for writer's block table: angry

In spite of his ability, useful from time to time to understand the whys of human behavior, and Lydia's, borrowed from her before her untimely death, Sylar found there were still days where he just didn't understand Mohinder. Mira was out of the picture, Molly more or less the same, his relationship with her broken in ways even he couldn't see to fix, and they were together now, everything that had kept them apart in the first place either behind them or something they were working on. They could have gone anywhere, back to New York to wade through the mess Claire had left in the wake of jumping off the Ferris Wheel all those months ago, or somewhere else, avoiding it all to see the world on Bob Bishop's dime, and yet Mohinder refused. He had some obsessive need to stay here in India and cling to his normal life, to teach, and some days he couldn't understand it.

There were other days where he could, of course, knowing that Mohinder's family was here, that the ghost of his father still clung to every word in every ridiculous little syllabus he wrote up for his classes, that he was still holding out hope that he could repair his relationship with Molly, but today was not one of those days. Today, he had no real handle on why Mohinder had chosen a handful of bored students in a boiling classroom over him, and it was frustrating. The fact that he'd been growing steadily more restless over the last few weeks didn't make it any easier, nor did the fact that the Indian was gone now, not teaching but still busy with some stupid commitment he had at the university.

( He bit back a growl at the thought, moving away from where he'd been pacing to throw himself down in the chair behind Mohinder's makeshift desk. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1672