Tremor
Mohinder cannot remember the last time he has eaten an apple. He catches himself thinking about it as he moves the bedroom dresser out from the corner of the room and into the center, exposing the stark walls and scratched hardwood. He's been meaning to do this for a while now, and he knew that there were still chips of plaster and a small snatch of Peter Petrelli's hair hidden beneath the cheap oak furniture. It has been there for almost five months now, and this is the first time that he felt brave enough to carefully slide wood over wood. He feels exposed. There—in small smudges and smears, careful patterns and roughly hewn symbols—is the mixture of his and Peter's blood.
As he gets down onto his hand and knees to let his fingers slide over the slight abrasions, he realizes that his mind is wandering and he is trembling. Mohinder has no real reason to be afraid: Sylar is dead, and the company is coming down with it. He pictures sylargabrielzane as he gets up to get the bleach. (When he was young he spilled some on his hand and the skin dried and flaked off and underneath it was a creamy, paler pink layer and it frightened him like none other when he saw the contrast of colours that was possible in his own skin.) Mohinder does not let himself frown.
But instead he thinks about the fact that he can't remember eating something that didn't come out of a carton. He thinks of passion fruit and kale and home-made curry sauce with sprinkles of garlic. He scrubs and scrubs but the blood won't seem to come off. He lets himself get lost in the memory of taste until his arm stops and pins and needles shoot up though his legs and into the crevice of his shoulders.
--
"Would you like any red sauce with that?"
Mohinder lets out an easy smile and shakes his head. The girl has obviously been through the routine a hundred times in the last hour and yet she still grinned when she looked up at him from the heavy pad with the cartoon pictures of burritos and guacamole. As he steps aside and back to wait for his heavy white bag filled with grease and napkins, he let himself be reminded of Molly and the way that her laugh had lit up her entire eyes. He thinks that Molly might grow up to be like the girl at the Taco Stand. He hopes so. But not while he's still out there—
"Sir? Your order is ready."
--
Mohinder grips the side of the plastic phone a bit tighter as his daughter bids him goodnight and then all he hears is her distant voice calling for Matt. Matt had moved them out to Oregon after the bloody night and she telephoned him every chance that she could—sometimes crying over the fact that she lived in an entire different time zone away, but usually to tell him about her and Matt's day. He didn't resent Matt for taking her. He isn't even a legal citizen, still getting by on a work visa, and Matt had a reliable job.
But there were times when he thinks of her and her small hand in his and he wants to cry for all that he had lost in the last year. But most of the time he never lets himself think of Molly and his father and warm days where the radio was playing Today your Love, Tomorrow the World in the rental car and the taste of road-side hot dog stands. He decides to be happy, so he doesn't see them when he closes his eyes.
--
He writes letters in his head to Sylar. He can catch himself doing it as he picks up his empty house that should have been filled with laughter and Barbie dolls and thick atlases. Sylargabrielzane, they usually begin and end. Mohinder has no words to put on paper, just images and the ghost memories of guarded touches on the back of his neck and the shell of his ear.
On nights when his memories never seem to come, he sits up in his empty apartment, always facing away from his office with the torn maps hanging on the walls. On those nights he adds extra milk to his chai tea and pretends to sleep in his chair until the taste in his mouth becomes too sweet to bear.
--
It is late May and Mohinder hasn't heard from the company in months. In the beginning of the Days After and the Days After That, they wrote and called and sometimes sent a man—short and squat with no chin, but Mohinder knew to keep an eye out for him. He never responded, and the attempts for contact eventually stopped.
But he still feels eyes on his back as he wanders through the city, and because of the constant pressure he never stops in one place for too long. It is May and Mohinder has not heard from the company or Nicky or D.L. or even Nathan for almost four weeks. He keeps looking for them out of the corner of his eye as he drives his taxi around the city but they always seem to escape his vision.
Mohinder knows not to expect word.
--
He lets the water shift through his fingers and run down his forearms. He is in his bathroom, letting his fingers tightly grip the porcelain of the sink. Mohinder feels like he is shaking, but when he lets his eyes open and slide down he notices that he hasn't moved for several minutes.
--
Mohinder finally decides that he needs to call someone to find out why no news has reached him. He knows that something is happening. He can feel it under his skin and when he opens the newspaper in the early dawn, the words don't seem to make sense. There is something coming. He just wished that he knew from where.
--
Later that day he picks up the phone and sits with it in his hands for several moments before he presses the green button. It rings and rings and Mohinder can hear his breath on the line. He puts a hand on his hair and carefully smoothes it back. It is a nervous habit he picked up from his few weeks on the road, watching sylargabrielzane repeat it over and over from the corner of his eye.
On the fifth ring, the voicemail begins to talk at him. " Suresh, if this is you, get the hell out! Molly is sick. It's not the same as before. There's a company man. We can't—I don't—"
Mohinder hangs up quickly.
--
Mohinder lets his teeth sink and gnaw at an apple. It has been too long, and the taste is something beautiful. He smiles with the fruit juice running down his chin and soaking his scarf. It will be sticky for days. He is out on the street, and he almost wants to buy an apple for all of New York. Would any of them realize what magic it was? He didn't even think that he understood.
--
It is December and Sylar
steps into his cab. "Mohinder. I hear that you need my help?"
Mohinder had been planning this for weeks and months and the wait felt like it was building pressure on his organs. He catches sight of the thick back hair and the smiling eyes through the rear-view mirror and he does not say a word. Mohinder doesn't want to turn around to look him in the eye and he knows that Sylar is familiar with the feeling.
He pulls away from the curb and steadily streams into the mid-day traffic. Mohinder knows that his passenger can hear his heartbeat and he forces himself to take deeper and deeper breaths until he knows that it is still and calm. He wishes that he could feel Sylar's breathing wrap around him like insect wings around his face, but he then blinks and the thought is gone.
Mohinder drives for seemingly miles: past the snow-covered Central Park and the empty streets. It is too cold for the children to be out, but his mind seems to be in a fever pitch:Where are they? Where are the children? And, softer: Where is she? He drives until they hit the highway and then the country. Mohinder doesn't turn the a/c on, but instead lets their combined body heat rise in the small car. He cannot remember a time when he felt warmer, but he tells himself that it's because he can still feel Sylar's eyes on him. His knuckles are tight on the steering wheel, white bone almost showing through his skin. Sylar makes no move.
It is December and Mohinder pulls over to the side of the road and steps out of the car. His thin shoes crunch on the salt and snow mix. He carefully shuts the door and tries not to flinch when Sylar takes his hands in his own and rests his head on Mohinder's shoulder. There is no noise being made until Mohinder lets out a hesitant sigh: "I know that you can save her. Please."
Sylar does not say a word and the silence is so intense out there on the shoulder of the highway, exhaled air swirling around them. "I am so glad that I met you."
The words are murmured into his skin, and he never disagrees.
end.