The Pole (co-written with Sophie)



“Mohinder…”

Mohinder heard the soft whisper of his name before he saw Sylar. Turning only slightly, he caught sight of Sylar standing in the livingroom, leaning against something Mohinder wished that he had forgotten a long time ago.

“Not that again! Sylar…”

“C’mon, Mohinder. I’ve been waiting all day…” Sylar teased, motioning for Mohinder to come closer, which he did, reluctantly.

“That’s because you don’t have a job.”

“Way to ruin a moment.”

“What moment?”

“Shut up. Sit.” Sylar pushed him into a plushy chair somewhat in the center of the room. Smiling in a way that scared the hell out of Mohinder, he grabbed onto what he had been leaning on only moments before.

The long, shiny, silver pole stretched all the way from the ceiling to the floor. It looked like Sylar had spent all day greasing it...grease...and Sylar...that thought made Mohinder a lot more excited than having to see (for the fifth time) what Sylar considered a turn on.

Putting his chin in his hand, Mohinder sighed as Sylar ignored the signs of boredom and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, latching his leg around the cold metal.

“Sylar…please. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“You know you like it.”

“Actually, I don’t…oh God.” Mohinder rolled his eyes and watched as Sylar spun slowly around, dropping his head to peer at him upside down and stick his tongue out. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He paused. “Again.”

“Relax.” Sylar straightened up and did a few things to the pole that made Mohinder cringe in disgust rather than drool, like he guessed he was supposed to.

Sylar was about to do one of his more dangerous tricks when Mohinder stood up and yelled for him to stop immediately. He slid down to the floor. “Why?”

“I don’t want to take you to the hospital…again.”

“But—”

“You don’t remember what happened the first time, do you?”

:: four days ago ::

“Hello Mr. …”

“Suresh. Mohinder.” Mohinder plastered a fake smile at the young woman who was obviously the nurse, and she glanced from him to Sylar laying meekly on a hospital bed, his leg up on a pillow.

“Well, Mr—Suresh, is it? It appears as though he’s injured his leg. He might also have a mild concussion, so I’ll need you to answer a few questions for me.”

“Okay…” He had a bad feeling about this.

“Great.” The nurse clicked her pen and poised it in front of her sheet. “His name?”

Name? Name… Mohinder always hated hospitals… they made him nervous. “Uhm… Gabriel.” Gabriel?! Why didn’t he just say Sylar? It’s not like this normal nurse would know who Sylar was. Or would she...?

“Gabriel. I like that.” As she scribbled it down, Sylar realized what Mohinder had told her and, supporting himself up with his elbows, he began to complain.

“My name’s not Gabriel! It’s Sy – mmph!” He was stopped when Mohinder’s hand clamped down over his mouth. “Mmmph! SYMMMMPHH! MRG! MOGRMMPH!” Sylar thrashed around, attempting to say his ‘real’ name, occasionally throwing a curse word out there for good measure. The nurse stared, frightened slightly, and looked up at Mohinder who nervously laughed.

“What is he saying?” she questioned cautiously.

“His name… in another language.”

“Wouldn’t it still be Gabriel?”

“Not where he’s from. Not in his language.” Did Mohinder ever mention he was one of the worst liars… ever? It was just that, when he got freaked out, he tended to make up extraordinary...well...fibs about things. And this was no exception. As long she didn’t ask—

“What language is it?”

“Some… long… thing. Not important.”

“I’m very interested in languages! I’d love to know.”

Mohinder felt a lump in his throat. Swallowing hard, he focused his eyes on the far off wall. “Vertalimagurdalisfrogdumtraistic,” he mumbled off the top of his head.

“Uhm… I’ve never heard of that before. What country is that from?”

Mohinder couldn’t believe she was buying it. Was she really that dumb or just playing along? Although, either way, he had to keep the lies coming. And perhaps dig his grave a little bit deeper.

“Somewhere… in Africa.”

“Africa? The name of the language sounds more European.”

What the hell? It wasn’t even a real country! How could it sound European?! “Well, it’s very north. Northern Africa. Extremely small. So small that people will drive through it and not even notice they’ve passed through a different country until they’re half way to the Congo. Hahahahaha!” Right then, Sylar chose that moment to remind Mohinder that his hand was still firmly secured over his mouth. By biting him. Crying out in pain, Mohinder pulled away and glared at Sylar. The nurse changed the subject before a fight broke out.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Gabriel?”

“He’s… he’s…” My lover. No! Absolutely not! Mohinder wasn’t that comfortable to go around confessing that to everyone who asked. “… my brother.”

“Brother?”

“We’re… he’s… adopted. Yes. Adopted.”

“Okay.”

Sylar raised an eyebrow. “Mohinder?”

“Yes…Gabriel?” Mohinder said through clenched teeth.

“If we’re brothers, isn’t what we’ve been doing the past couple weeks… illegal? You know, when we did it in the kitchen? And the bathroom? And the bedroom? And the car? When we were –"

“PAINTING CATS!” Mohinder interrupted loudly and immediately slapped his forehead. There was no backing out of this now. “Painting cats,” he said more calmly.

“I… I don’t think painting cats is illegal, Mr. Suresh. Odd, but not illegal.”

“Really? Then we can go ahead with that cat painting party then, huh? I love to paint them pink. And orange. Sometimes green. Maybe polka dots when I’m feeling saucy… ” Mohinder gently patted Sylar, who glared up at him. The nurse peered at Sylar, confused, and he shook his head.

“I’ve never painted a ca –“

“Oh! I must be thinking of the other Gabriel then! Ha ha. Whoops. He meant the other illegal… thing.”

“What other illegal thing?” By now, the nurse was speeding up the questioning, looking for any conceivable way to run and run away fast. Her eyes were wide as she took a step back.

“Drinking and driving. Driving drunk. Just a few moments before we got here.”

“But how do you drive drunk in the kitchen? And the bathroom…”

“As you said. Might have a concussion. He’s delusional.”

“So how did this happen?”

“He fell out of a tree.”

“A tree? But you just said you had been driving!”

“I wasn’t drunk. He was. It’s a long, long, horrible story. But he fell out of tree. Big one. With lots of leaves. And a bird’s nest. Robins. Nasty little things.”

“How could you know there was a nest? Were you up there with him?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you didn’t fall out?”

“No…”

The nurse sighed and lowered her clipboard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Suresh, but I have to ask you this. Don’t get offended. Did you push him out of the tree?”

So overwhelmed, Mohinder said the first thing that came to mind. “No. I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“A squirrel. I mean no!” He caught himself and put up a hand. “A squirrel scared him. And he fell. Poor man, deathly afraid of the critters. He’s very special.”

“Oh yes.” Sylar nodded and grinned eagerly. “I’m special. Very special. I could be even MORE special if you just let me see that list so I could go—”

“Hush! You need to stop talking. And rest. Be quiet.”

“A list?” the nurse asked curiously.

“Of our friends! Who were invited to the cat painting party.” He put his hand next to his mouth and leaned closer to the nurse, as if it was some huge secret, and whispered, “He wasn’t invited.”

“Right. Well, the doctor’ll be in soon. I’m going to go ahead and write down an order for an evaluation and a CAT scan.”

“For him?” Mohinder pointed to Sylar and furrowed his brow. The nurse narrowed her eyes.

“No, not him…”

:: present day ::

“… psychiatric evaluation, Sylar! ME! When I was with you! Getting questioned about whether I was INSANE while you got to limp away with a clean bill of health! Do you not see the irony in that?”

“How was that my fault? Anyway, that was one time.” Sylar paused to think. “Okay. Maybe two or three times. But I promise, I’ve been practicing this move just for you.” Approaching Mohinder, he leaned down and planted a heavy kiss on the Indian, nearly sucking all the air out of his lungs. Pulling away, he went for the pole again.

“You do it, I’m not taking you to the hospital! Sylar! Stop that!” But it was too late, as Sylar hung upside down on the pole, gripping onto it tightly with white-knuckled fists.

“Sylar…”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I PAID A LOT OF MONEY FOR THIS, SO YOU’RE GOING TO WATCH!” In his rage, Sylar shot Mohinder back roughly with his telekinesis, and watched him slam into the back wall, causing an avalanche of more than fifteen books to rain down on his head.

Moaning, Mohinder sat limply on the floor.

“Oh my God! Mohinder!”

Sylar fell off the pole.

“Owwww…”

:: a few minutes later ::

“Let me guess,” the nurse from a week before put a hand on her hip and tried to hide a smile. “You both fell out of the tree this time.”

Mohinder and Sylar glanced at each other.

“You remember that cat painting party I mentioned a while ago…?”