Fic: Distractions
Title: Distractions
Author:
squills
Rating: NC-17
Words: about 2600
Warnings: Sex, and Mohinder...um...working out his anger.
Spoilers: Through 1.16, Unexpected
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
Notes: After the last little fic I posted, people kept asking about Mohinder in the shower. I wrote a little bit about it, and after encouragement from
aelora, I kept on writing. This probably isn't what you were hoping to see, but maybe you won't be disappointed.
Summary: He’s not sure which of them actually starts the kiss, when it finally comes. He just knows it’s soft and fragile and not what he’d imagined it would be but so very right.
Mohinder stands under the shower, head tilted back. The light is already dim but his eyes are shut tight, the better to focus on what he feels.
Something whispers that this is wrong and he shouldn't be letting it happen. That the relationship he's built up with this shy, curious man is almost like-like a teacher, a mentor, and that seducing him is taking advantage of that, betraying his trust. But as Zane's hands slide around him from behind and travel slowly down his slick stomach to cup around his groin, he realizes he's the one being seduced.
He stops thinking rationally when Zane slides those hands back up his body-no, no, why did you stop?-and presses into him. No, grinds into him. The force of it throws him off-balance and he braces his hands against the tiled wall, to keep from being pushed into it.
Zane bites the crook of his neck, hard, nothing shy or hesitant about him now, and it's driving Mohinder crazy. Zane's cock feels so hard, and it feels huge too, and it's all he can do to keep from begging, now, God, now, please. He wants so many things, and he wants them all now, and knowing that he's about to get them is delicious. Lips press against his cheek, followed by stubble, and he feels the man holding him smile.
"Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?"
Mohinder's eyes fly open. He knows that voice well-he heard it on a tape found in his father's apartment, has heard it in nightmares since. But now, for some reason, there's something else tantalizingly familiar about it.
He knows he's trapped but he tries to struggle anyway. A hand closes around his throat so tightly he can't breathe. Sylar chuckles in his ear. "It's a shame that in the end, I'm going to have to kill you." Fingernails dig into his skin. And then-
Mohinder wakes up when his knuckles slam into the wall above his head. For a moment he keeps panicking, eyes darting around the strange motel room that he can barely make out in the early morning light, trying to remember how he got here-finally he does. He tells himself to calm down-it was only a dream, it was only a dream-but every second of it felt so fucking real. He's still hard, a fact he tries to ignore.
He rubs his hands across his face and takes a slow, deep breath. Desperately tries to focus on something else, to push away the thought of Sylar as quickly as possible before he thinks about it too much. He's got to stay collected and professional this morning if he's going to get through to this woman, to find a way to save and protect her, and Zane, and all the rest of them.
Zane. God, no. What if-
Alarm floods him, and he can't pull clothes on fast enough. If Sylar is somehow tracking them, if he got to him during the night-that dream was so real, he can't help feeling that there's more behind it than simple childish fears.
As he heads outside, he wonders what's still nagging him about the sound of Sylar's voice.
* * * * * * *
Sylar barely remembers the trip back from the garage, though he assumes he made it safely and without attracting attention, because he's here, intact, huddled in the middle of a bed. Maybe he's gotten a little complacent. Everything he'd taken before had been so easy to assimilate and play with. This, though-Dale wasn't exaggerating when she talked about the pain.
He's starting to get a handle on it, but it's stretched his endurance far more than he'd expected. He could easily focus in on one thing, he knows this-it’s blocking out everything else that's the challenge. Just when he thinks he's adjusting, something unexpected will boom through his skull and set him shaking, and he doesn't have much time before he has to start playing the wide-eyed innocent again. Though frankly, right at this moment, he's not sure he's going to make it till morning.
He realizes he's been crying but can't even summon enough energy to be disgusted with himself.
Maybe if he could focus on just one thing, it would help him with the blocking, give him enough time to collect himself and find the solution. He reaches out for something to help, for-
Mohinder.
He clings desperately to the sound of Mohinder's soft, even breathing in the room next door. He slows his own to match, until they almost blend together, until nothing else can reach him, and finally starts to relax. Mohinder makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. For a second, Sylar wonders what he's dreaming of. Then Mohinder rolls over, and the creaking of cheap bedsprings explodes in Sylar's head again.
He gags and shoves his face into the pillow.
Once he's fought his way back up through the pain, the first thing he hears is the thrumming of Mohinder's heart. He lets it fill his head like a mantra and ticks each beat off-regular, comforting, essential, like clockwork. Somewhere around beat #700, he loses track of the count and drifts off to sleep.
When he jerks awake, it's much later-weak sunlight is streaming around the curtain edges-and Mohinder's heart is pounding in his ears. He’s not sure why. He hears Mohinder draw a slow, ragged breath with a strangely muffled quality-hands over his face, Sylar realizes. Probably a nightmare.
He winces as a car door is slammed somewhere down the street, but it reassures him-he's adapting; that was almost bearable. From next door, he hears the rustle of cloth, then footsteps, heading his way. Shit. Yesterday he would have welcomed an early morning visit, another chance to wind the pretty geneticist just a little bit further around his finger, but right now he's too sunk in misery to care. He forces himself to actually walk to the door, even though his own footsteps rattle in his ears. As he reaches for the doorknob, he realizes he’s only wearing boxers, but he can’t tolerate the knocking long enough to slide into jeans.
Mohinder pushes in and practically slams the door behind him, and flips the lock hard, not noticing the reaction that provokes.
“Sorry to wake you. It's just-I was afr-I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Sylar winces again, and wonders what the hell brought this urgent concern on. The man's in a sleeveless undershirt and is barefoot, despite the frozen slush piled up outside. “Yeah, I'm fine.”
Mohinder starts to say something else but then seems to really see him, and frowns. Sylar tenses automatically. “You don't look fine. At all.” Mohinder steps nearer and touches his forehead. It startles him, but it’s strangely comforting. He lowers his eyes and enjoys the feeling, more than he wants to.
"Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"
Sylar shrugs carefully. “I just didn’t sleep well. Too many things on my mind, I think.” He tries not to think about close Mohinder is to him. “Was your night any better?”
Mohinder’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t remove them. Doesn’t say anything.
Sylar glances up. Mohinder's staring at him, too intently, his eyes wide and dark. He lowers his hand so slowly, so close to Sylar’s cheek. He leans forward, just a bit, and Sylar holds his breath. Then Mohinder shuts himself down and steps back.
"I'm terribly sorry. I’ve been a bit preoccupied, and obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. I, I shouldn't have bothered you this early in the morning." He lets his dark eyes drop, and even in his distracted state, Sylar can tell they linger over his body. "Come get me when you're ready for breakfast." Mohinder glances up, gives him a nervous half-smile and leaves, too quickly.
Sylar shuts the door behind him as softly as possible and pauses. If he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against it, he can almost imagine Mohinder’s hand is still lying there.
* * * * * * *
That night, Mohinder wants to stop driving early. The shock and horror of finding Dale’s body has worn off, but it’s been replaced with a sense of despair. How can he possibly fight someone who can do things he can’t even conceive of? How in hell can he find any kind of advantage over Sylar, any way to get the upper hand with him? He makes sure Zane is securely inside before going into his own room.
Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?
At least this motel, right off the interstate, has internet access. He flips open his laptop. He needs to distract himself, to try to calm down. But after he pulls up a browser window, he sits for a while before he starts typing. And he lets himself think a few unpleasant thoughts about Zane that he desperately doesn’t want to consider.
* * * * * * *
That night, when Mohinder wants to stop driving early, Sylar doesn’t protest. He’s worn out, mostly from trying to find the right things to say to calm the other man and keep his thoughts headed in the direction that Sylar wants them to go. It had taken more time than he’d expected to convince Mohinder that it wouldn’t be a good idea to call the local police himself, with his distinctive accent that the hotel clerk and gas station attendants would be able to identify. Of course, after Sylar had typed 9-1-1 on the cell phone, he’d neglected to push the ‘call’ button before babbling into dead air about Dale’s body.
What Mohinder doesn’t know, won’t hurt him. Right?
He lies dully on the bed, nursing his persistent headache. He tries to amuse himself, shifting focus to the different buildings around them, but he keeps coming back to Mohinder, who’s softly clicking keys on his computer.
He tries to ignore the fact that he’s not enjoying lying to Mohinder any more.
The next time he can’t stop himself from listening in, Mohinder’s not typing. He’s not moving at all, in fact, but his heart is pounding, hard, and there’s an odd sound to it that’s perplexing.
Sylar comes a little more alert, wonders what’s upset him, wonders what he can do to fix it. He starts to sift through plausible reasons for paying a visit next door, when he realizes he doesn’t need to find one.
There’s a knock at his door.
It’s not locked-why would he need to worry about a lock?-and he calls out, “Come in,” without getting up from the bed.
There’s something guarded in Mohinder’s bearing that he doesn’t like, but he’s clueless as to what or why. Sylar wishes again that he’d managed to come across a telepath. Out loud, he says, “What’s up?”
Mohinder smiles crookedly down at him. “Nothing,” he says. “I just thought…I ought to keep an eye on you.”
Sylar smiles back. “Are you that worried about me?”
“Yes.” Mohinder says it flatly. There’s only one chair in this room, and it’s occupied by a suitcase with tomorrow’s t-shirt already laid out neatly on top. Mohinder sits stiffly at the foot of the bed.
“After what happened to Dale today…I’d just feel a lot better if you weren’t left alone.”
Sylar sits up, looks down at his hands in his lap, then into the other man’s gaze. “I feel better with you here,” he says, and he thinks it might be the first completely honest statement he’s made to Mohinder.
* * * * * * *
He’s not sure which of them actually starts the kiss, when it finally comes. He just knows it’s soft and fragile and not what he’d imagined it would be but so very right.
* * * * * * *
Sylar wants to touch Mohinder, but he’s afraid that if he moves, it will somehow break the spell.
Finally he remembers he has to breathe and pulls his mouth away, gasping.
Mohinder just looks at him, and he can’t stand the silence that stretches out.
“I’ve never done this…not with a man…” It’s the kind of thing Zane might say, but it’s not Zane who’s babbling nervously right now.
I’ve never had the nerve to ask…
He realizes he’s admitted that out loud and turns his face away, flushing. He’s utterly lost, a feeling he thought he’d never have to deal with again.
Mohinder cups a hand under his chin, pulls him back, kisses him again with a gentle tongue. After a few seconds Sylar dares to open his eyes and realizes there are tears in the corners of Mohinder’s. He shakily touches the darker man’s neck.
Suddenly Mohinder shoves him backwards, down onto the bed. He’s too shocked to react as Mohinder straddles his thigh, gives him a look that could almost be fury, then rakes hands up underneath his shirt, presses up against his body. Just before he bites Sylar’s bottom lip, he growls, “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”
* * * * * * *
Mohinder’s fucking him, hard, and it hurts him, but then everything pleasurable does eventually.
Mohinder’s almost brutal, but it feels so goddamned good. He’s imagined what Mohinder's body would feel like many times over the last few days, but never anything quite like this-he had no idea Mohinder had this in him, never would have dared to hope for it. Mohinder’s hands are pulling his hips back in rhythm with his thrusts, and he can hear Mohinder’s heavy breathing above him, and he’s to the point where all he can do is beg incoherently, God, please.
He’d give anything to make this last forever.
Mohinder suddenly slides a hand onto his erection. He doesn’t actually do anything, just lets the momentum that they already have create friction against his fingers. It’s enough. Sylar shivers and moans into the mattress.
“No,” Mohinder hisses. “I want to hear you.”
Sylar manages to obey and turn his head to the side, and then Mohinder tightens that hand around his cock, and Sylar gasps and then he screams. When he can think coherently again, he thinks that nothing else in this life could possibly feel as good as that did.
When Mohinder comes inside him, he realizes he was wrong.
After, Mohinder lies beside him, staring up at the ceiling, one arm above his head. Sylar feels a twinge of worry-and he admits that sooner or later, Mohinder will figure things out, and he’ll have to deal with the fallout. He’ll find a way to fix things, though. Mohinder can understand, will understand-he’ll have to.
Sylar reaches up a tired hand to brush sweaty curls back from dark skin, and Mohinder closes his eyes. He wonders if he’s ever seen anything as beautiful.
Mohinder, and the list. They’re all he needs.
As he drifts peacefully off to sleep, he wonders if he’s spent his whole miserable life waiting for them without knowing it.
* * * * * * *
Sylar stirs once, as Mohinder lies there awake, planning-he feels safe doing that now, the man can’t possibly be able to read minds, if he didn’t react to what Mohinder was thinking while he fucked him. Still, when Sylar abruptly rolls over to face him, he has to choke down fright.
Barely visible in the darkness, Sylar smiles at him. “I thought I must have been dreaming,” he says sleepily, caressing Mohinder’s cheek. “Will you still be here with me in the morning? Promise?”
Surprised, Mohinder slides an arm around him, and presses lips to Sylar’s neck. He reminds himself he’s only doing this to keep Sylar distracted, unsuspicious, under control, happy. For a second, he feels something like regret, but he stamps it out resolutely.
“Believe me,” he whispers. “I’m going to take care of you. I can promise you that.”