Ficlet: Eternity (Heroes)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For neshel; prompt was eternity.
Spoilers: Nothing past first season.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
- - -
Sylar wonders if Mohinder believes in reincarnation.
He doesn’t know much about the religions of India; he remembers, obscurely, a world history class in a high school made distant by the monotonous years of his tenure repairing clocks. Remembers that Hindus believe in reincarnation, that they work their way up the ladder, life by life, until they get it right. Until they reach perfection.
Someone once told Sylar that those who are reincarnated have families - not families of the flesh, but soul-families, people who stay with one another, always connected, even if they don’t know or remember how. And they repeat the same patterns with one another, over and over again, a tragic, doomed circle that hurts every time, because no one remembers how to fix it.
Sylar looks up, across the diner table, to Mohinder, half-shadowed from the fluorescent lighting overhead.
“What is it?” asks Mohinder.
“Nothing,” and Sylar half-smiles, playing up the Zane Taylor of his imagination.
Sylar wonders what he would see, if he could look into his own past lives. If they even existed, of course. If he would see his mother, always dragging him back, his father - well, he’d see his father only as a lack, wouldn’t he? An absence, where there should be something important.
Maybe he would see Chandra Suresh.
Maybe - maybe he would see Mohinder.
“Zane,” says Mohinder, the corner of his mouth curling. “You’ve been staring out the window ever since we got here.”
Sylar glances up.
Maybe it’s his ability; maybe it’s just an instinct or an illusion borne of a life in a culture of stories, or maybe an unconscious memory from a life he never lived, but Sylar can almost taste the shadow of things to come.
Sylar imagines that Mohinder has always been there. Has always been just a little too far to touch.
“I’m just thinking,” says Sylar, softly.
“About what?”
Sylar reaches out, hand sliding across the table, and he touches his fingertips to Mohinder’s. Curls them around, tracing Mohinder’s skin. “Getting things right, this time.”
Mohinder shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. He opens it, in fact, letting Sylar’s fingers wander towards his palm. And he watches, his eyes caught, held by Sylar’s touch.
Sylar won’t let Mohinder get away from him. He swears it, to himself - right now.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For neshel; prompt was eternity.
Spoilers: Nothing past first season.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
- - -
Sylar wonders if Mohinder believes in reincarnation.
He doesn’t know much about the religions of India; he remembers, obscurely, a world history class in a high school made distant by the monotonous years of his tenure repairing clocks. Remembers that Hindus believe in reincarnation, that they work their way up the ladder, life by life, until they get it right. Until they reach perfection.
Someone once told Sylar that those who are reincarnated have families - not families of the flesh, but soul-families, people who stay with one another, always connected, even if they don’t know or remember how. And they repeat the same patterns with one another, over and over again, a tragic, doomed circle that hurts every time, because no one remembers how to fix it.
Sylar looks up, across the diner table, to Mohinder, half-shadowed from the fluorescent lighting overhead.
“What is it?” asks Mohinder.
“Nothing,” and Sylar half-smiles, playing up the Zane Taylor of his imagination.
Sylar wonders what he would see, if he could look into his own past lives. If they even existed, of course. If he would see his mother, always dragging him back, his father - well, he’d see his father only as a lack, wouldn’t he? An absence, where there should be something important.
Maybe he would see Chandra Suresh.
Maybe - maybe he would see Mohinder.
“Zane,” says Mohinder, the corner of his mouth curling. “You’ve been staring out the window ever since we got here.”
Sylar glances up.
Maybe it’s his ability; maybe it’s just an instinct or an illusion borne of a life in a culture of stories, or maybe an unconscious memory from a life he never lived, but Sylar can almost taste the shadow of things to come.
Sylar imagines that Mohinder has always been there. Has always been just a little too far to touch.
“I’m just thinking,” says Sylar, softly.
“About what?”
Sylar reaches out, hand sliding across the table, and he touches his fingertips to Mohinder’s. Curls them around, tracing Mohinder’s skin. “Getting things right, this time.”
Mohinder shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. He opens it, in fact, letting Sylar’s fingers wander towards his palm. And he watches, his eyes caught, held by Sylar’s touch.
Sylar won’t let Mohinder get away from him. He swears it, to himself - right now.