Heroes - "Red Stained Flower" - Sylar/Maya (ENGLISH)
Title: Red Stained Flower
Fandom: Heroes
Author: herm_weasley
Characters: Sylar, Maya Herrera
Pairing: Sylar/Maya (sort of)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 520 (W)
Warnings: FlashFic, Character Death, Angst (a bit)
Summary: An ink stain on his plan already perfectly traced on parchment.
Notes:
- Timeline: this is a post-Powerless flashfic.
- The quote at the very beginning is taken from Antigone by Jean Anouilh, it's a very short play and it's awesome. If you haven't read it yet, I advise you to do so :D it really worths the time. The quotes means (more or less): And the winner - already won - alone in the middle of his silence.
- This is unbetaed, so if you find any errors (spelling, grammar, and such) please let me know!
- Any feedback is much appreciated!
!ART: elivi made a beautiful drawing inspired by this fic! Go and check it out right HERE. Grazie Eli! ♥
Red Stained Flower.
Et le vainqueur, déjà vaincu, seul au milieu de son silence.
Jean Anouilh - "Antigone"
She was wearing a horrible flowered dress. He found the idea of her discovering it at Suresh's home, terribly amusing.
It managed to make him smile.
Among all those flowers, only one was standing out... only one.
It was the biggest of all, of a dark and vermilion red, gruesomely bloomed right in the middle of her chest, suffocating all the others.
He thought that it was the most beautiful... the most perfect - the most special of all.
Because - after all - it was his mark, the sign he indelibly left on her, for the second time.
Before that moment he hadn't had the occasion of watching it bloom, because the blonde girl came in taking him totally by surprise.
Moreover, in that very instant, it wasn't his priority at all.
He knew that doctor Suresh would have managed to wake her, and then - that flower - would have withered, and Maya would have came back smiling in that annoying and completely improper way.
Because he always saw her like that: out of place.
An ink stain on his plan already perfectly traced on parchment.
He had nothing to do with her.
So insipid. He hated her thirst for normality.
He would have never ever understood why someone should want to be like the others.
Why someone should desire to disappear in the nothing of the mass.
The thought made him shiver.
He let her fall back on the ground, not really worried of his ungentle and harsh gesture.
He thought he was sorry, but he realised it was a lie.
She was one among many others, she was naive, she was a child, she was terribly out of place.
Why should he have been sorry?
He slightly turned his head to better look at her.
Just in that very moment, he realised that her lips were the only ones he had ever kissed.
The thought hit him apparently without a reason.
It almost made him laugh.
He wondered how many lips she had kissed before his.
He knew he hadn't been the only one - and the idea, after all, managed to enrage him.
He wanted to openly mock her, scoff her, deride her, spit out on her all those things he couldn't tell her during their short trip together.
But in that desert street, in the hot air of that summer night, he did nothing but staring at that awful stain of blood that wasn't carmine anymore because it had assumed a nightmarish brown shade - the moment - he thought - was already gone, and by now, in that perfect picture, it had no appeal at all.
Her cheeks were already dying down, her half-open lips had lost their color, and if she had had her eyes open, he knew he wouldn't have seen anything but nothing.
He bent over her, closing her mouth with his own, catching the last bit of soul that was still hanging from her lips.
He thought she had been a perfect work of art.
And even though he was the winner, he realised he had nothing to say.
Fandom: Heroes
Author: herm_weasley
Characters: Sylar, Maya Herrera
Pairing: Sylar/Maya (sort of)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 520 (W)
Warnings: FlashFic, Character Death, Angst (a bit)
Summary: An ink stain on his plan already perfectly traced on parchment.
Notes:
- Timeline: this is a post-Powerless flashfic.
- The quote at the very beginning is taken from Antigone by Jean Anouilh, it's a very short play and it's awesome. If you haven't read it yet, I advise you to do so :D it really worths the time. The quotes means (more or less): And the winner - already won - alone in the middle of his silence.
- This is unbetaed, so if you find any errors (spelling, grammar, and such) please let me know!
- Any feedback is much appreciated!
!ART: elivi made a beautiful drawing inspired by this fic! Go and check it out right HERE. Grazie Eli! ♥
Red Stained Flower.
Et le vainqueur, déjà vaincu, seul au milieu de son silence.
Jean Anouilh - "Antigone"
She was wearing a horrible flowered dress. He found the idea of her discovering it at Suresh's home, terribly amusing.
It managed to make him smile.
Among all those flowers, only one was standing out... only one.
It was the biggest of all, of a dark and vermilion red, gruesomely bloomed right in the middle of her chest, suffocating all the others.
He thought that it was the most beautiful... the most perfect - the most special of all.
Because - after all - it was his mark, the sign he indelibly left on her, for the second time.
Before that moment he hadn't had the occasion of watching it bloom, because the blonde girl came in taking him totally by surprise.
Moreover, in that very instant, it wasn't his priority at all.
He knew that doctor Suresh would have managed to wake her, and then - that flower - would have withered, and Maya would have came back smiling in that annoying and completely improper way.
Because he always saw her like that: out of place.
An ink stain on his plan already perfectly traced on parchment.
He had nothing to do with her.
So insipid. He hated her thirst for normality.
He would have never ever understood why someone should want to be like the others.
Why someone should desire to disappear in the nothing of the mass.
The thought made him shiver.
He let her fall back on the ground, not really worried of his ungentle and harsh gesture.
He thought he was sorry, but he realised it was a lie.
She was one among many others, she was naive, she was a child, she was terribly out of place.
Why should he have been sorry?
He slightly turned his head to better look at her.
Just in that very moment, he realised that her lips were the only ones he had ever kissed.
The thought hit him apparently without a reason.
It almost made him laugh.
He wondered how many lips she had kissed before his.
He knew he hadn't been the only one - and the idea, after all, managed to enrage him.
He wanted to openly mock her, scoff her, deride her, spit out on her all those things he couldn't tell her during their short trip together.
But in that desert street, in the hot air of that summer night, he did nothing but staring at that awful stain of blood that wasn't carmine anymore because it had assumed a nightmarish brown shade - the moment - he thought - was already gone, and by now, in that perfect picture, it had no appeal at all.
Her cheeks were already dying down, her half-open lips had lost their color, and if she had had her eyes open, he knew he wouldn't have seen anything but nothing.
He bent over her, closing her mouth with his own, catching the last bit of soul that was still hanging from her lips.
He thought she had been a perfect work of art.
And even though he was the winner, he realised he had nothing to say.