Fic: "ev'ry peak and valley humming" (Sylar/Mohinder) NC-17
Title: ev'ry peak and valley humming
Author: Steph (andbless_mybaby)
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, smut, angst
Spoilers: S1 general
Summary: AU after the S1 finale. Sylar kidnaps Mohinder for a midnight walk through the snow. Why?
Word Count: 5,700
A/N: Written in the heroes_exchange ficathon for the totally awesome mabetini , who requested fic in which the guys do "naughty things at a Christmas tree farm." This fic would not have been possible without the diabolical and amazing encouragement of shimmeree , who not only cheered me on through the writing of my first slashfic, but beta'd it to make sure nobody stuck anything in the wrong holes. <3
_
Under the pallid luminescence of the December moon, the face of new-fallen snow on the hills is downy and unmarked. The thin, freezing air is enough to take one’s breath away.
Tramping through the field, his wet shoes making tracking imprints in the drifts, Mohinder has lost all feeling in his hands. He’s shoved them into the pockets of his coat in a feeble attempt to keep warm, but he can’t seem to elicit anything but a muted tingling in his fingertips.
“Faster,” the voice behind him demands.
Sylar’s own hands are covered in leather gloves, hanging loose and imperative at his sides. He’s not holding a weapon - his body, his own self is a hulking, abusive threat goading Mohinder forward.
Hours after the fact, Mohinder still has only a faint memory of looking up from the journal he was studying, unnerved by the unmistakable sensation of someone watching him. Unshaven, paler than usual, and slightly hunched, Sylar bent like a shade over his shoulder.
Good evening, Dr. Suresh, he had said. I’m requesting the pleasure of your company for a little trip I’ve been meaning to take.
The jab of the syringe in his neck was the last thing he remembered for a long time.
The blurry haloes of street lights and the caustic purr of highway traffic seemed to have gone on forever. Mohinder either closed his eyes or the drugs kept him in a daze, because when the car stopped it was nighttime. He was slumped over against the carefully-fastened strap of his seatbelt (a detail that struck him as distinctly incongruous, even in his stupor), and the digital display on the radio clock read 11:37 p.m.
The moon was full, shining on snow that had not been on the ground where Mohinder had been reading. They were parked alongside a chain link fence, on the side of a nondescript dirt road.
“Where are we?” Mohinder’s own voice sounded thick to his own ears, his tongue sticking sluggishly in his dry mouth.
Sylar ignored him, and pocketed the keys. Mohinder sat still, too weary to move his own limbs and try to escape, while Sylar popped the trunk. He had a tool in his hand, and he knelt beside the fence. Within moments, he’d broken the padlock keeping the gate from opening, and pushed back enough snow to open it up a bit. He came around to the passenger side, and crouched next to Mohinder.
“Versed,” he said conversationally, as he reached an arm across Mohinder’s lap to unfasten his seatbelt. “Amnestic, hypnotic, sedative. Of course, the good doctor would know that already.”
“Not… that kind of doctor.” The fact seemed very important to Mohinder.
“Nonsense, smarty pants.” Sylar tugged at his wrist, and Mohinder half-tumbled from the seat onto the frozen ground.
“As knock-out pills go, it has a short reaction.” Sylar flashed him a reynard grin, all teeth. “Of course, you’ve had slightly more than the typical dose. But you’ll be feeling just fine presently.”
Mohinder groaned at the feeling of the deep snow already soaking into his clothes. Sylar hauled him up by the elbow, gave him a hearty shove towards the gate.
“Start walking.”
Even now, after having walked for what must have been more than fifteen minutes, it seems like Mohinder’s head is only just starting to clear, and everything else has been blurry. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder at Sylar, but keeps on marching through the flurries.
_
Mohinder’s legs are begining to ache. It makes sense once he realizes that they have been walking uphill now for a little while. He still trudges ahead of Sylar staying a mostly straight path. The slope they are cresting has been gradual, but lengthy. At the highest point, its subtle gradient gives way to the expansive openness of what looks like… farmland. The moonlight reflects off the snow brilliantly, illuminating many tidy rows of peculiar flora below. Mohinder stops. Sylar must have been further behind than he thought, because it takes him a few moments to catch up. He’s bowed against the cold, his panting breath escaping him in plumes of condensation.
“What are those?”
“Fir saplings,” Sylar answers, winded. “Those, Mohinder, are young Christmas trees.”
And so they are. Making their way down the hill, they encounter another fence. A rustic-looking wooden gate has a large sign attached: BOWLES FARM - CLOSED FOR THE SEASON - HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Beyond the seedling are rows and rows of mature conifers, their pointed tips swaying in the wind.
“It’s a Christmas tree farm,” Mohinder realizes.
“It is.” That’s all Sylar says.
For a long instant, Mohinder takes in the sight. Next to him, Sylar’s hands are pushed in the pockets of the long coat that he wears buttoned up to his neck, which seems slightly too wide and short for his frame. A fleece-lined hat covers his head and ears, and he has donned boots suitable for the depth of the snow. Clearly, he was planning to come out here into the inclement weather. Why they are here is a mystery, and Sylar’s silence isn’t yielding any indications.
Mohinder is thoroughly confused. Sylar has tried to kill him once, and has taken the lives of others on multiple occasions - including Mohinder’s own father. The man is a murderous psychopath. Every shred of common sense Mohinder possesses is telling him to flee. He’s not forcibly detaining Mohinder; an escape would not be out of the question (albeit difficult). Yet, despite having drugged and kidnapped Mohinder, he doesn’t seem to have any nefarious plans in mind, at least at the immediate present. He finds himself inexplicably interested in what Sylar might have to say.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“I don’t suppose your family celebrated Christmas.”
“No.” A flicker of irritation at Sylar’s asking about his family piques Mohinder.
“I thought not.” Sylar nods. “So much depends on the right tree, Suresh. It can really make or break your holiday season.”
It’s December 21st. The winter solstice, Mohinder realizes, the longest night of the year. It’s close enough to Christmas that it seems like the whole world is caught up in one big flurry of activity, except for himself and Sylar, walking through a godforsaken winter wonderland. Mohinder sharpens his eye on the North Star, and ponders if he could manage to make it back to the main road through the fields abutting the farm. The cold seems to have slowed Sylar down considerably.
It’s as if Sylar has read his mind.
“You have no idea why I’ve brought you here, then?”
“What part do I play in your designs, Sylar?”
If his annoyance is coming through in his voice, he doesn’t particularly care. Sylar drugged him, for Christ’s sake.
“I’ve been living here,” Sylar mentions conversationally, as if Mohinder had not spoken at all. “For the last few weeks.”
The trace of Mohinder’s last interrogative feels overblown on his lips, hyperbolic and ridiculous. He’s angrier at himself than Sylar, which piques him even more.
“I don’t understand!” He feels like a petulant child, irritated at the world and with no one listening. “What is this all about?”
Sylar turns and stares at him inscrutably. In the darkness, his eyes flash like jasper.
“Nobody can understand everything. Not even you, Doctor.”
“What business have you been up to now?” Mohinder perseveres. “Have you discovered any more lives you would like to ruin with my assistance?”
“Your beliefs about my fundamental motivations are not charitable, Mohinder.”
“I know what I know,” Mohinder retorts.
“And yet-” Sylar smiles. “There are more things on heaven and Earth. I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You have?”
“The heart is the true holy mystery. I’ve had ample time in these past days to reflect on the course of my life, and the subtle threads of chance and destiny that have led me to this point.”
Mohinder cracks his frozen knuckles, and blinks.
“Surely you didn’t go through the trouble of abducting me from my warm home just to psychoanalyze you, Sylar. Again, you seem to have me mistaken for a clinician.”
“No,” Sylar agrees. “You are absolutely right. I’ve been wanting to have a little chat with you, you see. And the hustle and bustle of city life is just not conducive to effective discourse, in my opinion.”
“What do you want with me?”
It’s around midnight, and the temperature must be well below zero by now. The tempo of falling snow and bluster is progressing from adagio to allegro, lashing the trees. Sylar leans in to Mohinder’s ear, raising his voice over the gale.
“We have unfinished business between us. From autumn.”
In that instant, the sense memory of a northwest trip in a car with Zane Taylor over two nights in October slams Mohinder like a sucker punch stronger than the inclement weather.
Eighteen hundred miles of a stomach sick from too many fast-food hamburgers and bottles of flat, sugary cola. The smell of gasoline, and the endless reek of cattle grazing over the flat midlands with not another car in sight. Another man’s stubble in the basin, the alien lullaby of someone else snoring in a twin bed identical to his own, bought for $39 a night at the Meadowlark Bide-A-Wee in Omaha. Days without rain, ocher rust in the shower.
Mohinder averts his eyes.
“Zane Taylor wanted to fuck you, Mohinder.” One step more, and Sylar is there, closer than the accepted social mores for personal space permit. His voice is so low that it sounds as if it’s actually in Mohinder’s brain. “He was in my head, every night while we were alone together. I could have killed you and taken all your precious research. You should thank Zane for my not doing so.” He furrows his brow. “Well, his spirit, anyway.”
Mohinder can’t back up any more, not without crashing through the branches of the trees on either side of his back, and turning tail like a coward. He’s half-convinced that’s what Sylar is trying to make him do. He stands his ground, inclining his face away.
“I took something from Zane. Maybe he gave me something, too,” Sylar says lowly.
“You are… mad,” Mohinder protests, his voice cracking.
“No, Dr. Suresh. That’s not true.” Sylar gazes at him sideways. “But perhaps this is madness. Perhaps I have miscalculated the yearnings of your great and noble heart.”
It shouldn’t be possible for him to step even closer, but somehow, he does. Mohinder can see the tenuous cling of snowflakes on his starling eyelashes.
“…But I don’t think that I did.”
Sylar is four inches taller than Mohinder, and, this close, he looms over him in a way that is positively terrifying. Mohinder shrinks away from him, and yet feels the blood rising traitorously in his face. There is no place to go, no place to hide the clinical evidence of his quickened respirations and sudden onset of perspiration on his palms.
“Sylar-” he begins.
“Tell me ‘no,’ Mohinder.” Sylar leans in. “Tell me not to.”
Mohinder can not.
Sylar closes the infinitesimal gap between their faces, and kisses him.
The other man’s face is a complex, unfamiliar terrain. An intrusive nose, a sandpapery and angular chin. His breath is sour and hot, the close cut of his sideburns feels alien under Mohinder’s fingertips. Kissing him is awkward, and Mohinder feels acutely that he has stepped out of his depth completely. Then Sylar’s mouth is hard against his, and he knows that he can’t stop.
The grunt in the back of Sylar’s throat has a tone of discovery. Their teeth clash, and Mohinder bites Sylar’s tongue accidentally. The taste of copper fills his mouth, and it just makes him more desperate, makes him cling like rain to the dry earth.
The ground beneath their feet is anything but dry, however, and the powerful blast of a blizzard wind nearly knocks them off their feet, four legs tangled in a freakish embrace.
“Mohinder.” Sylar’s steady voice does not betray him as the man whose throbbing, angry erection is as yet weeping warmth between the dense cotton layers of their pants. “Over there.”
_
The barn lurks in the darkness on the far side of a wide clearing, its gabled roof rising above the tips of the trees surrounding it. Sylar heads in that direction without so much as a backward glance at Mohinder, who follows him unquestioningly through the dunes of snow.
_
When Sylar throws open the door, Mohinder is relieved to discover the interior of the structure is at least a few degrees warmer than the squall outside.
Vast rolls of brown paper and huge spools of packing twine are being stored within. A wide wooden sleigh rests, ready to be hauled by a draft animal or truck, in the middle of the dusty floorboards. Voluminous bales of coarse, dried-out hay are stacked at the periphery, and loose stems are scattered with a thick layer of discarded tree needles. The light from the open door glints off the sharpened blades of at least one dozen hacking instruments hanging off the walls.
Mohinder locates the tack room by the negligible light of the barn’s small windows, and emerges with a pair of kerosene lanterns and a box of matches.
“Careful, Mohinder,” Sylar says inscrutably. “You wouldn’t want us to be burned alive, would you?”
Mohinder doesn’t reply until he has gingerly lit the sodden wicks and extinguished the matches. He flicks it out and stares at the spent paper stalk in his hand.
“I noticed that you were walking with some difficulty,” he says coolly. “My guess would be an abdominal wound.”
“Not so far off.”
When Sylar yanks his hat off, his shock of dark hair bristles with static electricity. He unwinds the scarf around his neck.
Mohinder watches Sylar shrug off his clothing, layer by layer. His chest underneath his sweater and undershirt is slashed by an angry red gash.
Mohinder sucks in his breath.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Hiro Nakamura tried to kill me,” Sylar said. “Evidence seems to suggest that he failed.”
“Only barely.” Mohinder’s inner scientist can’t help bending slightly to examine the wound. His finger darts out before he can think better of it, and halts millimeters away from Sylar’s pale skin. He traces the jagged cicatrix in the air, mentally accounting for the physiology of such internal organs as might be affected by what looked very much like a sword wound. “Who stitched you?”
“The gentleman who formerly owned this farm,” Sylar replies. “He had a gift for helping things grow, including perforated bodily tissue.”
“He didn’t finish?”
“He met an unfortunate end,” Sylar reports. “His home -located on the far side of the property- burnt down to the foundation three days ago.”
“Not your usual style.” Mohinder steps away stiffly. “Which is to say nothing of biting the proverbial hand that feeds you.”
“My ‘usual style’ was not a factor.”
“It was done well,” Mohinder concludes, coolly changing the topic. “You were lucky to escape infection. A surgeon might have been able to save you from the large scar you will have, but that’s hardly the worst that could have happened, given the location of the trauma. It would have been fascinating to see how well you might have recovered, had your greed not gotten in the way.”
“Greed had nothing to do with it.” Sylar stretches his arms gingerly. Mohinder is close enough to see the gooseflesh dotting his torso, but Sylar seems unfazed. “I slithered through the sewers, convinced I was going to die amongst the shit and rats. I don’t know how long I was down there. After a long while, I began to smell fresh air, instead of city filth. And I ended up here. Mr. Bowles nursed me competently, but he couldn’t restore my lost abilities.”
“Perhaps that’s not such a terrible turn of events,” Mohinder bites off before he can think better of it. “You have done some unspeakably evil things. Not the least of which was killing that poor farmer.”
“A space heater caught fire,” Sylar corrects him. “I had a couch in the front room, and was fortunate enough to escape before the flames grew out of control.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mohinder hisses. “And the loss of your powers may be the universe’s way of correcting a terrible aberration.”
Sylar spreads his hands.
“You think I’m an aberration, Mohinder?”
“I am a geneticist,” Mohinder says heatedly. “All my studies have pointed to the development of superhuman abilities as the next stage of human development. When nature changes, inevitably it must weed out those specimens that are less fit.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you personally think I’m an aberration?” Sylar’s tone is patient, but there is an inexplicably undercurrent to his words. It takes Mohinder aback, and makes him choose his words.
“I think that, to a certain extent, there is some part of you that can’t help the impulses you feel. That drive is deeply flawed. Of course, how we manage our unthinkable desires is a large part of our character, and who we are.”
“Who are you, then, Mohinder?” Sylar’s gaze is hooded, occult. “How exactly do you manage your own ‘unthinkable desires’?”
“I’m… not sure what you mean.” Mohinder realizes now that his subconscious may have played him false on that previous speech, and also that Sylar must know he is prevaricating now. The other man advances on him, and this time Mohinder forces himself to stand his ground.
He thinks that Sylar might kiss him again. Mohinder feels a frisson of vertigo, a plummeting feeling. His gut clenches, he recognizes himself as a traitor. (He wants Sylar to kiss him again.)
And then Sylar reaches into Mohinder’s imbroglio headspace, and catches his fingers with his own. He drags Mohinder’s hand to the bulging crotch of Sylar’s pants, and pushes Mohinder’s palm hard against the erection that is tenting his fly.
“I will let you lie to me, Mohinder, because I already know the answer. You may not know who you are, but I do. I have known for a very long time, now.”
Mohinder feels numb, his hand curved against Sylar’s very plain evidence of wanting him. Tenderly, Sylar cups his chin, and lifts it.
“That’s fine, though. Because you have done so much for me in the past, I am going to do something for you, now. I’m going to give you something that not many people get to experience in this life, Mohinder - the chance to face exactly what and who they are.”
Sylar kisses Mohinder brutally, and then pulls back.
“Kneel down,” he orders.
It’s as if a parasitic life form has taken over Mohinder’s body, wresting away the use of his limbs while leaving his brain and eyes in place to mutely watch what’s happening. He takes to his knees, faltering like a somnambulist.
“Have you ever done this before, Mohinder?” Sylar’s voice is even raspier than before.
“No.”
Sylar unzips his fly, and slides his clothing down over his hips.
“Given your brilliance, I have confidence in your efforts.”
Between Sylar’s legs, Mohinder inhales the tart smell of male sweat and it stirs a strong, dizzy potion in his gut.
He parts his lips, and takes Sylar’s cock in his mouth. Mohinder underestimates his gag reflex when the head bumps his throat. He feels his pharynx contract, and Sylar catches his breath. The sound awakens something intense and glorious in Mohinder. He rakes the strong muscle of his tongue down Sylar’s shaft, and fellates him in earnest.
Mohinder has not done this before, that much is true. He does know what is satisfying in this instance, however, and he diligently applies himself to doing those things. He takes the abasement gladly, submissive in this act of pleasure. Sylar makes a fist in Mohinder’s curls, tightens his fingers until the pulling is acutely painful. Mohinder kneads Sylar’s thighs and clamps down, lips over his teeth, working his jaws over Sylar’s length. He licks the sensitive slit of his urethra, and Sylar jerks and gasps.
The scar of Sylar’s circumcision is foreign to Mohinder, the glans thickened. Mohinder swivels his mouth around it, gulps to contract his throat and let Sylar feel his enthusiasm.
The reverberation of slurping sounds filthy in the echoing chamber of the huge barn, and goads Mohinder yet further. He grabs Sylar’s hips and pulls him into his mouth again and again, encouraging him to fuck his face. Making him come feels like the most rewarding thing Mohinder could ever go, an ambition that spurs him when he looks up and sees his most dire enemy with his eyes rolling back in gratification. Sylar’s hands grip Mohinder’s shoulders, struggling for purchase, digging fingertips that will surely leave bruises.
Sylar ejaculates with a harsh cry. Mohinder greedily swallows around his pulsating cock, gripping Sylar’s ass.
Mohinder sits back on his heels, and brushes the back of his hand over his lips. Sylar catches his breath, and stares downwards. This time, Mohinder does not feel afraid to meet his stare. Then, Sylar drops to his knees, meeting Mohinder on his level.
Mohinder has never seen Sylar look like this, serious with desire, eyes black and hungry with anything except covetous malice. Mohinder anticipates the hot blossom of his mouth as though it is the last thing he hopes to feel in this lifetime, and when Sylar lets him have it Mohinder cups Sylar’s skull and roughly presses himself against the other man’s long, warm bones. It’s sloppy and greedy, and Mohinder can still taste Sylar’s semen on his tongue.
Sylar begins to undress Mohinder from his sodden clothes. After they mutually dispense with his sweater, Sylar turns his attention to Mohinder’s dress shirt. He’s still kissing Mohinder as he slowly slips the buttons one-by-one through their eyelets on his shirtfront. Agitated, Mohinder moves his hands to do the job more quickly, but Sylar elbows him out of the way roughly. Mohinder groans. Sylar shifts his weight, and his hard-on presses against Mohinder’s hip in a maddening display of frottage. When Sylar parts the tails of the shirt Mohinder takes the opportunity to drag Sylar up against him, and Mohinder’s back finds the nearest wall. Through the friction of their pants, their hips grind obscenely.
Mohinder shoulders off his shirt, toes off his shoes, and moves to unfasten his pants. He balances one hand on Sylar’s shoulder while struggling to bend his legs out of the superfluous garment, twisting his waist and craning to haul his mouth back up to Sylar’s at the same time. Sylar grasps at Mohinder’s hip for the waistband of his shorts, and Mohinder thinks he hears a rip in their haste to drag the underwear off. No sooner has he tackled that obstacle, than he turns to getting Sylar’s pants and boxers off in an equally expedient fashion. When they are both naked, Mohinder finds himself tugging Sylar’s wrist to guide his hand to his painfully erect cock with a sense of purpose that he doesn’t try to understand. Sylar laughs harshly against Mohinder’s open mouth.
“They say that patience is the finest virtue, Mohinder.”
“I can’t-” Mohinder protests, in what sounds to his own ears like a whimper.
Fortunately, Sylar seems to have decided that he’s not willing to be patient any more, either. The taller man slides his knee between those of Mohinder, widening his stance. One of Sylar’s hands curls hard on Mohinder’s ass, while the other just faintly brushes his sex. Mohinder surges into his hand, unable to stop the action of his hips. Sylar palms Mohinder’s cock experimentally, and slides the pad of his thumb over the slit of his meatus. An exudation of pre-ejaculate oozes from his tortured penis; Sylar slowly uses his finger to rub it into the exquisitely sensitive flesh of his glans. Sylar tightens his grip and moves his hand over Mohinder’s shaft, causing his foreskin to slide.
Mohinder moans audibly when Sylar turns him around, and presses Mohinder’s back into his chest. Still masturbating Mohinder, Sylar bites his shoulder hard and sucks a mouthful of his skin against his tongue. His free hand spider-walks up Mohinder’s side, and splays on his chest. Sylar scratches his pectorals, and fiendishly rolls Mohinder’s pebbled nipples between thumb and forefinger, making him gasp and roll his hips against Sylar’s cunning wrist jerking him off.
So occupied is Mohinder by the long fingers on his dick that he isn’t fully aware of Sylar kneeling behind him. Mohinder’s legs are parted, his feet planted wide on the floor, so that when Sylar starts to nuzzle his ass, he almost falls over. Sylar’s forearm reaching up against his thigh is strong, though.
An abashed moan of sheer pleasure escapes Mohinder’s bitten lips when Sylar pokes his pointed tongue in between the cheeks of Mohinder’s ass and licks the puckered bud of his rectum. The erotic thrill that crawls up his spine at the sensation is shameful but demanding - demanding that Mohinder throw his head back and twist his hips, stuck between Sylar’s hand and mouth eating him out from the rear. His knees feel weak, inadequate for the task of supporting his weight.
Once Sylar has been at it for a minute or so, he gets two of his fingers slick and nudges one inside Mohinder. Just the tip, twisting and probing. He massages Mohinder’s perineum with the knuckle of the other, and rolls his wrist, slides the pair up his ass. Mohinder cries out softly, just a wisp escaping his dry, parted lips.
“Shhh,” Sylar hums. And adds a third digit, scissoring and stretching.
The combination of his voice and the intense, uncomfortable pressure goes straight to Mohinder’s cock. Inside his body, Sylar hits exactly the right spot, and Mohinder is bucking his hips and making low-pitched, desperate noises.
“I can’t have you coming just yet, Mohinder.” Sylar says. Mohinder’s pretty far gone to nail it down in a rational and cognizant manner, but Sylar has shifted into something else in the long minutes that have passed, something liquid and quiet and predatory.
“What are you doing to me?” Mohinder asks, and it may as well have been God to which his plea was directed, wide open and breaking with the pungent savor of balsam all around.
Sylar withdraws his hands and sits back on his heels.
“Lie down,” he orders Mohinder. “There.”
The absence of Sylar’s manipulations has left Mohinder dizzied, aching with unspent desire. He does as he is told, and spreads himself out on the floor.
“Tell me that you want this, Mohinder.” Sylar’s tone brooks no arguments. He is indolently caressing his cock, which is now as firm as ever. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
“I do,” Mohinder breathes.
“It’s going to hurt.” Sylar shifts and Mohinder can’t see his face anymore, but it’s as if he can feel his smirk in the fingertips that brush his face. “But you don’t necessarily mind that, do you?”
There’s no way that Sylar sees Mohinder avert his eyes, but his voice turns hard and ironic.
“…Do you?” he repeats.
“No,” Mohinder murmurs. And then holds his breath, his jaws taut with arousal as he waits.
Sylar rises over him, and begins to work him again digitally and with the aid of a good deal of clear spit. Naked, his cock probes the tender insides of Mohinder’s knees. The contact makes him shiver in unrealized lust. He had three fingers in him before; now, the rounded intrusion of those same fingers makes him tense.
“It hurts,” Mohinder breathes hoarsely.
“Here.” Sylar leans on Mohinder’s back, and offers the fleshy interval between his thumb and index finger. “Bite down.”
The blunt head of Sylar’s erection seems enormous against Mohinder’s ass, but the muted salt of the other man’s skin spreads on his tongue, and distracts him for one, critical moment. Sylar’s cock shoves past the tense circle of his sphincter, and the fast, jagged pain opens Mohinder’s jaws in a silent cry. Just as quickly, he bites down on Sylar’s hand.
Sylar utters a curse, and makes a fist. The elliptical impression from Mohinder’s teeth stay behind, and taste of blood blooms on the tip of his tongue for the second time that night. It’s a savor that he nurses in the endless seconds while Sylar fully impales him, one centimeter at a time.
Mohinder had expected violence in this instance, and found that he had misjudged. There is an uncanny tenderness in Sylar’s patience with his inexperience, in his concern for Mohinder’s comfort. Sylar strokes his hands restlessly over Mohinder’s back, an intimate gesture that stops, Sylar’s fingers cupping the basket of Mohinder’s ribs, once he’s inside him to the hilt.
It’s like nothing Mohinder has ever felt before. The feeling of being penetrated is bleeding into his consciousness, a dark, velvet awareness. By now, the pain and the pleasure have muddled themselves into one huge, expansive wave, and he’s drifting out into some unknown, perilous sea. Sylar begins to move slowly, working his hips.
“You are fucked, Mohinder.” Sylar’s voice sounds very far away, like the hearkening of a storm in the distance. “So fucked.”
He’s right, of course, although Mohinder is past the point where he could coherently convey the sentiment. He is as weak as water, melting like snow under the weight of Sylar’s hips grinding his down. His cheek is flat on the floor, his left hand very close to his chin. Mohinder breathes a prayer into his wrist, and becomes aware of the discomfort of his throbbing erection against the rushes.
Sylar has no gift of precognition (at least, not anymore), but he laughs gutturally and tugs up on the curve of Mohinder’s shoulder, up until Mohinder is on his elbows, with knees spread wide. Sylar lowers himself down on Mohinder’s back, flush and with his arm free to reach under Mohinder’s body and firmly grab his cock. A hard cramp of arousal twists Mohinder’s gut.
Mohinder thrusts in Sylar’s hand reflexively. He is hard as chalcedony, and Sylar’s touch is damnably, intentionally light.
“Please,” Mohinder bites off.
Sylar’s thumb presses the nerve-rich corona of Mohinder’s sex, and he clearly is already in tune with what Mohinder likes, what is finally going to get him off. Mohinder fucks his hand desperately, and Sylar does not stop him. The clench of Sylar’s un-lubricated fist is too frictional, chafing Mohinder’s flesh. But the pain is his friend now, the rawness is honest and cleansing, like a prayer.
Sylar’s movements have become staccato and uneven. He’s close, Mohinder can tell. He has strong self-control, and Mohinder gets the sense that he’s proving some kind of point.
He was right, he thinks. This is me. This is what I am, what I have become.
Mohinder thinks of the wide Montana sky, he thinks of Zane Taylor in a motel bed at 3 a.m. He thinks of riding in a car on a highway that seemed endless; he thinks of betrayal. He thinks of Sylar. All autumn long, he thought of Sylar. Even when we would not admit it, even when he hated himself. He was always thinking of Sylar.
Mohinder comes and comes, the scope of his universe crashing down on him, and Sylar’s strangled cry echoing through the barn.
_
Afterwards, with the lanterns dwindling, they lie down in the dust and cool in their own sweat. Mohinder tries to avoid staring at the long expanse of Sylar’s pale body - the hair matted in a wet fern pattern on his belly and groin, the elegance of his fingers tapping the floorboards evenly, like a metronome. He curls in on himself, aching and confused.
“You are going to figure out what’s wrong with me.” Sylar’s voice isn’t a threat; it just sounds exhausted. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
Mohinder doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks that the other man doesn’t sound quite capable of it at the moment. In fact, he says nothing at all. The chill rattling the windowpanes is starting to seep into his skin. He shivers, and he can’t say for certain why.
“When?”
“When I come for you again.” Even in the darkness, Sylar’s drowsy eyes are dissecting him.
“Don’t be mistaken, Mohinder. This was a simple matter of balancing the scales. Until I regain everything I’ve worked so hard for, I need you.” Sylar pauses a long moment. “Now, I think you need me too.”
They bed down on some of the scratchy burlap sacks and settle into the must and debris of the barn floor. They don’t touch. It takes a long time for Mohinder to get to sleep, but Sylar’s mind is evidently untroubled. A shaft of moonlight illuminates the prominent features of his face, and it would be so easy to do something, but Mohinder has no idea what. The sounds of the other man’s even, deep breathing stir an aching familiarity in Mohinder’s chest, so he rolls over and tries to let the thrashing wind through the rafters lull him into dreams.
_
When he stirs, Mohinder finds himself alone. The broad barn door has blown open, allowing the frozen current of the night’s darkest hour to intrude on his shelter, and the hay bales have been scattered. He feels like his bones must have become hollow, he’s so cold. The wind is blowing right through his body. He fumbles with his discarded pants for his cell phone, and flips it open. It’s just before six.
Sore and sleepy, he staggers out into the clearing. The storm has abated, and an overwhelming silence prevails. Mohinder, bred in the second-most populous nation in the world and living in New York, thinks that he has never experienced such quiet before. The first hesitant lightening of dawn casts a gray pall on the vast expanse of the sky, and there are no tracks marking the fresh snow. A gauzy fog had wound itself around the Christmas trees and settled low to the ground. The morning is completely silent, save the echo roaring in Mohinder’s consciousness.
So very fucked.
He makes fumbling work of his clothing, and blearily faces the winter.
_
fin
Author: Steph (andbless_mybaby)
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, smut, angst
Spoilers: S1 general
Summary: AU after the S1 finale. Sylar kidnaps Mohinder for a midnight walk through the snow. Why?
Word Count: 5,700
A/N: Written in the heroes_exchange ficathon for the totally awesome mabetini , who requested fic in which the guys do "naughty things at a Christmas tree farm." This fic would not have been possible without the diabolical and amazing encouragement of shimmeree , who not only cheered me on through the writing of my first slashfic, but beta'd it to make sure nobody stuck anything in the wrong holes. <3
_
Under the pallid luminescence of the December moon, the face of new-fallen snow on the hills is downy and unmarked. The thin, freezing air is enough to take one’s breath away.
Tramping through the field, his wet shoes making tracking imprints in the drifts, Mohinder has lost all feeling in his hands. He’s shoved them into the pockets of his coat in a feeble attempt to keep warm, but he can’t seem to elicit anything but a muted tingling in his fingertips.
“Faster,” the voice behind him demands.
Sylar’s own hands are covered in leather gloves, hanging loose and imperative at his sides. He’s not holding a weapon - his body, his own self is a hulking, abusive threat goading Mohinder forward.
Hours after the fact, Mohinder still has only a faint memory of looking up from the journal he was studying, unnerved by the unmistakable sensation of someone watching him. Unshaven, paler than usual, and slightly hunched, Sylar bent like a shade over his shoulder.
Good evening, Dr. Suresh, he had said. I’m requesting the pleasure of your company for a little trip I’ve been meaning to take.
The jab of the syringe in his neck was the last thing he remembered for a long time.
The blurry haloes of street lights and the caustic purr of highway traffic seemed to have gone on forever. Mohinder either closed his eyes or the drugs kept him in a daze, because when the car stopped it was nighttime. He was slumped over against the carefully-fastened strap of his seatbelt (a detail that struck him as distinctly incongruous, even in his stupor), and the digital display on the radio clock read 11:37 p.m.
The moon was full, shining on snow that had not been on the ground where Mohinder had been reading. They were parked alongside a chain link fence, on the side of a nondescript dirt road.
“Where are we?” Mohinder’s own voice sounded thick to his own ears, his tongue sticking sluggishly in his dry mouth.
Sylar ignored him, and pocketed the keys. Mohinder sat still, too weary to move his own limbs and try to escape, while Sylar popped the trunk. He had a tool in his hand, and he knelt beside the fence. Within moments, he’d broken the padlock keeping the gate from opening, and pushed back enough snow to open it up a bit. He came around to the passenger side, and crouched next to Mohinder.
“Versed,” he said conversationally, as he reached an arm across Mohinder’s lap to unfasten his seatbelt. “Amnestic, hypnotic, sedative. Of course, the good doctor would know that already.”
“Not… that kind of doctor.” The fact seemed very important to Mohinder.
“Nonsense, smarty pants.” Sylar tugged at his wrist, and Mohinder half-tumbled from the seat onto the frozen ground.
“As knock-out pills go, it has a short reaction.” Sylar flashed him a reynard grin, all teeth. “Of course, you’ve had slightly more than the typical dose. But you’ll be feeling just fine presently.”
Mohinder groaned at the feeling of the deep snow already soaking into his clothes. Sylar hauled him up by the elbow, gave him a hearty shove towards the gate.
“Start walking.”
Even now, after having walked for what must have been more than fifteen minutes, it seems like Mohinder’s head is only just starting to clear, and everything else has been blurry. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder at Sylar, but keeps on marching through the flurries.
_
Mohinder’s legs are begining to ache. It makes sense once he realizes that they have been walking uphill now for a little while. He still trudges ahead of Sylar staying a mostly straight path. The slope they are cresting has been gradual, but lengthy. At the highest point, its subtle gradient gives way to the expansive openness of what looks like… farmland. The moonlight reflects off the snow brilliantly, illuminating many tidy rows of peculiar flora below. Mohinder stops. Sylar must have been further behind than he thought, because it takes him a few moments to catch up. He’s bowed against the cold, his panting breath escaping him in plumes of condensation.
“What are those?”
“Fir saplings,” Sylar answers, winded. “Those, Mohinder, are young Christmas trees.”
And so they are. Making their way down the hill, they encounter another fence. A rustic-looking wooden gate has a large sign attached: BOWLES FARM - CLOSED FOR THE SEASON - HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Beyond the seedling are rows and rows of mature conifers, their pointed tips swaying in the wind.
“It’s a Christmas tree farm,” Mohinder realizes.
“It is.” That’s all Sylar says.
For a long instant, Mohinder takes in the sight. Next to him, Sylar’s hands are pushed in the pockets of the long coat that he wears buttoned up to his neck, which seems slightly too wide and short for his frame. A fleece-lined hat covers his head and ears, and he has donned boots suitable for the depth of the snow. Clearly, he was planning to come out here into the inclement weather. Why they are here is a mystery, and Sylar’s silence isn’t yielding any indications.
Mohinder is thoroughly confused. Sylar has tried to kill him once, and has taken the lives of others on multiple occasions - including Mohinder’s own father. The man is a murderous psychopath. Every shred of common sense Mohinder possesses is telling him to flee. He’s not forcibly detaining Mohinder; an escape would not be out of the question (albeit difficult). Yet, despite having drugged and kidnapped Mohinder, he doesn’t seem to have any nefarious plans in mind, at least at the immediate present. He finds himself inexplicably interested in what Sylar might have to say.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“I don’t suppose your family celebrated Christmas.”
“No.” A flicker of irritation at Sylar’s asking about his family piques Mohinder.
“I thought not.” Sylar nods. “So much depends on the right tree, Suresh. It can really make or break your holiday season.”
It’s December 21st. The winter solstice, Mohinder realizes, the longest night of the year. It’s close enough to Christmas that it seems like the whole world is caught up in one big flurry of activity, except for himself and Sylar, walking through a godforsaken winter wonderland. Mohinder sharpens his eye on the North Star, and ponders if he could manage to make it back to the main road through the fields abutting the farm. The cold seems to have slowed Sylar down considerably.
It’s as if Sylar has read his mind.
“You have no idea why I’ve brought you here, then?”
“What part do I play in your designs, Sylar?”
If his annoyance is coming through in his voice, he doesn’t particularly care. Sylar drugged him, for Christ’s sake.
“I’ve been living here,” Sylar mentions conversationally, as if Mohinder had not spoken at all. “For the last few weeks.”
The trace of Mohinder’s last interrogative feels overblown on his lips, hyperbolic and ridiculous. He’s angrier at himself than Sylar, which piques him even more.
“I don’t understand!” He feels like a petulant child, irritated at the world and with no one listening. “What is this all about?”
Sylar turns and stares at him inscrutably. In the darkness, his eyes flash like jasper.
“Nobody can understand everything. Not even you, Doctor.”
“What business have you been up to now?” Mohinder perseveres. “Have you discovered any more lives you would like to ruin with my assistance?”
“Your beliefs about my fundamental motivations are not charitable, Mohinder.”
“I know what I know,” Mohinder retorts.
“And yet-” Sylar smiles. “There are more things on heaven and Earth. I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You have?”
“The heart is the true holy mystery. I’ve had ample time in these past days to reflect on the course of my life, and the subtle threads of chance and destiny that have led me to this point.”
Mohinder cracks his frozen knuckles, and blinks.
“Surely you didn’t go through the trouble of abducting me from my warm home just to psychoanalyze you, Sylar. Again, you seem to have me mistaken for a clinician.”
“No,” Sylar agrees. “You are absolutely right. I’ve been wanting to have a little chat with you, you see. And the hustle and bustle of city life is just not conducive to effective discourse, in my opinion.”
“What do you want with me?”
It’s around midnight, and the temperature must be well below zero by now. The tempo of falling snow and bluster is progressing from adagio to allegro, lashing the trees. Sylar leans in to Mohinder’s ear, raising his voice over the gale.
“We have unfinished business between us. From autumn.”
In that instant, the sense memory of a northwest trip in a car with Zane Taylor over two nights in October slams Mohinder like a sucker punch stronger than the inclement weather.
Eighteen hundred miles of a stomach sick from too many fast-food hamburgers and bottles of flat, sugary cola. The smell of gasoline, and the endless reek of cattle grazing over the flat midlands with not another car in sight. Another man’s stubble in the basin, the alien lullaby of someone else snoring in a twin bed identical to his own, bought for $39 a night at the Meadowlark Bide-A-Wee in Omaha. Days without rain, ocher rust in the shower.
Mohinder averts his eyes.
“Zane Taylor wanted to fuck you, Mohinder.” One step more, and Sylar is there, closer than the accepted social mores for personal space permit. His voice is so low that it sounds as if it’s actually in Mohinder’s brain. “He was in my head, every night while we were alone together. I could have killed you and taken all your precious research. You should thank Zane for my not doing so.” He furrows his brow. “Well, his spirit, anyway.”
Mohinder can’t back up any more, not without crashing through the branches of the trees on either side of his back, and turning tail like a coward. He’s half-convinced that’s what Sylar is trying to make him do. He stands his ground, inclining his face away.
“I took something from Zane. Maybe he gave me something, too,” Sylar says lowly.
“You are… mad,” Mohinder protests, his voice cracking.
“No, Dr. Suresh. That’s not true.” Sylar gazes at him sideways. “But perhaps this is madness. Perhaps I have miscalculated the yearnings of your great and noble heart.”
It shouldn’t be possible for him to step even closer, but somehow, he does. Mohinder can see the tenuous cling of snowflakes on his starling eyelashes.
“…But I don’t think that I did.”
Sylar is four inches taller than Mohinder, and, this close, he looms over him in a way that is positively terrifying. Mohinder shrinks away from him, and yet feels the blood rising traitorously in his face. There is no place to go, no place to hide the clinical evidence of his quickened respirations and sudden onset of perspiration on his palms.
“Sylar-” he begins.
“Tell me ‘no,’ Mohinder.” Sylar leans in. “Tell me not to.”
Mohinder can not.
Sylar closes the infinitesimal gap between their faces, and kisses him.
The other man’s face is a complex, unfamiliar terrain. An intrusive nose, a sandpapery and angular chin. His breath is sour and hot, the close cut of his sideburns feels alien under Mohinder’s fingertips. Kissing him is awkward, and Mohinder feels acutely that he has stepped out of his depth completely. Then Sylar’s mouth is hard against his, and he knows that he can’t stop.
The grunt in the back of Sylar’s throat has a tone of discovery. Their teeth clash, and Mohinder bites Sylar’s tongue accidentally. The taste of copper fills his mouth, and it just makes him more desperate, makes him cling like rain to the dry earth.
The ground beneath their feet is anything but dry, however, and the powerful blast of a blizzard wind nearly knocks them off their feet, four legs tangled in a freakish embrace.
“Mohinder.” Sylar’s steady voice does not betray him as the man whose throbbing, angry erection is as yet weeping warmth between the dense cotton layers of their pants. “Over there.”
_
The barn lurks in the darkness on the far side of a wide clearing, its gabled roof rising above the tips of the trees surrounding it. Sylar heads in that direction without so much as a backward glance at Mohinder, who follows him unquestioningly through the dunes of snow.
_
When Sylar throws open the door, Mohinder is relieved to discover the interior of the structure is at least a few degrees warmer than the squall outside.
Vast rolls of brown paper and huge spools of packing twine are being stored within. A wide wooden sleigh rests, ready to be hauled by a draft animal or truck, in the middle of the dusty floorboards. Voluminous bales of coarse, dried-out hay are stacked at the periphery, and loose stems are scattered with a thick layer of discarded tree needles. The light from the open door glints off the sharpened blades of at least one dozen hacking instruments hanging off the walls.
Mohinder locates the tack room by the negligible light of the barn’s small windows, and emerges with a pair of kerosene lanterns and a box of matches.
“Careful, Mohinder,” Sylar says inscrutably. “You wouldn’t want us to be burned alive, would you?”
Mohinder doesn’t reply until he has gingerly lit the sodden wicks and extinguished the matches. He flicks it out and stares at the spent paper stalk in his hand.
“I noticed that you were walking with some difficulty,” he says coolly. “My guess would be an abdominal wound.”
“Not so far off.”
When Sylar yanks his hat off, his shock of dark hair bristles with static electricity. He unwinds the scarf around his neck.
Mohinder watches Sylar shrug off his clothing, layer by layer. His chest underneath his sweater and undershirt is slashed by an angry red gash.
Mohinder sucks in his breath.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Hiro Nakamura tried to kill me,” Sylar said. “Evidence seems to suggest that he failed.”
“Only barely.” Mohinder’s inner scientist can’t help bending slightly to examine the wound. His finger darts out before he can think better of it, and halts millimeters away from Sylar’s pale skin. He traces the jagged cicatrix in the air, mentally accounting for the physiology of such internal organs as might be affected by what looked very much like a sword wound. “Who stitched you?”
“The gentleman who formerly owned this farm,” Sylar replies. “He had a gift for helping things grow, including perforated bodily tissue.”
“He didn’t finish?”
“He met an unfortunate end,” Sylar reports. “His home -located on the far side of the property- burnt down to the foundation three days ago.”
“Not your usual style.” Mohinder steps away stiffly. “Which is to say nothing of biting the proverbial hand that feeds you.”
“My ‘usual style’ was not a factor.”
“It was done well,” Mohinder concludes, coolly changing the topic. “You were lucky to escape infection. A surgeon might have been able to save you from the large scar you will have, but that’s hardly the worst that could have happened, given the location of the trauma. It would have been fascinating to see how well you might have recovered, had your greed not gotten in the way.”
“Greed had nothing to do with it.” Sylar stretches his arms gingerly. Mohinder is close enough to see the gooseflesh dotting his torso, but Sylar seems unfazed. “I slithered through the sewers, convinced I was going to die amongst the shit and rats. I don’t know how long I was down there. After a long while, I began to smell fresh air, instead of city filth. And I ended up here. Mr. Bowles nursed me competently, but he couldn’t restore my lost abilities.”
“Perhaps that’s not such a terrible turn of events,” Mohinder bites off before he can think better of it. “You have done some unspeakably evil things. Not the least of which was killing that poor farmer.”
“A space heater caught fire,” Sylar corrects him. “I had a couch in the front room, and was fortunate enough to escape before the flames grew out of control.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mohinder hisses. “And the loss of your powers may be the universe’s way of correcting a terrible aberration.”
Sylar spreads his hands.
“You think I’m an aberration, Mohinder?”
“I am a geneticist,” Mohinder says heatedly. “All my studies have pointed to the development of superhuman abilities as the next stage of human development. When nature changes, inevitably it must weed out those specimens that are less fit.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you personally think I’m an aberration?” Sylar’s tone is patient, but there is an inexplicably undercurrent to his words. It takes Mohinder aback, and makes him choose his words.
“I think that, to a certain extent, there is some part of you that can’t help the impulses you feel. That drive is deeply flawed. Of course, how we manage our unthinkable desires is a large part of our character, and who we are.”
“Who are you, then, Mohinder?” Sylar’s gaze is hooded, occult. “How exactly do you manage your own ‘unthinkable desires’?”
“I’m… not sure what you mean.” Mohinder realizes now that his subconscious may have played him false on that previous speech, and also that Sylar must know he is prevaricating now. The other man advances on him, and this time Mohinder forces himself to stand his ground.
He thinks that Sylar might kiss him again. Mohinder feels a frisson of vertigo, a plummeting feeling. His gut clenches, he recognizes himself as a traitor. (He wants Sylar to kiss him again.)
And then Sylar reaches into Mohinder’s imbroglio headspace, and catches his fingers with his own. He drags Mohinder’s hand to the bulging crotch of Sylar’s pants, and pushes Mohinder’s palm hard against the erection that is tenting his fly.
“I will let you lie to me, Mohinder, because I already know the answer. You may not know who you are, but I do. I have known for a very long time, now.”
Mohinder feels numb, his hand curved against Sylar’s very plain evidence of wanting him. Tenderly, Sylar cups his chin, and lifts it.
“That’s fine, though. Because you have done so much for me in the past, I am going to do something for you, now. I’m going to give you something that not many people get to experience in this life, Mohinder - the chance to face exactly what and who they are.”
Sylar kisses Mohinder brutally, and then pulls back.
“Kneel down,” he orders.
It’s as if a parasitic life form has taken over Mohinder’s body, wresting away the use of his limbs while leaving his brain and eyes in place to mutely watch what’s happening. He takes to his knees, faltering like a somnambulist.
“Have you ever done this before, Mohinder?” Sylar’s voice is even raspier than before.
“No.”
Sylar unzips his fly, and slides his clothing down over his hips.
“Given your brilliance, I have confidence in your efforts.”
Between Sylar’s legs, Mohinder inhales the tart smell of male sweat and it stirs a strong, dizzy potion in his gut.
He parts his lips, and takes Sylar’s cock in his mouth. Mohinder underestimates his gag reflex when the head bumps his throat. He feels his pharynx contract, and Sylar catches his breath. The sound awakens something intense and glorious in Mohinder. He rakes the strong muscle of his tongue down Sylar’s shaft, and fellates him in earnest.
Mohinder has not done this before, that much is true. He does know what is satisfying in this instance, however, and he diligently applies himself to doing those things. He takes the abasement gladly, submissive in this act of pleasure. Sylar makes a fist in Mohinder’s curls, tightens his fingers until the pulling is acutely painful. Mohinder kneads Sylar’s thighs and clamps down, lips over his teeth, working his jaws over Sylar’s length. He licks the sensitive slit of his urethra, and Sylar jerks and gasps.
The scar of Sylar’s circumcision is foreign to Mohinder, the glans thickened. Mohinder swivels his mouth around it, gulps to contract his throat and let Sylar feel his enthusiasm.
The reverberation of slurping sounds filthy in the echoing chamber of the huge barn, and goads Mohinder yet further. He grabs Sylar’s hips and pulls him into his mouth again and again, encouraging him to fuck his face. Making him come feels like the most rewarding thing Mohinder could ever go, an ambition that spurs him when he looks up and sees his most dire enemy with his eyes rolling back in gratification. Sylar’s hands grip Mohinder’s shoulders, struggling for purchase, digging fingertips that will surely leave bruises.
Sylar ejaculates with a harsh cry. Mohinder greedily swallows around his pulsating cock, gripping Sylar’s ass.
Mohinder sits back on his heels, and brushes the back of his hand over his lips. Sylar catches his breath, and stares downwards. This time, Mohinder does not feel afraid to meet his stare. Then, Sylar drops to his knees, meeting Mohinder on his level.
Mohinder has never seen Sylar look like this, serious with desire, eyes black and hungry with anything except covetous malice. Mohinder anticipates the hot blossom of his mouth as though it is the last thing he hopes to feel in this lifetime, and when Sylar lets him have it Mohinder cups Sylar’s skull and roughly presses himself against the other man’s long, warm bones. It’s sloppy and greedy, and Mohinder can still taste Sylar’s semen on his tongue.
Sylar begins to undress Mohinder from his sodden clothes. After they mutually dispense with his sweater, Sylar turns his attention to Mohinder’s dress shirt. He’s still kissing Mohinder as he slowly slips the buttons one-by-one through their eyelets on his shirtfront. Agitated, Mohinder moves his hands to do the job more quickly, but Sylar elbows him out of the way roughly. Mohinder groans. Sylar shifts his weight, and his hard-on presses against Mohinder’s hip in a maddening display of frottage. When Sylar parts the tails of the shirt Mohinder takes the opportunity to drag Sylar up against him, and Mohinder’s back finds the nearest wall. Through the friction of their pants, their hips grind obscenely.
Mohinder shoulders off his shirt, toes off his shoes, and moves to unfasten his pants. He balances one hand on Sylar’s shoulder while struggling to bend his legs out of the superfluous garment, twisting his waist and craning to haul his mouth back up to Sylar’s at the same time. Sylar grasps at Mohinder’s hip for the waistband of his shorts, and Mohinder thinks he hears a rip in their haste to drag the underwear off. No sooner has he tackled that obstacle, than he turns to getting Sylar’s pants and boxers off in an equally expedient fashion. When they are both naked, Mohinder finds himself tugging Sylar’s wrist to guide his hand to his painfully erect cock with a sense of purpose that he doesn’t try to understand. Sylar laughs harshly against Mohinder’s open mouth.
“They say that patience is the finest virtue, Mohinder.”
“I can’t-” Mohinder protests, in what sounds to his own ears like a whimper.
Fortunately, Sylar seems to have decided that he’s not willing to be patient any more, either. The taller man slides his knee between those of Mohinder, widening his stance. One of Sylar’s hands curls hard on Mohinder’s ass, while the other just faintly brushes his sex. Mohinder surges into his hand, unable to stop the action of his hips. Sylar palms Mohinder’s cock experimentally, and slides the pad of his thumb over the slit of his meatus. An exudation of pre-ejaculate oozes from his tortured penis; Sylar slowly uses his finger to rub it into the exquisitely sensitive flesh of his glans. Sylar tightens his grip and moves his hand over Mohinder’s shaft, causing his foreskin to slide.
Mohinder moans audibly when Sylar turns him around, and presses Mohinder’s back into his chest. Still masturbating Mohinder, Sylar bites his shoulder hard and sucks a mouthful of his skin against his tongue. His free hand spider-walks up Mohinder’s side, and splays on his chest. Sylar scratches his pectorals, and fiendishly rolls Mohinder’s pebbled nipples between thumb and forefinger, making him gasp and roll his hips against Sylar’s cunning wrist jerking him off.
So occupied is Mohinder by the long fingers on his dick that he isn’t fully aware of Sylar kneeling behind him. Mohinder’s legs are parted, his feet planted wide on the floor, so that when Sylar starts to nuzzle his ass, he almost falls over. Sylar’s forearm reaching up against his thigh is strong, though.
An abashed moan of sheer pleasure escapes Mohinder’s bitten lips when Sylar pokes his pointed tongue in between the cheeks of Mohinder’s ass and licks the puckered bud of his rectum. The erotic thrill that crawls up his spine at the sensation is shameful but demanding - demanding that Mohinder throw his head back and twist his hips, stuck between Sylar’s hand and mouth eating him out from the rear. His knees feel weak, inadequate for the task of supporting his weight.
Once Sylar has been at it for a minute or so, he gets two of his fingers slick and nudges one inside Mohinder. Just the tip, twisting and probing. He massages Mohinder’s perineum with the knuckle of the other, and rolls his wrist, slides the pair up his ass. Mohinder cries out softly, just a wisp escaping his dry, parted lips.
“Shhh,” Sylar hums. And adds a third digit, scissoring and stretching.
The combination of his voice and the intense, uncomfortable pressure goes straight to Mohinder’s cock. Inside his body, Sylar hits exactly the right spot, and Mohinder is bucking his hips and making low-pitched, desperate noises.
“I can’t have you coming just yet, Mohinder.” Sylar says. Mohinder’s pretty far gone to nail it down in a rational and cognizant manner, but Sylar has shifted into something else in the long minutes that have passed, something liquid and quiet and predatory.
“What are you doing to me?” Mohinder asks, and it may as well have been God to which his plea was directed, wide open and breaking with the pungent savor of balsam all around.
Sylar withdraws his hands and sits back on his heels.
“Lie down,” he orders Mohinder. “There.”
The absence of Sylar’s manipulations has left Mohinder dizzied, aching with unspent desire. He does as he is told, and spreads himself out on the floor.
“Tell me that you want this, Mohinder.” Sylar’s tone brooks no arguments. He is indolently caressing his cock, which is now as firm as ever. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
“I do,” Mohinder breathes.
“It’s going to hurt.” Sylar shifts and Mohinder can’t see his face anymore, but it’s as if he can feel his smirk in the fingertips that brush his face. “But you don’t necessarily mind that, do you?”
There’s no way that Sylar sees Mohinder avert his eyes, but his voice turns hard and ironic.
“…Do you?” he repeats.
“No,” Mohinder murmurs. And then holds his breath, his jaws taut with arousal as he waits.
Sylar rises over him, and begins to work him again digitally and with the aid of a good deal of clear spit. Naked, his cock probes the tender insides of Mohinder’s knees. The contact makes him shiver in unrealized lust. He had three fingers in him before; now, the rounded intrusion of those same fingers makes him tense.
“It hurts,” Mohinder breathes hoarsely.
“Here.” Sylar leans on Mohinder’s back, and offers the fleshy interval between his thumb and index finger. “Bite down.”
The blunt head of Sylar’s erection seems enormous against Mohinder’s ass, but the muted salt of the other man’s skin spreads on his tongue, and distracts him for one, critical moment. Sylar’s cock shoves past the tense circle of his sphincter, and the fast, jagged pain opens Mohinder’s jaws in a silent cry. Just as quickly, he bites down on Sylar’s hand.
Sylar utters a curse, and makes a fist. The elliptical impression from Mohinder’s teeth stay behind, and taste of blood blooms on the tip of his tongue for the second time that night. It’s a savor that he nurses in the endless seconds while Sylar fully impales him, one centimeter at a time.
Mohinder had expected violence in this instance, and found that he had misjudged. There is an uncanny tenderness in Sylar’s patience with his inexperience, in his concern for Mohinder’s comfort. Sylar strokes his hands restlessly over Mohinder’s back, an intimate gesture that stops, Sylar’s fingers cupping the basket of Mohinder’s ribs, once he’s inside him to the hilt.
It’s like nothing Mohinder has ever felt before. The feeling of being penetrated is bleeding into his consciousness, a dark, velvet awareness. By now, the pain and the pleasure have muddled themselves into one huge, expansive wave, and he’s drifting out into some unknown, perilous sea. Sylar begins to move slowly, working his hips.
“You are fucked, Mohinder.” Sylar’s voice sounds very far away, like the hearkening of a storm in the distance. “So fucked.”
He’s right, of course, although Mohinder is past the point where he could coherently convey the sentiment. He is as weak as water, melting like snow under the weight of Sylar’s hips grinding his down. His cheek is flat on the floor, his left hand very close to his chin. Mohinder breathes a prayer into his wrist, and becomes aware of the discomfort of his throbbing erection against the rushes.
Sylar has no gift of precognition (at least, not anymore), but he laughs gutturally and tugs up on the curve of Mohinder’s shoulder, up until Mohinder is on his elbows, with knees spread wide. Sylar lowers himself down on Mohinder’s back, flush and with his arm free to reach under Mohinder’s body and firmly grab his cock. A hard cramp of arousal twists Mohinder’s gut.
Mohinder thrusts in Sylar’s hand reflexively. He is hard as chalcedony, and Sylar’s touch is damnably, intentionally light.
“Please,” Mohinder bites off.
Sylar’s thumb presses the nerve-rich corona of Mohinder’s sex, and he clearly is already in tune with what Mohinder likes, what is finally going to get him off. Mohinder fucks his hand desperately, and Sylar does not stop him. The clench of Sylar’s un-lubricated fist is too frictional, chafing Mohinder’s flesh. But the pain is his friend now, the rawness is honest and cleansing, like a prayer.
Sylar’s movements have become staccato and uneven. He’s close, Mohinder can tell. He has strong self-control, and Mohinder gets the sense that he’s proving some kind of point.
He was right, he thinks. This is me. This is what I am, what I have become.
Mohinder thinks of the wide Montana sky, he thinks of Zane Taylor in a motel bed at 3 a.m. He thinks of riding in a car on a highway that seemed endless; he thinks of betrayal. He thinks of Sylar. All autumn long, he thought of Sylar. Even when we would not admit it, even when he hated himself. He was always thinking of Sylar.
Mohinder comes and comes, the scope of his universe crashing down on him, and Sylar’s strangled cry echoing through the barn.
_
Afterwards, with the lanterns dwindling, they lie down in the dust and cool in their own sweat. Mohinder tries to avoid staring at the long expanse of Sylar’s pale body - the hair matted in a wet fern pattern on his belly and groin, the elegance of his fingers tapping the floorboards evenly, like a metronome. He curls in on himself, aching and confused.
“You are going to figure out what’s wrong with me.” Sylar’s voice isn’t a threat; it just sounds exhausted. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
Mohinder doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks that the other man doesn’t sound quite capable of it at the moment. In fact, he says nothing at all. The chill rattling the windowpanes is starting to seep into his skin. He shivers, and he can’t say for certain why.
“When?”
“When I come for you again.” Even in the darkness, Sylar’s drowsy eyes are dissecting him.
“Don’t be mistaken, Mohinder. This was a simple matter of balancing the scales. Until I regain everything I’ve worked so hard for, I need you.” Sylar pauses a long moment. “Now, I think you need me too.”
They bed down on some of the scratchy burlap sacks and settle into the must and debris of the barn floor. They don’t touch. It takes a long time for Mohinder to get to sleep, but Sylar’s mind is evidently untroubled. A shaft of moonlight illuminates the prominent features of his face, and it would be so easy to do something, but Mohinder has no idea what. The sounds of the other man’s even, deep breathing stir an aching familiarity in Mohinder’s chest, so he rolls over and tries to let the thrashing wind through the rafters lull him into dreams.
_
When he stirs, Mohinder finds himself alone. The broad barn door has blown open, allowing the frozen current of the night’s darkest hour to intrude on his shelter, and the hay bales have been scattered. He feels like his bones must have become hollow, he’s so cold. The wind is blowing right through his body. He fumbles with his discarded pants for his cell phone, and flips it open. It’s just before six.
Sore and sleepy, he staggers out into the clearing. The storm has abated, and an overwhelming silence prevails. Mohinder, bred in the second-most populous nation in the world and living in New York, thinks that he has never experienced such quiet before. The first hesitant lightening of dawn casts a gray pall on the vast expanse of the sky, and there are no tracks marking the fresh snow. A gauzy fog had wound itself around the Christmas trees and settled low to the ground. The morning is completely silent, save the echo roaring in Mohinder’s consciousness.
So very fucked.
He makes fumbling work of his clothing, and blearily faces the winter.
_
fin