Warnings: Hints to abusive relationship
Summary: Luke is addicted
Notes: Repost of a challenge entry I did for lukexsylar ages ago and never posted to my journal.
“Everything was gold.
One night the bed caught fire.
He was handsome and a very good criminal.
We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars.
It was the afternoon of extravagant delight.
I want to try it your way this time.
You came into my life really fast and I liked it.
We squelched in the mud of our joy.
I was wet-thighed with surrender.
Then there was a gap in things and the whole earth tilted.
This is the business.
This, is what we're after.
With you inside me comes the hatch of death.
And perhaps I'll simply never sleep again.”
(Section from a poem taken from the film Candy)
Luke has never taken drugs. Never smoked weed, never shot up, and never got properly drunk. But he knows what it feels like to be addicted. The longing and the obsession, the compulsion for more. The intoxication and the dependence. He remembers the talks at school, and he remembers that most addicts don’t even know they have a problem. Luke knows he’s a junkie, but he can’t give it up. He’s addicted to Sylar.
Sylar’s so damn unpredictable, and Luke has to keep his wits about him to survive. Sometimes Sylar just ignores him, locking him in the car and going off for long walks with no warning or explanation, and Luke knows he could get out if he wanted to, but he can’t make Sylar angry like that or he’d be left behind for good. He doesn’t want to escape from Sylar. He can’t escape from Sylar. He’s too far gone.
There’s times when he begs for days for Sylar to touch him, pretending his heart doesn’t break a little when Sylar turns away from his kisses and shoves him hard off the bed so he ends up in a corner with his tears soaking into the motel wallpaper, making tracks in the accumulated filth. The filth of every other couple that had once stayed in this hole. Luke can smell the piss on the walls and see the nicotine browning the cream, and he knows that these four walls have probably seen whores and hounds and drug lords, but not a single pair as fucked up as he and Sylar.
Some mornings, Sylar sucks on his cock until he orgasms himself awake, and he knows that the day will be a good one. They might not even go out, just spending the whole day in bed. The first time Sylar fucked him, he stopped the car at the side of the road to toss Luke over the back seat and show him exactly what he’d kept this stupid whiny brat in his life for. Luke didn’t even think about saying no. That time was fast and hot and overwhelming, but the next time, Sylar took it slow. So slow that Luke felt like he was going to burst from the multitude of sensations coursing through his veins, and Sylar teased him with teeth and tongue and lips, a tight ring of telekinesis stopping him from coming until Sylar let him. Sex with Sylar was always incredible, not least because of what it meant. It meant that Sylar felt those same rushes of want and need. Wanting Luke, needing Luke. Needing each other.
When Luke was a kid, he couldn’t sleep in silence. He cranked the radio dial to float in between frequencies, drowning in white noise because it felt safe and comforting, taking his mind away from the stinging burns littering the inside of his arms. Now he has a real embrace to keep him grounded, the comforting circle of Sylar’s strong arms cancelling out all of the cuts and bruises that he seems to gather just by living with Sylar. And even if Sylar only really touches him during sex, that’s okay because Sylar wants his body and maybe Luke wants more but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than the shouting and Sylar’s cold anger when he smashes him against the wall and holds him there, his fingertip ghosting over Luke’s forehead and blood congealing on Luke’s lips from biting them to stifle the screaming in his head because he’s seen Sylar kill so many times and he still isn’t sure where he stands on that line.
Luke feels like he’s overflowing with energy sometimes, that he just needs to break things, burn them. Sylar understands that, he never tells Luke to act normal or try to fit in. He just says ‘be careful’ and ‘work to an objective,’ and Luke used to hate that because he followed Sylar for the adventure, not to be kept on a leash like a dog. Luke had thought his objective was to make something of himself, to be able to feel as powerful as he knows he is. But his game plan changed somehow along the way, and now all he wants is to be with Sylar. He doesn’t remember how he could ever have wanted anything else.
Luke’s favourite days are the ones where Sylar is feeling needy and insecure. When they’re tired and their muscles ache and Sylar collapses onto the bed and drags Luke with him. And Luke doesn’t move or talk because he always says or does the wrong thing, so he just lies there and melts into Sylar’s arms when the other man runs absent minded hands through his hair and pets him to sleep. Luke loves sex, but he’d give it up for Sylar to hold him like this forever. Sex is never that perfect, and moments of peace are too rare.
There was only one time when Luke considered leaving, and that was when he felt like his choice in the matter was truly cast asunder. He lay broken and bleeding on a dirty diner floor, Sylar’s words still ringing in his ears. He had tried, he really had, but he’d fucked it all up again and now Sylar was gone for good. Well, he had thought as he picked himself up, quenching his parched throat by sticking his head under a cold tap, this could be a chance. He could save himself from his own pathetic dependency, and he could go back to safety, go back… home?
Home is where the heart is. Sylar had Luke’s heart neatly slotted among an arsenal of powers. And it was breaking with every minute they spent apart.
After long hours of pacing the dusty shack, he came across a box of ancient candy bars, forgotten in a back room. If his stomach wasn’t twisted in knots, he might have considered eating them. As it was, the mere thought of any food made him feel sick. Even candy. Sylar-withdrawal was taking its toll, and going cold turkey was messing up his body as well as his mind.
So he laid out the bars in the shape of a race track, pushing the little toy car around in an endless figure of eight until he got mad and threw the toy down and stamped on it until the axels snapped off and the wheels rolled away. So then he organized the candy in colour order, setting out a spectrum in a neat rectangle. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. An incomplete rainbow. Then he realized it looked just like a gay pride flag and he laughed until he cried because it was so fucking ironic. Then he kept on crying because he wasn’t actually gay, not really, and he wasn’t straight either, it was just Sylar. He didn’t have a hope in hell without Sylar.
When Sylar came back for him, he was lying dazed and confused in a puddle of multi-coloured melted plastic and with solidifying candy coating his limbs. He came to his senses scrubbed clean and tucked up in bed, and he knew that he was home again.
Luke was proud of himself for managing to keep it going for this long. He did everything he could to make Sylar happy, but he knew that it wasn’t enough, he wasn’t enough. One of these days, he would be dropped for good. He’d rather Sylar slice off the top of his skull, because the idea of life without Sylar was even more horrific now than it had been before, and he got some kind of sick kick from the idea of Sylar using his power. At least he’d be with him always.
Luke carefully stepped into the spray of the shower, hissing slightly as the jet of water assaulted his battered skin. He soaked a flannel, gingerly dabbing at the bleeding gash across his upper arm, and watching with morbid interest as the water pooled pink around his feet. He glanced down at his thighs, examining blue bruises against healing yellow ones, fresh cuts against crusting scabs. He hurt all over, wincing at the sting as he scrubbed away the blood and semen from his legs. These marks would look good in the morning, when the pain had subsided. He hated being hurt, but he loved being marked. He belonged to Sylar, that’s what it meant.
The pain was worth it, because last night when they were lying together in that near-sleep slumber, Luke accidentally blurted out ‘I love you,’ and instead of punishing him, Sylar wrapped his arms around him tightly, murmuring ‘yeah.’
It was those moments that sent Luke’s heart soaring, far more than Sylar groping him across the car or fucking him into the mattress. He could get sex anywhere. It was Sylar himself that he wanted, needed. All of him. Eventually, he would make Sylar feel the same. They were two of a kind, not alike but still halves of a whole.
Luke stepped out of the shower, scrubbing himself ruthlessly with a patchy towel. He sat cross-legged on the floor, tears leaking from between his eyelids. Even if he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough. Every look, every word, and every memory he had just pushed him that little further over the edge. He could feel the noose tightening around his neck when Sylar kissed him. But with every step closer to the black hole he was gravitating towards, he felt the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders. His doom walked hand in hand with his salvation, and each time Sylar held him, it was like a hit of heroin. He couldn’t help it. He was a slave to it.
With a brave smile at the mirror, he wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out into the bedroom to where Sylar was waiting. His breath caught as it always did, a lump rising in his throat at the sight of his saviour, his god, his drug. He crawled into waiting arms, his spinning world coming to a skidding halt. All of the bad things just melted away, and he forgot why he was even worried. Every drug had side effects, but the highs made it worth it. They did. They really did. He blinked away the tears that were forming, letting Sylar take control.
Luke was an addict. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.