(no subject)
For the record, no: much as he would like to be, he isn't unflappable. He just does a pretty damn good impression of it.
There are definite limits, however, to how far you can fake enthusiasm -- especially to yourself. Sylar has meticulously cleansed himself of any hint of pen or plaster, but he can't do the same with the sheer frustration, on top of self-pity, on top of self-loathing, on top of a new gnawing... he can only describe it as being hungry, easy to ignore until a full roasted dinner is waved under your nose and snatched away again. How can you concentrate on tiny cogs and gears in a state like that?
It doesn't help that Darla, currently, isn't here. The piano sits slightly forlornly at one side of the room, and the broken not-rhythm won't let there be silence, juddering scraping ticks insinuating themselves into the quiet like an encroaching army of horrors converging on a dying candle flame. This house! He doesn't know why he deigns to come back. It sets his teeth on edge at best.
There are definite limits, however, to how far you can fake enthusiasm -- especially to yourself. Sylar has meticulously cleansed himself of any hint of pen or plaster, but he can't do the same with the sheer frustration, on top of self-pity, on top of self-loathing, on top of a new gnawing... he can only describe it as being hungry, easy to ignore until a full roasted dinner is waved under your nose and snatched away again. How can you concentrate on tiny cogs and gears in a state like that?
It doesn't help that Darla, currently, isn't here. The piano sits slightly forlornly at one side of the room, and the broken not-rhythm won't let there be silence, juddering scraping ticks insinuating themselves into the quiet like an encroaching army of horrors converging on a dying candle flame. This house! He doesn't know why he deigns to come back. It sets his teeth on edge at best.