Disclaimer; I don't own Heroes, or anything associated with it. Nope. And I certainly don't own Sylar and Momo. Sadly. Oh, and by the way? Not making any money. Still practically penniless. 'Silence Is Golden' is a sequel to 'Screaming For Some Healing', sort of, but can be read as something entirely separate.


Silence Is Golden

Silence is golden. Silence is deafening. Mohinder would quite like for someone to make up their fucking mind on this very matter, before he loses his mind completely. Tick Tock. More than just a bomb behind the eyes waiting to explode and take out a life. Kaboom. Akin to the sound of the blood rushing through his veins, through his head, pounding and filling the silence with a sound so ominous that it makes him cringe and shudder.

Ache. That's the feeling in his eye sockets. It spreads like a cancer, itching and wriggling its way into each and every crevice... like cancer does. It does that, you know. Makes itself known. Makes itself heard. Even if you're deaf and dumb and damn fucking blind it still screams at you until you're hoarse. It's hoarse. Whichever. Either or.

And it's times like this that Mohinder wishes that he doesn't feel the slow, creeping insanity nipping at his heels like a rabid dog, day in and day out.. It's times like this that he wishes his fingers don't curl and clench and arch menacingly, helplessly, to tap out some unintended tune on the solid wood of what seems to be the solidity of a headboard. Possibly.

Well, to be quite honest... it could be anything. Mohinder is blind, thank you very fucking much.

It's all in the darkness. And the duvet, which once was warm and comforting and full of that healing balm that curling up in a nice, comfortable bed can emanate... tonight, though, it's cloying. It's sticky. It's hot and heavy and almost moist, but that's merely due to the scentless sweat of his fear that permeates the gentle fabric. But regardless of the feel of it on his skin... it's alien. And oh... Mohinder doesn't like it. He doesn't like the dark, the loneliness, the silence. He doesn't like his duvet or his pillow. He doesn't like the pain that unfurls from his brain, a malignant bud of something unnameable that baffles all and sundry. Yummy.

But what Mohinder DOES like... is Sylar. To him, Sylar is like a breath of fresh air. The manic attitude of the serial killer pulls at his gut instinctively, makes him want to fear and revere all at once and half the time poor little pet doesn't even know what he's doing. Or whether it's of his own free will, or a little something that his darling Master had one day planted for a later piece of fun-pie.

Because, you see, Mohinder is mad.

And unfortunately, Sylar doesn't quite know what to do.

Oh, the intelligence is still there, surfacing in delicious bursts and somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind; Sylar wants to shake Mohinder until all that knowledge spurts out of his ears. At times there is the semblance of an actual conversation and my my, how rare those seem these days.

Shame. How he can no longer look into Mohinders eyes and see the fear. Though that particular little snippet is least effected... as Sylar can hear the subtle increase in the thumping organ in his pets chest, the slow crescendo until Mohinder's chest is heaving and the fear-sweat pools along the sharp angles of his hips and drips down the subtle swell of a thigh that is blatantly masculine; and rightfully so. The insanity that is now inherent in his pet is oddly arousing... no boundaries. No escape. Only the sweetness of holding his life in his all too powerful hands.

Fingertips dance and drag over the bedspread and the geneticist cocks his head to one side. They say that once one sense is torn from you, that others are amplified in nature and it's true... at least for our precious pet. Silence is golden... hah. Silence is overrated. When you want it, it's hidden away, and when you don't want it... the nasty little fucker's blanketing everything in a smooth veneer that at times is so heavy that you can taste it on the tip of your tongue.

But Sylar is there, behind him, and who needs sight when there is touch? Searing, straight from the fingertips and singing down the nerves, pooling sightlessly in Mohinders groin.

The silence is rebellious.

To be quite frank, Mohinder thinks it should be punished.

"Feeling naughty?" And the husky murmur is like a balm to him, even though he hushes the serial killer quickly, bravely, only to arch back wantonly into a touch that's too feather-light to describe, on flesh that's too sensitive. Gooseflesh and a warm chest against his back and oh... why yes, yes he is feeling naughty, why do you ask? It's dark. He needs company.

A rough palm though at first is gentle as a lamb, soon radiates confidence, firming, creating a tight and pleasurable grip around his cock that Mohinder is all too happy to thrust into, his own choked moans cracking and breaking the silence. Eggshells. Yes. Eggshells in the dark, and will they crunch if he steps on them—

"—You're not paying attention." The sing-song tone makes him purr, cat-like and the eels on Mohinders skin go stir-crazy, friction and warmth and it feels so fucking good that the thick inky blackness that surrounds him feels less imposing and more like a voyeuristic lover. However, there's no such time for musing on such a thing, and the swat to his backside is much warranted, invoking a breathless sound that's barely recognisable.

"I should film this. Granted, you may not be able to watch it yourself, but I'm quite sure I'll have a whale of a time myself." Sylar murmurs, hot breath wisping past Mohinders ear. "It's... certainly something to see..." And all the while tender fingers dance and play with his balls, whilst that fantastic grip squeezes the base briefly, pleasure spasming through him. He needs more. He needs it now. Give.

And there it is. Muscles that tense and relax, riding out the pleasure that sparks colours through his brain, short-circuiting and rewiring until Mohinder's merely a gasping, moaning puddle of goo, his lover's name dancing on the tip of his tongue where only the two of them and the silence can hear it.

The silence has to take a step back in surprise. It finds the sight awe-inspiring, its own eyes open where Mohinder's are only gaping holes of soft, tender tissue.

And for once, the silence... is just that.

Silent.