Fiction: Tempus/Mentis
Feb. 14th, 2010 09:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kethniName: Tempus/Mentis
Pairing: Matt/Gabriel (one-way), mentions of Matt/Mohinder.
Genre: Slash, angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leadaisy who wanted “Gabriel is rehabilitated from being Sylar and “The Company” has put Matt in charge of making sure that Gabriel doesn’t turn back into Sylar. So, they have to spend a lot of time together. Gabriel is back to his old ways and works on watches and wears sweater vests and whatnot. Gabriel wants to make good with Matt. But not only does he want to make up for the bad things he has done to Matt he also has a HUGE crush on him. He has it so bad for Matt that whenever Matt is around he gets flustered and stutters and just acts adorably geeky around Matt.”
Word Count: 2420
Gabriel
The human mind is, in many respects, like a watch. It is made up of seemingly myriad components that must interplay in complex synchronicity in order to operate. The slightest jar to the components or blockage in the works can have near catastrophic effects for both mind and watch. Yet both the watch and the human mind rely on more than the purely physical components of cogs, wheels, gears, or neurones, cerebrum, cerebellum; they are both entwined with something intangible, yet immutable. For a watch that thing is time itself; we cannot see, hear, smell, or taste time, yet we persist in the belief that we can measure, control, and tame it. For the human mind, that powerful, untouchable force is the sense of identity, of the lie that is a coherent, consistent, and continuing consciousness. Are you the same person as you were born? Are you the person you were ten years ago, five years ago, or even yesterday? Yet without a sense of identity, of self, the human is merely another animal, driven by primitive urges. Without self, there is no human mind, no human soul. Without self, there is no good, or bad, no virtuous deeds or sins, and there is no redemption needed or earned.
It must be so much simpler to be an animal, to live without guilt, without morality, with nothing but survival of the fittest. People try it, I tried it, but we’re not animals. The people around are not animals and they demand the morality that we refuse. They insist on the humanity we try to resist. I could live that way, once, when my clockwork was jammed and broken.
Time without perception is meaningless; Einstein’s Twin Paradox taught us that. Time is not absolute any more than the sense of self is absolute. The watch is no more innately powerful than the mind. Time is a human concept; the measurement of it is a fairy story to make us sleep easier. Time shows its gratitude for our creating it by killing us a little every day. The more it loves us, the closer it gets, the quicker it kills us. Time is the ultimate serial killer. It slices here, it chops there, it strangles her, it suffocates him, and it kills us all.
I’m not the man I was. The same flesh, the same bones, the same blood, but my works have been replaced. The cogs and wheels have been delicately taken out and new ones put in. Sylar is gone, only the case remains. So am I the same man? Is my Grandfather’s watch, works replaced, case repaired and restored until nothing original remains, still my Grandfather’s watch? Or is it simply the concept of my Grandfather’s watch? Am I the same man despite thinking, feeling, believing, differently than I once did?
I should ask my keeper, the winder of my watch, the watcher of my works. He must know. When he took out my beautiful, shining, twisted, unbalanced, works and replaced them with the slightly tarnished and depressingly average works, he must have known if I was still the same watch.
I won’t ask, of course. What does Time have to say to the Sense of Self, how could it apologise for the inevitable decay and erosion it causes? Would it understand that its embrace is a slow poison?
Why would Matt Parkman ever listen to Gabriel Grey or look at me with anything but disgust?
Matt
‘Don’t forget to pick Molly up!’ Mohinder chides, tapping me lightly on the head with a newspaper.
‘Okay, ow, and also how the heck could I forget that?’
Mohinder sits down opposite me and grabs a slice of toast from the rack-thing. ‘You get busy,’ he says, cramming it into his mouth. Ladies and Gentlemen, Doctor Mohinder Suresh, professor of Genetics, brilliant, beautiful, and eats like a pig. ‘I remember what working for Primatech was like. Busy, busy, busy.’
‘So busy I’d forget Molly coming home from India?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t seen her in over a year. What if she’s forgotten me? I should’ve gone out there and met her.’
Mohinder stops chewing for a minute. ‘I’m the one who sent her away,’ he says quietly. ‘I would’ve gone if only my Visa hadn’t expired. They probably wouldn’t let me back in the country.’
‘Probably? Definitely, you damn illegal alien, and that’s why I should’ve gone.’
Mohinder snorts at that and shakes his head. ‘We can’t afford it,’ he admits. ‘You know that we can’t. Besides,’ he flutters his eyelids at me, ‘Gabriel needs you.’
‘Don’t even start with that, Suresh!’ I threaten. ‘You’re not too big to put over my knee.’
‘Mmm, promises, promises!’ he laughs, before becoming more serious. ‘Everything okay with him, is it?’
It’s always him when Mohinder’s being serious. It’s more polite than the man deserves, frankly, and God knows how I’m going to tell Molly that the man who tried to kill her, who did kill her parents, is alive and well and getting twice daily checkups from yours truly. I’m sure as hell not telling her the rest.
‘Yeah, just... don’t make those kind of jokes in front of Molly, okay?’
‘Well, duh,’ he says dryly, and there’s something weirdly hot about Mohinder acting dumb. You know, rather than the normal hotness of regular smarty-pants Mohinder.
‘It’s not entirely a joke,’ he says, sipping his tea. ‘I know him, remember? That geeky, uncertain, stammering, and blundering is him with a crush.’
‘Wow, sexy.’
‘This isn’t funny, Matt! The deranged serial killer, currently on a... a break has a crush on you!’ he snaps.
‘I know it isn’t funny, I wasn’t the one making jokes about it,’ I point out. ‘He’s not deranged, I don’t think, and I know what he’s capable of. If it bothers you so much I’ll tell Bennet that I’m not doing it anymore.’
‘No,’ Mohinder sighs, and takes my hand. ‘Then they’ll just lock him up in a cell until he decides he’s had enough and comes after us. At least this way this is a chance of you keeping him in check.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘He does have a crush on you,’ Mohinder says, keeping hold of my hand. ‘He can do vulnerable very well when the mood takes him.’
‘Yeah, well fortunately I already have a boyfriend,’ I say leaning forward to kiss him. ‘Also vulnerable doesn’t do it for me, and lastly, I don’t find serial killers remotely sexy. Least of all Sylar.’
Not that I’m supposed to call him Sylar, but Mohinder gets all annoyed if I call him “Gabriel,” like I’m taking his side or something. As if there’s any kind of a choice between Mohinder and Sylar. Just having the conversation feels like he’s suggesting I’m going to cheat, which is bad enough, and with Sylar of all people.
Gabriel
“Love” is a trite, anaemic word not defining an emotion but attempting to cage a disease. Love is terminal and indifference is the only cure. Not hate, never hate, because hate is love in a fury, in a rage. Hate is love stamping its feet and screaming into the night, but it’s still love. Love is a species of obsession, a common or garden variety, the equivalent of a Blue Jay or a Blackbird, but an obsession just the same.
Love makes us jittery and uneasy like addicts without their fix. It makes us unwholesome as we fixate on when, where, how we can catch glimpse of the cause of our pain, the cure for our misery. It makes us utterly selfish and completely oblivious to anything but our own suffering. It is not sweet, it is not funny, it is not pleasant. It’s not cuddly cherubs with bows and arrows but staggering, lurching victims of wretched infection passing on the contagion.
It’s blood, it’s sweat, it’s flesh, it’s bone, it’s misery and ecstasy.
I’m miserable. I’m miserable except for, perhaps, twenty minutes in the morning and twenty minutes in the afternoon. Not just before he arrives to check on me, no, that’s a blur of anxiety and terrified expectation. No, after I’ve had opened the store, worked on a few timepieces, served a customer or two, and then I have a break. I drink some coffee, read the paper, and allow myself to feel the pleasant anxiety of anticipation.
That’s the nature of anticipation, the belief that anything is possible. The thought that this time we might share a touch, a conversation beyond the purely impersonal burns my nerves, chokes my breath, and crushes my heart.
Perhaps that’s why they call it a “crush.”
Matt
If it were anyone else I’d feel for the guy. I’ve been there; I’ve had more hopeless crushes than I can count. The best you can do is to keep you head down and try to survive it. Try as hard as you can to not make too much of an ass of yourself. I remember when I first fell for Mohinder, it hurt like hell, and I was sure that I was making it so obvious. If Sylar’s anything to go by then I was horrendously, painfully obvious.
When I go into the shop, he jumps and the watch he’s holding skitters out of his hands and bounces along the floor. We both reach for the watch and our hands brush.
‘I’m just b...butterfingers today,’ he laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose.
I look up and he’s inches away, brown eyes fixed on my mouth. Okay, fine, I feel sorry for the guy. I back away and stand up.
‘Remind me not to ask you fix my watch,’ I say, handing it to him.
‘Oh there’d b...be no charge, Matt, it is alright if I call you Matt isn’t it?’ he asks, fidgeting with his tiny screwdriver. He’s still wearing the glasses and the binocular things on top of them so he looks vaguely like some kind of cyborg. ‘I have... I have something for Molly,’ he jitters, moving over to a cupboard. ‘She’s coming back today isn’t she?’
‘Who told you that?’
He carries over a box; he’s all shaky smiles and shuddering body. ‘The other day you walked out talking to Mohinder about it on the phone.’ He looks up suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, should I have pretended I didn’t know?’
This stuff, this is why I can’t stop thinking of him as Sylar.
‘You stay the fuck away from Molly, you understand? You go near her and I’ll have you locked up in Primatech before you can catch fucking breath.’
His face falters, like he’s trying to work out how to react.
‘It wasn’t a threat, Matt, I’d never threaten you.’ He scrambles to open the box. ‘This is Victorian, I’ve been restoring for a while,’ he says, finally taking off the binoculars. ‘Music boxes aren’t my speciality but... but I think I’ve done a reasonable job of it.’
It’s beautiful, some old wood I don’t know what type, but dark and inlaid with silver in swooping swirls. When he opens it up there are three sets of ballet dancers, carefully carved and painted in gently fading pastels. As the box opens a slightly scratchy tune starts playing, not the usual music, not the hinky-dink plastic of most music boxes, but a soft, sad tune.
‘Do you think Molly would like it?’ he asks hopefully. ‘As a welcome home present, she can put her jewellery in the bottom. I’m sure she must have all sorts of... rings and things. I suppose she’s too young for... piercings. But bracelets, rings... little girl’s things.’
Yeah, she’d love it. Right up until she found out who it was from. Then she’d smash it into a thousand pieces and Mohinder would tear me a new one.
‘That’s... that’s very kind, but I can’t accept it,’ I say as nicely as I can. ‘It was a kind thought, thank you.’
He gently shuts the lid and plays with his glasses. ‘You can give it her. She wouldn’t have to know it was from me.’
‘Yeah, she would.’
‘It’s just... it’s just... it’s just a music box, Matt,’ he says, not looking at me.
‘It wouldn’t be for Molly,’ I explain. ‘Look, I know you’ve changed, you’ve... grown. But you killed her mom and dad, she heard them screaming, and begging, and pleading. You killed them and you tried to kill her. You can’t be giving her gifts, whether she knows they’re from you or not.’
Gabriel
I’m not the man I was. Yet it’s increasingly clear that people don’t truly believe I have changed, can change, that I’m still a threat. If I was Sylar I would simply take what I want. I used the excuse of survival of the fittest to use my abilities to terrorise and murder. Would I have raped? I’d like to say no but really, how big a step would it have been? Sylar was a monster without compunction or compassion, or conscience. Disappointment would only create rage, the childish tantrum of a toddler.
Gabriel Grey is embarrassed, humiliated at my own idiocy and short-sightedness. Love isn’t blind but obsession does blind us to the realities of our behaviour. We lose all touch with reality, with the rules of behaviour in society, with the effects our actions have on others.
I am not, however, completely deluded although of course I would believe that, even if I were. I am aware of the hopelessness of my infatuation. The only pleasure I can get from it is the occasional brief accidental touch of his hand, and the unexpected sight of him in the park, holding hands with Mohinder.
The End
Pairing: Matt/Gabriel (one-way), mentions of Matt/Mohinder.
Genre: Slash, angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Note: For
leadaisy who wanted “Gabriel is rehabilitated from being Sylar and “The Company” has put Matt in charge of making sure that Gabriel doesn’t turn back into Sylar. So, they have to spend a lot of time together. Gabriel is back to his old ways and works on watches and wears sweater vests and whatnot. Gabriel wants to make good with Matt. But not only does he want to make up for the bad things he has done to Matt he also has a HUGE crush on him. He has it so bad for Matt that whenever Matt is around he gets flustered and stutters and just acts adorably geeky around Matt.” Word Count: 2420
Gabriel
The human mind is, in many respects, like a watch. It is made up of seemingly myriad components that must interplay in complex synchronicity in order to operate. The slightest jar to the components or blockage in the works can have near catastrophic effects for both mind and watch. Yet both the watch and the human mind rely on more than the purely physical components of cogs, wheels, gears, or neurones, cerebrum, cerebellum; they are both entwined with something intangible, yet immutable. For a watch that thing is time itself; we cannot see, hear, smell, or taste time, yet we persist in the belief that we can measure, control, and tame it. For the human mind, that powerful, untouchable force is the sense of identity, of the lie that is a coherent, consistent, and continuing consciousness. Are you the same person as you were born? Are you the person you were ten years ago, five years ago, or even yesterday? Yet without a sense of identity, of self, the human is merely another animal, driven by primitive urges. Without self, there is no human mind, no human soul. Without self, there is no good, or bad, no virtuous deeds or sins, and there is no redemption needed or earned.
It must be so much simpler to be an animal, to live without guilt, without morality, with nothing but survival of the fittest. People try it, I tried it, but we’re not animals. The people around are not animals and they demand the morality that we refuse. They insist on the humanity we try to resist. I could live that way, once, when my clockwork was jammed and broken.
Time without perception is meaningless; Einstein’s Twin Paradox taught us that. Time is not absolute any more than the sense of self is absolute. The watch is no more innately powerful than the mind. Time is a human concept; the measurement of it is a fairy story to make us sleep easier. Time shows its gratitude for our creating it by killing us a little every day. The more it loves us, the closer it gets, the quicker it kills us. Time is the ultimate serial killer. It slices here, it chops there, it strangles her, it suffocates him, and it kills us all.
I’m not the man I was. The same flesh, the same bones, the same blood, but my works have been replaced. The cogs and wheels have been delicately taken out and new ones put in. Sylar is gone, only the case remains. So am I the same man? Is my Grandfather’s watch, works replaced, case repaired and restored until nothing original remains, still my Grandfather’s watch? Or is it simply the concept of my Grandfather’s watch? Am I the same man despite thinking, feeling, believing, differently than I once did?
I should ask my keeper, the winder of my watch, the watcher of my works. He must know. When he took out my beautiful, shining, twisted, unbalanced, works and replaced them with the slightly tarnished and depressingly average works, he must have known if I was still the same watch.
I won’t ask, of course. What does Time have to say to the Sense of Self, how could it apologise for the inevitable decay and erosion it causes? Would it understand that its embrace is a slow poison?
Why would Matt Parkman ever listen to Gabriel Grey or look at me with anything but disgust?
Matt
‘Don’t forget to pick Molly up!’ Mohinder chides, tapping me lightly on the head with a newspaper.
‘Okay, ow, and also how the heck could I forget that?’
Mohinder sits down opposite me and grabs a slice of toast from the rack-thing. ‘You get busy,’ he says, cramming it into his mouth. Ladies and Gentlemen, Doctor Mohinder Suresh, professor of Genetics, brilliant, beautiful, and eats like a pig. ‘I remember what working for Primatech was like. Busy, busy, busy.’
‘So busy I’d forget Molly coming home from India?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t seen her in over a year. What if she’s forgotten me? I should’ve gone out there and met her.’
Mohinder stops chewing for a minute. ‘I’m the one who sent her away,’ he says quietly. ‘I would’ve gone if only my Visa hadn’t expired. They probably wouldn’t let me back in the country.’
‘Probably? Definitely, you damn illegal alien, and that’s why I should’ve gone.’
Mohinder snorts at that and shakes his head. ‘We can’t afford it,’ he admits. ‘You know that we can’t. Besides,’ he flutters his eyelids at me, ‘Gabriel needs you.’
‘Don’t even start with that, Suresh!’ I threaten. ‘You’re not too big to put over my knee.’
‘Mmm, promises, promises!’ he laughs, before becoming more serious. ‘Everything okay with him, is it?’
It’s always him when Mohinder’s being serious. It’s more polite than the man deserves, frankly, and God knows how I’m going to tell Molly that the man who tried to kill her, who did kill her parents, is alive and well and getting twice daily checkups from yours truly. I’m sure as hell not telling her the rest.
‘Yeah, just... don’t make those kind of jokes in front of Molly, okay?’
‘Well, duh,’ he says dryly, and there’s something weirdly hot about Mohinder acting dumb. You know, rather than the normal hotness of regular smarty-pants Mohinder.
‘It’s not entirely a joke,’ he says, sipping his tea. ‘I know him, remember? That geeky, uncertain, stammering, and blundering is him with a crush.’
‘Wow, sexy.’
‘This isn’t funny, Matt! The deranged serial killer, currently on a... a break has a crush on you!’ he snaps.
‘I know it isn’t funny, I wasn’t the one making jokes about it,’ I point out. ‘He’s not deranged, I don’t think, and I know what he’s capable of. If it bothers you so much I’ll tell Bennet that I’m not doing it anymore.’
‘No,’ Mohinder sighs, and takes my hand. ‘Then they’ll just lock him up in a cell until he decides he’s had enough and comes after us. At least this way this is a chance of you keeping him in check.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘He does have a crush on you,’ Mohinder says, keeping hold of my hand. ‘He can do vulnerable very well when the mood takes him.’
‘Yeah, well fortunately I already have a boyfriend,’ I say leaning forward to kiss him. ‘Also vulnerable doesn’t do it for me, and lastly, I don’t find serial killers remotely sexy. Least of all Sylar.’
Not that I’m supposed to call him Sylar, but Mohinder gets all annoyed if I call him “Gabriel,” like I’m taking his side or something. As if there’s any kind of a choice between Mohinder and Sylar. Just having the conversation feels like he’s suggesting I’m going to cheat, which is bad enough, and with Sylar of all people.
Gabriel
“Love” is a trite, anaemic word not defining an emotion but attempting to cage a disease. Love is terminal and indifference is the only cure. Not hate, never hate, because hate is love in a fury, in a rage. Hate is love stamping its feet and screaming into the night, but it’s still love. Love is a species of obsession, a common or garden variety, the equivalent of a Blue Jay or a Blackbird, but an obsession just the same.
Love makes us jittery and uneasy like addicts without their fix. It makes us unwholesome as we fixate on when, where, how we can catch glimpse of the cause of our pain, the cure for our misery. It makes us utterly selfish and completely oblivious to anything but our own suffering. It is not sweet, it is not funny, it is not pleasant. It’s not cuddly cherubs with bows and arrows but staggering, lurching victims of wretched infection passing on the contagion.
It’s blood, it’s sweat, it’s flesh, it’s bone, it’s misery and ecstasy.
I’m miserable. I’m miserable except for, perhaps, twenty minutes in the morning and twenty minutes in the afternoon. Not just before he arrives to check on me, no, that’s a blur of anxiety and terrified expectation. No, after I’ve had opened the store, worked on a few timepieces, served a customer or two, and then I have a break. I drink some coffee, read the paper, and allow myself to feel the pleasant anxiety of anticipation.
That’s the nature of anticipation, the belief that anything is possible. The thought that this time we might share a touch, a conversation beyond the purely impersonal burns my nerves, chokes my breath, and crushes my heart.
Perhaps that’s why they call it a “crush.”
Matt
If it were anyone else I’d feel for the guy. I’ve been there; I’ve had more hopeless crushes than I can count. The best you can do is to keep you head down and try to survive it. Try as hard as you can to not make too much of an ass of yourself. I remember when I first fell for Mohinder, it hurt like hell, and I was sure that I was making it so obvious. If Sylar’s anything to go by then I was horrendously, painfully obvious.
When I go into the shop, he jumps and the watch he’s holding skitters out of his hands and bounces along the floor. We both reach for the watch and our hands brush.
‘I’m just b...butterfingers today,’ he laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose.
I look up and he’s inches away, brown eyes fixed on my mouth. Okay, fine, I feel sorry for the guy. I back away and stand up.
‘Remind me not to ask you fix my watch,’ I say, handing it to him.
‘Oh there’d b...be no charge, Matt, it is alright if I call you Matt isn’t it?’ he asks, fidgeting with his tiny screwdriver. He’s still wearing the glasses and the binocular things on top of them so he looks vaguely like some kind of cyborg. ‘I have... I have something for Molly,’ he jitters, moving over to a cupboard. ‘She’s coming back today isn’t she?’
‘Who told you that?’
He carries over a box; he’s all shaky smiles and shuddering body. ‘The other day you walked out talking to Mohinder about it on the phone.’ He looks up suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, should I have pretended I didn’t know?’
This stuff, this is why I can’t stop thinking of him as Sylar.
‘You stay the fuck away from Molly, you understand? You go near her and I’ll have you locked up in Primatech before you can catch fucking breath.’
His face falters, like he’s trying to work out how to react.
‘It wasn’t a threat, Matt, I’d never threaten you.’ He scrambles to open the box. ‘This is Victorian, I’ve been restoring for a while,’ he says, finally taking off the binoculars. ‘Music boxes aren’t my speciality but... but I think I’ve done a reasonable job of it.’
It’s beautiful, some old wood I don’t know what type, but dark and inlaid with silver in swooping swirls. When he opens it up there are three sets of ballet dancers, carefully carved and painted in gently fading pastels. As the box opens a slightly scratchy tune starts playing, not the usual music, not the hinky-dink plastic of most music boxes, but a soft, sad tune.
‘Do you think Molly would like it?’ he asks hopefully. ‘As a welcome home present, she can put her jewellery in the bottom. I’m sure she must have all sorts of... rings and things. I suppose she’s too young for... piercings. But bracelets, rings... little girl’s things.’
Yeah, she’d love it. Right up until she found out who it was from. Then she’d smash it into a thousand pieces and Mohinder would tear me a new one.
‘That’s... that’s very kind, but I can’t accept it,’ I say as nicely as I can. ‘It was a kind thought, thank you.’
He gently shuts the lid and plays with his glasses. ‘You can give it her. She wouldn’t have to know it was from me.’
‘Yeah, she would.’
‘It’s just... it’s just... it’s just a music box, Matt,’ he says, not looking at me.
‘It wouldn’t be for Molly,’ I explain. ‘Look, I know you’ve changed, you’ve... grown. But you killed her mom and dad, she heard them screaming, and begging, and pleading. You killed them and you tried to kill her. You can’t be giving her gifts, whether she knows they’re from you or not.’
Gabriel
I’m not the man I was. Yet it’s increasingly clear that people don’t truly believe I have changed, can change, that I’m still a threat. If I was Sylar I would simply take what I want. I used the excuse of survival of the fittest to use my abilities to terrorise and murder. Would I have raped? I’d like to say no but really, how big a step would it have been? Sylar was a monster without compunction or compassion, or conscience. Disappointment would only create rage, the childish tantrum of a toddler.
Gabriel Grey is embarrassed, humiliated at my own idiocy and short-sightedness. Love isn’t blind but obsession does blind us to the realities of our behaviour. We lose all touch with reality, with the rules of behaviour in society, with the effects our actions have on others.
I am not, however, completely deluded although of course I would believe that, even if I were. I am aware of the hopelessness of my infatuation. The only pleasure I can get from it is the occasional brief accidental touch of his hand, and the unexpected sight of him in the park, holding hands with Mohinder.
The End
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no subject
Date: 2010-02-14 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-15 07:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-14 11:30 pm (UTC)Loved Mohinder's cheeky line ‘Gabriel needs you.’ Poor Mohinder has to be the one that is having the hardest time with the whole situation.
And I really loved that Gabriel fixed a musicbox for Molly. Very clever touch there. Loved it. Thank you! <3333
no subject
Date: 2010-02-15 07:28 am (UTC)Yeah, it's pretty difficult all round but especially so for Mohinder knowing what Sylar's capable of and that he killed Chandra.
I really wanted Gabriel to be reaching out to Matt, to Molly, even though he knows deep down it's never going to happen so restoring a music box for her seemed to work.
Thanks for the prompt! <333
no subject
Date: 2010-02-15 02:34 pm (UTC)Restoring the music box was cathartic for Gabriel but did it anyway even through he knew that it would never be accepted.
Lovely and sad story.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-15 03:21 pm (UTC)Thanks so much, I'm really glad you enjoyed it :)
<333
no subject
Date: 2010-02-16 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-16 05:11 pm (UTC)Thanks so much, I'm really glad you enjoyed it (sorry for making you want to cry!)
I've written some Matt/Sylar before this is my first Matt/Gabriel. I'm don't know why since I find Gabriel more interesting than Sylar :P
It's a sad situation really, no matter what he does people always going to see Sylar.
Thanks again! <333
no subject
Date: 2010-02-16 06:48 pm (UTC)Gabriel is more interesting because he's the original and just too adorkable. Sylar is just a mask, but no one likes him. Poor guy, can't win.
I'll probably be commenting again soon on your other fics, thanks for keeping me busy :)
no subject
Date: 2010-02-16 06:57 pm (UTC)Have fun and I hope you enjoy them :)