Title: Childish Things
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Words: 600
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: MBU doodle. Sylar needs comforting

"I want to go to bed now," Sylar said. I sound like a sulky child. There was nothing for it though. He hurt too much inside to do anything other than keep his eyes down and wait tensely for Peter to acknowledge the end of the uncomfortable conversation.

"Okay," the other man said.

With a curt nod, Sylar went about his rote preparations for bed, where he waited impatiently for Peter to join him. It was early. He was grateful when Peter didn't insist on staying up and doing his own thing. Sylar's eyes tracked Peter's usual bedtime rituals until the man laid down on his back on the other side of the bed. Sylar scooted over to him immediately.

He put his forehead to the point of Peter's shoulder, his face against Peter's upper arm. He breathed out heavily in relief, like a child reunited with a beloved security blanket. Eyes shut now, he cupped his hand over the hollow of Peter's elbow, holding him. He felt Peter twitch – usually Sylar waited until Peter was sleepier before expanding his contact beyond the minimum. Please don't pull away. Please, he whined inside, but said nothing. Peter was a human being, not a blanket or a teddy bear and could do as he liked – not always choosing actions Sylar enjoyed. Sylar held perfectly still. Peter didn't move further.

Sylar's shoulders sagged finally and he started breathing again. He pulled his knees in so they rested against Peter's thigh. His eyes were wet. He didn't want to think about all the things they'd talked about, or rather that he'd been accused of (reminded of). He didn't want the guilt about how he should have made different choices. He didn't want any of it! None of the memories, muddled in his mind at the moment so he was confused about how and where he'd grown up, what his name was, or which crimes he was accountable for. Multiple lifetimes of wearing a mask and pathetically trying to win the approval of others flashed behind his eyes. He didn't like any of it – his whole life, none of it. He wished it would just go away, stop, cease to be. He didn't want it!

I'm still being childish.

He didn't care how it looked. He only wanted this thing that he had now, which was more than he'd ever had before in any of his incarnations – a warm arm to hold and plaster his face to and hiccup against as breathing through his nose became difficult. Then Peter turned. For a moment, tears renewed as Sylar expected to be abandoned. Peter rolled and hugged him, wrapping him in his arms and pulling him close. Sylar made a tiny sound of surprised pleasure, huddling in. He felt too big and awkward and foolish, but if Peter thought any of that, he gave no indication of it. It was the acceptance he needed. He was here, having feelings, and Peter was entirely validating without saying a word. No questions were being asked, no answers demanded. He said no conditions, Sylar mused, sniffing against Peter's chest now. He hadn't really believed Peter's promise to comfort him. The tears had stopped with the hug, the consolation of not losing his hero having left him oddly clear-headed. He supposed he no longer had a legitimate need of Peter's embrace, but it was too precious a thing to give up. Instead, he burrowed deeper, snaked his arms around Peter in turn, and stayed that way until he fell asleep.