"Mourn"-- (PG-13; Sylar/Mohinder)
Title: Mourn
Author: aheartfulofyou
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: PG-13
Words: 242
Setting/Spoilers: 1x23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Notes: For pocketedwocket, who gave me lovely music despite several technical difficulties. Here is angst for you. Thank you!
He wonders, near hysterically, if this is what Sylar feels with the blood all over his hands. Mohinder's hand is pressed into Parkman's chest, the wounds Sylar himself created, and his body is still warm, as is the blood coating Mohinder's hands with stickiness. He has only three thoughts, and none of them delight him--
Sylar could have sent the bullet rocketing into his own chest, or his head, or his leg for mere torture, but he sees it in his mind's eye, instead, clattering to the floor.
The blood is making him lightheaded, and it is remarkably not unpleasant. If he passes out, he thinks it might even be a welcomed high.
And Sylar is dead.
Sylar is dead. His own stomach hurts. He doesn't want to think about the ways Sylar could have stopped the sword from plunging into him, and he particularly doesn't want to think about his own anger-- why didn't he? Why were you not invincible? Why such an anti-climax? It serves you right, you are sick, and how dare you then give us such a pathetic ending, such a human thing to be slumped on the ground, to have suddenly become weak. Why didn't you, why didn't you--
Sylar is dead and Mohinder's scars, bruises, will fade.
Mohinder presses his hand more firmly against the wound, and feels sick. There are tears of exhaustion stinging at his eyes-- exhaustion. It has to be. No more.
Author: aheartfulofyou
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: PG-13
Words: 242
Setting/Spoilers: 1x23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Notes: For pocketedwocket, who gave me lovely music despite several technical difficulties. Here is angst for you. Thank you!
He wonders, near hysterically, if this is what Sylar feels with the blood all over his hands. Mohinder's hand is pressed into Parkman's chest, the wounds Sylar himself created, and his body is still warm, as is the blood coating Mohinder's hands with stickiness. He has only three thoughts, and none of them delight him--
Sylar could have sent the bullet rocketing into his own chest, or his head, or his leg for mere torture, but he sees it in his mind's eye, instead, clattering to the floor.
The blood is making him lightheaded, and it is remarkably not unpleasant. If he passes out, he thinks it might even be a welcomed high.
And Sylar is dead.
Sylar is dead. His own stomach hurts. He doesn't want to think about the ways Sylar could have stopped the sword from plunging into him, and he particularly doesn't want to think about his own anger-- why didn't he? Why were you not invincible? Why such an anti-climax? It serves you right, you are sick, and how dare you then give us such a pathetic ending, such a human thing to be slumped on the ground, to have suddenly become weak. Why didn't you, why didn't you--
Sylar is dead and Mohinder's scars, bruises, will fade.
Mohinder presses his hand more firmly against the wound, and feels sick. There are tears of exhaustion stinging at his eyes-- exhaustion. It has to be. No more.