A Lesson In Breathing
I have the headache to end all headaches right now. If this isn't complete crap, a miracle will have occurred. Screw you, vodka and water.
Title: A Lesson In Breathing
Author: puckkit
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
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: For the mylar_fic ficathon where I was writing with the prompt The Power To Give Powers To Others for aheartfulofyou. Yes, it is insanely late. My bad! Rating is only for imagery, and it's more implied slash than anything else.
He is lying on the floor. He is lying on the floor and counting his ribs, one by one, by the pressure gravity places upon them. His chin is tilted at an odd angle as he watches the corner, cheek pressed against the cold floor. So cold. Hard and flat and cold.
Mohinder is screaming in his field of vision, whites of his eyes matching his teeth, points of white in this grey room. Screaming and screaming, bare gasps of breath punctuating the loud noises, shaking fingers clutching his hair, rubbing and pulling dark strands.
Mohinder's staring at him as if he could do something. As if he's expecting something. Maybe if he could get up. Maybe if he could make his body rise off of the floor. Maybe if...
But he can't. His ribs push harder against the ground on every exhale, offer relief from the pressure on every inhale. He counts his breaths, his heartbeat pounding in his ears slow and steady. One, two, three... But Mohinder's so distracting, so lost in his agony, in his helplessness, and he can't help but relish it admist his apathy. But how long must he wait?
How long until Mohinder stops screaming and makes use of his new gifts?
He idly wonders how he managed to miscalculate so badly. It was that black haired, brown eyed, mousy girl with her chubby cheeks, confined to her bed, lying so still. Who would've expected it? She had stared so blankly, like a life stalled and unable to restart. Her helplessness had been irresistible.
It all adds up now, though, and he considers the facts carefully as they fall into place. Everything is running a little slower in his mind, thoughts weaving their way through clouds of fog, layers and mazes of cotton. He counts his breaths, his heartbeats, Mohinder's tears, and it focuses him. Counts the scratches on Mohinder's face, his arms and wrists, self inflicted, and feels the emotion slowly seep back in.
Of course Mohinder can't find control. No one can do control like him. Those gifts are his. He breathes out and tries to hold it, tries to resist the inhale, but it is impossible. The cold seeps into his cheek, presses like a steel knife against his temple. He inhales.
He hadn't known about her power. Just that she had one. She could give powers to others. But something had gone wrong, somehow, somewhere. And Mohinder, chasing him in order to warn her and her parents, fool that he is, had become blessed like he himself used to be, while all he could do was lie on the floor and wait for someone to pick him up.
Someone to move him.
And of course they did. The girls parents came in, found Mohinder and himself in positions much like they're in now, and called the appropriate people. Or rather, called the police, and eventually they got sorted through to the appropriate people. He bets that they're watching now, behind that cowardly glass like scared little children.
He'll kill them slowly.
He'll kill them and use their ocular bones as picks when he dissects the brains of all the others captured here. He knows they're here, even if he can't hear them, even if all he can do is breathe and count and wait.
When he can move again, though, they won't live to remember him helpless.
If only he could move.
If only Mohinder would stop screaming and use his powers, use the powers that belong to him and get them out of here. The gifts. The gifts that were his. That are his.
And yet, he doesn't chafe. He floats and stares, he waits and counts in the cold. He is lying on the floor, with ribs and arms askew. He is counting and counting while Mohinder screams. He is waiting.
He is waiting.
Title: A Lesson In Breathing
Author: puckkit
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
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: For the mylar_fic ficathon where I was writing with the prompt The Power To Give Powers To Others for aheartfulofyou. Yes, it is insanely late. My bad! Rating is only for imagery, and it's more implied slash than anything else.
He is lying on the floor. He is lying on the floor and counting his ribs, one by one, by the pressure gravity places upon them. His chin is tilted at an odd angle as he watches the corner, cheek pressed against the cold floor. So cold. Hard and flat and cold.
Mohinder is screaming in his field of vision, whites of his eyes matching his teeth, points of white in this grey room. Screaming and screaming, bare gasps of breath punctuating the loud noises, shaking fingers clutching his hair, rubbing and pulling dark strands.
Mohinder's staring at him as if he could do something. As if he's expecting something. Maybe if he could get up. Maybe if he could make his body rise off of the floor. Maybe if...
But he can't. His ribs push harder against the ground on every exhale, offer relief from the pressure on every inhale. He counts his breaths, his heartbeat pounding in his ears slow and steady. One, two, three... But Mohinder's so distracting, so lost in his agony, in his helplessness, and he can't help but relish it admist his apathy. But how long must he wait?
How long until Mohinder stops screaming and makes use of his new gifts?
He idly wonders how he managed to miscalculate so badly. It was that black haired, brown eyed, mousy girl with her chubby cheeks, confined to her bed, lying so still. Who would've expected it? She had stared so blankly, like a life stalled and unable to restart. Her helplessness had been irresistible.
It all adds up now, though, and he considers the facts carefully as they fall into place. Everything is running a little slower in his mind, thoughts weaving their way through clouds of fog, layers and mazes of cotton. He counts his breaths, his heartbeats, Mohinder's tears, and it focuses him. Counts the scratches on Mohinder's face, his arms and wrists, self inflicted, and feels the emotion slowly seep back in.
Of course Mohinder can't find control. No one can do control like him. Those gifts are his. He breathes out and tries to hold it, tries to resist the inhale, but it is impossible. The cold seeps into his cheek, presses like a steel knife against his temple. He inhales.
He hadn't known about her power. Just that she had one. She could give powers to others. But something had gone wrong, somehow, somewhere. And Mohinder, chasing him in order to warn her and her parents, fool that he is, had become blessed like he himself used to be, while all he could do was lie on the floor and wait for someone to pick him up.
Someone to move him.
And of course they did. The girls parents came in, found Mohinder and himself in positions much like they're in now, and called the appropriate people. Or rather, called the police, and eventually they got sorted through to the appropriate people. He bets that they're watching now, behind that cowardly glass like scared little children.
He'll kill them slowly.
He'll kill them and use their ocular bones as picks when he dissects the brains of all the others captured here. He knows they're here, even if he can't hear them, even if all he can do is breathe and count and wait.
When he can move again, though, they won't live to remember him helpless.
If only he could move.
If only Mohinder would stop screaming and use his powers, use the powers that belong to him and get them out of here. The gifts. The gifts that were his. That are his.
And yet, he doesn't chafe. He floats and stares, he waits and counts in the cold. He is lying on the floor, with ribs and arms askew. He is counting and counting while Mohinder screams. He is waiting.
He is waiting.