Sylar knows, deep down, that it's best if he didn't have Mohinder with him.
It's not that he doesn't like – it's far, so far from that. Mohinder's presence is the only thing that's keeping him humane right now – not the fact that he's powerful or special – when he returns every night, heart set in stone, icy, cold blood still coursing through his veins, Mohinder warms him up, his embraces filled with longing and passion. Mohinder's equally confused, but he never fails in reminding Sylar that he's still human - Mohinder is the only one who can soften Sylar's murderous glares; the only one who can leave Sylar's skin tingling with the merest brush of fingertips.
No one's ever made him feel that way before – he can't imagine leaving all of this behind – watching Mohinder work in the morning, sitting by the window, furiously typing away at his laptop, calculating genetic formulas and what not – the sunlight never jarred his view, but only accentuated how perfect he looked. Howspecial he was.
He hates that it's this way though, because Mohinder is the only one that helps him remember how it feels like to hurt like a normal person.
-
There're post-its all around the house. On the refrigerator door, on Mohinder's notebook, and on their bedside table.
Call Ma. David Miller, 110 Tergorn St. Post mail.
Sylar had once thought it adorable; that one person would need so many reminders, but they weren't just Mohinder's reminders - they were reminders to Sylar too, pieces of evidence that Mohinder was breaking down. He'd never showed it, never wanted to display any sign of weakness, but it was inevitable, wasn't it?
There was one, that he'd found, just last week.
Sylar half-wished that he'd never seen it.
The post-it was crumpled into a ball, lying next to the wastepaper bin. Mohinder must have aimed, missed, but didn't really notice. Letting curiosity (and boredom) get the better of him, Sylar used telekinesis and brought it to him, at the couch where he was lounging while Mohinder was preparing dinner somewhere in the kitchen behind– he opened it; his tiny smile instantly vanishing.
Remember, he killed father.
-
Note: he's a murderer.
Figure out what I'm doing here.
Reason with self. Get self to stop loving him.
-
Sylar's not supposed to hurt. He's a killer. He's special.
Mohinder doesn't know, but Sylar has found almost every post-it that he's crumpled up and thrown out. Sylar finds himself desperately wondering if he should end this, let Mohinder live his life like he used to.
The man's hollowing out - Sylar watches the progression; he watches Mohinder curl up in some mornings, face buried in his knees, lost in thought. He watches as Mohinder floats through the apartment, smiling, talking, kissing still, but whenever he thinks Sylar's not watching, his expression – it didn't even exist anymore. His eyes were still dark brown, but they were entirely devoid of any life. They still crinkled up when he smiled, but that same, blank stare never faded away.
Mohinder's broken.
He can fix it. Mohinder hasn't even stopped ticking.
He can't let Mohinder go.
He has to fix Mohinder.
He can't just let go of the best thing that's ever happened to him.
-
Find a way to fix Mohinder.
-