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I. Something That Is Upside Down
"Would you like some more coffee?"
Not looking up from the table Sylar places his left hand, palm down, over the top of his nearly empty mug.
"Just the bill," he answers flatly.
"Are you sure I can't entice you gentlemen with a fresh cup? It's just been brewed—,"
"The bill," comes Sylar's gruff response.
The waitress's mouth snaps shut and she takes an uneasy step back lowering the coffee pot.
Peter, sitting across from Sylar, looks up at her and offers an apologetic smile.
"Don't mind him," Peter tells her while nodding in the direction of his unmannerly companion. "He has no social skills. We'd appreciate the bill please, Greta."
Greta gives him a thankful smile and walks away. Peter redirects his attention on Sylar who is still staring at the empty spot on the table in front of him. When Peter tries to peek into Sylar's mind he is greeted with what amounts to snowy television static.
With a peeved huff Peter says, "So should I be expecting this for the next two days?"
He watches Sylar's eyes look up to meet his while still keeping his head angled down. It has an ominous effect (surely intended, Peter thinks) that sends shivers down his spine.
"Expecting what?" Sylar asks testily.
Peter leans back in the booth and places both arms, partially stretched out, on the table.
"You've been brooding and your mind has been elsewhere ever since Bennet called to set up a meeting."
Sylar tilts his head back, now glaring down at Peter.
"Why would I care about meeting with Bennet?" Sylar asks coldly.
"No reason, except that it means you'll be seeing Mohinder for the first time in six months," Peter replies matter-of-factly.
Their eyes hold and Sylar's expression remains unchanging; but it is too reserved, too restrained, and too stony to Peter's astute eyes.
"So?" Sylar mutters with a careless shrug of his shoulders.
One word with a handful of rigid and specific behaviours confirms Peter's suspicions. A knowing smile graces Peter's lips mocking Sylar, and he looks out the diner window.
II. Something That Is Blurry
Time is not so steady a concept. A final destination can drag seconds out like eons or jump hours in the blink of an eye.
Staring out a car window plays tricks on the mind. The hazy blending of buildings and trees is just as likely a repeated cartoon backdrop of recurring scenery doused in mundane details that are only noted out of hypnotic ennui.
Restless minds perturb, enveloping each in individual cocoons of self-involvement. Expectations manifest in hands that fidget and tapping legs. Over-analysis breed beads of perspiration that sweat at the nape of the neck and eventually settle where it began—confused and lost, hopeful.
The radio plays an endless cacophony of sound waves, a mutation of voices and instruments, beats and octaves; indistinguishable to already cluttered minds.
Weighted eyelids count out the mileage drawing invisible lines between stopping points.
Four stories and counting zip along towards a center point. Their appearance of separation exists in the overlap.
The looming feelings of anxious worry pounds louder as added hours work in reverse to begin the final countdown. Colours swirl together as non-descript blotches mar peripheral vision.
Almost there.
Hands grip the steering wheel. A window is rolled down willing in the stench of fresh air. Fingers tap a door armrest. Eyes stare alertly forward.
Almost.
III. Something That Is Bold
The knock at the door sends Sylar briskly to his feet but he hangs back while Peter walks over to open it.
Bennet is the first to enter, all business and commanding jurisdiction, but Sylar's eyes travel past him as he greets Peter and settle on the man who follows. Immediately Sylar notices the addition of wire-rimmed frames that now sit on Mohinder's face below a floppy mess of curls.
In the split second that it takes for their eyes to meet Sylar cannot stop the sharp intake of breath that hisses through his lips.
I told you so, Peter's voice jeers in his head at his natural reaction to seeing Mohinder after so long.
Drop dead Petrelli, Sylar thinks back.
The small laugh his retort elicits from Peter gives way to a quick but telling look between them. Sylar catches the furrowed brow and inquisitive expression on Mohinder's face as he looks between Sylar and Peter; no doubt aware of some silent conversation taking place that he is not involved with. Mohinder's curiosity is abated as Peter throws a big hug around him.
Still hanging back while trying not to appear awkward Sylar watches the smile that brightens Mohinder's face. Normally such a moment between Mohinder and Peter would stroke Sylar's churning jealousy but time away from Mohinder has made this long gone smile something breathtaking to behold; even if it is not meant for him.
Sylar steps forward, curtly uttering "Bennet" with a nod before resting back on Mohinder who is stepping out of his grin inducing hug with Peter.
"Mohinder," Sylar says cutting off Peter from initiating any conversation of his own.
Mohinder looks over at his approach and Sylar feels Peter's amused annoyance while he takes the cue and crosses over to Bennet. Sylar sticks his right hand towards Mohinder letting it hang awkwardly in the space between them.
Mohinder's face turns serious with a quick glance at the gesture. It looks to Sylar as if Mohinder is deciding something but before panicked butterflies overwhelm his stomach he feels Mohinder's right hand slide into his.
"Sylar," Mohinder says casually.
Sylar looks for a sign of something in Mohinder's eyes—something that is just for them. He can sense its existence but it seems incomplete or unclear. Their hands still entwined Sylar takes the opportunity to gently run his index finger in light strokes along Mohinder's skin.
There is no change in expression but he is aware that Mohinder does not break away from their steady gaze or snatch his hand back. If anything Mohinder seems just as ensnared in the moment as him and Sylar forgets that Peter and Bennet are there until Mohinder glances to the side, clears his throat, and unfolds his fingers.
"Shall we get started then?" Mohinder asks unfazed and he walks past Sylar towards the table by the wall across from the beds and removes his shoulder bag.
Sylar stays where he is, not turning around, and listens to Bennet reply, "Yes we have a lot to cover," and the following shuffle of three sets of feet.
An unexpected uncertainty lingers over Sylar's body, something he has not felt in quite some time. When he finally does turn around he sees Mohinder already engaging in a deep discussion with Peter and Bennet.
Frustration builds.
IV. Something That Is Simmering
Not even an hour into new tactical discussions and Mohinder and Sylar are already argumentatively debating different plans as if Peter and Bennet have nothing to offer beyond the initial base point from which to start a new set of brainstormed ideas or off hand comments tossed in as colour commentary.
There was a time when Bennet found the exercise tiresome and useless. His irritation would build up over having to jump in and remind them all that he was the one calling the final shots, even when their ideas made logical sense.
He used to find them obnoxious but necessary and he paid little attention to Peter's attempted analysis of what was playing out between the two men. But spending these last six months with Mohinder (and heeding Peter's words in planned "sporadic" phone calls) has shed a new light on something that once seemed so unimportant.
Besides their point-by-point discussions, Bennet now feels an intriguing curiosity in watching them. Short abrupt statements traded back and forth evolve into elaborately thought out conversations that go from loud to quietly yet firmly spoken.
Their words go hand in hand with the movements they make throughout the room. Far apart, then closer together, only to ricochet apart and then move back, and finally coming to settle at each others sides.
There is an unconscious method to how Mohinder and Sylar act and react to each other and in the end there is an achievement that arises from the initial clutter.
Truthfully Bennet feels that as long as the mission is completed he does not care what personal issues dog his team. Having a clearer view of Mohinder and Sylar allows him a peace of mind, however, in knowing that they are equally motivated in fighting the cause. It also exposes a weakness to the team that Bennet is increasingly concerned will blow up in their faces. That is something he has experienced first hand, knowing the pain and potential devastation all too well.
Bennet's analytical eyes sense Mohinder's outburst a moment before the words cut across the room.
"You can't be serious?" Mohinder asserts standing up in Sylar's face to stress his point.
"Save the sentimentality. He has no qualms about using his children as human shields," Sylar counters and steps forward, going chest-to-chest with Mohinder.
"Oh well then I guess it's okay for us to do the same," Mohinder sarcastically says, the disgust in his voice apparent.
"Sylar doesn't actually mean that," Peter jumps in as he moves closer.
"I don't need you speaking for me Peter," Sylar sternly says but Peter promptly ignores him.
"I can jump in Mohinder," Peter explains, "I can get to him without giving him the option of using his kids."
Mohinder says nothing, and a collective breath is held until Bennet clears his throat.
"It's decided then," Bennet announces, drawing Mohinder's angry eyes to him followed by Peter's. Sylar's eyes stay firmly on Mohinder. "Tomorrow we set into motion the next stage. I suggest everyone get a good night's sleep—or at least pretend to."
Mohinder sighs and moves to follow Bennet out of the room. As Mohinder brushes past Sylar, Bennet watches Sylar lean in and say, "You're always over-thinking things Mohinder."
Mohinder does not stop moving and pays no attention to Sylar's words.
Bennet instinctively rolls his eyes.
V. Something That Is Waking
For all the lives that pass within the stark walls, the rooms of a motel are oddly impersonal. The false illusion of comfort cannot distract from the tension of being in a soul-less lair.
Chairs that are too hard, cold bathrooms, television sets that do not provide the familiarity craved through endless flipping, the clumsy avoidance of dubious marks and stains that indicate an unmannerly human-like existence at some point.
On the stiffness of un-moldable bed mattresses, beneath the scratchy blankets that seem unable to retain any heat, in the encompassing darkness of suffocating stale air, all that suggests the vibrant lives within, beyond the steady hearts and restful breathing, are the rampaging thoughts.
For those who manage sleep those thoughts transform into dreams that will be forgotten in the second the eyes of the dreamer flutter open. For those who toss and turn, unable to drift off into the subconscious, those thoughts are a waking nightmare of unsettled disquiet and unattainable hope.
Maybe—if only—too late—
The room becomes suffocating. Claustrophobic walls squeeze in and the only escape is out, into the cool night air…
Between the clambering noises of obsessive brainwork, just over the hum of a fifteen year old air conditioner and the second heartbeat from the other bed, is the distinct sound of familiar footsteps.
They pause outside the door, hesitating, and then move on as two held breaths stammer in sync.
Heels scraping against the pavement move further away pounding out an invitation in their wake.
Go now. Go.
VI. Something That is Opening
"No, don't wake her up. I forgot with the time difference that she's just now falling asleep. It's early morning here. Let her know I called and I love her. Thanks Matt…bye," Mohinder, sitting on the edge of the Bennet's rental car hood, snaps his cellphone shut.
A small smile turns up his lips as he hears the approaching footsteps.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asks keeping his eyes focused on the phone in his hands.
"Never can in these places," Sylar admits and Mohinder looks up to see a matching hint of a smile.
"You slept fine when we were partnered up," Mohinder points out and pushes the phone into his jacket pocket.
Sylar does not respond, instead pushing his hands into his pant pockets, and returns Mohinder's watchful gaze. Mohinder looks away, towards a room door with a broken #04 dangling on the front, and shifts over on the hood. He listens as Sylar steps forward and hops up, on his right side, their knees touching as they sit shoulder-to-shoulder while the distant dawn hangs beyond the horizon.
"How do you find working with Bennet?" Sylar asks and Mohinder rolls his eyes knowing that even though Sylar cannot see the gesture he can make an educated guess.
When Sylar says nothing further, however, Mohinder looks up at him and is met with knowing eyes.
"You know Bennet," Mohinder jokes. "He's always telling you what to think and how to think it. He attempts to leave no room for discussion."
"Which you don't let him get away with," Sylar suggests.
Mohinder gives him a small smile and looks down at his hands before continuing with a pensive, "You and Peter seem to be working out quite well together."
An extended pause brings Mohinder's wondering gaze to Sylar's and he sees a momentary flicker of surprise in the dark eyes that stare back.
"Peter's been fine to work with—if a bit scattered," Sylar replies. "Being an empath he seems very in tune with everything which is helpful…and annoying."
"Mmmm, he's good like that," Mohinder agrees and removes his glasses, bringing the fingers of his left hand to the bridge of his nose and presses lightly at the pressure points that have indented his skin.
"Before I miss the opportunity—nice glasses four eyes," Sylar jabs with a laugh.
"Four eyes?" Mohinder repeats with a regaling groan, holding his glasses in his hands and staring back at Sylar. "I was hoping they'd make me look more distinguished."
Sylar smiles and without asking he takes the glasses from Mohinder's hands. Mohinder watches him turn the glasses over, examining them under focused eyes. Sylar raises them to his own eyes and peers through.
"It's not that bad a prescription," Sylar says thoughtfully. "They're for reading?"
"Yes. I think all that reading in shaking cars and bad lighting put a strain on my eyes. About four months ago it became a hindrance," Mohinder explains.
"They look good on you," Sylar says. "They give you a—very—uh—a—,"
"A naughty professor vibe?" Mohinder brings an end to Sylar's stammering for the right words.
A shared laugh creases the corners of their eyes and Sylar turns slightly into Mohinder and reaches out across with his right hand to pass the glasses back. Mohinder lifts his right hand to take them back and in the movement their fingertips lightly graze. Keeping his eyes on Sylar's, Mohinder holds his hand steady resting his fingers with intent along Sylar's skin; pressing softly but with purpose.
He listens as Sylar's breathing slowly deepens and Mohinder can feel the exhalations along his cheek. He feels Sylar further respond by lightly pushing his left knee against Mohinder's right one. Mohinder does not allow his leg to be moved so easily. In equal measure he pushes his right knee back while taking the glasses into his possession.
Their shoulders and knees still in full contact, Mohinder waits for Sylar's smile before placing the glasses back on his face without breaking their eye line.
"I should get back to my room," Mohinder says.
"Are you sure?" Sylar asks in a low voice.
"No," Mohinder whispers and he slides forward off the hood.
"Goodnight" Mohinder hears Sylar call over his shoulder as he strolls back to his room.
Mohinder offers a quick glance behind him in reply.
VII. Something That Is On The Horizon
The humming from the passenger seat, rolling forward in conjunction with the radio, is going on twenty minutes before Peter cannot take it anymore.
"You're in a bizarrely good mood," Peter observes and briefly takes his eyes off the road. "Considering the prospect of not seeing Mohinder again for another six months—and that's if you're lucky."
Sylar breaks out of his daydream stupor and looks over at Peter with a strangely contented look. Peter's words, which would have normally produced a reactionary scowl, now flow over him with little impact.
"I don't get it," Peter goes and redirects his attention to the road stretched out before them. "You're in a pissy mood for days at the idea of seeing him, then you spend the night arguing with him, and now you're perfectly fine—if not a bit too okay."
Sylar says nothing and rests his head restfully against the car seat, keeping his eyes forward. Peter telekinetically turns the volume of the radio down and fills the newly created void with his own musings.
"Either you really didn't want to see him and are happy to be away – which I don't believe for one second—or something happened last night."
A pregnant pause precedes Sylar's deliberative "Nothing happened" and he telekinetically turns the volume back up.
"A secret then," Peter states loudly over the song so much like every other they've heard that it is difficult to point out when one ends and the next begins. "Enjoy it while you can."
Sylar turns his eyes as Peter says, "Once we've arrived I'll need you to be focused. No time for—,"
"I know how to handle myself."
The aggressive change in tone settles a tension upon them and Peter acquiesces with a loud sigh. "You know exactly what I mean, Sylar."
The glare that Sylar has foisted on Peter many times before makes a return appearance and he shifts to look out the passenger window while trying to tune Peter out and escape again into the trappings of his own mind. Yet the seriousness of Peter's concerns begin to pick at him for the weakness of position that Mohinder may now be in. Six months is a long time to not know what is happening with Bennet and Mohinder's part of the plan. All Sylar can really do is hope—and wait.
Sylar clicks down the button on the door rest and feels the cool wind against his face as the window glides down. The rush of air works to blow bothersome thoughts away while making room for only those that bring a small smile to his face.
"Don't you get tired of the antagonism?" Peter asks curiously. "Or do you thrive on it?"
"Don't try to understand it Peter, it's beyond your grasp," Sylar rudely informs him.
"Hmmph," Peter scoffs with irritation. "You really think you and Mohinder have something so profoundly different from anyone else?"
Refusing to acknowledge Peter's presence Sylar closes his eyes, choosing to focus in on fresh air wonderings.
"So," Peter picks at the nerve he knows he has struck, "last night you two—,"
"Had a moment of clarity."
There is a halting finality to the statement that Peter recognizes enough to immediately concentrate on his driving without the added conversation.
Sylar mutes the radio in his mind and while the cool air beats across his face an arrangement of, once less certain, images and words plays out for him without interruption.