And in a dream I'm a different me
With a perfect you
We fit perfectly
And for once in my life I feel complete
And I still want to ruin it
Afraid to look
As clear as day
This plan has long been underway
Everything about this man, he loves.
The way Mohinder pads around his apartment in nothing but plaid pajama pants that hang too loosely off his hips.
The way Mohinder sips his tea, staring blankly into the cup in contemplation. Sylar hopes he is remembering their connection through the Chai.
Before leaving for work; the way he wraps his offensive scarf, not once but three times, around his skinny neck…as if it were a noose.
Sylar adores how Mohinder twirls his fingers around his curls and tugs on them when his mind is racing with genetic study.
He wants this, all of it, and just as much as he needs to watch Mohinder in the privacy of his own world, he craves the control. Mohinder should be doing these things for him.
Sylar has to chuckle under his breath when he brushes past Mohinder on the street, connecting their shoulders for the briefest of moments and Mohinder doesn't even look twice. The cover of illusion works wonders when stalking.
He follows Mohinder to a tiny, cramped café and sits across the room, fingering his coffee cup.
Staring at the dark man through eyes that are not his, flashing a kind grin when their gazes meet.
Mohinder's smile is shy and flirtacious and - though Sylar doesn't blame him because he's chosen a fairly attractive male visage - he fights the urge to rip Mohinder's head off for taking the bait of a stranger.
A few more traded smirks and he's up, moving towards Mohinder's table with a grace that the genetecist should have picked up on and remembered. That hurts.
Sylar offers a hand and a fake name.
Their conversation is pointless and painfully boring but he can hardly snub Mohinder's pleading for human contact. Its damn near impossible to disregard the pharamones rolling from chocolate skin.
Mohinder is far too lonely without him and, if all goes well, Sylar will fix that.
The plan is simple and he sticks to it despite the fire building in the pit of his stomach.
He lets the doctor lead him back to his apartment, nervous hands fumbling for the keys.
Sure, Sylar reminds himself, this façade is about getting his prey alone without causing a scene. But he can't lie to himself and say that fucking with Mohinder's emotions doesn't make him hard.
Sylar questions that maybe he didn't think this strategy through properly when Mohinder initiates the kiss before they are even two feet inside his home.
It's everything he's always wanted and so much more. He's kissing him because he wants to, because he needs to. He's touching Sylar's costume like it is the last thing his hungry fingers will ever caress. God, this is what Sylar has dreamed about so many nights; jacking off to Mohinder's doe eyes when, in his mind, the dark man drops to his knees and forgets about every fucking thing but Sylar.
This is too similar to his fantasy, and Sylar starts to lose his grip on the ability when Mohinder palms his engorged erection.
The power drops like a silk curtain and reveals heated, pale flesh and dark eyes that are lost in the heat of the moment.
His smooth skin has suddenly grown harsh stubble, and Mohinder must have felt the change when their chins rubbed together, Sylar thinks.
The kiss breaks and a gasp sounds as his victim stumbles backwards into the table.
Sylar's heart is racing – it wasn't supposed to happen like this but the mixture of fear, confusion, and embarrassment painting that debauched face is far too rewarding to pass up.
"You," comes a breathy hiss from pouting lips.
"Why aren't you running?"
Sylar grins to himself, mocking that both men know Mohinder is frozen to his spot. Terror and telekinesis are quite the handy paralyzing combination.
"What do you want Sylar?"
Sylar's eyes close almost as if on mechanism because his body is still thrumming from the excitement of it all.
Mohinder is the only person alive that has ever made him tremble by simply saying his name.
"You're not happy."
His eyes flutter open and observe confusion outweigh all other emotions on Mohinder's countenance.
"I've been watching you."
Mohinder flinches away from Sylar's hand as fingertips ghost down his cheek.
"It's what I do. The way I see how things work."
"I'm not a fucking pocket watch!"
Sylar laughs and it's not anywhere near a composed chuckle. It is mad and trails off as fury creeps back across his nerve endings. Mohinder is far too unappreciative.
He leans in and nuzzles midnight hair, breathing the soapy scent and igniting his senses. Touch, taste, see, smell, hear. The doctor's heart is beating with a ferocity that could send it ripping through his chest at any moment.
"No, Mohinder. But you're lonely. Your life has become mundane. And tonight…you were going to fuck a stranger. You're broken and falling to pieces."
And then his prey says something that Sylar was not expecting. Even though he agrees, the truth of it all still singes the edges of his heart.
"You did this to me."
Sylar swallows and presses his lips to the shell of Mohinder's ear.
"Then let me fix you."
He's not a religious man by any means but for a moment, Sylar prays. He sends silent messages up towards the sky in case any sort of God more powerful than him is there to listen, and implores for Mohinder's acceptance. For a moment he believes things could be perfect.
The pain doesn't register with Sylar at first.
He staggers back when Mohinder's palms meet with his shoulders and shove with a vigor that Sylar was sure the doctor lacked. Yet, underestimating Mohinder had been his downfall in the past.
"Go to hell," Mohinder chokes out and blinks, stunned by his own audacity, and a single hot tear rolls down his cheek.
Those solemn words coupled with the dull throbbing in his gaunt shoulders falter Sylar momentarily.
"I'm offering you my help, Mohinder." Sylar's voice cracks and he curses internally. Don't lose the upper hand, his mind warns.
"What makes you think that I want your help? I despise you!"
Sylar's entire body twitches and something inside his gut snaps like a brittle bone. This ungrateful, blind, stubborn, brilliant, broken, fucking beautiful person is denying him.
Mohinder notices the change in Sylar's eyes as they narrow. His stomach flips and ties into a knot when the murderer's head tilts gently to the side. He realizes, for the first time, that Sylar's telekinetic hold is gone, and he retreats. To where, Mohinder is not sure. Slow, backwards steps are all that his body will allow, and a fleeting urge to run zaps his limbs when Sylar matches his strides.
"You loathe the way I make you feel. Which I find to be quite odd since those despicable feelings are the very ones you crave lately."
Sylar speaks through gritted teeth, his lean legs making up for the distance between them. His hand shoots out and latches onto Mohinder's bicep, pulling the quaking man into him.
"Stop," Mohinder whimpers as Sylar's arms wrap around his back and caress his hair. Sylar makes a mental note that his companion didn't refute what he'd just pointed out.
Mohinder struggles - futile jerks - but the strong arms only tighten their hold. He feels as though he's a feeble rabbit receiving an immobilizing squeeze from a deadly snake.
"Shhh," Sylar comforts, massaging soothing patterns into the back of his neck, trailing deft fingertips to the apex of his spine.
Mohinder stills when panic in his mind alerts him to struggled breathing. The more he fights, the less air he receives, and so he lays his chin unwillingly on Sylar's shoulder and waits to see what the murderer will do next. He half-expects to be flung onto his stomach and have his pants ripped off in fevered animalistic lust. The hardness abrading his thigh warns of this apprehension.
"Please," he whispers, chin digging painfully into a bony shoulder.
Sylar closes his eyes and pretends like the plead is a burning desire to be fixed by his nimble hands. He is a quick thinker and, though things hadn't gone exactly to plan, he could deal with these unexpected emotions.
His mind slips into the momentary fantasy that Mohinder is begging for his help.
"Whatever you want."
Mohinder's eyes scan the small expanse of apartment that immobility will allow, flicking nervously around his furniture. The scent of Sylar's cologne fills his nostrils and he closes his eyes, trying desperately to push it away. It smells too much like Zane…too much like the long car rides trapped in a small, stale space where the aroma was unavoidable, latching onto soft touches and stolen glances to establish painful memories.
He can't shun it now, closing his eyes does nothing, and those recollections stream back in affixed to the fragrance assaulting his head.
Zane, his mind screams, but no, this is not Zane. This is a monster and he is holding me and touching me and…
Sylar's fingers have come to a rest at the base of his skull and almost immediately Mohinder feels a dull ache creep from their burning warmth.
"Wait…what are you doing?" he pants, his head rapidly becoming heavy as it droops down even more into solid bone.
"You tell me, doctor."
Mohinder's eyelids are weighted closed and his limbs are tingling in a slow, bleary sensation.
Sleep-tugged thoughts pull at his vast knowledge of the human body and land on where Sylar is applying telekinesis.
"Cerebral concussion. You're…my brain," Mohinder whines, attempting one last time to jerk out of Sylar's hold with the realization that he is slipping into a makeshift slumber.
The arms loosen slightly around him but his struggles are merely for Sylar's enjoyment - no more powerful than a baby squirming in a blanket.
"Relax," Sylar soothes, nudging his nose against silky curls as the pressure inside Mohinder's skull heightens.
One final pinch strikes the bundle of sensitive nerves on his brain stem.
Like someone flicking a light switch Mohinder slumps, comatose, into the waiting arms of a domineering murderer.
Next chapter up as soon as plot bunnies will allow!
Song quote at the beginning: "Even Deeper" by Nine Inch Nails