Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5407.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Luke_Campbell/Sylar
  Character:
      Sylar, Luke_Campbell
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Penetrative_Sex, Hero_Worship, Master/Apprentice, First_Time, Episode
      Tag
  Series:
      Part 2 of They_Call_Them_Cold_Blooded_Killers
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-02-15 Words: 4893
****** Close Your Eyes With Holy Dread ******
by perdiccas
Summary
     The next morning, Sylar accepts the worship that is his due. "Every
     prophet needs a disciple; even Satan has his Horsemen."
Notes
     Title from Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan'.
Sylar's not asleep when Luke pads into the room. But, nor does Sylar consider
himself awake and up for entertaining visitors, so he stays how he is, flat on
his stomach with his nose buried in the pillows. The hems of Luke's too-long
jeans, never quite grown into, drag on the carpet---swish-swish---with every
step.
"Sylar?" Luke asks hesitantly. "Sylar?"
He lays a nervous hand on Sylar's shoulder, shaking barely hard enough to gain
Sylar's notice when awake, let alone if he were really asleep. Sylar grunts and
cracks an eye, staring up at him exasperated.
"We're on the news," Luke whispers.
"We were on the news yesterday," he snaps.
He watches Luke flinch a little at his tone and he shuts his eyes once more,
trusting that Luke will understand he has been dismissed. But there's a dip in
the bed as Luke perches beside him, and the blankets pull around his shoulders,
Luke's weight on the covers disturbing the snug nest he has built around
himself.
"No, Sylar. We're on the news."
Before he can question the distinction, the TV at the foot of the bed roars
into life and curiosity gets the better of him. An overly excited anchorwoman
recounts the events of the day before and lurid, sensationalist photos---from
an anonymous source---of corpses and crushed cars are splashed across the
screen. It's nothing that Sylar hasn't seen before and then some, but still he
feels a thrill of infamy in his chest as eyewitness statements scroll like
subtitles to the gruesome carnage on show: Never been more scared in my life…
Horrific, just… horrific… I'll never forget how much blood there was and on.
Then…
"Well, that's unflattering!" he growls.
Luke's laughing, and the police artist sketch is clearly what he wanted Sylar
to see. It's a line drawing that's not quite right: his face is too angular and
his nose too big. He's halfway surprised his eyes haven't been coloured red to
alert people to the devil they thought they had seen within him. There's a
second picture, in profile this time, and Sylar thinks it's worse. There's a
deep cleft in his chin where there isn't in life and they've made his hair look
awful. His lips are depicted far too thin and, if it's meant to be a 'snapshot'
of him at the scene, then they've failed to give him the smile he'd been
wearing.
"I dunno," Luke says, grinning impishly and jostling Sylar's half-sitting form
with a far too familiar bump of his shoulder. "The eyebrows are spot on."
Sylar glances at the screen, at the dark, thick brows that overpower the sketch
and the cruel furrow between them, before looking back at Luke and scowling. He
doesn't cower like he should. Instead, he giggles, high-pitched and flippant
and working on Sylar's every last nerve.
"See?" he insists, ghosting a finger towards Sylar's frown before Sylar
telekinetically slaps it away.
The laughter dies in Luke's throat and for a split second, Sylar thinks he's
managed to instil the proper amount of respect in the kid, but Luke's not
looking at him, in fear or otherwise. His gaze is trained on the TV and he
looks positively nauseated.
"What---?" Sylar starts, but then it is his turn to laugh maniacally.
Blown up, in all its grainy, soft focused glory is Luke's yearbook picture,
dead centred on the screen as the anchorwoman waxes rhapsodic about him as a
misunderstood teen who lashes out for attention. Some pimpled nerd, name
withheld, who allegedly shared Luke's homeroom, gives a thirty second sound
bite, using phrases so generic that Sylar doubts he's exchanged more than two
words with Luke in the three years their desks have been side by side. Luke
sneers and tries to shut the TV off, but Sylar floats the remote from his grip.
Neither of them laugh when Luke's mom appears on screen. She looks drawn and
haggard, giving a press conference from a podium, flanked by FBI agents.
There're tears in her eyes and her voice cracks, and Sylar can almost believe
that she's been weeping for her missing son, not for who she has seen him
become. Luke is still, and quiet, and when he swallows dryly, it seems
obscenely loud, despite the blare from the TV that should nullify the sound.
"He killed him," she's saying, in a tremulous voice, exhausted. "He murdered
that brave soldier and then that monster lured my son away!"
Luke turns to him and Sylar shrugs. He'll take the credit if it's going. She
breaks down sobbing and the agents flock around her to help her from the stage.
"No more questions!" a bullish woman snaps and Sylar smirks because he's seen
that one before: Agent Hanson. The game, Sylar thinks, is afoot.
Luke's voice breaks in on his thoughts. "She's blaming you. She saw me do it
and she's blaming you," he whispers.
"Do you think…" he asks, voice catching. "Do you think she's trying to protect
me?"
Luke, Luke, Luke, Sylar thinks, so naïve for all his teenaged world-weariness.
There's a wistful look on his face, and Sylar thinks that he shouldn't have
been so easily taken in by that indecent display. It was calculated,
prearranged, something intended to tug at whatever lingering affection Luke
might have for his mother no matter how he professed to despise her just to
have him drop the dime on Sylar. Nice try, Hanson, he thinks, but he'll be
damned if he lets the only lead he has on Daddy-dearest turn State's evidence.
"Don't get your hopes up," Sylar scoffs. "No one wants to be known as the woman
who birthed a monster." He tosses the remote back to Luke and watches as it
hits his chest, falling down to his lap when Luke doesn't make a move to catch
it. His head is bowed, and on his knees, his knuckles are turning white where
he digs his nails to his jeans in impotent rage.
Luke gives a sudden, frustrated yell and nukes the TV. The metal within it
sparks dangerously and the mostly plastic casing melts and bubbles in a cloud
of acrid fumes. Sylar cuffs Luke behind the ear, and he wonders if Luke's ribs
still hurt from the night before. He hopes they do and leans in closer, ready
to jab him there again should Luke make the unwise move of trying to start a
fight.
"Ow!" Luke hisses.
He's pissed off at Sylar, at the fact that he is right, and he rounds on him,
hand to the back of his head where he's been hit. His teeth are bared and his
biceps tensing; it's meant to be intimidating, Sylar supposes, but all he feels
is annoyance. Luke's mother has no doubt told the Feds where they're heading
and they need to get there before Hanson fucks this up for him like she did
with that Walker kid.
So instead of slamming Luke against the wall and kicking the crap out of him
until he learns some goddamn manners, like Sylar thinks he is well within his
rights to do, he merely raises an eyebrow and juts out his chin, two fingers
extended warningly and waved in Luke's general direction. Luke grunts but
stands down, pacing the room as he tries to walk off his anger. Sylar finally
shoves the covers aside and follows, giving him a squeeze to the back of his
neck with a hand that both threatens and comforts.
"Don't let her get to you," he says because he knows what it is to want to be
loved so badly that you'll cling to any semblance of human emotion and label it
affection. "Don't let her win."
Luke shrugs off the touch and grunts at him again, expression guarded as he
hugs his arms around his bare chest. Sylar holds up his hands in defeat and
turns on his heel. He didn't bring Luke along to coddle him through a temper
tantrum.
                                     *****
In the en-suite bathroom, Sylar takes his time to piss and scratch and stretch.
He hadn't wanted to get up, not yet, but now that he's fully awake, he may as
well make himself presentable if today's the day he'll meet the man who's the
reason he is who he is. He scratches at his stubble and decides against
shaving. It's amazing how people are fooled by the most superficial disguises.
Hundreds of thousands of people must have seen that appalling sketch by now and
all it would take to glide, unsuspected, past the vast majority is a low pulled
ball cap and some scruff.
Sylar cleans his teeth with a commandeered toothbrush, humming to himself and
rooting through the medicine cabinet out of idle curiosity. He finds two mostly
full prescriptions of Lunesta. Two insomniacs, he thinks; explains why they
were up so late to greet them. He's clad in only boxers, having discarded the
rest of his clothes before they could leave bloodstains on the sheets, and has
nowhere to pocket the pills. Sylar makes a mental note to palm them as they
leave because if Luke's going to always be this temperamental, he might be
grateful, sometime soon, for a foolproof way to knock the kid out.
From a dusty corner, Sylar unearths a tube of burn cream. He taps it on the
edge of the sink, beating out a rhythm as he thinks of the angry red blisters
that have formed on Luke's forearm. Sylar thinks the pain is not nearly as
great as what Luke deserves and he has the vindictive urge to bury the
antiseptic somewhere where Luke won't find it later. But the more rational part
of his mind knows that Luke will only be more irritating if he's constantly
bitching about his arm---something that Sylar admits, to Luke's credit, that he
hasn't yet done---and while the sedatives might save Sylar's sanity, a dead
weight in the passenger seat seems a no more appealing companion.
And that, Sylar convinces himself, is why he takes the tube, twirling it the
air and catching it with telekinetic precision, when he heads back to the
bedroom.
                                     *****
Luke's sitting at the foot of the bed, head bowed and eyes downcast. Sylar
feels himself relax at the sight, tension he hasn't known he was holding
leaching out from his spine with the confirmation that Luke hasn't thrown in
the towel and gone crying back to Mommy. It's only then that Sylar realises the
possibility that Luke might abandon him has been whispering at the edges of his
mind, and he shakes away the unsettling truth that the thought's been bothering
him.
He tells himself that he needs Luke for what he knows. Even if where he thinks
Sylar's father is isn't where he actually is, as Sylar suspects the case may
be, it's still the best lead he has. And while Luke's been giving Sylar vague
directions, he's kept mum on the exact destination in some paltry attempt at an
insurance plan. Instead of wringing the information from him at the first gas
station they stopped at, Sylar has let him have his false sense of security
because, he'd reasoned, it'll amuse him to see the cocksure brat get a rude
awakening if his information is wrong.
But as he flings the burn cream at Luke, chuckling softly as he starts and then
mumbles his bewildered thanks, Sylar admits that in less than a day, he's
gotten used to having the little bastard around. He likes the way that Luke
trots at his heels, letting himself be kicked and then crawling back, begging
Sylar to lick his wounds. He likes the wide-eyed wonderment that he can
engender, using his abilities for mundane things like passing the sugar for
coffee that Luke clearly hates, but seems to think it manly to drink.
Sylar likes that no amount of youthful cynicism or foot shuffling, feigned
indifference can cover up the raw admiration Luke has for him. He likes that
when leans in close, Luke shudders and holds his breath, swaying nearer still
until Sylar can smell the naked want rolling off him. He likes after just one
day, Sylar's approval means more to Luke than his mother's ever will. Every
prophet needs a disciple; even Satan has his Horsemen.
Luke's staring at him warily, the greasy ointment smeared across his arm. Sylar
walks towards him and ruffles his hair, running his fingers through it, noting
it feels little grimy and a little too long. He smiles to think of the
arguments that Luke and his mom probably had about haircuts.
"How's your arm?" he asks.
"Okay…" Luke says. He's gazing up at Sylar with guarded eyes but Sylar can feel
the way he cranes his neck, oh so slightly, to press back into Sylar's hand as
he pets him and there's a flicker in his expression that tells Sylar that as
much as Luke doesn't want to need Sylar's acceptance, he does. Desperately.
Over and over, he smoothes Luke's hair back from his forehead, soothing him
with firm, tender strokes of his hand. And just when Luke's eyes flutter shut,
when his head begins to loll backwards, turning his throat up to Sylar, pale
and exposed, Sylar scratches lightly at his scalp and gently pulls his hair.
"We'll have to change this," Sylar murmurs, nodding at the hair still carding
between his fingers.
"They're looking for us," he continues, ignoring the small whimpers Luke makes
as he tugs his hair again, harder this time. "Dye it or cut it or something. We
need to be incognito for a while thanks to your mother's theatrics."
Sylar smiles when Luke declines to take the bait and jump to his mother's
defence.
"Who cares if they catch us? You can beat them," Luke whispers.
Sylar's hand slides from his hair, strokes his cheek and cradles his chin. He
leans down until he feels Luke shiver and he knows that Luke can feel his
breath, hot, on his skin.
"Of course I can beat them," he breathes into Luke's ear. "But it's a waste of
my time and a pain in my ass. We need to pick our battles. Don't do anything
stupid that I have to come rescue you from."
Sylar waits for Luke to hum his assent before adding, "Because I'm not really
the rescuing type."
Luke turns to him and grins. Their noses are nearly touching and Luke's breath
smells sickly sweet, like he's snuck into the kitchen while Sylar slept and
helped himself to the Fruit Loops they'd found the night before. His tongue
darts out and nervously wets his lips. He swallows audibly when Sylar's gaze
drops from his eyes to his full mouth, his breath getting heavier as Sylar
chuckles, studying the path the tip of his tongue makes over his chapped lips.
Then he clears his throat and ducks his head, and Sylar laughs again, tilting
Luke's chin with a single finger as he straightens up in front of him. He
forces Luke to meet his eye, even as his cheeks flush a deep, burning red. And
then, he takes his hands from Luke's skin altogether and watches as he trembles
at the loss.
Sylar stands before him, completely at ease as Luke's gaze rakes up and down
his near nude body. He listens to the hitch in his breath, and he catalogues
every time Luke's eye line stutters, darting here and there to focus on chest
hair and biceps, on hips and thighs and firm, lean stomach. A smile pulls at
the corners of his mouth as Luke glances at his crotch and then away, then,
slowly, bashfully back again.
Sylar takes in how Luke shifts subtly where he sits and the tiny, desperate
roll of his hips that Sylar knows so well, that small, imperceptible movement
that will brush a hardening cock against his fly. And, when Luke lets out a
breathy, shuddering sigh, Sylar hums, too, at the desire that begins to tug at
the base of his own balls.
Now, Luke's eyes are narrowed and he's staring at Sylar's middle, really
looking, not simply admiring. He reaches out and strokes Sylar's scar. Pale,
soft fingers glide over the whitened, too-smooth line and Sylar hisses
involuntarily that Luke should hone in on his past weaknesses. Luke looks up,
bolder now, but doesn't take his hand away. Up and down, he caresses Sylar's
skin with misplaced confidence, splaying his palm flat over the mark and
brushing his thumb through the dark line of hair below Sylar's navel, so near
beside his scar.
For a moment, Sylar allows it and then his better judgement kicks in. Sylar
hasn't survived this long by assuming the best intentions in others. He covers
Luke's hand with his own and holds him still with deceptive tenderness.
"Do I need to slice this off?" he asks, pinching Luke at the wrist, tapping two
fingers against the twisting muscle and tendons of his joints. His threat is
clear.
"No," Luke gasps, laughing with his exclamation, half in disbelief and half,
Sylar is pleased to note, in nervous terror. "I'm not gonna..."
His words trail off and he gulps loudly, but he holds Sylar's stare and
eventually, Sylar grunts and takes his hand away. There's a moment's pause and
then Luke starts to trace the line of his scar again, trying to stifle a
relieved sigh as he does. Silently, softly, with rapt attention, Luke touches
him. Sylar thinks that this, this complete and utter adoration for him, is the
closest Luke has known to what it means to love. His mind drifts to how Elle
had betrayed him, and he thinks that maybe this is the closest that he has
known to being loved.
"I'm sorry," Luke mumbles. "About last night. In the kitchen? I'm sorry."
The world goes hazy and it feels like a thousand fingers brush over Sylar's
body, glancing off him and then, scurrying away before his vision refocuses.
"Don't lie to me," he says mildly, eyebrow raised.
Luke smirks up at him, caught, and shrugs. "Ok, I'm not sorry," he admits. "But
I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't sure you'd survive."
He pauses and Sylar nods. That part, at least, seems true.
"I just wanted to see how it works, y'know? Up close."
"I thought Agent Simmons gave us a rather vivid demonstration."
"Not that," Luke insists. "I wanted to see you heal. Watch you die and come
back again."
Sylar nods, because it's the truth and because he knows so very well that
fascination. "No urge for a repeat performance?"
Luke shakes his head and, on Sylar's abdomen, his fingers falter a little
before he clears his throat and shyly asks, "How… What happened?"
"Someone tried to kill me." Sylar's voice is gruff and low. This conversation
could easily get dangerous.
"That seems to happen a lot," Luke quips, nervously chewing his lips when Sylar
only rolls his eyes in reply. "Why didn't it heal?"
"It's from before."
"Before?" Luke presses, very nearly too insistent. There're limits here that
Luke is unwisely trying to breach.
"Before I could heal."
Luke seems to recognise the dangerous waters he's wading in because he drops
his gaze at Sylar's shark-like grin but asks softly anyway, "You couldn't
always heal?"
"No. No, that one's pretty new."
"And the rest?"
"I've been collecting them for a while, Luke. That's all you need to know."
Luke nods quickly and falls quiet. Sylar's glad he's not fighting back on this
one because if he explains, and then Luke asks, Are you going to take my
ability too?, Sylar doesn't know what his answer will be. And, Sylar has never
not known what his answer will be, because it has always been, Of course.
"Did you kill him?" Luke whispers. "The person who---"
"Not yet," Sylar grunts because that's a sore spot too.
"Did it hurt?"
"Like hell," he admits.
"I'm sorry," Luke says. The truth again. How novel. And then Luke's tilting
forward and his lips are brushing where his fingers have been, mapping Sylar's
scar with his mouth, tracing it wetly with his tongue.
Luke rests his forehead against Sylar's skin, breaking his mouth away to
whisper, "Sorry." His lips move against Sylar's spit-damp stomach and his
breath curls warmly in the narrow space between them.
"Don't lie to me, Luke," Sylar breathes.
He weaves his fingers into Luke's thick hair, urging him closer until Luke's
lips are on him once more. His mouth is soft and full, and eager as it sucks
and laps. Luke's hands find Sylar's hips and, when Sylar inches half a step
back, Luke slides to his knees before him without ceasing his kisses.
Luke's thumbs notch to Sylar's iliac crests and the tips of his fingers dig,
pleadingly, into the firm swell of Sylar's ass. He ghosts his lips over the
hair low on Sylar's belly and he turns his face to the side to rub his smooth,
soft cheeks against the coarse curls that wind their way above the waistband of
Sylar's boxer-briefs.
He presses quick, enthusiastic kisses along the line where skin and cotton meet
before darting up again and nipping cheekily at Sylar's navel.
"Luke," Sylar sighs and, in reply, Sylar feels him groan against his hip.
He buries his face in Sylar's groin, nuzzling against cloth covered flesh
that's both hard and soft at once. Luke leads with his nose, trailing the tip
along Sylar's length, moaning as he inhales deeply, letting himself be drowned
in the richness of Sylar's musk. His lips follow, stretching around the
thickness of Sylar's erection, sucking at him through the fabric of his shorts
and licking at the sweat and pre-come that's dampening Sylar's lap.
Sylar cups he cheek and holds him near as he grinds his face between Sylar's
thighs, refusing to let himself be pulled away just yet, even if for a moment,
to let underwear be discarded and have flesh meet flesh. Beneath his palm,
Luke's skin seems unnaturally soft and smooth, and nothing like the last man
Sylar allowed so close.
Where Mohinder's angles were sharp, Luke's are plump and rounded. Where
Mohinder was rough with stubble and teeth and nails, Luke is nothing but gentle
kisses and soothing tongue. Where Mohinder looked up at him with angry eyes
that demanded more, Luke's plead for whatever Sylar deigns to give him.
Where Sylar knelt before Mohinder, aching for the acceptance that his mother,
that Chandra and the world could never give him, Luke prostrates himself for
Sylar, clawing for the same.
Where Mohinder cast Sylar aside, Sylar gathers Luke in his arms.
He frames Luke's face with his hands, nudging his chin up so that when Sylar
crouches down they can kiss. It's soft and nervous and almost chaste, Luke
pressing forward a little too clumsily as Sylar's tongue traces over the seam
of his mouth. Then, Luke's fingers delve below the elastic at Sylar's waist,
tugging with eager desperation as he grunts into Sylar's kisses, and Sylar
stands, to let Luke strip him as he wants.
"Oh," Luke gasps, at the sight of Sylar's cock. Thick and flushed, glistening
at the tip, it hovers beside Luke's nose, bobbing in gentle time to the twitch
of Sylar's hips. Luke's eyes flutter shut and Sylar thinks that Luke must feel
his heat against his cheek. He hears him swallow and watches as he licks his
lips, again and again, and he thinks that Luke is salivating, dripping and wet
every which where for what he wants, even as inexperience stays his hand.
"Have you ever?" Sylar asks.
Luke shakes his head with naked honesty but, defiantly, reaches forward all the
same and cradles Sylar's balls on his palm.
"Oh, wow," he breathes, cupping and weighing, rolling Sylar's sac between his
fingers and smoothing his thumb over the fine hair there. He lilts forward,
tongue lapping out to taste, feeling out, with his lips, the different textures
of Sylar's body: loose and wrinkled skin, testicles, smooth and hard below. All
the while, Sylar's fingers rake lovingly through his hair. "Wow."
Sylar laughs at the exclamations that spill unfiltered from his lips but he
moans too, and strokes Luke's neck to appease the flush that rises as Luke
thinks himself being mocked. He laughs because nothing has ever felt so right,
so exactly as Sylar has always deserved. And this, Sylar thinks, is how
Mohinder should have been: struck dumb with wonder at Sylar's mere existence,
reaching for him, enraptured, to worship him as best he could. There should
have never been needles or blood or anger, only complete and willing
submission.
Luke is mouthing, now, up his cock. He's pressed Sylar's length flat against
him stomach, one brazen thumb caressing ever tightening spirals below the head
as Luke licks with short, sharp laps up from Sylar's balls. Unrestrained, Sylar
arches forwards from the hips and Luke grunts, lips sliding messily as his
balance wavers and his coordination is disrupted.
Sylar's dick stutters, hot and throbbing, along Luke's soft and too-smooth
cheek. Luke tries to pull back, to fasten his mouth again to the head, but
Sylar stills him with firm fingers at the base of his skull. He takes himself
in hand and he rubs against Luke's skin, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come
from cheekbone to chin and neck.
Sylar guides his cock to Luke's mouth, running the head over pliant, pouting
lips, slicking them with his wetness before dipping in, shallowly, gently,
lovingly, until the ridge of the tip descends into hot and close and tight as
Luke suckles at him. Then, Sylar pulls back, groaning when Luke whimpers for
more, pushing back in no deeper, and teasing the tip of his tongue. Again and
again, Sylar slips his cock between those lips as Luke kneels, eyes shining and
mouth tipped open, gasping like a penitent begging for salvation. His hand
pumps along his length and the fingers in Luke's hair tense, pulling now of
their own accord, and Sylar lurches back, pulling out and out and away as his
cock pulses until Luke's skin shimmers, wet and white with his spunk.
Semen drips from Luke's chin and he's spluttering, breathless with his eyes
shut tight, basking in Sylar's release. And, with trembling thighs, Sylar
crouches down before him, brushing his lips to Luke's crown before kissing each
closed lid, butterfly light. Sylar swipes his thumb over Luke's mouth, so
prettily soiled, and then slides the tip over Luke's forehead and down between
his brows, anointing him with Sylar's come.
Then, he's standing quickly and tossing Luke bodily, and with his mind, upon
the bed. With impatient telekinetic fingers, he slices away Luke's clothing,
growling at the fearful, enthralled, "Sylar" that Luke lets loose.
He stretches out over Luke's prone body, near enough to feel every heaving
breath he takes and he fists his hand in Luke's hair, pinning his head to the
pillows as Luke cranes up to try to kiss him. He wraps his free hand around
Luke's cock, chuckling at the seeping wetness from the tip, at the way his hips
buck and his whole body writhes as Sylar tests his heft against his palm.
"Sylar," Luke pleads, so fraught with pleasure that it sounds like pain.
"Scared I'm gonna hurt you?" he demands, even as his hand begins to stroke, up
and down, and up and down, feathering and twisting and squeezing with perfect
cadence.
"No," Luke groans. His eyes are wild and he claws at Sylar's biceps, dragging
him closer still as he strains against that hand that restrains him.
In Luke's ear, Sylar breathes, "Maybe you should be."
Beneath him, Luke quakes, coming hard and fast, and shooting far, hot ribbons
of semen striping his chest and stomach. Sylar pulls back and wipes his sticky
palm on the inside of Luke's thigh, the hand in his hair soothing once more as
he watches Luke come down from his orgasm. His body is slick with sweat and he
seems soiled all over with semen, the skin below a glowing, sex-flushed pink.
His mouth is slack and his breathing so heavy that it borders on lethargic.
Dazed eyes watch Sylar's face, waiting for their next cue.
Sylar's gaze skids to the bedside table and the alarm clock catches his eye.
It's late, far too late and they need to get moving before the neighbours
notice the unfamiliar car in the drive. He clears his throat but his voice is
still raw and gruff with his afterglow. "Clean up and get dressed. We have to
go."
He starts to sit but Luke flings his arms around his neck and yanks him back
down into a rough, tooth-clacking kiss, all salt and bitterness between
cooling, sticky mouths that threaten to fuse together. When Sylar bites at his
bottom lip, Luke obediently releases him.
"I mean it," he says as he slides off the bed and Luke stays prone, spread-
eagled and dopey, still too weakly post-orgasmic to move.
"You need to be in the car in twenty minutes or…" It's on the tip of Sylar's
tongue to say or I'll leave you behind but empty threats are meaningless. "Just
be in the car in twenty minutes."
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