Lips parted, his movements nearly serpentine, he paints for the next half hour. He doesn't slow or look away from his task. Brushes fly to his hands when one becomes too dirty because Sylar, in his haste, forgot a container of water.
He is many things but a natural artist is not one of them. Some of the lines are skewed, there's splotches of ink that aren't smoothed over, but eventually, a clear picture begins to form. A giant blue ferris wheel is front and center, sparkling with neon lights. The bright full moon in the upper right corner crests above a dark cloud. Matt and Gabriel with linked hands move towards the carnival ride, seemingly at peace.
It would be romantic were it not for the dripping blood in the foreground, just barely above the canvas's bottom edge. Its a river of blood and torn limbs, as if discarded or reaching for the pair, with the actual body count unseen. Sylar kneels to finish painting in the redness, abandoning the brushes entirely and using his hands.
He falls back into the grass, his hands sprawling beside himself. He closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and when he opens them again, his eyes are his own once more. Sylar blinks several times, like a man faced with too-bright sunlight after being cooped up in darkness and focuses on the painting before him.
"Gabriel?!" Matthew moves off the bench, to be closer to him, to make sure he's okay, a hand reaching out to brush against his cheek before he realizes how weird and invasive that probably seems and pulls back away. The painting can wait--it already doesn't make sense.
Gabriel reaches for that hand before it has a chance to pull completely away, grasping with his own colorful grip. There's a second where he leans into it, seeking whatever comfort it might bring. The gestures are entirely by reflex, so he'll tell himself later, and only a half second later does his mind catch up to his actions.
"Oh, um. Sorry." He says shakily and releases him. Are they at that level of trust yet? Only a short while ago Matt had him turn away when he shifted, and now... Gabriel takes a couple more seconds of silence to settle his mind before he pushes himself up from the ground.
A towel flies to him and he absently wipes at his hands, looking of the drying canvas board.
"I've never seen that Ferris wheel in my life." He finally concludes.
"Nor have I--but there's absolutely no way I'd be out at a carnival on a full moon. I'd be...it would be a Very Bad Thing." He'd probably become the cause of the bloody mess in the painting--but he'd never let that happen.
Gabriel's nodding before Matt finishes. He recalls a mention of the full moon the last time. "And I wouldn't... Not that many, and never any innocents."
They didn't have anything he wanted, why would he do it? There's no missing heads at least. But the body parts, it could be either of them as the cause. But, why?
"This ability is never exact. It's a snapshot of things to come, like a comic book, but things can always change."
"Well, something needs to change, because that sort of carnage isn't acceptable." He lingers at Gabriel's side, not touching him again, but very clearly wanting to be close, to be present, to offer comfort, even if he doesn't quite know how to with Gabriel. But the fact that he wants to this badly, even he can recognize that as a thing he's feeling.
"Agreed. Well. I know where not to schedule our next..." Gabriel glances over at him and there's an urge to reach out for him to touch his hand, put an arm around his shoulder... He licks his lips and turns away. "... Our next whatever." Sylar backs away a couple steps, grasping a satay and biting into it. "I could do more. Paint more panels. That is, if you don't mind knowing your future."
Matthew watches Gabriel step away, not sure how exactly to interpret that. "I think I'm good. I'd rather stay in the present with you, for now. If that's okay?"
Though he'd hesitate to admit it, seeing him trance out like that had been a little bit frightening. He needs time to get used to the sort of superhuman powers that Sylar is already very used to.
Sylar nods, and for a few seconds, looks relieved. This power took a lot out of him, more than he could recall it doing before. And there was still that concern about what else may come back. He waves the satay stick at the paint supplies, as a conductor to a band, and the mess begins to clean itself up.
"That's fine. I'd like that, actually." Except, there had been that question earlier. He nibbles on the stick, then turns to watch Matthew closely. "Before we go any further, in any direction, you deserve to know: I kill people for their abilities." No trace of regret, nor promises he'll stop.
"Uh. That's...a lot to take in. Why do you do it?"
There's a part of him that wants, despite what he just heard Gabriel say, to find some sort of...justification? Explanation? He wants to see the best in people. In everyone but himself, honestly.
"For what it's worth, you don't need to kill me, if you want to become a werewolf. I'd just need to bite you."
The all important 'why'. The most obvious question. It's as if killing needs to have a reason when nature is itself chaotic and kills indiscriminately. He can't help but grin at that.
"No. I don't want a wolf's hunger inside my mind. Combined with my own it would not be ideal." And that's a fine way to explain it though, isn't it? A hunger, an addiction... an excuse. He doesn't require the veil of a compulsion to hide behind.
"I do it because I like to. I want to become better. And these abilities are hidden, tucked away..." He taps at his forehead with the stick. "Along with so, so many other things. All the answers in the universe lie within."
"I...can't be okay with that, Gabriel. You come out here and tell me that--how am I supposed to react? 'Oh, okay, good to know, now let's be BFF, if not more!' Fuck." He stands and begins to pace, tension clear across his shoulders, the line of his back, his hands clenching.
There's a part of him that says the best answer would be to shift, right now. To shift and to attack. He tells that part of him to fuck off.
"Is it so surprising?" He asks, and in contrast to Matthew, he's perfectly at ease. His voice is soft, thoughtful. "I could be a force of nature. A tornado, a flood, those kill without necessity."
Sylar flicks away the stick he'd been chewing on. It impales itself in the tree nearest Matthew as if shot from a bow.
"I stopped once. Tried to. Thought I could be happy that way, but. It didn't last."
"Well, I can't be happy with someone who just kills people!"
It certainly explains a lot of the remarks Sylar has made. About being a wanted man, for example.
He doesn't stop pacing, prowling, an unmistakable growl in his voice. "I'm not going to just hang out with a murderer. Erase my number from your phone, I'm not answering for you anymore."
The hands of clocks begin ticking in his head. How this might play out, each future action unraveling before him. He tsk-tsk's in disappointment.
"I really wish you hadn't said that." A gesture from his hand and Matt's pacing will stop, though not by his own will. It will feel as if his legs have become latched to the ground. Like the feline circling the caged canary, Sylar strolls until he's standing in front of him.
"Tell me how you're better than me. Tell me how, when you kill, you blame it on the full moon. Convince me not to kill you."
Sylar laughs a little. "Do I look upset? Because I'm not. Emotions don't play into this at all." Not this time. "If I killed you, it would be for my own survival."
He crosses his arms. "You are also avoiding my questions, Matthew. What's the matter? Can't bear witness to your own reflection?"
"You're not my reflection. I'm not anything like you. I work very hard, keeping my wolf from killing anyone." It works...except when it's failed. Only two, maybe three times. That's enough for him to hate and fear himself, though.
(What the wolf wants is a pack, is space to run and prey to hunt. Every time Matthew fails, he cages it more tightly, isolates it, denies it. At this point, it's very much a self-fulfilling prophecy, a cycle he's perpetuating.)
"And I'm sure he is content fetching sticks every time you're forced to shift. Actually..." His eyes gleam in the moonlight illuminating them and his lips quirk upwards. "What brings the wolf out, I wonder? If your life were threatened, would he come out to play?"
"And here I thought you didn't want to get bitten." It's black humor, trying to cling to something as he tries to hold himself back. Because Sylar's right, this situation is whipping the wolf into a frenzy.
"Oh, you could try..." Sylar holds his hand out, palm up, and with his other makes that slicing gesture he knows so well. The gash forms from pinky to thumb and he hisses, sighs, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. His blood pools in his palm, joining the paint stains before dripping onto the grass beneath his hand. A few seconds later, the wound closes up and heals. "...But I don't think it'll stick."
A multitude of things come to mind. He wanted to smear his blood on Matthew's forehead and call him Simba. He wanted to see this gentle soul become a bloodthirsty beast and revel in his own nature. He wanted to kiss him and bite him and be bitten by him, until they each tasted each other's blood.
But most of all, he wanted the future he painted. Bodies of discarded lesser creatures reaching for them while they enjoyed their romantic outing. Two predators among men, gods in their own way, having a relaxing night.
Sylar licks his lips, hesitates, then releases Matthew from his hold.
"A friend. Failing that, I want to see just how bad you can get."
"It'll have to be the first one, I suppose. I'm never going to let you see me lose control." Though he doesn't know how much of a friend he can really be to someone who's admitted to being a serial killer. It's going to get weird.
Tick, tick, tock... Just one slice into his forehead would bring the beast to the surface. Sylar could see it so perfectly in his mind's eye. Action, reaction, cause, and effect. His fingers twitch by his side with anticipation.
"Well, if you insist..." He says instead, cheerfully ignoring the murderous impulse. "I'm happy to remain in your phone, and have you in mine."
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Lips parted, his movements nearly serpentine, he paints for the next half hour. He doesn't slow or look away from his task. Brushes fly to his hands when one becomes too dirty because Sylar, in his haste, forgot a container of water.
He is many things but a natural artist is not one of them. Some of the lines are skewed, there's splotches of ink that aren't smoothed over, but eventually, a clear picture begins to form. A giant blue ferris wheel is front and center, sparkling with neon lights. The bright full moon in the upper right corner crests above a dark cloud. Matt and Gabriel with linked hands move towards the carnival ride, seemingly at peace.
It would be romantic were it not for the dripping blood in the foreground, just barely above the canvas's bottom edge. Its a river of blood and torn limbs, as if discarded or reaching for the pair, with the actual body count unseen. Sylar kneels to finish painting in the redness, abandoning the brushes entirely and using his hands.
He falls back into the grass, his hands sprawling beside himself. He closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and when he opens them again, his eyes are his own once more. Sylar blinks several times, like a man faced with too-bright sunlight after being cooped up in darkness and focuses on the painting before him.
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"Oh, um. Sorry." He says shakily and releases him. Are they at that level of trust yet? Only a short while ago Matt had him turn away when he shifted, and now... Gabriel takes a couple more seconds of silence to settle his mind before he pushes himself up from the ground.
A towel flies to him and he absently wipes at his hands, looking of the drying canvas board.
"I've never seen that Ferris wheel in my life." He finally concludes.
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They didn't have anything he wanted, why would he do it? There's no missing heads at least. But the body parts, it could be either of them as the cause. But, why?
"This ability is never exact. It's a snapshot of things to come, like a comic book, but things can always change."
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Though he'd hesitate to admit it, seeing him trance out like that had been a little bit frightening. He needs time to get used to the sort of superhuman powers that Sylar is already very used to.
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"That's fine. I'd like that, actually." Except, there had been that question earlier. He nibbles on the stick, then turns to watch Matthew closely. "Before we go any further, in any direction, you deserve to know: I kill people for their abilities." No trace of regret, nor promises he'll stop.
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"Uh. That's...a lot to take in. Why do you do it?"
There's a part of him that wants, despite what he just heard Gabriel say, to find some sort of...justification? Explanation? He wants to see the best in people. In everyone but himself, honestly.
"For what it's worth, you don't need to kill me, if you want to become a werewolf. I'd just need to bite you."
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"No. I don't want a wolf's hunger inside my mind. Combined with my own it would not be ideal." And that's a fine way to explain it though, isn't it? A hunger, an addiction... an excuse. He doesn't require the veil of a compulsion to hide behind.
"I do it because I like to. I want to become better. And these abilities are hidden, tucked away..." He taps at his forehead with the stick. "Along with so, so many other things. All the answers in the universe lie within."
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There's a part of him that says the best answer would be to shift, right now. To shift and to attack. He tells that part of him to fuck off.
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Sylar flicks away the stick he'd been chewing on. It impales itself in the tree nearest Matthew as if shot from a bow.
"I stopped once. Tried to. Thought I could be happy that way, but. It didn't last."
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It certainly explains a lot of the remarks Sylar has made. About being a wanted man, for example.
He doesn't stop pacing, prowling, an unmistakable growl in his voice. "I'm not going to just hang out with a murderer. Erase my number from your phone, I'm not answering for you anymore."
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"I really wish you hadn't said that." A gesture from his hand and Matt's pacing will stop, though not by his own will. It will feel as if his legs have become latched to the ground. Like the feline circling the caged canary, Sylar strolls until he's standing in front of him.
"Tell me how you're better than me. Tell me how, when you kill, you blame it on the full moon. Convince me not to kill you."
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"Oh, I see. You don't just kill people for their powers. You'd kill me because I've pissed you off. Is that what's going on here?"
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He crosses his arms. "You are also avoiding my questions, Matthew. What's the matter? Can't bear witness to your own reflection?"
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(What the wolf wants is a pack, is space to run and prey to hunt. Every time Matthew fails, he cages it more tightly, isolates it, denies it. At this point, it's very much a self-fulfilling prophecy, a cycle he's perpetuating.)
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"What do you want from me?"
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But most of all, he wanted the future he painted. Bodies of discarded lesser creatures reaching for them while they enjoyed their romantic outing. Two predators among men, gods in their own way, having a relaxing night.
Sylar licks his lips, hesitates, then releases Matthew from his hold.
"A friend. Failing that, I want to see just how bad you can get."
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...as if it's not weird already.
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"Well, if you insist..." He says instead, cheerfully ignoring the murderous impulse. "I'm happy to remain in your phone, and have you in mine."
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and fin.