-Day 7-
Mohinder trudges towards Sylar's cell; needle in hand and white lab coat flowing out behind him. He's trailed by a guard who, he was assured by Bennet, would only be there to oversee Sylar's daily injection.
Still fuming from last night's phone conversation, Mohinder bursts through the door with a little more force than he should have, startling the captive inside.
"Sorry," he mumbles, offering a meek smile at Sylar's wide eyes. Mohinder glances down to a book that had been dropped in shock. "What're you reading?"
Sylar grins, picking the text up and flashing its pale green cover.
"Anger."
"Ahh, I didn't think you cared for it much."
The ailing man sighs and runs shaking fingers through his hair.
"It's interesting. And what else am I gonna do in here?"
Mohinder can only frown at how much worse his appearance is. Another haunting sign of his failure as a human being was sitting hunched before him, eyes now vacant of resentment and full of defeat. He hadn't thought it would hurt this much to break the man down. The only thing left to do was finish this brainless agreement he had with Bennet, and fix what he's damaged.
"I suppose I could bring you more if you're done with it."
"That would be nice. Can I keep this?"
Mohinder is briefly taken aback by Sylar's interest in the subjects contained within the book, and he smiles. A truly heartfelt grin of feeling proud at having succeeded to help Sylar, even just a little. He can't stop now; he's on a roll.
"Of course."
Moving towards the bed, Mohinder pulls a gauze pad from his lab coat pocket and, glancing back at the guard once, cleans Sylar's arm.
Brow knitting together, Sylar looks from Mohinder's blank face down to the gauze. He's about to ask why the cloth lacks antiseptic when Mohinder flashes him a dangerous look, cutting off his thoughts.
"Time for your shot," he says, loud enough for all ears in the room to hear. With his back to the guard he's blocking any view of the needle, eyes still locked on Sylar's and narrowed as if trying to communicate a telepathic plea for the man to play along.
"Okay doc," Sylar replies, taking his hint.
He breaks his stare to watch Mohinder press the syringe's stopper, expelling his would-be dosage of the drug onto white gauze that quickly soaks it up. Gradually feeling the cold, wet medicine soak through to his arm, Sylar scrunches his face a little in discomfort. He's all the more confused as to why Mohinder is faking the shot, but acting in this place, he's discovered, is something he's is quite good at.
"Ouch."
Mohinder grins at the added fib on Sylar's part and moves quickly to toss drug-soaked material into the trash. Turning back to the guard and making sure to show his empty needle, Mohinder nods once and smiles as the man turns to leave.
When the door clicks shut, Sylar wastes no time.
"What the hell?"
"You don't approve of my helping you?" Mohinder counters, raising a brow to Sylar's baffled look.
"I've got no problem with it, Doctor. Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little skeptical of your motives."
"Lets just say," Mohinder reveals, sitting down on the bed next to Sylar, "that I'm tired of the disingenuous motives of this place."
"Huh. Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing, you wouldn't believe me," Sylar frowns, waving his hand in the air to dismiss himself.
Mohinder scoots closer until their hips are touching, face interested.
"Would too. Tell me."
"I just thought," Sylar starts with a heavy sigh, "…no…I knew that you were going to help me…at some point."
"Did you now?" Mohinder doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or incredibly pleased. "Why's that?"
"Well, you're far too good of a person not too," Sylar explains, nodding his own assuredness.
A ping of guilt strikes Mohinder. If – when – Sylar finds out that he's here because Mohinder is using him to get out of a threat, he's certain his patient would change that opinion.
"No," Mohinder murmurs, shaking his head and shifting away. "I'm really not." He stares down at his lap, refusing to meet Sylar's tired, dying eyes. He's surprised to hear a deep chuckle coming from the man beside him, and compels himself to look up.
"I think I know you better than you know yourself, Mohinder. Even if you did something with mal intent, it would eat at you until you resolved it. That's just the kind of person you are. Moral, virtuous, caring."
Mohinder gawks unblinkingly at Sylar. He'd known there was an attraction, and that he shared a bond with the man few people understood. But to hear that Sylar thinks so highly of him as a human being is almost too much to accept. If only he understood.
"Or have you done something irrevocably evil that I don't know about?" Sylar teases with a smirk when Mohinder doesn't respond.
"I have, actually."
It slips out easier than he'd predicted but Mohinder is quickly learning that lying to this man is near impossible; big brown eyes innocent and vulnerable. Sylar's demure is even more heartbreaking than he'd imagined it would be at this moment - accompanied by a sickly, shaking breath.
"Then we have something in common." Those eyes are instantly glinting with more than just friendly conversation. Sylar moves closer sporting a comforting smile and Mohinder's stomach spasms at the proximity.
"Yes," he agrees. "And like you, I fully intend on fixing things."
"Need any tips?" Sylar says coyly, leaning into his doctor's personal space.
Flushing, Mohinder's breath quickens. He wants nothing more than to lunge forwards and take Sylar, but he knows Bennet is expecting him shortly in his office. Is there time for this? No, he's got to change the subject.
His lips stammer over the first thing to pop into his brain.
"Di-did you know that crocodiles blow bubbles to attract their mate?"
Damn you, late-night Discovery channel!
Sylar jerks back slightly, forehead scrunching down before quirking a single eyebrow.
"You don't say?" His grin is quite telling of his amusement. "Well Mohinder, since you and I live above water I'll have to resort to warm blooded tactics, now won't I?"
Accentuating his proposal, Sylar slides a gentle hand up Mohinder's khaki covered thigh, stopping just short of a growing bulge.
Mohinder swallows hard, thanking Shiva that Sylar is currently lacking super hearing to save him from that particular brand of embarrassment.
"I uh…"
"You what?"
Fingering his belt Sylar hover's pastel lips a mere centimeter from Mohinder's, enjoying their exchange of hot breath.
This is happening too fast, he has somewhere to be and if he slips up now he could risk ruining everything.
"I don't have much time," Mohinder exhales into the other mouth.
"Then make it fast."
The pleading in that voice - a soft whine - is irresistible. Mohinder curses his feeble emotions not a moment before closing the distance between their lips.
Moaning into the kiss, he slides his tongue in to taste everything; devouring Sylar's flavor, his raw surrender, and his vulnerability. Mohinder has never felt such a rush of desire. Heat bubbles in his belly and seizing muscles cause his fingers to tighten around Sylar's biceps.
Months of fleeting memory of their attraction yields to the intoxicating level of passion sparking between them. The best part about this moment, Mohinder thinks, is that he can feel Sylar surrendering under his touch.
He's lost in everything, senses turned up and pounding into his mind to drown out their impossible surroundings and the immoral act soon to be committed. But for the briefest of moments – as he feels Sylar's hand sneak past the waist of his pants – a fire ignites in Mohinder's chest. This isn't wrong; in fact, it couldn't be more right. Injustices are being done to both men and this is the only thing that feels vindicated.
Sylar groans wantonly at his probing tongue and Mohinder realizes precisely how badly they both want this. Rationalization aside, it comes down to basic human need that neither can stand to ignore any longer. This moment is theirs – two trapped men desperate for something to embrace and console life's misfortunes.
A possible test of what the hell might happen when all of this is over. Mohinder has yet to think that far ahead and frankly, it scares him to death.
All fear is pushed aside when a trembling hand grasps his length, Sylar breaking the lip lock to plant wet kisses down Mohinder's neck.
"Oh, Gods."
The constant quake in the larger man reminds Mohinder of the weakness at hand – purely physical for he knows Sylar is screaming on the inside to tear him apart.
He pushes gently with his body and the silent swap of dominance occurs; Sylar retreating and following Mohinder's lead. But the lack of strength seems invisible when Mohinder catches the look on that pallid face. It's fiery and intense with a yearning for pain and searing hot touch. Sylar wants to be hurt just as much as Mohinder needs to hurt him, and the sudden realization of this understanding strikes Mohinder like a blow to the face. Love is knowing exactly what your mate wants without hesitation.
Sylar is standing then, pulling Mohinder with him, and setting the stage for their show. The moment their bodies leave the creaky mattress, he is slammed against the wall by chocolate hands. Hands that, in any other situation, would be far weaker than his. Hands that are now wringing in his Company issued tee-shirt as an eager mouth crashes against his. This side of Mohinder, he decides, is one well worth relinquishing himself to.
Khaki pants now hang off Mohinder's hips, eager to fall. Sylar aids them with a gentle nudge, shelving his thumbs on protruding hipbones while the cloth slides down with gravity. Hungry teeth are worrying his bottom lip, Mohinder bouncing gently onto his tiptoes every few seconds to uphold dominance in the kiss. It's when a hand leaves his chest and trails to the thin white fabric covering his groin that Sylar lets out a feeble gasp, causing Mohinder to pull back.
He watches Sylar's head clunk back against the wall, taking in a range of pleasurable emotions as they fleet across his face with each rough massage.
"Do you want this?" Mohinder demands through gritted teeth, the need for validation coming through in his tense actions. Do you need me to save you is what he's really asking. Even though he knows the answer, hearing it is vital.
"Yes," Sylar breathes out, eyes flicking open to look at him, half-lidded. "Please, yes, I want you."
Mohinder can feel the blood rushing through Sylar's erection as it stiffens. In a frantic motion he tugs those annoying white pajamas down, elating momentarily over the Company's no-underwear policy, and strokes Sylar with the hot flesh of his hand.
Crouching down he presses his lips to the head of Sylar's cock, tongue darting out to taste. Just as he remembered; a slight salt flavor with sweetness to it that, as Zane, Mohinder never questioned. But now he wonders how such a destructive person could taste so pure. The combination of sweet and savory causes Mohinder's mouth to water as he licks a stripe up the engorged length.
He senses the ailing patient go weak, knees giving slightly as Sylar slides a few inches down the wall in ecstasy. Mohinder stands and moves quickly to turn them both and push Sylar stomach-down onto the bed, draped over its edge. He tugs his own boxers down and kneels; hasty, trembling movements like they're two teenagers fucking before parents come home from a night out.
Mohinder winces at the ice cold contact of the hard floor under his knees, another reminder of their unforgiving surroundings.
He has to stop himself, take a deep breath, and remember that while pain is desired by the man in front of him, torture is not. Sylar has endured too much of that in this tiny cell already. Mohinder takes in the sight of Sylar's back, still clad in his white shirt, rising and falling with deep waiting breaths. His hands are fisted in the bed sheet, prepared for the ripping pain to come.
Mohinder places a soothing palm on Sylar's spine and sucks on two of his own fingers, coating them with as much makeshift lube as possible.
A sharp gasp and a tensing of muscles occur as the digits tenderly slide into Sylar, and Mohinder's hand never leaves his vertebrae. Instead it smoothes soothing circles, feeling tight muscles underneath a thin shirt. Mohinder's own cock twitches at the notion of this body being his.
Sylar whimpers and twists the sheets in his fists when the fingers scissor apart, stretching him. Despite how badly he wants to mar, Mohinder can't suppress the feelings of guilt and pity. He knows what it feels like, having been the bottom in such acts for so long, used by many people – including himself – to fill voids in human desire.
He cranes to plant a calming kiss on Sylar's hip, slipping his fingers out when he feels the body finally relax around him. The shuddering sigh that escapes his lover is one of partial content; this contact is gradually filling that abyss for Sylar, and it drives Mohinder to act quickly. He spits onto his hand, remorseful for not having a better source of lubrication, and coats his throbbing length.
Lining himself up Mohinder runs a hand up and under Sylar's shirt, feeling the repetitive bulge of his spine. He wants to stroke as much as possible in this short time. He needs to remember in case something goes wrong and he can't fix this. He has to store it all away and-
"Hard," comes a gruff demand, breaking Mohinder from his fixated touching.
Mohinder takes a deep breath, gripping skinny hips, and presses in with a sluggish motion. Had he been in the right state of mind to ponder, he would have thanked his Gods that Sylar's yell is muffled by a mattress. But Mohinder is too far gone; eyes rolling back into his skull at the incredibly tight and hot body swallowing his cock inch by inch.
Once all the way in he pauses - whether it's out of complete euphoria or to let Sylar adjust, Mohinder can't say. Several moments pass as both men pant out into the quiet concrete prison, the larger of the two shaking with something more than pleasure or pain.
After what feels like an eternity Mohinder is pulling out just as slowly as he pushed in, biting his own lip to confine groans at the burning friction of sensitive flesh on sensitive flesh.
This is everything, he thinks as he shoves back in again. He's unable to hold in a throaty moan this time because Sylar, desperate for more, arcs up and pushes back to meet him.
"Fuck," Mohinder grunts, pulling out and driving forwards with more haste. Before long his hips are colliding with Sylar's rear so roughly that the metal bed is scraping forwards against concrete floor. Each jarred thrust pushes it a little further and Mohinder prays that the guard can't hear it through the tightly sealed door.
Sylar is growling then, biting into a sheet that does little to stifle his snarl. He releases the linen with one hand and reaches back, gripping Mohinder's wrist in a gesture that shouldn't feel so damn passionate. But he wants Mohinder to remember who he's fucking; to not get lost in the movements and think about anyone else that may have his heart outside of these walls.
Mohinder responds by sliding that hand under Sylar's chest, gently towing him into a straightened position so his back is flush to Mohinder's front. This allows for a change in angle; the doctor hitting his prostate repeatedly while thrusting upwards.
"God, Mohinder." Sylar rests his palms against the edge of the bed for support while his lover rams in mercilessly from behind. He's vaguely surprised to feel Mohinder's smooth fingers running over the scar on his chest – touching to commit to memory Sylar's vulnerabilities.
Mohinder's lips are on the back of his neck, pressed there as if vacant of any will to move. Sylar doesn't mind at all; they're warm and wet and soft, completely opposite of how numb and cold and pained his knees feel against the hard floor.
The digits dance away from his scar and the attached arm wraps itself firmly around Sylar's abdomen, anchoring their bodies together. He gasps, eyes flying open, when he feels Mohinder's other hand unexpectedly on his cock, pumping in tempo with the slamming hips.
Like last time, it doesn't take Sylar long to reach his orgasm. Weeks of pent up sexual frustration spill out with one long, guttural moan, spurting onto the bed in front of them.
Mohinder follows suit, teeth sinking into Sylar's shoulder for a brief taste when the body around his pulsing erection tightens in its own ecstasy.
He rolls his hips gently while coming; filling his lover with an equal amount of lust, breath hot and sticky on Sylar's skin.
The two drift down slowly towards the stability of the bed, Mohinder lying on top of Sylar. His panting chest duels with Sylar's rising and falling back while his vision comes back from its white-out.
"That…" comes a gravely voice from below him, unable to finish a coherent thought.
Mohinder blinks rapidly to prevent himself from falling into a euphoric slumber, and pulls himself away while taking the liberty of finishing Sylar's statement.
"Was amazing."
Sylar nods and turns slowly in apparent pain from the act, lifting his hips to pull the pajama pants up and easing back onto the edge of the mattress.
Mohinder sets about fixing his own clothing, embarrassed by admiring eyes; Sylar taking his opportunity to layer on the compliments, extra thick.
"You are amazing."
Mohinder blushes when he's tugged over by the hips, Sylar aiding in fastening and zipping his pants. He stares down into large eyes and forces a promise upon himself that he will see this through to the end. Whatever end that may be.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"Takes a lot to bring me down," Sylar replies with a grin, running a palm over the scar Mohinder had been caressing before.
"Shit," Mohinder curses, glancing at his wrist watch. "I have to go, I'm sorry."
"Now you're just making me feel like a whore." His patient elates over Mohinder's momentary appalled glare. "Kidding. Go before they fire you and I'm left alone in this place."
Much to Sylar's surprise, Mohinder bends down and plants an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. He cards dark fingers through short hair before pulling away and rushing out the door.
Sylar is left content, in a daze, and already achingly hard for more.