LM's Notes: This was written for LiveJournal's pyjamagurl as part of a drabble meme.
This story contains allusions to a male/male relationship and possible disturbing imagery.
He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of his lover's sternum mesmerized
He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of his fledgling lover's sternum mesmerized. He imagines for the briefest of moments how much more beautiful Mohinder's umber-toned skin could be with a river of crimson life flowing from a surgically precise forehead wound. Tributaries of red criss-crossing the planes of his body, pausing only to pool at the hollow of his throat, his navel.
His greatest enemy, his only weakness gone with nothing more than a gentle drag of his index finger.
He has murdered the father. To kill the son completes the circle. Makes him whole.
He can't. He shouldn't.
He won't, because the lines have now become layered with uncertainty and doubt, almost invisible—too blurry to cross, even for a vicious killer like himself.
He won't, because Mohinder has awakened something within him on this lazy Sunday morning.
Something more than the challenge of delicately dismantling broken timepieces and restoring them with reverence to their proper synchronicity.
Something more than the thrill of killing and the almost orgasmic bliss he feels when a new ability overtakes him.
Something beyond the man that answers to Gabriel, Zane or Sylar.