Disclaimer: I don't own HEROES, or these characters, or anything associated with them. No profit was made in writing this, only the enjoyment itself. Thank you.
Tick Tock, Wicked Mind
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say. Sylar likes to think that he is the only one who perceives Mohinder as beautiful, a ragdoll corpse with limbs that have no life or substance, lifelike before the grasping onset of rigor mortis, arms crossed over his chest like some mockery of death itself. The doctors' lithe, sun-kissed body is spattered with flecks of dark, drying blood and scattered with bruises, his art on Mohinder's skin. Yes. Sylar knows this is beautiful.
It's the knowledge that, if he so wishes, he can breath life into his pet, further cementing his godliness. He takes life. He can give it back. Heal those wounds; take away that utter perfection... to leave his canvas blank. To play with his pet again, and that's exactly what he plans on doing.
A nondescript touch that is almost affectionate, rough fingertips resting against Mohinders brow, before slowly sliding down to trace the thin, vulnerable flesh of his eyelids. There, so easy to just shove the glistening shards of his power through those tender, gelatinous orbs, like glass. Leave him blind. Wanting.
It's a tempting thought.
Power... is so easy to control. To manipulate. Sylar lets it flow through his veins to pool at the focus point... knitting together those open wounds, and soothe away those bitter bruises. It's the physical that is first, what is on the surface...to transform the perfection to imperfection. How...destructive.
Then there is the first breath.
Inhale. Exhale. Newborn, with lungs too weak at first, and that first breath is heaven, desperate and the meat in his chest thumps loudly in his ears. Boom. The cough that overcomes Mohinder is fierce, hacking, body forcing out the few minutes worth of dust and dryness that had settled there in his lungs.
Sylar had forced the heart to beat. He still touches it, even now, as if he's once more holding the precious organ in his hands. It beats because he wants it to. Mohinder is alive, because he wants him to be. The triumph that washes over him is thick and heady, thinly veiled with something akin to lust and ownership. "Mohinder..." he murmurs, "My precious... Mohinder..." His voice is husky and full of promise, hands trailing gently over all that warm, imperfect skin. Even as his pet is trembling, struggling with the effort of trying to comprehend. Cold death one moment and then the hard, stark light of living, of Sylar kneeling over him. Smug. Accomplished.
"S-Sylar..." Dust and mucus, slimy in his throat, disgusting, and Mohinders only reply is the weight of the other man bearing down on him, unable the resist the comfort of another human body.
The trembling begins to abate, though the glassy fear in Mohinders eyes remains, and something pools in his gut, indescribable, tangible... cinderblock heavy resting in his stomach and the dark realisation that there's something there. Something... something that shouldn't be. Stitched into his very core, tick-tock time bomb.
"W-what... what have you done?"
Sylar merely cocks his head to one side; amused. "I fixed you." He says simply, as if it's obvious. His hand -- which is encrusted with dry, flaking blood -- rests on the heat of Mohinders belly, lips twitching into a smile that is at once sinister and loving... if you can even call it that.
There, nestled down deep in all that soft, pink tissue... is a timepiece, ticking away, stitched neatly with a surgeon's precision and care, kept working by the subtle nuance of Sylar's telekinesis. This chunk of metal and cogs, balanced precariously in his gut. The expression on Mohinder's face is positively delightful -- at least, it is to Sylar -- but in actuality is horrified, numb fingers pushing away at Sylar's hand to scratch at the unmarked flesh almost frantically... but there's no wound for him to re-open.
"I can hear it, you know." Sylar states, matter of fact. "I can hear it ticking along in time with your heartbeat. It's perfect."
"No... no... it's unnatural... get it out!" Yes, try to keep calm, though Mohinder is on the edge of hysteria, hands shaking uncontrollably. He wants to wrap them around Sylar's throat and squeeze for doing this to him, but oh... Sylar knows, knows it all, and that smile is quickly extinguished like a flame, becoming hard and unyielding, eyes dark with anger.
The slap that is bestowed upon Mohinder is sharp enough to snap his head to one side, lips parted, shocked into silence. "Insubordination." Sylar hisses, unimpressed. "I OWN you. You should do as you're TOLD!"And his grip... it's like a vice and Mohinder's heart stutters in his chest.
Tears pool at the corners of Mohinders eyes.
Bruises form from the pressure of Sylar's hand against his fragile chest. The purple-black stain on his flesh aches, large and vicious and making warm skin perfect.
"Say it, Mohinder. Who is it that you belong to?"
The response, it's almost mechanical and the pleasure Sylar derives from hearing it is like a balm to Mohinders soul. "I belong to you."