A Ring Around 2/?
Title: A Ring Around 2/?
Author: puckkit
Rating: PG
Pairing/Character: Mohinder/Sylar
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the show Heroes, therefore all of this is false and made up from my charmingly eccentric imagination.
Author's Notes: More thanks to mneiai for her constant help. This is an AU and a multi-parter, spoilers for the first season. After about a million rewrites and edits and all that jazz, here's part two! Hope you enjoy. Cut-text lyrics from Running Up That Hill (technically by Kate Bush, but I was listening to the Placebo version).
First Part
He could barely see through his eyelashes and partially closed lids, a dense fog covering vague shapes that, the more he stared and concentrated, slowly filed themselves away as a person in the distance and a chair right in front of him.
The person (Mohinder?) was buzzing around, his fuzzy form going about some sort of task fairly quickly, though he could feel no rush in the air around them. Even as he started to feel normal emotions again they came back to him in single file, drained down to the point where they were barely recognizable, mere outlines of true emotions.
He was... what was he? Scared, but not to the point of being terrified. Curious, but not curious enough to move or even open his eyes further. Everything was numbed down and all he could do was blink and breathe. And wait for Mohinder to come back to him.
He wasn’t used to waiting for someone else. But for some reason, the idea wasn’t as distasteful as he felt that it should be. It was strange- knowing that you should feel something other than what you felt.
The grainy form blurred its way over to him, settling in the chair before his eyes. A voice filtered into his ears from a distance... why was it all so remote and separate? Everything was fuzzy and soft, covered in a layer of cotton. His sight, his hearing, everything he could feel and sense and perceive. He tried to think himself away, to push Mohinder from his field of view, but nothing moved. It was... strange, but he couldn’t quite remember why it would be anything but normal.
“You’re conscious. That’s good. Though you don’t listen particularly well either way. I’ve thought about this so much, but now that you’re here, looking at me like that...” Mohinder hesitated, unsure how far to go. How much would Sylar remember?
“Never mind. Just close your eyes; you won’t remember any of this later anyway.”
Sylar frowned minutely.
“Why are you doing this?” He murmured, confused and almost scared. Not quite, but almost.
“You’re pathetic. You’re everything I will never be and I can’t stand you.” Mohinder looked down and away, biting his lip slightly. He lowered his voice a fraction. “You make me hate myself.” He took the needle that Sylar hadn’t noticed and inserted it into his arm while Sylar watched, distant but wary.
Somehow he found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t remember this.
X
Everything was dark and twisted, grainy with bad reception, wavering between shades of greys and browns. Sylar blinked, and then again, but he felt so heavy, on the edge of awareness, and although the world around him lightened up somewhat with each attempt, it just didn’t seem worth the effort. Eventually he just closed his eyes and watched as the world shifted and turned around him.
When he opened them again he found himself standing, face to face, with the painter. He was freezing, halfway numb, and there was an odd silence around him even though he knew there should be noise.
There were people wandering around them, some faceless, some that he recognized from days ago, months ago, so many years ago. They towered above him; their bodies bent in an unnatural fashion so they could were staring down, judging him, thinking they were better than him.
He felt the same anonymous rage he always used to feel, that same helplessness that was so strong and yet so uncontrollable. He flailed and raged in frustration that seemed to bubble and erupt in streams all around him, watched as so many tiny streams of blood trickled around Isaac, dribbling down his hair and past his sightless eyes.
There was a tiny, childish hand on his arm and he turned towards it, finding himself in Mohinder’s apartment but unable to locate the hand’s owner. A child? Here?
Mohinder was lying on his bed, asleep, so he took the chance to wander around in the eerie silence.
He began to feel nauseous, needy, and opened up a closet to find two lizards and a cockroach comfortably curled around each other. He cocked his head in curiosity and stepped down on them, watching as they struggled under his foot. Automatically he felt better.
The map was set up with particular care against a blank wall, lined with gold and bronze detailing. He put his face close to the stars that marked each person’s location and found himself growing dizzy with the knowledge of how many tiny little people there were, spread so far apart and yet bunched so close together. The gold stars shifted slightly and he stumbled back, unfocused his eyes, and let the image clear. The map buzzed faintly in a hazy lingo before it snapped together with perfect clarity revealing the unmistakable outline of his face.
It was him- the message between all those people, the common denominator, the connector.
He smiled.
There was screaming coming from a distance; it wavered in and out of his auditory range. At first it was so clear, so clear, and then it became barely audible. He reached for an ear and then caught sight of his hand, frozen solid. Why was he so cold?
He wondered about the screaming and found himself at Mohinder’s bedside, looming over the bed and analyzing the screams emitting from his torn, red, bruised throat.
Mohinder sat up, still screaming, and Sylar sat beside him, leaned up against the headboard and contemplated.
“This is all your fault.” Sylar looked away from him and out the window, seeing all the people from the street staring at him, at them, the screams fading in and out of the background noise. They were all wrong, their eyes not centred, their skin painted a greenish tinge, their limbs sprawling or absent or multiplied. He shuddered in disgust, or was it cold?
He looked over to Mohinder, felt for his arm and found it burning. He pulled himself closer, tugged Mohinder towards and against him and shut his mouth with an annoyed hand.
“Stop it,” He mumbled, to no affect.
Growing annoyed he started to shake him, revelling in the feeling of warmth returning to his limbs. Still, Mohinder screamed, the sounds shuddered from deafening to noiseless as Sylar cringed and shook him harder.
“Shut up Shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP!”
Finally, when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the dissonant noise stopped and Mohinder collapsed, lifeless, off the side of the bed. But when he looked over to see him, the broken faces of so many people peering over his shoulder, all he could see was darkness. The cold returned to his limbs with inevitable slowness.
“I know you. I know you better than anyone, and I will destroy you.” The voice was a whisper and it didn’t matter where he turned, it was everywhere. Beside him, around him, inside him. The twisted faces of so many disgusting replicas of people were mouthing the words, but he could only hear the one voice.
“Mo... Mohinder?”
“How do you like it?”
And then he was screaming himself- in pain and confusion and utter betrayal. He could feel the jagged edge of a cut forcing its way through his skull, separating him in two.
“WHY,” He screamed, again and again as a sudden shock of heat seeped from the cut and radiated down his body.
Mohinder finally appeared to him, sitting peaceably in front of him, completely detached as Sylar’s hands reached out for his body, for his cold.
Finally, Mohinder shrugged and made eye contact. A bitter chill shuddered through him, interrupting his screams.
“Why not?”
On to Part 3
Author: puckkit
Rating: PG
Pairing/Character: Mohinder/Sylar
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the show Heroes, therefore all of this is false and made up from my charmingly eccentric imagination.
Author's Notes: More thanks to mneiai for her constant help. This is an AU and a multi-parter, spoilers for the first season. After about a million rewrites and edits and all that jazz, here's part two! Hope you enjoy. Cut-text lyrics from Running Up That Hill (technically by Kate Bush, but I was listening to the Placebo version).
First Part
He could barely see through his eyelashes and partially closed lids, a dense fog covering vague shapes that, the more he stared and concentrated, slowly filed themselves away as a person in the distance and a chair right in front of him.
The person (Mohinder?) was buzzing around, his fuzzy form going about some sort of task fairly quickly, though he could feel no rush in the air around them. Even as he started to feel normal emotions again they came back to him in single file, drained down to the point where they were barely recognizable, mere outlines of true emotions.
He was... what was he? Scared, but not to the point of being terrified. Curious, but not curious enough to move or even open his eyes further. Everything was numbed down and all he could do was blink and breathe. And wait for Mohinder to come back to him.
He wasn’t used to waiting for someone else. But for some reason, the idea wasn’t as distasteful as he felt that it should be. It was strange- knowing that you should feel something other than what you felt.
The grainy form blurred its way over to him, settling in the chair before his eyes. A voice filtered into his ears from a distance... why was it all so remote and separate? Everything was fuzzy and soft, covered in a layer of cotton. His sight, his hearing, everything he could feel and sense and perceive. He tried to think himself away, to push Mohinder from his field of view, but nothing moved. It was... strange, but he couldn’t quite remember why it would be anything but normal.
“You’re conscious. That’s good. Though you don’t listen particularly well either way. I’ve thought about this so much, but now that you’re here, looking at me like that...” Mohinder hesitated, unsure how far to go. How much would Sylar remember?
“Never mind. Just close your eyes; you won’t remember any of this later anyway.”
Sylar frowned minutely.
“Why are you doing this?” He murmured, confused and almost scared. Not quite, but almost.
“You’re pathetic. You’re everything I will never be and I can’t stand you.” Mohinder looked down and away, biting his lip slightly. He lowered his voice a fraction. “You make me hate myself.” He took the needle that Sylar hadn’t noticed and inserted it into his arm while Sylar watched, distant but wary.
Somehow he found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t remember this.
X
Everything was dark and twisted, grainy with bad reception, wavering between shades of greys and browns. Sylar blinked, and then again, but he felt so heavy, on the edge of awareness, and although the world around him lightened up somewhat with each attempt, it just didn’t seem worth the effort. Eventually he just closed his eyes and watched as the world shifted and turned around him.
When he opened them again he found himself standing, face to face, with the painter. He was freezing, halfway numb, and there was an odd silence around him even though he knew there should be noise.
There were people wandering around them, some faceless, some that he recognized from days ago, months ago, so many years ago. They towered above him; their bodies bent in an unnatural fashion so they could were staring down, judging him, thinking they were better than him.
He felt the same anonymous rage he always used to feel, that same helplessness that was so strong and yet so uncontrollable. He flailed and raged in frustration that seemed to bubble and erupt in streams all around him, watched as so many tiny streams of blood trickled around Isaac, dribbling down his hair and past his sightless eyes.
There was a tiny, childish hand on his arm and he turned towards it, finding himself in Mohinder’s apartment but unable to locate the hand’s owner. A child? Here?
Mohinder was lying on his bed, asleep, so he took the chance to wander around in the eerie silence.
He began to feel nauseous, needy, and opened up a closet to find two lizards and a cockroach comfortably curled around each other. He cocked his head in curiosity and stepped down on them, watching as they struggled under his foot. Automatically he felt better.
The map was set up with particular care against a blank wall, lined with gold and bronze detailing. He put his face close to the stars that marked each person’s location and found himself growing dizzy with the knowledge of how many tiny little people there were, spread so far apart and yet bunched so close together. The gold stars shifted slightly and he stumbled back, unfocused his eyes, and let the image clear. The map buzzed faintly in a hazy lingo before it snapped together with perfect clarity revealing the unmistakable outline of his face.
It was him- the message between all those people, the common denominator, the connector.
He smiled.
There was screaming coming from a distance; it wavered in and out of his auditory range. At first it was so clear, so clear, and then it became barely audible. He reached for an ear and then caught sight of his hand, frozen solid. Why was he so cold?
He wondered about the screaming and found himself at Mohinder’s bedside, looming over the bed and analyzing the screams emitting from his torn, red, bruised throat.
Mohinder sat up, still screaming, and Sylar sat beside him, leaned up against the headboard and contemplated.
“This is all your fault.” Sylar looked away from him and out the window, seeing all the people from the street staring at him, at them, the screams fading in and out of the background noise. They were all wrong, their eyes not centred, their skin painted a greenish tinge, their limbs sprawling or absent or multiplied. He shuddered in disgust, or was it cold?
He looked over to Mohinder, felt for his arm and found it burning. He pulled himself closer, tugged Mohinder towards and against him and shut his mouth with an annoyed hand.
“Stop it,” He mumbled, to no affect.
Growing annoyed he started to shake him, revelling in the feeling of warmth returning to his limbs. Still, Mohinder screamed, the sounds shuddered from deafening to noiseless as Sylar cringed and shook him harder.
“Shut up Shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP!”
Finally, when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the dissonant noise stopped and Mohinder collapsed, lifeless, off the side of the bed. But when he looked over to see him, the broken faces of so many people peering over his shoulder, all he could see was darkness. The cold returned to his limbs with inevitable slowness.
“I know you. I know you better than anyone, and I will destroy you.” The voice was a whisper and it didn’t matter where he turned, it was everywhere. Beside him, around him, inside him. The twisted faces of so many disgusting replicas of people were mouthing the words, but he could only hear the one voice.
“Mo... Mohinder?”
“How do you like it?”
And then he was screaming himself- in pain and confusion and utter betrayal. He could feel the jagged edge of a cut forcing its way through his skull, separating him in two.
“WHY,” He screamed, again and again as a sudden shock of heat seeped from the cut and radiated down his body.
Mohinder finally appeared to him, sitting peaceably in front of him, completely detached as Sylar’s hands reached out for his body, for his cold.
Finally, Mohinder shrugged and made eye contact. A bitter chill shuddered through him, interrupting his screams.
“Why not?”
On to Part 3