"Laughs and Lashings"--- (R; Sylar/Mohinder)
Title: Laughs and Lashings
Author: aheartfulofyou
Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder (Mohinder/Gabriel)
Rating: R (violence, disturbing imagery, sexual situations)
Words: 1,558
Settings/Spoilers: Post-S1.
Notes: For the mylar_fic comm ficathon, for angst week, with the prompt of "isolation". Dedicated to sesemperamabo, who totally receives this horrifically angsty (as demanded) fic from me. Hope you like it, Ca. Heroes doesn't belong to me, etc.
"I was not awakened when I gave orders for awakening."
--- A Clockwork Orange
i
He's alone, but that's all he knows. The room is so white it makes him squint painfully, makes his eyes water, and whenever he can he's stretched out long-limbed on the hard floor, creating a shadow for himself to stare at, linoleum digging into his ribcage. He wonders if it'll leave bruises but decides he doesn't particularly care. If he breathes into the floor he doesn't hyperventilate, and that's all he tries for right now. Something's wrong, it's wrong, he doesn't now what it is, he can't remember, he can't really--
ii
There's a single, massive scar on his abdomen. He guesses he should feel grateful for whoever cared for that, because it makes him swallow hard every time he looks at it, lifting up the stiff white shirt he has on, sticking to him around the back with sweat, and still too white.
He's tried saying words in his voice, to see what his voice sounds like, to see, maybe, where he's from, because he can remember words, some. And because he remembers accents, he thinks, he remembers a-- a-- Southern and there's one from (where?) Boston, and there's European ones, different in their own rights although he doesn't know if he could mimic any of those, or differentiate. He hears them in his head, because he hasn't forgotten everything. Just-- just everything he'd like to know. He'd like so much to know. He wants to be polite about it, too, but instead he screams, spitting through teeth, harshly, "I'd like to know!"
No one's there, or they're not giving him anything to go from. His voice slips into something that might be an accent, maybe, but might just be a way, a way of speaking. He practices. His voice was hoarse at first from disuse; now it's hoarse from yelling at the walls, the walls that give him taunting grins. "Who am I?" he says. "Where am I from? What do you want with me?" The last line always gets vicious, always, and it sometimes scares even him.
iii
He uses his voice when the room opens up, and he's in too much pain to try and figure out how that door appeared when there was none before, not even a crack that he could see or try and stick his fingers in. He's hurting, his stomach, and he's not sure if it's from the wound, the floor, or the fact that he hasn't eaten and he doesn't know how long it's been because there's no time, not here. He thinks he remembers time. He thinks he remembers measuring time on watches, piles of watches on a table, but not-- exactly-- not--
It's a girl, and she has brown hair, but he soon learns not to get used to it, because it changes. Her hair, and her, she's always someone different, and he thinks he's hallucinating by now.
She laughs so much. She laughs all the time and he feels sick, and she calls him "Gabriel," so he guesses that's probably his name, but he's not even sure about that. She changes, why shouldn't he? And his name? And she takes duct tape to his eyelids, and shots into his arm, and makes him watch things, her changing, dripping blood in front of him and taunting him.
"Gabriel, look at me," she says, and she's suddenly splitting her own head open, blood and eyes rolling, and he feels like his stomach is going to force its way out of his body anyway, even without her, but she crawls close to him, tied down and bound and eyes forced open, and forces his mouth open with her fingers, and makes him swallow bottles of Ipecac and bottles of water, and makes him vomit, over and over, bottles of pills and bottles of he doesn't know, and injections, so many injections, until he pulls his chair over with writhing. She does it, over and over, and shows him the ways she can die, shows him other people, an older woman, a little girl, all dying. He's never seen himself in a mirror-- at least he doesn't remember, he's sure he has, one time, he remembers mirrors-- but he's sure, from his hands, from his body, from what it looks and feels like, that she sometimes turns into him, too, and he watches himself killing, sick and mouth burning with acid and sobbing, eyes watering but never closing.
She always turns back into the brown-haired woman again, and washes her hands with moist towelettes in front of him, and looks disgusted, and leaves him. The blood goes, but not the smell, and not the stains surrounding him. On the good days, he blacks out completely, and comes to.
There's a day when she shows him a cut on her hand, one tiny cut, and he passes out. She looks completely satisfied when he wakes up. He thinks it has to be over, then, but her eyes still glint, and she keeps going. She always keeps going. He thinks he should die soon, from this; he's so exhausted. But he's alive. He's still alive.
iv
One day it's not the girl to start out with, and he assumes it's another trick, a ploy now in the form of a man with skin dark enough that it makes the white walls hurt his eyes less. It's a dimming, his pupils can finally, finally dilate a little more. He's glad for the lack of pale, for a moment. He thinks that's the only chance he'll get, a moment, to look, but the man breathes out roughly, and comes close. Gabriel flinches away, but the man's ignoring the smell and the mess and the horror, and unties him, helping him up.
"This has gone on too far," the man says brokenly. He has black hair and eyes. Gabriel's wavering, but it's a reprieve from the whiteness. He can't stand the whiteness anymore, he can't stand the blood. He smells blood still; it's trapped in his nostrils. The man walks him, slowly enough but with purpose, worriedly, out of the room, into a car, he remembers cars, and into an apartment. He remembers this-- he remembers apartments.
v
He's cleaned up, but still weak. "I think my name's Gabriel," he mutters. It's the first thing he's said in hours-- he knows it's hours, he sees the man's clock.
The man nods slowly. "I know. My name is Mohinder," the man says. He's looking at him, with wide eyes and emotion in them, and Gabriel swallows again, but it's not with nausea this time, not now. His body's reacting in different ways, hardening. "You know me. Knew me," Mohinder continues.
Gabriel breathes in, and out. They're very close. "Did we--?" he begins, and stops. He has a shaky hand touching Mohinder's stomach, and Mohinder's only moving closer.
Mohinder laughs humorlessly. "Come here," he says, lightly, and touches Gabriel's face. "Let me show you."
vi
Gabriel's in Mohinder's bed, a little shaky still-- he's yet to get used to the feel of sweat as a good thing, a good-- a good thing. Not a signal for more torture. The torture. "The things they did to me. What was that? Why?"
"It was--" Mohinder looks away. "I'm not sure," he says, stiffly.
"You're lying," Gabriel says, more harshly than he intends to, and holds Mohinder's arm, harder than he wanted to. Mohinder winces but doesn't look back at him, and Gabriel drops his hand instantly, a wave of nausea passing over him. He puts his face into Mohinder's neck, like he'd put his face into the shadow of the floor back then.
vii
They're kissing, hard because Gabriel always seems to need to force his teeth and tongue down on Mohinder's, and Mohinder doesn't seem to mind, Mohinder makes noises instead, pulling him nearer, tugging at Gabriel's sweater from the bottom at the back, trying to get it and the plain white undershirt off. Gabriel's pushing him against the wall, against the bookshelf, and roughing their lips together, grinding their hips together, raggedly breathing. They maneuver away from the shelf and into it again, and Gabriel's not sure how, logically, with gravity, the little vase would even do that, but it smashes, and Mohinder suddenly stops kissing him. He pulls away, looking, trying to look concerned through the daze he's blinking at in his eyes, and Mohinder tugs up his sleeve, wincing a little. Mohinder has a cut, blood welling in a tiny drop, on his forearm. Gabriel knows, somewhere, in the sane part of his mind, that Mohinder's shrugging it away, but Gabriel's suddenly on his hands and knees, stomach wrenching, coughing, retching, head spinning. He can smell blood again. He can smell it, hear it, somehow, just there, just with that.
He wipes his mouth with a hand roughly, and wipes the hand on his pants, looking up at Mohinder, trying to gasp out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Mohinder's looking on, horrified, still against the shelf, clothing still wrinkled. He's not speaking.
Finally, Mohinder blinks, shakes his head, and says, "It's just a little blood. Just a little blood."
He's still on the ground. "But once there was a lot of blood, wasn't there, Mohinder?" Gabriel's voice is shaking.
Mohinder bows his head.
Author: aheartfulofyou
Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder (Mohinder/Gabriel)
Rating: R (violence, disturbing imagery, sexual situations)
Words: 1,558
Settings/Spoilers: Post-S1.
Notes: For the mylar_fic comm ficathon, for angst week, with the prompt of "isolation". Dedicated to sesemperamabo, who totally receives this horrifically angsty (as demanded) fic from me. Hope you like it, Ca. Heroes doesn't belong to me, etc.
"I was not awakened when I gave orders for awakening."
--- A Clockwork Orange
i
He's alone, but that's all he knows. The room is so white it makes him squint painfully, makes his eyes water, and whenever he can he's stretched out long-limbed on the hard floor, creating a shadow for himself to stare at, linoleum digging into his ribcage. He wonders if it'll leave bruises but decides he doesn't particularly care. If he breathes into the floor he doesn't hyperventilate, and that's all he tries for right now. Something's wrong, it's wrong, he doesn't now what it is, he can't remember, he can't really--
ii
There's a single, massive scar on his abdomen. He guesses he should feel grateful for whoever cared for that, because it makes him swallow hard every time he looks at it, lifting up the stiff white shirt he has on, sticking to him around the back with sweat, and still too white.
He's tried saying words in his voice, to see what his voice sounds like, to see, maybe, where he's from, because he can remember words, some. And because he remembers accents, he thinks, he remembers a-- a-- Southern and there's one from (where?) Boston, and there's European ones, different in their own rights although he doesn't know if he could mimic any of those, or differentiate. He hears them in his head, because he hasn't forgotten everything. Just-- just everything he'd like to know. He'd like so much to know. He wants to be polite about it, too, but instead he screams, spitting through teeth, harshly, "I'd like to know!"
No one's there, or they're not giving him anything to go from. His voice slips into something that might be an accent, maybe, but might just be a way, a way of speaking. He practices. His voice was hoarse at first from disuse; now it's hoarse from yelling at the walls, the walls that give him taunting grins. "Who am I?" he says. "Where am I from? What do you want with me?" The last line always gets vicious, always, and it sometimes scares even him.
iii
He uses his voice when the room opens up, and he's in too much pain to try and figure out how that door appeared when there was none before, not even a crack that he could see or try and stick his fingers in. He's hurting, his stomach, and he's not sure if it's from the wound, the floor, or the fact that he hasn't eaten and he doesn't know how long it's been because there's no time, not here. He thinks he remembers time. He thinks he remembers measuring time on watches, piles of watches on a table, but not-- exactly-- not--
It's a girl, and she has brown hair, but he soon learns not to get used to it, because it changes. Her hair, and her, she's always someone different, and he thinks he's hallucinating by now.
She laughs so much. She laughs all the time and he feels sick, and she calls him "Gabriel," so he guesses that's probably his name, but he's not even sure about that. She changes, why shouldn't he? And his name? And she takes duct tape to his eyelids, and shots into his arm, and makes him watch things, her changing, dripping blood in front of him and taunting him.
"Gabriel, look at me," she says, and she's suddenly splitting her own head open, blood and eyes rolling, and he feels like his stomach is going to force its way out of his body anyway, even without her, but she crawls close to him, tied down and bound and eyes forced open, and forces his mouth open with her fingers, and makes him swallow bottles of Ipecac and bottles of water, and makes him vomit, over and over, bottles of pills and bottles of he doesn't know, and injections, so many injections, until he pulls his chair over with writhing. She does it, over and over, and shows him the ways she can die, shows him other people, an older woman, a little girl, all dying. He's never seen himself in a mirror-- at least he doesn't remember, he's sure he has, one time, he remembers mirrors-- but he's sure, from his hands, from his body, from what it looks and feels like, that she sometimes turns into him, too, and he watches himself killing, sick and mouth burning with acid and sobbing, eyes watering but never closing.
She always turns back into the brown-haired woman again, and washes her hands with moist towelettes in front of him, and looks disgusted, and leaves him. The blood goes, but not the smell, and not the stains surrounding him. On the good days, he blacks out completely, and comes to.
There's a day when she shows him a cut on her hand, one tiny cut, and he passes out. She looks completely satisfied when he wakes up. He thinks it has to be over, then, but her eyes still glint, and she keeps going. She always keeps going. He thinks he should die soon, from this; he's so exhausted. But he's alive. He's still alive.
iv
One day it's not the girl to start out with, and he assumes it's another trick, a ploy now in the form of a man with skin dark enough that it makes the white walls hurt his eyes less. It's a dimming, his pupils can finally, finally dilate a little more. He's glad for the lack of pale, for a moment. He thinks that's the only chance he'll get, a moment, to look, but the man breathes out roughly, and comes close. Gabriel flinches away, but the man's ignoring the smell and the mess and the horror, and unties him, helping him up.
"This has gone on too far," the man says brokenly. He has black hair and eyes. Gabriel's wavering, but it's a reprieve from the whiteness. He can't stand the whiteness anymore, he can't stand the blood. He smells blood still; it's trapped in his nostrils. The man walks him, slowly enough but with purpose, worriedly, out of the room, into a car, he remembers cars, and into an apartment. He remembers this-- he remembers apartments.
v
He's cleaned up, but still weak. "I think my name's Gabriel," he mutters. It's the first thing he's said in hours-- he knows it's hours, he sees the man's clock.
The man nods slowly. "I know. My name is Mohinder," the man says. He's looking at him, with wide eyes and emotion in them, and Gabriel swallows again, but it's not with nausea this time, not now. His body's reacting in different ways, hardening. "You know me. Knew me," Mohinder continues.
Gabriel breathes in, and out. They're very close. "Did we--?" he begins, and stops. He has a shaky hand touching Mohinder's stomach, and Mohinder's only moving closer.
Mohinder laughs humorlessly. "Come here," he says, lightly, and touches Gabriel's face. "Let me show you."
vi
Gabriel's in Mohinder's bed, a little shaky still-- he's yet to get used to the feel of sweat as a good thing, a good-- a good thing. Not a signal for more torture. The torture. "The things they did to me. What was that? Why?"
"It was--" Mohinder looks away. "I'm not sure," he says, stiffly.
"You're lying," Gabriel says, more harshly than he intends to, and holds Mohinder's arm, harder than he wanted to. Mohinder winces but doesn't look back at him, and Gabriel drops his hand instantly, a wave of nausea passing over him. He puts his face into Mohinder's neck, like he'd put his face into the shadow of the floor back then.
vii
They're kissing, hard because Gabriel always seems to need to force his teeth and tongue down on Mohinder's, and Mohinder doesn't seem to mind, Mohinder makes noises instead, pulling him nearer, tugging at Gabriel's sweater from the bottom at the back, trying to get it and the plain white undershirt off. Gabriel's pushing him against the wall, against the bookshelf, and roughing their lips together, grinding their hips together, raggedly breathing. They maneuver away from the shelf and into it again, and Gabriel's not sure how, logically, with gravity, the little vase would even do that, but it smashes, and Mohinder suddenly stops kissing him. He pulls away, looking, trying to look concerned through the daze he's blinking at in his eyes, and Mohinder tugs up his sleeve, wincing a little. Mohinder has a cut, blood welling in a tiny drop, on his forearm. Gabriel knows, somewhere, in the sane part of his mind, that Mohinder's shrugging it away, but Gabriel's suddenly on his hands and knees, stomach wrenching, coughing, retching, head spinning. He can smell blood again. He can smell it, hear it, somehow, just there, just with that.
He wipes his mouth with a hand roughly, and wipes the hand on his pants, looking up at Mohinder, trying to gasp out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Mohinder's looking on, horrified, still against the shelf, clothing still wrinkled. He's not speaking.
Finally, Mohinder blinks, shakes his head, and says, "It's just a little blood. Just a little blood."
He's still on the ground. "But once there was a lot of blood, wasn't there, Mohinder?" Gabriel's voice is shaking.
Mohinder bows his head.