That One Time of the Year

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Heroes or anything else mentioned in this fic. If I did... things would be significantly different, if this fic is of any evidence.

Peter Petrelli used to love Christmas. It had been a great opportunity to spend some quality time with his brother, who always took a short vacation when Christmas came around. A great chance to have some real fun with his beloved big brother.

And his mother, but he chose to ignore that part.

It didn't matter anymore, though. Nathan was dead.

Sylar killed him.

Peter had said that he would settle for petty revenge if he had to. He damn well meant it then and he meant it now, even stronger and more passionately than before.

There was just one problem.

For as long as Peter could remember knowing Sylar, he had always felt… awkward around the other man. He never, ever let it show, and most of the time he was too pissed off when they encountered each other to notice it anyway.

It was weirdly similar to when he had those crushes on girls-- and even some boys, but they were very good-looking boys-- in high school. A warm feeling that he couldn't quite decipher the meaning of.

Of course, back in those days, he had determined that they were crushes pretty quickly. He couldn't be so confident now. Sylar was his serial-killing enemy that slit his brother's throat with telekinesis, for the love of all that was holy. There was just no reason for him to feel this way. It made no sense. He could not have a crush on the psychotic boogeyman.

It had to be something else.

Nothing, not even that warmth in his stomach, would deter him from his revenge. Not Sylar, not his lying deceiving mother, not his grief, not his overwhelming urge to fall and crumble into nothing in the arms of a faceless, black-clad man he saw so often in his dreams, not the ringing doorbell--

Oh crap someone was at the door!

Leaping up from his brooding session on the couch, Peter yelped, "Coming!" and darted to see who it was before whoever they left. He grimaced at the possibility of it being his mother Angela Petrelli but he figured she'd just let herself in like she owned the place, so probably not.

So, wondering why someone would visit him when it was almost Christmas already (it being Christmas Eve at the moment), he opened the door.

And gave a small, startled squeak.

"Sylar?!"

Peter Petrelli hated Christmas as of a few months ago, but now he'd have to say he hated it even more now. Loathed it, even.

Because the bastard who killed his brother Nathan was standing on his doorstep with quite the jolly grin on his face.

"What the fuck are you doing here, you sonuvabitch?!" The empath exclaimed angrily, but the shock was still evident in his shout.

Feigning hurt, Sylar cocked his head to one side adorably, "Now, now, Pete--"

"'Now, Pete,' my ass! Only my brother could call me Pete! You've lost that privilege! Hell, you never even had it--!"

"Is that any way to greet someone who's brought you a present?" Was Sylar's blunt interjection. His tone was frank but there was no mistaking how the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. Oh, how he loved to piss off the youngest Petrelli. "After all, I wrapped it and everything myself. Isn't that what Christmas is all about, after all?" He added with a lazy air.

Time stopped.

"You--! Wait, what?" Peter blinked owlishly. His wide brown gaze traveled downwards from Sylar's (adorkable-- especially with the festive green-and-red sweater he was wearing along with blue jeans and black boots covered in New York winter snow) smirking face and finally noticed the neatly-wrapped package in the killer's arms for the first time.

The gift was snow-white with cartoonish bluish-silver snowflakes scattered here and there, complete with a shining golden bow like one would see in a corny childrens' Christmas movie. The bow wasn't one of those stick-ons either, it had been hand-tied… prettily. Not too big and not too small. It was an all-around traditional Christmas gift. Peter gawked at the thought of Sylar doing something like this all for him. And it such a… well, a lovely present, too… it looked like it had been wrapped and tied by a professional gift-wrapper. Were there even any of those anymore?

Peter found himself unable to form words.

"Speechless, I see. If I know this was what it took to shut you up I would've asked for your birthday." Sylar chuckled in that odd-- but not unpleasant-- voice of his, a mix of silk and hissing.

His obvious smugness brought Peter crashing back to reality. "What the hell is that? A bomb? Poisoned fruitcake? Drugged eggnog?" He shot off the questions immediately.

"You, Peter Petrelli, watch way too many cartoons." Sylar said with a huge quirked brow. Damn his evil laserbrows.

"Fuck you."

"You'd like that wouldn't-- I mean, Peter, I give you my word, there is nothing dangerous to anyone in that box." Sylar replied in all seriousness. Arch enemies exchanging Christmas gifts was serious business.

Peter gave the supervillain a disbelieving look.

"…Okay, I guess it could be dangerous if you inserted it the wrong way," the serial killer amended after a pause, "but you'd have to be an inexperienced dumbass to do that." A second later he added, "So… it's all cool."

Peter's jaw tightened, "It is most certainly not 'cool,'" he snapped, "Who the hell do you think you are, buying me a present? We're not family, and there is no way that we're anywhere near friends!" Peter's lip curled into a snarl at the last word.

How about 'fuckbuddies'? Sylar mused to himself, thankful that Peter did not seem to have Matt Parkman's mindreading ability during this one particular occasion. Last time he knew Peter had that power he'd gone through Hell and back to keep his thoughts in line. Right now, he was free to molest Peter with his eyes as much as he wanted.

'Cause, if Peter could read minds right now… he'd be in deep shit, since he just couldn't stop thinking about his little present tucked away in the wrapped box snuggled almost possessively within his strong arms.

"Christmas is the one time of the year, Peter," the empath both hated and loved the way his name drawled out of the larger man's lips, "where I can forgive my enemies-- if only temporarily-- without hating myself for it. Tell me, Peter, haven't you ever wondered what I was like without my psychotic tendencies?"

Peter opened his mouth.

"And before you say anything; yes, I did just admit that I am indeed a bit unhinged."

Peter closed it with a click.

"You've always been too damn curious for your own good, Peter." Once again, a big thick eyebrow quirked. The infamous boogeyman knew he was right.

Peter could honestly do nothing but glare. "I'm not letting you into my home." He bit out at last.

"I expected as much," Sylar responded smoothly, unphased. "You want your present or not?"

After a moment's hesitation, Peter grabbed the parcel out of the killer's hands cautiously. He studied it with a careful eye, so not admiring Sylar's handiwork.

With an eye roll, Sylar growled a few decibels lower than before, "For God's sake, Peter, I told you I wasn't going to try and poke at your brain today."

"You've been known to lie."

"Peter." Sylar's patience was beginning to wane.

Peter ignored him, "Off limits 'til Christmas morning?" he inquired. That sounded like something Sylar would do. Keep him in suspense. He wouldn't be surprised if the box was empty when he would finally open it, or at least filled with rocks or something. Just so Sylar would get the pleasure of fucking with his mind until Christmas morning, which was just---

…Tomorrow…

Shit. Peter had completely forgotten that it was Christmas Eve.

A new, completely random and entirely off-topic thought passed through his previously unadulterated-thinking mind: Or it could be filled with his cum.

MOTHERFUCKER.

This was what he had meant by awkward. Every little thing involving Sylar had to be turned kinky somehow by Peter's perverted mind.

Sylar actually seemed surprised. "Hell no." He snorted, "I'd actually prefer that you opened it now. I'll be damned if I missed your reaction."

"Hmm," came Peter's thoughtful response as he continued to eye the square object.

A moment passed and neither did anything.

Sylar gave a sigh, his ebbing patience giving way to tiredness. "Peter--"

Suddenly feeling five-years-old again, Peter's hand shot out like lightning, effectively tearing the present that was nestled between the crook of his other arm to shreds.

This time, both of Sylar's brows shot up into his hairline. He watched the Petrelli ferociously attack his gift, unsure whether to be amused or weirded out by the empath's apparent enthusiasm.

He decided he felt a bit of both.

Taking his cue, he slunk into Peter's apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. Peter, too busy trying to open the damned tightly-wrapped present, took no notice and actually took a subconscious step back to give the other man some space.

Sylar, his patience now restored, stood and observed the scene before him with an unblinking intense dark gaze.

Finally reaching the tissue-- fuck, Sylar actually put that fancy tissue-crap that you see on TV?-- Peter rummaged through it, before he felt it.

It was a long, cylinder shape, and smooth; that much he could tell. He saw a flash of purple in the whiteness of the box. What in the hell--? He pulled it out and stared at it.

His eyes went as round as dinner plates. His cheeks went flaming red.

He lifted the object into the air.

"A-a-a-a d-d-di…"

It was a bright, purple…

…Dildo.

Shaped like a… a… well, what else could a dildo be shaped like…?

Oh God, Peter couldn't bring himself to say the dreaded P-word. It was like he was ten all over again, using the bullshit-words as substitutes for the real word.

The P-E-N-I-S word.

He stared at it, stunned beyond comprehension. Of all the things he had considered Sylar buying him, this… this wasn't even on the list.

The cum thing didn't count, that was a stupid, very stupid (kinky) thought.

Nothing close to objects used for ass-fuckage was on the list.

TOO MUCH. His mind screamed, as well as… other areas. Further down south.

"You… you sick, perverted, demented sonuvabitch! You got me a d-di--"

Peter's explosion was abruptly cut off as he saw Sylar's expression for the first time since he had ripped open the present.

The killer had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ground, face burning in embarrassment. His shoulders were hunched and he wouldn't dare raise his eyes.

Over all, Sylar was acting very unSylarish. Very, very unSylarish. He almost seemed to be Gabriel again…

Suddenly, the whole dildo thing didn't seem like that big of a deal to Peter.

Rubbing the back of his neck but still not meeting the Petrelli's eyes, he murmured in a voice much too soft for someone of his capability (and yet somehow still completely adorable), "I, uh…" Hot damn, Sylar just used a bullshit-word. Someone with his vocabulary-- that Peter had certainly realized was large long ago-- shouldn't be reduced to using crap-words like um or uh. "I wasn't exactly in the… best state of mind when I bought it. I was drunk off my ass, actually."

"I thought you couldn't get drunk?" Peter couldn't help but ask.

"I… can." Sylar told him, "I just have to have a lot to even get a buzz. And I had over forty bottles that night."

"For God's sake, why?"

Because of you, dumbass. "Just felt like it." Sylar managed to get some smartassness into his tone again. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was a feat considering how foolish he felt right now. Should've never even tried to give it to him…

"Anyway," the boogeyman continued, "the clerk recognized me, called the police. Had them after my ass for weeks; couldn't even use the damned public restrooms." He grimaced at the memory. "There was just no chance of getting you another present-- not even stealing one. I think the fact that there was a cop lounging around in every damned store for miles was no coincidence."

"Why couldn't you just go somewhere else?"

"I… bought it last night…" He had just barely managed to get to Peter's apartment unnoticed. Not only cops, but Company bastards were lurking everywhere. And he still felt a bit of that horrible hangover throbbing in his brain-housing-group, too. Fuck, Sylar, he snarled at himself, 'brain-housing-group'? Did you actually just say that instead of 'head'? I think you're still a little buzzed, you idiot. "It's… all I had to give you…"

"Oh." Peter said blankly, mouth forming an 'O' shape.

Another awkward moment passed.

"Well?" Sylar hissed, still not looking at the other man.

Confused, Peter shot back, "'Well' what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me to get the fuck out? You were so keen on it earlier after all."

"Just… let me ask you something."

"Sure, what the hell." Sylar growled sarcastically with an eye roll.

Pausing for a bit too long, Peter breathed, "Why me?"

Strength (inner strength, anyway. He could still very well snap someone's neck like a twig with his pinkie if he wanted to and he was going to snap his own fucking neck if this went on any longer) beginning to return, Sylar mocked, "Why not?" He was looking at Peter now, but still no eye-contact.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

And that was where it was enough for Peter. "Stop the fucking sarcasm just for one second you Goddamned murdering fucking damned-to-Hell motherfucking cocksucker--"

"That's more like it."

"I said STOP IT!" Peter hissed, "Excuse me if I'm a bit curious as to why my worst enemy actually bothered getting me something for Christmas!"

And then Sylar was blushing. Again. The floor once again seemed very interesting.

Peter's curiosity was clouding his better judgment, like quite a few times before-- again. He did his best to relax and say calmly-- almost pleadingly, "Tell me. Please."

"Sgfhgjfdsghjds." Sylar's thick brows lowered in shame.

Peter's much slimmer ones, however, furrowed in confusion. "What? I can't understand you."

"Fgdhjskhgfdjffff…"

"…Sylar, you're mumbling."

"I LIKE YOU, okay?!" Sylar exclaimed, sounding for the life of him like he did in high school when he had that crush on Whatserface Cheerleader back when he was still poor little Gabriel Gray. He swore his voice cracked a bit, too.

Fuck. Maybe he was still a little buzzed.

Peter knew he should be shouting bloody murder and should be kicking Sylar's ass, should be feeling nothing but anger and disgust-- but to his ultimate surprise all he could bring himself to feel was… amusement.

And irony. Lots and lots of irony.

"You… 'like' me?" Peter asked, twirling the bright purple object in his arms without really realizing it. "What-- like a crush?"

Sylar winced. He could barely stand the fact that he still had the capability to even feel affection in the first place, let alone for his arch-fucking-enemy.

Peter found himself smirking. God knew why, but he was starting to like (get off on) this never-before-seen side of Sylar.

It was just adorable. Adorkable, even. (God, he really needed to stop using that word, no matter how cute it sounded.) Once again, the green-and-red sweater came into play.

"I-- well-- you see-- SHIT-- um… hgfjdkshjfhjdksff…" Sylar's mouth began to run on it's own accord. It certainly didn't sound like hissing silk now, that was for sure.

This… was just too wonderful.

Oh yes.

And, for the first blissful time since Peter could remember, he forgot about Nathan's death and the cause of it.

All he could focus on, all he could concentrate on, all he could make out in the sudden fogginess of his mind, was the pink, rapidly reddening blush on Sylar's face and how uncharacteristically submissive he was acting.

"I think I get what you're trying to tell me." Peter practically purred with a leer. A fucking leer.

Sylar still would not meet the other's eyes. "And what would that be?" He murmured, still not really registering that his smartass mouth was on autopilot and talking without his consent.

Peter lurched forward, and Sylar, though not really himself in mind at the moment, was still very much Sylar in body and the killer whisked backward instinctively a few steps at an almost inhuman speed, with what Peter thought was somewhat of a flinch.

Maybe even some twisted version of panic.

Well, they had been at each other's throats more than once, so he really should have expected that instant reaction…

Sylar was staring at him with a wide-eyed look that morphed his face. Peter, not for the first time (he was an empath after all), was amazed at how the simplest shift of emotions in someone's eyes could completely change their expression in whole. It was uncanny.

Peter held up a hand to show he meant no harm.

Sylar didn't move.

Peter sighed, and leaned forward again.

Sylar didn't move still-- which, Peter hoped, was a good thing.

Their lips connected.

It was a short, chaste, almost shy kiss that seemed to freeze time and still the air surrounding them; as if the fate of the entire universe depended on this one single moment.

With their luck-- which was constantly in a state called fucked-- maybe it did.

Peter pulled away, noticing that both of their breathing had hitched. Apprehensive, he watched Sylar, the rational part of his mind wondering just what the hell he had done.

Sylar blinked. Twice. Thrice.

Well.

A pair of large, warm hands grabbed Peter by the shoulders and the empath stiffened as their lips crushed together roughly, the grip holding him vice-like.

Peter found he couldn't do anything as Sylar mauled his mouth. Telekinesis. Not that he didn't like it, of course. He felt himself melting into the kiss and closing his eyes; apparently Sylar hadn't taken control of every part of him. Why wasn't he surprised? He should have expected someone like Sylar to have weird kinks--

A wave of a finger.

Blood pouring out of a slit in Nathan's throat.

Nathan crashing to the ground.

And Peter remembered. He hadn't been there, but he could imagine it. His imagination had always been too vivid, too much like a real photo or film. Could see it in his mind's eye so clearly, so painfully clear…

Sylar's hold on him hadn't been strong enough. Peter broke free of the unseen force and staggered backwards, panting, emotions that were impossible to distinguish from one another flashing through his mind and body.

Sylar froze like a deer caught in headlights. He saw this coming but dammit why so soon? It was just getting to the good part.

For a second they just stared at each other.

"You killed Nathan." Peter whispered breathlessly, still breathing hard.

Oh. Right. That whole fiasco. Sylar wondered if the empath would believe him if he said he had actually forgotten about all that for a time.

"Yes." Sylar nodded. "I did."

"And don't you feel any fucking remorse at all?"

No use in lying. "Not at all. Nathan was an ass, Peter. I'm not sorry I killed him… but... I am sorry what it's done to you." The killer felt it a huge triumph that he only faltered in his speech once.

"You've tried to kill me before, why do you care now?" Peter, for some reason, felt exhausted now.

"Because I could never understand what I felt for you until recently." Sylar's tone was blunt. And yet sincere somehow.

Peter fell onto the couch, sinking into the seat. He ran his hands over his face, hunching over, "This is too much for me."

"I could always just make you forget, you know." Behold, Sylar trying to be helpful.

"That… won't be needed, thanks." Despite his choice of words, there was no trace of sarcasm in Peter's words.

Blood pouring out of the slit in Nathan's throat--

SHUT UP! Peter screamed at the images, That… that… no… that's Sylar's fault… he killed him… but I love him… I can't… fuck.

Sylar frowned. "…I'm sorry, Peter… I shouldn't have kissed you like t--"

Peter's brown gaze shot up to stare at him sharply, and this time, Sylar actually flinched. "No, no. You should have. And you did."

"I-- …excuse me?" Sylar asked at last, bewildered.

"You heard me."

"You… you don't…?" Words failed the killer.

Peter's gaze didn't waver, didn't blink, didn't shift. "I'm always going to blame you for Nathan's death, Gabriel," Sylar's lip curled at the use of his birthname, while at the same time a knife of pain embedded itself in his chest at Peter's words, "But… I can't ignore what I'm feeling, either. If there's one thing my empathy has taught me, it's never to ignore your feelings. I've never really followed that lesson-- not until now." He stood again. His expression was grave.

Sylar moved back a step, "If someone finds out?"

"Screw them." The empath answered seriously.

Automatic smartass response of the day: "Actually, I'd rather just screw you."

A soft, amused smile played on Peter's features. "Well, someone's gotten their mojo back."

"Ass."

"I'm going to be screwing your ass until it bleeds."

Silence.

"…Too soon?" Peter asked, smile dropping.

"Well, yeah, but if you just kiss me again then I'm sure I won't min--"

Peter tackled him to the ground. Caught by surprise, Sylar let out a whoosh of breath as his back collided with the ground. It didn't actually hurt, considering he was, you know, indestructible and all due to Claire's ability, but it was still unfair.

All indignant thoughts, however, were thrown clear out the window as Peter kissed him. Hard. And freaking hot. He kissed back; tongues, mouth-adventuring and all.

…This continued for about five minutes.

Their little snogging fest, however, was interrupted as Sylar's dark eyes flew open (he couldn't remember closing them, either) when he realized something.

"Peter," he panted, breaking their kiss. Some saliva dribbled down his chin and he would have wiped it off with his sleeve if not for the fact he was wearing his favorite holiday sweater. His mother had knit it for him. You know… before he killed her. With her own scissors. Accidentally. Really.

"Mhhmm?" Came Peter's almost drunken reply.

"What about that?" The killer pointed his chin to his left, towards an object laying on the ground.

Peter looked.

Oh, right… the, er, dildo… the bright purple thing seemed to be mocking him as it stayed just out of arm's reach. He stretched as far as he could and barely managed to grab hold of it. The things he could do with the damn present that had started all this damned Christmas trouble in the first place…

"How's about we put it to good use?"

Sylar's eyes went round. Shit. He'd bought it but he'd never quite considered actually using the thing. He'd been too busy freaking out over the fact that he'd gotten it in the first place. For Peter. Even if he did have a crush (It's more than a crush, moron.) on the Petrelli.

The littlest Petrelli. Like the littlest teapot. Or whatever. Fuck. He really was still buzzed. He never thought of such stupid things. Ever... Oh, hell. Peter's femininity was rubbing off on him.

But then Peter's previously lecherous eyes softened and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Sylar's nose. On my nose? He wanted to mock, My God, Petrelli, how soft are you? But he didn't say it because he couldn't deny he liked it.

The clock on the wall (that Sylar noted approvingly was not a second too slow or soon) struck 1:00 AM, Christmas morning with a small bell sound that seemed to resound within the quiet room, over their panting.

"Merry Christmas." Peter whispered.

A/N: Well damn. My first Heroes fic! I never thought I'd actually finish this in time. YES! Merry Christmas, everyone! I've always wanted to write something for the holidays. I know, Peter and Sylar seem a bit… OOC in some parts (and some parts might not make 100% sense). Or, hell, the entire thing, but no one can ever really know how a character will act except for their creator(s)/writers, right? And I've always wanted to write Pylar. Heroes is one of my more recent obsessions, but I've felt confident enough to post a fic of it.

I have to say, for a bit I really wasn't going to finish this. But then the work of the wonderful authoress Sapphire17 inspired me to finish. She's my favorite Pylar writer. x3 Check her out? You won't be disappointed!

Anyway, care to review? I'm personally proud of this, and I'd like to hear your thoughts. If I've gotten anything wrong, would you mind telling me?