[Fic]: Conventional Christmases
Category: Heroes
Written By: Mello McQueen
Summary: On Christmas, Peter and Sylar drink hot chocolate, exchange childhood stories, and build a snowman. All while enjoying the comforts of someone else’s home.
Genre: Family/Friendship
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Gabriel Grey/Sylar. None.
Authoress Notes: Sorry if they seem a little out of character. I tried my best, but it's just. . .I'm not sure what "in character" for these two means anymore. . . you know? written at: December 17, 2008. Word count: 1,626.
Conventional Christmases
It was quiet in the cozy living room, as Peter sat on the couch clutching a mug of hot chocolate in his hands and staring at the fire in the hearth. Sylar was equally silent, sitting, cross-legged on the floor’s beige colored carpet.
He hadn’t spoken since Peter had arrived, except for a casual hello, and then to ask if he liked marshmallows in his hot chocolate.
Peter had wordlessly nodded and fifteen minutes later, this is where he was, sitting on the couch, listening to the crackling noise of the fire, and the even sound of their breathing, while trying not to look around the expansive living room.
Trying not to notice the pictures hanging on the walls, or the tiny glass-framed ornaments hanging from the brightly lit Christmas tree, showing a smiling man and his two daughters.
He especially tried not to think of where that smiling man and his daughters might be, so it seemed absolutely necessary to strike up a conversation with the man on the floor, if only to keep himself from going insane.
It just happened to be unfortunate luck that the first words out of his mouth were: “My family always hated conventional Christmases.”
Mostly, because this made Sylar look up at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity on his face. Peter shrugged at the look. “They were always the type to be thankful not to get a gift. If they didn’t get one, they didn’t have to get you one.”
Sylar raised an eyebrow questioningly, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, Peter plunged on. “I hated it, so when I was little I wrote a letter to Santa Claus, asking for a present.”
“You wrote letters to Santa Claus?” Sylar asked after a moment, managing to make Peter feel worse and better all at the same time. On the one had, he was talking and talking was a distraction, on the other hand, he was going to make fun of Peter for the rest of his life.
“Of course, I did.” Peter replied after a moment, scowling slightly as Sylar muttered something under his breath that sounded something like ‘why am I not surprised?’
Still, Peter decided after a moment to ignore him. “They were semi-heart-felt little letters.” He informed and Sylar snorted in amusement.
“Oh, I can imagine.” He said, but didn’t elaborate on his train of thought and so Peter took a sip of his hot chocolate and continued, his eyes taking on a cloudy look as he remembered something Sylar could not see.
“I spent weeks composing those letters.” He said, “Making sure everything was exactly the way I wanted it to be. Every sentence, every word, every comma. I made sure they were perfect. And then I gave them to my mother to be mailed.”
He stopped there, and showed no signs of continuing. Sylar’s brow furrowed. “And, what happened?” he prompted after a moment, not seeming surprised when Peter’s eyes suddenly snapped back into focus, and looked at him.
He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “I. . .I’ll tell you but you have to tell me something first.” he expressed, thinking of the family who occupied this house. Before he could ask about them however, Sylar scowled.
“You didn’t finish, and you want me to tell you something." He seemed to ask, for clarity’s sake, but then continued without waiting for Peter to answer his question. “Fine.” he said, and looked thoughtful for about a split-second.
“When I was. . .seven, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus. My first and last.” He expressed, and although this was not what Peter wanted to hear, he squelched the urge to interrupt, curiosity taking over as a slightly nostalgic look crossed Sylar’s face for the briefest part of a moment, and then was accompanied by a grin Peter did not like.
He eyed Sylar suspiciously. “What exactly did this letter say?” he asked, cautiously.
Sylar’s expression was replaced with a malicious smile, as he answered without hesitation: “It said that if he didn’t get me a red hot-rod bike with flames on it that I’d find him and burn him and all his little elves to smoldering piles of ash.”
There was a moment of dead silence as Peter gawked at him. “You’re joking right.” He rasped, and Sylar snorted. It wasn't really a question, more like a statement of desperate denial.
“Of course, I’m joking Peter! I was seven for crying out loud!” He exclaimed, rolling his eyes as Peter visibly relaxed.
“Oh,” He said after a moment feeling embarrassed for being so gullible, but then, when it came to Sylar, maybe that was to be expected, he thought before asking: “What did it really say?”
Sylar looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling trying to recall it. “Not sure.” he said after a moment, “but I remember that it was a very short, polite, letter.”
“Oh.” Peter said again, then hesitated, “So what happened?”
Sylar sighed. “I. . .got a watch for Christmas.” He said, somewhat disappointed, somewhat bitter.
Peter sucked in air through his teeth at the sound of the other man’s tone, mouthing rather than saying: ‘ouch’. Sylar nodded in agreement. “Yeah. I hated Santa Claus after that.” He expressed, then looked at Peter with an interested expression. “So what happened with your letters?” He asked, and Peter blinked.
“What?”
Sylar rolled his eyes. “The ones you gave to your mother?”
“. . .Oh.” Peter hesitated. “I uh, went to sleep and woke up later that night. I heard a noise and went downstairs.” he paused again. “I, I thought it was Santa Claus but. . .” His voice trailed off.
“But?” Sylar prompted.
“It was my dad, throwing my letters into the fire and watching them burn.”
Sylar made a sound in the back of his throat, sitting up straighter and looking at him. “He didn’t!” He exlcaimed, with exaggerated surprise, as though such a thing were on heard of.
Peter gave a morose smile despite himself and nodded. “Yeah, he did.”
“That bastard!” Sylar exclaimed, this time seeming honestly disgusted by this. “How did he get them?”
Peter shrugged, “he found them I guess. Either that, or my mother gave them to him. Probably didn’t have the heart to burn them herself.” He said, and then added, “Nathan always used to give me presents, and pretend they were from Santa Claus.” before he could manage to think better of it.
Though the statement had been barely a whisper, something said only to himself, with Sylar’s more than perfect hearing, it didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the tone of ill-disguised disappointment.
Which, was too bad for Peter, because then those eyes were looking at him with something between pity and sympathy. Emotions Peter could not imagine being associated with any situation involving Nathan. Nathan who had betrayed them all. . .
Not that it mattered because Sylar wasn’t capable of feeling normal human emotions, Peter reminded himself forcing the train that was his thoughts away from that dangerous track.
At least, he was pretty sure of that, until he turned his attention towards the frost covered window, and blinked. It was snowing by the look of the ground outside, and had been for sometime.
At the same time he noticed this, so did Sylar, and a strange grin came over the other man’s face. He put his cup down abruptly on the hardwood floor, to the left of his tiny rug, and stood up so fast that Peter jumped, almost dropping his own.
“Come on, Peter.” He said, ignoring the look of shock and slight fear on Peter’s face as he looked towards the window. “Let’s go outside.”
Peter gawked at him in shock. “What?” he asked, looking utterly confused. Sylar grinned in response and took the cup out of his hands, reaching for him and pulling him off the couch in the same instance.
“Come on, let’s go outside and make a snowman.”
Peter’s mouth fell open at the strange look of excitement in his eyes. “You’re joking right?” he asked repeating his early question, with a slightly more frantic tone.
Sylar shook his head, slightly. “No, I’m not joking. We’ll build a snowman. That’s what normal people do on Christmas isn’t it?” He asked, and there was something in his tone that made Peter’s resistance to this insane idea crumble.
“. . .yeah.” he admitted, hesitantly after a moment, and nearly tripped over the rug as Sylar instantly began pulling him towards the front door. He protested. “But normal people have gloves, and scarves and hats and coats and-“
Despite his rationalizations Peter found himself standing out in the freezing cold some forty minutes later, carefully sticking little buttons on the head of their snowman so that it could smile while they froze to death.
When he was finished, he walked back a few paces to the curb where Sylar sat, a fresh cup of hot chocolate in his hands and dropped down beside him. The other offered him the cup by his feet, and he took it gratefully, and for a moment they were silent, admiring their creation.
“It’s good.” Peter said after a moment of contemplation. Sylar nodded in agreement, and for a few minutes they fell into a comfortable silence, sitting there with their mugs, and watching the snow fall.
Then quite suddenly, Sylar said: “I didn’t kill them, you know.” and Peter nodded as though he had been expecting this.
“I know.” he replied simply, then paused and added, “Thank you. It’s . . .a good present.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw the corners of Sylar’s mouth turn up ever so slightly, and heard the faintly whispered, “Merry Christmas, Peter.”
He smiled, “Merry Christmas, Gabriel.”
End
Authoress Notes: Comments?
Written By: Mello McQueen
Summary: On Christmas, Peter and Sylar drink hot chocolate, exchange childhood stories, and build a snowman. All while enjoying the comforts of someone else’s home.
Genre: Family/Friendship
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Gabriel Grey/Sylar. None.
Authoress Notes: Sorry if they seem a little out of character. I tried my best, but it's just. . .I'm not sure what "in character" for these two means anymore. . . you know? written at: December 17, 2008. Word count: 1,626.
Conventional Christmases
It was quiet in the cozy living room, as Peter sat on the couch clutching a mug of hot chocolate in his hands and staring at the fire in the hearth. Sylar was equally silent, sitting, cross-legged on the floor’s beige colored carpet.
He hadn’t spoken since Peter had arrived, except for a casual hello, and then to ask if he liked marshmallows in his hot chocolate.
Peter had wordlessly nodded and fifteen minutes later, this is where he was, sitting on the couch, listening to the crackling noise of the fire, and the even sound of their breathing, while trying not to look around the expansive living room.
Trying not to notice the pictures hanging on the walls, or the tiny glass-framed ornaments hanging from the brightly lit Christmas tree, showing a smiling man and his two daughters.
He especially tried not to think of where that smiling man and his daughters might be, so it seemed absolutely necessary to strike up a conversation with the man on the floor, if only to keep himself from going insane.
It just happened to be unfortunate luck that the first words out of his mouth were: “My family always hated conventional Christmases.”
Mostly, because this made Sylar look up at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity on his face. Peter shrugged at the look. “They were always the type to be thankful not to get a gift. If they didn’t get one, they didn’t have to get you one.”
Sylar raised an eyebrow questioningly, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, Peter plunged on. “I hated it, so when I was little I wrote a letter to Santa Claus, asking for a present.”
“You wrote letters to Santa Claus?” Sylar asked after a moment, managing to make Peter feel worse and better all at the same time. On the one had, he was talking and talking was a distraction, on the other hand, he was going to make fun of Peter for the rest of his life.
“Of course, I did.” Peter replied after a moment, scowling slightly as Sylar muttered something under his breath that sounded something like ‘why am I not surprised?’
Still, Peter decided after a moment to ignore him. “They were semi-heart-felt little letters.” He informed and Sylar snorted in amusement.
“Oh, I can imagine.” He said, but didn’t elaborate on his train of thought and so Peter took a sip of his hot chocolate and continued, his eyes taking on a cloudy look as he remembered something Sylar could not see.
“I spent weeks composing those letters.” He said, “Making sure everything was exactly the way I wanted it to be. Every sentence, every word, every comma. I made sure they were perfect. And then I gave them to my mother to be mailed.”
He stopped there, and showed no signs of continuing. Sylar’s brow furrowed. “And, what happened?” he prompted after a moment, not seeming surprised when Peter’s eyes suddenly snapped back into focus, and looked at him.
He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “I. . .I’ll tell you but you have to tell me something first.” he expressed, thinking of the family who occupied this house. Before he could ask about them however, Sylar scowled.
“You didn’t finish, and you want me to tell you something." He seemed to ask, for clarity’s sake, but then continued without waiting for Peter to answer his question. “Fine.” he said, and looked thoughtful for about a split-second.
“When I was. . .seven, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus. My first and last.” He expressed, and although this was not what Peter wanted to hear, he squelched the urge to interrupt, curiosity taking over as a slightly nostalgic look crossed Sylar’s face for the briefest part of a moment, and then was accompanied by a grin Peter did not like.
He eyed Sylar suspiciously. “What exactly did this letter say?” he asked, cautiously.
Sylar’s expression was replaced with a malicious smile, as he answered without hesitation: “It said that if he didn’t get me a red hot-rod bike with flames on it that I’d find him and burn him and all his little elves to smoldering piles of ash.”
There was a moment of dead silence as Peter gawked at him. “You’re joking right.” He rasped, and Sylar snorted. It wasn't really a question, more like a statement of desperate denial.
“Of course, I’m joking Peter! I was seven for crying out loud!” He exclaimed, rolling his eyes as Peter visibly relaxed.
“Oh,” He said after a moment feeling embarrassed for being so gullible, but then, when it came to Sylar, maybe that was to be expected, he thought before asking: “What did it really say?”
Sylar looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling trying to recall it. “Not sure.” he said after a moment, “but I remember that it was a very short, polite, letter.”
“Oh.” Peter said again, then hesitated, “So what happened?”
Sylar sighed. “I. . .got a watch for Christmas.” He said, somewhat disappointed, somewhat bitter.
Peter sucked in air through his teeth at the sound of the other man’s tone, mouthing rather than saying: ‘ouch’. Sylar nodded in agreement. “Yeah. I hated Santa Claus after that.” He expressed, then looked at Peter with an interested expression. “So what happened with your letters?” He asked, and Peter blinked.
“What?”
Sylar rolled his eyes. “The ones you gave to your mother?”
“. . .Oh.” Peter hesitated. “I uh, went to sleep and woke up later that night. I heard a noise and went downstairs.” he paused again. “I, I thought it was Santa Claus but. . .” His voice trailed off.
“But?” Sylar prompted.
“It was my dad, throwing my letters into the fire and watching them burn.”
Sylar made a sound in the back of his throat, sitting up straighter and looking at him. “He didn’t!” He exlcaimed, with exaggerated surprise, as though such a thing were on heard of.
Peter gave a morose smile despite himself and nodded. “Yeah, he did.”
“That bastard!” Sylar exclaimed, this time seeming honestly disgusted by this. “How did he get them?”
Peter shrugged, “he found them I guess. Either that, or my mother gave them to him. Probably didn’t have the heart to burn them herself.” He said, and then added, “Nathan always used to give me presents, and pretend they were from Santa Claus.” before he could manage to think better of it.
Though the statement had been barely a whisper, something said only to himself, with Sylar’s more than perfect hearing, it didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the tone of ill-disguised disappointment.
Which, was too bad for Peter, because then those eyes were looking at him with something between pity and sympathy. Emotions Peter could not imagine being associated with any situation involving Nathan. Nathan who had betrayed them all. . .
Not that it mattered because Sylar wasn’t capable of feeling normal human emotions, Peter reminded himself forcing the train that was his thoughts away from that dangerous track.
At least, he was pretty sure of that, until he turned his attention towards the frost covered window, and blinked. It was snowing by the look of the ground outside, and had been for sometime.
At the same time he noticed this, so did Sylar, and a strange grin came over the other man’s face. He put his cup down abruptly on the hardwood floor, to the left of his tiny rug, and stood up so fast that Peter jumped, almost dropping his own.
“Come on, Peter.” He said, ignoring the look of shock and slight fear on Peter’s face as he looked towards the window. “Let’s go outside.”
Peter gawked at him in shock. “What?” he asked, looking utterly confused. Sylar grinned in response and took the cup out of his hands, reaching for him and pulling him off the couch in the same instance.
“Come on, let’s go outside and make a snowman.”
Peter’s mouth fell open at the strange look of excitement in his eyes. “You’re joking right?” he asked repeating his early question, with a slightly more frantic tone.
Sylar shook his head, slightly. “No, I’m not joking. We’ll build a snowman. That’s what normal people do on Christmas isn’t it?” He asked, and there was something in his tone that made Peter’s resistance to this insane idea crumble.
“. . .yeah.” he admitted, hesitantly after a moment, and nearly tripped over the rug as Sylar instantly began pulling him towards the front door. He protested. “But normal people have gloves, and scarves and hats and coats and-“
Despite his rationalizations Peter found himself standing out in the freezing cold some forty minutes later, carefully sticking little buttons on the head of their snowman so that it could smile while they froze to death.
When he was finished, he walked back a few paces to the curb where Sylar sat, a fresh cup of hot chocolate in his hands and dropped down beside him. The other offered him the cup by his feet, and he took it gratefully, and for a moment they were silent, admiring their creation.
“It’s good.” Peter said after a moment of contemplation. Sylar nodded in agreement, and for a few minutes they fell into a comfortable silence, sitting there with their mugs, and watching the snow fall.
Then quite suddenly, Sylar said: “I didn’t kill them, you know.” and Peter nodded as though he had been expecting this.
“I know.” he replied simply, then paused and added, “Thank you. It’s . . .a good present.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw the corners of Sylar’s mouth turn up ever so slightly, and heard the faintly whispered, “Merry Christmas, Peter.”
He smiled, “Merry Christmas, Gabriel.”
End
Authoress Notes: Comments?