A New Day at Midnight

Part 19/19

Mohinder spent the next few days poring over his fathers words, regretting that Bennet hadn’t been able to risk bringing him the journals in their entirety. In the few excerpts he had been given, his father offered little to no detail about what it was Shanti could do or even how she had died. But in the lingering grief of the little girl’s death, Mohinder began to understand the purpose with which his father had pursued his work, even as Patient Zero’s tendency toward violent instability made itself known in the more recent entries.

He’d once believed his father had died from stupidity, his single-minded curiosity blinding him to what should have been an obvious danger. But really his father, having witnessed the lengths Sylar was willing to go to in order to acquire new abilities, had sacrificed himself in the name of a greater cause. Sylar had wanted the names on the list and Chandra had died protecting them--these people he’d never even met. Faces he’d never seen.

But Mohinder had seen those faces. He’d met those people. Some of them, at any rate. He knew what he was up against and now, he came to realize, it was time to decide whether he could put aside the anger that had been a part of him for so long and pick up where his father had left off. Not a betrayal of his memory, but a tribute to it. The same way Chandra had honored Shanti.

Mulling over this very question, Mohinder went to the roof only to find it already occupied. Peter sat in a precariously half-unfolded lawn chair, hunched over something he had balanced in his lap, tipped slightly away as if toward a more desirable light. Apology for the intrusion already on his lips, Mohinder turned to go when something made him pause. It took him a moment to realize what it was and then it came to him: Peter was visible.

In his time with Peter since learning of his abilities, Mohinder had learned that Peter’s tendency toward brooding generally took several forms. Hiding on the roof by himself was one thing but it was only when he made himself invisible that he truly didn’t want to be approached. Now he seemed merely contemplative, enjoying a moment of solitude away from the activity of the loft. Absorbed as he was in whatever he was looking at, the moment positively invited interruption and so Mohinder took advantage.

“What’s that?” he asked, stepping closer to the other man in an attempt to catch a glimpse at what had so captured his attention.

Peter twisted in his chair to look up at Mohinder. Wordlessly, he held the object out and Mohinder took it in his own hands before he had a chance to realize what it was he was seeing. When it finally registered, the heat of embarrassment bloomed in his cheeks and he nearly dropped what he was holding.

All this time, he’d heard about the painting without ever actually seeing it. Mostly, it was treated as a joke brought up only when someone wished to provoke Isaac’s ire. Looking at it now, Mohinder saw that it was no joke at all.

Most of Isaac’s finished paintings tended to appear as though they belonged as panels in the pages of a comic book. But this image was softer, not as conducive to the addition of thought or speech bubbles. Instead, the moment was complete with just himself and Peter in bed together, caught in a scene of urgent passion. In the image, Peter was on all fours, teeth clenched and hands tightly fisted in tousled sheets as Mohinder entered him from behind, pressing a soothing kiss to the back of his shoulder. The act itself was covered by a white sheet that slipped precariously at their waists but the light from a window behind them threw the connection of their bodies into an easily discernible silhouette.

Mohinder was horrified. He felt violated. And yet something in him stirred ever so slightly at the memory of what moments like these felt like with Peter.

“Well,” was all he could think to say, handing the painting back to Peter and seating himself beside the other man in a second lawn chair that had been set out as if in anticipation of company.

“Yeah,” Peter replied.

“Poor Isaac,” Mohinder added.

Peter laughed lightly but said nothing.

“May I ask what inspired you to unearth Isaac’s least prized possession? Last I heard, he’d hidden it in some unknown corner of the loft, never to see the light of day again.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t burn it,” Peter said. “Actually, I wasn’t looking for it. I just kind of stumbled on it when I went looking for cleaning supplies. The bathroom was really disgusting the other day.”

Mohinder raised an eyebrow, thinking how incongruous it was to talk of something so domestic as cleaning a bathroom in a place filled with the very people the government would like nothing more than to kill or put away for life.

“I don’t know,” Peter continued, a little guilty now. “I guess I couldn’t stop looking at it. You know, once I got over the initial weirdness of knowing everyone else had seen it.” He rolled his eyes before turning his gaze to the small canvas on his lap. “It’s kind of beautiful. Isn’t it?”

Mohinder wasn’t sure if Peter was referring to the quality of Isaac’s work or the moment it portrayed. Favoring the latter interpretation, he replied, “It is. Very beautiful.”

Peter nodded solemnly. After a moment he said, “I messed up.”

“We both did,” Mohinder said.

Peter accepted this with a nod. No further elaboration seemed to be needed. “Now what?” he said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Mohinder confessed, thinking of the question that had been bothering him since Bennet had gifted him with his father’s journal entries.

“I told Claire I was going to stay this time,” Peter said. He waited for this to settle between them. “I wasn’t sure I meant it when I said it but…it’s what I want.” He cleared his throat. “You could go, though. If you wanted. You don’t even have to remember that any of this happened.”

“The Haitian, you mean?” Mohinder said. Peter nodded. “Well, at least you had the courtesy to ask before you erased my memories. I just think you might find it a bit difficult seeing as you’re without your means of contacting this mysterious man. Unless that’s another power of yours I don’t know about.”

One side of Peter’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “No, I’ve stayed away from that one,” he said. “As for the wind chimes…” He shrugged.

As Peter trailed off, realization dawned on Mohinder and a burst of disbelieving laughter escaped him. “Don’t tell me you actually know where they are,” he said. Peter hummed comically and looked away, apparently enjoying his ability to inspire Mohinder’s mirth. “You do!” Mohinder exclaimed. “You hid them! But why?”

Peter’s smile faded. “Because after Nathan died there was a time when the others thought it might be better if I didn’t remember,” he said darkly. “And I didn’t want to forget.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Mohinder commented.

“It was an extreme situation,” Peter admitted. “Drama queen that I am. As Claude would say.” He made a face. “Anyway, they didn’t tell me any of this but I overheard their thoughts about it. So I hid the wind chimes and left town. To be honest, I kind of thought they would have found them by now. I guess I hid them better than I thought. And the Haitian hasn’t exactly tried to contact them on his own, so…”

Mohinder shook his head. “I was sure the Haitian was a myth,” he said. “That the wind chimes were nothing more than a running joke.”

“No,” Peter said, now utterly serious. “He’s real. And we can use him, if you want. I mean, we’ll protect you. Make sure they don’t come after you.”

“Since I won’t even remember what it is I did wrong,” Mohinder noted wryly.

A silence fell between them. Peter twitched and Mohinder guessed he was probably doing everything he could to respect the privacy of Mohinder’s thoughts while waiting for his answer. Mohinder did what he could to help Peter’s effort by shielding his mind from the other man as he considered the problem before them.

Idly, he reached out for the painting and Peter handed it to him. He ran his hands over the image Isaac had rendered, thinking of Peter’s stick figures, lying so peacefully in bed with one another. He knew now which moment Peter’s drawing portrayed, but found that this one was still a mystery to him. It could have been any moment over the course of their sexual relationship and yet it seemed too specific for that. The way the sunlight fell over their bodies, the arrangement of what little furniture Mohinder could see in the room. The curtains on the window, billowing in the breeze.

The curtains on the window.

“Odd,” Mohinder said.

“What?” Peter asked, leaning over.

“How accurate would you say Isaac is when it comes to the details in his paintings?” Mohinder asked. “The little things, I mean. Does he ever get anything wrong?”

Brow furrowed, Peter shook his head. “No,” he said. “Usually you could take a picture of the moment when it actually happens and it’ll match up exactly to how Isaac paints it. Literally. Why?”

“Because,” Mohinder said, “I never had curtains in my apartment. Only blinds. Your apartment was the same way.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe we ever made love in a room that had curtains like that.” He paused. “Not yet anyway.”

For a moment, Peter continued to look at the painting, uncomprehending. Then understanding emerged in the light of his expression. “It’s the future,” he murmured. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

Then, as if the painting had granted him some kind of permission, he leaned over the arms of their two chairs and pulled Mohinder to him, pressing their lips together in passionate reunion. Mohinder accepted the kiss eagerly, bringing his hand around the back of Peter’s neck, ensuring that he wouldn’t pull away. That this time he wouldn’t think of running.

That this time neither of them would have to.

END

I hope you enjoyed the story. Thanks so much for reading!