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Peter hates the fact that one side of his mouth doesn't work. It's been like that for as long as he can remember; when he smiles or gets angry or tries to have any kind of facial expression at all, the left side of his lower lip just. Does. Not. Move. It's especially frustrating when he's tired and not really thinking about it (as is quite frequent when he's coming in from a late shift) and he goes to drink something but ends up spilling half of it down the front of his uniform because he forgot and tried to drink from the left side of his mouth.
It's on one such evening that Sylar comes into the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of Peter swearing. He frowns a bit, watching his lover (because boyfriend seems so juvenile to him) brusquely rub at the front of his uniform with a handful of paper towels.
"Peter?" Sylar asks as he takes a step forward. "Are you okay?"
Peter grumbles and then sighs as he tosses the wet towels into the trash can. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just been a rough night, and then I come home and dump water all over myself, I just- I'm aggravated." He gives another heavy sigh and licks his lips, looking like he just might burst into tears at any second.
Sylar can't stand that pitiful look on Peter's face, and he quickly bridges the distance between them, gathering Peter up in his arms and peppering his lips with tiny, tender kisses. They've been together six months now (not counting the time they'd spent together while trapped inside his head), and Sylar doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of this, the feel of their lips sliding over each other.
Peter eventually relaxes into Sylar's embrace, and the kiss becomes heated. It doesn't take long before they're grappling with each other's clothes, staggering back toward the bedroom, and they fall upon the bed, fighting for dominance and finally coming together in a way that leaves them both breathless.
They're tangled in each other, basking in the afterglow, when Peter becomes aware of Sylar's finger delicately brushing over his lower lip. It hits him that his boyfriend (because he doesn't really know what else to call Sylar, and they're more than just lovers) seems to spend a lot of time touching his lips or staring at them, sometimes with this quirky smile on his face. It almost makes Peter uncomfortable; he doesn't like attention being drawn to his physical deformity, but Sylar has never actually said anything about the way his lip doesn't move.
"I could fix it, you know," Sylar says suddenly, the pad of his thumb brushing over the left corner of Peter's mouth. Peter doesn't react to the sensation, which could be ticklish to others, because the nerve endings in that side of his mouth are dead. His eyes do get a bit eager at Sylar's words though.
"Really?" he says, his voice hopeful. He's actually thinking that maybe it would be nice to be able to give someone a full smile, to not listen to people whisper about him behind his back and wonder if he's had a stroke, if that's why his lip is so funny.
His hopes are dashed though when Sylar speaks again. "I could, but I won't."
Peter scowls a bit and pulls away from him. "Then why'd you bring it up?" He sits up, intending to stalk away in a snit, but Sylar's hand snakes out, grabbing his arm and halting his movement.
"Because I wouldn't fix anything about you, Peter," Sylar says, his voice a soft whisper. "It's an imperfection, true, but it's you. It's a quirk that suits you, makes you unique." Sylar brushes his thumb over Peter's lip. "Why would I want to fix what's perfectly imperfect?"
Peter feels his heart melt a little at that, and he gladly accepts the kiss Sylar places on his lips.