(no subject)
Title: In Parting
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: Not mine, no siree.
Summary: There are no tears. No sobbing exclamations or long, dramatic speeches.
He takes a sip of his whiskey, cheap and sour after all of these years, and tries to ignore the whispers behind his back. Idly, Mohinder thinks that high school never ends, not really, because there’s always something to gossip about, someone to give sidelong glances and polite smiles to.
The thought makes him vaguely sick, and he decides he’s had enough of a party for the evening, for the rest of his life, even, and quickly he makes his goodbyes. Peter holds onto his hand a bit too long, losing the motion of the shake and simply staring at him. He’s reading his thoughts, Mohinder knows, and incensed, he makes no effort to conceal them. Peter flinches, and recoils, bidding him a very cold good night.
“Go.”
Peter stares at him, flames crawling along his fingers, up his arms. His disbelief is palpable; the rage behind it all too clear, but Mohinder cannot be bothered with this right now. He doesn’t have time for anyone else’s feelings.
He takes a step forward, the pressure creeping along his spine, and eyes the broken form at his feet.
“Go.”
Mohinder wanders along the beaten pavement, the chill January air playing over his cheeks. He tugs his hood up, still unused to the chill that comes with his shorn locks, and ignores his reflection in the dirty windows. The city goes on around him, unawares, and for once, he wishes he could be a part of it.
He takes the steps to his apartment slowly, running his fingers along the wooden banister. Trying to shut out the sounds of a baby screaming, he focuses instead on the heavy din of traffic, hundreds and hundreds of cars packed together with no destination in sight.
The streets are empty. Cars have been left deserted, doors wide-open and keys still in the ignition. There are sirens in the distance, like there always seems to be, but Mohinder isn’t paying attention to them right now.
He kneels, feeling the cuts on his back pull against the fabric of his t-shirt. Listens to the gravel crunch as Hiro and Peter walk away, just far enough to keep him in their sights. Mohinder sighs, and waits for dark eyes to meet his.
He toes off his sneakers at the door, making sure to turn and hook all of the locks, not that they’ve ever really been of much use. It’s habit, and habit is comforting within itself. Mohinder doesn’t have the strength or the will to analyze it any further.
He slumps down in his desk, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out an ancient bottle of Amrut Single Malt. He doesn’t bother with a glass, simply takes a swig and winces at the burn. He doesn’t quite know why he’s drinking-there’s nothing to celebrate, despite what the Petrellis would say. Mohinder decides it doesn’t matter and takes another gulp, staring blankly out the window.
Blood mats the earth around him, sticky and fresh, the copper tang invading his mouth and nostrils. It’s seeping through his jeans, but he doesn’t care, only has eyes for the gaping chest wound and the bloody smile.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” he says evenly, though he knows it to be a lie.
“No, Mohinder,” comes the muted reply, wet and thick with death. “It couldn’t be any other way.”
He should be glad.
He knows that is what they were whispering about, probably what they are still saying now that they don’t have to worry about pesky trifles such as earshot. Mohinder sighs, rising from the desk, feeling his steps grow more and more unsteady as he makes his way to his bedroom.
He should be glad.
The form in front of him is slumped over, like a broken toy, crimson staining his teeth, flowing from his mouth, his nose, his ears. So much blood. Mohinder reaches out, unthinking, tucks a strand of dark hair behind a pale ear.
Those eyes are on him again, fading but still present, and a failing voice chokes out, “I just wanted to be important.”
He’s like a child searching for approval, for…forgiveness.
Mohinder doesn’t know if it’s in him to give.
He crawls into bed with his clothes on, not bothering to close the blinds, or indeed do anything but curl up under the sheets. He blinks against the filtered streetlights, closing his eyes tightly.
He should get a new apartment, he thinks. Somewhere different. Away from the city and the lights and the noise. Maybe go back to India. Chennai seems so far away now, so removed from everything, as if he’d lived there in a past life.
As if he’d never been there at all.
There are no tears. No sobbing exclamations or long, dramatic speeches. Just a body bent forward, dark hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, large hands gripping him by the wrists.
He pulls free of the grasp, tugging other man closer and resting that forehead against his shoulder, smoothing his fingers through soft, straight locks as the body chokes and jerks beneath his hands.
There are no words between them. There is nothing left to say.
The yellow lights of passing cars wash over the room, bathing the bed’s sole occupant in a fleeting glow. Soft breaths force their way out of a constricted chest, catching in a throat along with unspoken sobs.
It is the last night he will spend in this room.
The body lies, eyes wide and staring, empty. A slack mouth is opened in a final plea, full lips stained scarlet and drooping. Arms are spread, dirt caught between clutching fingers in the final throes of passing.
Mohinder stumbles away numb and half-blinded. Peter approaches, satisfied, and with little more than a glance, sets the body ablaze.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: Not mine, no siree.
Summary: There are no tears. No sobbing exclamations or long, dramatic speeches.
He takes a sip of his whiskey, cheap and sour after all of these years, and tries to ignore the whispers behind his back. Idly, Mohinder thinks that high school never ends, not really, because there’s always something to gossip about, someone to give sidelong glances and polite smiles to.
The thought makes him vaguely sick, and he decides he’s had enough of a party for the evening, for the rest of his life, even, and quickly he makes his goodbyes. Peter holds onto his hand a bit too long, losing the motion of the shake and simply staring at him. He’s reading his thoughts, Mohinder knows, and incensed, he makes no effort to conceal them. Peter flinches, and recoils, bidding him a very cold good night.
“Go.”
Peter stares at him, flames crawling along his fingers, up his arms. His disbelief is palpable; the rage behind it all too clear, but Mohinder cannot be bothered with this right now. He doesn’t have time for anyone else’s feelings.
He takes a step forward, the pressure creeping along his spine, and eyes the broken form at his feet.
“Go.”
Mohinder wanders along the beaten pavement, the chill January air playing over his cheeks. He tugs his hood up, still unused to the chill that comes with his shorn locks, and ignores his reflection in the dirty windows. The city goes on around him, unawares, and for once, he wishes he could be a part of it.
He takes the steps to his apartment slowly, running his fingers along the wooden banister. Trying to shut out the sounds of a baby screaming, he focuses instead on the heavy din of traffic, hundreds and hundreds of cars packed together with no destination in sight.
The streets are empty. Cars have been left deserted, doors wide-open and keys still in the ignition. There are sirens in the distance, like there always seems to be, but Mohinder isn’t paying attention to them right now.
He kneels, feeling the cuts on his back pull against the fabric of his t-shirt. Listens to the gravel crunch as Hiro and Peter walk away, just far enough to keep him in their sights. Mohinder sighs, and waits for dark eyes to meet his.
He toes off his sneakers at the door, making sure to turn and hook all of the locks, not that they’ve ever really been of much use. It’s habit, and habit is comforting within itself. Mohinder doesn’t have the strength or the will to analyze it any further.
He slumps down in his desk, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out an ancient bottle of Amrut Single Malt. He doesn’t bother with a glass, simply takes a swig and winces at the burn. He doesn’t quite know why he’s drinking-there’s nothing to celebrate, despite what the Petrellis would say. Mohinder decides it doesn’t matter and takes another gulp, staring blankly out the window.
Blood mats the earth around him, sticky and fresh, the copper tang invading his mouth and nostrils. It’s seeping through his jeans, but he doesn’t care, only has eyes for the gaping chest wound and the bloody smile.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” he says evenly, though he knows it to be a lie.
“No, Mohinder,” comes the muted reply, wet and thick with death. “It couldn’t be any other way.”
He should be glad.
He knows that is what they were whispering about, probably what they are still saying now that they don’t have to worry about pesky trifles such as earshot. Mohinder sighs, rising from the desk, feeling his steps grow more and more unsteady as he makes his way to his bedroom.
He should be glad.
The form in front of him is slumped over, like a broken toy, crimson staining his teeth, flowing from his mouth, his nose, his ears. So much blood. Mohinder reaches out, unthinking, tucks a strand of dark hair behind a pale ear.
Those eyes are on him again, fading but still present, and a failing voice chokes out, “I just wanted to be important.”
He’s like a child searching for approval, for…forgiveness.
Mohinder doesn’t know if it’s in him to give.
He crawls into bed with his clothes on, not bothering to close the blinds, or indeed do anything but curl up under the sheets. He blinks against the filtered streetlights, closing his eyes tightly.
He should get a new apartment, he thinks. Somewhere different. Away from the city and the lights and the noise. Maybe go back to India. Chennai seems so far away now, so removed from everything, as if he’d lived there in a past life.
As if he’d never been there at all.
There are no tears. No sobbing exclamations or long, dramatic speeches. Just a body bent forward, dark hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, large hands gripping him by the wrists.
He pulls free of the grasp, tugging other man closer and resting that forehead against his shoulder, smoothing his fingers through soft, straight locks as the body chokes and jerks beneath his hands.
There are no words between them. There is nothing left to say.
The yellow lights of passing cars wash over the room, bathing the bed’s sole occupant in a fleeting glow. Soft breaths force their way out of a constricted chest, catching in a throat along with unspoken sobs.
It is the last night he will spend in this room.
The body lies, eyes wide and staring, empty. A slack mouth is opened in a final plea, full lips stained scarlet and drooping. Arms are spread, dirt caught between clutching fingers in the final throes of passing.
Mohinder stumbles away numb and half-blinded. Peter approaches, satisfied, and with little more than a glance, sets the body ablaze.