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for badcompany_muse: poor
Nov. 30th, 2008 04:08 pmSylar's not sure what wakes him in the first place.
His first thought is that it's the sounds of the city, but he's quick to dismiss it, as his ear is still pressed firmly to Mohinder's chest, his heartbeat and his breathing sweeter than any lullaby. His next is that, perhaps, someone has broken into the apartment and he's experiencing some sort of sixth sense of not being alone, but even when he pulls away from the geneticist he doesn't hear anything. Finally, his mind drifts to the notion that--well, actually, there's nothing else he can come up with to explain why he's suddenly and fully awake, and so his mind just drifts.
For a long time, he contents himself to watching the other man in the dim light coming in off the windows, mind blank. It's a favorite pastime of his, something that whittles away at the hours until the geneticist comes awake, something he's done since even before he and Mohinder were an item, and usually it suits him. Usually, but tonight, after what he gauges as an hour or so of letting his eyes dance over his sleeping face, he grows restless.
He frowns, fingers brushing a stray curl out of the Indian's face, lightly--so feather-soft, in fact, that Mohinder barely stirs--and then he slips out of bed. He's not sure where he's going or what he's doing, though, and so he pads into the living room aimlessly, coming to stand among headstones of cushions and wood in this graveyard of unoccupied furniture. It's a morbid way of thinking of it, he knows, but it seems so true, and for more than just the way the light's falling on the couch.
( No one, save them, has been here in months. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1052
His first thought is that it's the sounds of the city, but he's quick to dismiss it, as his ear is still pressed firmly to Mohinder's chest, his heartbeat and his breathing sweeter than any lullaby. His next is that, perhaps, someone has broken into the apartment and he's experiencing some sort of sixth sense of not being alone, but even when he pulls away from the geneticist he doesn't hear anything. Finally, his mind drifts to the notion that--well, actually, there's nothing else he can come up with to explain why he's suddenly and fully awake, and so his mind just drifts.
For a long time, he contents himself to watching the other man in the dim light coming in off the windows, mind blank. It's a favorite pastime of his, something that whittles away at the hours until the geneticist comes awake, something he's done since even before he and Mohinder were an item, and usually it suits him. Usually, but tonight, after what he gauges as an hour or so of letting his eyes dance over his sleeping face, he grows restless.
He frowns, fingers brushing a stray curl out of the Indian's face, lightly--so feather-soft, in fact, that Mohinder barely stirs--and then he slips out of bed. He's not sure where he's going or what he's doing, though, and so he pads into the living room aimlessly, coming to stand among headstones of cushions and wood in this graveyard of unoccupied furniture. It's a morbid way of thinking of it, he knows, but it seems so true, and for more than just the way the light's falling on the couch.
( No one, save them, has been here in months. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1052
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