Heroes: "A Canvas Primed in Vermillion" (Sylar/Isaac, PG)
Title: A Canvas Primed in Vermillion
Author: airspaniel
Rating:
Pairing: Sylar/Isaac, but not really. It never quite got there. >.<
Word Count: 1317
Spoilers: God, uh... through 1x3, I think?
Notes: Another for wip_amnesty. I started writing this in 2007, and was intending for it to eventually go AU and be Sylar/Isaac in earnest, complete with a dramatic blood-soaked showdown and lots of crazy rough sex between two junkies helpless in thrall to their addictions. Three years later, and this is what y'all get.
He threw angry red paint across the canvas, covering up the memory of his fight with Simone. The deadline for his next cover was fast approaching, and he had yet to even begin the piece. But he was angry, and distracted, and wanted a hit so badly. Wanted it like a man in the desert wants water.
But he didn't need it. He wasn't a junkie, no matter what his girlfriend said. It helped him release, find clarity... create.
He eyed the box on his worktable. Maybe just a little... With fluid movement he tied off and shot up. Not much, just enough to make colors go vivid and the world stand still. He sighed, contented, as the pictures flew from his hand, almost faster than his brush could paint them.
He wasn't addicted. Not at all. And the throbbing in his veins was nothing to him but catharsis.
-----
Gabriel was upset, the watch in his hands bearing the brunt of his aggression.
How long had he known he was destined for greatness? Since the first time his mother had whispered it to his crib? And how long had he struggled to find a niche he belonged in, and been denied again and again? Fragile gears strained under his gaze. He put the mechanism aside and removed his glasses. Clearly he was not in the mindset of repair.
He was angry at Chandra; angry at himself. He had been told he was special; been put to the test, and then he had let himself down. Or had been let down, by a man too results oriented to see the gold in front of his face. Either way, Gabriel was disgusted.
Taking a resolute breath, he once again lifted his tools and set to work on the pocket watch. He heard the door click a second before the bell rang, harsh and strident in the silent workshop.
The man was nervous. His hands shook as he introduced himself. Gabriel suppressed a tremor in his own hands as he did the same.
"Sylar. My name is Sylar."
The man demonstrated his marvelous ability, and Gabriel felt his mouth water. To have such control, using only his mind... It was special, in the utmost of ways.
His hands trembled only a bit as he hefted the quartz, nervous only at the prospect of seizing his destiny. At the thought that everything he had ever wanted from his miserable, weak existence was now, finally within his grasp. He could see how it worked, and he could see how to make it his.
He barely felt the shudder, as the rock connected with the man's skull. He fell to his knees, and then on his face, bleeding. Gabriel put on his glasses, and knelt down to solve the puzzle.
It was Sylar who raised his head, reeling from the effort, drunk on the power he now possessed. Special at last, but as Mother had always said ... He could always be so much more.
-----
Isaac awoke to a pair of red-rimmed, dark, tear-stained eyes begging him for absolution. His memory was hazy, but the yellow, blood-stained tubing around his bicep was a harsh reality. He had been chasing again, and the night had been full of phantoms he hardly remembered.
Phantoms like the dark haired man that lay in front of him, eyes splayed wide across the canvas, begging him to forgive some silent crime. Or the same man, curled up and bloody, in the bottom of a yellow closet two canvases away. Or those same beseeching eyes, clenched in anguish, a man screaming his pain in a pool of red paint (It must be paint, surely. There was so much of it), scrawling words across a barren gold field.
"Forgive me, forgive me father for I have sinned, I have sinned."
Isaac stared at the six canvases he had painted in the night. Each one was a study of the same man, tortured, crying for mercy from an unforgiving world. He assumed they were an allegory for his fight with Simone, and painted over them; bright white eclipsing yellow and red.
By the next morning, they were all but forgotten.
-----
Sylar stood in the center of his apartment, testing the limits of his newfound abilities. He lifted the books from their shelves, one by one, moved the spines around; rearranging them by color, by author and title.
With the merest of thoughts, he removed all the glasses from their cupboards, and smashed them on the tile floor. He grinned, satisfied, as he fused them together again. One by one, merging their broken crystal again into a cohesive whole. The lines were still visible, hairline fractures in the thin glass, but they maintained their shape.
Sylar smiled, triumphant, as his will defied physics.
It is Gabriel Gray who cries himself to sleep at night, covers pulled up tight against the demons in the dark. But there is no escape. The demons are in him, and they are hungry.
-----
Isaac awoke again to the sounds of screams, and was only vaguely surprised to see what he had created. He barely remembered the night before, and maybe Simone was right; maybe he should get some help.
But he was the last person he wanted to help, staring at the stark canvas in front of him.
Dark eyes once again pleaded for his blessing, this time crying on his knees, bloodied hands held in front of him, as if the man were afraid to touch himself. Afraid his soiled hands would burn.
The dingy closet was redder, and darker; the repeated litany, the entreaty for absolution copied again and again in crimson on the walls. “Forgive me. Forgive me, Forgive me…”
But Isaac didn’t know what he was to forgive, and didn’t know how deeply the red stained those soiled walls. Again, he bleached the paintings from existence. They would upset Simone, and that was really the last thing he needed.
-----
By the next time, god help him, it had gotten much easier. And after that, hardly worth mentioning.
The Walkers were dead, blood slashing the ceiling, despoiling the perfect innocence of a suburban home. But Molly... She had disappeared, entrancing thing that she was, and the longer she was gone, the more difficult it was to see how her amazing talents worked.
He pinned her mother to the wall, close to the ceiling, and nailed her there, knowing Molly must be hearing those desperate cries for help. But still the little bitch stayed silent. Lord have mercy on him, but killing that happy family was so easy.
He was almost enjoying this.
-----
When he sees the bus on the morning news, he panics. Every detail, down to the number, the stripe on the side, the burning driver trapped behind the heavy wheel…. he has captured with the strokes of his brush. And this happened a week ago. This very image.
With a physical jolt, he realizes he had painted the future. As unlikely and disgusting as it is, he had painted the death, excruciating and severe, of all these people. He recoils in horror from the mural on his floor. New York is vaporized under his gaze, his brush, and countless men and women scream in his mind as they meet their fate.
Is it true? Is this also the future, heavy and unavoidable; delineated in thick bold lines?
It is too much to handle straight, and he preps his veins again. Simone will be here soon, but her voice will be lost against the many, the tortured in agony. Burning. Her outrage is inconsequential in the torrent of suffering.
The familiar dull euphoria takes him, and still he is transfixed by the memory of blood, and poison-black eyes. “Forgive me… forgive me…” it pounds like a litany in his brain, and he no longer knows if the words were ever truly his.
Author: airspaniel
Rating:
Pairing: Sylar/Isaac, but not really. It never quite got there. >.<
Word Count: 1317
Spoilers: God, uh... through 1x3, I think?
Notes: Another for wip_amnesty. I started writing this in 2007, and was intending for it to eventually go AU and be Sylar/Isaac in earnest, complete with a dramatic blood-soaked showdown and lots of crazy rough sex between two junkies helpless in thrall to their addictions. Three years later, and this is what y'all get.
He threw angry red paint across the canvas, covering up the memory of his fight with Simone. The deadline for his next cover was fast approaching, and he had yet to even begin the piece. But he was angry, and distracted, and wanted a hit so badly. Wanted it like a man in the desert wants water.
But he didn't need it. He wasn't a junkie, no matter what his girlfriend said. It helped him release, find clarity... create.
He eyed the box on his worktable. Maybe just a little... With fluid movement he tied off and shot up. Not much, just enough to make colors go vivid and the world stand still. He sighed, contented, as the pictures flew from his hand, almost faster than his brush could paint them.
He wasn't addicted. Not at all. And the throbbing in his veins was nothing to him but catharsis.
-----
Gabriel was upset, the watch in his hands bearing the brunt of his aggression.
How long had he known he was destined for greatness? Since the first time his mother had whispered it to his crib? And how long had he struggled to find a niche he belonged in, and been denied again and again? Fragile gears strained under his gaze. He put the mechanism aside and removed his glasses. Clearly he was not in the mindset of repair.
He was angry at Chandra; angry at himself. He had been told he was special; been put to the test, and then he had let himself down. Or had been let down, by a man too results oriented to see the gold in front of his face. Either way, Gabriel was disgusted.
Taking a resolute breath, he once again lifted his tools and set to work on the pocket watch. He heard the door click a second before the bell rang, harsh and strident in the silent workshop.
The man was nervous. His hands shook as he introduced himself. Gabriel suppressed a tremor in his own hands as he did the same.
"Sylar. My name is Sylar."
The man demonstrated his marvelous ability, and Gabriel felt his mouth water. To have such control, using only his mind... It was special, in the utmost of ways.
His hands trembled only a bit as he hefted the quartz, nervous only at the prospect of seizing his destiny. At the thought that everything he had ever wanted from his miserable, weak existence was now, finally within his grasp. He could see how it worked, and he could see how to make it his.
He barely felt the shudder, as the rock connected with the man's skull. He fell to his knees, and then on his face, bleeding. Gabriel put on his glasses, and knelt down to solve the puzzle.
It was Sylar who raised his head, reeling from the effort, drunk on the power he now possessed. Special at last, but as Mother had always said ... He could always be so much more.
-----
Isaac awoke to a pair of red-rimmed, dark, tear-stained eyes begging him for absolution. His memory was hazy, but the yellow, blood-stained tubing around his bicep was a harsh reality. He had been chasing again, and the night had been full of phantoms he hardly remembered.
Phantoms like the dark haired man that lay in front of him, eyes splayed wide across the canvas, begging him to forgive some silent crime. Or the same man, curled up and bloody, in the bottom of a yellow closet two canvases away. Or those same beseeching eyes, clenched in anguish, a man screaming his pain in a pool of red paint (It must be paint, surely. There was so much of it), scrawling words across a barren gold field.
"Forgive me, forgive me father for I have sinned, I have sinned."
Isaac stared at the six canvases he had painted in the night. Each one was a study of the same man, tortured, crying for mercy from an unforgiving world. He assumed they were an allegory for his fight with Simone, and painted over them; bright white eclipsing yellow and red.
By the next morning, they were all but forgotten.
-----
Sylar stood in the center of his apartment, testing the limits of his newfound abilities. He lifted the books from their shelves, one by one, moved the spines around; rearranging them by color, by author and title.
With the merest of thoughts, he removed all the glasses from their cupboards, and smashed them on the tile floor. He grinned, satisfied, as he fused them together again. One by one, merging their broken crystal again into a cohesive whole. The lines were still visible, hairline fractures in the thin glass, but they maintained their shape.
Sylar smiled, triumphant, as his will defied physics.
It is Gabriel Gray who cries himself to sleep at night, covers pulled up tight against the demons in the dark. But there is no escape. The demons are in him, and they are hungry.
-----
Isaac awoke again to the sounds of screams, and was only vaguely surprised to see what he had created. He barely remembered the night before, and maybe Simone was right; maybe he should get some help.
But he was the last person he wanted to help, staring at the stark canvas in front of him.
Dark eyes once again pleaded for his blessing, this time crying on his knees, bloodied hands held in front of him, as if the man were afraid to touch himself. Afraid his soiled hands would burn.
The dingy closet was redder, and darker; the repeated litany, the entreaty for absolution copied again and again in crimson on the walls. “Forgive me. Forgive me, Forgive me…”
But Isaac didn’t know what he was to forgive, and didn’t know how deeply the red stained those soiled walls. Again, he bleached the paintings from existence. They would upset Simone, and that was really the last thing he needed.
-----
By the next time, god help him, it had gotten much easier. And after that, hardly worth mentioning.
The Walkers were dead, blood slashing the ceiling, despoiling the perfect innocence of a suburban home. But Molly... She had disappeared, entrancing thing that she was, and the longer she was gone, the more difficult it was to see how her amazing talents worked.
He pinned her mother to the wall, close to the ceiling, and nailed her there, knowing Molly must be hearing those desperate cries for help. But still the little bitch stayed silent. Lord have mercy on him, but killing that happy family was so easy.
He was almost enjoying this.
-----
When he sees the bus on the morning news, he panics. Every detail, down to the number, the stripe on the side, the burning driver trapped behind the heavy wheel…. he has captured with the strokes of his brush. And this happened a week ago. This very image.
With a physical jolt, he realizes he had painted the future. As unlikely and disgusting as it is, he had painted the death, excruciating and severe, of all these people. He recoils in horror from the mural on his floor. New York is vaporized under his gaze, his brush, and countless men and women scream in his mind as they meet their fate.
Is it true? Is this also the future, heavy and unavoidable; delineated in thick bold lines?
It is too much to handle straight, and he preps his veins again. Simone will be here soon, but her voice will be lost against the many, the tortured in agony. Burning. Her outrage is inconsequential in the torrent of suffering.
The familiar dull euphoria takes him, and still he is transfixed by the memory of blood, and poison-black eyes. “Forgive me… forgive me…” it pounds like a litany in his brain, and he no longer knows if the words were ever truly his.