Science claims that without the Sun the Earth shrivels up and freezes over. It doesn't necessarily occur in that order, but it stakes the claim that existence in itself ceases. Everything, every living and non living tick of creation stops in its own oxymoronic sort of way. The philosophical marvel at the specifics, if no one (nothing) is around to witness it does it actually remain? Or does it simply disappear? Luke reckons it stays there, kinda like the dishes that stacked up on his bed side table. They're stinky, mostly empty, crusted over food bits hang off the rims, but they're there none the less.
A year's gone by since that fateful day he came home with his mom to find a bruised and battered government agent strapped to the chair in the living room. The broken would-be sun of Luke's life strolled in just as abruptly, swishing a coffee cup, and squeezing the shit out of a man for answers to answer-less questions. Add 2 more weeks to that year, and he could mark the anniversary to the second greatest abandonment of his life. His father leaving wins out not because Luke cared more, but because if good ol' pops stayed home like he'd promised to, Luke probably wouldn't have wanted to runaway with Sylar in the first place. He's young and can afford blaming everyone but himself, except he really can't anymore because he never did return to his mother as he'd been told to do.
Luke'd never really considered himself to be a prideful person until he found himself alone in a dusty closed down dinner. For the first time since his arrival in Luke's life, following Sylar's orders meant a disgrace on his own psyche, and he therefore refused to listen to him anymore. (He's gone dipshit, you don't have any orders listen to whether you want them or not).
That last condescending statement sinks through him into his bones, and it is just that. The last. There would be no more "I don't want you anymore". There would be no more "Your usefulness has run its course." Just like that his sun had disappeared. Just as obviously, there Luke remained, not as dead as the rising action anticipated, but cold and shrived seemed a rather accurate account of his general state of being.
With the sun ripped from the worshiper's undeserving hands, and no home to return to (he would never) Luke began to drift. Somehow he made it to population. From there the simple repeated mantra of What Would Sylar Do, led him across the country. Unlike Sylar when he killed he left with gifts restricted to the mundane necessities of survival (Food. Money. A bed to sleep on.)
He was almost okay when the Sun arose again. He was adjusted, with the key stones of survival tucked under his arm. The body count trailing behind him grew nearly every week, but his number was no where near Sylar's. Then by what could either be coincidence or a cruel trick of fate, he happened to turn his head and catch the shadow of a dark lump laying face down on the side of the road.
Seeing Sylar is weird, just as recognizing him, week and unconscious, feels impossible. Like a mirage. It's weird because if the sun has been returned to him, then the idea is he's supposed to feel warm again. Luke thinks the majesty is ruined because Sylar is laying dirty, wrecked, in a ditch. When he rolls him over there's mud allover, his hair is over grown and falling into his face. It looks like he's been laying there for a while.
To Luke's surprise one hard smack across the cheek actually wakes him up. Getting a reaction, even a disoriented one, is nice after a couple minutes of listless shoulder shaking and name calling. It's trippy because as of now the once glorious red giant resembles a dwarf star. All that panther-like grace is gone, even when he wakes up. Especially when he wakes up (groggy, confused, so different from the predator that stalked the halls of his house on the day of the home invasion).
Luke drags him into the car highjacked three states ago. Pulls them off the highway into the nearest crap-shack of a town there is. The dingy road trip motel is no longer the romanticized picture in his head. A guy can live with only so many mysterious stains on his pillow before he snaps. He rents a room with one bedroom, not because it's the only one room left, but because Sylar never once asked his preferences when it had been the two of them together. He's not taking orders anymore, and he know the old Sylar would've thrown a bitch fit the second he realized. This one just glares silently.
"Luke," is the first admittion of recognition Sylar grants him when Luke pulls them into their room and balances him on the bed. He doesn't sound happy or relieved to be found. Again his name is used with means of insult.
"Fuck you, Sylar!" Luke spits. He'd turned eighteen in the dark. He refused to be treated like the ignorant pup he'd been a year ago. He was going to stay now despite anything anyone (Sylar) said.
"You smell like shit," Luke declares , "If you want to sleep in the bed tonight, you're showering first."
He wonders if Sylar recognizes himself in Luke's words. But as his report card confirmed, he'd never been any good at learning to begin with. Even Sylar's personal self help book of How To Be A Drifter Serial Killer flew over his head. Just like under all the mental hindering of the day, Sylar's still Sylar beneath it all. He can see it in his eyes and it's both a comfort and terrifying. You can legally de-claw a cat (throw it off it's axis to save your furniture), but ripping out it's teeth is immoral. No matter how sharp they are. His eyes. They're just as dark as Luke remembers them to be (darker). The mush his once fastinating brain has turned into is not mush at all. It's just dormant.
Whatever's wrong with him, his ability to stare without blinking, to penetrate, has increased ten fold.
Luke stares back.
The vegetation beneath it all is far more disturbing than watching him torture the men Luke was raised to think of as the good guys. A dying sun turns into a black hole. It takes down anything that dares cross into its territory.
"Come on, get up," Luke huffs. He thinks he sounds softer than he intended to. The bathroom's disgusting (what a surprise). It's small. He'd thought it would be impossible to forget how Sylar looms, and yet. He never thought himself claustrophobic either, but Syalr's even larger up close.
The sound of water cascading down the shower disrupts their silence when Luke turns it on. Let it warm up. He looks back at Sylar, suddenly over whelmed at the prospect of peeling those clothes, caked in mud, from that body. It's a necessity for bathing (hardly reassuring). Despite himself he's nervous. No guilty fantasy wasted on the shadows of the night could prepare him for the reality. And reality begins when his own fingers rise up to push that first button of his shirt form its hold, exposing the first inch of stained pale skin, and dark matted hair. Sylar stays as uncharacteristically still as before, while Luke's fingers slide, follow the part of his now opened shirt to the top before pushing the sleeves gently from his shoulders. Fabric crumples in a pool around them.
The dirt takes on a redish tint. It's blood and filth trailing from impossible scratches that cover his torso. It's incomprehensible, Luke's witnessed the same skin push countless rows of machine gun shells from its threshold to repair itself, good as new except for the iron-y slick of blood. His fingers move in curiosity, trail down the jagged lines that litter the impeccable body of God (Gods don't bleed). His movements lack the finesse promised by the movies, and when he presses down on a cut, Sylar flinches. Finally his fingers trail down. Down his chest, his stomach, intent to catch the button of his jeans, when Sylar finally moves. Luke's thumb catches the metal of his zipper as Sylar's hand catches Luke's wist, a firm shackle cutting off the rush of his blood.
Pure irony pushes Luke out of the bathroom. He growls as he flops on the bed, melts the lamp on the bedside table. It sparks once as it disintegrates, then in an instant all the lights cut out in the room. Luke growls again. Sylar's a mere fifty feet away and Luke's still in the dark. If the Earth is in a constant state regardless of the sun's location, where does that leave them? What happens to the sun when the Earth disappears?