Heroes- Alike in Word.
Title: Alike in Word.
Author: top_hatted_girl .
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar. Implied Matt/Mohinder.
Spoilers: Through the finale of season two.
Warnings: Strongly implied sexual situations.
Summary: Words, even ones that mean nothing when read, carry a heavy weight with them. Especially for these two.
Disclaimer: I own very little of this and do not claim to. These characters and situations are the works of writers far more gifted than I. I am not profiting in any way from this small story, nor do I necessarily condone the practices described within its words.
A/N: Written for the mylar_fic Christmas in July Fic Exchange for etoile_dunord , whose prompt was Angst- Anagram.
Gabriel.
Are glib. Rag bile.
"Gabriel? Come upstairs." His mother’s voice is unsteady, as if she’s been shaken forcibly. "Your father’s gone out." Now it breaks into gusty sobs that breeze down the stairs to his bedroom in the basement and tingle against the skin of his ears. The sound of his pencil scratches louder against the paper, taking his name and making it into something else.
Lair beg. Grab lie.
"Gabriel?" Now stern and angry. "You come upstairs right now, young man."
I garble.
"Gabriel!"
"Coming, mama." The soft footsteps of a soft boy making his way softly, so as not to leave any mark behind, up the staircase.
--
My family.
"All right, Mohinder, you can have your paper at the table as long as you eat your dinner."
"Thank you, mama."
Mi mayfly. Ay, my film.
"What’s that you’re writing?" A deeper voice, huskier.
"Nothing, father. Just puzzles."
Filmy yam. Am fly I my.
"Ah, anagrams. Well, maybe you’d be better off with a crossword..."
"Chandra. He wants to make his own puzzle."
Quieter and tense, he leans against his elbow on the table as if trying to block Mohinder out. "I realize that. I just thought that perhaps a crossword might be more... intellectually stimulating."
A laugh. "He doesn’t need intellectual stimulation, he’s six."
"One can never start too early. She was doing them-"
The sharp clink of a silver fork against a plate. The boy jumps in his seat. Mother’s voice is thin and stretched. "Mohinder, if you’re finished with dinner, perhaps you’d better go to your room."
Thinking himself in trouble, the boy hangs his head. "Yes, mama." And pulls himself down from the table, walking towards his room.
His parents’ voices behind him argue quietly but harshly, like tiny daggers.
--
In the hospital, the boy, now grown, is recovering. Still with the marks of the utensil that pinned him to the ceiling on the skin of his belly. Still with flowering bruises of fingerprints on his arms.
Picks up a pen from the nightstand. Moves it to a piece of paper.
Monster. Mentors. En storm.
In his ears still reverberates Zane’s voice. It hurts to think about, but he can’t help it. The words rub themselves into his mind and stay there.
"Does this feel right?" Always courteous, always thoughtful. "Here- let me-" So very good to him, and so eager to please. "You aren’t cold, are you?"
"No, Zane, it’s perfectly all right." He winces at the fiery need in his own voice. "Come back down here."
Skin memories of Zane tumbling down onto the bed and straddling his hips, skimming his mouth over Mohinder’s chest lightly enough to send shudders to every molecule of his body.
Terms on. Stem nor.
"Ohh..." The memory of hot breath dusting out across the back of his neck in a long moan that made him warm all over. "Oh, Mohinder…"
Set norm, stern om, men rots.
Another memory, of lips against the nub of his neck and a voice that murmured softly, "I’ll stay with you, I promise."
The pen slips from the paper and jabs into his finger, leaving another scratch in his skin.
--
As the sword plunges into his stomach, he can see only blindingly bright words in front of his eyes.
Sword. Words.
He crumbles to the ground.
Mohinder. Hide morn. Drone him. Rind home. Oh, remind.
And then nothing else.
--
Matt sleeps soundly, shifting under the blanket of the bed and occasionally letting his head fall against Mohinder, who has a piece of paper in his hand and who smiles sweetly down at the top of Matt’s head.
I love you.
A difficult one.
Vie lo you. Ovule I yo.
He frowns.
O, you veil.
Lets his head fall back against the headboard and stares at the wall opposite him with growing dread in his eyes.
--
He stumbles blindly in the alley, falls, plunges the needle into his arm. Something powerful and intoxicating floods down his arm and into his skin. The larva of a smile emerges and grows across his face into adulthood.
Return. Err nut. Turner.
Has there ever been a more beautiful word?
--
The hardest one yet. Late at night, he goes into the kitchen where Sylar was only a few days ago, turns on all the lights, sits at the counter, begins to write.
What I need.
A riddle, if you will. To the universe at large.
A whitened. Waited hen.
Writes faster, desperate for something.
Hated wine. Heated win.
He’s breathing heavily. An imagined voice- "Hello, Dr. Suresh."
Awed thine.
"You try to solve me, but you won’t ever be able to. I’ll always be here, no matter how many times you choose to forget me. Even I can’t forget me when I’d like to."
Heed, twain.
"Why even bother? You know what you’ll come out with. We’ve both played this game too many times not to know. It always amounts to the same thing. There are things nobody can puzzle away, that there are no explanations for. Can you explain to me what love is? Can you explain to me why it is?"
A hinted we. We in death.
"I’ll be here until you die, Mohinder. I’m not afraid."
He I wanted.
He falls back from the counter, balls up the paper, and throws it away from him as hard as he can. The tears come now, silent and hot, but not as heavy or torrential as the black, black words.
Author: top_hatted_girl .
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar. Implied Matt/Mohinder.
Spoilers: Through the finale of season two.
Warnings: Strongly implied sexual situations.
Summary: Words, even ones that mean nothing when read, carry a heavy weight with them. Especially for these two.
Disclaimer: I own very little of this and do not claim to. These characters and situations are the works of writers far more gifted than I. I am not profiting in any way from this small story, nor do I necessarily condone the practices described within its words.
A/N: Written for the mylar_fic Christmas in July Fic Exchange for etoile_dunord , whose prompt was Angst- Anagram.
Gabriel.
Are glib. Rag bile.
"Gabriel? Come upstairs." His mother’s voice is unsteady, as if she’s been shaken forcibly. "Your father’s gone out." Now it breaks into gusty sobs that breeze down the stairs to his bedroom in the basement and tingle against the skin of his ears. The sound of his pencil scratches louder against the paper, taking his name and making it into something else.
Lair beg. Grab lie.
"Gabriel?" Now stern and angry. "You come upstairs right now, young man."
I garble.
"Gabriel!"
"Coming, mama." The soft footsteps of a soft boy making his way softly, so as not to leave any mark behind, up the staircase.
--
My family.
"All right, Mohinder, you can have your paper at the table as long as you eat your dinner."
"Thank you, mama."
Mi mayfly. Ay, my film.
"What’s that you’re writing?" A deeper voice, huskier.
"Nothing, father. Just puzzles."
Filmy yam. Am fly I my.
"Ah, anagrams. Well, maybe you’d be better off with a crossword..."
"Chandra. He wants to make his own puzzle."
Quieter and tense, he leans against his elbow on the table as if trying to block Mohinder out. "I realize that. I just thought that perhaps a crossword might be more... intellectually stimulating."
A laugh. "He doesn’t need intellectual stimulation, he’s six."
"One can never start too early. She was doing them-"
The sharp clink of a silver fork against a plate. The boy jumps in his seat. Mother’s voice is thin and stretched. "Mohinder, if you’re finished with dinner, perhaps you’d better go to your room."
Thinking himself in trouble, the boy hangs his head. "Yes, mama." And pulls himself down from the table, walking towards his room.
His parents’ voices behind him argue quietly but harshly, like tiny daggers.
--
In the hospital, the boy, now grown, is recovering. Still with the marks of the utensil that pinned him to the ceiling on the skin of his belly. Still with flowering bruises of fingerprints on his arms.
Picks up a pen from the nightstand. Moves it to a piece of paper.
Monster. Mentors. En storm.
In his ears still reverberates Zane’s voice. It hurts to think about, but he can’t help it. The words rub themselves into his mind and stay there.
"Does this feel right?" Always courteous, always thoughtful. "Here- let me-" So very good to him, and so eager to please. "You aren’t cold, are you?"
"No, Zane, it’s perfectly all right." He winces at the fiery need in his own voice. "Come back down here."
Skin memories of Zane tumbling down onto the bed and straddling his hips, skimming his mouth over Mohinder’s chest lightly enough to send shudders to every molecule of his body.
Terms on. Stem nor.
"Ohh..." The memory of hot breath dusting out across the back of his neck in a long moan that made him warm all over. "Oh, Mohinder…"
Set norm, stern om, men rots.
Another memory, of lips against the nub of his neck and a voice that murmured softly, "I’ll stay with you, I promise."
The pen slips from the paper and jabs into his finger, leaving another scratch in his skin.
--
As the sword plunges into his stomach, he can see only blindingly bright words in front of his eyes.
Sword. Words.
He crumbles to the ground.
Mohinder. Hide morn. Drone him. Rind home. Oh, remind.
And then nothing else.
--
Matt sleeps soundly, shifting under the blanket of the bed and occasionally letting his head fall against Mohinder, who has a piece of paper in his hand and who smiles sweetly down at the top of Matt’s head.
I love you.
A difficult one.
Vie lo you. Ovule I yo.
He frowns.
O, you veil.
Lets his head fall back against the headboard and stares at the wall opposite him with growing dread in his eyes.
--
He stumbles blindly in the alley, falls, plunges the needle into his arm. Something powerful and intoxicating floods down his arm and into his skin. The larva of a smile emerges and grows across his face into adulthood.
Return. Err nut. Turner.
Has there ever been a more beautiful word?
--
The hardest one yet. Late at night, he goes into the kitchen where Sylar was only a few days ago, turns on all the lights, sits at the counter, begins to write.
What I need.
A riddle, if you will. To the universe at large.
A whitened. Waited hen.
Writes faster, desperate for something.
Hated wine. Heated win.
He’s breathing heavily. An imagined voice- "Hello, Dr. Suresh."
Awed thine.
"You try to solve me, but you won’t ever be able to. I’ll always be here, no matter how many times you choose to forget me. Even I can’t forget me when I’d like to."
Heed, twain.
"Why even bother? You know what you’ll come out with. We’ve both played this game too many times not to know. It always amounts to the same thing. There are things nobody can puzzle away, that there are no explanations for. Can you explain to me what love is? Can you explain to me why it is?"
A hinted we. We in death.
"I’ll be here until you die, Mohinder. I’m not afraid."
He I wanted.
He falls back from the counter, balls up the paper, and throws it away from him as hard as he can. The tears come now, silent and hot, but not as heavy or torrential as the black, black words.