Old narrative piece
“Are we really here?”
He lay on his back, watching fish swim through the sky while the stars disintegrated into shards of steel.
“I doubt it. Do you want some tea?”
A teacup was balanced on his stomach, but when he sat up to drink, the cup was bottomless and there was nothing in it.
“So I’m dreaming?”
“You do dream about me a lot. So maybe.” Sylar took the cup from his hands and drank from it, cradling it in both his hands.
“This doesn’t feel like one of Sanjog’s dreams.” Sanjog’s dreams were like being awake. He didn’t feel awake. He felt asleep. Lucid dreaming. “So you’re just a dream.”
“Better than being a nightmare,” Sylar quipped. “Do you want some tea? It’s got valium in it.”
“No. Thank you.”
Sylar gave him the cup back anyway, but it flew away too fast for him to catch and joined the schools of fish that were eating the falling metal.
“Why are we here?”
“I don’t know. It’s your brain. Do you want me to have a look at it? I might be able to fix it. I’m good at fixing things.”
“I know. You were a watchmaker.”
“I was. I’m even better with people. So do you want me to have a look?” Sylar smiled sweetly.
“Will it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Do you really care? You know I only hurt you. Just you. No one else is worth the time to hurt. But we suffer the same. Do you want me to see if I can fix you?”
“... all right.”
He expected them to be in a lab. Or maybe his apartment. Strapped to a table and cut open like an autopsy.
Instead Sylar shifted around behind him, drawing him back into warm arms and a solid chest. Long fingers hands petted his shoulders and chest and neck. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“You should close your eyes.”
“I don’t deserve to. Just do it.”
It didn’t hurt exactly. It was uncomfortable, it ached, but there was no blinding agony. Probably because it was a dream, and in his dreams, he couldn’t imagine the pain.
“You’re very broken, you know.”
“I know.”
“You say that to me a lot. ‘I know.’ You do know, don’t you? When I say things, you know already.”
Sylar dropped broken glass onto the grass. It scuttled away quickly.
“What was that?”
“I think it was your vision. Not your sight, your vision. You couldn’t see like that. It’s better to just put the frame back.”
“All right.” A cockroach hit the ground and sprouted into a narcissus flower. Bullets were shaken out and fell into the sky to replace the stars.
Sylar hummed.
“Well?”
“There’s a lot of damage. A lot. Chandra. Shanti. Eden. Me. I’ve done a fair bit, but I know how to help that.”
“Can you fix it?”
There was more discomfort, and he got a sense of something happening, maybe he nearly woke, but then he was leaning against Sylar and there were strong arms around his waist and the sky was falling to pieces like a broken mirror that reflected them from a million angle and not one was right.
“Can you fix me, Sylar?”
Sylar leant his chin on his shoulder and looked at him from too close, but the distance was comfortable for him. Maybe comfortable for both of them, short sighted from years of close work.
“Sylar?”
Sylar kissed him softly. It was always softly, in his dreams they’re always the same brush that happened moments before the world ended.
“Yeah. I can fix you.”
The couch was warm under his cheek.
He was awake again.
His fingers brushed his lips and he closed his eyes again.
He lay on his back, watching fish swim through the sky while the stars disintegrated into shards of steel.
“I doubt it. Do you want some tea?”
A teacup was balanced on his stomach, but when he sat up to drink, the cup was bottomless and there was nothing in it.
“So I’m dreaming?”
“You do dream about me a lot. So maybe.” Sylar took the cup from his hands and drank from it, cradling it in both his hands.
“This doesn’t feel like one of Sanjog’s dreams.” Sanjog’s dreams were like being awake. He didn’t feel awake. He felt asleep. Lucid dreaming. “So you’re just a dream.”
“Better than being a nightmare,” Sylar quipped. “Do you want some tea? It’s got valium in it.”
“No. Thank you.”
Sylar gave him the cup back anyway, but it flew away too fast for him to catch and joined the schools of fish that were eating the falling metal.
“Why are we here?”
“I don’t know. It’s your brain. Do you want me to have a look at it? I might be able to fix it. I’m good at fixing things.”
“I know. You were a watchmaker.”
“I was. I’m even better with people. So do you want me to have a look?” Sylar smiled sweetly.
“Will it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Do you really care? You know I only hurt you. Just you. No one else is worth the time to hurt. But we suffer the same. Do you want me to see if I can fix you?”
“... all right.”
He expected them to be in a lab. Or maybe his apartment. Strapped to a table and cut open like an autopsy.
Instead Sylar shifted around behind him, drawing him back into warm arms and a solid chest. Long fingers hands petted his shoulders and chest and neck. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“You should close your eyes.”
“I don’t deserve to. Just do it.”
It didn’t hurt exactly. It was uncomfortable, it ached, but there was no blinding agony. Probably because it was a dream, and in his dreams, he couldn’t imagine the pain.
“You’re very broken, you know.”
“I know.”
“You say that to me a lot. ‘I know.’ You do know, don’t you? When I say things, you know already.”
Sylar dropped broken glass onto the grass. It scuttled away quickly.
“What was that?”
“I think it was your vision. Not your sight, your vision. You couldn’t see like that. It’s better to just put the frame back.”
“All right.” A cockroach hit the ground and sprouted into a narcissus flower. Bullets were shaken out and fell into the sky to replace the stars.
Sylar hummed.
“Well?”
“There’s a lot of damage. A lot. Chandra. Shanti. Eden. Me. I’ve done a fair bit, but I know how to help that.”
“Can you fix it?”
There was more discomfort, and he got a sense of something happening, maybe he nearly woke, but then he was leaning against Sylar and there were strong arms around his waist and the sky was falling to pieces like a broken mirror that reflected them from a million angle and not one was right.
“Can you fix me, Sylar?”
Sylar leant his chin on his shoulder and looked at him from too close, but the distance was comfortable for him. Maybe comfortable for both of them, short sighted from years of close work.
“Sylar?”
Sylar kissed him softly. It was always softly, in his dreams they’re always the same brush that happened moments before the world ended.
“Yeah. I can fix you.”
The couch was warm under his cheek.
He was awake again.
His fingers brushed his lips and he closed his eyes again.