Chapter Text
Despite how Matt sometimes teases him, Mohinder doesn’t consider himself a control-freak. He isn’t bothered when Matt makes the tea, directly into mugs with those awful American teabags he likes so much, instead of using tealeaves and a pot, letting it brew exactly to Mohinder’s preference. He doesn’t mind that Matt is always running late, or running early, because for some reason Matt can never seem to run on time. When Mohinder’s careful day plans get quashed in favour of spontaneity, impulsiveness and a devil-may-care attitude, he really feels only the mildest irritation. The sarcastic jibes he utters are intended to tease not scold.
The only time when Mohinder could recall the epithet being anywhere close to fitting, he had quashed his need for control deep inside. He is not controlled by his desire for control. Matt and Molly had been roughhousing. Molly’s hair had streamed out behind her as she shrieked and raced about the apartment. Matt’s voice had boomed through the air as he lurched after her with an exaggeratedly comic gait. Mohinder had been sitting behind his desk, attempting to work and trying to decipher at what point between his childhood and Molly’s hide and seek had become such a rambunctious game. Molly had careened around the couch. Matt had been closing in and she had looked over her shoulder, perhaps to laugh at Matt’s antics or to toss a school-yard taunt in his direction. One misstep and she had tumbled to the floor, colliding with the side of Mohinder’s desk and dislodging several precariously stacked piles of paper. Mohinder had been at her side in a second, Matt a second later. Hours of painstaking work had been ruined in one careless moment.
Even as Mohinder had pulled Molly up and checked her over for scrapes and bruises, he had felt the anger welling up inside him. Although unhurt, her lip had trembled as she blinked back tears at his expression. A tense silence had filled the room. Mohinder had felt the admonishments pressing at his lips, words that left a sour taste on his tongue: now look what you’ve done, why can’t you be more careful, go to your room; words that Mohinder remembered his father hurling at him in anger. In the days when children were but an idle fantasy, they were words that he had sworn he would never repeat. Yet, in the moment, in the heat of his frustration, they had seemed to encapsulate all that Mohinder spitefully wanted to say. But, instead, he had bitten them back and laughed.
It had been an accident. Molly was a child; a child who had already been through too much. She deserved a chance to run, yell and play, a moment to forget what horrors she had been exposed to and an opportunity to cling to the innocence she miraculously still retained. Mohinder didn’t want Molly to ever feel as if his work was more important in his life than her. Mohinder knew all too well how much that could hurt.
If anything, the entire affair had been Mohinder’s fault. If he hadn’t been such a stick in the mud, as Molly claimed, and joined in, there would have been no papers to disrupt, no work to destroy. With all three of them crouching on the floor, surrounded by a scattered mess of printouts and lab results, tension so thick Mohinder had felt it pressing at his throat, there was nothing to do but laugh. They had looked ridiculous.
One moment’s stunned silence and then Matt and Molly had been laughing too. They had laughed until their sides had ached and Molly had cried after all, but only from her uncontrollable giggles. Together they had gathered up all the sheets of paper. Mohinder had set them aside to deal with later, and, after a calm admonishment that they play more carefully around his desk from then on, they had abandoned roughhousing and research in favour of ice-cream and DVDs. After Molly had been put to bed, Matt had pulled him into a strong, firm embrace and kissed him deeply. He had confessed to thinking Mohinder had been on the verge of ‘freaking out’. He had explained that even he was wary of approaching Mohinder’s desk, knowing as he did how Mohinder liked to keep everything within a specific organised chaos that was understood only to himself.
Just because Mohinder wasn’t a control-freak didn’t mean he didn’t like to be in control. He did. He always had. Rules, organisation and order appealed to him. He had built his life around the systematic methods of science and experimentation. Mohinder wasn’t one to sit back and wait for answers to come to him. He took charge of his life and determined his own destiny. Whether that meant making hard decisions: taking Matt in, shooting Bennett; or taking risky actions: moving to America, trusting the Company; Mohinder was confident in his ability to deal with the fallout of his own choices.
It comes as no surprise to him that on the rare nights in which he is troubled with nightmares and they do not feature Molly or Matt in danger, it is the recollection of Sylar that his subconscious selects as his own personal hell. Sylar, not because he is more powerful and dangerous than anyone Mohinder has ever encountered, and not because, despite their current respite, Sylar has targeted him specifically and repeatedly. Sylar because in those minutes trapped on the ceiling, pinned and utterly helpless, telekinesis closing his throat so that he could not even reason or negotiate, Mohinder had been, for the only time in his life, completely and wholly without choices.
Why then, Mohinder wonders, is his eye constantly drawn to the handcuffs that hang from Matt’s belt and the slight bulge in his jacket when his holster sits beneath? Why does he find a coil of envy unwinding in his gut whenever Matt speaks of the criminals he has apprehended: men he has slammed into walls, trapped against their will and held completely at his mercy? Why, when Mohinder prizes his autonomy more than anything else, has he begun to fantasise about letting Matt take it away?
At first Mohinder thinks it is a simple association. Mohinder finds Matt arousing. Every morning Mohinder sees Matt hook the cuffs to his belt and nestle the holster against his side. Ergo, Mohinder associates the gun and the cuffs with Matt’s presence, his strong body and his overwhelming masculinity. But when Matt comes home late one night, exhausted, and shrugs off his jacket, unclasps the holster and throws the cuffs on the kitchen table in one fluid, practised motion, Mohinder knows there is something more to his fascination. He finds himself holding the cold metal in his hand, fingering the short chain and the hard, uncompromising edges. When he looks up, he finds Matt staring at him and the cuffs in his hand. Blushing, Mohinder puts them down, being too forceful in his haste and making the apartment ring with the metallic clatter. He clears his throat and busies himself making Matt tea. With a shake of his head he tries to dislodge from his mind the image of those gleaming, cruel cuffs cutting into the soft skin of his wrists.
Mohinder knows firsthand that one’s outward persona is not necessarily an indication of one’s preferences in the bedroom. After all, Mira, who had been so concerned with propriety and image in public, had, in private, flown in the face of the modesty and decorum expected by Chennai society. It was she, not Mohinder, who had known all the secret locations where they could go to be together, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. It was she who had persuaded Mohinder to sneak away from their academic conference and retire her hotel room. It had been Mira, not Mohinder, who had lied, impromptu and seamlessly, when a fellow academic had caught them in the hall and challenged their presence. It was Mira, known to all the world as a chaste and modest young woman, who had broken down Mohinder’s defences and pushed aside his notions of chivalry on the night they had first made love.
Matt too was not at night the way his day job would suggest. His arms, so strong, never hold Mohinder down against his will. His chest, so broad and unyielding, never crushes the air from Mohinder’s lungs as he presses him into the mattress. His hands and fingers, wide and thick, move with an unexpected grace and a tender, nimble touch. Not once has Matt been rough or demanding. He has never used his greater size and weight to impose and intimidate. But now, Mohinder finds himself wishing that perhaps, just once, he would.
Unlike Matt and Mira, Mohinder has never had a secret side that emerges only in the throes of passion. When making love, as with everything else that he does, Mohinder likes to take control. He cannot bear to be passive or to simply lie back and be pleasured. Mohinder likes to set the pace and keep the rhythm. He wants to be the one that determines how fast and how deep it will be. Even when Mohinder is the one being penetrated, he much prefers to straddle Matt and guide their thrusting hips than lie below him, unable to do anything but cry out in ecstasy. When Mohinder comes he wants it to be at his discretion, on his schedule and with the knowledge that Matt has already reached that peak.
The biggest mental hurdle Mohinder has had to overcome was not the transition from having sex with women to having sex with another man. After all, Mohinder never thinks of it in those terms, Matt is simply the one he loves. No, his biggest stumbling block had been the initial panic that came when realising that, ignorant as he was of the finer mechanics of what he and Matt were to do, he would have to relinquish his preferred role. When finally they had acquired a large and spacious double bed and Mohinder felt he knew Matt’s body well enough to move with confidence, he had thrilled to take back the upper hand.
Mohinder had flipped over on the bed, his head to Matt’s hips. While Matt stared, nonplussed for a moment at the change in position, he had taken Matt’s hard length between his lips. They had worked each other, tentatively at first, with soft licks and sucks. This position of mutual pleasure had long been a favourite of Mohinder’s, but it took a few attempts for him to adjust to being the shorter of the pair and to figure out the angle when faced with a cock. With Matt’s lips mouthing along his dick and his own tongue swirling and lapping at Matt’s they had found a pattern that worked. For Mohinder, nothing could compare to the pleasure that came with the mounting heat in his groin and simultaneously feeling Matt’s muscles tighten under his hands, knowing that Matt was feeling the same rush and wash of ecstasy. Mohinder may prefer intercourse for intimacy, loving to kiss Matt’s lips and stare deep into his eyes. But when he needs to get off, hard and fast, Mohinder would always choose to sixty-nine.
At the back of his mind, where he keeps thoughts too embarrassing to utter aloud or too trite to admit, even to himself, Mohinder thinks it symbolic that he and Matt fit together so many nights like ying and yang. During sex, and life, they are the perfect counterpoint and balance to each other. Unlike Mohinder’s previous lovers, Matt doesn’t reserve this act that brings them both such pleasure for special occasions. They find themselves lying top to tail, panting and spent, so often that Matt has joked Mohinder should just move his pillow to the foot of the bed.
It had been a relief to learn that Matt is as vanilla in his likes and dislikes as Mohinder is. It had been a joy to find that once Matt had taught Mohinder what he needed to know, he was more than willing to let Mohinder take the lead. Neither had any inclination towards the kinky or bizarre. There were no unexpected confessions of fetishes, either tame or unspeakable. For once Mohinder found himself with a kindred spirit and in a relationship wholly without a desire for toys and games to distract from the unequalled delight of just being together. Never had Mohinder been with someone so in tune with his sexual needs. Knowing that Matt could read him with such uncanny accuracy even without the use of his telepathy made Mohinder think of ridiculous things like kismet and fate. The unexpected perfection of what they have achieved, almost by chance, makes Mohinder loath to bring up his sudden, inexplicable obsession with Matt’s handcuffs. He doesn’t want to shatter what they have with a whim. Especially as it is a whim Mohinder isn’t sure he will enjoy being pandered to.
So he holds his tongue. He keeps a vigilant watch on himself and ensures that he only stares when Matt is not aware. Never again does he slip up and fondle the metal cuffs where Matt can watch him in bemusement. When, as the days go by, he finds himself asking Matt to take him from behind, his hands clutching the headboard in self-imposed bondage, it is something Mohinder chooses not to worry about. If, when Molly is tucked in bed and Matt is working late to close a case, Mohinder finds himself weighing the spare pair of cuffs in his palm and palming his erection with his other hand then that is something private he chooses not to share. On Saturday mornings as Molly and Matt sit together and watch cartoons, Mohinder’s schedule suddenly features a covert trip to their bedroom. He needs to finger the supple leather of the empty holster that hangs causally off their bedpost and to take a quick sniff of the scent imbued within it. It smells of Matt, his skin and his sweat, and an acrid hint of gunpowder. Mohinder stands alone, with one ear listening, in fear of being discovered. If with every passing Saturday Mohinder’s peculiar little ritual becomes longer and he finds himself becoming more aroused, all he can do is helplessly lie to himself that this is nothing but a passing phase.
Mohinder congratulates himself for his relative self-control. He tells himself that the cracks in his façade are too subtle and too well-concealed to raise Matt’s suspicions. He is convinced that without looking into his mind, Matt will never know the perversions that are now constantly swirling around his thoughts. It is not just that this new desire to be cuffed and manhandled unnerves Mohinder, unsure as he is of why it intrigues him and unconvinced as he remains that the reality would match his increasingly elaborate fantasies. It is more than the flush embarrassment that he feels at just the thought of verbalising his desires. Mohinder feels caught in a Catch-22. He doesn’t want Matt to deny him this but he doesn’t want Matt to agree only to placate him. Mohinder would rather avoid both possibilities by keeping his new predilection to himself.
The possibility that Matt might enjoy shoving him against a wall and taking him roughly hangs like a brass ring just out of reach: tempting and tantalising, yet ultimately unrealistic. Matt’s handcuffs and his gun are the tools of his job, and Mohinder is sure that work is the last thing Matt wants to think when they’re having sex. Mohinder knows that he had quickly tired of past girlfriends who had wanted nothing more than to play the naughty pupil to his stern professor. He can vividly recall the effort of indulging them, being caring and attentive to their needs but never deriving from the role-play a fraction of the pleasure that they seemed to. It makes his stomach turn to think of putting Matt in such a position. Worse still Mohinder fears that indulging once might do nothing but fuel his ridiculous kink. What if, in adding this new and unexplored element to their relationship, Mohinder found they weren’t the perfect match he had imagined them to be? What if he did nothing but prove that kismet and fate had had no hand in their partnership after all?
****
Mohinder and Molly join Matt at their favourite pizza place for their weekly break from Mohinder’s healthy cooking. Sitting out on the patio, with the rumble of the quiet street and the chatter of lively conversations washing over them, he lets himself take a moment to admire Matt. His tie is loosened and his top button undone. He has rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. The muscles of his forearms are bulging and rippling as he mimes out the actions for some farfetched story that has Molly hanging on his every word. Mohinder tries not to look. He bites the inside of his cheek and attempts to follow the convoluted journey Matt’s words are weaving but his eyes keep getting drawn back. Matt has presence. He is in his element, the centre of Molly’s attention and playing her for laughs. The holster is strapped to Matt’s side, moving with him as his gestures grow wilder and wilder. It fits seamlessly with who Matt is and clings to him like an extension of his body. Mohinder thinks that maybe his obsession stems from a desire to know all the sides to who Matt is. He has never seen Matt at work, tough and uncompromising, keeping the peace. Perhaps it isn’t so much that Mohinder wants to be tossed around like a criminal but that he wants to see Matt in his element, exploiting his strength and power instead of minimizing it for Mohinder’s pleasure.
‘… Doc. Hey, Doc! Mohinder!’
Matt’s voice shakes him from his sudden epiphany. Molly is giggling into her napkin and punches him lightly on the arm.
‘You alright?’
Mohinder flushes. He realises he must have been staring for a good long while. Who knows how long they have been trying to get his attention while he sat and ogled Matt, thinking about sex. He nods and sinks into his seat, trying to think of some direction he can point the conversation that will belie his mortification.
Before he can speak there is a sudden commotion behind him. Matt is out of his seat almost before the words stop thief have rung in the air. Mohinder wonders if Matt had heard the cry telepathically. Did he pick up on the purse snatchers thoughts, or is his almost instantaneous reaction the result of years of training? Molly clutches at his hand, a mixture of terror and excitement plays across her face. Mohinder gathers her into his arms and lets her bury her face in his shoulder, peeking out between half-closed eyes to watch the scene unfold. Matt closes the distance between himself and the criminal in what seems like less then five easy steps. They are hardly halfway down the street, still in full view of the restaurant patio when Matt grabs the offender by the shoulder, spins him and slams him face first into the side of a parked car. Mohinder can’t hear him but he can imagine Matt reeling off the Miranda rights in a clear and authoritative voice. He can see him slap on the handcuffs, the motion slick and effortless. Mohinder’s mouth goes dry and he focuses on comforting Molly to circumvent the inappropriate thoughts that desperately try to claim his attention.
Matt frogmarches the perp back to the restaurant. Mohinder is sure he is staring again, this time in open mouthed admiration as Matt takes control of the situation with well practiced ease. He calls in the arrest and returns the stolen bag, deflecting thanks with a self-deprecating smile. Matt catches Mohinder’s eye and, of all things, mouths an apology as he waits with one firm hand on the thief’s shoulder for backup to arrive.
As soon as Matt hands the arrest over to the uniformed officers, Molly twists out of Mohinder’s embrace and runs at Matt full tilt. She wraps her arms around him and he scoops her up, swinging her around and laughing as she tells the restaurant that Matt is her hero. Matt shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot as the display garners applause from the other patrons and good natured ribbing from his fellow officers. Mohinder flushes with pride. Matt is a hero. When everyone settles down and they return to their meal, the restaurant insists on presenting them with more food than they could ever eat and a bottle of their best red wine. The mood is celebratory. Matt and Molly sink deep into an animated conversation about heroes and villains. Molly is convinced that Matt is better than Superman.
Mohinder tries to join in but they’re talking about the cartoon shows he never watches and the references go over his head. He just smiles absently in encouragement. All he can think about is Matt: Matt slamming him into a car, Matt securing his hands behind his back, Matt’s fingers digging deep into his biceps and leaving them bruised and sore. To Mohinder’s shame his trousers begin to feel tight. He shifts in his seat and drains his wineglass, trying desperately to focus on cricket scores and genetic markers to ward off his arousal. Neither Matt nor Molly, thank goodness, have noticed his discomfort. He hopes against hope that he has no reason to stand in the near future because, try as he might, his dick seems determined to stay at half-mast.
By the time they leave, the restaurant is mostly empty. The moon is high in the dark night sky and Molly is asleep on her feet. Matt bundles her up in his arms despite her mumbled protests and carries her the short walk home. He slips his other hand into Mohinder’s. With a squeeze and a concerned look, Matt pulls Mohinder alongside him. Mohinder just smiles weakly. He knows he has been acting awkward and distracted but he can’t help himself. At least the darkness has kept his inappropriate hardness from Matt’s notice.
When they reach the apartment, Mohinder darts into the bathroom. He locks the door and leans back against the cool tile, almost unable to believe the state he finds himself in when he examines his reflection. His hair is a mess. His clothes are rumpled. His throbbing erection is painfully obvious between his legs. Mohinder pulls at his crotch in an attempt to relieve the tension but he only grows stiffer and aches more insistently. He splashes cold water on his face, trying to pull himself together. He needs to file away this memory and this arousal. He can deal with it in the morning, jerking off in the shower. Mohinder is certain that after tonight’s arrest, Matt will be in no mood to play cops and robbers.
‘Mohinder?’
Matt’s voice is a low whisper accompanied by a single knock on the bathroom door. Mohinder presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. A quiet whine escapes as he scrabbles to regain control of his body. In desperation he untucks his shirt and hopes it will do something to conceal his tenting trousers. With a deep breath he opens the door and comes face to face with Matt. He cradles Mohinder’s face in his palm. Looking deep into his eyes, Matt frowns and seems to be struggling to find the words he wants to say.
‘Mohinder, are you ok?’
‘Of course!’
Mohinder tries to be airy and light but even to his ears his voice sounds forced. Matt takes him by the hand and leads him to the sofa. Mohinder cross his legs immediately. He squirms on the cushions while Matt paces about the living room.
‘Ok, Mohinder. I’m sorry about tonight.’
Mohinder shakes his head. He isn’t quite sure what Matt is getting at. Before he can open his mouth though, Matt continues.
‘I know you haven’t wanted to say anything, but I’ve seen you staring at my gun. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the dirty looks you’ve been giving my handcuffs when you think I’m not looking.’
Mohinder wants the carpet to open up and swallow him whole. The cracks in his façade had been more than cracks. They have been open gaping windows that Matt had stared straight into, most likely with disgust. Mohinder’s face burns but Matt barely seems to notice as he keeps talking.
‘It’s ok to be scared, Mohinder. You have to understand though; I’m trained at what I do. I can’t promise that nothing bad is ever going to happen to me but scenes like tonight… I don’t usually just jump up and take down the bad guys, y’know? I sit behind a desk. I make phone calls. And when things do go down? I’m standing behind a swat team in a bullet-proof vest, ok?’ Matt crouches in front of him. His hand is on Mohinder’s knee, rubbing soothing circles into the cloth of his trousers. ‘I’m careful. I don’t want Molly to lose another parent. I don’t want you… Just trust me, Mohinder. I’m careful. So… is this gonna be a deal breaker?’
‘What?’
‘Mohinder, look… Janice and I… the problems started way before she cheated on me. She didn’t understand how important being a cop is to me and she couldn’t deal with the danger. If you… if that’s a problem then we need to talk about it now because it’s not going to just go away. It’s ok…’ Matt looks at the carpet. When he speaks his voice is just a whisper. ‘I’ve been getting the feeling you’ve been working up to saying something these past few weeks. Be straight with me Mohinder, if you need to end this then just do it.’