Sylar takes Mohinder's hand and whispers softly, "I want it to feel like rape." He breathes into Mohinder's neck, into his hair, his face. "Please," Sylar says, and kisses him softly. "Please."

Sylar's fingers entwining in Mohinder's hair. Desperation in Sylar's eyes.

"No," Mohinder says, but there's pain in the other man's face. "No!" Mohinder says.

Sylar's eyes harden. The blow that comes surprises them both.



Mohinder drags him into the hallway, throws him against the ground and kicks him in the stomach. "Harder!" Sylar says. "Kick me harder!" And Mohinder does, his boot whacking into Sylar's side. Sylar's shoulder hits the floor and he groans, rolling onto his back. Mohinder's shocked. Sylar's supposed to be strong, Sylar's not supposed to give up this easily. Mohinder can see the sliver of skin peeking out from underneath Sylar's shirt, and Mohinder's eyes go blind with rage.

Mohinder smashes his foot against Sylar's face, knocking his head back. Sylar's eyes widen, his lip bleeding. Mohinder grabs him and punches him again. Blood smears on Mohinder's fist. Sylar reaches for him, but Mohinder tears away, punching him against his chest. Sylar cries out and curls up into himself, breathing hard. Mohinder can see Sylar's erection throbbing against the hardwood floor.

"Disgusting," Mohinder says. "You're disgusting." He doesn't know if he's talking to Sylar or himself.



In the bedroom, Mohinder fucks him in the dark. He's brutal, thrusting hard and shoving Sylar's face into the mattress. And with each thrust, Mohinder knows it hurts--knows it hurts and slams into him again, pumping and shoving until Mohinder comes, the salty tang of sweat and blood going up into his nostrils.

Sylar's still hard, and that makes Mohinder angry. He hits Sylar across the face, squeezes Sylar's erection until it hurts.

"Look at you, you're weak," Mohinder says. "Pathetic. A sheep in wolf's clothing. And to think I used to be afraid of you!"

Mohinder reaches for the gun on the nightstand and shoves it against the back of Sylar's head.

"Look what you did to me," Mohinder says. "I'm a scientist. A scholar. And then you ruined everything I had." He shoves the gun into the bruise on Sylar's face, making Sylar wince. Then slowly, deliberately, Mohinder lifts the gun and taps it against Sylar's temple, just hard enough so that Sylar can feel it.

"If I shoot you here, it'll be quick," Mohinder says, softly. "Sometimes when people shoot themselves, they aim too low. They put the gun in their mouths and they don't aim high enough. They shoot straight back, right into the neck. And you know what happens?"

Mohinder drags the gun down lower, to the base of Sylar's neck.

"They choke on their own blood," Mohinder says.

He lets his fingers tangle in Sylar's hair, the barrel digging into the scar where the spinal tap was.

"Do it," Sylar says. He turns his head a little, the side of his face still pressed against the mattress. "Just do it. I won't stop you."

The headlights from a passing car arc through the half-opened blinds, and Mohinder can see the blood on the sheets, the bruises around Sylar's eyes.

"Mohinder?" Sylar's voice cracks. Mohinder cups his face.

"You're bleeding," Mohinder says, softly. He touches Sylar's cheek, then gently kisses the cut on Sylar's mouth. He kisses his eyes and kisses the sides of his face, reaching down and stroking him softly. Sylar presses his forehead against Mohinder's chest, and Mohinder cradles him close, holding him as he would a child. It's not until Sylar comes that Mohinder realizes he's still holding the gun in his other hand.

"I'm so sorry," Mohinder says. Sylar looks up at him with wounded eyes.

"It's okay," Sylar says. "I asked you to."

And Sylar turns his back to him, the space between them like a chasm in the dark.