Fic: The First Time (a sequel, of sorts, to Decisions)
Title: The First Time
Rating: R
Characters: Sylar/Mohinder
Words: 3500
Warnings: Sex (including a bit of dub-con). Mild violence. Eventual sappiness.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
A/N: Last month I posted a fic called Decisions, where an older Mohinder (with Peter's assistance) went back to visit Gabriel at his shop. This fic fills in some of the history between "Powerless" and that fic.
The first time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked, it was all Mohinder. He’d been full of venom and fury. Three days he’d spent alone with the man, talking to him, listening to his jokes, letting himself hope. Three days of taking in those shy looks, the way he had of tilting his head that almost made it seem as if he was staring up at Mohinder, despite the fact that he towered over him. And then, to find out who he really was...
He’d been as brutal as he was capable of being. If he’d had any idea how much Sylar would enjoy it, how much he would enjoy it, he never would have done it.
* * * * * * *
The second time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was on the cot in Mohinder’s lab. Mohinder had known that the killer would show up again sooner or later, and had fully expected to die. He’d fought back as best he could, but when faced with someone who could use telekinesis to hold him down while tying his hands above his head, it wasn’t much of a struggle.
Sylar had paused in the middle of his first thrust to grab Mohinder’s chin and force Mohinder to look into his eyes. “I just wanted to properly thank you for giving me my abilities back, Dr. Suresh,” he’d said. “Considering that the last time we were alone, you seemed to enjoy the bondage and penetration, I thought this might be an appropriate way.” Mohinder had arched upwards as he groaned, but that hand held his chin firm and would not let him turn away.
It had hurt. But the worst part was that after Sylar finished, he’d simply zipped himself up, patted Mohinder on the cheek, and left him lying there with an almost painful erection. It took Mohinder ten minutes to slowly work apart the knots in his bonds with his teeth. During that time, he actually hoped that no one at the main office would notice the lack of a video feed from the now-melted security cameras. He had no idea if he could come up with a believable lie to cover what had happened, but the last thing he needed was for someone to burst in and see him like this.
But when he went into the bathroom to wash afterwards, he wound up finishing himself off. What he thought about as his hand moved up and down was the look on Sylar’s face when he came.
It was exactly the same as he’d looked when he was pretending to be Zane, crying out beneath Mohinder in a motel room.
* * * * * * *
The third time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was almost five years later. There was a firestarter who’d been responsible for 17 deaths that Mohinder knew of. He’d been sent with Bennet, who was still indentured to the Company, and two others to bring her in. He wasn’t really paying attention; he was too busy grousing to himself about his decision to stay with the Company, about the imperious manner that Nathan adopted when issuing orders, about how he seemed fated to cross paths again and again with the same damn people for the rest of his life. He should have been thinking about the fact that flames weren’t the only weapon she could use against them, though he still wouldn’t have had time to react when the gunshot rang out.
One second he was leaning against a tree. The next, he was on the ground, everything distant and distorted, a warm wet feeling on the side of his neck.
“Keep still,” he heard. “If you move too much, I might lose hold of the edges of the artery.”
He struggled to take a breath and a hand gripped his chin firmly yet gently. “I’m serious, Mohinder. Don’t move.”
He tried to respond but the world faded away. When he woke up again, he was in a hospital bed with an I.V. of blood hooked up to his arm and Peter, the donor, leaning over him with worried eyes.
“He sat there with you until I got there and stunned him into submission,” Peter said. “Why would he do that? He had to have known that I could save you.”
Mohinder sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I have no idea,” he said slowly. He tried not to think. “But I’m walking around with half the Company’s research in my mind. He might have panicked at the thought of losing potential access to all that information.” He looked up at Peter. “How did he happen to be right there?”
Peter shrugged. “Looks like he was probably on her trail after all those fires she’d set, too. It was just dumb luck that he showed up at the same time.”
“Or fate,” Mohinder said, and then he laughed shakily.
Peter looked at him concernedly but only said, “Don’t worry. I intend to sweat some answers out of him.”
Mohinder bit his tongue and tried to clear his mind.
They’d insisted that he take some time off. He might be physically whole again, but they were worried about the psychological effects of knowing that one’s carotid artery had been split open by a bullet. When he came back four days later, he stayed in his office until lunchtime and then slipped down to the experimentation area.
Mohinder found him in the third room on the left. He exchanged a few words with the lone attendant, looked over the chart to make sure that nothing was planned for the next few hours, then walked to his bedside. Sylar was heavily restrained and hooked up to an I.V. that Mohinder was certain was not just saline. His eyes were dull with drugs and whatever had been done to him, but Mohinder thought that they asked him a furious question: This is how you repay me for trying to save your life?
“His hand looks like it may be getting infected around the needle,” Mohinder said, turning to look at the attendant. “He’s of no use to us if he ends up with sepsis. Get some antiseptic.”
As the man left the room, Mohinder pulled the I.V. from the back of Sylar’s hand, then bent as low as possible over the crook of his arm and slid the needle against it, taking care not to actually puncture the skin. Then he taped it down securely with a thick cotton bandage covering it. When the nurse returned, he got up to leave, but turned in the doorway to throw a last venomous look for the benefit of the cameras. Sylar was staring after him, face pale, eyes just as fierce.
It was after 11 when his phone rang that night: Bennet, warning him that Sylar had escaped.
“I left instructions for the nurse to clean and dress the original puncture site,” Mohinder said. “Perhaps the I.V. was pulled loose during that.”
“It doesn’t matter how it happened. What matters is that we get you to a secure location.”
Mohinder laughed. “No offense, Mr. Bennet, but if your people couldn’t keep him in, I sincerely doubt that they could keep him out, either. I haven’t spent my life in this country cowering in fear, and I don’t intend to start now.”
There was a long silence. “And you’ll do whatever you’ve decided is best, just like always. All right. But contact me immediately if anything out of the ordinary happens.”
Mohinder tossed the phone onto the nightstand. He shivered and closed his eyes as a stubbled cheek brushed lightly against his neck.
“It took him six hours to call you. You must not be as important to them as you think.”
Mohinder ignored that. “They’ll send people to watch over me.”
“I know. I can take care of them. And Bennet and Petrelli, as well.”
Mohinder rolled over to face him. “No.”
Sylar was incredulous. “Peter let you die, Mohinder, he let you bleed out, so that he could keep on with his vendetta against me-”
“Peter did what he thought was right,” Mohinder interrupted. “Peter saw you as a threat against me, against everyone, and he did what he believed was necessary to stop it, not because of some imaginary competition with you. When are you going to get it through your skull that you are not some innocent victim of circumstance? That your own actions are what have caused everyone to hate and fear you? When are you going to take some damned responsibility for what happens to you?” He paused, then suddenly asked, “Why did you try to save me? You knew Peter could resurrect me if I died. You knew that you were exposing yourself to capture. So why did you do it?”
The anger building in Sylar’s face suddenly flipped to uncertainty. He pulled away. Mohinder grabbed him by the throat, not even attempting to be gentle, and jerked him back. He whispered, “Tell me. Honestly.”
Sylar’s eyes went wide and then softened, and he stroked fingers down Mohinder’s cheek and neck.
Mohinder’s nerve suddenly broke. He didn’t want to hear it. He leaned forward to kiss Sylar in a way that quickly became frantic. He managed to stop long enough to say, “This doesn’t change anything between us.”
Sylar chuckled. “True.”
“We’re even now.”
Sylar’s eyes were still gentle as he rolled onto his back and pulled Mohinder on top of him. “Yes. We’re even.”
* * * * * * *
The fourth time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was after Mohinder thought he must be somehow truly dead and gone. Months ticked by without any sign whatsoever of his continued existence, and turned into years. Mohinder’s life turned into something resembling normality, quiet and uneventful, even by Company standards. Through Nathan’s influence, he held an associate professorship at Columbia, and even though he knew Nathan had arranged it mainly to give the Company an “in” there, he did enjoy the time he spent on campus, in a sedate sort of way. It was the piece of his life that most closely resembled the one he’d given up in India, back when everything seemed so simple and straightforward and hopeful.
Sometimes, especially when he looked at the grey beginning to streak through his curls, he wondered how the time had passed so quickly. But increasingly he had moments, hunched over a report late at night or waking up alone in bed, where he felt like he was crawling emptily along.
Peter’s company cheered him but only to a point. After all, people who live forever don’t really experience midlife crises. Using that phrase made Mohinder laugh at himself - he really had turned into an American, hadn’t he? - but he couldn’t find a better one to describe what he must be feeling.
It hadn’t been too difficult for him to get a year’s sabbatical from the university. Getting the same from the Company had been much harder. He was sure from the pleading way Peter looked at him during his last meeting with the board that Peter, at least, knew he had no intention of ever coming back. He didn’t really care, though.
He’d visited Chennai occasionally over the years, but always hurriedly and with his attention focused on his mother. Now that he was back for good, he had time to think about the many differences between his memories and the world as it was now. Every new high-rise reminded him that life there had moved on without him. He got a small apartment in a quiet building not far from his childhood home. He could have afforded much more, but…what would be the point?
He cooked more than he had in years and started reading his way through the long list of books he’d noted but never had time to open before. He settled into a quiet routine: library, bookshop, family, home. Sometimes he thought about working on another manuscript of his own, but whenever he sat down to write, his attention drifted from genetics and calculation, and nothing was accomplished. He was honest enough with himself to admit that that’s really all he was doing: drifting. He knew he was looking for something to fill the emptiness that had snuck up on him. He’d thought maybe coming back would spark something in him. Instead, he’d just buried himself in a new routine.
One evening about three months after his return, he’d gone on one of his frequent evenings out: an hour people-watching in a local coffeehouse (he wasn’t crazy about the drink, but he liked the atmosphere of the place), followed by a quick stop to pick up a few things for the pantry and then an aimless stroll, taking in the sounds of the city as dusk settled over it. When he got back, he’d locked the door behind him and made it halfway into the living room before he realized someone had come in before him.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back.”
The thing that startled him the most was realizing that he wasn’t afraid any more. He walked slowly over to the end table and flicked on his reading lamp. Sylar sat in the chair next to it, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin in the May heat. He stared out the window as Mohinder asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Just paying a visit.” He turned to look up at Mohinder. “You left rather abruptly. I was out of town for a bit, and when I got back, there was a realtor showing your empty apartment. It took me a while to track you down, and then I got curious. At first I’d assumed you were on an assignment from your masters. But…what are you doing here, Mohinder?”
Mohinder mentally ran through a score of answers before surprising himself by being bluntly honest. “I don’t know, anymore.”
“Are you ever coming home?”
Mohinder laughed, at himself. He wasn’t even sure where home was at this point.
Sylar looked almost like he was in pain, and then he said quietly, “I miss you.”
“You miss me?” Mohinder echoed. “You haven’t even seen me in at least three years.”
“Yes, I have,” Sylar said. His eyes looked huge in the dim light. “You just haven’t seen me.” He touched Mohinder’s hand, and after a few seconds, Mohinder loosely curled his fingers around Sylar’s. Then Sylar slid forward to the edge of the chair and wrapped his arms around Mohinder, pulling him into a sort of hug, face pressed against Mohinder’s waist.
Startled, Mohinder grabbed his shoulders, feeling the muscles underneath his shirt. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he ran fingertips through Sylar’s hair and said, “What do you want from me?”
Sylar was silent for a very long time before finally asking, “How old are you now, Mohinder?”
“I’m…forty-two.” Funny; he’d lived through every one of those birthdays, but he hadn’t really counted them till now.
Sylar tilted his head back to look up at him. “Mohinder…we won’t live forever.”
Mohinder’s eyes widened as Sylar rose and stood close enough for Mohinder to smell his skin. “You’ve always been there. When you weren’t, when you just disappeared, I-” He took a deep breath. “You’re not doing anything here. You’re just existing. You should come back, Mohinder. Come back for me.” He reddened and his eyes flickered away.
Mohinder hadn’t realized that he could still be shocked by anything. He spluttered for a few seconds before managing to say, “Come back for you? After everything you’ve done, all the blood on your hands-” The hands that were touching him now, warm and gentle…
He backed away but Sylar caught his left forearm and raised it. “Care to explain this?”
Mohinder twisted his arm half-heartedly but the grip on it was firm. “You left it behind at my apartment. The last time I saw you.” When he’d helped Sylar escape from the custody of the Company, and then Sylar had spent the night in his bed. He hadn’t really been surprised to wake up alone the next morning, but his chest had still felt tight and heavy when he’d realized he was. When he’d finally gotten up and gone into the bathroom, he’d found the watch laying on the vanity, and...
“And you kept it and wore it why? Just because it was there?” Sylar pulled him close again and asked, “Why did you help me escape, Mohinder? You know how many people I’ve killed. You had no idea what I might have done once I was out. Why did you help me? Tell me. Honestly.”
Mohinder was caught by the expression on Sylar’s face. It reminded him of that first time they’d met. But then, there’d been a piece of Mohinder that had felt uneasy. Now...
Sylar let go of his arm. “Tell me, Mohinder,” he repeated. “Why did you help me? And does it have anything to do with the fact that you haven’t had a real relationship with anyone else in all the years I’ve known you?” But there was nothing malicious in the question. And as Mohinder realized what his answer would be, he also realized that Sylar knew it already. It saved him from having to say it aloud.
Sylar murmured, “Don’t you ever get tired of being alone? Don’t you want to try to be happy?”
Mohinder closed his eyes as Sylar’s lips met his and realized that was the right word. That was what he’d felt after he’d realized who was sitting in his living room, for just a second, before he’d told himself he shouldn't feel that. He’d been happy.
Sylar was watching him, visibly nervous. Mohinder leaned into his body and was rewarded with a longer kiss. There was so much trouble and pain here, but he could deal with that tomorrow. Tonight, he just wanted...he wanted Sylar, naked, next to him.
“People can see us,” he said.
Sylar glanced back over his shoulder at the wide-open window. “We could go into the bedroom.”
Mohinder smiled.
* * * * * * *
The fifth time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was really the sixth time.
Mohinder let himself into the hotel room quietly. They’d been here for a week, and until now he’d wordlessly ensured that they slept in separate beds. The room was dark, so he dropped his bag and coat inside the door and felt his way across the room.
Sylar lay on the bed closest to the window, staring at the moon. Mohinder sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at him in the pale light from outside.
“I take it your meeting with Peter went well.”
“Yes,” Mohinder said after hesitating a moment. “He’s agreed not to kill you, at least for now. I believe he expects the same courtesy in return.”
Sylar laughed and then smiled at him. Mohinder gazed back and realized it felt comfortable to sit here with him like this. Finally, though, he said, “Do you always go to bed fully dressed?”
Sylar glanced down quizzically at the t-shirt and boxers he was wearing. “I’d hardly call this fully dressed. And I don’t like to sleep naked.”
Mohinder leaned over him, placing one hand on the other side of Sylar’s hips to balance himself. “I do.”
Sylar sat up. “I wish I could read your mind.”
“Why?”
“To know exactly what you were doing out with Petrelli. I haven’t seen you in this sort of mood since-” Sylar cut himself off, but Mohinder knew exactly what he was going to say. He could admit that he hadn’t felt this carefree in a long time, not since that damned road trip that had set him irreversibly down this path.
“Tell me something,” Mohinder said. “The first time you met me, what did you think? And I know what you planned to do. I know full well you expected to use me like you used my father. But then, when you actually saw me, what did you think?”
Sylar looked pained again and avoided Mohinder’s eyes. Finally he said, “I knew I’d done things that would make it impossible for you to care about me. But when I saw you, I somehow knew - I just knew - that you could fix everything. That you were what I really wanted. But I thought I’d never get that, so I tried to ignore it. It sounds crazy, I know-”
“No,” Mohinder said with a sad smile. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”
Sylar’s mouth - when it pressed against his lips, when it brushed the hollow of his neck, when it slid down over his cock a few minutes later - it felt exactly like Gabriel’s had.
Rating: R
Characters: Sylar/Mohinder
Words: 3500
Warnings: Sex (including a bit of dub-con). Mild violence. Eventual sappiness.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
A/N: Last month I posted a fic called Decisions, where an older Mohinder (with Peter's assistance) went back to visit Gabriel at his shop. This fic fills in some of the history between "Powerless" and that fic.
The first time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked, it was all Mohinder. He’d been full of venom and fury. Three days he’d spent alone with the man, talking to him, listening to his jokes, letting himself hope. Three days of taking in those shy looks, the way he had of tilting his head that almost made it seem as if he was staring up at Mohinder, despite the fact that he towered over him. And then, to find out who he really was...
He’d been as brutal as he was capable of being. If he’d had any idea how much Sylar would enjoy it, how much he would enjoy it, he never would have done it.
* * * * * * *
The second time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was on the cot in Mohinder’s lab. Mohinder had known that the killer would show up again sooner or later, and had fully expected to die. He’d fought back as best he could, but when faced with someone who could use telekinesis to hold him down while tying his hands above his head, it wasn’t much of a struggle.
Sylar had paused in the middle of his first thrust to grab Mohinder’s chin and force Mohinder to look into his eyes. “I just wanted to properly thank you for giving me my abilities back, Dr. Suresh,” he’d said. “Considering that the last time we were alone, you seemed to enjoy the bondage and penetration, I thought this might be an appropriate way.” Mohinder had arched upwards as he groaned, but that hand held his chin firm and would not let him turn away.
It had hurt. But the worst part was that after Sylar finished, he’d simply zipped himself up, patted Mohinder on the cheek, and left him lying there with an almost painful erection. It took Mohinder ten minutes to slowly work apart the knots in his bonds with his teeth. During that time, he actually hoped that no one at the main office would notice the lack of a video feed from the now-melted security cameras. He had no idea if he could come up with a believable lie to cover what had happened, but the last thing he needed was for someone to burst in and see him like this.
But when he went into the bathroom to wash afterwards, he wound up finishing himself off. What he thought about as his hand moved up and down was the look on Sylar’s face when he came.
It was exactly the same as he’d looked when he was pretending to be Zane, crying out beneath Mohinder in a motel room.
* * * * * * *
The third time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was almost five years later. There was a firestarter who’d been responsible for 17 deaths that Mohinder knew of. He’d been sent with Bennet, who was still indentured to the Company, and two others to bring her in. He wasn’t really paying attention; he was too busy grousing to himself about his decision to stay with the Company, about the imperious manner that Nathan adopted when issuing orders, about how he seemed fated to cross paths again and again with the same damn people for the rest of his life. He should have been thinking about the fact that flames weren’t the only weapon she could use against them, though he still wouldn’t have had time to react when the gunshot rang out.
One second he was leaning against a tree. The next, he was on the ground, everything distant and distorted, a warm wet feeling on the side of his neck.
“Keep still,” he heard. “If you move too much, I might lose hold of the edges of the artery.”
He struggled to take a breath and a hand gripped his chin firmly yet gently. “I’m serious, Mohinder. Don’t move.”
He tried to respond but the world faded away. When he woke up again, he was in a hospital bed with an I.V. of blood hooked up to his arm and Peter, the donor, leaning over him with worried eyes.
“He sat there with you until I got there and stunned him into submission,” Peter said. “Why would he do that? He had to have known that I could save you.”
Mohinder sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I have no idea,” he said slowly. He tried not to think. “But I’m walking around with half the Company’s research in my mind. He might have panicked at the thought of losing potential access to all that information.” He looked up at Peter. “How did he happen to be right there?”
Peter shrugged. “Looks like he was probably on her trail after all those fires she’d set, too. It was just dumb luck that he showed up at the same time.”
“Or fate,” Mohinder said, and then he laughed shakily.
Peter looked at him concernedly but only said, “Don’t worry. I intend to sweat some answers out of him.”
Mohinder bit his tongue and tried to clear his mind.
They’d insisted that he take some time off. He might be physically whole again, but they were worried about the psychological effects of knowing that one’s carotid artery had been split open by a bullet. When he came back four days later, he stayed in his office until lunchtime and then slipped down to the experimentation area.
Mohinder found him in the third room on the left. He exchanged a few words with the lone attendant, looked over the chart to make sure that nothing was planned for the next few hours, then walked to his bedside. Sylar was heavily restrained and hooked up to an I.V. that Mohinder was certain was not just saline. His eyes were dull with drugs and whatever had been done to him, but Mohinder thought that they asked him a furious question: This is how you repay me for trying to save your life?
“His hand looks like it may be getting infected around the needle,” Mohinder said, turning to look at the attendant. “He’s of no use to us if he ends up with sepsis. Get some antiseptic.”
As the man left the room, Mohinder pulled the I.V. from the back of Sylar’s hand, then bent as low as possible over the crook of his arm and slid the needle against it, taking care not to actually puncture the skin. Then he taped it down securely with a thick cotton bandage covering it. When the nurse returned, he got up to leave, but turned in the doorway to throw a last venomous look for the benefit of the cameras. Sylar was staring after him, face pale, eyes just as fierce.
It was after 11 when his phone rang that night: Bennet, warning him that Sylar had escaped.
“I left instructions for the nurse to clean and dress the original puncture site,” Mohinder said. “Perhaps the I.V. was pulled loose during that.”
“It doesn’t matter how it happened. What matters is that we get you to a secure location.”
Mohinder laughed. “No offense, Mr. Bennet, but if your people couldn’t keep him in, I sincerely doubt that they could keep him out, either. I haven’t spent my life in this country cowering in fear, and I don’t intend to start now.”
There was a long silence. “And you’ll do whatever you’ve decided is best, just like always. All right. But contact me immediately if anything out of the ordinary happens.”
Mohinder tossed the phone onto the nightstand. He shivered and closed his eyes as a stubbled cheek brushed lightly against his neck.
“It took him six hours to call you. You must not be as important to them as you think.”
Mohinder ignored that. “They’ll send people to watch over me.”
“I know. I can take care of them. And Bennet and Petrelli, as well.”
Mohinder rolled over to face him. “No.”
Sylar was incredulous. “Peter let you die, Mohinder, he let you bleed out, so that he could keep on with his vendetta against me-”
“Peter did what he thought was right,” Mohinder interrupted. “Peter saw you as a threat against me, against everyone, and he did what he believed was necessary to stop it, not because of some imaginary competition with you. When are you going to get it through your skull that you are not some innocent victim of circumstance? That your own actions are what have caused everyone to hate and fear you? When are you going to take some damned responsibility for what happens to you?” He paused, then suddenly asked, “Why did you try to save me? You knew Peter could resurrect me if I died. You knew that you were exposing yourself to capture. So why did you do it?”
The anger building in Sylar’s face suddenly flipped to uncertainty. He pulled away. Mohinder grabbed him by the throat, not even attempting to be gentle, and jerked him back. He whispered, “Tell me. Honestly.”
Sylar’s eyes went wide and then softened, and he stroked fingers down Mohinder’s cheek and neck.
Mohinder’s nerve suddenly broke. He didn’t want to hear it. He leaned forward to kiss Sylar in a way that quickly became frantic. He managed to stop long enough to say, “This doesn’t change anything between us.”
Sylar chuckled. “True.”
“We’re even now.”
Sylar’s eyes were still gentle as he rolled onto his back and pulled Mohinder on top of him. “Yes. We’re even.”
* * * * * * *
The fourth time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was after Mohinder thought he must be somehow truly dead and gone. Months ticked by without any sign whatsoever of his continued existence, and turned into years. Mohinder’s life turned into something resembling normality, quiet and uneventful, even by Company standards. Through Nathan’s influence, he held an associate professorship at Columbia, and even though he knew Nathan had arranged it mainly to give the Company an “in” there, he did enjoy the time he spent on campus, in a sedate sort of way. It was the piece of his life that most closely resembled the one he’d given up in India, back when everything seemed so simple and straightforward and hopeful.
Sometimes, especially when he looked at the grey beginning to streak through his curls, he wondered how the time had passed so quickly. But increasingly he had moments, hunched over a report late at night or waking up alone in bed, where he felt like he was crawling emptily along.
Peter’s company cheered him but only to a point. After all, people who live forever don’t really experience midlife crises. Using that phrase made Mohinder laugh at himself - he really had turned into an American, hadn’t he? - but he couldn’t find a better one to describe what he must be feeling.
It hadn’t been too difficult for him to get a year’s sabbatical from the university. Getting the same from the Company had been much harder. He was sure from the pleading way Peter looked at him during his last meeting with the board that Peter, at least, knew he had no intention of ever coming back. He didn’t really care, though.
He’d visited Chennai occasionally over the years, but always hurriedly and with his attention focused on his mother. Now that he was back for good, he had time to think about the many differences between his memories and the world as it was now. Every new high-rise reminded him that life there had moved on without him. He got a small apartment in a quiet building not far from his childhood home. He could have afforded much more, but…what would be the point?
He cooked more than he had in years and started reading his way through the long list of books he’d noted but never had time to open before. He settled into a quiet routine: library, bookshop, family, home. Sometimes he thought about working on another manuscript of his own, but whenever he sat down to write, his attention drifted from genetics and calculation, and nothing was accomplished. He was honest enough with himself to admit that that’s really all he was doing: drifting. He knew he was looking for something to fill the emptiness that had snuck up on him. He’d thought maybe coming back would spark something in him. Instead, he’d just buried himself in a new routine.
One evening about three months after his return, he’d gone on one of his frequent evenings out: an hour people-watching in a local coffeehouse (he wasn’t crazy about the drink, but he liked the atmosphere of the place), followed by a quick stop to pick up a few things for the pantry and then an aimless stroll, taking in the sounds of the city as dusk settled over it. When he got back, he’d locked the door behind him and made it halfway into the living room before he realized someone had come in before him.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back.”
The thing that startled him the most was realizing that he wasn’t afraid any more. He walked slowly over to the end table and flicked on his reading lamp. Sylar sat in the chair next to it, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin in the May heat. He stared out the window as Mohinder asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Just paying a visit.” He turned to look up at Mohinder. “You left rather abruptly. I was out of town for a bit, and when I got back, there was a realtor showing your empty apartment. It took me a while to track you down, and then I got curious. At first I’d assumed you were on an assignment from your masters. But…what are you doing here, Mohinder?”
Mohinder mentally ran through a score of answers before surprising himself by being bluntly honest. “I don’t know, anymore.”
“Are you ever coming home?”
Mohinder laughed, at himself. He wasn’t even sure where home was at this point.
Sylar looked almost like he was in pain, and then he said quietly, “I miss you.”
“You miss me?” Mohinder echoed. “You haven’t even seen me in at least three years.”
“Yes, I have,” Sylar said. His eyes looked huge in the dim light. “You just haven’t seen me.” He touched Mohinder’s hand, and after a few seconds, Mohinder loosely curled his fingers around Sylar’s. Then Sylar slid forward to the edge of the chair and wrapped his arms around Mohinder, pulling him into a sort of hug, face pressed against Mohinder’s waist.
Startled, Mohinder grabbed his shoulders, feeling the muscles underneath his shirt. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he ran fingertips through Sylar’s hair and said, “What do you want from me?”
Sylar was silent for a very long time before finally asking, “How old are you now, Mohinder?”
“I’m…forty-two.” Funny; he’d lived through every one of those birthdays, but he hadn’t really counted them till now.
Sylar tilted his head back to look up at him. “Mohinder…we won’t live forever.”
Mohinder’s eyes widened as Sylar rose and stood close enough for Mohinder to smell his skin. “You’ve always been there. When you weren’t, when you just disappeared, I-” He took a deep breath. “You’re not doing anything here. You’re just existing. You should come back, Mohinder. Come back for me.” He reddened and his eyes flickered away.
Mohinder hadn’t realized that he could still be shocked by anything. He spluttered for a few seconds before managing to say, “Come back for you? After everything you’ve done, all the blood on your hands-” The hands that were touching him now, warm and gentle…
He backed away but Sylar caught his left forearm and raised it. “Care to explain this?”
Mohinder twisted his arm half-heartedly but the grip on it was firm. “You left it behind at my apartment. The last time I saw you.” When he’d helped Sylar escape from the custody of the Company, and then Sylar had spent the night in his bed. He hadn’t really been surprised to wake up alone the next morning, but his chest had still felt tight and heavy when he’d realized he was. When he’d finally gotten up and gone into the bathroom, he’d found the watch laying on the vanity, and...
“And you kept it and wore it why? Just because it was there?” Sylar pulled him close again and asked, “Why did you help me escape, Mohinder? You know how many people I’ve killed. You had no idea what I might have done once I was out. Why did you help me? Tell me. Honestly.”
Mohinder was caught by the expression on Sylar’s face. It reminded him of that first time they’d met. But then, there’d been a piece of Mohinder that had felt uneasy. Now...
Sylar let go of his arm. “Tell me, Mohinder,” he repeated. “Why did you help me? And does it have anything to do with the fact that you haven’t had a real relationship with anyone else in all the years I’ve known you?” But there was nothing malicious in the question. And as Mohinder realized what his answer would be, he also realized that Sylar knew it already. It saved him from having to say it aloud.
Sylar murmured, “Don’t you ever get tired of being alone? Don’t you want to try to be happy?”
Mohinder closed his eyes as Sylar’s lips met his and realized that was the right word. That was what he’d felt after he’d realized who was sitting in his living room, for just a second, before he’d told himself he shouldn't feel that. He’d been happy.
Sylar was watching him, visibly nervous. Mohinder leaned into his body and was rewarded with a longer kiss. There was so much trouble and pain here, but he could deal with that tomorrow. Tonight, he just wanted...he wanted Sylar, naked, next to him.
“People can see us,” he said.
Sylar glanced back over his shoulder at the wide-open window. “We could go into the bedroom.”
Mohinder smiled.
* * * * * * *
The fifth time that Sylar and Mohinder fucked was really the sixth time.
Mohinder let himself into the hotel room quietly. They’d been here for a week, and until now he’d wordlessly ensured that they slept in separate beds. The room was dark, so he dropped his bag and coat inside the door and felt his way across the room.
Sylar lay on the bed closest to the window, staring at the moon. Mohinder sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at him in the pale light from outside.
“I take it your meeting with Peter went well.”
“Yes,” Mohinder said after hesitating a moment. “He’s agreed not to kill you, at least for now. I believe he expects the same courtesy in return.”
Sylar laughed and then smiled at him. Mohinder gazed back and realized it felt comfortable to sit here with him like this. Finally, though, he said, “Do you always go to bed fully dressed?”
Sylar glanced down quizzically at the t-shirt and boxers he was wearing. “I’d hardly call this fully dressed. And I don’t like to sleep naked.”
Mohinder leaned over him, placing one hand on the other side of Sylar’s hips to balance himself. “I do.”
Sylar sat up. “I wish I could read your mind.”
“Why?”
“To know exactly what you were doing out with Petrelli. I haven’t seen you in this sort of mood since-” Sylar cut himself off, but Mohinder knew exactly what he was going to say. He could admit that he hadn’t felt this carefree in a long time, not since that damned road trip that had set him irreversibly down this path.
“Tell me something,” Mohinder said. “The first time you met me, what did you think? And I know what you planned to do. I know full well you expected to use me like you used my father. But then, when you actually saw me, what did you think?”
Sylar looked pained again and avoided Mohinder’s eyes. Finally he said, “I knew I’d done things that would make it impossible for you to care about me. But when I saw you, I somehow knew - I just knew - that you could fix everything. That you were what I really wanted. But I thought I’d never get that, so I tried to ignore it. It sounds crazy, I know-”
“No,” Mohinder said with a sad smile. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”
Sylar’s mouth - when it pressed against his lips, when it brushed the hollow of his neck, when it slid down over his cock a few minutes later - it felt exactly like Gabriel’s had.