Work Text:
“So give me all your poison
And give me all your pills,
And give me all your hopeless hearts,
And make me ill.
You’re running after something
That you’ll never kill.
If this is what you want
Then fire at will.”
-My Chemical Romance, Thank You For The Venom
He resides at the far corners of Mohinder’s world.
Inescapable, he pushes down on Mohinder’s life with crushing force. He relentlessly nips at Mohinder’s heels, taunting—urging—him to keep up or give up. But they both know that’s not an option. They couldn’t walk away from each other if they wanted to.
Only death would guarantee it, and part of Mohinder wonders if even then there would be complete freedom.
Freedom from what exactly?
Still, Mohinder clings to the possibility through restless nights when the dark shadows in his bedroom scatter about in forms so scarily familiar, his chest tightens and stomach flips. He focuses on the finality death should bring while he tries to swallow food, despite a curbed appetite. He wills his mind to consider what comes after, when he doesn’t have to think about—
Mohinder’s mind turns in on itself although he is an act of careful smiles and muted laughter, the dedicated researcher and well regarded professor (he doesn’t know what strings were pulled to get him the university job, it certainly wasn’t his own shaky reputation in Chennai, and he suspects Peter called in a favour—ultimatum with Angela—to help him out). Mohinder thoughtfully questions those who make up his social circle, interested yet distant, all the while keeping the other side of himself undercover.
Peter tries to get it out of him, or at least offers refuge. Mohinder has taken him up on it a few times, sharing too much and flushing under Peter’s inquisitive gaze (the one that tries not to be judgmental but falls just shy).
Mohinder hates that he has become a person who entertains murderous thoughts almost regularly. Sure, they only involve one person, but murder is murder and revenges is a rose by another name.
He thinks about all the ways he could do it, end the final act and lower the red curtain. How ironic, he thinks, that death has become a driving force in my life. It surrounds him, mocks his confliction—the scientist playing god.
Pursued doggedly by ‘he who will not let go,’ Mohinder measures his life in the expanses of time between visits. Days or weeks, sometimes months, collapse into each other the minute they cross paths again. Then everything is crystal clear and Mohinder wants—has—to kill, has to stare into those dark eyes to know—
It won’t end anytime soon.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
A spiked drink only works once more, and unfortunately Sylar’s body in the mean time has learned to fight off the chemically induced assault much quicker than expected. Subsequently, Sylar becomes an example of polite patience, waiting for Mohinder to drink first.
Mohinder logs his progress in breaking through Sylar’s multiple defenses. It is a tedious reality with much backtracking. Sylar is a challenge Mohinder thinks may ultimately get the better of him. Fatalistic revelations don’t dissuade Mohinder, however. They flip the stubborn switch he got from his father and he hunkers down with reaffirmed resolve.
Their encounters run the gamut, but the turning point of each one, the moment it changes from a typical arrangement of insults, legitimate conversation and painful impositions of bodies into uninvited personal space, into an actual visit, during which cautious (yet revealing) admissions surpass the innate desire to destroy the other; the second it is known that Sylar is going to stay longer than he should and Mohinder is going to appease him when he shouldn’t, is what Mohinder is ever more mindful of.
He tries to keep his focus on the intricacies of the fight—different drug cocktails, blackmarket bullets, differential blade edges; methods of attack including the element of surprise on the days he refuses to let Sylar settle (lunging at him almost immediately) and drawn out mental manipulation wherein Mohinder turns a tensely shared coffee break into a lulling trap before trying to slip by the powered barriers that give Sylar an edge. It never works, but Mohinder gets closer and he knows one day he will be a split second too fast for Sylar to counter effectively.
Until then, Mohinder mentally notes the way Sylar’s torn skin knits itself together after broken bones crack back into place. He recalls the sound of blood squishing against itself, rouge on a pale white surface, and pained groans before they turn into condescending chuckles.
It is unending, and somewhere in the middle of it all, when Sylar’s body is fixing itself and he’s glaring at Mohinder above a bloodstained smirk, Mohinder has to ask himself why Sylar keeps coming back. It’s the one thing he doesn’t have an answer for. Mohinder can theorize on genetic anomalies, nature versus nurture, the sins of the father and philosophical ruminations on one’s grasp exceeding their reach, but ask him why Sylar returns again and again, to needle him on a sporadically regular basis, and he draws nothing but blanks.
Or willful denial is strengthened.
Then, one night the light at the end of the tunnel stuns them both. With a swift strike of a machete (thanks to one of Hiro’s travels), Mohinder can see the future before him, brand new and untouched. His body reels in adrenalin and shock (keeping crippling pain at bay) as Sylar’s icy and electric charges lance his skin and go deep to his bones; too overwhelmed by what he has nearly accomplished against the all-powered man. One strike away, with Sylar awkwardly hunched forward, at Mohinder’s mercy…
All it takes…
In a heartbeat—
And Mohinder does the one thing he told himself he wouldn’t.
He hesitates.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
Mohinder has time to reflect, or Sylar lets him stew in his own self-doubt. Either way, in the weeks following his inability to follow through (just enough wasted time to allow Sylar the upper hand to get out of harms way), Mohinder refuses to play dumb and exhaustively overthinks what stayed his hand.
Of all the possible outcomes, one keeps repeating; first as a soft refrain and then as an earth shattering crescendo. The first time the thought skips across his mind he writes it off as his dormant cynical side playing tricks. But he can’t escape it.
Where ignorance is bliss—
He peels back the layers that push down on them, ones with names like Chandra and Evolution, Parasite, Betrayal; Zane. Thoughtfully, analytically, Mohinder decodes the meanings hidden further down, the ones speaking of a destined meeting dressed up as a coincidence, repeated to the point of raised eyebrows.
He thinks on late night conversations that started going in one direction before turning into something else all together; eliciting an amused smile or shared eye roll, a soft laugh. They are the kinds of conversations that went far deeper than they had any right to, shared recollections of misguided or stifling childhoods, hopeful or resigned adolescence’ and the unimaginable beyond, bringing them up to the present. The kinds of conversations Mohinder used to crave, but never got with anyone else.
Alone in his office, Mohinder sits behind his desk, slumped in the seat with one arm on the desk and the other hooked over the back of his chair, and stares into space. If he closes his eyes he can smell Sylar purposely standing too close, trying to throw him off balance through his sheer presence. He feels the hot breath against his face from when Sylar rudely emphasizes a point while walking by, and the light touch of their shoulders when they stand side-by-side, peering at the latest file of ‘Special’ information Peter has angrily confiscated from Angela’s belongings, behind her back.
Mohinder tenses under the recalled weight of a heavy gaze, the very one he can feel on his back when he is acting casually dismissive; the dark eyes which make him nervous to turn around (because what must his own say in return?).
He doesn’t like the answer he keeps bumping into, sitting patiently and mockingly, waiting for him to finally make a move. He doesn’t balk at the unfairness of it all, and has stopped subjugating himself at the pyre of absolutes. There comes a point when there is nothing to say, but what it is.
A certainty, then, takes root. Surprisingly (or not) it doesn’t reduce Mohinder to a state of panic. If anything, relief washes over him and for the first time he can focus, because knowing the truth doesn’t mean he has to be a slave to it. It does not own him, but is rather one part of his being that he can choose to compartmentalize and set aside or experiment with to achieve the same goal as always—Sylar out of his life.
The other side of hate—
He is in love with Sylar.
‘Tis folly to be wise.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
The next time Sylar shows up it is at one of Mohinder’s lectures. Although he stays in the back, the brief glimpse of his half-cocked smile and fixed gaze startles Mohinder. He recovers quickly, however, hiding surprise in a momentary pause before continuing; mindful where not to look for the next hour.
Mohinder silently curses his body for not helping him out. His heart pumps harder and sweat creeps up the back of his neck and seems to pool at the center of his palms. He knows well enough that Sylar’s visit is to prod and ascertain, through jovial and pointed words, why Mohinder fell short of an otherwise vengefully life driven goal to take him down once and for all.
In retrospect, Mohinder considers the possibility he had to acknowledge and come to terms with his feelings (as confused and messy as they were) before he could truly deliver the final verdict on what it is they have become.
The clock in the classroom ticks loudly in Mohinder’s ears, almost deafening him to his own words. He flits his eyes across the sea of eager, bored and indifferent faces, blind to the battle being played out between their professor at the front of the room and the man regarding him intently at the back.
Finishing the lecture, Mohinder senses the universe’s sighed relief and anxious fallout; balance. He loses sight of Sylar amongst the moving bodies and thinks maybe this was it, discomfort was Sylar’s game plan—
That is, until Sylar corners him, alone, in his office.
He crowds Mohinder’s already small space, dragging his fingertips across the cluttered desktop and the angles of the empty visitor’s chair, tipping out books from the shelves and shoving them back in, all the while stealing glances in Mohinder’s direction to make sure he’s watching.
Sylar is an expert at invading difficult places. His words slice through firm resolve and he needles with precision.
“Believing you have the wherewithal to do what it takes, and actually doing it, are two different things.” Sylar raises an eyebrow and tosses the book in hand to the desk.
Mohinder rolls his eyes and works to unclench his jaw. “As usual you’re easily amused—to the point of distraction—by your own alleged prowess. Of course it would never occur to you I might give you an out, encouraging your guard to be lowered.”
Sylar narrows his eyes and levels an unblinking stare at him. A second later he smirks and moves to the side of the desk, between Mohinder and the door. Slowly he trails his hand along the desk’s surface and pushes some papers aside, making room to sit on the edge while forcing Mohinder to take a step back.
Sylar folds his arms across his chest. “You’re right. That would never occur to me.”
Mohinder reads the unspoken, ‘because you would never think to do that,’ between the lines. There was a time in his life he would have disputed such a claim, but now there is a disturbing aptness to the calculated observation. Sylar staring at him expectantly, ready to be contradicted, only serves to push Mohinder’s nerves.
He is nonchalant as he shrugs his shoulders. “Who knew I was such an open book? Please, why don’t you enlighten me as to why I let you go?”
He stresses the last words to remind Sylar of his vulnerable tumble in that crucial moment, yet Mohinder is similarly aware Sylar’s survival can also be attributed to the weakness of character stopping Mohinder from doing what is needed. However, the words do the job of making Sylar bristle at the mere suggestion of there being a kink in his armor.
Sylar appears to consider his answer, possibly deciding between honesty and further manipulation. “You’re reckless. Despite assertions to the contrary, you thrive on being challenged. It gives you purpose.”
“My work gives me purpose.”
“But knowing I’m out there, your father’s Patient Zero, is what keeps you up at night. Before me, this shared belief with Chandra was an abstract theory you could chase after and never catch. I made it tangible, real. So you can still chase it, but now you can almost touch it as well.”
Mohinder steadies himself to not reveal the deep chord Sylar has struck. With each breath, Sylar is unearthing the less than altruistic hand that silently shadows Mohinder’s course and has for some time. There is selfishness being pointed out in his maintaining their status quo.
He scoffs instead. “And I’m willing to overlook what you’ve done, what you continue to do, for a chance to get closer to your greatness?”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Sylar deadpans.
Irritated, Mohinder mutters, “Be serious—,”
“You need to chase after me,” Sylar says, standing up and glowering down at him. “Deep down inside, in places you don’t like to talk about with Peter, you like that you can throw anything at me and I’ll still be standing, waiting for the next punch, making you work harder; turning you into more than just a man who got lucky with a scientific breakthrough, more than a boy still seeking his daddy’s approval.”
Leaning into Mohinder’s space, Sylar continues with a reverence that raises the hairs on the back of Mohinder’s neck. “You’re finally the somebody you were always meant to be, thanks to me. You accepted those terms a long time ago.”
The glint in Sylar’s eyes is a dare. He is inviting a biting remark beneath an air of derision or a forceful shove alongside a blazing glare. Half of Mohinder wants to fall back on the expected, but in a flash he sees every attack he has countered or instigated with Sylar in all its futility—excitement.
There is something to be said for the unexpected, the opposite of everything that came before.
“What’s the matter,” Sylar slyly draws out the words. “Cat got your t—,”
Stepping forward, Mohinder leans up and places a light kiss on Sylar’s lips. It’s soft enough to be barely there, but not enough to be ignored. It stretches out the seconds, bringing the world to a standstill.
Mohinder does not think about the slight jolt in Sylar’s body at the first touch or the way he then relaxes back into it.
Mohinder does not note the way their lips fit together or the curve of their heads perfectly angled to reconstitute time and space to accommodate them.
He does not spare a thought for the familiar heat that jumps between their bodies and the strangely enticing press of skin on skin.
He doesn’t feel the rushed and painful pounding of his heart in his chest nor does he wonder if Sylar’s body is reacting the same way.
It’s simply a kiss (like no other), and nothing but; a tactical move (he’s always wanted) for the final checkmate.
When Mohinder pulls away to see his handiwork (and because the kiss has to end—unfortunately?—at some point) he is struck by the unreadable expression on Sylar’s face. There is confusion in the furrowed brown and uncertainty in the slight widening of his eyes. His mouth is parted, but no words break free.
You were saying something about a cat?
Sylar turns around and walks out of the office, leaving Mohinder to wonder if being right is all it’s cracked up to be.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
It works.
Sylar disappears into thin air and life proceeds the way it should have always. Mohinder finds a rewarding comfort in his work again, becoming reacquainted with the excitement of decently debated arguments with passionate students during the week, quiet nights in front of the television or with a book and weekend dinners with Peter (during which casual conversation—in an attempt at normalcy—always turns into more serious discussions of dangerous Specials running loose and uncontained; and secret government factions ordered to round up and all Specials, indiscriminately, for purposes yet unknown).
It’s relatively predictable, but it doesn’t stop his nights from being interrupted with endless tossing and turning; the last thought before he finally drifts off being the look (he still can’t place) on Sylar’s face. Mohinder touches his fingers to his lips, exerting the same pressure as…Turning over in the bed; he presses his nose to the sheets, substituting the smell of detergent with the subtle scent of…
It’s a life Mohinder can accept living and it seems to suit him. His mother says he sounds happier during their weekly long distance calls, but he can hear the question in her voice that wants to know what has him still so guarded. He is tempted to tell her everything but when Molly gets on the phone and excitedly tells him stories about school and Suresh family gatherings, Mohinder knows to keep his mouth shut.
His days are a series of knowing and trying to forget, until one Friday night the past comes knocking on the door. Or, more accurately, breaks into his apartment.
Mohinder has just put his bag of takeout Thai on the kitchen counter, dropping his shoulder bag to the floor, when an indescribable force (one he remembers far too well) knocks him off his feet, sending him across the living room, and up against the wall, stuck to it with his feet a few inches off the floor. He grimaces as he tries uselessly to move his limbs, only stopping when he notices the figure approaching from across the room.
“Why’d you do it, Mohinder?” Sylar asks, seeming taller and more imposing than usual.
Mohinder doesn’t patronize Sylar by pretending he isn’t asking about the kiss. Such a move is beneath them. “Let me down.”
Sylar stares through the stern order, continuing a few feet closer before stopping. “Answer the question first.”
To avoid an endless back and forth, accomplishing nothing, Mohinder swallows a rude retort and replies, “Despite your mistaken belief that I enjoy your surprise visits, the truth is I wanted to get rid of you; finally. I suspected I could send you running and I was right.”
Sylar glares and makes a move forward, but stops short. With a flick of his wrist, he releases Mohinder who stumbles to his feet. Stalking over, Sylar says, “But I did come back,” and turns away, leaving Mohinder to stare at his back.
Before the honest response can settle, Mohinder demands, “Why?” But it’s an answer he is not sure he is ready for, no matter what it is. If Sylar’s return is nothing more than a continuation of the antagonistic banter they have grown accustomed to then Mohinder feels vulnerable and exposed for the miscalculated misstep that has brought them back to square one. If Sylar is here to pick up where they left off, spinning wildly in a new direction, Mohinder is panicked at what may be uncovered along the way. If the kiss actually meant something—
“What exactly are you hoping to get out of this persistent need to make my life a living hell?” Mohinder grabs Sylar’s shoulder and spins him around.
To say Sylar looks annoyed is putting it lightly. He glowers as he pulls up straight and steps into Mohinder, pushing him back on his heels, chest-to-chest. “It always comes back to you, doesn’t it?” Sylar sneers.
“Yes, you always come back.” Mohinder fists his hands at his side.
After a heavy pause, Sylar curls up the corner of his mouth into an off-putting smile. “You really think you’re going to get the better of me? All you’ve done is change the rules a bit based on what you think you know.”
Sylar doesn’t move, but Mohinder feels a tapping at the side of his head. “When are you going to learn?” Sylar muses.
Mohinder jerks his head back (to which Sylar murmurs with amusement) and says, “Learn?” Against the instinct to not appear weak, he takes a step away from Sylar, but makes sure to not look away. “That you’re acting out some obsession with me? Believe me, I’m starting to get it.”
Sylar silently implores him to make his point, which Mohinder does with a raised, authoritative voice. “You’re acting out the daddy issues you had with my father with me. It’s pathetic.”
Mohinder shoulders him as he walks by Sylar, turning around in the process. Sylar shifts on the spot to look his way.
“I think that’s it.” Mohinder raises his head high. “He saw what you really were behind this Wizard of Oz creation—a little man playing with toys, trying to make the world bend to your will because otherwise the world has no use for you, no interest.”
He recognizes the anger beginning to bubble below Sylar’s otherwise stoic surface, being held down by large, calming breaths. Sylar angles his head forward, glaring up from beneath dark, heavyset eyebrows. He gives no warning before flicking a finger and sending Mohinder crashing into the bookcase. Momentarily stunned, Mohinder drops to the floor and crawls to his knees. He hears Sylar’s approaching footsteps and looks up in time to catch an amused yet annoyed glint in Sylar’s eyes before Sylar telekinetically pulls him to his feet and tosses him partway down the hall, once again stuck upright against the wall.
“Spoken like the prodigal son you’re not.” Sylar strolls over. “All this time trying to escape Chandra’s shadow, trying to prove yourself to a ghost who never really cared, who thought you too fragile.”
Sylar pauses in front of him and drags his eyes up and down Mohinder’s body in a way that sends a rush through Mohinder.
“What did he see in you?” Sylar taunts. “What did he know that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge?”
Mohinder hates the way Sylar knows what buttons to push. He tries to pry himself free from the wall, but it’s to no avail. Huffing at the wasted effort, he finally replies, “My work speaks for itself. I’ve gone further than he ever imagined for himself. I’m not in anyone’s shadow.”
Sylar considers him a moment. “Exactly.”
Mohinder frowns in surprise.
“Neither of us are those people, not anymore; if we ever really were.” Sylar’s sentiment is simple, but there is hidden meaning attached to the words.
“You purport to suggest we’re anything alike?” Mohinder argues.
“I don’t have to suggest anything,” Sylar counters. “Your denial is getting old and the harder you try to play it up, the more obvious you become. You want to battle me? Go ahead. We can do this night and day for the rest of our lives. But it’s not going to change anything.”
Mohinder’s scoff is less dismissive, fumbling towards nervousness. “Sound diagnosis. The harder I fight you, the more I recognize something familiar in you? Is that what you believe?”
Sylar waits a second before answering. “We’ve been circling around this for years. Who are you trying to prove yourself to? You think Peter hasn’t guessed what distracts you mid conversation? When are you going to own up to it?”
Mohinder closes his eyes and softly states, “I’m not like you,” as he tries once more to fight the invisible hold keeping him in place. At the same time he falls forward into Sylar who pushes him back against the wall, without any powers but his own strength. The weight of Sylar’s hand firm against the center of his chest is like a connecting force flowing between them.
Mohinder feels the touch too strongly and when Sylar lowers his voice and leans into him, Mohinder’s resolve begins to crack. Everything that’s held him in check begins to respond. He can practically hear the universe mumbling, ‘let go,’ to which his conscience acquiesces with the urgent stipulation, ‘just this once.’
“You keep demanding to know what I want. What do you want, Mohinder?”
Sylar leans closer when he is met with little resistance. Of the million things Mohinder should do, he does the one thing he shouldn’t. He brings his right hand to rest on top of Sylar’s, not once looking away.
“Who are you?” Sylar presses, words carefully spoken, his lips inches from Mohinder’s. “How tiring it must be to force yourself to fit into a box.”
Sylar flicks his eyes down to Mohinder’s lips then returns the watchful gaze. “Wouldn’t you like to jump?”
Mohinder’s head feels like it is about to explode from the cataclysmic bombardment of thoughts and feelings racing through it. Instilled morals of right and wrong face off against the freedom of letting it all go and simply being in the moment. Sylar is offering the path of temptation, but worst of all it is one Mohinder has considered before. The blame of straying cannot be placed on Sylar’s shoulders alone.
He sucks in a sharp breath and Sylar pulls back a few inches, eyeing him inquisitively.
“When you kissed me, did you expect me to leave?”
“Yes,” Mohinder manages to say.
Thoughtfully, Sylar continues. “Did you want me to leave?”
Mohinder drops his gaze to Sylar’s mouth and gives him the most honest answer he can muster. “I don’t know.”
When he looks up again, Sylar finishes closing the space between them. The second his lips meet Mohinder’s everything that should have been falls away. Warm skin against warm skin, and Mohinder is at once unbound and freefalling. The brush of heat rolling between their lips is the electric resurgence of everything his mind has given rise to. Mohinder tightens his hand over Sylar’s and a moan sounds out.
They both freeze.
Sylar rolls back on his heels, his eyes searching Mohinder’s for something—anything—that will tell them the proper protocol for what comes next. Silently, Mohinder drops his hand and steps around Sylar, beginning the long walk to his bedroom. His own footsteps are eventually answered by the sound of Sylar’s, following him.
Mohinder steps into the bedroom and holds the door open but does not return Sylar’s gaze as he crosses the threshold. Rather, Mohinder keeps his attention on closing the door. The click of the lock has him shutting his eyes and stealing a second to himself, as if out of his body. He grips the doorknob tightly with his right hand acting as an anchor; his left one rests against the door’s frame.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand.
If he could spread his life out like a trail of breadcrumbs, would it all lead to this one moment or has he gone completely astray? Once upon a time it would have been much clearer, but not necessarily more honest. Lies are an easy thing to swallow when he needs to sleep. Resignation buys much needed time. The gruesome, crazy truth, however, leaves a disbelieving smile in its wake and a panic attack lurking under the bed.
Mohinder opens his eyes and turns around, thrown off balance by the unexpected bashfulness in Sylar’s fidgety eyes and drooping shoulders. For the first time it hits Mohinder that this is as much a twist of circumstance for Sylar. In that split second, Mohinder is not as unnerved by what they are (finally) about to embark on.
He waits until Sylar’s eyes settle on his, then slowly crosses the floor towards him. Standing presumptuously close, Mohinder breathes Sylar in, experiencing his intoxicating presence with heightened senses now rubbed raw. At once, Mohinder wants to run his hands along Sylar’s body and taste the musk of salty skin. He wants to bend Sylar to his will and be consumed by him, whole. He wants to draw blood, but not in destruction or to exorcise Sylar from his existence, rather as a bond, reinforcing the one that already ties them without apology and remorse. He wants—
He wants.
It is so much, too much to process, that all Mohinder can do is rest his forehead against Sylar’s left shoulder. The comfort in the strangely brazen intimate gesture is threefold when Mohinder realizes Sylar is letting him cling to the solace once thought impossible for them, and that Sylar is returning it.
The world tilts.
Worrisome panic beset of the most intense want ebbs as Mohinder finds himself subconsciously matching the soothing, deep breaths slowly moving Sylar’s chest up and down. After a few minutes he feels Sylar’s right hand cup the back of his neck, rubbing gently, his fingertips tickling the tuffs of hair which curl almost down to Mohinder’s shirt collar.
With the spill of Sylar’s hot breath against the side of his face, Mohinder looks up and sees the matching desperate need in dark, hooded eyes. This time, when they kiss it is all urgency, as if time itself is running out. Mohinder nips at Sylar’s mouth then slips his tongue across parted lips. The taste he has long imagined sets his nerves on fire and he savours the rush of Sylar’s tongue alongside his.
They grab at one another, pulling their bodies tight against each other. Sylar claws at Mohinder’s back and fits his hands under the curve of Mohinder’s ass. Mohinder digs his fingers into Sylar’s biceps and wraps his arms around his shoulders. Nearly unable to remain standing, they curve into angled contortions, their legs hooking across each other causing them to stumble a few feet this way and that.
Bit by bit, everything outside of the room breaks away, disappearing into nothingness. All that matters is right here, right now. This is the only place Mohinder wants to be.
At his side, Sylar matches Mohinder’s relentless physical declaration for more, and echoes the rumbling, lustful moans spilling forth from his reverent mouth. Sylar breathes him in and drags his tongue up the side of Mohinder’s neck.
Sylar gives as good as he gets.
But it is Mohinder who guides them to the bed.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
The sound of a car alarm blaring in the distance wakes Mohinder up. Curled on his side and facing the window, he stares at the faint trickle of light that filters through the curtains until a slight dip in the matters prompts him to roll over.
Sylar is sleeping on his back with his face towards Mohinder. His hair is a messy crown of wayward angles and a hint of stubble brings a dark shadow to his skin. His left hand rests dangerously low on his stomach, where the blanket cuts just above the flush of hair at his groin. His right arm lies on the mattress a few inches from Mohinder.
There is no mistaking the history this man carries with him. Even in sleep he remains a commanding entity. Yet there is also something unassuming in his unguarded state and passively blank face, something oddly innocent. It speaks to the double nature Mohinder has ascribed to Sylar over the years; the one that teases and ridicules, enticing Mohinder and confusing him.
With his head propped up, Mohinder watches Sylar for a minute. In his mind he replays the night before in graphic details illuminating the inner turmoil that has only grown more pronounced with the light of a new day. To admit he has unparalleled feelings for Sylar—love wrapped up tightly in hate—is a balancing act. Mohinder can’t and won’t ignore what has set them on a delicate and cumbersome path. It is as much a part of them as the unexpected connection that tethers them together in an unbreakable binding. And now, he has not only admitted as much to Sylar, but has accepted Sylar’s (once hidden) affection in return.
Mohinder sighs. He knows what comes next, or more accurately, what cannot happen, but wants to enjoy the brief reprieve from an ethically guided life while he can. The clock is ticking. Reaching out, he gently touches the fingers of his right hand to Sylar’s chest, feeling the course yet soft hair that mats his chest. For a split second Mohinder is outside of his body, staring at the befitting complimentary contrast of their bodies placed together. Then he is back in his head, feeling Sylar in a slumbered state next to him.
As Mohinder flattens his hand, he flits his gaze up and is startled to find Sylar looking at him. Quickly, Mohinder pulls his hand back, but Sylar catches his wrist. It is difficult to read Sylar’s face and Mohinder’s mind flips through an array of potential retorts or dismissive replies; only to be jarred when Sylar tugs his hand forward and rests it back on his chest. Never looking away, Sylar moves his own hand to rest on top of Mohinder’s and inches the one he has on the mattress over until he’s touching Mohinder’s stomach.
Mohinder hesitates then shifts forward into the touch. He extends the arm he was resting his head on so he can run his fingers though Sylar’s hair, eventually placing it on the pillow. Meanwhile, Sylar traces his fingers over the hand Mohinder has on his chest and quirks an eyebrow—suggestively, contentedly—his way. Mohinder meets the challenge, lowering his lips to Sylar’s shoulder and softly brushing a kiss in place, the lightly bites his skin. He muffles a laugh as Sylar hisses in surprise.
Mohinder begins rolling onto his back, the movement slowed by Sylar following his lead, cupping the side of Mohinder’s face and pulling him into a deep kiss. With the shifting of their bodies, Sylar ends up on top of him. Mohinder likes the pressing weight of Sylar on him, the pulsing heat of this limbs fit between Mohinder’s.
Mohinder runs his hands along Sylar’s shoulders and down the strong lines of his chest, around the to the smooth curve of his back. At the same time he adjusts his legs, wrapping them loosely around Sylar’s hips. The unmistakable ache of their half-hard cocks pressing against each other has them gently rocking for more friction, tempered as it is, and rolling their tongues, smooth and hot, until they have to break for air.
Mohinder moves his hands down to Sylar’s ass and holds him in place while he thrusts up against him. It’s an explosive rush that has Mohinder arching his back and Sylar shuddering, then smirking.
Mohinder wants to wipe the smile off his face in more than one way, but Sylar beats him to the punch.
“Phone’s ringing.”
Mohinder wrinkles his forehead, confused. “What?”
“Your phone.” Sylar nods his head at the bedroom door and Mohinder realizes he can hear the cell ringing in Mohinder’s bag out in the kitchen.
Unsure what to do, Mohinder tries to push out from under Sylar, only to feel more weight exerted on him, keeping him in place.
“Don’t get it,” Sylar states.
“It might be important,” Mohinder points out.
“This is important.” Sylar is firm, but there is trepidation apparent when his voice catches.
“It always is,” Mohinder mumbles and Sylar immediately tenses.
Mohinder drops his arms to his side and sighs as the inevitable crawls forth. “This is borrowed time.”
“And we do what we want with it.”
“For how long? We can’t exist outside of this apartment. Not like this.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but we already do.”
Confused, Mohinder stumbles over his words. “No—we—it’s diff—it’s—,” he raises his voice as Sylar rolls his eyes and crawls off of him and the bed, then begins picking his clothing up off the floor and getting dressed.
“Don’t be obtuse.” Mohinder watches, exasperated.
Sylar glares at him and Mohinder changes track.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand…Sylar?”
Upon being I ignored, Mohinder lays his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. After a little while he sits up, turning to put his feet on the floor and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the blanket draped across his thighs. He stares at the window.
“You’re the one who doesn’t get it,” Sylar calls out from behind him and walks around the bed to stand next to the window. His jeans are on and his rumpled button-down shirt is half done and hanging loosely. He leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and crosses one leg over the other. Suddenly so self-assured; like he has all the answers, he stares down at Mohinder.
“You know we’ve been hurtling towards this since we first met, but you want to think of it as a transgression, a momentary lapse in conviction—namely yours—before we get back to the program already in progress.” Sylar nods his way.
Mohinder draws in a deep breath as the expectation for what Sylar is going to say becomes increasingly clear.
Sylar narrows his eyes into a predatory gaze that feels more for Mohinder’s benefit than an actual threat. “Don’t concern yourself with the superficial, and rather shallow worries of domestic exclusivity,” Sylar says. “We both know holding hands down the street and attending Bennet Thanksgiving’s together is never going to be an issue.”
“Then what is?” Mohinder questions him, insistent and curious.
“That which cannot be avoided anymore.” A playful smile trips along Sylar’s lips as he pushes off the wall. Mohinder reflexively grips the blanket on either side and leans back when Sylar places his hands on top of Mohinder’s and bends closer towards him.
“You planning on sticking around?” Mohinder’s stomach tightens at the problematic issue.
“No.” Sylar shakes his head. “But I won’t be too far. I’m going to linger at the back of your mind as you deliver a lecture or go grocery shopping. I’m going to be the hesitant distraction when Peter is telling you about his screwed up family.”
Sylar tightens his hands around Mohinder’s and nuzzles his lips against Mohinder’s jaw, then pulls back, speaking softly. “And when I do show up, I’m going to watch you from across the room and you’re going to stare me down, refusing to show weakness by dropping your gaze to the floor.”
Sylar places a light kiss on Mohinder’s neck and slowly drags his attention to the other side of Mohinder’s face. Mohinder’s body thrums with anticipation and he closes his eyes, feeling himself getting harder by the second.
Sylar continues sensory assault. “I’m going to stand close to you, so close as to make your personal space inconsequential; breathing down your neck while you try not to shove me back, uttering death threats, and Bennet rolls his eyes at what he thinks is yet another mindgame between us.”
Sylar rests his forehead against Mohinder’s. “I’m going to relish instigating verbal fights with you while Claire watches us face-off, tense and annoyed, wanting to draw blood, but secretly wondering…”
Mohinder opens his eyes and leans back, gauging Sylar’s intent. “So then it’s nothing different from before?” Mohinder plays dumb.
“The difference,” Sylar replies with an explanatory tone, “Is that you’ll know you want me, no question of uncertainty, no second guessing. You’ll want to break my face or throw me up against the wall and fuck me.”
His last words are spoken directly against Mohinder’s lips, followed by a brief kiss and the flick of Sylar’s tongue. Mohinder moans, the ache in his groin building.
“The difference is, you’re going to lean into my touch before pulling away.” Sylar sucks the skin above Mohinder’s jugular between his teeth, causing Mohinder to groan.
Sylar raises one knee between Mohinder’s thighs, rubbing it against Mohinder’s hard on. Looking Mohinder square in the eyes, their matching breaths are heavy between them.
“And you’re going to know,” Sylar again presses a quick kiss to his lips, “That as much as you want me, I want you.” Another kiss follows and he searches Mohinder’s eyes. “Always have, Mohinder. Always will.”
Mohinder pulls his right hand out from under Sylar’s and wraps it around the back of Sylar’s head, arching upwards. Then they are caught up in a heady kiss, tasting the potency of a love that is as necessary to their lives as it is their ruination. Sylar grabs Mohinder’s hips and shoves him further onto the bed, lying down on top of him. The blanket is twisted between them, but they still manage to entangle their legs, rocking in unison against each other, panting and careening towards shared oblivion.
The jaw dropping realization for Mohinder is that he is not flying on automatic pilot, a victim of his own desires. There is no passive trance overtaking him, his body is not acting of its own accord. He feels everything and his mind is spinning with doing what he wants to do. Right and wrong is thrown haphazardly out the window because Sylar is right: Mohinder does want this, him, them.
Mohinder wants the subtextual conversations and purposely irritating touches. He wants the unexpected surprise of Sylar showing up out of the blue (knowing all the while that in the time in between he has been on Sylar’s mind) and the wanting gazes met with defiant stares and taunting smirks. He wants to feel Sylar’s life almost slipping away; he wants Sylar to fight him back every step of the way. He wants stolen moments when they can be together, away from the rest of the world.
Mohinder will take the secrets as they apply to them, because the one person he needs to share it with already knows.
There is rapture in the unforgivable, forgiveness in the authentically unexpected. Who is he to deny himself any longer?
Calculated risks have always informed his life.
But he suspects this is the most dangerous—and fantastic—of them all.