infomodder | ic contact 2 mask or menace

Romantic.

[ A bit of New York shines through, there. Romannic. On the three month thing, obviously, not the full house of grown men, the news of which Sylar receives with mute acknowledgement, the slight lift of an eyebrow about

hats

and spooking. He's not spooky, c'mon Will. Just look at him. ]

I don't all the time feel like this place is real. Like I'm passing through, you know. I can't imagine getting married to a person.

[Will slouches, finally settling. He leans back. He stretches out. Legs and toes and everything, seemingly ready to drink himself into the mattress. Yeah. Real romantic. April leaves and he goes about sharing beds and booze with every guy in town. For shame.]

You don't particularly strike me as the marrying type no matter how real the world you currently inhabit is or is not.

[He looks over, lifting an eyebrow. Just sayin', bro. Though his new doggie friend might disagree. She's rolled over and is all awash in the ~~gory~~ glory that is her beautiful new man friend. No spoop, only handsome.]

[ Sylar ruffles doggie belly fur, though his hand is big and the dog is small so she kind of just gets rocked back and forth in an idle way beneath his petting. He glances at Will side-long as the other man settles, a dim kind of amusement that isn't just mean spirited or ironic turning up the corner of his mouth.

Maybe the dog is chilling him out. They're meant to be therapeutic.

Which naturally means he must ruin the moment through honesty. ]

I kill most people I get close to, [ is stated, frankly. Agreeably. It should be no surprise. He's been in the news, even if Will wasn't the poodle that helped guide him through the woodlands of Maurtia Falls. ] Who get close to me. Makes it hard to commit.

But it seems nice. Like a normal, nice thing to do. Is that why?

Edited 2017-04-22 05:59 (UTC)

[Rockabye baby dog, she looks up at Sylar with her tongue out and bliss written in every fiber of her being. She knows, without a doubt, that no matter how down and out Will Graham is, he wouldn't allow someone who'd hurt a dog just for funsies to hang around for long. He certainly wouldn't allow her to get like this if he wasn't certain she'd be fine.

Well. They're a good arm length apart. Will figures he's far enough away to live another day.]

Kinda. [He draws his legs up, knees in the air, like they're just chilling at a sleepover. "I kill most people I get close to" definitely gives off the "get comfortable my dude" vibe. Will? Gets comfortable.] I love her. I'd do anything for her. Marriage is part of that.

[He goes quiet for a bit, lips pursed.]

April isn't like most people. But. Not in the way that demands your brand of closeness.

[The kill or be killed, the staying on a knife's edge of anticipation when that moment might come. Not that Will is judging. He's extremely calm and accepting in the face of murder fella. The B&E might have something to do with it.]

[ Ah, yeah. Love sure is a thing.

Sylar hasn't had enough beer to launch into a tirade about that topic, focused instead on petting the dog with one hand and lifting his beer to his lips with the other. ]

Straddling the fine line between normal person and homicidal maniac?

[ Just clarifying. ]

[Ah, there's a laugh. Short but genuine. Genuinely amused in a dark sort of way.]

Straddling? No. [He sorta crossed any lines a while back, not that he lets on too much. April being gone, though, that's a real Upset.] You don't have to be a maniac to be homicidal. Or homicidal to be a maniac.

[deep af]

They're not exactly aspirational, either way.

[ More beer, words mumbled into it at the end of that sentence, excess wiped away with the heel of his palm before he lists his head back, watches the slanted ceiling. Its shadows.

For a guy with his kind of ego, he's happy not talking about himself as he prompts; ]

What about the people from home?

[More beer is right. So much more beer. Another dog trots in, fluffy and beautiful, only to give Sylar's boots a cursory sniff before she trots right back out. Will watches her the same way most men watch their own children. Aw.

The dopey look vanishes with a deep breath.]

A friend. [But the way he says that...perhaps there is someone from Sylar's world he could imagine saying the same about him. Weariness, begrudging fondness, oodles of bad blood in that f-word. A little too grave even for beer. Will looks over at his company, voice flat, dull, which sharply contrasts with...] You ever made a sculpture outta somebody you killed?

[Yes this is definitely normal chitchat.]

[ Sylar cranes his neck a little to watch the dog come and go. He wouldn't mind more dogs to pet. When it opts not to, he resettles, absently plays with the feet of the dog who likes him. A friend. He imagines Peter Petrelli. Mohinder Suresh. Claire Bennet. No fondness there, probably. It takes a special kind of mind to feel resentful on that point.

Pauses, at this last part, glancing over. ]

No, [ does take a distressing moment to think back, to be fair. ] They're not interesting, after. Just dead.

[ After. Back to playing with puppy paws. ]

Do you need better friends, Will?

[Puppy paws all for Sylar, because as much as she claims him, apparently that includes him also claiming her. That's dog love for you. "You're mine, but also I'm yours because you are going to pet me forever, bless and thank you."

It sounds like a bark. At first, anyway, and then Will's clearly laughing. A start-stop affair, likely due to the fact he's just swallowed, and now he must endure the laugh-cough-cough-laugh-cough-fuck-cough-cough-Jesus-cough-laugh-cough-uewgh-cough-wheeze-cough-laugh, complete with watery eyes and hand to his chest.

Don't worry; he's got this.]

Christ. [Said into his shirt, Will using it to cough into like a true villain.] No, no. Not here. I have good friends here. [Only because Yuri Petrov and Dorian Gray are gone. For now.] Are we friends?

[Asked ever-so-carefully — enough lilt to be genuine, missing worry or disgust at the idea. Probably what keeps him getting bad friends, really, the way he accepts them like this. Brings them beer. Lets them imprint on his dogs...]

[ While Will murders himself with laughter, Sylar finishes his current beer, and lists sideways just enough to toss it into the waste basket (considerate) before resettling. He is about as comfortable and relaxed as he's been in a long time, perhaps since he cuddled a poodle in the woods and slipped into semi-conscious powernapping, which is unexpected. Potentially dangerous. He cannot bring himself to give a fuck.

So he opens a second beer and smiles just slightly to himself as Will recovers, a smile that flattens out and disappears at news of his misery-company having fancy good friends.

Plot twist.

He raises an eyebrow, not breaking from his contemplative stare of the opposite wall. It's time for him to laugh, now, with the same kind of disuse. Rusty, baritone in his chest, understated and quiet. Then-- ]

Yeah.

[ He brings beer up to drink from. He isn't being that ironic when he says; ]

Let's be friends.

[The pact is sealed. Goodness gracious, what does this mean?

First, it means Will smiles, then that vanishes, and he finishes off his beer in one go. Sylar's new biggest fan has fallen asleep beneath his strong murder hand with her jaws half-open. She looks drugged. Will looks like he's getting there. Relaxed, silent, though his eyes are glossed over in that Thinking Too Damn Much way.]

Getting close shouldn't be an issue. [Quieter:] I'm already dead.

[Definitely how it works. Well, worth a try, anyway. Time for another beer.]

[ They're friends, now, so Sylar ought not to roll his eyes at proclamations about being dead already. It's mostly hidden by virtue of the fact they aren't facing one another, and he sips his beer.

He asks, looking down at the dog; ]

What's your dog's name?

[ And then, looking at Will Graham; ]

And your friend's?

[He doesn't mean it in an emo way, excuse you very much, new bestie. Where's the fun killing an already dead guy? Who's died again? Oh - well, that woman had spoken to the Network and...might not matter. Some friends were like that, but hey. Worth a try.]

Her original owner called her Little Fluffy Shithead. I've, uh, been calling her Princess. She answers to both. [Indeed, an ear has twitched at both names. She recognizes that she is a topic. As it should be, really, what a grand doggie she is. A good distraction from the eventual admission, eyes stuck on Princess Shithead...] Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Can't really miss him. He stands out.

[he ain't got no eyebrows lt dan]

[ Sylar's brow winches into an offended crinkle at the dog's behalf, but smooths again at 'Princess'. Stupid, but better. His fingers scratch beneath the fold of the little dog's arms, ears pricked for the next part.

Name tucked away into memory, like a business card. ]

Like, personally, or is it the corpse sculptures that tend to attract attention?

[ skrtch skrtch pat dog ]

I just left them there, you know. I didn't even try to hide what I did.

[He laughs, short, more of a snort than anything else. How rude.]

Both.

[Dog is so happy. And Will, stretching out a bit further, seems ready to follow suit and fall asleep, too. Sylar does not need to rub his tummy, though. Unless he really wants to.

Jeez, there's quite a few reactions that filter through his mind. Some more serious than others, all of them running down different paths. Some he is curious about. Some he wants to avoid. Some he just doesn't think would do either of them any good. Eventually, he settles on...]

Honesty's a rare quality. Usually considered one of the good ones.

[except for if it applies to murder, probably, but who keeps track any more]

ic contact 2 mask or menace

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