Title:
IlluminationCharacters: Mohinder/Peter
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 342
Spoilers/Warnings: General character spoilers, but nothing concrete.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, do you think I'd ever let them out of my sight?
Summary: We will find illumination in an unnatural light.
He thinks of his lover’s body in the planes and shadows of streetlights, the eternal nighttime glow of New York mapped out on Madras skin, neon turning his skin chestnut, caramel, tawny and darker still in the dips and hollows, into chocolate, seal point. Mohinder is like a cat, stretched out against white sheets, a study in contrast, and Peter cannot keep his hands to himself. He loves contrast. It’s almost an addiction, the way his lover’s skin is deep and dark and perfect against the white sheets, against the light olive of his own hands as they glide over muscle and trace bone. He expected that skin to smell of curry or sandalwood or something else that was obviously exotic and foreign, but the first time Peter buried his face in the curve of Mohinder’s neck and inhaled, fingers sinking into those dark curls, he smelled the tea Mohinder was always drinking and something darker below that, sensual and woody and perfect, like he could drown in that heady combination of refinement and musk. He’d babbled at the time; Peter was, after all, exceptionally good at that. But the words just welled up and spilled out, things like need this, need you and yours, yours, yours. He meant them. He still does. He traces them with his fingers and tongue and teeth and lips, branding them into that beloved, memorized skin like fire and adoration and worship. He burns and bleeds for this skin, for the spirit it’s wrapped around, the dark, all-too-knowing eyes and the tongue that can wound and bind in turns. There is nothing more than this, than the way they fit together, velvet heat and shadows, scars and elegance laced together through the next yesterday and the next and the next. Mohinder kisses him, keeps him close, murmurs words of comfort, promises of comfort and hope, always hope, that fragile thread that laces them together, their only oasis in the neon glow of Manhattan.