Makeup. Right. Trust a guy who you looked for in a nail salon to not show up because it might ruin his makeup. Sylar didn't even have the energy to be irritated at this point; he just smirked testily at Grell's naughty insinuation, on edge and not in the mood to reciprocate on the flirting. In fact, he wasn't in the mood for any of this; normally, he'd relish the challenge even as he resented it, but right now... Dammit, he'd just have to push through this, put on the mask, pretend his confidence.
He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't felt like this when he'd been in the chapel. When he'd been Gabriel.
His throat went dry.
Then, a distraction. He frowned as his hand tensed subtly around his cup. Kazuchi? Where the hell had all this come from? Not that he'd ever figured himself the only object of Grell's bloodlust (or maybe just lust), but he wasn't about to let himself get dragged into some kind of murderous love triangle or whatever the hell this was. His eyes carefully followed Grell's gesture, settling on a guy sitting at the other table. Huh. Grell actually wasn't exaggerating too bad: this Kazuchi guy looked like he'd walked out of some book of prettyboy models, and Sylar was inclined to believe Grell about his "bloody streak," given how passionately he was describing him. Then again, Grell could've just been trying to manipulate Sylar into some kind of protective jealousy, and – shit, it was kind of working. Not that Grell had anything Sylar was keen on tapping, but their type of alliance was a rare one, and after last night, Sylar needed to keep a stranglehold on all the resources he could.
Speaking of last night. Sylar's eyes slid back toward Grell, appraising him for a second before his expression spread into a cold grin.
"You could say that." He took a slow sip of his water, keeping his eyes on Grell's; firm, resolute. "Something almost cut my head open. Blades for fingers, slime for spit – you know the deal. Held me up from... whatever it was that happened last night."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Want to clue me in, or do would you rather do more boy-talk?"
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He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't felt like this when he'd been in the chapel. When he'd been Gabriel.
His throat went dry.
Then, a distraction. He frowned as his hand tensed subtly around his cup. Kazuchi? Where the hell had all this come from? Not that he'd ever figured himself the only object of Grell's bloodlust (or maybe just lust), but he wasn't about to let himself get dragged into some kind of murderous love triangle or whatever the hell this was. His eyes carefully followed Grell's gesture, settling on a guy sitting at the other table. Huh. Grell actually wasn't exaggerating too bad: this Kazuchi guy looked like he'd walked out of some book of prettyboy models, and Sylar was inclined to believe Grell about his "bloody streak," given how passionately he was describing him. Then again, Grell could've just been trying to manipulate Sylar into some kind of protective jealousy, and – shit, it was kind of working. Not that Grell had anything Sylar was keen on tapping, but their type of alliance was a rare one, and after last night, Sylar needed to keep a stranglehold on all the resources he could.
Speaking of last night. Sylar's eyes slid back toward Grell, appraising him for a second before his expression spread into a cold grin.
"You could say that." He took a slow sip of his water, keeping his eyes on Grell's; firm, resolute. "Something almost cut my head open. Blades for fingers, slime for spit – you know the deal. Held me up from... whatever it was that happened last night."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Want to clue me in, or do would you rather do more boy-talk?"