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heroslayerThe weathermen, Sylar knew, were expecting snow to come of the dark clouds that had been steadily sweeping in over the course of the last few days. Not surprising, he thought, considering New York had seen flurries, a week ago, and it was getting to be just about time for the first real snowfall of the season. But then again, it also wasn't surprising that they were dead wrong. Meteorologists had a knack for inaccurate predictions, he'd learned, and they didn't understand the whims of mother nature like he did.
He could feel the static building in the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, a herald to the war chorus of impending lightning. He could hear thunder growling in the clouds, so low and distant that he was sure no one but him would ever be able to make it out. Oh, the weathermen were right, a storm was coming, but it would be rain that fell from the sky, not snow. And he damn well intended to be inside, when it started.
Judging Suresh's apartment too far away to even be remotely reachable before the rain hit, he ducked down an alley. And just as the first of the rain, fat and icy, hit the pavement, he was heading up the stairs to Isaac Mendez's loft.
Sylar didn't particularly want to be here. He'd been doing so well, the last few weeks, true. He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't so much as thought about it, despite the fact that each meeting of the team was practically an all-you-can-eat buffet and him a starving man. He'd made ties with people outside of Mohinder - Ted and Niki, particularly. And so on and so forth. This wasn't a matter of progress or trust, however, it was a matter of, well, people.
Groups of people still set him on edge, and the fact that everyone had taken to using Isaac's place as their Fortress of Solitude meant that he was bound to run into at least someone. It was still the lesser of two evils, however, as he had no desire to go home smelling like wet wool and half-melted hair gel. So, steeling himself against the cacophony he was sure to be greeted by the second he opened the door, he knocked once before letting himself in.
It occurred to him belatedly - mostly when he noticed that no one seemed to be around - that if anyone else had been up here, he would have heard them. He couldn't stop himself from looking relieved.
Nor could he stop himself from looking for the artist. "Isaac?"
Silence followed, glass in the windows rattling quietly as thunder and lightning sundered the skies beyond them. Then, in a small, strained voice, Mendez answered. "Back here."
He followed the sound of the other man's voice, back through the loft, to the area he'd sectioned off as his sleeping space. And if he'd been surprised to find Isaac there, he was even more taken aback that the artist was sitting cross-legged, sketchbook in his lap, eyes as white as smoke. So the artist had learned to carry on conversation while capturing the future in graphite and oils? How interesting.
He failed to comment on this fact, however, instead contenting himself to watching him scratch future realities out on paper. When he couldn't make out what it was - it seemed as though Isaac hadn't been drawing for long - he ventured, "What are you drawing?"
"Give me a minute," Isaac insisted, distractedly, and so Sylar meandered away. He knew very little about artistic expression, but he figured that maybe the artist would want his space. He, after all, had learned just weeks before that he hated people crowding around while he utilized his talents, so it was only fair to give the artist the same respect.
Weaving in between the rows of sleeping bags and air mattresses that had been set up over the painting of New York's demise to accommodate all of Isaac's unexpected guests, he found unoccupied space near the window. He leaned against the wall there, watching the storm roll in, in silence, sky so black it looked as though night and day had decided to trade places. And after twenty minutes of watching the storm come to a head - no one-one thousand, two-one thousand between thunder and the lightning, now - the artist gasped.
Sylar turned on his heels, watching Isaac with a detached sort of interest as he shook his head to clear it, eyes clear again. Mendez got up and headed for the kitchen, presumably for a glass of water, since he could remember him telling Peter that coming down off his art jags left him dizzy, and that having something to drink helped.
He beelined to the sink, as expected, and completely disinterested now, the killer let his eyes drift to the sketchbook left on the bed. "May I look?"
"Yeah." Isaac shot him a look over his shoulder, before shrugging. "Sure, man."
Flashing him a quick, tight smile, Sylar moved back over to where the other man had left his drawing, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
It wasn't that the sketch was anything bad, per se. If anything, in fact, it was the exact opposite, picture of Suresh holding him, their lips pressed together heatedly. The thing that got him, though, was the fact that he and Mohinder hadn't exactly advertised their relationship, neither of them much for public displays of affection. And here was everything they had, taken and dissected on paper for everyone to see.
He had to resist the urge to pull the page out of the book and shred it with his mind. "What's this?"
"It's ... " He turned away from the sink, where he'd been filling his glass, and stopped short. Sylar looked anything but happy. "Look, it's cool. I already know about you and Suresh."
Lightning stabbed at the sky, throwing the loft into shadow for a moment, power flickering. He would have thought it funny - ironic? cliched? - that the pitch of the storm had risen with his anger, as if on command, if he'd been thinking about it. Instead, however, he only had one thing, one question, on his mind. "Who else knows about this?"
"Just me, I think," Isaac answered, evenly, despite the fear in his eyes. "I noticed that night at the meeting, when Mohinder was still hurt. It was the way you guys moved." He paused and then, as if this explained everything, he added, "I've drawn slash for a couple of commissions before, so."
Sylar had no idea what slash was, but even if he wanted to ask, the sound of approaching footsteps and muttered swears in Tamil made him stop short.
Door opening, Suresh let himself in, mopping furiously at wet hair with the hood of his sweatshirt. It didn't seem to be doing any good, cloth as soaked as the rest of him, but Sylar declined comment to this effect. "It seems the weathermen were wrong in saying we were going to have -- Gabriel?"
The rage that had been blossoming in his chest died suddenly. If it had been a visible thing, he imagined it would have looked a little like those weedkiller commercials, and that, coupled with the sight of the geneticist, brought a smile to his face. Mohinder, however, didn't seem to be quite as amused. Rather, it looked as though he was well aware that he'd walked in on the middle of something, and as such, he shot a glance between artist and killer.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Isaac supplied. "I was just showing him -- " always him, never Gabriel or Sylar " -- a sketch I just did."
"Oh?" The Indian inclined his head curiously at Sylar and, without thinking, he supplied the sketchbook he'd been digging his nails into, until just seconds ago. And while his reaction had been one of fury, Mohinder's seemed to be the exact opposite - now he looked amused. "This is very nice, Isaac. There's just one small thing wrong with it."
"What's that?"
And just like that, the Indian was leaning in to kiss him.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Verse: Second Chance
Word Count: 1376
He could feel the static building in the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, a herald to the war chorus of impending lightning. He could hear thunder growling in the clouds, so low and distant that he was sure no one but him would ever be able to make it out. Oh, the weathermen were right, a storm was coming, but it would be rain that fell from the sky, not snow. And he damn well intended to be inside, when it started.
Judging Suresh's apartment too far away to even be remotely reachable before the rain hit, he ducked down an alley. And just as the first of the rain, fat and icy, hit the pavement, he was heading up the stairs to Isaac Mendez's loft.
Sylar didn't particularly want to be here. He'd been doing so well, the last few weeks, true. He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't so much as thought about it, despite the fact that each meeting of the team was practically an all-you-can-eat buffet and him a starving man. He'd made ties with people outside of Mohinder - Ted and Niki, particularly. And so on and so forth. This wasn't a matter of progress or trust, however, it was a matter of, well, people.
Groups of people still set him on edge, and the fact that everyone had taken to using Isaac's place as their Fortress of Solitude meant that he was bound to run into at least someone. It was still the lesser of two evils, however, as he had no desire to go home smelling like wet wool and half-melted hair gel. So, steeling himself against the cacophony he was sure to be greeted by the second he opened the door, he knocked once before letting himself in.
It occurred to him belatedly - mostly when he noticed that no one seemed to be around - that if anyone else had been up here, he would have heard them. He couldn't stop himself from looking relieved.
Nor could he stop himself from looking for the artist. "Isaac?"
Silence followed, glass in the windows rattling quietly as thunder and lightning sundered the skies beyond them. Then, in a small, strained voice, Mendez answered. "Back here."
He followed the sound of the other man's voice, back through the loft, to the area he'd sectioned off as his sleeping space. And if he'd been surprised to find Isaac there, he was even more taken aback that the artist was sitting cross-legged, sketchbook in his lap, eyes as white as smoke. So the artist had learned to carry on conversation while capturing the future in graphite and oils? How interesting.
He failed to comment on this fact, however, instead contenting himself to watching him scratch future realities out on paper. When he couldn't make out what it was - it seemed as though Isaac hadn't been drawing for long - he ventured, "What are you drawing?"
"Give me a minute," Isaac insisted, distractedly, and so Sylar meandered away. He knew very little about artistic expression, but he figured that maybe the artist would want his space. He, after all, had learned just weeks before that he hated people crowding around while he utilized his talents, so it was only fair to give the artist the same respect.
Weaving in between the rows of sleeping bags and air mattresses that had been set up over the painting of New York's demise to accommodate all of Isaac's unexpected guests, he found unoccupied space near the window. He leaned against the wall there, watching the storm roll in, in silence, sky so black it looked as though night and day had decided to trade places. And after twenty minutes of watching the storm come to a head - no one-one thousand, two-one thousand between thunder and the lightning, now - the artist gasped.
Sylar turned on his heels, watching Isaac with a detached sort of interest as he shook his head to clear it, eyes clear again. Mendez got up and headed for the kitchen, presumably for a glass of water, since he could remember him telling Peter that coming down off his art jags left him dizzy, and that having something to drink helped.
He beelined to the sink, as expected, and completely disinterested now, the killer let his eyes drift to the sketchbook left on the bed. "May I look?"
"Yeah." Isaac shot him a look over his shoulder, before shrugging. "Sure, man."
Flashing him a quick, tight smile, Sylar moved back over to where the other man had left his drawing, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
It wasn't that the sketch was anything bad, per se. If anything, in fact, it was the exact opposite, picture of Suresh holding him, their lips pressed together heatedly. The thing that got him, though, was the fact that he and Mohinder hadn't exactly advertised their relationship, neither of them much for public displays of affection. And here was everything they had, taken and dissected on paper for everyone to see.
He had to resist the urge to pull the page out of the book and shred it with his mind. "What's this?"
"It's ... " He turned away from the sink, where he'd been filling his glass, and stopped short. Sylar looked anything but happy. "Look, it's cool. I already know about you and Suresh."
Lightning stabbed at the sky, throwing the loft into shadow for a moment, power flickering. He would have thought it funny - ironic? cliched? - that the pitch of the storm had risen with his anger, as if on command, if he'd been thinking about it. Instead, however, he only had one thing, one question, on his mind. "Who else knows about this?"
"Just me, I think," Isaac answered, evenly, despite the fear in his eyes. "I noticed that night at the meeting, when Mohinder was still hurt. It was the way you guys moved." He paused and then, as if this explained everything, he added, "I've drawn slash for a couple of commissions before, so."
Sylar had no idea what slash was, but even if he wanted to ask, the sound of approaching footsteps and muttered swears in Tamil made him stop short.
Door opening, Suresh let himself in, mopping furiously at wet hair with the hood of his sweatshirt. It didn't seem to be doing any good, cloth as soaked as the rest of him, but Sylar declined comment to this effect. "It seems the weathermen were wrong in saying we were going to have -- Gabriel?"
The rage that had been blossoming in his chest died suddenly. If it had been a visible thing, he imagined it would have looked a little like those weedkiller commercials, and that, coupled with the sight of the geneticist, brought a smile to his face. Mohinder, however, didn't seem to be quite as amused. Rather, it looked as though he was well aware that he'd walked in on the middle of something, and as such, he shot a glance between artist and killer.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Isaac supplied. "I was just showing him -- " always him, never Gabriel or Sylar " -- a sketch I just did."
"Oh?" The Indian inclined his head curiously at Sylar and, without thinking, he supplied the sketchbook he'd been digging his nails into, until just seconds ago. And while his reaction had been one of fury, Mohinder's seemed to be the exact opposite - now he looked amused. "This is very nice, Isaac. There's just one small thing wrong with it."
"What's that?"
And just like that, the Indian was leaning in to kiss him.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Verse: Second Chance
Word Count: 1376
