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Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
-Sia, Breathe Me
Sylar has been living in this nightmare for three days—or the same day three times over.
Accepting responsibility means a grudging awareness that he had taken Melissa Leblanc's ability without truly understanding the complexities of how it worked. Self-congratulatory brilliance aside, he assumed he would figure it out immediately. Now he wonders what curse he has blindly taken unto himself.
From the moment he wakes up to the second he falls asleep he is living the same day over, spinning a diorama wheel in one spot. At first he chalked it up to utter coincidence, but the more those added up the less he could play ignorant. What good was it to kill Paolo Martinez for his ability to create invisible barriers if it never stuck? Each day Sylar is forced to relive an unrewarding set of recognizable, and increasingly unoriginal, steps. He has absolutely no idea how to undo what he has done.
He considers that he is meant to acquire the appropriate ability to counter this one but no one on the list he took from Elle looks to fit the bill. That does not stop him from following and killing Derwin Bowden and Anne Hasmann, one of whom can actually stop time and the other who can create windows to an alternate universe, neither of which does him any good. Stopping time only serves to prolong his daily nightmare and the alternate universe sticks him in another world that has its own selection of questionable laws for being that Sylar does not wish to figure out.
In any case the universe hits the reset button and (false) accomplishments are null and void.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
He has to change something.
Thinking over how many times Melissa relived her final day before he killed her forces him to guess—hope—that she knew how to escape it. After all, she had not seemed distraught when he had cornered her. Then again she may have carried the secret for escape to her grave, knowing full well the struggle that awaited him.
Sylar tries something new. He decides not to kill Paolo. Rather than waiting in the back alley that the diner's kitchen exits to, Sylar takes a seat in the booth at the front window and nurses a cup of tea and two slices of multigrain toast. In an attempt to feel even the briefest illusion of comfort until an idea reveals itself, he recalls how his grandfather used to dip buttered toast in his tea before eating it. Sylar gives it a shot and though the appeal is lost on his taste buds he at least feels reconnected to something good.
With a small smile he gazes out the window and is struck by the universe nodding at him. Mohinder, presumably in a rush, walks by. Sylar's breath catches in his throat and without hesitation he fumbles for some monetary bills to throw on the table as he bids a hasty retreat.
Unfortunately Mohinder is already lost in the crowd by the time Sylar hits the sidewalk. He tries to single him out with oversensitive hearing and an enhanced sense of smell he picked up two weeks earlier, but surprise, concern and the overwhelming need to perform, inexplicably blocks any progress.
Sylar knows very well that he could go to Mohinder's apartment, but some feeling he cannot define tells him to wait for this moment to come around again.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
The problem posed by Mohinder's appearance in Sylar's repetitive verse is that he is a distraction.
Where Sylar should concern himself with trying to gain Mohinder's help in getting him out of this conundrum, he is instead unleashed in a cerebral playground entertaining all the things that could be done to—with—Mohinder, with the chance at the turn of each sun and moon to try again. To get it right, to get it wrong, is all in the palm of his hands.
What wicked thing this way comes? Sylar smiles slyly.
He thrills in surprising Mohinder. Sometimes he announces his presence behind Mohinder as he makes his way up the stairs to his lab. Other times he saunters out from beneath a streetlamp across from the apartment, eliciting that quick burst of hissed breath from the startled man that makes Sylar curl his lips into a salacious grin. All he really needs is one day to jot down all of Mohinder's movements before he makes child's play of them.
His favourite tactic of choice is falling into step with Mohinder half a block after he passes the diner. There is the stumbled pause of befuddled shock plodded through by a brief, yet firm, push of telekinesis. Their conversations are of the usual sort—“What the hell do you want” and “That's not happiness to see me” leading the charge. A comfortable exchange of superficial retorts, it is a welcome reminder that some elements of his worldly position are constant, counted upon and reliably imperfect.
Once he makes himself known he knows that Mohinder is his for the day. Although how that day plays out is with no predetermined ending in mind. No matter, Mohinder wills the brunt of whatever Sylar has in store for him so that he can protect others, a fact Sylar finds admirable if not stupid. After all, how many would be willing to do the same for Mohinder in return?
With a captive audience then, Sylar's early excursions with Mohinder mostly involve stunning and frightening him with the arsenal of powers he still holds inside from before this day became his life. They have heated debates and sometimes Mohinder is tossed up to the ceiling again or he surprises Sylar with a well hidden syringe or a drugged drink. Sylar notes the turning points and oddities that lead to such extreme displays and fiddles with them as formulaic factors.
Mohinder getting the better of him is something Sylar comes to relish as a twofold learning curve. It encourages more thoughtful preparation for the next time that Sylar mentally files away. At the same time, with a well struck punch or body slam or laptop pounding against the side of his head as good as any incapacitating drug, Sylar is harshly, bloodily and insistently reminded that Mohinder is (and always will be) his unexpected equal. Intellectually speaking is a known variable Sylar had no doubt of since one day into their first road trip together, but physically and creatively is the rub that has come to define his vulnerability and the worthiness of the man who is both his greatest adversary and least likely ally.
Favourite moments can come in the least likely of circumstances. One night both men end up huffing and puffing a few feet from each other on the kitchen floor of the partially ransacked apartment. Blood mars their faces and paints the floor crimson, while purple and blue bruises encircle deep and superficial wounds (which heal on Sylar almost as fast as they are inflicted).
Exhausted, Sylar pushes himself backwards across the floor with his left leg until he can sit up against the wall. Mohinder, meanwhile, crawls on his hands and knees to the same section of wall, spitting out blood along the way, and turns himself around into a seated position next to him. For a time they sit in silence, save for their heavy breathing, until there is nothing left to do but speak or leave.
But even then that is not enough.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
It is a thought that has gnawed at the back of Sylar's mind for far longer than he cares to admit.
The need for excitement out of monotony, the desire to quench his curiosity, the subconscious drive to deny or affirm a deep held belief, growls a hunger from within. Sylar knows his approach needs to be precise and practice has prepared him, but the first time comes with throwing caution to the wind.
He barely waits for Mohinder to step into the lab before he spins him around, grabs him by the collar of his jacket and pulls him into a rough kiss. It is not the least bit affectionate and in the split second that Sylar pulls back, Mohinder shoves him in the chest with both hands and follows through with a right hook that catches Sylar's temple, sounding out a dull thud, and forcing him back three steps, hunched over and grimacing. It is unsurprising, all things considered. Sylar has had a week to work up to this while Mohinder has had less than five seconds.
Sylar does not push it the first day but as he wordlessly makes his way to the door he spies Mohinder tentatively, thoughtfully, touch his fingers to his lips before angrily declaring, “You're mad!” at his retreating form.
Sylar does not make the same mistake twice. For the second go around he aims for the apartment and refuses any leeway that would allow Mohinder to handily cut him down. The kiss is still rough but he pushes Mohinder up against the wall and holds him firmly in place while pressing his body flush to him. He whispers, “Mohinder,” throatily against his lips then claims his mouth again. When Mohinder's tense body goes slack, Sylar pulls back slightly and he sees the rapid rise and fall of Mohinder's chest that matches his own, the hooded eyes that are hazy and no longer wishing to deny, and the unforgivable lick of his lips.
They are rough and demanding with each other. Slamming into walls, over top the kitchen table, across the living room floor, hunched over the bathroom sink with the mirror detailing their every bruised grip, moaned whimper, sweat drenched limbs and skin ripped scratches, they are unflinching. The threshold from pain to pleasure is exquisite and Sylar cannot believe it took him so long to try for this with Mohinder.
Collapsed from exhaustion on the floor, neither of them tries for small talk. Then Mohinder is on his feet, pulling his pants up and adjusting his ripped shirt as he slowly walks to the bedroom and crawls into bed with a tired (and sated?) sigh. Sylar leaves the apartment ten minutes later.
So begins a series of one night stands.
Sylar amuses himself to think that by reliving the same day, he can pretend that Mohinder's body heals as fast as his own from their strenuous activities. The discovery that Mohinder has been hiding an equally passionate no holds barred predilection for this unspoken yet unavoidable liaison is more than an arousing bolt of enlightenment. There are too many factors that convince Sylar that his relationship with Mohinder is the key to escaping the non-stop merry-go-round.
At first the fascination of discovering (and rediscovering) every line and curve, each pleasure nerve and breaking point that ignites their bodies exceeds any desire to leave it all behind. Sylar basks in their rough body grabs, shoving matches that splay their bodies as ready and willing, and obscene language between grunts and groans that leaves little to the imagination. His mind hums at the bloodied strips Mohinder inflicts over again, both of them momentarily awed as they heal before Mohinder strikes again. He smirks and keens as Mohinder curves into him, bending and opening in ways that Sylar only considered in wayward fantasies never intended to cross into reality.
Mohinder, hard and dripping in response to him, is intoxicating. Sylar grips his own straining hard on and slides to his knees. With telekinesis he pushes Mohinder up against the wall so that he does not fall under his buckling knees. As Sylar drags his tongue up the length of Mohinder's erection he looks up and watches Mohinder roll his head back, moaning and whispering a litany of profanities, before devouring him whole.
It is everything Sylar wants. But still he wakes up to the same day starting over again and progress is no more than an illusion. An actual life is nothing more than a trick of the imagination.
Deep in thought, he walks to the front door and pauses with his hand on the knob. He listens to Mohinder's labored breathing in the bedroom as he slips into an undisturbed nap and Sylar thinks it is time to play with the formula.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
It has been three hours and Sylar knows that everything has changed.
Lying in Mohinder's bed, he stares with unfocused eyes at the ceiling, then drags his gaze down the wall and across to the window that is pushed one quarter of the way up with moonlight glimmering across the edges and a soft breeze tiptoeing from the outside.
A white sheet, once cool and crisp, is wrinkled and wrapped along their lower halves. In the comfortable coolness of the night, the heat of Mohinder's breath against his shoulder and collarbone races across his body. Sylar angles his head slightly back and to the left to watch Mohinder on his right, stomach against the mattress, turned into him. Mohinder's right arm lies along the length of Sylar’s chest with his hand pressed just above the flush of dark hair that begins at Sylar’s groin. Slowly Sylar crosses his left hand to trail his fingers lightly up and down Mohinder's bicep, the heat and lingering sweaty sheen nestling into the ridges of his fingertips. He inhales deeply then pushes a few curled strands of hair away from Mohinder's face, fingering the ends with no discernable force.
He envies Mohinder's unfettered state of contented slumber. But that tiny voice at the back of his head warns him not to risk it for himself. Considering he has no idea when his day switches back in on itself he wants to squeeze every single second out of this one, commit it to memory permanently.
Yet even he knows this time is different.
It was so slow as to be torture, but it was unexpected perfection that left him speechless and unprepared. They had been overheated bodies languidly writhing against each other and tongue filled kisses tasting salted skin and grazing teeth across limbs. Swallowing each other’s moans, they were tangled legs, intertwined fingers, and slow, steady thrusts. Eyes wide open, there was no lie between them as they pushed and arched together, rocking with long awaited, previously denied desire. Pressed fingernails into skin were not meant to mark or scar bur anchor them to the present. Firm grips, feeling out long strokes, did not signify a one sided assertion of control daring to be challenged, but took them both over the edge, sputtering and panting.
It was as far from a casual fuck as possible and the afterglow rocks Sylar to his core. Everything is altered. This is it. He knows this is the moment when it all comes undone. He is unstuck in time (finally) free of undefined constraints, oppressed by nothing. He shifts to bring Mohinder closer and tells himself that tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of his life.
Still he wants to stay awake for as long as possible.
Another thirty minutes and the witching hour ticks by. Sylar finally succumbs to the persistent call of sleep. Soundlessly he falls into the most peaceful slumber of the sandman's making.
The next morning when he wakes, Mohinder is not at his side and Sylar is not in the bed or apartment he fell asleep in. He barely has to glance around to know it is the same fucking day all over again.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
For three days Sylar does not see Mohinder. He refuses himself that broken comfort. Instead he goes on a killing spree to relieve the tension that courses painfully beneath his skin. He spills blood with the same vigor he felt in the earliest days of taking, by any means necessary, any and all abilities he could track down.
Sylar is merciless. He draws out painful screams, smiling grimly in the face of another's death, but does not hesitate. He ignores the art he had developed for skillful incisions to get right to the brain. He wants to inflict as much damage as possible with burns, impalements, cuts and bruises. It is the only way Sylar can taste, force, and demand control in a world that has been pulled out from under him in one swift motion.
He is angry and vengeful, but towards whom he cannot say for certain--Melissa, for having such a useless ability; evolution, for deeming it a worthy one in the first place; himself, for taking it without enough forethought as to the bigger picture.
Each day he changes up the victims to remind himself how far his prowess extends. He can spare and kill whom he chooses. One day it is Bianca Lagorneau, Mitchell Smith and Francis May. The next time he ignores them all and instead seeks out Tabu Biko, Evelyn Sitsou, Jefferson Parker and Mahar Ahmed. Sylar goes through names like candy.
But it is all for nothing. One day of new powers is forgotten in the fluttering of an awakening eye. Just the thought of having to start, yet again, from scratch with Mohinder is mind numbing. Sisyphus has nothing on him.
Sylar allows himself to wallow in self-destruction until the distaste of it is bitter on his tongue. Then he is as repulsed with himself for the downward spiral and defeatist reaction. He tells himself that Mohinder is a factor in all of this—after all, if anyone can help him out of this nightmare it is the man he has always been connected to in some confused fashion, but only recently discovered the depth of.
It is time to get out of this mess.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
“What makes you think I would even consider helping you?” Mohinder seethes as he folds his arms across his chest, glaring.
Sylar, sitting hunched forward on the sofa with his hands clasped between his legs, regards Mohinder standing before him. He has watched him pace the living room floor ever since he was able to convince Mohinder to shut up and not attack; made harder by a part of him wanting to fold himself into Mohinder for safekeeping. Mohinder had gone from furious to curious to defiantly inquisitive as Sylar attempted to detail his predicament (keeping to the pertinent facts of the ability he had taken while leaving out their relationship) with as few interruptions as possible. It was not an easy feat with Mohinder, who seemed to have a question on the tip of his tongue at any given moment, but Sylar persisted and eventually Mohinder did listen.
It should not be difficult to understand Mohinder's belligerent attitude. After all, for all he knows, Sylar has suddenly turned up out of nowhere. But for Sylar the past few weeks, despite theoretically being the same day, have been a revelation and he and Mohinder have already crossed beyond the impenetrable border of past hostility into a familiarity made for them.
Sylar sits up straight, never taking his eyes off Mohinder's. “Because you're curious…because I'm stuck in a god forsaken nightmare with an ability so powerful even I'm unsure how to handle it…because you're not so cruel as to turn your back.”
Mohinder's eyes briefly soften in hesitation at the honest sentiment (and Sylar's stomach flips at the sign) then he narrows them and raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you're being punished?” he says slyly.
Sylar furrows his brow and Mohinder goes on. “Greedily taking everything you want and look where it's gotten you—trapped in a nightmare of your own making, reduced to asking me for help.”
Their weighted gaze holds and then Sylar is swiftly on his feet causing Mohinder to take a small step back in surprise at the quickness of the move. Sylar fights the petulant ache to slice through Mohinder's body in an infinite array of cuts to remind him that even in this bizarre state of stagnation he could still maim or kill Mohinder ten different ways on ten different versions of the same day, with no one, but himself, being the wiser.
Mostly, Sylar just wants to get the hell out of this quicksand he has jumped into and currently the only person that can possibly help him--that Sylar trusts to--is refusing to see the urgency at hand. Sylar makes a fist with his hands, clenched at his sides, to rein himself in.
“You think I deserve this?” he says through gritted teeth, vaguely concealing the hurt in his voice.
Mohinder swallows and tilts his head back, trying for the illusion of matching height. His face is impassive as he says, “Stuck in purgatory, not good enough for heaven or hell? You have to admit there's a certain poetry at play. You can go on killing all you want, accumulating an unmatched arsenal of powers, but at the end of the day none of it matters anymore. You will never be more than you are right now.” Mohinder pauses, letting the words swirl around potently between them. “At least Gabriel Gray had a future.”
Sylar is temporarily dumbstruck by the vitriol Mohinder hurls at him. Reconciling Mohinder's current behaviour with what Sylar knows of him from the past weeks is a mind twist. At times it was more carnal and easy to classify with topped up emotion no longer disguising what had been desperately hidden. But ignorance was not bliss. He knows with certainty that it was not a lie but this incessant denial feels just as real. Sylar tries to stay cool.
“Does the high and mighty routine ever get tiring?” Sylar demands as he leans forward, putting his face in Mohinder's, ignoring the urge inside to plead his case, instead aiming to put Mohinder off balance.
Mohinder pulls his lips into a tight line.
Sylar chuckles and steps back. While Mohinder remains still, Sylar begins a slow, commanding walk around him, letting his eyes rake up and down Mohinder's body, arms folded across his chest. “So superior about deserving punishments. Tell me, Mohinder, is harvesting people as rewarding as it seems?”
Sylar does not have to see Mohinder's face to know that embarrassment is playing out in wide eyes shifting with panic side-to-side. Coming around the other side Sylar stares at Mohinder's firmly clenched jaw. “What's the matter, doctor? Cat got your tongue?”
Mohinder's eyes shift to meet his. “You know I regret…all of that—,”
“Because you had no control over it.”
“And I've been trying to make up for what I did ever since!”
“After the fact,” Sylar argues. “You didn't ask for help at the time. You refused to admit you were out of your element.”
Mohinder shakes his head and takes a few steps away.
“Dumb luck is what cured you,” Sylar calls out. “That and people willing to put the past behind. I'm actually asking you to help me.”
Mohinder stops and turns to look at him. His body heaves up and down with deep, angry, meditative breaths. “I think you've overstayed your welcome.”
Panic spikes Sylar's heartbeat at how far this visit, this necessary turn of the day's events, has derailed. If he loses his chance now he is back to square one with no end in sight. Relaxing his tone he says, “You still have to help me,” and raises his left hand in a passing yet authoritative gesture.
“No, I don't,” Mohinder says, his voice strong yet with a waver in it that betrays the unflinching confidence he is trying for, and he turns towards the door.
Sylar takes two long strides in his direction. “Mohinder, please!”
The desperation in his voice surprises even him. Part of him wants to snatch it back and force it away under lock and key. The other half of him is relieved it is now out there. He is at his wits end; feeling spun out of control and free falling. If Mohinder denies him now he is not sure what he will do, what he will resort to.
Uncertainty with himself is set aside as he realizes Mohinder has paused only a few steps from the door. Slowly he turns and the expression on his face is all deep lines across his forehead and the bite of his lower lip. That is when it clicks for Sylar. The earlier animosity was overstated because of the personal involvement Mohinder did not want to admit to. But now, in this moment, it seems silly and unconscionable to ignore.
Sylar throws both hands up in the air and pushes down as if acquiescing frustrations that refuse to be exorcised. Turning on his heels he looks at the wall to his left and down to the wood floor. “I just…what am I supposed to do…”
“What about time travel?”
Mohinder's question, quietly asked, gets Sylar's attention immediately. Under his curious gaze, Mohinder clears his throat and takes a tentative step his way, saying, “You're stuck in some endless loop of time…allegedly. We could suppose that if time can be a manipulated factor--a construct--that you should be able to bypass it somehow.”
Sylar says nothing, his mind reeling with the possibilities of what is being hypothesized. Mohinder must mistake the lack of response for disagreement because he quickly backtracks with his theorizing. “Or maybe The Haitian's ability could override this corrupted one you've taken on.”
“Time travel,” Sylar says abruptly and Mohinder freezes. Sylar moves across the floor to him. “That might work.”
“In theory, yes,” Mohinder runs his hand through his hair, breaking their gaze, and walks over to his laptop lying open on the desk. Rather than taking a seat he leans forward and begins typing.
Sylar watches for a moment then asks, “So I meet--what's his name--who stabbed me?”
“It won't be necessary for you to meet Hiro Nakamura.” Mohinder clicks a few keys and stands up straight, looking over his shoulder. “Peter can do it.”
Sylar scoffs and offers a derisive, “Of course he can,” at the fact that had slipped his mind. “How soon can he be here?”
Mohinder opens his mouth then shuts it, looking down to the laptop then reaching out his left hand and pushing the screen down. With his hand resting on the shut screen he turns around and says, “He's on a mission, he'll be back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sylar booms incredulously, stalking fast steps to Mohinder who maintains a stoic stance. “Have you heard anything I've said? There is no tomorrow, only today. You need to get Peter here, now.”
“First of all,” Mohinder sternly says, not backing down, “I don't know how much of what you're saying I believe and how much is manipulation. Second of all, though this might come as a surprise, not everything revolves around you. Peter will be here tomorrow.”
“And it will be this same conversation again because this one won't have happened.” Sylar exasperatedly raises his hands to either side of Mohinder's face in a gesture that is at once threatening and desperate wanting before dropping them to his side and taking two steps back. “I've been here for weeks. I don't know if I still exist out there or if I even can. As far as I know I've completely disappeared.”
“Then you have all the time in the world.” Mohinder presses forward forcing Sylar to utter a resigned sigh.
“And go through this all over again?” Sylar feels dejected, his future tied to Mohinder's stubbornness. Needing to clear his head, and knowing that this is as far as he is getting this time, Sylar drops his shoulders. “What could I possibly say that would make next time any different?”
Not waiting for an answer Sylar stretches out dispirited steps to the door.
“Fandango.”
Confused, Sylar stops and glances at Mohinder who is watching him closely.
“What?”
“Tomorrow—today—tell me 'fandango,'” Mohinder says.
Sylar crinkles his eyes inquisitively as understanding begins to dawn. Mohinder is testing him, calling him out on this story, but he is at a loss for how this seemingly random word will convince Mohinder to believe him the next time they are here. “I don't understand--should I know what that means?”
Mohinder waits a moment, turning his attention to the far window for a second, before resettling his attention on Sylar. “No.”
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
It turned out 'fandango' was to Mohinder what 'open sesame' was to Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The word allowed Sylar to bypass a full-blown fight (settling for a mini one instead) and jump to Mohinder's shocked confusion.
Stunning Mohinder into silence allowed Sylar to reassert his intentions and though uncertainty riddled Mohinder's visage in narrowed eyes, a tense frown and the occasional exhalation of a disbelieving scoff, he listened closely, at times mindlessly tracing his fingers along the kitchen counter he was leaning against.
He said nothing when Sylar finished his story and the lack of an obvious reaction was disconcerting enough that Sylar wondered if he either needed to start thinking about living forever in the broken record that had become his existence or striking out on his own. Being resourceful made him feel less vulnerable for reaching out to Mohinder. This was simply one of a few plans.
Suddenly Mohinder, lost in thought and eyeing him suspiciously, pushed away from the counter and walked over to his bag that was resting on the floor by the sofa. Sylar worriedly observed him searching for his cellphone. The call to Peter was quick and to the point and Sylar felt a slight tinge of jealousy at how easily they spoke together and were willing to help one other. It was not the struggle he found himself having to wade through with Mohinder. Then again it would seem he shared a connection with Mohinder that was rooted far deeper with more intricate complications. That was the balance.
Not five seconds after hanging up, Peter had appeared casting tough, unblinking eyes at Sylar and immediately aligning himself with Mohinder. Sylar had made his way to the desk to sit down, silently watching Mohinder and Peter decide his future with strained voices and annoyed glances his way. Mostly it was Peter who glared. Mohinder's expression was less decipherable.
That was twenty minutes ago. Sylar decides he has allowed enough time for them to think they can have the upper hand while treating him as inconsequential. Standing up he scrapes the chair back across the floor, drawing two sets of concerned eyes his way.
“Oh I'm sorry. Did I interrupt your conversation?” Sylar posits coolly as he walks towards them.
Mohinder gives him a, 'be patient,' look and Peter muses, “No, we're done with you.”
Sylar smirks. He can tell by the look of concern on Mohinder's face and Peter's false bravado that they are going to try to help break him out of timeless cycle. “So what do we do first?”
Peter wrinkles his brow and looks to Mohinder who steps forward and, with a very controlled tone, says, “Peter will take the lead to force a rip through the cycle.”
Sylar would grin at the fact that Mohinder has immediately understood the nature of his question if he were not so ticked off at the answer. “I don't need him to do this for me,” Sylar says turning all this attention on Mohinder and stepping into his space.
“You need help, not the ability to time travel,” Mohinder counters, undeterred, staring up at him.
“I don't need to be babysat.”
“Yeah, because this was all part of the plan.”
Neither Sylar nor Mohinder looks away from the other at the sound of Peter's voice breaking in as he finally gets what they are arguing about. Staring into Mohinder's defiant expression Sylar imagines he will miss this most if the plan works. Of course Mohinder will be out there, but this one that he has come to know in the past few weeks--even if it works out to less than one day for Mohinder--is part of a realm Sylar is unsure about breaching again. What had started in selfish fun has turned into a cryptic dreamscape and his confused feelings are of little help. It is not only his own desire that petrifies him but that he could somehow be that desired in return. It is a frightening prospect, but he is not sorry for having tasted it.
Sylar finally acknowledges Peter. “Like you're one to talk about control.”
“You either accept these terms or you're on your own,” Mohinder says and Sylar looks back at him.
“You know what I could do to you if I was stuck here?” Sylar cocks a grin, tilting his head to the side with an air of condescension.
“I can imagine.” Mohinder's voice shakes slightly. “But somehow I think you're all talk right now.”
Sylar scoffs but looks down at the floor, taking a step back, then up to Peter. “When?”
“We could go right now,” Peter replies.
Sylar instinctively casts a questioning look at Mohinder who is watching him closely. He is aware that the correct answer is to take Peter up on the offer to get this over with as fast as possible, but he is suddenly tongue-tied at saying goodbye to this and what he has created. It means nothing to anyone but him, and the urge to forcibly hold onto it for as long as possible suddenly overwhelms. Ironic, he thinks, since he had nothing but time up to now.
“But if you can wait, I've got some stuff to do.” Peter slowly draws out the words and Sylar sees him looking between he and Mohinder.
Sylar tries to pass off his answer as unaffected. He steals a glance at Mohinder then says, “All I've got is time.”
Peter quirks an eyebrow and asks, “Mohinder?”
“It's fine,” Mohinder says quietly after a thoughtful pause.
Peter looks between them again. “I'll be back,” he states and disappears.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
For an hour they move around each other in silence. Mohinder checks his laptop, re-shelves objects in his room, and sorts through unopened mail. Sylar eyes him from afar while wandering the layout of the apartment for the last time he may be allowed to do so with such ease.
He feels along the curves of the bathroom sink's taps and trails his eyes along the wall tiles to the mildew spotted shower curtain. He gazes at the floor and smiles to himself. Above him the light above flickers and he looks up when he hears footsteps approach. Turning to the left he meets Mohinder's eyes as Mohinder walks by the door on his way to the kitchen.
Sylar hits the light switch and walks to Mohinder's bedroom. Under other circumstances he would take in as many details as possible, but his attention is drawn to the bed. Not neatly made, white sheets peek out from beneath a burgundy blanket. Sylar closes his eyes and sees that same blanket on the floor and the sheets mussed up on the bed. Opening his eyes, the room is foreign, unaware of a secret it houses. He wishes he could find an ability to help relive memories vividly. Deciding against sitting on the bed in some pathetic show of sentimentality, Sylar heads back into the hall and finds Mohinder making chai in the kitchen.
Sylar, facing Mohinder's back, waits for a moment then approaches, leaning against the counter next to him.
“What's fandango?”
Mohinder stops with the kettle mid-pour, then tilts it further to fill up one mug before moving to the next one. “Don't you know the word?”
Not easily distracted by Mohinder's purposeful misdirect, Sylar replies, “Definition, yes. It's personal meaning to you, no.”
Mohinder puts the kettle down. Lifting one mug with his left hand he uses his right to slide the other one along the counter towards Sylar.
“It doesn't mean anything.” Mohinder takes a sip.
Sylar leans close to him and taunts, “Liar.”
Mohinder meets his gaze and curiously asks, “This is the second time you've tried to tell me about your situation?”
“Yes.”
“But you've been here for weeks…did you try to contact me before?”
Sylar raises his mug slowly and looks away, taking a mindful sip. He contemplates the answer, knowing that a lie would work even if it were obviously a fib. He lowers the mug and sighs. “Yes.”
Mohinder grasps his mug with both hands and turns to face Sylar straight on. “But only now do you…what happened those other times?”
Sylar awkwardly avoids Mohinder's penetrating gaze and walks to the kitchen table, putting his mug down. He lingers his fingers on the rim and stares up at the living room, then turns around. He watches Mohinder take a sip and put his mug down on the counter, his expression quite serious.
“A lot of things happened,” Sylar admits casually but with a hint of apprehension.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Mohinder walks the distance between them while keeping to one side of the table, allowing it to act as a barricade.
Sylar, figuring it is all over anyway, raises an eyebrow and, in a muted tone sing-songs, “Mohinder,” with the barest hint of a smile.
Surprise befalls Mohinder as understanding instantaneously hits. Even with the table between them Sylar can feel the flush of heat that rises up from Mohinder's body. He is wide-eyed and stuttering over words that won't form and he looks over to the living room, the floor, the mug that Sylar has placed on the table. “No—there's, uh—I mean—I don't—,”
“Don't what? Believe you could do such a thing? Finally.”
“What?” Mohinder looks at him incredulously. “Anything that may have happened is due to your manipulations!”
“No.” Sylar demands abruptly and he moves halfway around the table, dragging his left hand across the surface and raising his right one to point from his own head to Mohinder's. “We didn't do anything you weren't already thinking about somewhere in that brain of yours.”
Mohinder stares off at the far wall and hunches forward, placing both hands in a vice grip around the top rung of the chair pushed against the table in front of him. Sylar watches deep lines form across his forehead as he purses his lips and squares his shoulders. “So what--you were fulfilling some wish I didn't even know I had?”
Sylar waits until Mohinder looks his way. “It was more than some game,” Sylar offers.
Mohinder shakes his head. “It's always a game with you.”
Sylar stifles the quick response readied on his lips. He is unsure if Mohinder is making a generally defensive declaration or of it the statement is specific to this most recent discovering.
“Until it isn't.” Sylar shrugs his shoulders. The gesture is not dismissive but confused in a restrained way, unwilling to share too much of himself.
“There's a moral line you move about?”
“There's nothing moral about it.” Sylar lowers his voice and shifts closer to him.
Their nearness makes Mohinder swallow nervously and he stands up but does not back away. “It's in the past.”
“Actually it all happened today.” Sylar exaggerates a sly look and Mohinder muffles an amused smile at the factual joke.
Mohinder turns away and walks towards the living room. Stopping halfway there his posture changes, tension dropping into resignation, and he tilts his head back, as if in a pensive state. A moment later he turns around, not fixing his stare anywhere at first then setting it on Sylar. “All those times and then you wanted to get out. Why? What changed?”
It is a question Sylar had not been anticipating and he finds himself at a loss for the right words to explain the intricacies of what he experienced that has brought him to this precise moment. He moves towards Mohinder when Peter suddenly appears and his surprising presence deflates the personal turn in their conversation.
Peter looks between them and announces, “It's time.”
“Already?” Sylar asks and Peter rolls his eyes in irritation.
“Hey, if you don't want to do this—,”
“The timing is as good as any.”
Sylar looks at Mohinder in surprise at his assertion. Returning his gaze, Mohinder turns to Peter and asks, “Past or future?”
Peter makes his way to Sylar's side. “Since we don't know what this power really is, we should go back before you took it. Stop you…stop her.”
What is not said out loud but Sylar hears clearly is that everything he has been through since he took Melissa's ability will be rendered obsolete. He may or may not remember it all but—
Sylar turns to Mohinder and searches his eyes for another possible answer to this miscalculation that has brought such havoc to his life. But there is no alternative to be found there and remembering is the scar only he must carry.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” Sylar says with a trace of hopefulness in his joking tone.
Mohinder holds his gaze and twitches up the right side of his mouth in a tiny smile. “Or yesterday.”
Sylar returns the half smile and feels Peter grasp his left shoulder. Looking at him they nod at each other and suddenly a heartfelt confession that will not be remembered or permanently etched in time seems fitting.
“Mohinder,” Sylar calls out and Mohinder eyes him expectantly. “It wasn't enough.”
Mohinder wrinkles his brow, questioningly, and Sylar adds, “I wanted more.”