The Sleepover Chapter 3 Part 1
Mohinder desperately needed a cold shower. Not only had he just been on his knees in front a terrifyingly handsome mass murderer only a few moments earlier, but his chest and pajama pants were covered in drying semen. He had looked up at Sylar, eyes huge with fear, but Sylar had only chuckled, patted Mohinder’s curly hair, and walked out of the kitchen. Now Mohinder sat on his bed, hoping to hear the sound of the door closing as Sylar left to do…whatever it was Sylar did when he wasn’t at Mohinder’s.
He lay down, breathing in deeply, letting his mind wander over the stained and cracked ceiling above. This was the most fucked-up situation he had ever been in, and that topped going on a road-trip with a serial killer. Why did these things always have to do with Sylar? Why didn’t he move after Sylar killed Peter? Why was Sylar seducing him and WHY did some part deep down in Mohinder like it? Finally he heard the door open and close and he shivered, wondering who would die today.
~
Sylar stood near the door, listening to Mohinder breathe deeply on the bed. He laughed quietly to himself and shook his head. He loved how Mohinder had a completely black and white view of how the world worked. The good were righteous, they loved, they laughed, they never did anything wrong. The bad lived in their deep dark lairs, plotting the demise of the good twenty-four hours a day. They didn’t eat, they didn’t sleep, and they certainly didn’t love. He couldn’t understand that the world was gray, everything blended together, there wasn’t good, and there wasn’t evil.
In the end there was just this overpowering will to survive. To rise above it all and be…special. To not fall and lose yourself in the everyday, boring lives of the millions of people all around you. Mohinder would never understand that sometimes people did good things for bad reasons, or bad things with the best of intentions. That naivety was what made him special, and Sylar hoped that he would never lose it. He took one last look at the bedroom, grabbed his coat and left the apartment. Contrary to Mohinder’s thoughts of Sylar raping and pillaging New York City, Sylar just wanted something to eat and a day of quiet contemplation, along with a new set of clothes.
~
Instead of a shower, Mohinder slept most of the day, reveling in the soft feel of his own warm bed beneath him, and a Sylarless apartment. When he finally did waken, it was dark, though the clock read only 6:15. Night was coming earlier and earlier as the cold of winter approached. Yawning, he pushed himself from the bed to the bathroom, turning on the shower and waiting for the warm water to reach his apartment.
He scrubbed his body until his dark skin shone red, trying to wipe away the guilt of what he had done with Sylar. If anyone ever found out…he could only imagine how they would look at him. The disgust upon their faces, the utter revulsion in their eyes, would be too much for him to take. Especially Peter, a man who had come to him for help and had been turned away, and then killed the second time he had come for Mohinder’s help.
The worst part was knowing that he liked it. He liked the way Sylar’s eyes roved over his body, the way his eyes darkened with desire for him. Who else had ever filled that man’s haunting eyes with yearning like that? What was so incredibly special about Mohinder? Sylar just ignored every other normal human being, and his attentions to the extraordinary ones stopped at their abilities. Mohinder finished his shower, dressed, and tidied up the house a bit, before deciding to go out for some groceries.
He could use some, and there was nothing better for him to do, considering he refused to work on his research when Sylar could trounce in at any moment. The night air was chilly as he walked down the sidewalk, passing only the occasional couple or businessman coming home later than expected from work. A block from the store, he realized he was being followed. He picked up his pace, before sighing and turning left down a nearby alley.
“Sylar, I’m really not in the mood for-“ He turned and realized Sylar hadn’t followed him at all.
Instead of Sylar’s leering visage there was a group of five or six young thugs, all with ridiculously malicious grins plastered upon their faces. The first, obviously the leader of the haphazard group, shoved him against the wall, pressing a gun against his forehead. Mohinder was not a fan of guns, having only actually fired one once in his entire life. The situation had not been pleasant then, and it certainly wasn’t now.
“Grab his wallet,” The boy said, glancing over his shoulder for a moment at his group of friends.
Mohinder took this moment of foolishness to push the thug off of him and take off down the alley.
“Help!” He yelled, voice cracking in the cold autumn air. He stumbled over a bag of garbage, scraping his hands as he landed on the dirty alley concrete.
“You stupid fuck,” one of the boys growled from above him, kicking Mohinder, the steel-toed boot connected painfully with his thigh.
A charley horse immediately erupted at the spot, causing Mohinder to curl the leg against his chest. The boy kicked him again and pulled Mohinder to his feet. Mohinder fought against the other man, trying to buy time, succeeding in breaking loose once more, but with the cramp in his leg he didn’t even make it to the street. The boy grabbed him roughly by the collar of his coat and led the limping man back to the rest of the group.
The leader slammed him across the face with the butt of his gun, knocking Mohinder against the wall. He slid to the ground, stars flying in front of his eyes as he tried to wipe the blood from his mouth, putting a hand to his jaw and wondering if it was broken.
“We were going to let you go, but now that you’ve decided to go be a hero, I think we’re going to make sure you have a nice trip to the hospital. That is, if anyone finds you down here. The nights are getting pretty cold,” The chief boy spoke, slipping his gun into his pants and pulling a switchblade from one dirty black boot.
He kneeled, taking Mohinder’s hand in his own and drawing a long line across it with the knife before the stunned Indian man even had time to react. Mohinder held back a cry, tears welling in his eyes at the pain. He tried to scrabble to his feet, but one of the other boys kicked him viciously, sending him back down to the ground. The knife wavered in front of his face.
“I think you’re too pretty to be in this neighborhood. How about we make you look like you belong here?”
“Please. Please, just let me go.” Mohinder said, his body beginning to shake.
The boy laughed and pulled the knife back to slash it across Mohinder’s face. It was the last laugh he would ever utter. Mohinder closed his eyes, raising his hands to protect his face. He felt a cold rush as the boy was pulled quickly away from him, and his eyes shot open as he heard dull crunch muffled by the sound of something shrieking as it hit another solid object and continued moving. All of the boys were staring down the end of the alley to their fallen companion. He was impaled to the brick wall with several sharp blades of metal that looked like they had once been a bicycle, his body still flailing in a parody of life.
Blood dripped slowly down the wall, like a parody of the worn graffiti beneath it. The crunch had been the boy’s bones splintering as they hit the wall, the shriek the sound of poles hitting brick. Mohinder retched, turning his head towards the street, sweet bile coursing into his mouth and onto the cold pavement. A man stood in the shadows there, hand still raised towards the boy he had killed. One of the boys followed suit and began to heave up the contents of his dinner, turning his head towards Mohinder as he did.
“What…what did you do?” The boy choked, pulling a gun from his waistband and starting towards the Indian.
The other boys turned, a sick anger clouding their faces as they realized Mohinder was the only person in the alley besides them. The first boy cocked his gun, leveling it at Mohinder. Suddenly the gun and two of his fingers were ripped from his hand and he was thrown against the wall as Sylar stepped into the alley. He lay on the ground unmoving, and Mohinder wondered if the young man was still alive.
“It wasn’t him,” Sylar said quietly.
“What the fuck?” A feminine voice, the only girl in their little gang shrilly squeaked.
The other members turned to the man at the end of the alley, raising their guns shakily. Mohinder saw Sylar’s fingers flick, and the remaining four members hit the walls on either side of Sylar, gasping for breath as he choked the life from them. Mohinder watched them in horror as their eyes strained in their sockets, faces turning deep shades of red as the blood rushed to them all in unison.
“Mohinder, what have we learned?” Sylar asked, ignoring the humans he was slowly killing to kneel in front of Mohinder’s fallen form.
Sylar cocked his head when Mohinder didn’t answer him. One of the individuals on the wall let out a suffocating scream that was quickly cut off as Sylar flicked a hand backwards.
“Rude,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
Mohinder’s ears were filled with the sounds of their feet hitting the wall as they choked, his eyes with the panic filling them as they began to black out. He hadn’t heard a word Sylar said.
“Please…please, let them go,” He begged, his eyes filling with tears.
Sylar looked back to Mohinder, his eyes filled with a feral look that made the smaller man look away.
“They were going to kill you. They don’t deserve to live.”
“I-I know. But don’t you understand you’re just as wrong as them if you let them die?”
“No. I’m nothing like them,” Sylar responded, confusion written on his face.
Mohinder looked behind Sylar and saw the boy who had been thrown into the wall waking up. So he was alive. As he tried to stand Sylar pinned him to the ground with his telekinesis. The boy struggled to free himself, screaming and weeping, calling for his mother. It was the most horrible sound Mohinder had ever heard. No, Sylar was a completely different brand of evil from these young boys.
“Sylar please!” Mohinder cried, tears beginning to fall from his eyes and freeze on his cheeks in the cold air.
Sylar’s face remained impassive as he forcefully grabbed Mohinder’s chin and forced him to look into his frightening eyes. His black eyes narrowed, and Mohinder felt as if he was staring into hell itself. Sylar let go of Mohinder’s face and flicked his hand, the boy on the ground sliding across the ground, his neck hitting Sylar’s hand with a hard fleshy slap. The boy looked much younger up close, eyes wide like an animal’s, which was really what he was, what anyone was when staring down their own death. His nose began to bleed, a long dark rivulet sliding down over his cracked lips, down his chin onto the hand that clutched his throat. He looked like he barely knew what was going on, and Mohinder wondered if his skull was smashed under the bloody mat of hair on the side of his head.
“You really believe they should live,” Sylar said, tilting his head to regard Mohinder as if he was some strange, alien creature that could never be understood.
He said it with no hint of remorse for what he was doing, no guilt, and Mohinder knew he would kill them in an instant if he said no. Sylar’s hand tightened on the boy’s throat, and Mohinder saw the faces of the pinned children turning purple as they clawed at their own throats, tearing long gory lines in their fight for breath.
“Yes,” Mohinder replied, his cheeks red and tear-stained.
“I wasn’t asking a question, I was making an observation,” Sylar said, dropping his hand from the boy’s neck and flicking his hand, causing the figures dancing morbidly on the walls to fall, coughing and vomiting to the ground.
The boy nearest them stood first, stumbling and them running drunkenly to the street clutching his bleeding hand, as the others eyed Sylar in horror and followed suit. Mohinder tried not to wonder if any of them would have brain damage. Soon they were alone but for the gruesome body pinned in darkness at the end of the alley. Sylar brought his hand to Mohinder’s face, wiping the blood from the shaken man’s lips.
“Are you alright?” He asked, the fire instantly gone from his eyes.
He no longer looked like a killer, just a man worried for another human being. Mohinder was sickened by the compassion written in the other man’s face
“Yes,” Mohinder whispered, trying not to flinch from Sylar’s touch.
His stomach turned as he watched his rescuer, as he marveled at how fast Sylar could go from killer to savior. He winced as Sylar’s fingertips brushed the bruise forming on his cheek, and his heart stopped at the look upon the other man’s face. His mouth was open in a snarl, teeth bared as he eyed the bruise, glance once more terrifying to behold.
“Please, I’m fine Sylar. Just let me get up,” Mohinder didn’t want Sylar to think he was special anymore.
People died when Sylar thought Mohinder was special. Sylar stood and stepped backwards, offering a hand that Mohinder did not take. He pushed himself up, stumbling forward as a muscle cramped horribly in his leg. Sylar grabbed his shoulder, putting an arm on Mohinder’s back to steady him as Mohinder grunted in pain. Mohinder looked at the lifeless body once more, then turned his face to Sylar’s.
“What about…about, the body?” Mohinder asked.
“What about it?” Sylar answered, walking Mohinder to the street.
Mohinder let the subject drop. If Sylar wasn’t going to move the body, it wasn’t like he was going to be able to pry it lose from the wall himself.
“I can walk by myself,” Mohinder pushed himself from Sylar’s warm body, beginning to limp back to his apartment.
He hissed through his teeth as the charley horse erupted in his thigh once more and he staggered. Instantly there were arms around his waist, steadying him.
“Obviously,” Came Sylar’s voice, breath warm on the back of his neck.
Mohinder sighed, straightening his body and accepting Sylar’s help as he wobbled the few blocks back to his home. Neither man spoke on the way home, Mohinder trying his hardest not to welcome the warmth of Sylar beside him on this chilly evening. The trip up the stairs to his floor was almost amusing, both of the men trying to walk side by side in the narrow hall. Mohinder felt the walk up the stairs was easier than it should have been however, and he wondered if he felt a little bit lighter than usual, the weight on his cramping leg lessened just enough so that Sylar thought he wouldn’t notice that the killer was using his power.
They reached his door and he stepped away from Sylar, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He removed his coat and waited for the other man to follow. When Sylar didn’t follow behind him he turned around, expecting the man’s ghostly frame to be standing in the doorway. No one stood looming in the doorframe, and Mohinder peered out into the hallway. It was deserted, and as he closed the door he realized his home felt oddly lonely. He fell asleep on the couch that night, too tired both physically and emotionally for a fight with Sylar, but Sylar didn’t come back.
In the morning he awoke, but the door had not been unlocked, and limping to the bed he saw that it had not been touched. Softly he fingered the bedspread, ashamed that he had hoped they would be warm with the heat of the other man’s body. He hobbled to the kitchen, remembering that he has nothing to eat, and sighed as his stomach grumbled at this development. Mohinder opened the fridge; quickly closing it again as he looked around the room to see if anyone was hiding. He brushed a hand through his curls and opened it once more.
He smiled, wondering how Sylar had come in so quietly in the night. The refrigerator was filled with food. Just as his mind decided to think of this as a kind gesture, his stomach turned and he barely made it to the sink in time to cough up a string of sickly syrupy bile. The face of a young boy nailed to a wall entered his mind, crimson blood dripping from severed arteries, blank eyes staring at him. At Mohinder, the man who had killed him, whether it had been by his hand or not. No, there would be no eating today.