fic: think you're gonna be free of me when you're dead, babydoll? (heroes)
Title: think you're gonna be free of me when i'm dead, babydoll?
Author: cryinq_star
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: Oh, I don't know. I'll just say a very light R, to be on the safe side.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar, unrequited Peter/Sylar
Warnings: Character death.
Recipient: charashi
Notes: I shamelessly stole the title from Gemma's 'My Wife and My Dead Wife'.
Request: Sylar/Mohinder ANYTHING. Needless to say - I took some liberties. Heh.
Summary: Neither of them move an inch as Sylar practically glides into the room and over to Mohinder - where else?; absently rubbing his thumb up and down his long neck, a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
The smoke from the city curls upwards, and Peter can’t help but be enthralled by its complexity. Some wisps even reach them; and if he concentrates hard enough on the fire and the smoke, he can barely even hear the screams.
Peter glances over at Sylar’s tight frown; his mouth involuntarily curling upwards. Darkly, he hopes they never find Mohinder. With him as a grand prize, Sylar has two gears. Protect, and obsess. Cut off from Mohinder, Sylar obsesses and slaughters.
His eyes drift up again; aimlessly watching the smoke snapping at the edges of the clouds. Next to him, Sylar scoffs softly; picking at his nails. Peter doesn’t acknowledge him, but leans back; hands clasping behind his head.
"It’s nearly June," he says conversationally. Sylar glances over at him; goes very still, but says nothing. The silence isn’t an uncomfortable one, but it feels empty. Peter rolls his head towards the other man; his dark eyes narrowing slightly. Sylar cracks his knuckles, one by one; pointedly ignoring Peter.
He grins, feeling slightly unhinged. "Nearly time for your annual blood feud with sanity," he says callously, and Sylar looks him; something resembling the sun, or perhaps hell, burning behind the blackness of his eyes. Maybe it’s just the reflection from the city. His face splits into a wide, feral grin.
"Your brother died in June last year, didn’t he."
The statement is cold, and cruel, and Peter smiles humourlessly; turning away from him. Should have seen that coming. Still.
Stretching; he dusts off his jeans - more by habit than anything else; they haven’t been properly clean for months. Sylar, still watching him intently, doesn’t move. Peter ignores his lack of initiative and lets his head fall back, looking straight into the sun.
"Where to?" Sylar asks; absently straightening his shirt with the exactitude of an insane man. Peter lets his gaze travel north; Sylar following it with great interest.
"Home," he whispers; surprised at the thickness of his voice. Sylar studies him, his eyes dark and calculating and Peter feels himself smile faintly. "New York," he clarifies, without really having to. Sylar laughs and it’s got an edge to it, sharp and stilted. Peter’s smile turns faint, and very nearly cold.
"New York," Sylar drawls, turning the word into something dirty and forbidden; syllables rolling off his tongue like honey. He nods and comes to stand next to Peter; hands shoved deeply into his pockets.
"I think I’d like that." Their eyes meet and the unspoken sentence make them both smile thinly. Rolling their shoulders, they turn; as one, and walk down the hill - neither looking back at the burning inferno they’re leaving behind.
*
Sylar rarely kills with his bare hands - preferring his abilities over getting his hands literally dirty. Peter revels in the feel of bones crunching against his knuckles, snapping under his boot; twisting between his hands.
They leave nothing behind.
*
Mohinder stares at them; face crumbling [in relief?]. Beautiful, even with the ghost of death behind his eyes, and Sylar’s face contorts uncharacteristically. Mohinder lunges and strikes Sylar in the mouth; blood spurting. Before Peter even has the chance to blink; Sylar reacts; catching Mohinder like he weighs nothing at all, keeping him upright. Peter frowns slightly; the expression on the taller man’s is too alien, too raw for comfort. Sylar holds on to Mohinder’s wrists with a gentleness that almost makes Peter turn away; something forbidden burning in his chest. Mohinder trembling; half-leaning into Sylar, half-resisting his attempts at closeness. Great, gasping sobs rack through his body, tears lining the scrunched up face; smeared with grime and blood. Sylar lets go of Mohinder’s wrists, gently cupping his face in his hands; wiping it with his thumb. The naked shock on Mohinder’s face is pathetically hard to look at, and Peter turns away. Their little game of insanity and torture doesn’t involve him; the constant prodding and probing - neither of them having even the pretense of control. Biting and sniping and bitching. Winding and waiting and waiting some more. Sylar spits on the ground and Peter surprises himself by repressing a hint of a smile as he imagines the look on Sylar’s face as he grins through blood speckled teeth snakes a hand around the back of Mohinder’s neck; pressing their foreheads together.
"Miss me?" Mohinder’s resolve crumbles and there’s a softly hissed ‘you utter bastard’ and then -
*
Peter sometimes hears them at night; those voices, unified even in anger, shattering on the floor like icicles falling off a roof. He doesn’t flinch at the crack of Mohinder’s shoulders against the wall; Sylar’s hands pressing hard enough to bruise, surely. Mohinder avoids his eyes in the morning; tugging his sleeves down over faint bracelets of blue and black as he stirs sugar into his tea. A litany of ownership. Peter fucking hates it, the sickly sweet smell clings to his clothes and his hair and he sometimes wonders if Mohinder’d bleed tea instead of blood; should he ever cut his throat. He grows thinner and sharper every day, whereas Sylar is positively glowing - as if he’s sucking the life out of Mohinder’s very bones. Peter thinks he probably is. The cup trembles in Mohinder’s hands and Peter absentmindedly plucks it from him; letting it soar back to the sink, where he releases his hold over it.
"Thank you," he murmurs; long fingers curling into trembling fists in his lap. Peter watches him through slitted eyes, calculating, but not judging.
"Look at you," he mutters, feeling nastiness curl coldly up his spine. Mohinder glances up, and then away. An irrational pang of anger flares through Peter and he smiles cruelly; leaning over the table and seizing Mohinder’s wrist. The other man winces and finally, finally, looks at him.
"It’s all I’ve got."
Need. How primitive.
Mohinder’s eyebrows knit together and Peter all of a sudden feels very aware of himself. It’s as if Mohinder can see behind the scar and the shielded eyes; the slicked back hair and the dark clothes, and it makes Peter decidedly uncomfortable. He lets go of his wrist as if burned. The tug at Mohinder’s lips is miniscule but still present; Peter’s hands tremble with the effort of not reaching over and breaking his fragile neck. They sit in silence; Mohinder’s face once again wiped carefully blank. Peter watches him lazily, his foot drumming an impatient mid-air tattoo. Neither of them move an inch as Sylar practically glides into the room and over to Mohinder - where else?; absently rubbing his thumb up and down his long neck, a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
*
The gun feels strangely at home in his hand. Behind him, Mohinder shifts; his feet shuffling awkwardly.
"Peter, please." He smiles and turns to face Mohinder, waving the gun nonchalantly.
"Is it a real one," he says, squinting. Mohinder attempts a smile, and fails; tongue darting out to moisten his cracked lips. It looks as if the colour of his eyes has bled; forming dark circles beneath. He takes a step forward, holding out a surprisingly steady hand.
"Of course not," Mohinder says sharply. The desperation is pouring off of him in waves; its intensity suffocating. Peter takes a step back, the smile fading.
"Why do you keep a gun here, Mohinder?" he asks coldly, turning it over in his hands. Mohinder’s eyes never leave it; not once. His mouth twitch into the ghost of a smile.
"I told you," he says slowly, voice brittle. "It’s a - it’s not real. It makes me feel safe." Peter shrugs; his blood suddenly thrumming through his veins like electricity. He points it at Mohinder.
"So you’d survive this?" Mohinder’s face is anguished and he stumbles over his feet trying to get closer; raw fear in his eyes. Peter can see the inferno outside the window over his shoulder.
"Stop it," Mohinder bites out.
"Would you survive this?" Peter doesn’t budge; the fire reflecting in his eyes. Mohinder swallows and, again, attempts a smile.
"It’s a fake," he whispers throatily. "Of course I would."
"If it’s a fake," Peter says, deadly serious, "I’ll shoot."
"Peter, please."
"Tell me it’s a fake, and I’ll shoot."
"STOP IT!" Mohinder screams; hands balling up in tight fists. Peter aims for his throat.
*
Sylar’s face is wild; eyes blazing. Peter keeps a respectful distance; carefully glancing at Mohinder’s crumpled body. The bones are poking out through the skin of the neck, and the front of his shirt is flecked by the unmistakable colour of blood. His face is twisted in an ugly grimace, which Peter finds strangely fitting, and he feels his face twitch in distant grief - he cannot spare this broken puppet anything more. Sylar; suddenly slamming him up against the wall with his bare hands, snarls in his face.
"You fucker," Sylar snarls. “You fucker. You fucking fucker.” Peter struggles for breath, momentarily forgetting all about lashing out with his mind. His breath is stale and up close; Peter can see the cavities in the back of his mouth, which he finds oddly strange. He trashes in Sylar’s iron grip, his foot finally connecting with his shin. Sylar grunts and drops him abruptly; drawing into himself, clawing at his own face.
"Look, it would never have -" Peter pants, massaging his neck. Sylar howls and staggers over to Mohinder’s body, cradling his face with a rough sort of gentleness; attacking his blue lips over and over with his own, mumbling his name in between desperate kisses. Peter looks away, a sudden coldness in his stomach. Slaughtering families, entire cities never made him feel - feel this tired.
He spits on the floor, figuring it doesn’t matter. Now he has blood on his hands. Sylar’s body shudders with repressed sobs; his face now buried in Mohinder’s long neck; desperately clutching at the shirt, stiff with dried blood. Peter turns his face up and the heat of the fires outside feels like the sun against his skin. He keeps his eyes tightly shut in the hope that it’ll shut out Sylar’s uncontrolled grief; the acrid smell of lost blood mingled with the faint remains of Mohinder’s fucking tea. Exhaling slowly through his nose, he curls and uncurls his fists; nails digging into his palms. He looks down at his hands and opens them. The little crescents fill with blood rather quickly, and he rubs his palms against each other, smearing out the blood like it’s paint.
He feels nothing.
Sensing Sylar’s presence behind him, he stills. The other man is completely silent; Peter isn’t even sure he’s breathing. He glances over at him, taking in and cataloguing every scratch, every speck of blood and. The long streak from the corner of his mouth and down his throat doesn’t belong to him. Peter reaches out to scrub it off, but Sylar bats away his hand without any real malice. He walks over to the door and snags his coat from the hanger; shrugging it over his shoulders. When he turns back to face Peter, his face is wiped entirely clean; eyes empty and bottomless. Peter’s heart feels as if it’s on fire, just like the rest of the world.
Tipping his head back, he breathes in the smell of blood and smiles.
Author: cryinq_star
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: Oh, I don't know. I'll just say a very light R, to be on the safe side.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar, unrequited Peter/Sylar
Warnings: Character death.
Recipient: charashi
Notes: I shamelessly stole the title from Gemma's 'My Wife and My Dead Wife'.
Request: Sylar/Mohinder ANYTHING. Needless to say - I took some liberties. Heh.
Summary: Neither of them move an inch as Sylar practically glides into the room and over to Mohinder - where else?; absently rubbing his thumb up and down his long neck, a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
The smoke from the city curls upwards, and Peter can’t help but be enthralled by its complexity. Some wisps even reach them; and if he concentrates hard enough on the fire and the smoke, he can barely even hear the screams.
Peter glances over at Sylar’s tight frown; his mouth involuntarily curling upwards. Darkly, he hopes they never find Mohinder. With him as a grand prize, Sylar has two gears. Protect, and obsess. Cut off from Mohinder, Sylar obsesses and slaughters.
His eyes drift up again; aimlessly watching the smoke snapping at the edges of the clouds. Next to him, Sylar scoffs softly; picking at his nails. Peter doesn’t acknowledge him, but leans back; hands clasping behind his head.
"It’s nearly June," he says conversationally. Sylar glances over at him; goes very still, but says nothing. The silence isn’t an uncomfortable one, but it feels empty. Peter rolls his head towards the other man; his dark eyes narrowing slightly. Sylar cracks his knuckles, one by one; pointedly ignoring Peter.
He grins, feeling slightly unhinged. "Nearly time for your annual blood feud with sanity," he says callously, and Sylar looks him; something resembling the sun, or perhaps hell, burning behind the blackness of his eyes. Maybe it’s just the reflection from the city. His face splits into a wide, feral grin.
"Your brother died in June last year, didn’t he."
The statement is cold, and cruel, and Peter smiles humourlessly; turning away from him. Should have seen that coming. Still.
Stretching; he dusts off his jeans - more by habit than anything else; they haven’t been properly clean for months. Sylar, still watching him intently, doesn’t move. Peter ignores his lack of initiative and lets his head fall back, looking straight into the sun.
"Where to?" Sylar asks; absently straightening his shirt with the exactitude of an insane man. Peter lets his gaze travel north; Sylar following it with great interest.
"Home," he whispers; surprised at the thickness of his voice. Sylar studies him, his eyes dark and calculating and Peter feels himself smile faintly. "New York," he clarifies, without really having to. Sylar laughs and it’s got an edge to it, sharp and stilted. Peter’s smile turns faint, and very nearly cold.
"New York," Sylar drawls, turning the word into something dirty and forbidden; syllables rolling off his tongue like honey. He nods and comes to stand next to Peter; hands shoved deeply into his pockets.
"I think I’d like that." Their eyes meet and the unspoken sentence make them both smile thinly. Rolling their shoulders, they turn; as one, and walk down the hill - neither looking back at the burning inferno they’re leaving behind.
*
Sylar rarely kills with his bare hands - preferring his abilities over getting his hands literally dirty. Peter revels in the feel of bones crunching against his knuckles, snapping under his boot; twisting between his hands.
They leave nothing behind.
*
Mohinder stares at them; face crumbling [in relief?]. Beautiful, even with the ghost of death behind his eyes, and Sylar’s face contorts uncharacteristically. Mohinder lunges and strikes Sylar in the mouth; blood spurting. Before Peter even has the chance to blink; Sylar reacts; catching Mohinder like he weighs nothing at all, keeping him upright. Peter frowns slightly; the expression on the taller man’s is too alien, too raw for comfort. Sylar holds on to Mohinder’s wrists with a gentleness that almost makes Peter turn away; something forbidden burning in his chest. Mohinder trembling; half-leaning into Sylar, half-resisting his attempts at closeness. Great, gasping sobs rack through his body, tears lining the scrunched up face; smeared with grime and blood. Sylar lets go of Mohinder’s wrists, gently cupping his face in his hands; wiping it with his thumb. The naked shock on Mohinder’s face is pathetically hard to look at, and Peter turns away. Their little game of insanity and torture doesn’t involve him; the constant prodding and probing - neither of them having even the pretense of control. Biting and sniping and bitching. Winding and waiting and waiting some more. Sylar spits on the ground and Peter surprises himself by repressing a hint of a smile as he imagines the look on Sylar’s face as he grins through blood speckled teeth snakes a hand around the back of Mohinder’s neck; pressing their foreheads together.
"Miss me?" Mohinder’s resolve crumbles and there’s a softly hissed ‘you utter bastard’ and then -
*
Peter sometimes hears them at night; those voices, unified even in anger, shattering on the floor like icicles falling off a roof. He doesn’t flinch at the crack of Mohinder’s shoulders against the wall; Sylar’s hands pressing hard enough to bruise, surely. Mohinder avoids his eyes in the morning; tugging his sleeves down over faint bracelets of blue and black as he stirs sugar into his tea. A litany of ownership. Peter fucking hates it, the sickly sweet smell clings to his clothes and his hair and he sometimes wonders if Mohinder’d bleed tea instead of blood; should he ever cut his throat. He grows thinner and sharper every day, whereas Sylar is positively glowing - as if he’s sucking the life out of Mohinder’s very bones. Peter thinks he probably is. The cup trembles in Mohinder’s hands and Peter absentmindedly plucks it from him; letting it soar back to the sink, where he releases his hold over it.
"Thank you," he murmurs; long fingers curling into trembling fists in his lap. Peter watches him through slitted eyes, calculating, but not judging.
"Look at you," he mutters, feeling nastiness curl coldly up his spine. Mohinder glances up, and then away. An irrational pang of anger flares through Peter and he smiles cruelly; leaning over the table and seizing Mohinder’s wrist. The other man winces and finally, finally, looks at him.
"It’s all I’ve got."
Need. How primitive.
Mohinder’s eyebrows knit together and Peter all of a sudden feels very aware of himself. It’s as if Mohinder can see behind the scar and the shielded eyes; the slicked back hair and the dark clothes, and it makes Peter decidedly uncomfortable. He lets go of his wrist as if burned. The tug at Mohinder’s lips is miniscule but still present; Peter’s hands tremble with the effort of not reaching over and breaking his fragile neck. They sit in silence; Mohinder’s face once again wiped carefully blank. Peter watches him lazily, his foot drumming an impatient mid-air tattoo. Neither of them move an inch as Sylar practically glides into the room and over to Mohinder - where else?; absently rubbing his thumb up and down his long neck, a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
*
The gun feels strangely at home in his hand. Behind him, Mohinder shifts; his feet shuffling awkwardly.
"Peter, please." He smiles and turns to face Mohinder, waving the gun nonchalantly.
"Is it a real one," he says, squinting. Mohinder attempts a smile, and fails; tongue darting out to moisten his cracked lips. It looks as if the colour of his eyes has bled; forming dark circles beneath. He takes a step forward, holding out a surprisingly steady hand.
"Of course not," Mohinder says sharply. The desperation is pouring off of him in waves; its intensity suffocating. Peter takes a step back, the smile fading.
"Why do you keep a gun here, Mohinder?" he asks coldly, turning it over in his hands. Mohinder’s eyes never leave it; not once. His mouth twitch into the ghost of a smile.
"I told you," he says slowly, voice brittle. "It’s a - it’s not real. It makes me feel safe." Peter shrugs; his blood suddenly thrumming through his veins like electricity. He points it at Mohinder.
"So you’d survive this?" Mohinder’s face is anguished and he stumbles over his feet trying to get closer; raw fear in his eyes. Peter can see the inferno outside the window over his shoulder.
"Stop it," Mohinder bites out.
"Would you survive this?" Peter doesn’t budge; the fire reflecting in his eyes. Mohinder swallows and, again, attempts a smile.
"It’s a fake," he whispers throatily. "Of course I would."
"If it’s a fake," Peter says, deadly serious, "I’ll shoot."
"Peter, please."
"Tell me it’s a fake, and I’ll shoot."
"STOP IT!" Mohinder screams; hands balling up in tight fists. Peter aims for his throat.
*
Sylar’s face is wild; eyes blazing. Peter keeps a respectful distance; carefully glancing at Mohinder’s crumpled body. The bones are poking out through the skin of the neck, and the front of his shirt is flecked by the unmistakable colour of blood. His face is twisted in an ugly grimace, which Peter finds strangely fitting, and he feels his face twitch in distant grief - he cannot spare this broken puppet anything more. Sylar; suddenly slamming him up against the wall with his bare hands, snarls in his face.
"You fucker," Sylar snarls. “You fucker. You fucking fucker.” Peter struggles for breath, momentarily forgetting all about lashing out with his mind. His breath is stale and up close; Peter can see the cavities in the back of his mouth, which he finds oddly strange. He trashes in Sylar’s iron grip, his foot finally connecting with his shin. Sylar grunts and drops him abruptly; drawing into himself, clawing at his own face.
"Look, it would never have -" Peter pants, massaging his neck. Sylar howls and staggers over to Mohinder’s body, cradling his face with a rough sort of gentleness; attacking his blue lips over and over with his own, mumbling his name in between desperate kisses. Peter looks away, a sudden coldness in his stomach. Slaughtering families, entire cities never made him feel - feel this tired.
He spits on the floor, figuring it doesn’t matter. Now he has blood on his hands. Sylar’s body shudders with repressed sobs; his face now buried in Mohinder’s long neck; desperately clutching at the shirt, stiff with dried blood. Peter turns his face up and the heat of the fires outside feels like the sun against his skin. He keeps his eyes tightly shut in the hope that it’ll shut out Sylar’s uncontrolled grief; the acrid smell of lost blood mingled with the faint remains of Mohinder’s fucking tea. Exhaling slowly through his nose, he curls and uncurls his fists; nails digging into his palms. He looks down at his hands and opens them. The little crescents fill with blood rather quickly, and he rubs his palms against each other, smearing out the blood like it’s paint.
He feels nothing.
Sensing Sylar’s presence behind him, he stills. The other man is completely silent; Peter isn’t even sure he’s breathing. He glances over at him, taking in and cataloguing every scratch, every speck of blood and. The long streak from the corner of his mouth and down his throat doesn’t belong to him. Peter reaches out to scrub it off, but Sylar bats away his hand without any real malice. He walks over to the door and snags his coat from the hanger; shrugging it over his shoulders. When he turns back to face Peter, his face is wiped entirely clean; eyes empty and bottomless. Peter’s heart feels as if it’s on fire, just like the rest of the world.
Tipping his head back, he breathes in the smell of blood and smiles.