For justprompts
"The happy ending cannot come in the middle of a story." The Last Unicorn
He wakes up as the sun's coming through the crack between the curtains - one of them failed to draw them completely closed, last night. Not that either of them would particularly have thought of it. They'd had far more pressing matters on their minds: Sylar had had his hunger to contend with, and Mohinder had been, once more, fixed with the unhappy task of finding some way to help either work him through it, or bring him back down.
Gabriel - for he was Gabriel again, now, for certain - was no longer in bed. Mohinder doubted he'd even slept, since he hardly ever did, these days. Carefully, he rolled over onto his side of the mattress, pulling his pillow close. It was still a little warm, but more importantly, it smelled like him, and he breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. He wasn't sure if he wanted to move, just yet - something about staying there appealed to him, as much as he wanted to go find Gabriel, just for the sake of being near him, checking on him. As he lay there, though, the rest of his body began to slowly wake up, his senses dragging themselves up from the depths of sleep, until he remembered why he hadn't really wanted to move: the dull, persistent ache in his left hip.
Shifting a little, Mohinder pushed down the blankets and unzipped the corduroys he'd fallen asleep in, pulling the hem down until he could see the deep, yellowing, spoiled-plum bruise spreading across his skin. He was lucky it hadn't broken, he knew - lucky that Sylar had somehow managed to restrain himself enough to keep it from happening. With another slow breath, Mohinder zipped his pants back up and settled back on the mattress, his fingers going gingerly to the side of his neck, where Sylar's had been the night before. Sure enough, a few spots were tender to the touch, and he had no doubt he bore bruises there, as well. Best to avoid the meetings at the loft, until they'd gone away: they were in the kind of place that was hard to hide. Earlier, in fall or winter, he would have been able to cover them up with a scarf, but now that the warmer weather was upon them, it wouldn't be such an easy task. And he knew that if anyone saw the damage done, there would be questions asked, and accusations made. Worse than that, there would be assumptions. He knew.
Somehow, even considering the words "abusive relationship" made him irrationally angry. He didn't think of it as abuse - not when what it really boiled down to was letting Sylar hurt him, or stepping aside and risking someone else in their ever-widening circle of friends get killed. After the incident with Claire on the roof of Isaac's loft, Mohinder had no doubt that in the depths of his hunger, Sylar wouldn't hesitate to kill one of them, given the chance. It was getting harder and harder to bring him back, if he was among others. Somehow, alone, it was easier. And if that meant he had to bear the bruises and the breaks, risk spending time hooked to IVs and nursing cracked ribs as he had when they'd first taken their tentative steps toward the strange balance they'd cultivated, then he would do so, willingly.
And as the soft sounds of Gabriel moving about in the living room carried into the bedroom, Mohinder began to realize something that almost frightened him: he wasn't really doing it to save anyone else's life. He was doing it to spare Gabriel. Somewhere inside him, once the hunger faded away ... if he'd killed someone he knew, when all was said and done, he would feel the pain of it. He'd regret. Or at least, Mohinder hoped he would. He wasn't sure anymore, and the thought made him wince.
There was a moment when you thought he'd finished - that he'd come back to himself, last night, he told himself. And he tricked you. He played with you. ... How do you know that isn't still happening? How do you know you haven't been degraded to just his toy, his plaything? You can't always be sure he'll come back to you. One day, maybe you'll try your hardest, and it won't be enough...
He closed his eyes and buried his face in Gabriel's pillow, gritting his teeth. "No," he growled into the fabric. No, don't think like that. Don't be ridiculous. You can't give up. Not when he's come so far, not when you've both become this close. Don't let your ridiculous fear make you back away again. How far did it get you, last time? Back to India. And that did you absolutely no good at all, running away. It's not perfect, no. Maybe it never will be.
With a sigh, he sat up, dragging a hand over his eyes and pinching at the bridge of his nose before looking up at the light coming in through the curtains.
But it's not over, either.
He wakes up as the sun's coming through the crack between the curtains - one of them failed to draw them completely closed, last night. Not that either of them would particularly have thought of it. They'd had far more pressing matters on their minds: Sylar had had his hunger to contend with, and Mohinder had been, once more, fixed with the unhappy task of finding some way to help either work him through it, or bring him back down.
Gabriel - for he was Gabriel again, now, for certain - was no longer in bed. Mohinder doubted he'd even slept, since he hardly ever did, these days. Carefully, he rolled over onto his side of the mattress, pulling his pillow close. It was still a little warm, but more importantly, it smelled like him, and he breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. He wasn't sure if he wanted to move, just yet - something about staying there appealed to him, as much as he wanted to go find Gabriel, just for the sake of being near him, checking on him. As he lay there, though, the rest of his body began to slowly wake up, his senses dragging themselves up from the depths of sleep, until he remembered why he hadn't really wanted to move: the dull, persistent ache in his left hip.
Shifting a little, Mohinder pushed down the blankets and unzipped the corduroys he'd fallen asleep in, pulling the hem down until he could see the deep, yellowing, spoiled-plum bruise spreading across his skin. He was lucky it hadn't broken, he knew - lucky that Sylar had somehow managed to restrain himself enough to keep it from happening. With another slow breath, Mohinder zipped his pants back up and settled back on the mattress, his fingers going gingerly to the side of his neck, where Sylar's had been the night before. Sure enough, a few spots were tender to the touch, and he had no doubt he bore bruises there, as well. Best to avoid the meetings at the loft, until they'd gone away: they were in the kind of place that was hard to hide. Earlier, in fall or winter, he would have been able to cover them up with a scarf, but now that the warmer weather was upon them, it wouldn't be such an easy task. And he knew that if anyone saw the damage done, there would be questions asked, and accusations made. Worse than that, there would be assumptions. He knew.
Somehow, even considering the words "abusive relationship" made him irrationally angry. He didn't think of it as abuse - not when what it really boiled down to was letting Sylar hurt him, or stepping aside and risking someone else in their ever-widening circle of friends get killed. After the incident with Claire on the roof of Isaac's loft, Mohinder had no doubt that in the depths of his hunger, Sylar wouldn't hesitate to kill one of them, given the chance. It was getting harder and harder to bring him back, if he was among others. Somehow, alone, it was easier. And if that meant he had to bear the bruises and the breaks, risk spending time hooked to IVs and nursing cracked ribs as he had when they'd first taken their tentative steps toward the strange balance they'd cultivated, then he would do so, willingly.
And as the soft sounds of Gabriel moving about in the living room carried into the bedroom, Mohinder began to realize something that almost frightened him: he wasn't really doing it to save anyone else's life. He was doing it to spare Gabriel. Somewhere inside him, once the hunger faded away ... if he'd killed someone he knew, when all was said and done, he would feel the pain of it. He'd regret. Or at least, Mohinder hoped he would. He wasn't sure anymore, and the thought made him wince.
There was a moment when you thought he'd finished - that he'd come back to himself, last night, he told himself. And he tricked you. He played with you. ... How do you know that isn't still happening? How do you know you haven't been degraded to just his toy, his plaything? You can't always be sure he'll come back to you. One day, maybe you'll try your hardest, and it won't be enough...
He closed his eyes and buried his face in Gabriel's pillow, gritting his teeth. "No," he growled into the fabric. No, don't think like that. Don't be ridiculous. You can't give up. Not when he's come so far, not when you've both become this close. Don't let your ridiculous fear make you back away again. How far did it get you, last time? Back to India. And that did you absolutely no good at all, running away. It's not perfect, no. Maybe it never will be.
With a sigh, he sat up, dragging a hand over his eyes and pinching at the bridge of his nose before looking up at the light coming in through the curtains.
But it's not over, either.