Fic: On the Breath of a Dying Man (Heroes)
He knew it. He knew it - the door of the shop chimed, so delicate over the ticking clocks, and when Gabriel looked up, he saw dark skin, dark eyes, a cautious smile.
“Gabriel Gray?” Mohinder asked, and Gabriel knew it, that he wanted to hear his name, from that voice (painted in harmonies, stained with an accent) for the rest of his life. Mohinder was gorgeous, enough so that it stopped Gabriel’s heartbeat, made the clocks jump too fast, drag too slow. Mohinder changed everything.
“Y-yes,” Gabriel stammered.
The smile bloomed, and Gabriel melted.
“I came here looking for you,” said Mohinder. “I have a new theory of evolution, and I believe that you are a part of it.”
I am a part, Gabriel thought, I have power, you know nothing of power, and he wanted to make Mohinder scream, wanted to see his eyes clench shut in ecstasy, wanted to twist him until he broke and then soothe the pieces back together, fingertips on trembling skin and palm over a beating heart.
He wants it, he wants it now -
Sylar’s palm curls shut, and he fights it, tooth and nail, fights the pain building in the back of his throat, threatening to tear from his mouth, wrest its way between his teeth and echo, out of control, in the depths of New York’s sewer. He’s on fire, everywhere he burns, and most of all a spear of flame, from his chest to his spine.
Lines of metal grate bite into his skin, and he cries, cries in desperation and desolation and despair.
But it wasn’t long ago that he stalked through the hallways of a high school, in pursuit of immortality. That he rounded a corner, the lights darkening, and his footsteps fell, one by one, into the hollow tile.
He smelled the first girl’s weakness too late, but it didn’t matter. He caught up to the second girl next to the trophy case, her blood staining the glass shards, darkening the newspaper clippings. “LOCAL HERO” proclaimed the headline, and the smile of the girl below turned crimson with life, torn from the veins of a cheerleader.
The power tingled as it absorbed, and Sylar knew -
He knew nothing. He knows nothing, nothing but the next inch, the next foot, the next yard, his fingers weak, his arms shaking. He wonders at how much blood he’s lost, and surprises himself with a hoarse laugh, copper welling in the back of his throat, dripping from his mouth like watery drool.
If only the wound would close, if only he could stand, he could walk, he could kill Hiro Nakamura the son of a bitch -
He liked Zane Taylor’s clothing. It was comfortable; it had a relaxed ease that Gabriel Gray could never hope to match. The double shirts he liked most of all - short-sleeved over long-sleeved - he’d probably adapt it for himself, as soon as this façade was over.
If it had to be over.
Sylar couldn’t explain to himself how much he wanted this, how Mohinder’s smile made his heart leap, and the simple joy of being next to him, for hours, was enough that it didn’t seem so important to kill, the next time.
He was comfortable as Zane Taylor. So comfortable that he knocked on Mohinder’s door, in the night; so comfortable that Sylar slipped off Mohinder’s shirt and kissed him until he mewled into Sylar’s mouth; so comfortable that he spread Mohinder’s legs apart, licked him open and vulnerable and needy. So comfortable that, in the end, Sylar whispered love into Mohinder’s ears, and Mohinder sighed asleep in his arms.
You’re broken, Sylar imagined saying, I can fix you.
Like he can’t fix himself.
A cockroach creeps over Sylar’s outstretched fingers. In a fit of revulsion, Sylar flings it away, hearing too distantly the ‘tink’ of the cockroach’s impact with the wall.
Are his powers fading, too?
Zane Taylor’s panicked yell echoes in Sylar’s ears, and Sylar touches a hand to the gash, the ugly rip in his body. The blood there hardens, solidifies, and it hurts - oh, how it hurts, how it presses against nerves and tearing flesh.
Sylar gasps into his hands, unable to move, unable to crawl. Nausea roils behind his eyes and he barely twists to the side, spitting the vomit free, his mouth acrid and sour. But it fades, down to just barely unmanageable levels, and Sylar creeps forward. Forward, always forward - he has to keep going. Survive.
Just the same way he did, twisting the IV shut, stopping the bullet inches away from his head. Mohinder’s eyes had widened; he was shaking when Sylar got to his feet, and he was still shaking when Sylar’s hands clasped his arms, when Sylar pressed a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth.
“You’re mine,” snarled Sylar, and he pushed Mohinder back on the desk, telekinesis clearing the way. Mohinder struggled, he did, but it was a struggle only to give in at the crucial instant, a plea on his lips.
Sylar forced inside him, and he knew it hurt, of course it hurt, it hurt in every line of Mohinder’s body, but it didn’t make Mohinder pull away. Instead, Mohinder clutched at him, closer, closer still - sweetly, like his world was burning up, crashing, perishing in a chaos of destruction all around him.
And, in that, Mohinder was beautiful.
“You’re mine,” Sylar whispers, in an echo that threads his pulse and aches his heart. “You’re mine,” words that he never said, never spoke aloud, but he wishes it were so. Fingers flatten on the grate, and he drags himself forward, again.
Far enough? When is far enough? When - when -
Sylar thinks of the ladder, a ladder to another manhole cover, and it feels as though all of his muscles cramp at once. He can’t climb, not in this condition, and his telekinesis is fading…
…and he told Mohinder, on the phone, that he couldn’t kill that many people, that it didn’t make sense, and then he heard Mohinder’s breath, and the vague click of a cell phone, snapping shut, the 911 call stopped in its tracks.
“Where are you?” asked Mohinder. “What can I do?”
“Help me,” whispers Sylar, “help me,” but it never happened. The plea is dashed back at him by cold walls, and Sylar finally cries out, venting pain, helpless anguish to the tossed refuse below and the scarred concrete above.
“Turns out you’re the villain,” Sylar told Peter, his eyes flashing bright. “I’m the hero.”
And he pushed, fought tooth and nail, until Peter couldn’t control himself anymore, until his neck snapped and his body fell limp against the asphalt.
Or maybe, maybe Hiro charged at him and Sylar caught the sword, he dodged, and sent it right back -
Maybe he glowed, bright as the sun, and Mohinder knelt in front of him and took his hand as he overloaded, exploded, destroyed an entire city in a fire of devotion.
Maybe Mohinder turned away, clenched in a kind of grief, when Sylar’s blood was dripping, soaking his shirt, draining free from his body.
Maybe…
A cool hand touched Sylar’s cheek, tracing his face, and Sylar opened his eyes, drawn immediately into the gaze of the other man. “Mohinder,” he breathed, tense in hope and dread.
“Ssh,” soothed Mohinder, and deft fingers peeled back Sylar’s shirt, to the wound in his chest. Sylar closed his eyes; Mohinder cleaned away dried blood, fingers easing, stroking, whispering the pain away.
“Why?” gasped Sylar, and Mohinder smiled an enigmatic smile.
“I need you,” was all he said.
But Sylar turns over and the wound is still open, still fresh, still killing him. He beats a hand against the grate, trying to focus. The world spins, spins too fast, and he’s getting tired, so very tired. Maybe he should just give up, maybe it wasn’t worth it in the first place.
“Hey, buddy.”
Sylar tries to reply, but he chokes on his own blood.
“Hey,” and it’s a sewage worker, standing over him. “Hey, you all rig-oh my god.” He turns down the tunnel. “Harry! Call 911!”
Sylar closes his eyes, unconscious at last.
“Gabriel Gray?” Mohinder asked, and Gabriel knew it, that he wanted to hear his name, from that voice (painted in harmonies, stained with an accent) for the rest of his life. Mohinder was gorgeous, enough so that it stopped Gabriel’s heartbeat, made the clocks jump too fast, drag too slow. Mohinder changed everything.
“Y-yes,” Gabriel stammered.
The smile bloomed, and Gabriel melted.
“I came here looking for you,” said Mohinder. “I have a new theory of evolution, and I believe that you are a part of it.”
I am a part, Gabriel thought, I have power, you know nothing of power, and he wanted to make Mohinder scream, wanted to see his eyes clench shut in ecstasy, wanted to twist him until he broke and then soothe the pieces back together, fingertips on trembling skin and palm over a beating heart.
He wants it, he wants it now -
Sylar’s palm curls shut, and he fights it, tooth and nail, fights the pain building in the back of his throat, threatening to tear from his mouth, wrest its way between his teeth and echo, out of control, in the depths of New York’s sewer. He’s on fire, everywhere he burns, and most of all a spear of flame, from his chest to his spine.
Lines of metal grate bite into his skin, and he cries, cries in desperation and desolation and despair.
But it wasn’t long ago that he stalked through the hallways of a high school, in pursuit of immortality. That he rounded a corner, the lights darkening, and his footsteps fell, one by one, into the hollow tile.
He smelled the first girl’s weakness too late, but it didn’t matter. He caught up to the second girl next to the trophy case, her blood staining the glass shards, darkening the newspaper clippings. “LOCAL HERO” proclaimed the headline, and the smile of the girl below turned crimson with life, torn from the veins of a cheerleader.
The power tingled as it absorbed, and Sylar knew -
He knew nothing. He knows nothing, nothing but the next inch, the next foot, the next yard, his fingers weak, his arms shaking. He wonders at how much blood he’s lost, and surprises himself with a hoarse laugh, copper welling in the back of his throat, dripping from his mouth like watery drool.
If only the wound would close, if only he could stand, he could walk, he could kill Hiro Nakamura the son of a bitch -
He liked Zane Taylor’s clothing. It was comfortable; it had a relaxed ease that Gabriel Gray could never hope to match. The double shirts he liked most of all - short-sleeved over long-sleeved - he’d probably adapt it for himself, as soon as this façade was over.
If it had to be over.
Sylar couldn’t explain to himself how much he wanted this, how Mohinder’s smile made his heart leap, and the simple joy of being next to him, for hours, was enough that it didn’t seem so important to kill, the next time.
He was comfortable as Zane Taylor. So comfortable that he knocked on Mohinder’s door, in the night; so comfortable that Sylar slipped off Mohinder’s shirt and kissed him until he mewled into Sylar’s mouth; so comfortable that he spread Mohinder’s legs apart, licked him open and vulnerable and needy. So comfortable that, in the end, Sylar whispered love into Mohinder’s ears, and Mohinder sighed asleep in his arms.
You’re broken, Sylar imagined saying, I can fix you.
Like he can’t fix himself.
A cockroach creeps over Sylar’s outstretched fingers. In a fit of revulsion, Sylar flings it away, hearing too distantly the ‘tink’ of the cockroach’s impact with the wall.
Are his powers fading, too?
Zane Taylor’s panicked yell echoes in Sylar’s ears, and Sylar touches a hand to the gash, the ugly rip in his body. The blood there hardens, solidifies, and it hurts - oh, how it hurts, how it presses against nerves and tearing flesh.
Sylar gasps into his hands, unable to move, unable to crawl. Nausea roils behind his eyes and he barely twists to the side, spitting the vomit free, his mouth acrid and sour. But it fades, down to just barely unmanageable levels, and Sylar creeps forward. Forward, always forward - he has to keep going. Survive.
Just the same way he did, twisting the IV shut, stopping the bullet inches away from his head. Mohinder’s eyes had widened; he was shaking when Sylar got to his feet, and he was still shaking when Sylar’s hands clasped his arms, when Sylar pressed a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth.
“You’re mine,” snarled Sylar, and he pushed Mohinder back on the desk, telekinesis clearing the way. Mohinder struggled, he did, but it was a struggle only to give in at the crucial instant, a plea on his lips.
Sylar forced inside him, and he knew it hurt, of course it hurt, it hurt in every line of Mohinder’s body, but it didn’t make Mohinder pull away. Instead, Mohinder clutched at him, closer, closer still - sweetly, like his world was burning up, crashing, perishing in a chaos of destruction all around him.
And, in that, Mohinder was beautiful.
“You’re mine,” Sylar whispers, in an echo that threads his pulse and aches his heart. “You’re mine,” words that he never said, never spoke aloud, but he wishes it were so. Fingers flatten on the grate, and he drags himself forward, again.
Far enough? When is far enough? When - when -
Sylar thinks of the ladder, a ladder to another manhole cover, and it feels as though all of his muscles cramp at once. He can’t climb, not in this condition, and his telekinesis is fading…
…and he told Mohinder, on the phone, that he couldn’t kill that many people, that it didn’t make sense, and then he heard Mohinder’s breath, and the vague click of a cell phone, snapping shut, the 911 call stopped in its tracks.
“Where are you?” asked Mohinder. “What can I do?”
“Help me,” whispers Sylar, “help me,” but it never happened. The plea is dashed back at him by cold walls, and Sylar finally cries out, venting pain, helpless anguish to the tossed refuse below and the scarred concrete above.
“Turns out you’re the villain,” Sylar told Peter, his eyes flashing bright. “I’m the hero.”
And he pushed, fought tooth and nail, until Peter couldn’t control himself anymore, until his neck snapped and his body fell limp against the asphalt.
Or maybe, maybe Hiro charged at him and Sylar caught the sword, he dodged, and sent it right back -
Maybe he glowed, bright as the sun, and Mohinder knelt in front of him and took his hand as he overloaded, exploded, destroyed an entire city in a fire of devotion.
Maybe Mohinder turned away, clenched in a kind of grief, when Sylar’s blood was dripping, soaking his shirt, draining free from his body.
Maybe…
A cool hand touched Sylar’s cheek, tracing his face, and Sylar opened his eyes, drawn immediately into the gaze of the other man. “Mohinder,” he breathed, tense in hope and dread.
“Ssh,” soothed Mohinder, and deft fingers peeled back Sylar’s shirt, to the wound in his chest. Sylar closed his eyes; Mohinder cleaned away dried blood, fingers easing, stroking, whispering the pain away.
“Why?” gasped Sylar, and Mohinder smiled an enigmatic smile.
“I need you,” was all he said.
But Sylar turns over and the wound is still open, still fresh, still killing him. He beats a hand against the grate, trying to focus. The world spins, spins too fast, and he’s getting tired, so very tired. Maybe he should just give up, maybe it wasn’t worth it in the first place.
“Hey, buddy.”
Sylar tries to reply, but he chokes on his own blood.
“Hey,” and it’s a sewage worker, standing over him. “Hey, you all rig-oh my god.” He turns down the tunnel. “Harry! Call 911!”
Sylar closes his eyes, unconscious at last.