Fic for Aurilly
The icon is irrelevant to this post, but I made it myself and I’m rather proud of it so ner, I’m gonna use it. Today in Photoshop, I R been mostly learning about brushes.
In amidst the near constant sneezing, I also managed to write long, long overdue fic:
Author/Artist: carmexgirl
Title: New Kinds of Weather
Medium: fic
Pairing/Characters: Adam/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Notes: Long overdue fic for aurilly,ex CEO of heroes_exchange Oh her reign was short but bloody! They'll be calling her 'Bloody Mary' forevermore!
Summary/Description: Mohinder walks down a street. Seriously, that's all there is to it. Inspired by a Magnetic Fields song.
The street is crowded, with people walking, meandering, dawdling to get to wherever they were going. It is a rather sultry summer day, with the scent of honeysuckle in the air and a heat that was palpable but not oppressive, hot but so hot that it makes him uncomfortable.
He picks up the tall glass, containing nothing more than a Pimms and lemonade, and takes a long sip, watching as the crowd wanders by. Two lovers, hand in hand, pass him by and smile to all who catch their eye, completely happy with each other, while a tall gentleman in a suit pushes past them, walking at an alarming pace. His tie is slightly off-centre, too much to the left, while a thin bead of sweat trickles down his face. He carries his briefcase close to his chest, gripping tightly as if his life depends on the contents. Maybe it does; maybe that one suitcase holds the secrets to everything; peace on earth, the doorway to vast wealth and fame, the meaning of life itself. Well, he can keep it, because he knows he has something far better.
He smiles to himself-these foolish thoughts always come to him when he’s alone, watching the world go by. In the midst of everything, it has been so long since he just sat and watched; watched people as they continue to live their lives, no clue as to what could have happened, what he could have done if he wanted, if he hadn’t been stopped. Of course, that’s all behind him now; he has other, more pressing things to worry about, like the strange feeling in his gut, a curious sickness that leaves him feeling he doesn’t need anything in order to survive. The strange, gnawing sensation in his chest that he can’t shake, a kind of hollow emptiness that can no longer filled by merely plotting to take over the world. It was such a silly and trivial thing after all.
He takes another sip of his drink, and sits back, fanning himself with a menu, the small breeze offering some small comfort. A figure in the distance catches his eye, striding purposefully down the street. He wears white, a perfect contrast to his dark skin, and the linen suit that fits his lean, muscular body so perfectly seems to shine in the sunlight, marking him as different from everyone else, as though he shouldn’t really be walking down a busy sidewalk, more striding barefooted across white sands, the water lapping at his shoeless feet.
His black hair glimmers in the sunlight, moving in a perfect rhythm to his strides. He moves past people as though he were moving though water, all fluid side-steps and graceful manoeuvres to the left and right. Someone nearly walks into him, an elderly lady who really should have been looking where she was going. He puts his hands on her shoulders, smiles a beaming, glittering smile when she apologises, and he shakes his head, indicating that no, he was in the wrong, that he should have moved out of her way. She smiles back, completely besotted now, and carries on her way. It’s then that he realises people are looking at him, looking at this vision walking down the street. For a second the whole world stops just to stare at him, at this perfect being making his way through the crowds. People smile and look on in wonder while he carries on his way, completely oblivious to the attention he is getting.
Again, the feeling in his stomach, a strange lightness there, a swelling in his chest. A year ago he perhaps would have been beset by intense jealousy, taking note of those who stared with a view to making them regret they ever wanted him. Now he simply smiles, and takes another sip of his drink. It’s a strange kind of pride that fills him now, the knowledge that to all of these people, he is just some nameless person, some strange vision in white, making his way to wherever. To him, he is Mohinder Suresh, the person who restored his life, the person he has worked closely with for a year, the person he has been looking for, he supposes, for the past 400 years.
The person he kissed not three weeks ago while celebrating an important scientific breakthrough, and the person who, despite everything, kissed him back. The person he first made love to not two weeks ago, when he could finally break down all of those walls he had been building for so many years; the person who, not two days ago while lying in a sated heap on the bed they had shared, had told him he wanted only him, and no one else.
His eyes lock with his, and he smiles a broad, beaming smile. He can feel people looking at him now, wondering who he is, and what business he has knowing this being, this ridiculously handsome man. He can feel their eyes on him, feel their jealousy and he doesn’t care, because this man is his, and his alone.
He comes nearer, so he stands up, moving out of the way of the table and into the street itself. He opens his arms wide, and soon they are together, arms around each other, lips on lips, locked in a passionate embrace. Minutes tick by before they finally separate, staring at no one but themselves, the aimless chatter, the noise of cars, the footsteps of the people fading into nothing. Mohinder smiles again, wipes a small piece of fluff of his lapel-typical that in the face of such perfection, he himself would have a single flaw. They sit down, and Mohinder orders drinks-a lemonade for both of them, while they sit and chatter aimlessly about nothing in particular. Every so often, he’ll look round, another swell of pride in his chest when he realises that they are being watched intently. He is used to the scrutiny by now; he revels in it, because he has the one thing they don’t.
And then it hits him, finally. The strange feeling in his gut, the sickness and the churning of his stomach. Butterflies and nothing more.
That was the first time that he, Adam Monroe, realised he was in love.