fic: lie here forever (for mylar ficathon)
Title: Lie Here Forever
Author: unrequited_rain
Recipient: cerebel
Genre: death/angst
Prompt: identity
Rating: PG-15
Summary: something's wrong and for once Sylar can't fix it.
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH
Word Count: 1126
Disclaimer: unfortunately I don't own any of these characters, as much as I'd LIKE to. I'm just playing in Tim Kring's sandbox
Author's Note: set sometime in the future, not quite 5yg!verse, but pretty close. And for anybody who thinks they need to cry even MORE while listening to this, I have a soundtrack here.
Once every month the caretaker of the graveyard would see somebody come to visit the same grave. It was never the same person twice in a row, but for the most part, they all did the same thing. It had started the day after the man was buried and had continued for the last five years.
Mohinder smiled at the woman sitting across the table from him. She was short with black hair cropped close to her head and amber colored eyes.
They've been meeting like this for a few years now, even though Mohinder never knew exactly who he was looking at, who was smiling at him from the other side of the table, it was always the same person inside.
"What's wrong?" his companion said abruptly. "You've been distracted all day. Is there something going on?"
Mohinder just smiled at his companion. "No not really." He poured himself a new cup. "Nothing for you to be concerned about anyway."
This month it was a short, petite woman with long red hair. She had been here several times before, and she always did the same thing every time.
She always brought a thermos full of tea and drank about half and poured the other half on the ground near the headstone. Then she would eat some cookies that she had brought and again, leave half sitting on top of the headstone.
But they all would sit there staring at the stone talking for an indeterminate amount of time. The caretaker never felt the need to listen in. Then whoever it was that particular month would lie face down on top of the grave for hours on end, all day sometimes.
This time Mohinder and his companion were squeezed close together into the booth. He was with a man. Short, with amber colored hair and eyes with wide hands and blunt fingers. The conversation in the restaurant was extremely loud and they both were fiddling with the mugs in front of them like they were nervous and searching for a way to start a conversation.
"Mohinder something is wrong. Every time we meet you keep looking worse. Please tell me. I could fix it I know I could." He looked pleadingly at Mohinder.
Mohinder sighed and brooded into his glass. "Right now there's nothing you could do for me." He checked his watch. "I have to go. It's getting late and I have somewhere to be early tomorrow morning."
"Mohinder wait." The man grabbed his hand when he tried to leave. Unknowingly their fingers twined together. Mohinder looks back, his eyes full of pain. "Please." He murmurs. Those same eyes, always the same staring at him, begging, pleading, full of sincerity.
"I-I have to go." Mohinder stumbles away, stunned.
After seven years the caretaker has noticed one man. One who only comes once a year and never any time else, always on the 13th of March. He is tall, dark and sadly beautiful. On the 13th of March, no matter if there is rain or snow he always comes early in the day, always before the caretaker gets up and about, and stays there all day and remains until after the caretaker turns in for the night.
Sometimes if he ventures too close or if the air is still he can hear weeping.
They met at a bookstore this time. Mohinder was sitting by a window reading a book when he was approached by a young girl, looking no older than seventeen with the same amber eyes and whose white-blond hair was streaked with black and electric blue. Mohinder grinned at her.
"Going for a bit of novelty this time?"
She dropped down into the seat across from him and just stared at him for several minutes. "You're sick." She said shocked. "You're sick I can smell it, I can smell the drugs and the sick smell."
Mohinder looked panicked. He grabbed his things and stormed out of the store and didn't pay attention to the girl following him.
"Mohinder, please." She grabbed and held his hand. "Please, you're sick. I can fix it. Just let me try. Please." Mohinder could tell she was close to tears.
Mohinder's head dropped down and looked at their clasped hands. He closed his eyes and squeezed the hand. When he looked up they were in a house in front of a fireplace and standing in front of him was the man with the same brown eyes he'd always known.
"Mohinder..." he whispered, tugging him closer, burying his face into Mohinder's neck.
Mohinder stood there shocked for a few moments, then he slowly wrapped his arms around Sylar.
Once in a great while, the caretaker will hear shots ringing. Or once in an even greater while, the next day he would walk by and see a blood-stained headstone and the ground soaked in blood. Whenever that happens there is always more blood than anybody could possibly loose, and still walk away from. But the caretaker has never found a body, and every month somebody would still come and visit.
Kneeling, Sylar slowly spread open Mohinder's shirt and ran his fingers down his torso. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn Sylar was trying to see inside him. Then he stood up and ran his hands down Mohinder's arms, removing the sleeves of his shirt. "It's... what..." he whispered into Mohinder's neck.
"Leukemia," he swallowed the lump in his throat. "They didn't," he paused. "They didn't find it fast enough." He said as he felt hot tears hit his neck.
One day the caretaker caught the eye of March 13. It was snowing hard, and he was shoveling the snow off the stoop almost as fast as it was coming down. All he wanted was to be inside with a mug of coffee. Even though the snow was coming down hard he didn't seem to be having any trouble making his way to the grave. He nodded at the man, who tensed for a moment, and then relaxed.
Mohinder lay in the hospital bed sleeping. Sitting in a chair next to his bed was Sylar, holding his hand tracing the now prominent veins on the back. He stirred awake and Sylar fed him some ice chips. "You're still here."
"Yes." He said simply, brushing his fingers across Mohinder's forehead where there were once dark curls. "I'll always be with you."
The next morning after the blizzard had finally stopped the caretaker was plowing the main road. When he was done he parked his truck in the garage and, for some reason, took the long way back to his house. He saw the man up close for the first time. He was encrusted with ice and snow, but was still alive. Silently he handed the man his thermos and hurried back to his house.
The morning was silent, but he thought he heard the words "I'll always be here."
Author: unrequited_rain
Recipient: cerebel
Genre: death/angst
Prompt: identity
Rating: PG-15
Summary: something's wrong and for once Sylar can't fix it.
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH
Word Count: 1126
Disclaimer: unfortunately I don't own any of these characters, as much as I'd LIKE to. I'm just playing in Tim Kring's sandbox
Author's Note: set sometime in the future, not quite 5yg!verse, but pretty close. And for anybody who thinks they need to cry even MORE while listening to this, I have a soundtrack here.
Once every month the caretaker of the graveyard would see somebody come to visit the same grave. It was never the same person twice in a row, but for the most part, they all did the same thing. It had started the day after the man was buried and had continued for the last five years.
Mohinder smiled at the woman sitting across the table from him. She was short with black hair cropped close to her head and amber colored eyes.
They've been meeting like this for a few years now, even though Mohinder never knew exactly who he was looking at, who was smiling at him from the other side of the table, it was always the same person inside.
"What's wrong?" his companion said abruptly. "You've been distracted all day. Is there something going on?"
Mohinder just smiled at his companion. "No not really." He poured himself a new cup. "Nothing for you to be concerned about anyway."
This month it was a short, petite woman with long red hair. She had been here several times before, and she always did the same thing every time.
She always brought a thermos full of tea and drank about half and poured the other half on the ground near the headstone. Then she would eat some cookies that she had brought and again, leave half sitting on top of the headstone.
But they all would sit there staring at the stone talking for an indeterminate amount of time. The caretaker never felt the need to listen in. Then whoever it was that particular month would lie face down on top of the grave for hours on end, all day sometimes.
This time Mohinder and his companion were squeezed close together into the booth. He was with a man. Short, with amber colored hair and eyes with wide hands and blunt fingers. The conversation in the restaurant was extremely loud and they both were fiddling with the mugs in front of them like they were nervous and searching for a way to start a conversation.
"Mohinder something is wrong. Every time we meet you keep looking worse. Please tell me. I could fix it I know I could." He looked pleadingly at Mohinder.
Mohinder sighed and brooded into his glass. "Right now there's nothing you could do for me." He checked his watch. "I have to go. It's getting late and I have somewhere to be early tomorrow morning."
"Mohinder wait." The man grabbed his hand when he tried to leave. Unknowingly their fingers twined together. Mohinder looks back, his eyes full of pain. "Please." He murmurs. Those same eyes, always the same staring at him, begging, pleading, full of sincerity.
"I-I have to go." Mohinder stumbles away, stunned.
After seven years the caretaker has noticed one man. One who only comes once a year and never any time else, always on the 13th of March. He is tall, dark and sadly beautiful. On the 13th of March, no matter if there is rain or snow he always comes early in the day, always before the caretaker gets up and about, and stays there all day and remains until after the caretaker turns in for the night.
Sometimes if he ventures too close or if the air is still he can hear weeping.
They met at a bookstore this time. Mohinder was sitting by a window reading a book when he was approached by a young girl, looking no older than seventeen with the same amber eyes and whose white-blond hair was streaked with black and electric blue. Mohinder grinned at her.
"Going for a bit of novelty this time?"
She dropped down into the seat across from him and just stared at him for several minutes. "You're sick." She said shocked. "You're sick I can smell it, I can smell the drugs and the sick smell."
Mohinder looked panicked. He grabbed his things and stormed out of the store and didn't pay attention to the girl following him.
"Mohinder, please." She grabbed and held his hand. "Please, you're sick. I can fix it. Just let me try. Please." Mohinder could tell she was close to tears.
Mohinder's head dropped down and looked at their clasped hands. He closed his eyes and squeezed the hand. When he looked up they were in a house in front of a fireplace and standing in front of him was the man with the same brown eyes he'd always known.
"Mohinder..." he whispered, tugging him closer, burying his face into Mohinder's neck.
Mohinder stood there shocked for a few moments, then he slowly wrapped his arms around Sylar.
Once in a great while, the caretaker will hear shots ringing. Or once in an even greater while, the next day he would walk by and see a blood-stained headstone and the ground soaked in blood. Whenever that happens there is always more blood than anybody could possibly loose, and still walk away from. But the caretaker has never found a body, and every month somebody would still come and visit.
Kneeling, Sylar slowly spread open Mohinder's shirt and ran his fingers down his torso. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn Sylar was trying to see inside him. Then he stood up and ran his hands down Mohinder's arms, removing the sleeves of his shirt. "It's... what..." he whispered into Mohinder's neck.
"Leukemia," he swallowed the lump in his throat. "They didn't," he paused. "They didn't find it fast enough." He said as he felt hot tears hit his neck.
One day the caretaker caught the eye of March 13. It was snowing hard, and he was shoveling the snow off the stoop almost as fast as it was coming down. All he wanted was to be inside with a mug of coffee. Even though the snow was coming down hard he didn't seem to be having any trouble making his way to the grave. He nodded at the man, who tensed for a moment, and then relaxed.
Mohinder lay in the hospital bed sleeping. Sitting in a chair next to his bed was Sylar, holding his hand tracing the now prominent veins on the back. He stirred awake and Sylar fed him some ice chips. "You're still here."
"Yes." He said simply, brushing his fingers across Mohinder's forehead where there were once dark curls. "I'll always be with you."
The next morning after the blizzard had finally stopped the caretaker was plowing the main road. When he was done he parked his truck in the garage and, for some reason, took the long way back to his house. He saw the man up close for the first time. He was encrusted with ice and snow, but was still alive. Silently he handed the man his thermos and hurried back to his house.
The morning was silent, but he thought he heard the words "I'll always be here."