sylar stared at him in uncertainty and confusion, then he shut his eyes and started moving his hips again. He wasn't going to question it. If Peter was going to give him this, he goddamn well wasn't going to question it. And Peter wasn't going to give halfway. He wrapped his legs around Sylar's waist and pulled him hard against himself, giving the man pressure and friction. He ran one hand into Sylar's hair, eliciting a desperate groan, a wanton plea for more and Sylar moved faster against him in response to that touch.

Peter plunged his tongue into the other man's mouth and he could see Sylar was coming undone. He was shaking and somewhere in there, as the trembling became more pronounced, he came, but Peter wasn't sure when it was, exactly. Sylar pulled his mouth free and with every panting breath he whined, breathing hard against Peter's cheek. His face was wet. Now that they'd parted, Peter tasted the salt on his lips. He moved his arms to curl around Sylar as the taller man's shudders turned briefly to wracking sobs, then subsided. Peter let his hands smooth up and down the other man's back and began to mutter soothing nonsense, just words to fill the silence.

Things had changed.