Sylar

Ask my muse anything

      Abandonment weighs heavily on a child. Loss, fear, and rejection are the first lessons life has to offer. There isn’t much left to value except false hopes to fill unfulfilled needs. But for the MD, there is but one person that he can and has taken a life for. Traditionally, he’s never been a man of his word, his life a foundation of lies upon lies until he’s forgotten what the truth actually was in the first place. But when he said he would move heaven and earth for his children, he meant it. And while he may lie to her, faithfully, incessantly, he’s done for her what he has for no one else: killed to keep her safe. 

But his protection comes at a price.

       Of course, there is one other. In a past life, people knew him by one name: Gabriel Gray. Today, that name has been forgotten like an old note pressed between the pages of one of the books on his shelves. His doppelganger goes by only one name now, Sylar. Their lives are coated in bloodshed and yet, no one else can understand them like they can each other. They’re both his blood, belonging to him and no one else. 

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Take your best shot, Scully, but I think there’s more going on here than Luke Skywalker and his lightsaber.

Canon, AU, and Crossover friendly.

6 years of Tumblr RP experience.

Multiverse

Mun and muse are over 21.

‘He’s finally lost his mind,’ the doctor thinks, leaning against the wall as the trembling sheetrock around him begins to dwindle. His brother’s name escapes him in an enraged bellow. He may not have as many ‘abilities’ as Sylar, but he could only hope that the sound would still be heard over the cacophony filtering in at the end of the hall.

Bursting into the living room, skin soaking wet from an interrupted shower, Oliver abruptly stops in the entryway. It was like a winter wonderland in July; tiny puffs of ice drifting lazily about in the air. Narrowed eyes survey the scattered devastation of his living room, heavy brows settling into a look of disdain.

“What have you d—“ he huffs, unable to finish his sentence in awe of the devastation of his home. Amongst the broken wood and turned over chairs, the doctor found Sylar on the floor, weeping like some heartbroken little boy devastated after a schoolyard crush has just broken his heart. In this moment, Sylar’s feelings are the least of his concern. Years of hard work and dedication to the one of the only things in this world he’s ever believed in and has allowed him to reap the rewards with this home and, most importantly, the construction of his torture chamber downstairs. God knows what destruction lie in wait for him down there. A puff of frosty air is released as the weight of what his brother has just done brings him to his knees. All of it…down the goddamn drain. And Sylar just sits there with that tearful grin of a madman when they lock eyes.

The dark carpet is a fluffy frozen tundra of hard ice pricking into the bottom of the doctor’s bare feet with each step, stopping in front of his brother. Cold eyes lower, fists tighten at his sides in preparation to drive one of them through his brother’s face. But—Sylar isn’t the only one guilty here. Instead, each hand relaxes, one of them extending to brush his fingers through dark spiky hair. Feeling his brother stiffen at the touch, Oliver knows all too well of this desperation for affection and to be wanted. And so he kneels before him, a hand at the back of Sylar’s neck as their foreheads touch. 

“Gabriel…I’m not Virginia. Just because I’m angry or you’ve done something I don’t approve of—like killing me, for God sake—doesn’t mean I want nothing to do with you,” he says calmly despite the simmering anger that his brother has just cost him thousands in a temper tantrum surrounding an outcome that was of no fault but his own. “You’re the only family I’ve known and have a fondness for. I’m not going anywhere—not without you. Ever. You understand that, don’t you?”

That doesn’t mean he can’t feel the anger beneath the surface, but it’s OK that it’s there. Sylar’s still pissed as fuck at Oliver too. He hates being rejected although he should be used to it by now. He’s had so much practice over the years.

“With you,” he said with a sniff. His nose is clogged with snot, and he had no choice but to suck it back into his throat. It was disgusting, but what else could he do? He didn’t have any Kleenex, and if it bugged Oliver, which he knew it was, that was even better. He might love Oliver, but he loved pushing his buttons too much to stop.

“Forever, Oliver. You’re like me now.” Sylar drew back a few inches, so he could look into the dark-chocolate depths of his twin’s eyes. “No one can stop us. I can fix the house. It’s easy.” He picked up the poker, changing the cast iron to gold before letting it drop onto the floor. “I know possessions are important to you. We have gold. You can have anything you want. Anything. Anyone. You have all the time in the world.”

Then he cupped the sides of Oliver’s face in his hands and leaned forward, eyes slowly closing as his lips pressed against his brothers in a kiss that was anything but brotherly. His teeth lightly nipped at Oliver’s bottom lip, sucking on it gently before releasing it with a pop, and then licking his own lips. “I will give you everything. Be everything for you. Do you understand?”

Beneath the constant beating of water rinsing a river of red from Oliver’s skin, Sylar was still there, skulking around inside the doctor’s mind. And for once, Oliver finally saw his brother for what he was—a loner and a wandering vagabond whose existence is entirely paradoxical to his ambitious drive to become someone…’special’.

The doctor could still feel the fluid sweep of his brother’s fingers inside his brain, hear the sloshing noise akin to when someone drags a hand through a bowl of jell-o. It was the same squishy sound he recalled from his days in medical school involving the removal and dissection of the human brain, except this time he was the subject on the table.

Yes, Oliver was angry, jaded, and had been undermined at the highest of degrees. He had every right to be. The feeling of betrayal might pass once he’s calmed and can think clearly once again. For now, this is all the more reason to distance himself from his twin. Besides, Sylar’s intention was to provide him with a gift, regardless of how misguided his actions were.

Sylar’s voice and intruding presence in the bathroom went ignored until the sliding glass of the shower door abruptly slid open. It shouldn’t be this difficult to resist the urge to childishly roll his eyes. Did he come to give some seemingly heartfelt apology for pinning his twin to the floor and cracking his head open like a goddamn walnut? As Sylar spoke, Oliver kept his back to him, leaning against the shower wall by the support of a hand to watch the growing puddle of red bubbling around his bare feet. But as Oliver listened to his use of the L-word, the unreadable expression doesn’t dissipate as easily as he would have thought.

“Afraid of losing me?” he counter, features contorting with irritation as he turned to glare over his shoulder. “Little hard to believe after your stunt tonight, don’t you think—Gabriel?” The doctor chooses to use his brother’s birth moniker because he wasn’t talking to the man that killed him tonight in that living room, he was talking to the brother he was raised with. “Let’s be realistic here. It didn’t matter how you did it, just so long as Sylar gets what he wants. So you’ll have to forgive me if I doubt you’ve suddenly developed a newfound fondness of admitting you’ve made a mistake.” 

His hand shot out, moving to close the shower door in Sylar’s face. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t forgive him, he just wouldn’t do it right this second.

He gathered his discarded clothing as he went, making his way down the narrow hallway. When Virginia rejected him, he’d been devastated, beating his head against her bedroom door. He hated that it was his first instinct to beg Oliver. To plead through the door. To bend over backward to make his brother love him.

“I shared with you!” his voice echoed through the living room—another stolen power making the windows shatter, spreading shards of glass outward into the pristine yard. Everything in the fucking house was perfect. God forbid anything be out of place.

“And I thought I was anal retentive!” Sylar’s breath caught in his throat. It’d be so easy to keep going, tearing the fugly fireplace apart brick by brick. He could unravel the carpet in a ring around the blood and wrap it around the furniture for shits and giggles if he wanted.

“I gave you eternity! I tell you that I love you! And you don’t even fucking care!” A blast of cold is sent into the carpet, layer on layer of frost working through the yarn, backing and down into the pad. Then using the fireplace poker, Sylar chipped the frozen carpet and blood from the floor leaving a gaping hole where he’d given Oliver his most precious gift. With telekinesis he sent each piece of carpet into the now raging fire in the fireplace to be consumed.

His chest was heaving. Tears ran down his face, and his lips curled back from his teeth in a shark’s smile as he destroyed the chair Oliver had been toppled over in—after all it was soaked in blood too. Then he slumped against the wall, sitting near the puddles of alcohol where Oliver had knocked over his bar and began to thump the back of his head on the paneling. “I didn’t do that. I’m not cleaning it up!” he snapped at no one because Oliver wasn’t even there to listen to him.

It wasn’t until the twisting of his wrist, forcing the bone into the joint that Oliver blinks, the clouds of rage clearing just enough to focus. His eyes rake over his brother, narrowed and untrusting. Suddenly it was like they were two children again, bickering back and forth over who could pummel the other into submission. But a lot has happened since then and for a moment, the doctor could see how much like children they still were. After all, Sylar had a lust for power, violence, blood, and cruelty (the dark sides of human nature) with all of the demanding of a child while the doctor, too, had his…issues. But while obviously still angry after returning from his near-death experience, the doc wasn’t in the mood to play easy forgiveness.

“Stop calling me that,” Oliver commanded, snatching his wrist from his brother’s grasp as if he’d just been burned and, in a sense, this was true. So often Sylar talked about opening his abilities, but Oliver never imagined he’d go through with it the way he did. He couldn’t help but feel a strange inkling of betrayal—even if it is half-hearted. “I think I’ve had enough of a presentation, thank you,” he added testily, “And having a high pain tolerance doesn’t mean I’m apt to jump in front of a bus—no matter how many times I get back up.”

The haze of what really happened left him feeling in a daze. Physically there was no difference, but his blood was all over the living room floor, alcohol saturating the stains ensuring they were permanent, told him that he is.

The question of trust is almost enough to make him scoff, drawing his focus once again to his brother. And Sylar was glaring back at him with that bloody mouth, aggressive, predatory, and brazen as usual—a confident wolf that had just eaten. Rather than answer, Oliver returned his gaze, though with a different intent. The kind an animal gives to a stranger dangling a piece of raw meat, unsure if he should take the bite or sink his teeth into the hand holding it. This is the first time they’d fought since reuniting and he doubted it would be the last. Assuming things didn’t get out of control, Oliver imagined the next time Sylar wouldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop until this house was falling apart, his ominous black imprint singed on a wall like radiation shadows after a nuclear blast.

“Oliver,” he said quietly letting out a heavy sigh that left him leaning bonelessly against the counter. His body didn’t hurt, but his soul did. Oliver’s betrayal, his anger, his hurt, were sinking rotting teeth into the armor Sylar kept wrapped around his blackened heart. At least he tried to pretend he didn’t care. He did. He just hadn’t had anyone to care for in a very long time, and he very much cared for Oliver.

He loved him, and like all the things he loved—he’d hurt him.

“That’s what you do, Gabriel,” Angela’s voice sounded in his ears.

“I know,” he answered the ghost in his mind. His eyes flickered toward the blood stain on the carpet, and he crouched to see what was under the sink to clean it up. No doubt Oliver had what he needed in the work room, but he didn’t want to go down there or clean. That wouldn’t show Oliver he was sorry or that he loved him. It would only show that he could be a good dog when smacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

He followed the sound of the shower peeling off his bloody clothes as he went and opened the door to his brother’s bathroom with a thought. Steam rolled out, replacing the scent of blood in his nose with the pleasant aroma of Oliver’s favorite soap and shampoo.

“Oliver,” he said from outside the frosted glass doors, feeling it was better to warn him of the intrusion. The floor of the bathroom was littered with Oliver’s ruined clothes, and Sylar stepped carefully over them to place the palm of his hand on the glass and slid it open. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. I love you. You’re the only person in the world that matters to me. The only one, and I was afraid of losing you.”

Sprawled over the soiled carpet in a growing pool of his own blood, the doctor stares blankly into nothingness while his twin rambles on. Signals fire messages at random, twitching the fingers of Oliver’s right hand, a similar twitch to his left leg.

As the thick and heavy haze of the liquor Oliver drank earlier begins to fade with the excessive blood loss, a brief thought swam in the back of his head. Did anything Sylar said earlier hold any truth or was it just bullshit? He’d sworn there was another way, a method that didn’t potentially put his life at risk. And here they are, lying over the floor as his brother claws through his head with a fine-toothed comb. Unable to draw a breath, Oliver’s mind goes silent, his body beginning to tremble from the shock and blood loss as the shadow of death closes in when he’s suddenly bestowed the ‘gift’ he was promised.

The cloud of darkness gives way and his vision gradually begins to return. Unsure of just how long he’s been lying here, Oliver shifts and draws an engulfing breath. At first, his living room is a mix of smudgy earth tone colors, splotched and blurred.

“—ylarrrrr,” he slurs. Stumbling and fumbling to pull himself up from the floor like a foal attempting to find his legs, a hand accidently pulls down his liquor cabinet with a crash by mistake. “Sylar!”

Finally rising to his feet, his vision clears just in time to spot the dark stain of his carpet. The sound of running water sends him rushing into the kitchen, bursting through the swinging door to find Sylar looking right at him. The doctor’s vexation is so overwhelming and uncontrolled that he’s forgotten Sylar’s purpose of doing this in the first place. Immediately his body weight is thrown into the lunge. Oliver’s hands grasp for Sylar’s black t-shirt, ramming him backward into the sink’s basin with a bang.

“You son of a bitch—“ Oliver growled, eyes wild as his knuckles crack against Sylar’s jaw with enough brute force to jar his body and bend the faucet’s spout at his twin’s back. “You may be my brother… but it won’t stop me from putting your face through this wall. You almost killed me, do you realize that?”

watchmakersylar

Sylar’s eyes roll when he hears the muttering in the living room followed by the crash of glass and the stink of alcohol wafts into the kitchen overpowering the scent of blood. He smirked as he continued to scrub his hands clean. He much preferred the smell of blood to booze, and then he let out a sigh.

Oliver would be in a rage. That was to be expected. He didn’t need his ability to figure things out to know that. He’d attacked him, pried his skull open, and then played connect the dots. It’d be awhile before his twin calmed down and realized he’d been given a gift. Until then, Sylar figured he’d live with a little damage. It wasn’t as if he’d stay dead after all.

But that didn’t mean he was too thrilled when Oliver slammed into him, driving his kidneys into the edge of the counter top. If he was still human, he’d be pissing blood for a week after that. Thanks cheerleader.

Then Oliver slugged him, snapping his head back, and Sylar’s mouth filled with his own blood. His lips curled back from his teeth, leaving smears of blood across the white expanse. He listened to Oliver rant, holding back on his powers, because until Oliver understood what was going on, the last thing Sylar wanted was him accidentally using empathy to copy his telekinesis.

“Can’t kill you. Even if you’d died, all I had to do was inject you with my blood.” He accented his words by shoving the palm of his hand against Oliver’s chest, pushing him back a few inches. The desire to hurt him was burning in his gut, but he wouldn’t do that. “You were acting like a goddamn pussy, and I had enough of it. No more of you bitching that I can do things you can’t, because now you’re like me. I fixed you, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

His hand darted out and gripped Oliver’s, and Sylar twisted his wrist around until he knew it hurt. “Want me to show you what you can heal from, or do you trust me?”