The first time Matt kisses him, the air smells of cardamom, of basmati rice boiling on the stove.
Molly is in her room, doing her homework before dinner, and behind him, there is a clatter of plates as Matt sets the table. It feels…domestic, familiar, as if they’ve lived together for years, not weeks. As he stirs more garam masala into the vegetable stew he’s cooking, it occurs to him that he can’t remember the last time he felt this safe. It’s a beautiful feeling, radiant, now that he doesn’t take it for granted.
So when Matt comes up to the kitchen counter beside him and Mohinder turns his way, it could be that the smile on his face is more than a little happy. And perhaps Matt was going for the glasses in the cabinet above the sink, but instead he stops, and there is a moment between them like something unspoken, slowly melting away like chocolate on the tongue. Then his hand is on Mohinder’s cheek, large and warm, and their lips are meeting.
He should be there, in the moment, and he is, with Matt’s body close against him, the strength of it purring under his hands when he reaches out and grabs hold. But there are thoughts, images, flashing through his mind.
Standing here, backed up against this counter, Sylar kissing his way down his neck, down his chest, while he pretends he doesn’t know, while he plays along, gives himself up, waits for the right moment.
Standing here, pouring curare into a cup of steaming chai, joking with a man he plans to kill.
Lying here, bruised and bleeding on the floor, held in place against the stove without restraints, Sylar coming towards him, chiding in that sing-song voice…
Gently, Matt pulls away, looks into his eyes.
"Don’t," he says, stroking Mohinder’s temple with his fingertips. "He’s dead and gone."
"Yes," Mohinder says, pulling Matt down into another kiss. "He’s gone."
Matt and Molly are both children of southern California, and when an all night snowfall paints the city white, Mohinder is amused to discover that they find it more exotic than he does. So they take Molly to the park and experiment with building a snowman.
As experiments go, it’s not an unmitigated success, but Molly sticks a twig in for its nose with her small, gloved hand and pronounces it good, and then there are snowballs, she and Matt chasing each other across the white expanse.
It starts to snow again while he watches them play, and he tilts his face up into the quiet fall of flakes.
The first time he kissed Zane Taylor, it was snowing, too, the cold pricks on his skin accentuating the warmth spreading outwards from his heart.
He clenches his hands in his pockets against the false beauty of the memory, tries to blink it away with the snowflakes melting on his lashes.
Then the world blurs as Matt tackles him, bringing him down with the practiced ease of his cop training, and they’re rolling through the soft, wet embrace of snow. Round and round until he’s stretched out with Matt’s weight on top of him, Matt grinning down at him, a glimmer in his eyes that is pure joy. Beside them, Molly is laughing, delight clear as crystal ringing through the air.
Mohinder feels himself start laughing, too.
There is nothing false about any of this.
One night, he dreams.
He is in Dale Smithers’s workshop and the blood from her opened skull is pouring in a bright red river across the concrete floor. The smell of it is thick, cloying, sticking to the inside of his throat. He wants to turn away, rush out into the clear mountain air, but trying to move is like struggling against invisible bonds. Then Sylar is behind him, speaking in his ear, and he can’t quite catch the words, but the tone is heat and darkness, possessive desire that seeps into his skin.
Little by little, he stops fighting, lets the force holding him melt into unseen caresses, a thousand simultaneous touches enveloping his body, and he arcs into it, yields beneath the impossibility of the pleasure being given. And Sylar reaches up, uses his hand to turn Mohinder’s face towards him.
The kiss is slow, consuming, alive with a throbbing, savage taste that burns his tongue. At first he can’t quite place it, but then he knows, he knows, and he wants to push away, wants to scream, but all he can do is stand there, shaking with need, as Sylar paints his mouth with the last, lingering taste of his victim’s blood.
He wakes up with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed, shivering, trying to swallow down fear. Then Matt’s hand is on his shoulder, solid and heavy with the here and now.
"It’s just a dream," he says, "just a dream."
His voice is honest, reassuring, safe.
Mohinder turns to him, the bed creaking as he shifts his weight. Even in the darkness, he can make out the tilt of Matt’s head, the soft focus of his eyes that means he’s listening to something no one else can hear.
"Don’t," he says, taking Matt’s face in his hands. "You have enough horrors of your own. You don’t need to share mine."
Matt’s eyes snap back to him, bright in the shadows, filled with nothing but love and concern.
"Then what can I do?" he asks.
"This," Mohinder says, and kisses him, pushes his way into his mouth, wiping memory and dreams away with the warm, living taste of him.
By the time he’s on his back, Matt sliding into him, he believes that this is what he really wants.
He’s packing his bag when Matt comes into the bedroom and drops something onto the pile of waiting clothes. It’s the gun from Mohinder’s desk drawer, the one he tries to forget is still there.
"I think you should take this," he says. "If the Company does come after you… It’s not a risk free plan."
Mohinder carries on folding the shirt in his hands with quick, exact movements.
"It’s what needs to be done to keep Molly safe. It’s worth the risk."
"You don’t have to tell me that. We all agreed on how to do this. But you’re the one sticking your neck out, and I’d feel better if you had some kind of protection."
Mohinder stuffs the shirt into the bag, knowing that he has to move the gun to get to the next one. He picks it up, turns it over in his hand.
"You know I can’t take this when I go to London next week. It’s the plan I have to rely on."
The gun is cold in his fingers, the weight of it terrifyingly familiar. He can see Sylar pressing his forehead against the muzzle, feel him lean into it, the unyielding strength of him pushing up his arm, making his body shake, Sylar’s eyes devoid of fear.
"It’s only Washington this time," Matt says. "You can take it there."
He steps closer, reaches out, and his hands close around Mohinder’s, around the gun. Mohinder looks up, meets his eyes.
Matt smiles, gives his hand a squeeze.
"Molly isn’t the only one I want to keep safe," he says.
It’s easier than he expects to smile back.
It’s been South America this time - telling his story to near empty lecture halls in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, La Paz, waiting for the right people to take notice - and New York feels cold against his skin as he makes his way from the cab to their apartment.
It’s long past Molly’s bedtime, and he’s careful not to make enough noise to wake her when he locks the front door and puts his luggage down. But he’s been aching to see her, to feel in his guts what he knows in his mind, reassure himself that she’s all right, and he walks through the dark apartment to her room, quietly pushing the door open.
In the light that seeps through the blinds from the street, he can see her sleeping, her soft hair spread across the pillow, blanket pulled up to her tiny chin. And it’s the greatest irony of all, because when he looks at her, he knows that genetics do not matter. She’ll always be his child.
As she will always be Matt’s.
He closes the door again and moves to their bedroom. Matt is asleep beneath the sheets, the books for his detective’s exam open on the nightstand. Mohinder slips his clothes off and slides in beside him.
The warmth of Matt’s body reaches further into him than the South American sun and he lets himself touch it. As so often, his hand settles on the broad expanse of Matt’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Beneath his fingertips, there is the rough outline of a scar, the tangible memory of a gunshot wound. When he closes his eyes, he can see the bullets rushing through the air, see the man who stops them, turns them, sends them back. His fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly.
"Mohinder?" Matt mumbles, stirring under his hand. There is a welcome in his sleepy voice.
