Fury (or Seeing Truth is Not Equal to Speaking Truth) for jaune_chat

[ashedrake]

Title: Fury (or Seeing Truth is Not Equal to Speaking Truth)
Author: ashedrake
Characters: Sylar/Luke
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Heroes doesn’t belong to me.
Word Count: 2401
Warnings: Violence, death (not the boys!), some gore, blasphemy.
Summary: Written for
jaune_chat 's prompt at lukexsylar Xmas in July Fic Exchange: “AU: Sylar only has his original power, intuitive aptitude, but is an evil genius mastermind (like a mafia don). He wants Luke to become one of his superpowered henchmen. Focus on the courting/recruiting/first mission. Doesn't have to have sex, but wouldn't mind it either! I'd like to see some creative use of powers in here, particularly Gabriel's power.”
Notes: Thanks to my friend Gary for betaing. I hope this fits the bill, j_c. I also added a little something for thevoiceofwrath .

.


“You’re a fucking creep, Fluke.”

It’s peaceful here. From the top of the school he can see for miles and miles. The wind blows strong, clutching and tearing at his jacket. The heat can’t touch him and the sun’s just light, just bright light skimming his face and the soft skin of his eyelids, shining through them and turning his world into flecks of colours. It feels like flying should feel like, all pure sensation and freedom.

“What the hell makes you think you can be here?”

A hand touches his shoulder, there and gone again. His own hand reaches down, rakes through the gravel and the sand that’s found its way up here. He fills his palm with it, lifts it up to let the grains sift from the inside of one hand to the other. It tickles, trickling with a motion like water, but not cool, not sleek. It’s warm and coarse. Sand like this was once a mountain, a crushing boulder, a sharp stone. He doesn’t know… Can sand become mountains again? Or is something worn down-

“Are you deaf or what?”

It hasn’t rained for weeks and weeks now. It’s too warm. Too dry. Tempers running too hot. Funny how that works.

“Here’s the deal, creep. We’re tired of you,” general murmuring of agreement from the rest. Monkey see, monkey do. “It’s time you left.”

Luke sighs. What the fuck. “Dude, if you can’t stand the sight of me, why’d you keep following me around? It’s pretty pathetic.”

And the hand’s back. With friends. They tangle in Luke’s collar, in the back of his shirt, and drag him backwards. He lets himself be pulled, legs scrambling for purchase. If there’s one thing he doesn’t want it’s more bruises and marks. It’s one of those promises - like “I’ll get away” and “I’m stronger now” - he keeps making himself.

“Hey!” He croaks, finally getting his fingers inside the collar digging into his skin.

“Yeah, Fluke?” They drop him to the ground. He takes a deep breath, swallows it down, and rests his head on the ground. Squinting up into their eyes, seeing them smile at him.

“Fuck off and die,” he smiles back. “Seriously. Whenever any of you want to take that last special plunge, save me a front row seat, okay?”

He twists. Kicks out at the closest knee. There’s a crack which makes him nauseous and cheerful at the same time. The scream after is even better.

“’Cause, y’know, I really don’t think-“ he laughs and gets to his feet, feeling them back away. “I really don’t think assholes like you should get to live.”

There’s that moment of perfect, stunned silence when he’s in control. They’re so afraid, so fucking scared. He could turn his back on them now and walk away, and none of them would dare to touch him again. Then the guy on the ground curses - at them, at him, who knows? And they’re all back.

The first hit splits his lip, blood to his mouth, and drives him back to the ground, the rest keeps him down but don’t do much harm. He’s curled up, arms over his face to keep the blows away, legs pulled up to protect his stomach from kicks. Lesson #1: The back can take a lot more beating than the stomach and face. Doesn’t mean it isn’t painful, but in long term damages… it’s okay.

He doesn’t panic until they start dragging him. It’s the wrong way, away from the door. He really, really doesn’t want to get any closer to the roof edge right now.

“No-“

“You should listen now, Fluke,” one sneers. “It’s pretty simple, but it’s the most important thing anyone’s ever going to tell you.”

“No! Fuck you!” His spine hits the edge of the railing.

“Listen! You were born trash. You know that. Not even your parents wanted you. And you’ve lived trash ever since, because that’s what you do. You poison everything.”

He bites at the hand that covers his mouth when he yells. There’s blood, he’s pretty sure it’s too much to be only his own - he would spit it out if they’d only let go off his face. He’d run away if they’d only let him go. He’d fight this.

“It’s gonna be okay, Luke. Don’t worry. Born trash, live trash. That’s what you’ve been doing. You’ve only got ‘die trash’ left. We’ll help you.”

Then his feet are lifted off the ground and they’re tipping him back. No, no, no, no. Please no. His shoulders are going over the railing; the metal’s scraping his skin through his shirt.

Stupid. Begging never works. Fighting never works. Giving in never works.

Time stands still. The hand pushes his head back until he’s staring at the sun, upside down. It stings his eyes and when a trickle of blood is caught on his lashes it turns the sun a shining, burning red. He’s on fire.

Someone’s screaming again and it’s not him. There’s too many voices, a chorus of them, a choir in pain. Fitting for a death and the hands are letting go off him, letting him fall. And he won’t die, he won’t let them have that. This is all he has left, this fiery bright feeling of being alive.

The railing gives out a second before he overbalances, before he’s on the wrong side. The roof edge catches him, melds to his bracing hands. Everything’s shuddering and shimmering and… boiling.

He scrambles away from the edge, watches it crumble and melt. Everything’s so red, everything’s on fire, and he, it’s not touching him. But they, the rest of them. There’s something next to him, red again, but black too - charred, not much left. Looks like it should smell, but he can’t, there’s no smell, nothing, not even the wind. Crawling back only makes him bump into another red and black lump, split and overcooked. It sizzles where his foot touches it.

Someone’s crying. Softly. The way you do when you try to hide, when there’s something too big to fight, when you realize that no one’s coming to help you and there’s no real safe place to stay hidden. It’s not Luke. Luke hasn’t got anymore tears; they feel like they’ve been burned away. He raises a hand to his face, watches the air around it dance. It feels strange when he touches his cheek, like his skin is pushing at itself. When he pulls the hand away it’s wet, but not with tears. It looks too sticky.

So it’s not him that’s crying. He looks through the fading red film and the dancing air and sees one of them. A kid really, just like him. He’s gotten all the way to the door, but not through it. Not that weird, the door’s metal and looks foreboding now when the world is burning. Isn’t there something about not opening doors when there’s a fire?

“It’s a death trap,” he tells the kid. He’s cradling his hand, crying over it, so Luke guesses he got the point.

“We weren’t going to hurt you,” he sobs. “It was a joke!”

“A joke?” he asks. It hurts to talk, like his voice is sandpaper inside his throat and his breath turns to steam inside his mouth.

“Yes!” the hands are held out, the burned one looking mangled and strangely bloodless. “We wouldn’t have dropped you. People - people don’t do that!”

“I do,” Luke says and when his knees give out he leans forward to embrace him.

***

When Luke wakes up he’s lying on something hard. He groans quietly and opens one hand. His fingers touch wood, smooth and cool.

It hurts to open his eyes. Everything is pain, even his bones ache. His body’s worn out; hollow. It’s… He lifts his hand to his face, finds a patch that’s warm and wet and not like skin at all.

“You’ve got a burn,” a man, all long and pale with glasses framing dark eyes. His hand covers Luke’s, presses it down until he pulls an agonized breath from him. “It’s poetic.”

“Wh-“ he coughs, it tears through his body and leaves him with tears in his eyes and lying halfway off the bench. He scrambles all the way off and ends up on his knees, clinging to the wood. A roof raises high up above him, stone vaults disappearing into shadows and there are benches all facing up to an altar in twisted, decorated wood. Luke hasn’t been in a church since he was six years old, and he’s not really happy to be back.

Something really bad has happened. He lost control and he’s pretty sure he killed someone because his clothes are covered in drying red and it’s not paint no matter how much he wants it to be. Is this what happens when they find out what you can do, the church gets you?

“Sit down, Luke,” the man says and helps him back up on the bench. “You’ve lost too much energy to stay up and I’m not lifting you off the floor.”

“What’s going on?” Luke whispers.

“Well, you -“ he smirks and Luke starts when a finger is pointed sharply at him. “You did something very interesting today.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Luke snarls and bats the hand away.

“Luke,” the man smiles at him and reaches out to rub his forehead where the hairline begins. Flakes of blood fall down. “Two hours ago I pulled you away from a boy that quite literally melted in your arms. I’m pretty sure you did something.”

He’s going to puke. He just hopes it doesn’t hit something too sacred, like the holy water or the guy even, because, holy fuck, he’s wearing a clerical collar, stark white pressed over the pale skin of his throat.

The priest takes Luke’s hand, nonchalantly holding it up to the light as if to study it. “Your palms were stuck to his skin.”

Okay, scratch that, he’s so puking on him.

“I think I did a good job cleaning you up. It’s as if you’ve never had blood on your hands.”

His eyes are beautiful, scary like anything, and they prove that Luke can still be afraid of someone other than himself.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Father Gabriel Gray,” he lifts his head up, looking five years younger and bright with innocence.

“No, you’re not,” Luke knows enough not to believe that. “You’re something different. And there’s no way I’m calling you father.”

“Daddy issues,” he leans back, white skin catching the light beaming in through the coloured glass, arms on the back of the bench leaving his front open and vulnerable. He’s tilts his head back and looks up as if he can see through the roof. Luke wants to hide his face at the memory of a red sun burning. “I’ve gone down that road before. It’s useless.”

“My name is Sylar,” he offers. “And you’re a kid with no future, no hope and no self-control.”

“Fuck you,” Luke snarls.

“That’s not a bad thing, Luke,” he shivers when Sylar’s hand curls around his neck, thumb at the top of his spine and index finger resting on his pulse. He can feel it race in response and blood flushes to his face. “You can work with that, change your course.”

“A person letting go off everything like you did almost never happens. It breaks the pattern, it can spin everything out of control,” Luke turns his head halfway to meet Sylar’s. They rest their foreheads against each other. “I know what you are, Luke.”

Luke’s breath hitches when lips graze over his own for a fleeting second.

“You’re nothing,” the hand on his neck clamps down. “Meant to live a monotonous life and then die in obscurity. That’s all you were ever made for.”

Luke fists his hands, wishing he hadn’t burned himself out, wishing he could add just that one extra dead body to his list of mistakes. Sylar covers one of the knotted fists and brings it up until it’s pressed between their chests, knuckles digging into Luke’s ribcage. The calloused thumb rubbing over his tensed fingers is blatantly tender in comparison to the one buried in the fragile skin of Luke’s neck.

“But this made you different,” kisses again, skimming the edges of his wounded cheek, brushing from the bridge of his nose to his eyebrow. Luke lets the pent up rage out with a soft exhale. “It didn’t have to, but you took it and you let it cast you anew. You’re a wild card, Luke. With you I can throw the game.”

“What are you?” It’s a whisper that trickles out with his breath, from his mouth to Sylar’s and he wants to follow.

“I’m a monster, just like you,” Sylar smiles, easing the grip he’s got on Luke, letting him move again. “I know how things work, what’s broken, and when it’s needed I fix them.”

He spreads his arms out in a gesture to encompass the church when Luke pulls away to look at him. “I can see the watchmaker’s fingerprint all over his creation.”

“Okay, that’s useful,” Luke raises an eyebrow and ducks his head with a smile when it gets him a glare.

“Once you see the pattern you can break it,” Sylar stands up and is covered in caressing blues and greens and yellows from the stained glass. “I saw where my path was meant to go and I ended that. And now I have you.”

“Me?” Luke leans forward, ignoring the aching settled deep in his skin.

“You. Breaking holes in the pattern just like I did. You’re how I - we can - change it all. If you prove yourself loyal enough,” he looks at him for one long moment, before he turns and walks away.

“Wait!” Luke throws himself up and rushes after him, latching onto the black sleeve of his shirt. He’s doubled over with the pain, clutching at Sylar and curling around his arm.

“Yes, Luke?” Sylar asks in a low tone and rests a comforting hand in his hair.

“I can be - I’m yours,” he’s stumbling over his own words but he doesn’t care. “I’m with you.”

Sylar’s answering smile is like sunshine and blood and his kiss is like fire.

“That’s good, Luke. That’s perfect.”