I woke up today
To find myself in the other place
It seems everything I've heard
Just might be true
And you know me
Well you think you do
A buzzing, ringing, growing louder in his ears.
His eyes won't open and his head pounds relentlessly.
Mohinder feels a warmth slide across his cheek and he flinches, but the recoil only amplifies the hammering in his skull.
"Don't try to move."
The voice is too brash as it echoes against the throb, but he stills, afraid of the pain assaulting his head.
He feels sick almost instantly, a bitter itch rising in his throat and a tepid sensation filling his dry mouth. His body lurches.
"Wonderful, Mohinder. Disgusting."
Heat on his chest with a shift in whatever he is resting on and Mohinder lulls back to sleep as obscurity drapes his senses.
"Finally awake?"
Mohinder takes a sharp breath and winces with Sylar's resonant voice.
His eyes flutter open in time for his equilibrium to stabilize and witness two Sylar's vibrate into one. A pale, concerned face is the focus point once they do so.
He swallows hard, parched mouth giving no aid to raw sensitivity.
Mohinder is startled when a cool glass tips against his chapped lips.
"I'm sure your throat hurts."
He nods, attempting to sit up, but firm fingers meet a weak chest and force him back down.
An all-too steady hand pours the water in a delicate trickle and the remnant scorch soothes instantly. The cup pulls away before he can ask for more.
"You threw up on me, Mohinder."
"What did you think would happen by toying with my brain stem?" His voice is a raspy whimper; he wishes it manifested confidence, but dread and bewilderment are suppressing that conviction.
Sylar shoots him a displeased look before a harsh rattling noise enters Mohinder's thoughts, forcing him to press a palm to his head.
He barely has time to react before feeling two foreign objects shoved intrusively between his lips tailed promptly by more cool water.
"Those will help," Sylar growls as Mohinder swallows and coughs through the startle.
"What did you just give me?"
"Don't you trust me, Mohinder?"
"Are you joking? You kidnapped me!"
Sylar leans forward, hands on either side of the doctor, quirking his head as his eyes jut around Mohinder's dark face.
"It's not kidnapping when the person belongs to you."
He's delusional, Mohinder realizes with a pang of fear. How do you reason with someone like this?
"You can't…own another human being, Sylar. It goes against all laws of nature and ethics," Mohinder states, shifting as much as the looming figure will allow.
A hand wanders up to fondle rogue curls as Sylar continues with a reflective look in his eyes.
"A year ago your father told me I couldn't move objects with my mind. I proved him wrong. Anything is possible, Mohinder."
He is about to respond, opening his mouth to form an objection when a weight drops on his mind like a boulder.
Sylar studies the detached look in dark eyes as they shift groggily to the side in medicated euphoria.
"What's the matter?" He asks the doctor with mock-concern. He knows very well what's wrong.
"You drugged me."
Mohinder's teeth are gritted, jaw clenched, when his head falls back onto the pillow.
"You need more rest," Sylar quips, matter-of-factly.
A gentle stroking of knuckles against his cheek comforts him as undesirable sleep buries Mohinder alive for the final time.
He wakes several hours later feeling more well-rested than he has in months.
Headache gone and seemingly alone, Mohinder is up in a flash to examine his foreign prison.
It seems nice enough at first glance around the room; homely with a flower-print love seat in the corner and various scenic paintings hung on the log walls.
He peaks into a cracked door and catches the edge of a sink. At least there is a bathroom.
Mohinder then hurries to the window, nearly tripping on too-long pajama pants. He takes a moment to examine his oversized tee shirt, noting this outfit must be Sylar's, before pulling back the dusty mauve curtain.
Woods, nothing but snow and woods as far as he can see. Even if he wanted to run, how deep would he get into the dark forest before he had to turn back?
He unlocks and tugs on the window pane out of curiosity and finds it, unsurprisingly, stuck shut. Shaky fingers tap lightly on the glass as he wonders how easy it would be to break it and escape.
"Going somewhere?"
Mohinder spins to see Sylar standing in the doorway, leaning casually, eyes narrowed and mouth painted with an amused smirk.
"I thought I heard you up." Sylar steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere very special to me." He strides forward. "My family used to come here when I was younger. Now I'm sharing it with you."
"I'm honored," Mohinder retorts sarcastically, trying to hold his ground as Sylar closes the distance between them.
"You should be. You will be."
The malevolent growl coming from curled lips is enough to disable Mohinder's thoughts.
No time to react. Abrupt and harsh like everything else Sylar does.
Mohinder is grabbed by his arm and drug painfully into the bathroom, flesh screaming in agony where Sylar's grip holds tight.
"What are you doing?!"
"Cleaning you."
Sylar takes too much joy in the struggle. He chuckles coldly at Mohinder's futile attempts to wiggle away while his clothing is stripped off.
The doctor doesn't relent until he is shoved under the steaming water and feels Sylar's body slip in behind him.
His wrists are captured, palms brought up to the shower wall and planted firmly by telekinesis.
He hangs his head directly under the persistent moisture and snivels through stretched, sopping curls.
This isn't right, how did it happen? I have work to do. Did he even lock my apartment? Mohinder's thoughts raced through the stress of the situation. He can't keep me here; someone will come looking for me. Word of my disappearance will get to Peter Petrelli and-
Sylar's bony fingers wrap around his hips and urge him forwards a few inches.
"Don't hog all the water, Mohinder."
He hears Sylar hum appreciatively behind him as the water bounces off pale skin, swirling down the drain at two pairs of night and day feet.
Mohinder is now very aware of a hardness rubbing into his backside.
He stifles the impulse to throw up because, much to his dismay, his body is reacting to the sensation with welcoming urgency.
A sigh of relief shudders through him when Sylar's soapy fingers attack his dark locks. Maybe he is just going to be cleaned.
"You know, I thought you of all people would appreciate what I'm trying to do…being Indian and all."
Sylar grins as he massages shampoo into Mohinder's scalp and pauses briefly to inhale the wild apple scent.
"What?" It's all Mohinder can think to say. He's quickly losing himself in the sensual touches.
"Soul cleansing, Mohinder. Think of this as an opportunity to start fresh."
Sylar prods him back under the shower head to rinse the suds from his curls. The unmistakable grind into his ass forces a reply from Mohinder to conceal his moan.
"Starting fresh usually doesn't involve drugging," Mohinder sputters through the rivers of soapy water flowing down his face.
He gasps when gentle hands begin vigorously rubbing a bar of soap across all available skin.
"I did some reading on your culture, Mohinder," Sylar forces through clenched teeth, ignoring the doctor's sarcasm. His movements pause and he presses his lips to Mohinder's shoulder, murmuring against the slick flesh. "Just couldn't stop thinking about you. Had to pass the time somehow."
Pale hands travel down a wet chest, fingers dipping into the concave of Mohinder's belly button.
"And?" Mohinder chokes on his own word when the appendages ghost over his erection.
"And…I grew quite fond of one of your Gods. Shiva is his name, I believe."
He swallows hard as the fingers stroke back and forth delicately, the groin behind him starting to move in a rousing manner.
"Destroyer," Mohinder pants.
The murderer smirks against the back of his neck before squeezing the throbbing length. He moans as Mohinder bucks backwards into his own erection.
"That's right. The destroyer of imperfections…ignorance…impurities."
He quickens the pace of his hand, leaning deeper into Mohinder to create more friction.
Shiva, who shatters and then restores, Mohinder recalls from his indisputable knowledge of his own religion. But this God leaves nothing in its wake. No purity is spared.
"You forgot relationships and attachments, good things in life-oh God! Please stop!"
Mohinder throws his head back against the pallid shoulder, desperate to hold onto his sanity when Sylar's teeth dig into his neck.
Fingers slip without warning inside of him, and he calls out from the intense pain.
"No, Mohinder. Can't stop now. I'm… breaking and fixing."
He gasps at the lean, mocha body jerking against his front, challenging its own reactions.
Sylar chews on his lip fighting the desire to force Mohinder onto his knees.
He thinks he can compare himself to Shiva? He's a murdering, self-involved sociopath!
"You're not a God," Mohinder hisses, eyes fluttering closed when Sylar thumbs the head of his erection.
The water flicks off by an unseen force as the shower curtain flies back, and Mohinder regrets his last statement.
It isn't until he is flung from the tub and his stomach meets the edge of the sink that he fully laments.
His head smacks against the wall with brutal momentum, dazing him momentarily.
Before the sting in his cranium can subside, Sylar is behind him again, thrusting in and bruising more harshly.
Both men grunt, though for entirely different reasons, and Mohinder's hands grasp blindly at the smooth faucet as his head slumps into the sink.
Sylar pounds in relentlessly ignoring the hoarse cries jarring from his captive, and fists a handful of damp curls.
Too much, too fast.
Mohinder winces as his head is snapped back and he's forced to meet Sylar's gaze in the mirror.
"I'm your God," Sylar snarls. "The sooner you accept the better."
When Sylar lets go, hot tears are streaming down Mohinder's face and mixing with ruby blood from the cut on his forehead. The white porcelain drives against his stomach and Mohinder can do nothing but fret over the damage being done underneath his skin.
He feels telekinetic fingers working his length again while Sylar's blunt nails rake marks into the flesh of his hips.
Crimson red swirling down the white drain below him; he feels sick.
"Stop!" he cries out. Sylar only grinds harder.
Trying to detach himself from the ripping, burning, aching bluntness of the situation, Mohinder welds his eyes shut and latches onto the sink.
As Sylar's fingers rip into the caramel flesh, eyes sparkling at the bright red treasure buried underneath, his plan evolves into something more unexpected.
The pieces come together, and he decides fate has finally worked its charm. It's so simple; Sylar wonders why he hadn't thought of it before.
Close to the edge, he thrusts into Mohinder deeper, angling, twisting the doctor's head and bending down to bite at dark lips.
Inflict as much physical damage as possible, Sylar thinks.
He aims for the sweet-spot inside of Mohinder, jabbing against a tender prostate in the hopes of unraveling the doctor entirely. It works, he knows, when a low whine escapes cultured lips and Mohinder's knuckles tense so profoundly they turn white.
With a telekinetic grip around his hardness Mohinder releases, groaning through the unwanted pleasure that thrums in time with his heartbeat.
Sylar latches onto chocolate shoulders and squeezes with the purpose of leaving bruises, his seed spilling out into the collapsed, groaning body below him.
Planting a kiss on Mohinder's heaving back, he pulls away and watches the doctor crumble to the floor.
Mohinder can't meet Sylar's eyes. He can hardly breathe. He curls into himself and touches the wound on is head lightly.
"That looks like it hurts," Sylar observes, wiping himself clean with a towel and then slipping back into his clothing. He crouches down beside Mohinder with a washcloth, only to find the man flinch into an even tighter ball.
"Fuck you."
He frowns down at Mohinder's trembling body and shakes his head lightly.
So weak. Fragile. I'll make you strong. Nothing is stronger than love. You will love me soon.
The plan is crystal clear now.
"Get up," he commands, reaching out and pulling Mohinder to his feet, guiding him on shaky limbs back to the bed.
Mohinder isn't fighting back anymore.
He is holding onto Sylar, afraid of falling. A small taste of what is to come, Sylar thinks. A morsel that leaves his mouth watering and wanting more.
He slides a clean pair of boxers over bruised, bleeding mocha hips and retrieves a first aid kit from the bathroom.
When Sylar returns, Mohinder is staring blankly out the window.
Cleaning Mohinder's wounds is easier than expected; the doctor sits still, flinching away only at the burn of chemicals, not at Sylar's hand.
"I'm sorry."
Mohinder snaps out of his shock.
"No you're not. You're sadistic! If that's all you wanted, you should have just taken it at my apartment!"
Sylar chuckles darkly.
"No, Mohinder. Not sorry for that. For what I have to do."
He watches the murderer retrieve thick rope from under the bed. The look of absolute bewilderment on Mohinder's face is one that Sylar stores away forever with his eidetic memory.
Mohinder looks from the restraints to Sylar and swallows with conviction.
"No!"
"Yes. I'm going out and I can't have you running away. Not after we've made so much…progress."
He tries to scoot back into a defensive position but winces as pain shoots through all the wounds and bruises peppering his body.
Is it worth fighting and injuring myself even more? Mohinder wonders.
"Lay down," Sylar says, uncoiling the rope and using telekinesis to slice it into four pieces.
Swallowing his pride and the anger bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, Mohinder obeys.
He glares at Sylar who returns the compliance with an appreciative nod.
It's painful to lay like this; arms and legs stretched out to the bedposts, placing strain on his already tender joints. The sheets chafe against cuts.
Mohinder's bottom hurts most of all. He's bewildered at how a previously comfortable bed meets his throbbing backside with relentless hardness.
Sylar ties the ropes firmly, leaning down to kiss the small wound on his captive's forehead when all limbs are secure. Dark eyes refuse to meet his when Sylar's fingers skim admiringly over battered flesh.
"Do I need to find tape for your mouth?"
Mohinder's eyes flash, failing to mask his fear of being bound and gagged.
"No."
"Good. Save your pretty voice, there's nobody around for miles."
There is a pause, a look of almost regret plaguing Sylar's face before he leans down and kisses Mohinder's bruised lips, sliding his tongue in to taste.
This motionless form is not what Sylar wants. Mohinder doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't try to move away. The final phase of his plan is now more desired than ever.
"I'll be back later." Sylar's voice is quiet as he stands and rushes to the door. Shiva, he thinks, will rebuild everything.
Okay so I finally know how I'm going to end this! Sorry this chapter is so long.
Song lyrics at the beginning: "Even Deeper" by Nine Inch Nails.