Fic: Recessional (Heroes)
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” asks Zane Taylor.
Mohinder shrugs, too casual. He can feel his heart beat a little faster; his palm slips, just a tad, on the steering wheel. “There can be a biological connection from a simple glance,” says Mohinder. “Desire. Lust. It is from hormones, pheromones; nothing more.”
“So,” says Zane, “you don’t think that maybe your subconscious can judge someone? Pick up on something you’re not seeing?” He pauses, for a moment. “Y’know, maybe some kind of intuition.”
Mohinder’s chest clenches. “I don’t think human beings have that kind of intuition,” he lies. “I need the rest area, is it all right if we stop here?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” says Zane, looking taken aback.
- - - -
Inside, Mohinder has the bathroom to himself. A slow travel day, he supposes - either that or this rest area is too near a city for it to be heavily trafficked.
Traveling with Zane is going to be more awkward than Mohinder realized. Especially if the man keeps posing philosophical questions - questions that Mohinder is in absolutely no shape to answer.
If Mohinder had a choice, of anyone he’d rather be traveling with -
Eden, maybe. With her slow, sweet smile, her dark eyes, her easy sensuality. She helped him, when he wasn’t ready to move on. She was willing to wait. She even kissed him…
Mohinder’s hand moves up, unconsciously, to trace the line of his mouth. God, he misses her. He misses everything. He misses his father, misses India, misses a world where everything makes sense. How can he be here, taking this leap, driving to find someone in Montana, halfway across the country from where he found Zane Taylor?
It’s not healthy, Mohinder thinks. Not healthy to hold on, to cling to the past, the way Mohinder wants it to be. It’s not what the world is.
Mohinder takes a long, shuddery breath, and he steps out, to face the world.
- - - -
“First impressions are very powerful,” says Zane, after they’ve been driving for another few minutes. “Maybe believing in love at first sight can create it, kind of.”
“One of the biggest problems in research,” says Mohinder. “Expecting the results you already have. It makes you see them, whether they’re there, or not.”
Zane sighs, through his teeth. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Mohinder glances over. “Doing what?”
“Making it about research,” says Zane. “About science.”
“In the end, maybe science is all that’s real.”
Zane is silent for a moment, then, “I don’t think you believe that.”
He wishes he did. “You know,” says Mohinder, “I’m flattered, Zane, I am, really. But I’m straight.” And I don’t have time for this.
“Everyone’s straight,” says Zane, with a shrug. “Until they’re not.”
- - - -
“Relax,” says Zane, with a laugh. “I’m not going to molest you.”
Mohinder rests his elbows on the surface of the table, keeping his eyes, carefully, on the menu. He wonders what it would be to say yes - if Zane’s touch would be as soft as his words, if kissing Zane would be like seeing him smile.
He wonders how long it would take Sylar to tear this from him, too.
“I know,” says Mohinder, with a half-laugh. You’re not what I’m afraid of, he doesn’t say.
“So, Dale Smither,” says Zane. “What ability do you think he might have?”
“Could be anything,” Mohinder tells him. “Spontaneous regeneration, enhanced strength or speed, heightened senses.”
“It’s got so much possibility, doesn’t it?”
Mohinder bites his lip. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”
- - - -
The October air is chilly; Mohinder buries his hands in his pockets, hoping to keep some of the warmth on his way into the hotel room.
“You know,” says Zane, “you could come in.”
Zane’s door is half-open - he’s paused, in the doorway, waiting for Mohinder’s response.
Mohinder shakes his head. “No, thank you, but no,” he refuses, trying to be polite, but he fights down a surge of - disappointment? - when Zane nods, and shuts the door behind him.
Once inside, Mohinder opens his laptop - the hotel has free internet, and Mohinder accesses it, without thinking, going straight to the Google homepage.
Without hesitation, Mohinder types in the name ‘Zane Taylor’ and hits enter.
- - - -
“Morning,” says Zane - Sylar.
Mohinder blinks, in the sudden sunlight. “Ah, yes,” he says. “Morning.”
“We should probably get driving soon,” suggests Sylar. “And I went out, got some doughnuts from the place across the street.”
“Ah, well,” says Mohinder, “thank you.”
His heartbeat jumps when Sylar steps close, and Mohinder wonders, wonders if he should call the police, call a friend, call someone, to tell them about the discovery of the night before.
But, he thinks, as he slides into the chair, there’s no one to call, is there?
Mohinder rolls his head, stretching aching muscles. He’s too tense - he barely slept at all.
“Here, let me,” says Sylar, and his hands slide to Mohinder’s neck.
Mohinder twitches, in surprise or fear, but it’s stifled, by the feel of hands, fingers pressing deep, tough, right where it hurts the most.
The knots loosen, and Mohinder relaxes back into his chair.
In time, he leads his father’s murderer straight to his next victim.
- - - -
It doesn’t feel real, that Sylar is right next to him, smiling at him, flirting with him. In fact, making a concerted effort to seduce him, as Mohinder notes. It feels like a dream. If he had Dale Smithers’ DNA, and he could run some tests on her - maybe that would feel real. Maybe that would wake him up.
But he doesn’t. He’s stranded out here, alone, with only one thread to cling to.
Mohinder and Zane - Sylar - have dinner in the hotel restaurant. Mohinder doesn’t taste the food, but he eats, as the sun starts to set, brilliant through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Eventually, Mohinder moves next to Sylar, on his side of the booth, to watch the clouds on fire in the sky.
When the sun goes down, Mohinder rests his head against Sylar’s shoulder, too tired to refuse any longer.
- - - -
The first time Sylar kisses him, it feels too much like Eden. Mohinder has to break away, lips stinging from the sweet touch, throat burning from the tears he never shed.
Sylar mistakes it for shyness; he cups Mohinder’s cheek, turns him back towards the kiss. This time it’s a little rougher, and Sylar’s stubble scrapes against Mohinder’s skin. No, it’s not Eden, Eden is dead.
Mohinder’s hands clench a little too hard on Sylar’s arms, and Sylar strokes him, little touches, murmurs soothing noises, slips Mohinder’s shirt off his shoulders.
Mohinder closes his eyes, his heart hammering. This man - this man has taken everything from Mohinder, stripped away his life, killed his father. And now he’s moaning, so softly, into this man’s mouth, his erection hardening, filling with every heartbeat.
He lets Sylar press him into the mattress, his skin bare against the hotel sheets. Exposed, unarmed. Vulnerable. Maybe Sylar would take this opportunity, right now - and as Mohinder arches, his neck would snap, just by the power of Sylar’s thoughts.
Please, thinks Mohinder, but instead Sylar urges him on his stomach, fingers tracing into the crack of his ass, up further, just further-
Mohinder gasps, and he melts under Sylar’s fingertips, under Sylar’s tongue, warm and wet and tracing the edge of his hole, digging just barely inside.
Before long, Mohinder is pleading, long strings of words pouring from his mouth, his body sprawled open and naked underneath Sylar’s eyes.
Of course, Sylar fucks him - Mohinder practically invited him, didn’t he? - and the detached, scientific part of Mohinder’s mind observes, with a strange clarity, that it feels good, that it feels wonderful, that he’s never had this kind of sex in his entire life.
Mohinder comes too fast, too hard. It almost hurts, and when it’s over, he feels drained, every cell in his body sucked dry. Sylar pulls Mohinder’s back into his chest, an arm over Mohinder’s waist, and Mohinder is too exhausted to protest.
Later, when Mohinder’s breath is even, when his eyes are closed, Sylar slips away, barely leaving a breeze as the sheet falls back to the bed.
When Mohinder finally falls asleep, the pillow is wet beneath his eyes.
Mohinder shrugs, too casual. He can feel his heart beat a little faster; his palm slips, just a tad, on the steering wheel. “There can be a biological connection from a simple glance,” says Mohinder. “Desire. Lust. It is from hormones, pheromones; nothing more.”
“So,” says Zane, “you don’t think that maybe your subconscious can judge someone? Pick up on something you’re not seeing?” He pauses, for a moment. “Y’know, maybe some kind of intuition.”
Mohinder’s chest clenches. “I don’t think human beings have that kind of intuition,” he lies. “I need the rest area, is it all right if we stop here?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” says Zane, looking taken aback.
- - - -
Inside, Mohinder has the bathroom to himself. A slow travel day, he supposes - either that or this rest area is too near a city for it to be heavily trafficked.
Traveling with Zane is going to be more awkward than Mohinder realized. Especially if the man keeps posing philosophical questions - questions that Mohinder is in absolutely no shape to answer.
If Mohinder had a choice, of anyone he’d rather be traveling with -
Eden, maybe. With her slow, sweet smile, her dark eyes, her easy sensuality. She helped him, when he wasn’t ready to move on. She was willing to wait. She even kissed him…
Mohinder’s hand moves up, unconsciously, to trace the line of his mouth. God, he misses her. He misses everything. He misses his father, misses India, misses a world where everything makes sense. How can he be here, taking this leap, driving to find someone in Montana, halfway across the country from where he found Zane Taylor?
It’s not healthy, Mohinder thinks. Not healthy to hold on, to cling to the past, the way Mohinder wants it to be. It’s not what the world is.
Mohinder takes a long, shuddery breath, and he steps out, to face the world.
- - - -
“First impressions are very powerful,” says Zane, after they’ve been driving for another few minutes. “Maybe believing in love at first sight can create it, kind of.”
“One of the biggest problems in research,” says Mohinder. “Expecting the results you already have. It makes you see them, whether they’re there, or not.”
Zane sighs, through his teeth. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Mohinder glances over. “Doing what?”
“Making it about research,” says Zane. “About science.”
“In the end, maybe science is all that’s real.”
Zane is silent for a moment, then, “I don’t think you believe that.”
He wishes he did. “You know,” says Mohinder, “I’m flattered, Zane, I am, really. But I’m straight.” And I don’t have time for this.
“Everyone’s straight,” says Zane, with a shrug. “Until they’re not.”
- - - -
“Relax,” says Zane, with a laugh. “I’m not going to molest you.”
Mohinder rests his elbows on the surface of the table, keeping his eyes, carefully, on the menu. He wonders what it would be to say yes - if Zane’s touch would be as soft as his words, if kissing Zane would be like seeing him smile.
He wonders how long it would take Sylar to tear this from him, too.
“I know,” says Mohinder, with a half-laugh. You’re not what I’m afraid of, he doesn’t say.
“So, Dale Smither,” says Zane. “What ability do you think he might have?”
“Could be anything,” Mohinder tells him. “Spontaneous regeneration, enhanced strength or speed, heightened senses.”
“It’s got so much possibility, doesn’t it?”
Mohinder bites his lip. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”
- - - -
The October air is chilly; Mohinder buries his hands in his pockets, hoping to keep some of the warmth on his way into the hotel room.
“You know,” says Zane, “you could come in.”
Zane’s door is half-open - he’s paused, in the doorway, waiting for Mohinder’s response.
Mohinder shakes his head. “No, thank you, but no,” he refuses, trying to be polite, but he fights down a surge of - disappointment? - when Zane nods, and shuts the door behind him.
Once inside, Mohinder opens his laptop - the hotel has free internet, and Mohinder accesses it, without thinking, going straight to the Google homepage.
Without hesitation, Mohinder types in the name ‘Zane Taylor’ and hits enter.
- - - -
“Morning,” says Zane - Sylar.
Mohinder blinks, in the sudden sunlight. “Ah, yes,” he says. “Morning.”
“We should probably get driving soon,” suggests Sylar. “And I went out, got some doughnuts from the place across the street.”
“Ah, well,” says Mohinder, “thank you.”
His heartbeat jumps when Sylar steps close, and Mohinder wonders, wonders if he should call the police, call a friend, call someone, to tell them about the discovery of the night before.
But, he thinks, as he slides into the chair, there’s no one to call, is there?
Mohinder rolls his head, stretching aching muscles. He’s too tense - he barely slept at all.
“Here, let me,” says Sylar, and his hands slide to Mohinder’s neck.
Mohinder twitches, in surprise or fear, but it’s stifled, by the feel of hands, fingers pressing deep, tough, right where it hurts the most.
The knots loosen, and Mohinder relaxes back into his chair.
In time, he leads his father’s murderer straight to his next victim.
- - - -
It doesn’t feel real, that Sylar is right next to him, smiling at him, flirting with him. In fact, making a concerted effort to seduce him, as Mohinder notes. It feels like a dream. If he had Dale Smithers’ DNA, and he could run some tests on her - maybe that would feel real. Maybe that would wake him up.
But he doesn’t. He’s stranded out here, alone, with only one thread to cling to.
Mohinder and Zane - Sylar - have dinner in the hotel restaurant. Mohinder doesn’t taste the food, but he eats, as the sun starts to set, brilliant through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Eventually, Mohinder moves next to Sylar, on his side of the booth, to watch the clouds on fire in the sky.
When the sun goes down, Mohinder rests his head against Sylar’s shoulder, too tired to refuse any longer.
- - - -
The first time Sylar kisses him, it feels too much like Eden. Mohinder has to break away, lips stinging from the sweet touch, throat burning from the tears he never shed.
Sylar mistakes it for shyness; he cups Mohinder’s cheek, turns him back towards the kiss. This time it’s a little rougher, and Sylar’s stubble scrapes against Mohinder’s skin. No, it’s not Eden, Eden is dead.
Mohinder’s hands clench a little too hard on Sylar’s arms, and Sylar strokes him, little touches, murmurs soothing noises, slips Mohinder’s shirt off his shoulders.
Mohinder closes his eyes, his heart hammering. This man - this man has taken everything from Mohinder, stripped away his life, killed his father. And now he’s moaning, so softly, into this man’s mouth, his erection hardening, filling with every heartbeat.
He lets Sylar press him into the mattress, his skin bare against the hotel sheets. Exposed, unarmed. Vulnerable. Maybe Sylar would take this opportunity, right now - and as Mohinder arches, his neck would snap, just by the power of Sylar’s thoughts.
Please, thinks Mohinder, but instead Sylar urges him on his stomach, fingers tracing into the crack of his ass, up further, just further-
Mohinder gasps, and he melts under Sylar’s fingertips, under Sylar’s tongue, warm and wet and tracing the edge of his hole, digging just barely inside.
Before long, Mohinder is pleading, long strings of words pouring from his mouth, his body sprawled open and naked underneath Sylar’s eyes.
Of course, Sylar fucks him - Mohinder practically invited him, didn’t he? - and the detached, scientific part of Mohinder’s mind observes, with a strange clarity, that it feels good, that it feels wonderful, that he’s never had this kind of sex in his entire life.
Mohinder comes too fast, too hard. It almost hurts, and when it’s over, he feels drained, every cell in his body sucked dry. Sylar pulls Mohinder’s back into his chest, an arm over Mohinder’s waist, and Mohinder is too exhausted to protest.
Later, when Mohinder’s breath is even, when his eyes are closed, Sylar slips away, barely leaving a breeze as the sheet falls back to the bed.
When Mohinder finally falls asleep, the pillow is wet beneath his eyes.