Fic: Sweet Dreams (Heroes)
Is he dreaming?
It doesn’t feel like a dream. It’s too vivid, the sensory details too exact. Mohinder can hear the slight echo of his footsteps - he can feel cool tile against his feet. Dreams are a little blurry, a little off, like things don’t really exist unless you’re looking right at them.
Mohinder cautiously makes his way up the stairs, one at a time, to his floor, his apartment. He moved out of here, he remembers, he’s been staying with the Petrelli’s, he never wanted to come back here, but something draws him on.
When he tests the door, it’s unlocked, and he slips inside, shutting it, quietly, behind him.
Laughter greets him, and the smell of warm chai. Mohinder pauses, in the doorway, and watches himself - himself - turn, passing a cup to Sylar.
“To new friends,” says Sylar.
Mohinder’s throat closes, and he reaches for the door, behind him. The knob doesn’t turn - not like it’s locked, but like it never was a doorknob.
“Sanjog?” calls Mohinder, shakily. The only other time he’s had dreams this accurate was when the boy, the spirit guide, was showing him the secrets of his own past. He doesn’t have any questions, this time, it doesn’t make sense for him to be here.
Mohinder turns back to the scene, just in time to see the two clink the cups together - and both take sips of the fresh chai.
“This is good,” says Sylar, “what is it?”
“Chai,” the other Mohinder tells him. “It’s a special blend my father brought from India.”
Mohinder frowns - this wasn’t the way it went. By this time, he was already bending, to look at the computer, his own chai untouched on the table. But here, he’s close to Sylar, drawing the moment out, not breaking eye contact -
Sylar coughs, looking away. “So. Who are we going to call next?”
The other Mohinder takes Sylar’s chai and sets it on the table, alongside his. “No one,” he says. “Zane, since we’ve traveled together -”
Sylar dips in and presses a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth.
Mohinder’s jaw drops. “No,” he says, twisting at the doorknob behind him. This wasn’t the way it happened, it never would have happened this way. He tries to push away from the wall, get to the other side of the room, out of here, out of here, but the knob won’t turn, the door won’t open.
The other Mohinder makes a soft noise, his eyes half-closed.
“You were going to say something about that, right?” asks Sylar, a little breathlessly. Still in Zane’s voice. “About how I look at you and you look back and okay, I could act a little more normal around you sometimes, but everything that’s happened is just really extraordinary and - and so are you.”
No, thinks Mohinder, helplessly, but he watches, watches himself take Sylar’s hand, watches the kiss go longer this time, deeper, as his arms wrap around Sylar’s neck, and oh god -
“Mohinder?”
~
Mohinder awakens, his shoulder stiff and cramped, blinking in the sunlight. “Peter?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Are you all right?” asks Peter.
Mohinder shivers, and glances around. He fell asleep. This is the guest room, the Petrelli’s guest room, and he fell asleep working on his computer. Trying to reconstruct lost data.
“Ah,” says Mohinder, “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” says Peter. “What were you dreaming about?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “It was nothing.”
~
Mohinder thinks he won’t be able to get to sleep, that night. The dream frightened him, more than he thought possible - just the idea of being so helpless at Sylar’s hands, letting the man in even further -
But, Mohinder is asleep the second his head touches the pillow.
~
Become him - if you dare is written on the mirror, the moisture already leaving dripping trails, stretching the words grotesquely. Mohinder reaches out, to smear the message out of the mirror, but his hand halts in midair, and he hears a noise, from the other room.
He’s chilled, inside and out, with an incredible sense of dread, but, somehow, a kind of calm bleeds through it. It’s just a dream - he can’t be hurt here. It’s just a dream.
The door creaks open, at the push of his fingertips, and he moves, step by step, down the hallway. Here - a gasp, incredulous, then a groan. Coming from the bedroom.
His heart in his throat, Mohinder steps through the door.
On the bed, Mohinder is against the mattress, Sylar between his legs -
At the doorway, Mohinder tries to breathe. He doesn’t imagine what Sylar’s mouth would feel like, no he doesn’t, he doesn’t wonder what Sylar’s hand is doing, slipped into the darkness between Mohinder’s thighs.
The dark figure on the bed gives a pained cry, as though from some kind of torture, and he throws his head back against the pillow, arching helplessly into Sylar’s touch.
This Sylar is too fierce - it’s a wonder that the Mohinder on the bed hasn’t figured it out already. But, no, of course he wouldn’t figure it out, his mind is melting. Sylar’s own intuitive aptitude must give him some way to keep Mohinder helpless, not suspicious.
Mohinder shudders, and he watches, aroused, hard despite the reflexive revulsion at the idea of Sylar’s touch. A kind of sick fascination draws him on, to see Sylar shift upwards, drive inside, with such a force that the form below him cries out into his neck, clutching, grasping.
Mohinder hasn’t been fucked like this, not ever - and just seeing it is almost enough -
~
When he awakens, the sheets are sweaty and tangled, and there’s someone knocking, roughly and loudly, at the door.
“What is it?” he calls, trying to recover his breath.
~
“Another body, Mohinder,” repeats Peter, earnestly. “Sylar is back. Hiro obviously didn’t finish him off last time - that means we have to go.”
“Go?” asks Mohinder, incredulously.
“Yes,” says Peter. “We have to get out of here. If Sylar thinks your research is here, here is where he’ll concentrate his efforts. I can protect you, Mohinder.”
“You can protect me.” Mohinder’s voice is flat. “Forgive me if I find that a bit hard to believe from the man who nearly blew up New York City.”
Peter grits his jaw. “I’m the only one who has a hope of stopping Sylar. We have to go.”
Mohinder hesitates. It seems, to him, like a bad idea. “All right,” he says, finally. “Let me get my things.”
~
“You need a rest area?” asks Peter.
“Mm,” says Mohinder.
When they stop, Mohinder goes to the men’s bathroom, pushes open the door - nearly trips on a bucket full of paint brushes.
Paint brushes?
He looks up.
“You can’t,” gasps Isaac Mendez, “fight…the future.”
“Neither can you.”
Mohinder’s stomach sinks in horror.
“It’s all right,” says Isaac, his voice tight with pain. His arms - legs - nailed to the floor - “To die here, with you. But not before I show them how to kill you, and stop the bomb.” He breathes. “I finally get to be a hero.”
The doorknob moves under Mohinder’s hands. He slips through, slamming it behind him.
In the bed, a prone form, asleep. Dark curls - it’s him. He’s asleep in the bed.
Mohinder glances around. Nothing else. The room is in darkness.
Then - slowly, the door eases open, and a form slips through, barely visible in the shadow. It pauses, near the bed, and Mohinder hears the soft rustle of cloth dropping to the floor. And, finally, the comforter shifts.
“Zane?” comes Mohinder’s voice, sleepy.
Sylar’s whisper, back, is inaudible.
They can’t see him - and if Mohinder is supposed to learn something from this, if it is Sanjog, then he should hear them, right? He moves onto the bed, careful and quiet, inching forward.
And he slips.
For a horrible, dreadful moment, Mohinder thinks he’s falling. Falling endlessly, down something slippery, something frictionless and frightening and bottomless. He flails, out of control, and, with a thud he falls into his own body.
“It was probably all the chai you made me drink,” Sylar murmurs, against his ear.
Mohinder sighs, sleepily, and he smiles. The ache inside him throbs, distant and pleasant.
“Good night,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Sylar’s mouth.
“Good night, Mohinder,” and Sylar kisses him, closer and longer.
Mohinder falls asleep against Sylar’s body
~
and wakes up with his head braced against the seat belt.
Mohinder winces, straightening out his neck.
“Wow,” says Peter. “Were you actually asleep all that time?”
Mohinder blinks, looks out the window. It’s nearly evening; the sun is almost set.
“Ah,” says Mohinder. “I suppose.”
“Weird.” Peter checks the rearview mirror, then glances to Mohinder. “It’s like you’re turning narcoleptic the past few days. Do you think you might be sick?”
“I think,” says Mohinder, slowly, “that someone is trying to tell me something.”
“Trying to tell you what?” asks Peter. “‘Sleep more’?”
Mohinder bites his lip. “I’m not sure.”
~
He awakens slowly and lazily, to the sensation of Zane Taylor’s hands, pulling the blanket away.
“Zane?” he questions, unafraid, as Zane moves half-over Mohinder.
“Sssh,” says Zane, and he kisses Mohinder, long and sweet. Mohinder feels himself start to moan, low in his throat, by the time Zane breaks away, moving to lines of Mohinder’s throat.
Mohinder has missed this. He’s been alone for so long - Eden was his only friend, here, and India is so far away. He misses his old life, misses his father, and Zane is so kind, so intent. And he makes Mohinder happy.
Zane moves to Mohinder’s chest, and Mohinder half-pulls away. He’s never liked stimulation, there - he’s sensitive, and often people underestimate that, they’re too rough.
But Zane doesn’t press. He doesn’t pinch or rub. He just licks, just over the nub, soft and wet, and blows, a slow, thin stream of air. Goosebumps rush up Mohinder’s skin and he gasps, in disbelief. It’s almost like Zane already knows what he likes, even more than Mohinder knows himself.
A soft brush of the pad of Zane’s finger, to warm the chilled nipple, and Zane’s hand moves down, to the flat of Mohinder’s stomach.
Mohinder loves this. Zane explores slowly and easily, like Mohinder is a treasure, delicate and beautiful. He almost worships, and it’s the best sex Mohinder has ever had. A lover, completely attuned to what he wants, what he needs - and the best part, the most intense of all, is every time he glances up, opens his eyes, he sees Zane watching him, wanting him.
Zane’s fingers stroke between his legs, moving along his cleft, stopping to press, examine the scattering of curls at the base of Mohinder’s erection.
“God, you’re so beautiful…”
Mohinder’s chest constricts, and he climaxes, abruptly, unexpectedly, with Zane barely even touching him.
He pants, shallowly, as his body recovers. He sits up, then, reaches out for Zane.
“No,” says Zane, stopping him. “Not yet.” He smiles. “That was just the beginning.”
~
The sound of shattering glass rouses Mohinder.
“Peter?” he calls, pushing the covers away.
He sees Peter’s form, crumpled on the ground, the mirror cracked and shattered and bloody by his head.
“Hello, Mohinder,” he hears, from behind him.
This isn’t real, Mohinder thinks, desperately, but it is. There’s smell and touch and the noise of the air conditioner in the background, and it’s just like he left it, just like he fell asleep the night before.
Mohinder opens his mouth to yell, and his throat closes.
A hand slides over his eyes, and everything goes black.
~
Sylar’s eyes are cloudy white; he holds a paintbrush, pointed at an empty canvas.
Mohinder pauses, wondering, but then he sees the roiling paint, the colors streaming and settling into one another. It’s an amazingly fine-tuned use of telekinesis, and Mohinder draws forward, watching the subjects solidify.
The painting is of Sylar himself, attacking someone…
“That man,” murmurs Sylar.
Mohinder jumps, before he realizes that Sylar is just talking to himself.
“He’s the exploding man.” Sylar considers, glances to another painting. “And I’m going to take his power.” He looks to his own hands, then at Isaac’s dead body, on the floor. “I’m going to explode. Is this my future? Is this what you saw, Isaac?”
~
Mohinder hurts.
His wrists throb, dull and rhythmic. His shoulders are strained, pulled behind him, and his back aches.
He opens his eyes, blearily.
“No,” comes Sylar’s voice.
“What,” Mohinder breathes, as Sylar’s hand cups his jaw, too roughly.
“You’re not supposed to wake up,” hisses Sylar. “Go back to sleep.”
The world spins, dips sharply, and Mohinder closes his eyes.
~
“Why would someone want to kill so many people?”
Mohinder looks up from the sink, in surprise. “Sylar is a killer,” he says. “It’s what he does.”
“They mean nothing,” continues Zane, lowly. “They’re innocent. There’s no possible gain. Why would he do it?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Mohinder shrugs. “So long as we stop him.”
“But, what if,” Zane says, “what if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s just as helpless in these circumstances as we are?”
Mohinder shuts a cabinet, frowning. “He’s a murderer. He doesn’t get the luxury of regret.”
Zane leans forward. “What if it was me?”
Mohinder freezes. “What?”
“What if, in order to be special, I had to hurt a lot of people - what should I do?” Zane looks at him pleadingly, desperately.
“I know you’d make the right choice,” says Mohinder, dismissively. “Besides, Zane, you already are special.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be,” mutters Zane, softly.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to be?” Mohinder smiles. “It’s a gift.”
“Maybe just being Zane Taylor is enough.” Zane looks up at him. “Can’t you tell me that being a normal person, just being Zane Taylor from Virginia Beach, that that’s enough?”
Mohinder eases into the chair across from Zane, and takes Zane’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “You’re not just Zane Taylor from Virginia Beach,” says Mohinder. “You’re something unique, and special, and you can do a lot of good in this world.” He slides his other hand in, sandwiching Zane’s between his. “You can be so much more than a - a small-time musician.”
Mohinder doesn’t understand the tears staining Zane’s eyes.
“Zane, what is it?”
“I have something to tell you,” whispers Zane.
~
“Stop this,” Mohinder pleads, struggling awake. It’s like pushing away deep, soft mud. It would be so easy to give up, let sleep swallow him again. “You can’t keep me in a dream forever.”
“I don’t have to,” says Sylar, softly. “Sssh,” and he strokes Mohinder’s cheek, soft and rhythmic.
Mohinder whimpers, pulling at the bonds securing his hands, but he’s not strong enough to resist.
~
“Stop this, Mohinder,” begs Sylar, almost in a sob.
“Stop this?” Mohinder’s vision clouds, in fury. “You killed my father!”
“I’m sorry,” says Sylar, “I’m so sorry-”
“You don’t get to say you’re sorry,” Mohinder spits. “I let you-” He stops, unable to voice it. “You lied.”
Sylar reaches out for him.
Mohinder pulls a gun, from the drawer next to him.
“Mohinder!”
“Shut up,” snaps Mohinder.
“You’re going to become a murderer?” asks Sylar. “Like me?”
“What you did was murder,” Mohinder shoots back. “What I’m doing is revenge.”
Sylar reaches out a hand, and the gun jerks out of Mohinder’s grasp. There’s a distant smack, as the grip hits Sylar’s palm.
“I don’t want to blow up New York,” says Sylar, shakily.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sylar closes his eyes, anguish in every line of his body.
The gunshot is amazingly loud. For a horrible second, Mohinder thinks it blew out his eardrums, thinks that maybe Sylar shot him, that he just hasn’t felt the pain yet -
Then Sylar thuds to the ground, blood spreading sticky and slow on the hardwood floor.
Mohinder falls to his knees
~
and retches, dry heaving, twisting against his bonds.
“Is that what you want, Mohinder?” Sylar’s hands grip his shoulders, bring his eyes up. “Is that what you want? I would be dead. No exploding man. No more Sylar, no more deaths. Your father, avenged.”
Mohinder can’t breathe.
“Is that what you want?”
Mohinder gasps, his throat burning.
“You wondered what would happen if you didn’t find out,” continues Sylar, low and fast. “Now you know.”
“Why?” manages Mohinder.
“I need to know,” says Sylar. “I need you to tell me.” He’s quieter now, and Mohinder can see the redness of his eyes. The exhaustion, the pain. “Please, tell me,” softer still. “Is it what you want? Do you want me dead?”
Mohinder doesn’t know what Sylar wants him to answer.
BANG.
It’s against the door, behind Mohinder. Sylar’s eyes are wide, wild - he kneels in front of Mohinder, a hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “Tell me,” he pleads. “Tell me.”
“Mohinder!” comes the call, from outside the door. “Hang on!”
It’s Peter; Peter is almost here.
Mohinder swallows.
“Mohinder,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can see that he’s ready for his own death, ready to accept Mohinder’s choice. “Mohinder, please.”
BANG.
Mohinder shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “No. Don’t die.”
Sylar closes his eyes. A shudder passes through his body - almost of pain.
BANG.
The door is nearly off its hinges now.
Sylar moves to his feet. Mohinder remembers the press of Sylar’s lips, dry against his temple, and the “sweet dreams”, Sylar’s breath against his ear.
By the time Peter breaks in, Sylar is already gone.
It doesn’t feel like a dream. It’s too vivid, the sensory details too exact. Mohinder can hear the slight echo of his footsteps - he can feel cool tile against his feet. Dreams are a little blurry, a little off, like things don’t really exist unless you’re looking right at them.
Mohinder cautiously makes his way up the stairs, one at a time, to his floor, his apartment. He moved out of here, he remembers, he’s been staying with the Petrelli’s, he never wanted to come back here, but something draws him on.
When he tests the door, it’s unlocked, and he slips inside, shutting it, quietly, behind him.
Laughter greets him, and the smell of warm chai. Mohinder pauses, in the doorway, and watches himself - himself - turn, passing a cup to Sylar.
“To new friends,” says Sylar.
Mohinder’s throat closes, and he reaches for the door, behind him. The knob doesn’t turn - not like it’s locked, but like it never was a doorknob.
“Sanjog?” calls Mohinder, shakily. The only other time he’s had dreams this accurate was when the boy, the spirit guide, was showing him the secrets of his own past. He doesn’t have any questions, this time, it doesn’t make sense for him to be here.
Mohinder turns back to the scene, just in time to see the two clink the cups together - and both take sips of the fresh chai.
“This is good,” says Sylar, “what is it?”
“Chai,” the other Mohinder tells him. “It’s a special blend my father brought from India.”
Mohinder frowns - this wasn’t the way it went. By this time, he was already bending, to look at the computer, his own chai untouched on the table. But here, he’s close to Sylar, drawing the moment out, not breaking eye contact -
Sylar coughs, looking away. “So. Who are we going to call next?”
The other Mohinder takes Sylar’s chai and sets it on the table, alongside his. “No one,” he says. “Zane, since we’ve traveled together -”
Sylar dips in and presses a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth.
Mohinder’s jaw drops. “No,” he says, twisting at the doorknob behind him. This wasn’t the way it happened, it never would have happened this way. He tries to push away from the wall, get to the other side of the room, out of here, out of here, but the knob won’t turn, the door won’t open.
The other Mohinder makes a soft noise, his eyes half-closed.
“You were going to say something about that, right?” asks Sylar, a little breathlessly. Still in Zane’s voice. “About how I look at you and you look back and okay, I could act a little more normal around you sometimes, but everything that’s happened is just really extraordinary and - and so are you.”
No, thinks Mohinder, helplessly, but he watches, watches himself take Sylar’s hand, watches the kiss go longer this time, deeper, as his arms wrap around Sylar’s neck, and oh god -
“Mohinder?”
~
Mohinder awakens, his shoulder stiff and cramped, blinking in the sunlight. “Peter?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Are you all right?” asks Peter.
Mohinder shivers, and glances around. He fell asleep. This is the guest room, the Petrelli’s guest room, and he fell asleep working on his computer. Trying to reconstruct lost data.
“Ah,” says Mohinder, “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” says Peter. “What were you dreaming about?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “It was nothing.”
~
Mohinder thinks he won’t be able to get to sleep, that night. The dream frightened him, more than he thought possible - just the idea of being so helpless at Sylar’s hands, letting the man in even further -
But, Mohinder is asleep the second his head touches the pillow.
~
Become him - if you dare is written on the mirror, the moisture already leaving dripping trails, stretching the words grotesquely. Mohinder reaches out, to smear the message out of the mirror, but his hand halts in midair, and he hears a noise, from the other room.
He’s chilled, inside and out, with an incredible sense of dread, but, somehow, a kind of calm bleeds through it. It’s just a dream - he can’t be hurt here. It’s just a dream.
The door creaks open, at the push of his fingertips, and he moves, step by step, down the hallway. Here - a gasp, incredulous, then a groan. Coming from the bedroom.
His heart in his throat, Mohinder steps through the door.
On the bed, Mohinder is against the mattress, Sylar between his legs -
At the doorway, Mohinder tries to breathe. He doesn’t imagine what Sylar’s mouth would feel like, no he doesn’t, he doesn’t wonder what Sylar’s hand is doing, slipped into the darkness between Mohinder’s thighs.
The dark figure on the bed gives a pained cry, as though from some kind of torture, and he throws his head back against the pillow, arching helplessly into Sylar’s touch.
This Sylar is too fierce - it’s a wonder that the Mohinder on the bed hasn’t figured it out already. But, no, of course he wouldn’t figure it out, his mind is melting. Sylar’s own intuitive aptitude must give him some way to keep Mohinder helpless, not suspicious.
Mohinder shudders, and he watches, aroused, hard despite the reflexive revulsion at the idea of Sylar’s touch. A kind of sick fascination draws him on, to see Sylar shift upwards, drive inside, with such a force that the form below him cries out into his neck, clutching, grasping.
Mohinder hasn’t been fucked like this, not ever - and just seeing it is almost enough -
~
When he awakens, the sheets are sweaty and tangled, and there’s someone knocking, roughly and loudly, at the door.
“What is it?” he calls, trying to recover his breath.
~
“Another body, Mohinder,” repeats Peter, earnestly. “Sylar is back. Hiro obviously didn’t finish him off last time - that means we have to go.”
“Go?” asks Mohinder, incredulously.
“Yes,” says Peter. “We have to get out of here. If Sylar thinks your research is here, here is where he’ll concentrate his efforts. I can protect you, Mohinder.”
“You can protect me.” Mohinder’s voice is flat. “Forgive me if I find that a bit hard to believe from the man who nearly blew up New York City.”
Peter grits his jaw. “I’m the only one who has a hope of stopping Sylar. We have to go.”
Mohinder hesitates. It seems, to him, like a bad idea. “All right,” he says, finally. “Let me get my things.”
~
“You need a rest area?” asks Peter.
“Mm,” says Mohinder.
When they stop, Mohinder goes to the men’s bathroom, pushes open the door - nearly trips on a bucket full of paint brushes.
Paint brushes?
He looks up.
“You can’t,” gasps Isaac Mendez, “fight…the future.”
“Neither can you.”
Mohinder’s stomach sinks in horror.
“It’s all right,” says Isaac, his voice tight with pain. His arms - legs - nailed to the floor - “To die here, with you. But not before I show them how to kill you, and stop the bomb.” He breathes. “I finally get to be a hero.”
The doorknob moves under Mohinder’s hands. He slips through, slamming it behind him.
In the bed, a prone form, asleep. Dark curls - it’s him. He’s asleep in the bed.
Mohinder glances around. Nothing else. The room is in darkness.
Then - slowly, the door eases open, and a form slips through, barely visible in the shadow. It pauses, near the bed, and Mohinder hears the soft rustle of cloth dropping to the floor. And, finally, the comforter shifts.
“Zane?” comes Mohinder’s voice, sleepy.
Sylar’s whisper, back, is inaudible.
They can’t see him - and if Mohinder is supposed to learn something from this, if it is Sanjog, then he should hear them, right? He moves onto the bed, careful and quiet, inching forward.
And he slips.
For a horrible, dreadful moment, Mohinder thinks he’s falling. Falling endlessly, down something slippery, something frictionless and frightening and bottomless. He flails, out of control, and, with a thud he falls into his own body.
“It was probably all the chai you made me drink,” Sylar murmurs, against his ear.
Mohinder sighs, sleepily, and he smiles. The ache inside him throbs, distant and pleasant.
“Good night,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Sylar’s mouth.
“Good night, Mohinder,” and Sylar kisses him, closer and longer.
Mohinder falls asleep against Sylar’s body
~
and wakes up with his head braced against the seat belt.
Mohinder winces, straightening out his neck.
“Wow,” says Peter. “Were you actually asleep all that time?”
Mohinder blinks, looks out the window. It’s nearly evening; the sun is almost set.
“Ah,” says Mohinder. “I suppose.”
“Weird.” Peter checks the rearview mirror, then glances to Mohinder. “It’s like you’re turning narcoleptic the past few days. Do you think you might be sick?”
“I think,” says Mohinder, slowly, “that someone is trying to tell me something.”
“Trying to tell you what?” asks Peter. “‘Sleep more’?”
Mohinder bites his lip. “I’m not sure.”
~
He awakens slowly and lazily, to the sensation of Zane Taylor’s hands, pulling the blanket away.
“Zane?” he questions, unafraid, as Zane moves half-over Mohinder.
“Sssh,” says Zane, and he kisses Mohinder, long and sweet. Mohinder feels himself start to moan, low in his throat, by the time Zane breaks away, moving to lines of Mohinder’s throat.
Mohinder has missed this. He’s been alone for so long - Eden was his only friend, here, and India is so far away. He misses his old life, misses his father, and Zane is so kind, so intent. And he makes Mohinder happy.
Zane moves to Mohinder’s chest, and Mohinder half-pulls away. He’s never liked stimulation, there - he’s sensitive, and often people underestimate that, they’re too rough.
But Zane doesn’t press. He doesn’t pinch or rub. He just licks, just over the nub, soft and wet, and blows, a slow, thin stream of air. Goosebumps rush up Mohinder’s skin and he gasps, in disbelief. It’s almost like Zane already knows what he likes, even more than Mohinder knows himself.
A soft brush of the pad of Zane’s finger, to warm the chilled nipple, and Zane’s hand moves down, to the flat of Mohinder’s stomach.
Mohinder loves this. Zane explores slowly and easily, like Mohinder is a treasure, delicate and beautiful. He almost worships, and it’s the best sex Mohinder has ever had. A lover, completely attuned to what he wants, what he needs - and the best part, the most intense of all, is every time he glances up, opens his eyes, he sees Zane watching him, wanting him.
Zane’s fingers stroke between his legs, moving along his cleft, stopping to press, examine the scattering of curls at the base of Mohinder’s erection.
“God, you’re so beautiful…”
Mohinder’s chest constricts, and he climaxes, abruptly, unexpectedly, with Zane barely even touching him.
He pants, shallowly, as his body recovers. He sits up, then, reaches out for Zane.
“No,” says Zane, stopping him. “Not yet.” He smiles. “That was just the beginning.”
~
The sound of shattering glass rouses Mohinder.
“Peter?” he calls, pushing the covers away.
He sees Peter’s form, crumpled on the ground, the mirror cracked and shattered and bloody by his head.
“Hello, Mohinder,” he hears, from behind him.
This isn’t real, Mohinder thinks, desperately, but it is. There’s smell and touch and the noise of the air conditioner in the background, and it’s just like he left it, just like he fell asleep the night before.
Mohinder opens his mouth to yell, and his throat closes.
A hand slides over his eyes, and everything goes black.
~
Sylar’s eyes are cloudy white; he holds a paintbrush, pointed at an empty canvas.
Mohinder pauses, wondering, but then he sees the roiling paint, the colors streaming and settling into one another. It’s an amazingly fine-tuned use of telekinesis, and Mohinder draws forward, watching the subjects solidify.
The painting is of Sylar himself, attacking someone…
“That man,” murmurs Sylar.
Mohinder jumps, before he realizes that Sylar is just talking to himself.
“He’s the exploding man.” Sylar considers, glances to another painting. “And I’m going to take his power.” He looks to his own hands, then at Isaac’s dead body, on the floor. “I’m going to explode. Is this my future? Is this what you saw, Isaac?”
~
Mohinder hurts.
His wrists throb, dull and rhythmic. His shoulders are strained, pulled behind him, and his back aches.
He opens his eyes, blearily.
“No,” comes Sylar’s voice.
“What,” Mohinder breathes, as Sylar’s hand cups his jaw, too roughly.
“You’re not supposed to wake up,” hisses Sylar. “Go back to sleep.”
The world spins, dips sharply, and Mohinder closes his eyes.
~
“Why would someone want to kill so many people?”
Mohinder looks up from the sink, in surprise. “Sylar is a killer,” he says. “It’s what he does.”
“They mean nothing,” continues Zane, lowly. “They’re innocent. There’s no possible gain. Why would he do it?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Mohinder shrugs. “So long as we stop him.”
“But, what if,” Zane says, “what if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s just as helpless in these circumstances as we are?”
Mohinder shuts a cabinet, frowning. “He’s a murderer. He doesn’t get the luxury of regret.”
Zane leans forward. “What if it was me?”
Mohinder freezes. “What?”
“What if, in order to be special, I had to hurt a lot of people - what should I do?” Zane looks at him pleadingly, desperately.
“I know you’d make the right choice,” says Mohinder, dismissively. “Besides, Zane, you already are special.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be,” mutters Zane, softly.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to be?” Mohinder smiles. “It’s a gift.”
“Maybe just being Zane Taylor is enough.” Zane looks up at him. “Can’t you tell me that being a normal person, just being Zane Taylor from Virginia Beach, that that’s enough?”
Mohinder eases into the chair across from Zane, and takes Zane’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “You’re not just Zane Taylor from Virginia Beach,” says Mohinder. “You’re something unique, and special, and you can do a lot of good in this world.” He slides his other hand in, sandwiching Zane’s between his. “You can be so much more than a - a small-time musician.”
Mohinder doesn’t understand the tears staining Zane’s eyes.
“Zane, what is it?”
“I have something to tell you,” whispers Zane.
~
“Stop this,” Mohinder pleads, struggling awake. It’s like pushing away deep, soft mud. It would be so easy to give up, let sleep swallow him again. “You can’t keep me in a dream forever.”
“I don’t have to,” says Sylar, softly. “Sssh,” and he strokes Mohinder’s cheek, soft and rhythmic.
Mohinder whimpers, pulling at the bonds securing his hands, but he’s not strong enough to resist.
~
“Stop this, Mohinder,” begs Sylar, almost in a sob.
“Stop this?” Mohinder’s vision clouds, in fury. “You killed my father!”
“I’m sorry,” says Sylar, “I’m so sorry-”
“You don’t get to say you’re sorry,” Mohinder spits. “I let you-” He stops, unable to voice it. “You lied.”
Sylar reaches out for him.
Mohinder pulls a gun, from the drawer next to him.
“Mohinder!”
“Shut up,” snaps Mohinder.
“You’re going to become a murderer?” asks Sylar. “Like me?”
“What you did was murder,” Mohinder shoots back. “What I’m doing is revenge.”
Sylar reaches out a hand, and the gun jerks out of Mohinder’s grasp. There’s a distant smack, as the grip hits Sylar’s palm.
“I don’t want to blow up New York,” says Sylar, shakily.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sylar closes his eyes, anguish in every line of his body.
The gunshot is amazingly loud. For a horrible second, Mohinder thinks it blew out his eardrums, thinks that maybe Sylar shot him, that he just hasn’t felt the pain yet -
Then Sylar thuds to the ground, blood spreading sticky and slow on the hardwood floor.
Mohinder falls to his knees
~
and retches, dry heaving, twisting against his bonds.
“Is that what you want, Mohinder?” Sylar’s hands grip his shoulders, bring his eyes up. “Is that what you want? I would be dead. No exploding man. No more Sylar, no more deaths. Your father, avenged.”
Mohinder can’t breathe.
“Is that what you want?”
Mohinder gasps, his throat burning.
“You wondered what would happen if you didn’t find out,” continues Sylar, low and fast. “Now you know.”
“Why?” manages Mohinder.
“I need to know,” says Sylar. “I need you to tell me.” He’s quieter now, and Mohinder can see the redness of his eyes. The exhaustion, the pain. “Please, tell me,” softer still. “Is it what you want? Do you want me dead?”
Mohinder doesn’t know what Sylar wants him to answer.
BANG.
It’s against the door, behind Mohinder. Sylar’s eyes are wide, wild - he kneels in front of Mohinder, a hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “Tell me,” he pleads. “Tell me.”
“Mohinder!” comes the call, from outside the door. “Hang on!”
It’s Peter; Peter is almost here.
Mohinder swallows.
“Mohinder,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can see that he’s ready for his own death, ready to accept Mohinder’s choice. “Mohinder, please.”
BANG.
Mohinder shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “No. Don’t die.”
Sylar closes his eyes. A shudder passes through his body - almost of pain.
BANG.
The door is nearly off its hinges now.
Sylar moves to his feet. Mohinder remembers the press of Sylar’s lips, dry against his temple, and the “sweet dreams”, Sylar’s breath against his ear.
By the time Peter breaks in, Sylar is already gone.