Fic: Arrangements
Title: Arrangements
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Invitations and arrangements
AN: Written for the Sekrit Cabal Ficlet Battle at
cerebel_fics
Mohinder sees him in the bathroom mirror when he's already halfway into the room, a backwards reflection of darkness so close to the wall it's like he's slid from the plaster. He instinctively flinches away from the glass, flinches backwards towards the monster, and the movement seems to bring Sylar to life.
"Molly-" Mohinder manages, before there are fingers against his mouth, warm and insistent and silencing.
"She's sleeping, I can hear her." Sylar pushes the door shut with a boot, a slow swing that ends in a quiet click, leaving them both enfolded in the small room, and Mohinder's breathing sounds all the louder for it.
The fingers drift free, curl down his throat, catch in the edge of his shirt.
"You can't be here," Mohinder refuses to try and pull away, refuses to give him that.
"Ssshh." Sylar's other hand tugs just a little on his waist. "Now Mohinder I promised I wouldn't wake her if you didn't."
"Don't do this." Sylar's hand tightens briefly on his skin, then releases him completely. There's more than a breath of irritation on his face.
"I thought you liked our little arrangement?"
"I agreed to it, I never said I liked it." Mohinder catches the look that opens on Sylar's face, something quick and hurt that he smothers with ruthless efficiency a second later.
His hand slides from Mohinder's shirt, drops away.
"I'm sure I can think of other fun things to do." The tone of his voice leaves no doubt as to what he will be amusing himself with if Mohinder refuses.
There will be blood, and Sylar will make certain it doesn't just paint his own hands.
Mohinder can tell Sylar to go, but someone will die.
"No," he says softly, and it catches in his throat, too thick to let free. Because everyone knows you don't invite the dark inside.
Once you invite it in, it never leaves.
There's a pause, a stream of warmth across the side of his face.
"No what?"
Mohinder swallows, carefully avoiding the reflection of his own eyes.
"Don't go," he says simply.
Sylar's head rests against his own for one brief moment, heavy and warm in his hair. Then there's a hand on his chin, lifting, tilting, until he's looking at his own eyes, too wide and too bright, and above them Sylar's are darker still. There is nowhere to hide.
"Tell me again."
Mohinder inhales quickly.
"Pretend you do it for them if it helps." Sylar's head turns just long enough, and the pressure is something like a kiss and something like encouragement, but nothing like kindness.
"Don't go," Mohinder repeats, and his voice is quiet and flat. But his eyes are nothing quite as easy to describe.
The hand on his face is gentler now, satisfied.
"I missed you," Sylar purrs into his ear, soft and slow.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Invitations and arrangements
AN: Written for the Sekrit Cabal Ficlet Battle at
cerebel_fics
Mohinder sees him in the bathroom mirror when he's already halfway into the room, a backwards reflection of darkness so close to the wall it's like he's slid from the plaster. He instinctively flinches away from the glass, flinches backwards towards the monster, and the movement seems to bring Sylar to life.
"Molly-" Mohinder manages, before there are fingers against his mouth, warm and insistent and silencing.
"She's sleeping, I can hear her." Sylar pushes the door shut with a boot, a slow swing that ends in a quiet click, leaving them both enfolded in the small room, and Mohinder's breathing sounds all the louder for it.
The fingers drift free, curl down his throat, catch in the edge of his shirt.
"You can't be here," Mohinder refuses to try and pull away, refuses to give him that.
"Ssshh." Sylar's other hand tugs just a little on his waist. "Now Mohinder I promised I wouldn't wake her if you didn't."
"Don't do this." Sylar's hand tightens briefly on his skin, then releases him completely. There's more than a breath of irritation on his face.
"I thought you liked our little arrangement?"
"I agreed to it, I never said I liked it." Mohinder catches the look that opens on Sylar's face, something quick and hurt that he smothers with ruthless efficiency a second later.
His hand slides from Mohinder's shirt, drops away.
"I'm sure I can think of other fun things to do." The tone of his voice leaves no doubt as to what he will be amusing himself with if Mohinder refuses.
There will be blood, and Sylar will make certain it doesn't just paint his own hands.
Mohinder can tell Sylar to go, but someone will die.
"No," he says softly, and it catches in his throat, too thick to let free. Because everyone knows you don't invite the dark inside.
Once you invite it in, it never leaves.
There's a pause, a stream of warmth across the side of his face.
"No what?"
Mohinder swallows, carefully avoiding the reflection of his own eyes.
"Don't go," he says simply.
Sylar's head rests against his own for one brief moment, heavy and warm in his hair. Then there's a hand on his chin, lifting, tilting, until he's looking at his own eyes, too wide and too bright, and above them Sylar's are darker still. There is nowhere to hide.
"Tell me again."
Mohinder inhales quickly.
"Pretend you do it for them if it helps." Sylar's head turns just long enough, and the pressure is something like a kiss and something like encouragement, but nothing like kindness.
"Don't go," Mohinder repeats, and his voice is quiet and flat. But his eyes are nothing quite as easy to describe.
The hand on his face is gentler now, satisfied.
"I missed you," Sylar purrs into his ear, soft and slow.