Lay Your Hands On Me (Heroes, Mohinder/Peter)
Title: Lay Your Hands On Me
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Mohinder/Peter
Word Count: 2006
Rating/Warnings: R for drug use and sexuality
Notes: Written for heroes_holidays. Concrit is always welcome.
Mohinder sighs, glances up at the ceiling like he's begging mercy from some deity, maybe any deity that'll listen, and rolls his neck.
“This is getting us nowhere, Peter. We've been through every one of these books three times already, there is nothing here that will help us.” He tosses a book on the pile of abandoned books that's been growing ever larger over the past few hours.
Peter puts a finger in his own book to mark the page, pushing his bangs back with his free hand. “There must be something we missed, Mohinder, something, anything. This can't just be it. What's the point of giving me this ability if I'm just going to...” He struggles to find the words to explain it tactfully, even though Mohinder knows full well to what he's referring. “If I'm just going to blow up.” He fails at tact.
“Perhaps you have already served your purpose,” Mohinder states, and it's a mixture of frustration and anxiety that blunts his sentiment.
Peter tosses his book aside and tries not to look like a man condemned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He stands up and stretches, and looking out at the dark city, he starts to wonder if it's the last time he'll stretch like that, or say something in that tone, or see the city from this perspective. Lasts pile up pretty quickly when you can see your imminent death.
“I wish I had more optimistic views to share, Peter, but we must face the truth: there may not be a way to prevent your death. In fact, your death may be the next step in saving the world.”
Peter leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He hadn't been afraid to die when he'd faced Sylar, but he'd known what he was dying for, then. He'd been saving the cheerleader. He'd been doing what he knew he was destined to do. Exploding in a burst of light and taking a major city out with him didn't seem like the most honorable way to go. And he wasn't sure Mohinder's theory about destiny held any water. He hoped it didn't, anyway.
“Who's to say I didn't get that vision so we could prevent it? What if it's Sylar's doing, or...” He shakes his head, pushing away from the window. His mouth twists bitterly, eyes locking on Mohinder's cool gaze. “You really think blowing up New York City is what destiny has planned?”
Mohinder shrugs, finally dropping his gaze. “None of us can pretend to know what destiny has in store.”
Peter flops down into a chair, elbows on his knees and head bowed. “Exactly.” When he lifts his head again, he's staring out at Mohinder through his bangs, eyes begging for a solution. Mohinder forgets sometimes how young Peter Petrelli really is; how idealistic; how frightened he is behind his heroics.
Mohinder takes the chair next to Peter, swallowing his frustration and nodding. “You're right, Peter. We just have to look harder, deeper. Perhaps there is more in my father's library in India that we haven't thought to explore. I'll call and have the rest of his books shipped tomorrow.”
Peter smiles, relieved, grateful. As long as they're still looking for an answer, even if it's right up to the moment before the city explodes around him, it's not as hopeless. He's not as hopeless.
They sit in silence a while, neither of them ready to dive back into the pile of books just yet now that they've decided they are going to continue.
Peter rubs his face, scrubs at it like the tired is something he can wipe off. It's been two days since he slept; months since he slept well. Before all of this, he'd have done something to help take the edge off, but smoking pot in the face of impending armeggedon seems...wrong somehow. But Peter supposes there's no real precedent for rights and wrongs when the world's about to end, and as far as he knows, pot is ok when your life's about to end, so why the hell not.
He digs a baggie out of his pocket, papers out of the other pocket, and a lighter out of his jacket. The perks of being a nurse dealing with hospice patients include access to a pretty decent stash.
Mohinder's eyebrows arch a fraction of an inch, indictating curiosity and slight disapproval without using more than a few muscles.
“What?” Peter's already rolling one, fingers moving nimbly. “Saving the world is stressful.” Mohinder still doesn't say anything, so Peter licks the paper and gets a little defensive. “I'm not asking you to smoke it, Mohinder. Calm down.”
Mohinder lifts a shoulder and leans his cheek into his hand, watching Peter with genuine interest. He hadn't though the boy was the type.
Peter leans back and lights the joint, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs. It's better than he remembers, hitting him like a really, really relaxing freight train. Trying to figure out how to save the world, not to mention himself, doesn't seem like such an impossible task anymore. It's still impossible, just...not impossible to the nth degree.
He lets the smoke out in a rush, head buzzing from lack of oxygen. Sliding down in his chair, he takes another drag, just as large as the first, squinting and nearly going cross-eyed while he watches the paper burn, a few embers floating down to the carpet.
“You're going to set my apartment on fire,” Mohinder says, gently admonishing, and reaches out to pluck the joint from Peter's lips.
Peter would disagree; he's very responsible, and he's never set fire to anything in his life, but he's too relaxed, too mellow, too glad that he's not thinking about how many lives he'll take when he dies.
Mohinder puts the joint to his own lips, puffing like he's done this before, and for that Peter can overcome his laziness to note. He hoots, laughing and waving the smoke away so he can watch this event clearly, and Mohinder can't help but smirk around the tight hold his lips have on the joint.
They pass it back and forth a few times before it's burnt out, leaving them in a comfortable, hazy silence. It's not so bad, Peter thinks, it won't be so bad if he dies. In his vision, the streets were abandoned, not many people would die with him. Except the ones that mattered, and of course, that's the thing. If he could save anyone in the world, he'd save them, and it doesn't seem ok that if he dies, they're the ones that'll go with him.
Mohinder leaves to find a drink, and when he comes back, Peter's on the floor, staring at the ceiling with one hand on his chest and tears in his eyes.
“I don't want Nathan to die,” he says, and it's such a plea for help that Mohinder wishes more than anything that he had the answer Peter needs.
“We'll figure something out,” Mohinder murmurs, voice low and thick from the pot, his body feeling slow and heavy as he lowers himself to the floor and stretches out next to Peter.
“No, we won't. We've been looking for days, and there's nothing. The only thing to do is leave, or kill myself before I burst. That's the only way we can control the outcome.”
Mohinder rests his head on his bicep, watching Peter's profile. “There is no guarantee that we could control any outcome, Peter,” and he has more to say, something deep and wise and reminiscent of his father, but he can't quite keep his thoughts in order, so he just stops there.
“They'll be ok if you're still around,” Peter says, and it sounds more like he's talking to himself than anything. “Even if you don't have a power, you're the leader, and they'll see that. You can lead them.”
Mohinder shakes his head, and there is a very good reason why he can't be anyone's leader, let alone a group of people with superhuman abilities, but he can't think of it off the top of his head.
“Stop thinking, Peter. You think too much.”
“That's great, coming from a scientest.” Peter rolls over completely, face to face with Mohinder, their knees touching and their breath intermingling. “Do you believe in an afterlife?”
It's far, far too deep a thought for the moment, too much thinking required to answer it when all Mohinder wants to do is hold onto this warm, peaceful, content feeling he's got, so he quiets Peter with a finger to his lips. It's not long before a finger becomes two, and then his thumb is there as well, brushing over the soft, pink skin, and Peter is pressing his lips into the digits, and from there it's easy to get to kissing.
Mohinder tastes like weed and cinnamon and some other exotic flavor Peter can't quite place, and he makes a note to ask him sometime when they're back to sober and straight, but even as he notes it, he knows he'll never ask, even if he remembers. Even though he's stoned, he knows that this is one of those moments that happens once in a lifetime, and it doesn't come up in conversation, and at least one of the parties involved might deny it ever happened even once in a lifetime.
The air in the room is thick, heavy, cloying, and it feels like there's nowhere to move except closer together. They maneuver until their chests are touching, legs tangled together, Peter's hands in Mohinder's hair and Mohinder's hands cupping Peter's face, and they stay that way for a long, long time, frozen in a languid kiss. When they get moving again, it's only small, unconscious movements that make much larger ripples; Peter's hips roll against Mohinder's, which makes Mohinder buck back against Peter, just slightly harder, and Peter's hand slips from Mohinder's hair to his chest, where his thumb grazes over a nipple under soft, thin cloth, which makes Mohinder tighten his grip on Peter's face...
They do that for a while, reacting and reacting and not making any real progress. And then Peter clutches at Mohinder, starts kissing him like he means it, and before long pants and shirts and boxers are discarded and it's all both of them can do not to over-react to every touch.
Peter's hand is heavy around Mohinder's cock, slow and uncoordinated and half the time he moves it like he's not even really sure what it's doing there. But Mohinder slides one hand around Peter's length and one over Peter's curled hand, moving them both, leading them, setting the pace, and after a while Peter gets it. After a while he realizes what it is he's doing and it's familiar enough that he can close his eyes and lose himself in Mohinder's taste and Mohinder's scent and Mohinder's touch and still manage to feel Mohinder's warmth spreading out over his hand not long after his own splashes Mohinder's stomach.
They lay there for a while, hands still wrapped around each other, breath still warming each other's cheeks, and they come back down to reality together. Peter doesn't shake it off so easily, but Mohinder wasn't as prudish as Peter seemed to think he was and he comes back to his senses relatively quickly.
He's alert enough to realize that Peter can barely get himself up off the floor, let alone refuse to let what just happened add to the weight on his shoulders. So he kisses him again and pulls a blanket over him, tells him to sleep, and maybe he'll be an all right leader after all, because Peter does what he says and drifts off.
Mohinder spends the rest of the night searching the books a fourth time, and by the time Peter wakes up, naked and groggy and awkward, there is hope in Mohinder's eyes.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Mohinder/Peter
Word Count: 2006
Rating/Warnings: R for drug use and sexuality
Notes: Written for heroes_holidays. Concrit is always welcome.
Mohinder sighs, glances up at the ceiling like he's begging mercy from some deity, maybe any deity that'll listen, and rolls his neck.
“This is getting us nowhere, Peter. We've been through every one of these books three times already, there is nothing here that will help us.” He tosses a book on the pile of abandoned books that's been growing ever larger over the past few hours.
Peter puts a finger in his own book to mark the page, pushing his bangs back with his free hand. “There must be something we missed, Mohinder, something, anything. This can't just be it. What's the point of giving me this ability if I'm just going to...” He struggles to find the words to explain it tactfully, even though Mohinder knows full well to what he's referring. “If I'm just going to blow up.” He fails at tact.
“Perhaps you have already served your purpose,” Mohinder states, and it's a mixture of frustration and anxiety that blunts his sentiment.
Peter tosses his book aside and tries not to look like a man condemned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He stands up and stretches, and looking out at the dark city, he starts to wonder if it's the last time he'll stretch like that, or say something in that tone, or see the city from this perspective. Lasts pile up pretty quickly when you can see your imminent death.
“I wish I had more optimistic views to share, Peter, but we must face the truth: there may not be a way to prevent your death. In fact, your death may be the next step in saving the world.”
Peter leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He hadn't been afraid to die when he'd faced Sylar, but he'd known what he was dying for, then. He'd been saving the cheerleader. He'd been doing what he knew he was destined to do. Exploding in a burst of light and taking a major city out with him didn't seem like the most honorable way to go. And he wasn't sure Mohinder's theory about destiny held any water. He hoped it didn't, anyway.
“Who's to say I didn't get that vision so we could prevent it? What if it's Sylar's doing, or...” He shakes his head, pushing away from the window. His mouth twists bitterly, eyes locking on Mohinder's cool gaze. “You really think blowing up New York City is what destiny has planned?”
Mohinder shrugs, finally dropping his gaze. “None of us can pretend to know what destiny has in store.”
Peter flops down into a chair, elbows on his knees and head bowed. “Exactly.” When he lifts his head again, he's staring out at Mohinder through his bangs, eyes begging for a solution. Mohinder forgets sometimes how young Peter Petrelli really is; how idealistic; how frightened he is behind his heroics.
Mohinder takes the chair next to Peter, swallowing his frustration and nodding. “You're right, Peter. We just have to look harder, deeper. Perhaps there is more in my father's library in India that we haven't thought to explore. I'll call and have the rest of his books shipped tomorrow.”
Peter smiles, relieved, grateful. As long as they're still looking for an answer, even if it's right up to the moment before the city explodes around him, it's not as hopeless. He's not as hopeless.
They sit in silence a while, neither of them ready to dive back into the pile of books just yet now that they've decided they are going to continue.
Peter rubs his face, scrubs at it like the tired is something he can wipe off. It's been two days since he slept; months since he slept well. Before all of this, he'd have done something to help take the edge off, but smoking pot in the face of impending armeggedon seems...wrong somehow. But Peter supposes there's no real precedent for rights and wrongs when the world's about to end, and as far as he knows, pot is ok when your life's about to end, so why the hell not.
He digs a baggie out of his pocket, papers out of the other pocket, and a lighter out of his jacket. The perks of being a nurse dealing with hospice patients include access to a pretty decent stash.
Mohinder's eyebrows arch a fraction of an inch, indictating curiosity and slight disapproval without using more than a few muscles.
“What?” Peter's already rolling one, fingers moving nimbly. “Saving the world is stressful.” Mohinder still doesn't say anything, so Peter licks the paper and gets a little defensive. “I'm not asking you to smoke it, Mohinder. Calm down.”
Mohinder lifts a shoulder and leans his cheek into his hand, watching Peter with genuine interest. He hadn't though the boy was the type.
Peter leans back and lights the joint, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs. It's better than he remembers, hitting him like a really, really relaxing freight train. Trying to figure out how to save the world, not to mention himself, doesn't seem like such an impossible task anymore. It's still impossible, just...not impossible to the nth degree.
He lets the smoke out in a rush, head buzzing from lack of oxygen. Sliding down in his chair, he takes another drag, just as large as the first, squinting and nearly going cross-eyed while he watches the paper burn, a few embers floating down to the carpet.
“You're going to set my apartment on fire,” Mohinder says, gently admonishing, and reaches out to pluck the joint from Peter's lips.
Peter would disagree; he's very responsible, and he's never set fire to anything in his life, but he's too relaxed, too mellow, too glad that he's not thinking about how many lives he'll take when he dies.
Mohinder puts the joint to his own lips, puffing like he's done this before, and for that Peter can overcome his laziness to note. He hoots, laughing and waving the smoke away so he can watch this event clearly, and Mohinder can't help but smirk around the tight hold his lips have on the joint.
They pass it back and forth a few times before it's burnt out, leaving them in a comfortable, hazy silence. It's not so bad, Peter thinks, it won't be so bad if he dies. In his vision, the streets were abandoned, not many people would die with him. Except the ones that mattered, and of course, that's the thing. If he could save anyone in the world, he'd save them, and it doesn't seem ok that if he dies, they're the ones that'll go with him.
Mohinder leaves to find a drink, and when he comes back, Peter's on the floor, staring at the ceiling with one hand on his chest and tears in his eyes.
“I don't want Nathan to die,” he says, and it's such a plea for help that Mohinder wishes more than anything that he had the answer Peter needs.
“We'll figure something out,” Mohinder murmurs, voice low and thick from the pot, his body feeling slow and heavy as he lowers himself to the floor and stretches out next to Peter.
“No, we won't. We've been looking for days, and there's nothing. The only thing to do is leave, or kill myself before I burst. That's the only way we can control the outcome.”
Mohinder rests his head on his bicep, watching Peter's profile. “There is no guarantee that we could control any outcome, Peter,” and he has more to say, something deep and wise and reminiscent of his father, but he can't quite keep his thoughts in order, so he just stops there.
“They'll be ok if you're still around,” Peter says, and it sounds more like he's talking to himself than anything. “Even if you don't have a power, you're the leader, and they'll see that. You can lead them.”
Mohinder shakes his head, and there is a very good reason why he can't be anyone's leader, let alone a group of people with superhuman abilities, but he can't think of it off the top of his head.
“Stop thinking, Peter. You think too much.”
“That's great, coming from a scientest.” Peter rolls over completely, face to face with Mohinder, their knees touching and their breath intermingling. “Do you believe in an afterlife?”
It's far, far too deep a thought for the moment, too much thinking required to answer it when all Mohinder wants to do is hold onto this warm, peaceful, content feeling he's got, so he quiets Peter with a finger to his lips. It's not long before a finger becomes two, and then his thumb is there as well, brushing over the soft, pink skin, and Peter is pressing his lips into the digits, and from there it's easy to get to kissing.
Mohinder tastes like weed and cinnamon and some other exotic flavor Peter can't quite place, and he makes a note to ask him sometime when they're back to sober and straight, but even as he notes it, he knows he'll never ask, even if he remembers. Even though he's stoned, he knows that this is one of those moments that happens once in a lifetime, and it doesn't come up in conversation, and at least one of the parties involved might deny it ever happened even once in a lifetime.
The air in the room is thick, heavy, cloying, and it feels like there's nowhere to move except closer together. They maneuver until their chests are touching, legs tangled together, Peter's hands in Mohinder's hair and Mohinder's hands cupping Peter's face, and they stay that way for a long, long time, frozen in a languid kiss. When they get moving again, it's only small, unconscious movements that make much larger ripples; Peter's hips roll against Mohinder's, which makes Mohinder buck back against Peter, just slightly harder, and Peter's hand slips from Mohinder's hair to his chest, where his thumb grazes over a nipple under soft, thin cloth, which makes Mohinder tighten his grip on Peter's face...
They do that for a while, reacting and reacting and not making any real progress. And then Peter clutches at Mohinder, starts kissing him like he means it, and before long pants and shirts and boxers are discarded and it's all both of them can do not to over-react to every touch.
Peter's hand is heavy around Mohinder's cock, slow and uncoordinated and half the time he moves it like he's not even really sure what it's doing there. But Mohinder slides one hand around Peter's length and one over Peter's curled hand, moving them both, leading them, setting the pace, and after a while Peter gets it. After a while he realizes what it is he's doing and it's familiar enough that he can close his eyes and lose himself in Mohinder's taste and Mohinder's scent and Mohinder's touch and still manage to feel Mohinder's warmth spreading out over his hand not long after his own splashes Mohinder's stomach.
They lay there for a while, hands still wrapped around each other, breath still warming each other's cheeks, and they come back down to reality together. Peter doesn't shake it off so easily, but Mohinder wasn't as prudish as Peter seemed to think he was and he comes back to his senses relatively quickly.
He's alert enough to realize that Peter can barely get himself up off the floor, let alone refuse to let what just happened add to the weight on his shoulders. So he kisses him again and pulls a blanket over him, tells him to sleep, and maybe he'll be an all right leader after all, because Peter does what he says and drifts off.
Mohinder spends the rest of the night searching the books a fourth time, and by the time Peter wakes up, naked and groggy and awkward, there is hope in Mohinder's eyes.