{ let's sing a song for sorrow }
Just something short and fluffy...an excuse for these two to be random and cute together.
Title: The Anatomy of Kissing
Characters/Pairing: Mohinder/Peter
Rating: PG13, but it's so fluffy it hurts me
Summary: But of all the things Peter liked - the array of little quirks Mohinder had saved and kept filed away, like sticky-note memorandums on how to live in the world as it was according to Peter Petrelli - he seemed to like kissing the most.
(Won for Best Short Slash fic at bestofheroes and Best PG13 Peter/Mohinder fic at the heroes_slash awards.)
A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature,
To stop words when speech becomes unnecessary
- Ingrid Bergman
&&&
Peter liked a lot of things, as Mohinder was beginning to notice. He liked to eat cold cereal in bed on Saturday mornings and read over Mohinder’s shoulder while he was working. To wear his t-shirts when he thinks Mohinder won’t notice, even though they’re too loose and he always manages to look just a little bit guilty in them. He liked Starbucks coffee and Chinese food, and to talk after sex (nudging Mohinder awake despite slurred threats of dismemberment) and eat off of his plate, and to finish his sentences with a meek little smirk that sloped on one side.
But of all the things Peter liked - the array of little quirks Mohinder had saved and kept filed away, like sticky-note memorandums on how to live in the world as it was according to Peter Petrelli - he seemed to like kissing the most.
Peter liked to kiss him in the shower, in the mornings, slow and deep and full. When Peter still had Mohinder all to himself. Before the outside world and all its ills came crashing through the bedroom door, and he slipped in behind him into the small slivers of space in the cramped shower stall to loop his arms around darker shoulders, and smiling against his neck he claims he’s just conserving water. He liked to kiss him on the subway, too, squeezing his hand when no one else was looking. And at the café on the corner, when they were waxing philosophic over coffee and pretending to be keeping score of who was winning the debate, and losing count.
Evanescent kisses (because Peter likes that word, evanescent, and Mohinder knows this because he told him so) over the corners of his mouth, just the lazy press of lips that are soft and dry and the casual touch of an unhurried tongue. Quiet and polite and concise, tinged with the sweetness of nutmeg and mocha as Peter bit back on his smile and leaned across the table to claim a small victory of his own on the edges of Mohinder’s lips.
Sometimes Peter kissed him twice, just for good measure he said; Mohinder never thought to call his logic into question.
He liked to kiss him in the afternoons, most especially it seemed. When Mohinder was supposed to be on duty but his taxi is parked, because Peter came by from work with food (Chinese, occasionally Italian, always in a box or a bag). Because he never sees him eat, he says, and pokes at his ribs through his shirt. They lean against the car door and eat together, and talk about their boring jobs and the phone bill that’s a week overdue. Just pretend that their lives aren’t dangerous and complicated and ugly, and that those aren’t scars beneath blue nursing scrubs.
And with skin warmed by the midday sun Peter presses against him, to pin Mohinder between him and the side of the car, and with lips that still taste salty like sesame chicken kisses him long and slow. Right there on the street corner, and with a smirk Mohinder tells Peter that he’s a bad influence on him.
Because if you’d walked into his office six months ago and told him that within a year he’d be standing on the sidewalk in New York kissing a Catholic boy in broad daylight, he would’ve laughed you out of the room. Yes, well, good Hindus don’t, he would’ve said, and he would’ve been right. And that’s the version his mother still hears, in his letters back home to Chennai. When she writes to ask if he’s happy, and thinking of Peter asleep in the next room with his taste on his lips, he will tell her that he’s getting there.
Because as much as Peter liked kissing, he seemed to like kissing Mohinder even more.
Title: The Anatomy of Kissing
Characters/Pairing: Mohinder/Peter
Rating: PG13, but it's so fluffy it hurts me
Summary: But of all the things Peter liked - the array of little quirks Mohinder had saved and kept filed away, like sticky-note memorandums on how to live in the world as it was according to Peter Petrelli - he seemed to like kissing the most.
(Won for Best Short Slash fic at bestofheroes and Best PG13 Peter/Mohinder fic at the heroes_slash awards.)
A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature,
To stop words when speech becomes unnecessary
- Ingrid Bergman
&&&
Peter liked a lot of things, as Mohinder was beginning to notice. He liked to eat cold cereal in bed on Saturday mornings and read over Mohinder’s shoulder while he was working. To wear his t-shirts when he thinks Mohinder won’t notice, even though they’re too loose and he always manages to look just a little bit guilty in them. He liked Starbucks coffee and Chinese food, and to talk after sex (nudging Mohinder awake despite slurred threats of dismemberment) and eat off of his plate, and to finish his sentences with a meek little smirk that sloped on one side.
But of all the things Peter liked - the array of little quirks Mohinder had saved and kept filed away, like sticky-note memorandums on how to live in the world as it was according to Peter Petrelli - he seemed to like kissing the most.
Peter liked to kiss him in the shower, in the mornings, slow and deep and full. When Peter still had Mohinder all to himself. Before the outside world and all its ills came crashing through the bedroom door, and he slipped in behind him into the small slivers of space in the cramped shower stall to loop his arms around darker shoulders, and smiling against his neck he claims he’s just conserving water. He liked to kiss him on the subway, too, squeezing his hand when no one else was looking. And at the café on the corner, when they were waxing philosophic over coffee and pretending to be keeping score of who was winning the debate, and losing count.
Evanescent kisses (because Peter likes that word, evanescent, and Mohinder knows this because he told him so) over the corners of his mouth, just the lazy press of lips that are soft and dry and the casual touch of an unhurried tongue. Quiet and polite and concise, tinged with the sweetness of nutmeg and mocha as Peter bit back on his smile and leaned across the table to claim a small victory of his own on the edges of Mohinder’s lips.
Sometimes Peter kissed him twice, just for good measure he said; Mohinder never thought to call his logic into question.
He liked to kiss him in the afternoons, most especially it seemed. When Mohinder was supposed to be on duty but his taxi is parked, because Peter came by from work with food (Chinese, occasionally Italian, always in a box or a bag). Because he never sees him eat, he says, and pokes at his ribs through his shirt. They lean against the car door and eat together, and talk about their boring jobs and the phone bill that’s a week overdue. Just pretend that their lives aren’t dangerous and complicated and ugly, and that those aren’t scars beneath blue nursing scrubs.
And with skin warmed by the midday sun Peter presses against him, to pin Mohinder between him and the side of the car, and with lips that still taste salty like sesame chicken kisses him long and slow. Right there on the street corner, and with a smirk Mohinder tells Peter that he’s a bad influence on him.
Because if you’d walked into his office six months ago and told him that within a year he’d be standing on the sidewalk in New York kissing a Catholic boy in broad daylight, he would’ve laughed you out of the room. Yes, well, good Hindus don’t, he would’ve said, and he would’ve been right. And that’s the version his mother still hears, in his letters back home to Chennai. When she writes to ask if he’s happy, and thinking of Peter asleep in the next room with his taste on his lips, he will tell her that he’s getting there.
Because as much as Peter liked kissing, he seemed to like kissing Mohinder even more.