FIC ; LIGHTNING STRIKES (NOT ONCE BUT TWICE)
[title] Lightning Strikes (Not Once But Twice)
[author] koala_motchi
[pairing] Matt/Mohinder & Sylar/Mohinder
[rating] R/Adult
The place Matt gets his shirts is the worst. Mohinder understood why Matt was picky, understood that he had to get a specific brand from a specific shop or else he couldn't stand to wear them. The undershirts had to be soft (or he got itchy) and thin (or he overheated) and the only place that carries the Holy Grail of heather grey cotton tees is run by a guy whose kid brother plays guitar. Mohinder understood all of that, but he still couldn't stand the music.
Every time they go, it’s always the same. They push open the door, running their stupid, simple, everyday errands, and Mohinder gets an ear full. It’s always either The Clash or The Ramones, Mohinder doesn’t care what the difference is. The rhythm and cadence and melody all remind him of a particular smell and feel and taste that he can’t stand liking or missing the way he does. It’s torture, listening to that music. Automatic, unavoidable, insurmountable, intolerable déjà vu.
Every time, Matt and the owner chat it up about sports and the weather and the kid brother’s gigs or Molly’s progress at school. Mohinder gets busy trying to be invisible, clenching his fingers in some locally-designed, home-printed graphic tee in the corner. Matt is never “listening” then, and Mohinder can’t shut off the memories anyway, when that music is playing in the background. Every time he’d swear that he could feel the breath against the back of his neck and hear absentminded humming in his ear.
He’d been making tea the first time that soft, rumbly hum caught his ear. Steeping a first flush Darjeeling and puzzling out his father’s methods of organization, Mohinder had glanced up and over at the sound. He’d been confused at first, thought he’d missed some vital part of conversation.
“What?” he’d stammered, making eye contact (that always felt more like full-body contact when it came to that particular pair of intense brown eyes).
“Nothing,” Zane (Sylar) had said absently, cocking his head to one side and pointedly watching. Mohinder felt a little as though he were being spied upon, or analyzed, or studied. “Just humming something you made me think of.”
Mohinder had discovered, in the course of conversation that first week with Zane (Sylar, professor, keep your head together), that his new companion was a musician. Later the sociopath had explained his delight when he discovered that his “inspection” of Zane’s brain had yielded not only his post-human ability but his knack for music. He had been oddly delighted that first time, though, to think that someone would be inspired to song watching him do something as simple as making tea. It was foolish, stupid of him. It embarrassed him.
It was those little songs that kept Mohinder’s guard down for so long. The tunes and obscure philosophical references made him comfortable with the way Zane (Sylar, damn it) touched the small of his back or the slope of his shoulder whenever it was within reach. They made him almost enjoy the unusual closeness of another man against his back, talking into his ear while he busied himself with research or cooking.
Matt always bought every shirt they had in his size, at the shop. He always took his time, laughing and joking and being that bright, honest, warmly friendly man he was. Matt always gave Mohinder plenty of time to remember the exact combination of smells the first time he woke up to that humming. His back and neck were unbelievably sore that morning. He’d spent the night asleep over a pile of books and files, curled up at the table, so determined to work on the List that he’d forgotten to haul himself into bed or even onto the couch.
Sylar had buried one hand in Mohinder’s hair, stroking it absently as he hummed. Mohinder could only imagine that he’d been thinking about slicing his skull open, prodding him for information and leaving his body behind. He couldn’t deny, though, that he remembered a sort of tenderness. Waking up with a rough-skinned thumb against his earlobe and music around his ears had been pleasant. Mohinder had asked why Zane hadn’t woken him up. Sylar had said, “You looked… peaceful.”
“Vulnerable” was the word Mohinder always recalled. He’d taken two aspirin and made them breakfast, sharing coffee and personal space with his father’s killer. Zane (plotting, murderous, scheming Sylar, even then) had kissed him while they were cleaning up their dishes. Mohinder had been shocked and upset and unsure, at least until he was kissed again and with more vigor.
The shop smelled like leather and metal and cotton and sage, but Mohinder could always pick out tea and toast and eggs and cologne. The cash register spat out its receipt and Matt jangled his change in his pockets before giving the owner an excited clap on the arm in farewell. He always slid easily into the same place Sylar had once occupied, just-barely-not-touching Mohinder’s back as he stepped in behind him.
“You ready?” Matt asked, his voice nothing like Sylar’s had been when he asked the same question. Mohinder nodded. “Yes. I think so,” was the same answer he’d given months ago with his cheek against a motel pillow. Matt put his hand on Mohinder’s shoulder. Sylar had taken hold of Mohinder’s hips, anchoring himself there as he pressed his scratchy, stubbled face into Mohinder’s neck and his cock into Mohinder’s ass. His nails had left red half-moons to top the hand-shaped but subtle bruising. Mohinder had moaned, then, called him by a false name and trusted him completely. For Matt, Mohinder only sighed, his smile small and fleeting before he shrugged off the big, warm hand on his shoulder. Matt held the door open. Mohinder’s escape into the open air almost never cleared his mind.
“Hey,” Matt finally asked, as they walked towards the car. They still had to pick up groceries. “Are you… okay? You’re always kind of, I don’t know, off, after that place.”
“Hmm? Oh,” Mohinder said, startled by this probing break to their routine. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Just thinking,” he repeated.
“Okay,” Matt said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Mohinder frowned. “Ready?”
“To tell me.” Matt glanced over at Mohinder as he unlocked the doors and tossed his bag into the back seat. “About whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“It’s nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just, uh, whenever you’re ready.”
“Why would you be interested in what I have to -- nothing. Just, forget it.”
“See, now I’m definitely interested.”
Mohinder was trying his best not to find Matt’s patient smile endearing. He was not winning the battle.
“I don’t like the music,” he explained, ten minutes of straight silence later, as they slowed for a stoplight.
“In the store.”
“You don’t like The Clash?” Matt sounded incredulous. How could anyone not like The Clash?
“I don’t like The Clash.” Mohinder confirmed, not looking up from the list of produce he was compiling for reference at the grocer.
“Why not?” Matt was clearly of the opinion that Mohinder was crazy.
"I can’t just not like them?”
“No, you can’t just not like them. Nobody just-doesn’t-like The Clash. You have to either think that they’re awesome or not like their accents or their ridiculous guitar riffs or their abrasive rhythms.”
“All right. That’s why, then.”
Matt frowned.
Stop reading my mind, Mohinder thought, pointedly. Matt’s expression did not change. Maybe Mohinder had not guessed correctly.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Matt tried.
“You’ll forget the eggs.”
“No, I mean, you don’t have to come with me to that shop.”
“It’s good for me to remember.”
“Hah!” Matt sounded triumphant as he turned the corner into the grocery parking lot. “So there is another reason!”
Mohinder set the list down at gave Matt a pointed look. “Matthew,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Drop it.”
Matt did. For a while, anyway.
Two nights later, Mohinder was doing the dishes. Matt had turned on the radio. Johnny Cash was singing about fighting the law unsuccessfully. Mohinder was pretending not to notice. Again, there was breath on the back of neck and someone just-barely-not-touching him at his back. Mohinder squeezed soap suds out of a sponge and into a mixing bowl as he watched Matt’s hands meet the counter on either side of him. Pinned, he cocked his head slightly to one side.
“Hmm?”
“I want to know,” Matt said softly, his voice a pleasantly warm rumble just behind and above Mohinder’s left ear.
“You don’t,” Mohinder sighed, dunking the bowl in too-too-hot water.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Matt said. “I want to know.”
Mohinder waited. It did not sound like Matt was going to add anything. He dunked his hands under the water and pressed himself to the counter.
“You want to know what?” he asked, pulling the dishtowel off of his shoulder and drying his hands.
“Turn around,” Matt rumbled in his ear again. It felt closer.
Mohinder waited. It did not seem like Matt was going to pull away to let him turn. He slid around, twisting between Matt’s hands so that he could face him.
“What?”
Matt’s eyes were dark and intense in a way that made Mohinder think of drugged chai and rough, hot sex that happened too quickly.
“Wh-what,” Mohinder asked again, his voice trembling the way his shoulders had when Sylar came with him.
“I want to know what you’re hiding. I,” Matt said, frustration making his voice ache, “I want to know everything about you.”
Staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Mohinder could only shrug.
“I want to know why you let me stand so close. I want to know why I even -- why I even want to stand here. Why I want to know everything I want to know. I don’t get it, Mohinder."
Matt clenched his jaw and glared at the pile of freshly-cleaned dishes in the drain rack.
“I don’t know what to say,” Mohinder ventured, awkwardly.
“I’m not gay,” Matt blurted out, loud and insistent and embarrassing.
“A-all right.”
“I’m not,” Matt insisted, one hand pulling up from where it had been anchored on the counter. It found a resting place on Mohinder’s neck, Matt’s thumb resting on his sharp jaw line. Mohinder could feel his face growing hot.
“I didn’t say that you were.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Matt said again in that frustrated growl. “You never say anything, or do anything, and I still can’t stop -- I still want to…”
Mohinder swallowed.
Matt licked his lips.
There was a moment where they both thought, I could kiss him, now. They recognized the thought, in one another’s faces, in the way they each held their breath.
“Oh,” Mohinder said.
“Oh.”
“You… should check on Molly.”
“I will,” Matt said, and disappeared down the hall.
Three days later they kissed for the first time, small and tentative and terrified.
Comments & con/crit are always welcome and appreciated! Crossposted to koala_motchi, heroes_sylar, matt_mohinder, mytwoheroes, & mylar_fic.
Edited for beta-stuff.
[author] koala_motchi
[pairing] Matt/Mohinder & Sylar/Mohinder
[rating] R/Adult
The place Matt gets his shirts is the worst. Mohinder understood why Matt was picky, understood that he had to get a specific brand from a specific shop or else he couldn't stand to wear them. The undershirts had to be soft (or he got itchy) and thin (or he overheated) and the only place that carries the Holy Grail of heather grey cotton tees is run by a guy whose kid brother plays guitar. Mohinder understood all of that, but he still couldn't stand the music.
Every time they go, it’s always the same. They push open the door, running their stupid, simple, everyday errands, and Mohinder gets an ear full. It’s always either The Clash or The Ramones, Mohinder doesn’t care what the difference is. The rhythm and cadence and melody all remind him of a particular smell and feel and taste that he can’t stand liking or missing the way he does. It’s torture, listening to that music. Automatic, unavoidable, insurmountable, intolerable déjà vu.
Every time, Matt and the owner chat it up about sports and the weather and the kid brother’s gigs or Molly’s progress at school. Mohinder gets busy trying to be invisible, clenching his fingers in some locally-designed, home-printed graphic tee in the corner. Matt is never “listening” then, and Mohinder can’t shut off the memories anyway, when that music is playing in the background. Every time he’d swear that he could feel the breath against the back of his neck and hear absentminded humming in his ear.
He’d been making tea the first time that soft, rumbly hum caught his ear. Steeping a first flush Darjeeling and puzzling out his father’s methods of organization, Mohinder had glanced up and over at the sound. He’d been confused at first, thought he’d missed some vital part of conversation.
“What?” he’d stammered, making eye contact (that always felt more like full-body contact when it came to that particular pair of intense brown eyes).
“Nothing,” Zane (Sylar) had said absently, cocking his head to one side and pointedly watching. Mohinder felt a little as though he were being spied upon, or analyzed, or studied. “Just humming something you made me think of.”
Mohinder had discovered, in the course of conversation that first week with Zane (Sylar, professor, keep your head together), that his new companion was a musician. Later the sociopath had explained his delight when he discovered that his “inspection” of Zane’s brain had yielded not only his post-human ability but his knack for music. He had been oddly delighted that first time, though, to think that someone would be inspired to song watching him do something as simple as making tea. It was foolish, stupid of him. It embarrassed him.
It was those little songs that kept Mohinder’s guard down for so long. The tunes and obscure philosophical references made him comfortable with the way Zane (Sylar, damn it) touched the small of his back or the slope of his shoulder whenever it was within reach. They made him almost enjoy the unusual closeness of another man against his back, talking into his ear while he busied himself with research or cooking.
Matt always bought every shirt they had in his size, at the shop. He always took his time, laughing and joking and being that bright, honest, warmly friendly man he was. Matt always gave Mohinder plenty of time to remember the exact combination of smells the first time he woke up to that humming. His back and neck were unbelievably sore that morning. He’d spent the night asleep over a pile of books and files, curled up at the table, so determined to work on the List that he’d forgotten to haul himself into bed or even onto the couch.
Sylar had buried one hand in Mohinder’s hair, stroking it absently as he hummed. Mohinder could only imagine that he’d been thinking about slicing his skull open, prodding him for information and leaving his body behind. He couldn’t deny, though, that he remembered a sort of tenderness. Waking up with a rough-skinned thumb against his earlobe and music around his ears had been pleasant. Mohinder had asked why Zane hadn’t woken him up. Sylar had said, “You looked… peaceful.”
“Vulnerable” was the word Mohinder always recalled. He’d taken two aspirin and made them breakfast, sharing coffee and personal space with his father’s killer. Zane (plotting, murderous, scheming Sylar, even then) had kissed him while they were cleaning up their dishes. Mohinder had been shocked and upset and unsure, at least until he was kissed again and with more vigor.
The shop smelled like leather and metal and cotton and sage, but Mohinder could always pick out tea and toast and eggs and cologne. The cash register spat out its receipt and Matt jangled his change in his pockets before giving the owner an excited clap on the arm in farewell. He always slid easily into the same place Sylar had once occupied, just-barely-not-touching Mohinder’s back as he stepped in behind him.
“You ready?” Matt asked, his voice nothing like Sylar’s had been when he asked the same question. Mohinder nodded. “Yes. I think so,” was the same answer he’d given months ago with his cheek against a motel pillow. Matt put his hand on Mohinder’s shoulder. Sylar had taken hold of Mohinder’s hips, anchoring himself there as he pressed his scratchy, stubbled face into Mohinder’s neck and his cock into Mohinder’s ass. His nails had left red half-moons to top the hand-shaped but subtle bruising. Mohinder had moaned, then, called him by a false name and trusted him completely. For Matt, Mohinder only sighed, his smile small and fleeting before he shrugged off the big, warm hand on his shoulder. Matt held the door open. Mohinder’s escape into the open air almost never cleared his mind.
“Hey,” Matt finally asked, as they walked towards the car. They still had to pick up groceries. “Are you… okay? You’re always kind of, I don’t know, off, after that place.”
“Hmm? Oh,” Mohinder said, startled by this probing break to their routine. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Just thinking,” he repeated.
“Okay,” Matt said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Mohinder frowned. “Ready?”
“To tell me.” Matt glanced over at Mohinder as he unlocked the doors and tossed his bag into the back seat. “About whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“It’s nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just, uh, whenever you’re ready.”
“Why would you be interested in what I have to -- nothing. Just, forget it.”
“See, now I’m definitely interested.”
Mohinder was trying his best not to find Matt’s patient smile endearing. He was not winning the battle.
“I don’t like the music,” he explained, ten minutes of straight silence later, as they slowed for a stoplight.
“In the store.”
“You don’t like The Clash?” Matt sounded incredulous. How could anyone not like The Clash?
“I don’t like The Clash.” Mohinder confirmed, not looking up from the list of produce he was compiling for reference at the grocer.
“Why not?” Matt was clearly of the opinion that Mohinder was crazy.
"I can’t just not like them?”
“No, you can’t just not like them. Nobody just-doesn’t-like The Clash. You have to either think that they’re awesome or not like their accents or their ridiculous guitar riffs or their abrasive rhythms.”
“All right. That’s why, then.”
Matt frowned.
Stop reading my mind, Mohinder thought, pointedly. Matt’s expression did not change. Maybe Mohinder had not guessed correctly.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Matt tried.
“You’ll forget the eggs.”
“No, I mean, you don’t have to come with me to that shop.”
“It’s good for me to remember.”
“Hah!” Matt sounded triumphant as he turned the corner into the grocery parking lot. “So there is another reason!”
Mohinder set the list down at gave Matt a pointed look. “Matthew,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Drop it.”
Matt did. For a while, anyway.
Two nights later, Mohinder was doing the dishes. Matt had turned on the radio. Johnny Cash was singing about fighting the law unsuccessfully. Mohinder was pretending not to notice. Again, there was breath on the back of neck and someone just-barely-not-touching him at his back. Mohinder squeezed soap suds out of a sponge and into a mixing bowl as he watched Matt’s hands meet the counter on either side of him. Pinned, he cocked his head slightly to one side.
“Hmm?”
“I want to know,” Matt said softly, his voice a pleasantly warm rumble just behind and above Mohinder’s left ear.
“You don’t,” Mohinder sighed, dunking the bowl in too-too-hot water.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Matt said. “I want to know.”
Mohinder waited. It did not sound like Matt was going to add anything. He dunked his hands under the water and pressed himself to the counter.
“You want to know what?” he asked, pulling the dishtowel off of his shoulder and drying his hands.
“Turn around,” Matt rumbled in his ear again. It felt closer.
Mohinder waited. It did not seem like Matt was going to pull away to let him turn. He slid around, twisting between Matt’s hands so that he could face him.
“What?”
Matt’s eyes were dark and intense in a way that made Mohinder think of drugged chai and rough, hot sex that happened too quickly.
“Wh-what,” Mohinder asked again, his voice trembling the way his shoulders had when Sylar came with him.
“I want to know what you’re hiding. I,” Matt said, frustration making his voice ache, “I want to know everything about you.”
Staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Mohinder could only shrug.
“I want to know why you let me stand so close. I want to know why I even -- why I even want to stand here. Why I want to know everything I want to know. I don’t get it, Mohinder."
Matt clenched his jaw and glared at the pile of freshly-cleaned dishes in the drain rack.
“I don’t know what to say,” Mohinder ventured, awkwardly.
“I’m not gay,” Matt blurted out, loud and insistent and embarrassing.
“A-all right.”
“I’m not,” Matt insisted, one hand pulling up from where it had been anchored on the counter. It found a resting place on Mohinder’s neck, Matt’s thumb resting on his sharp jaw line. Mohinder could feel his face growing hot.
“I didn’t say that you were.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Matt said again in that frustrated growl. “You never say anything, or do anything, and I still can’t stop -- I still want to…”
Mohinder swallowed.
Matt licked his lips.
There was a moment where they both thought, I could kiss him, now. They recognized the thought, in one another’s faces, in the way they each held their breath.
“Oh,” Mohinder said.
“Oh.”
“You… should check on Molly.”
“I will,” Matt said, and disappeared down the hall.
Three days later they kissed for the first time, small and tentative and terrified.
Comments & con/crit are always welcome and appreciated! Crossposted to koala_motchi, heroes_sylar, matt_mohinder, mytwoheroes, & mylar_fic.
Edited for beta-stuff.