The Last Two Men [7/11] - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: The Last Two Men [7/11]
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2567
Rating: R
Warnings: end-of-the-world, character deaths, zombie-vampires.
A/N: Inspired by 'I Am Legend'. I'm coming back from hiatus with this (finally!)
Previous parts: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six
Summary: On the 13th of November 2010, the dead began to remain undead. Two years later, the last men on Earth struggle to survive.
24th of May, 2012
The streets are cold once night comes. Freezing. The darkness's ice-like claws scratch over Mohinder's skin, leaving invisible wounds in their wake. Walking slowly on these streets, Mohinder wishes he'd worn something warmer - brought a jacket, perhaps.
He almost laughs at the thought. A smile twitches and it's hard to hold back: he's walking the streets at night and every second might be his last, yet he's fussing about the cold. How perfectly mundane. He imagines that Sylar would be amused if he was here to hear about that.
On second thought, he thinks as he realises that Sylar's reaction will really be upon learning of his stupidity, he doesn't wish that Sylar was here at all. He curls his arms over his stomach and walks further. Every twitching sound in the dark makes his heart race - every creak and every single breath of wind is a potential threat.
He doesn't know where he's going, why, what's possessed him. The thought of returning to their house, to their prison, is just too much.
He walks past a park, dark and abandoned. There's a rusty swing-set inside and a weed-clogged pond. The grass has grown to a height that no lawn-mower could control and the paint is peeling from the railings. It looks like something from a war zone and it just isn't right.
The wind whispers through the ragged trees, whistling loudly. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up - looking around there is no one in sight. No movement other than the gentle swaying of the branches and the rustle of leaves along the ground. Yet Mohinder's arms curl over his chest, tight again his body. Standing out in the dark - unprotected and unhidden - he feels…
Watched.
His breathing is short and shallow. Paranoid, you're paranoid, he tells himself. You should be able to walk the streets of your own city at night without fear.
There is no police force. The only light comes from the moon and the stars up above. These streets are not a welcoming place for humans. Not any more.
His palms are sweaty - he's starting to come to his senses, starting to look around and see the situation he's landed himself in. What was he thinking? Out here he's a walking target, an appetising lunch. The creatures killed off all other humans so long ago. Every heart beat, every breath… It's like he's teasing them. If they pick up on his presence - and their senses are so attuned, so acute - they'll swarm him. He won't have time to feel any pain.
He turns around, ready to retreat, to run, to struggle to find any kind of hiding place that might keep him safe, and begins to walk back in the direction that he'd just came when he hears it: a growl. Low, rumbling, dangerous. Every muscle freezes - a rabbit under a hawk's eyes - and Mohinder stops moving. He strains to hear any noise again: he wants it to be the wind, he wants it to be the wind so badly, but there it is again. The sound echoes from behind him.
It feels impossible to keep breathing, knowing what must be behind him. Perhaps only one so far - but if one has found him the others will follow. They are pack animals, group hunters. The next step up from wolves. How could I have been so stupid? Mohinder thinks. It's too late now.
There's another growl - such a bone-chilling sound - and he breaks from his frozen trance: it's pointless, ridiculous, but he runs. Head down, arms flailing, he runs to the end of the street. He was never good at sports at school, could never play well, was never picked for the team, and now he feels that lack of experience come to haunt him - because these creatures, they're so much more powerful than a human could be. Than he could be. He's nothing but prey. Nothing but meat.
Another growl and he hears footsteps hammering behind him: impossibly fast, like bullets splashing into water. He doesn't make it to the end of the street.
He stops before he reaches the corner. There are more there, pale figures emerging from the darkness. The footsteps behind him stop just one single pace away: he can feel dead breath on the back of his neck and the scent of rotting flesh is strong enough to clog his lungs. There are more of them here than he can count. A whole family approaches. All ages. All sizes. The one thing they have in common is the hungry glint in their pitch black eyes. It's like staring into hell. There's nothing there in those dead eyes. No soul. No life. No compassion.
I should be able to walk the streets at night… Mohinder thinks again. He hears a startling cackle behind him: it reminds him of the documentaries Matt used to fall asleep in front of. Wildlife. Hyenas barking as their strong jaws ripped bloody flesh from bone.
They're all around him now, circling him. He's hemmed in as they move closer: hands push against his shoulders and he's nearly knocked unbalanced. He stumbles and they catch him, pushing him back and laughing again like childhood bullies. They're toying with him, laughing still. It must have been so long since they'd last stumbled upon a human - now they're drawing it out.
The terror that burns and claws in his stomach is too much: he wants this over. He wants this to be done.
With a startling thud, he realises this means he wants to die.
Their faces are so pale it's as if they are painted like clowns; a twisted, dark circus where the laughter chills the blood. "Please," Mohinder whispers. There is no mercy here.
There's a crash and an inhuman howl and at first Mohinder doesn't realise what has happened: he only understands that their attention has been diverted away from him. On the ground several feet away, slumped by the wall, one of the monsters lies limp: head at an awkward angle. Neck snapped.
Looking up, Sylar is standing there - he looks as supernatural as the creatures surrounding Mohinder. His hand is raised and the rapid-fire rise and fall of his chest is the only indication of fear that Mohinder can see. "Mohinder, get over here," he says: his voice scratches like sandpaper. His hand, raised like a weapon, is enough to keep the creatures at bay.
For now, only for now.
Mohinder takes a stomach-turning step forward, turning sideways to slip out of the narrow gap in the tight circle formed around him. They growl in chorus, but with a warning twitch of Sylar's hand they don't move. It's like walking through a crowd of feral wolves. Mohinder can feel bile rising in his throat.
He reaches Sylar's side unharmed - shaken but uninjured - and Sylar makes him stand behind him with an angry wave of his arm. The creatures are growling again, taking brave steps forward. They look human, so human, but their eyes… Mohinder can't stop staring at their eyes.
You were people once, he thinks with a blind sense of horror, as safe as he can be right now.
"Stay close to me," Sylar says quietly. "We're going to run."
Run. They'll never outrun them, not in a thousand years.
Sylar's hand finds his and holds on tightly - so tight it hurts, so tight that it feels as if the bone is being crushed in that vicelike grip - and they hesitantly take a step back as the crowd in front of them weave and sneak their way closer. Mohinder feels like he can already feel the blinding agony of their blunt teeth sinking into his flesh. Sylar's other hand stays raised but it doesn't act as a warning any more.
He flexes it, like an underused muscle, and the creeping creatures fly like skittles. Into the nearly buildings, skidding along the ground, knocking over lampposts in their path. There isn't time to consider it: the ground shakes, the creatures scream and they run.
Feet hammering on the pavement. Blood running through their veins. Darkness crowding around them. Hands clinging on for dear life.
Around corners and faster, faster, faster. Never going to go fast enough. How long will it take them to recover? Sylar can't have killed them all with that movement - no, no, that would be too simple and they're so hard to kill - they'll be chasing them. Mohinder strains but he can't hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat.
Their house is ahead of them and Sylar opens the door while they're still several paces away: they fall inside and Mohinder slumps against the wall just inside the door. The door slams. Sylar leans against the opposite wall and they flop down to sit on the carpet together. Mohinder's limbs ache and his heart beats so hard and so fast that he feels sure it will break free from his chest.
They wait.
They listen.
Mohinder is certain that he can still hear those growls and those cackling laughs, but as Sylar stands up to place their many locks over the door no one tries to burst their way in. It looks like they've actually escaped.
Mohinder rests his head against the wall with a muted thud. "Sylar," he says quietly. "I-"
"Don't," Sylar breathes. The anger in his voice is barely contained and sends trickling gooseflesh over Mohinder's arms: a tone like that reminds him that the creatures outside are not the only killers left in the world. It reminds him that the man he reluctantly shares a house with is every bit as dangerous as those monsters.
Every bit as dangerous - and only slightly more rational.
Sylar moves restlessly back and forth, shooting angry glances at Mohinder from time to time. His face is dark, twisted… Mohinder is reminded of why he's supposed to fear him. He is reminded that Sylar is only a tentative ally and nothing more.
"You must really be as stupid as you look," Sylar says eventually - and that's it. That's all. He spits the words out then turns away and walks down the hallway without another stinging word. Left alone in the empty corridor, Mohinder doesn't get up or try to follow him.
He sits there in sullen silence as the seconds trickle past. Sylar can be heard clattering around deeper within the house: he hasn't gone to bed yet, then. Mohinder is tempted to stay here - hiding but not - until Sylar falls silence, but that wouldn't help at all. That would merely put off the inevitable.
Better to face these things head-on, he tells himself. He gets to his feet with stiff legs and sore muscles and begins to shuffle down the hall to the kitchen.
He finds Sylar still clattering around in barely contained anger - it's surprising that he hasn't smashed anything yet. Mohinder wonders if he ought to leave it for a little while longer: if Sylar has to break something before he can calm down then Mohinder would rather it wasn't any bones.
He can't run, though. He's so fed up with running. "I'm sorry," he says, although Sylar probably doesn't want to hear it. "I shouldn't have left like that."
"You shouldn't have left at all."
"I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking full stop, to be honest."
Sylar doesn't face him, staring into a cupboard full of mugs instead. The muscles in his strong shoulders are tense and the room is filled with violent tension thick enough to clog the lungs. Storm's brewing, Mohinder thinks. Maybe this is how he is going to die: he's going to have survived a horde of monsters only to be murdered by his homicidal housemate.
"I just needed to get out of here," he explains a little further when Sylar refuses to speak. "It felt like a prison. We're cooped up in here all night when we should - we should be able to walk the streets, Sylar. We should be."
Sylar slams another few cupboards for good measure and plucks a mug down, placing it on the counter. Filling the kettle with water is done with enough force to make the water splash onto the front of Sylar's shirt.
"Did they touch you?" he asks, brushing at the damp spot with his hand.
"Pardon?"
"Did they touch your bare skin, Mohinder?" Sylar turns around now: Mohinder doesn't know what the expression on his face means. He expected anger, fury, madness. What he gets is…
He shakes his head. "I don't know," he answers. His throat feels tight with that realisation. "I don't know. I-"
Sylar moves forward and shakes his head. "Okay. That's okay. They didn't break skin. That's a good sign."
"That doesn't mean a single thing - and you know it." Mohinder's arms cross over his chest. "It's not like you to look on the bright side."
"Someone has to," Sylar says. "If you're going to wallow in pity then it's down to me to-"
"To hide in naivety?"
If he's been touched… If their hands so much as brushed across unprotected skin… His hand travels to the side of his eyes and comes away clean, free from the telltale black fluid. It's too soon for anything to show up anyway.
"It'll be another few hours until any symptoms appear," Sylar says. The kettle begins to churn and boil behind them. "No point in worrying yet."
"Yet. Sylar, if this is-"
"Stop it," Sylar snaps. "Just stop it."
"We can't just hide from this."
"I'm not 'hiding', Suresh. What exactly do you expect me to do? There's nothing to do now but wait to see if you start turning into one of those monsters - and if you're going to do that then… I'm not going to waste time talking about 'what if'."
"If the alternative is ignoring it then I'll have to say that I think you're a fool." Mohinder shakes his head. "Denial, Sylar. That's all it is."
"I'm not denying anything," Sylar sighs in limitless frustration. "I hate you sometimes, you know."
"Only sometimes?" Mohinder says. "That's an improvement."
Sylar's eyes narrow and if he'd been any younger - or if the situation had been any less dire - then Mohinder thinks he might have stuck his tongue out at him. The kettle finishes boiling and Sylar moves to the other side of the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea. Mohinder takes a seat at the kitchen table.
"So what are we going to do?" Sylar asks once he no longer has to face Mohinder, looking down into his mug instead.
"Like you say, there's nothing we can do but wait."
"But after that. If you turn - what are we going to do?"
Mohinder's fingers tap restlessly against the table top. "I don't think you'll have any problem with it," he answers after a moment's pause. Sylar had killed dozens before the rest of the world was wiped out. He won't have a problem getting rid of Mohinder before he becomes a threat.
"I won't do it," Sylar responds. He picks up his mug and moves to sit on the opposite side of the table from him. He holds the hot object between his two hands, heating them. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way. I've been searching for a cure for years, Sylar. You know as well as I do that-"
He's silenced, suddenly, by a set of lips pressed against his own as Sylar leans across the table. Sylar's hand is by his jaw: there is the scrape of his nails on his skin and the hot blast of his breath in Mohinder's mouth. Sylar's hand doesn't move even when their lips part. He stays close enough to glare directly at Mohinder with a fury that could make armies tremble. "We will find another way," he says slowly, deliberately. Each word seems a challenge.
He breaks away and eases back into his chair, hands on the table as if nothing has happened - as if nothing has changed. Mohinder sits mutely, eyebrows raised, lips parted in frozen surprise. Too much new information to process, bottle-necking in his mind. Sylar can pretend all that he likes that everything is the same but the world has changed, is changing around them. The rushed memory of Sylar's lips against his is evidence of that - and he's not sure entirely what to do now.
Eight
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2567
Rating: R
Warnings: end-of-the-world, character deaths, zombie-vampires.
A/N: Inspired by 'I Am Legend'. I'm coming back from hiatus with this (finally!)
Previous parts: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six
Summary: On the 13th of November 2010, the dead began to remain undead. Two years later, the last men on Earth struggle to survive.
24th of May, 2012
The streets are cold once night comes. Freezing. The darkness's ice-like claws scratch over Mohinder's skin, leaving invisible wounds in their wake. Walking slowly on these streets, Mohinder wishes he'd worn something warmer - brought a jacket, perhaps.
He almost laughs at the thought. A smile twitches and it's hard to hold back: he's walking the streets at night and every second might be his last, yet he's fussing about the cold. How perfectly mundane. He imagines that Sylar would be amused if he was here to hear about that.
On second thought, he thinks as he realises that Sylar's reaction will really be upon learning of his stupidity, he doesn't wish that Sylar was here at all. He curls his arms over his stomach and walks further. Every twitching sound in the dark makes his heart race - every creak and every single breath of wind is a potential threat.
He doesn't know where he's going, why, what's possessed him. The thought of returning to their house, to their prison, is just too much.
He walks past a park, dark and abandoned. There's a rusty swing-set inside and a weed-clogged pond. The grass has grown to a height that no lawn-mower could control and the paint is peeling from the railings. It looks like something from a war zone and it just isn't right.
The wind whispers through the ragged trees, whistling loudly. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up - looking around there is no one in sight. No movement other than the gentle swaying of the branches and the rustle of leaves along the ground. Yet Mohinder's arms curl over his chest, tight again his body. Standing out in the dark - unprotected and unhidden - he feels…
Watched.
His breathing is short and shallow. Paranoid, you're paranoid, he tells himself. You should be able to walk the streets of your own city at night without fear.
There is no police force. The only light comes from the moon and the stars up above. These streets are not a welcoming place for humans. Not any more.
His palms are sweaty - he's starting to come to his senses, starting to look around and see the situation he's landed himself in. What was he thinking? Out here he's a walking target, an appetising lunch. The creatures killed off all other humans so long ago. Every heart beat, every breath… It's like he's teasing them. If they pick up on his presence - and their senses are so attuned, so acute - they'll swarm him. He won't have time to feel any pain.
He turns around, ready to retreat, to run, to struggle to find any kind of hiding place that might keep him safe, and begins to walk back in the direction that he'd just came when he hears it: a growl. Low, rumbling, dangerous. Every muscle freezes - a rabbit under a hawk's eyes - and Mohinder stops moving. He strains to hear any noise again: he wants it to be the wind, he wants it to be the wind so badly, but there it is again. The sound echoes from behind him.
It feels impossible to keep breathing, knowing what must be behind him. Perhaps only one so far - but if one has found him the others will follow. They are pack animals, group hunters. The next step up from wolves. How could I have been so stupid? Mohinder thinks. It's too late now.
There's another growl - such a bone-chilling sound - and he breaks from his frozen trance: it's pointless, ridiculous, but he runs. Head down, arms flailing, he runs to the end of the street. He was never good at sports at school, could never play well, was never picked for the team, and now he feels that lack of experience come to haunt him - because these creatures, they're so much more powerful than a human could be. Than he could be. He's nothing but prey. Nothing but meat.
Another growl and he hears footsteps hammering behind him: impossibly fast, like bullets splashing into water. He doesn't make it to the end of the street.
He stops before he reaches the corner. There are more there, pale figures emerging from the darkness. The footsteps behind him stop just one single pace away: he can feel dead breath on the back of his neck and the scent of rotting flesh is strong enough to clog his lungs. There are more of them here than he can count. A whole family approaches. All ages. All sizes. The one thing they have in common is the hungry glint in their pitch black eyes. It's like staring into hell. There's nothing there in those dead eyes. No soul. No life. No compassion.
I should be able to walk the streets at night… Mohinder thinks again. He hears a startling cackle behind him: it reminds him of the documentaries Matt used to fall asleep in front of. Wildlife. Hyenas barking as their strong jaws ripped bloody flesh from bone.
They're all around him now, circling him. He's hemmed in as they move closer: hands push against his shoulders and he's nearly knocked unbalanced. He stumbles and they catch him, pushing him back and laughing again like childhood bullies. They're toying with him, laughing still. It must have been so long since they'd last stumbled upon a human - now they're drawing it out.
The terror that burns and claws in his stomach is too much: he wants this over. He wants this to be done.
With a startling thud, he realises this means he wants to die.
Their faces are so pale it's as if they are painted like clowns; a twisted, dark circus where the laughter chills the blood. "Please," Mohinder whispers. There is no mercy here.
There's a crash and an inhuman howl and at first Mohinder doesn't realise what has happened: he only understands that their attention has been diverted away from him. On the ground several feet away, slumped by the wall, one of the monsters lies limp: head at an awkward angle. Neck snapped.
Looking up, Sylar is standing there - he looks as supernatural as the creatures surrounding Mohinder. His hand is raised and the rapid-fire rise and fall of his chest is the only indication of fear that Mohinder can see. "Mohinder, get over here," he says: his voice scratches like sandpaper. His hand, raised like a weapon, is enough to keep the creatures at bay.
For now, only for now.
Mohinder takes a stomach-turning step forward, turning sideways to slip out of the narrow gap in the tight circle formed around him. They growl in chorus, but with a warning twitch of Sylar's hand they don't move. It's like walking through a crowd of feral wolves. Mohinder can feel bile rising in his throat.
He reaches Sylar's side unharmed - shaken but uninjured - and Sylar makes him stand behind him with an angry wave of his arm. The creatures are growling again, taking brave steps forward. They look human, so human, but their eyes… Mohinder can't stop staring at their eyes.
You were people once, he thinks with a blind sense of horror, as safe as he can be right now.
"Stay close to me," Sylar says quietly. "We're going to run."
Run. They'll never outrun them, not in a thousand years.
Sylar's hand finds his and holds on tightly - so tight it hurts, so tight that it feels as if the bone is being crushed in that vicelike grip - and they hesitantly take a step back as the crowd in front of them weave and sneak their way closer. Mohinder feels like he can already feel the blinding agony of their blunt teeth sinking into his flesh. Sylar's other hand stays raised but it doesn't act as a warning any more.
He flexes it, like an underused muscle, and the creeping creatures fly like skittles. Into the nearly buildings, skidding along the ground, knocking over lampposts in their path. There isn't time to consider it: the ground shakes, the creatures scream and they run.
Feet hammering on the pavement. Blood running through their veins. Darkness crowding around them. Hands clinging on for dear life.
Around corners and faster, faster, faster. Never going to go fast enough. How long will it take them to recover? Sylar can't have killed them all with that movement - no, no, that would be too simple and they're so hard to kill - they'll be chasing them. Mohinder strains but he can't hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat.
Their house is ahead of them and Sylar opens the door while they're still several paces away: they fall inside and Mohinder slumps against the wall just inside the door. The door slams. Sylar leans against the opposite wall and they flop down to sit on the carpet together. Mohinder's limbs ache and his heart beats so hard and so fast that he feels sure it will break free from his chest.
They wait.
They listen.
Mohinder is certain that he can still hear those growls and those cackling laughs, but as Sylar stands up to place their many locks over the door no one tries to burst their way in. It looks like they've actually escaped.
Mohinder rests his head against the wall with a muted thud. "Sylar," he says quietly. "I-"
"Don't," Sylar breathes. The anger in his voice is barely contained and sends trickling gooseflesh over Mohinder's arms: a tone like that reminds him that the creatures outside are not the only killers left in the world. It reminds him that the man he reluctantly shares a house with is every bit as dangerous as those monsters.
Every bit as dangerous - and only slightly more rational.
Sylar moves restlessly back and forth, shooting angry glances at Mohinder from time to time. His face is dark, twisted… Mohinder is reminded of why he's supposed to fear him. He is reminded that Sylar is only a tentative ally and nothing more.
"You must really be as stupid as you look," Sylar says eventually - and that's it. That's all. He spits the words out then turns away and walks down the hallway without another stinging word. Left alone in the empty corridor, Mohinder doesn't get up or try to follow him.
He sits there in sullen silence as the seconds trickle past. Sylar can be heard clattering around deeper within the house: he hasn't gone to bed yet, then. Mohinder is tempted to stay here - hiding but not - until Sylar falls silence, but that wouldn't help at all. That would merely put off the inevitable.
Better to face these things head-on, he tells himself. He gets to his feet with stiff legs and sore muscles and begins to shuffle down the hall to the kitchen.
He finds Sylar still clattering around in barely contained anger - it's surprising that he hasn't smashed anything yet. Mohinder wonders if he ought to leave it for a little while longer: if Sylar has to break something before he can calm down then Mohinder would rather it wasn't any bones.
He can't run, though. He's so fed up with running. "I'm sorry," he says, although Sylar probably doesn't want to hear it. "I shouldn't have left like that."
"You shouldn't have left at all."
"I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking full stop, to be honest."
Sylar doesn't face him, staring into a cupboard full of mugs instead. The muscles in his strong shoulders are tense and the room is filled with violent tension thick enough to clog the lungs. Storm's brewing, Mohinder thinks. Maybe this is how he is going to die: he's going to have survived a horde of monsters only to be murdered by his homicidal housemate.
"I just needed to get out of here," he explains a little further when Sylar refuses to speak. "It felt like a prison. We're cooped up in here all night when we should - we should be able to walk the streets, Sylar. We should be."
Sylar slams another few cupboards for good measure and plucks a mug down, placing it on the counter. Filling the kettle with water is done with enough force to make the water splash onto the front of Sylar's shirt.
"Did they touch you?" he asks, brushing at the damp spot with his hand.
"Pardon?"
"Did they touch your bare skin, Mohinder?" Sylar turns around now: Mohinder doesn't know what the expression on his face means. He expected anger, fury, madness. What he gets is…
He shakes his head. "I don't know," he answers. His throat feels tight with that realisation. "I don't know. I-"
Sylar moves forward and shakes his head. "Okay. That's okay. They didn't break skin. That's a good sign."
"That doesn't mean a single thing - and you know it." Mohinder's arms cross over his chest. "It's not like you to look on the bright side."
"Someone has to," Sylar says. "If you're going to wallow in pity then it's down to me to-"
"To hide in naivety?"
If he's been touched… If their hands so much as brushed across unprotected skin… His hand travels to the side of his eyes and comes away clean, free from the telltale black fluid. It's too soon for anything to show up anyway.
"It'll be another few hours until any symptoms appear," Sylar says. The kettle begins to churn and boil behind them. "No point in worrying yet."
"Yet. Sylar, if this is-"
"Stop it," Sylar snaps. "Just stop it."
"We can't just hide from this."
"I'm not 'hiding', Suresh. What exactly do you expect me to do? There's nothing to do now but wait to see if you start turning into one of those monsters - and if you're going to do that then… I'm not going to waste time talking about 'what if'."
"If the alternative is ignoring it then I'll have to say that I think you're a fool." Mohinder shakes his head. "Denial, Sylar. That's all it is."
"I'm not denying anything," Sylar sighs in limitless frustration. "I hate you sometimes, you know."
"Only sometimes?" Mohinder says. "That's an improvement."
Sylar's eyes narrow and if he'd been any younger - or if the situation had been any less dire - then Mohinder thinks he might have stuck his tongue out at him. The kettle finishes boiling and Sylar moves to the other side of the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea. Mohinder takes a seat at the kitchen table.
"So what are we going to do?" Sylar asks once he no longer has to face Mohinder, looking down into his mug instead.
"Like you say, there's nothing we can do but wait."
"But after that. If you turn - what are we going to do?"
Mohinder's fingers tap restlessly against the table top. "I don't think you'll have any problem with it," he answers after a moment's pause. Sylar had killed dozens before the rest of the world was wiped out. He won't have a problem getting rid of Mohinder before he becomes a threat.
"I won't do it," Sylar responds. He picks up his mug and moves to sit on the opposite side of the table from him. He holds the hot object between his two hands, heating them. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way. I've been searching for a cure for years, Sylar. You know as well as I do that-"
He's silenced, suddenly, by a set of lips pressed against his own as Sylar leans across the table. Sylar's hand is by his jaw: there is the scrape of his nails on his skin and the hot blast of his breath in Mohinder's mouth. Sylar's hand doesn't move even when their lips part. He stays close enough to glare directly at Mohinder with a fury that could make armies tremble. "We will find another way," he says slowly, deliberately. Each word seems a challenge.
He breaks away and eases back into his chair, hands on the table as if nothing has happened - as if nothing has changed. Mohinder sits mutely, eyebrows raised, lips parted in frozen surprise. Too much new information to process, bottle-necking in his mind. Sylar can pretend all that he likes that everything is the same but the world has changed, is changing around them. The rushed memory of Sylar's lips against his is evidence of that - and he's not sure entirely what to do now.
Eight