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For Mohinder, the most predictable consequence of Sylar's visits takes him to the bathroom. Or, if he doesn't manage that, to the sink.
And while he feels liquids he doesn't want to think about running down his thighs, he can only heave and choke until there's nothing left inside, and the tears mingle with the snot running from his nose and the remains of whatever he was unfortunate enough to eat last on his chin.
Even when he's finally finished, he still feels like puking up every last remnant of his stomach and bowels, until he's entirely hollow, until there's nothing left inside which Sylar could get to.
He doesn't know why... it might be his body rejecting even the possibility of having anything of Sylar - no matter how little and how feeble - inside of him, it might be his distaste at being used like that... it might just be that his stomach refuses to take in semen, period.
Mohinder cannot say he cares, not one bit. It's his own little ritual, on top of the various and disturbing rituals Sylar seems to have where he's concerned: Phone calls from untraceable numbers (or, worse, from his own apartment to his cell), midnight visits to leave tiny reminders of himself in whatever room Mohinder's hiding in, clothes vanishing from his closet, his suitcase, everywhere... he's nearly used to that. It’s too regular a pattern to not accept it, no matter how much of a panic it leaves Mohinder in.
So if his body decides to regularly empty itself out, why should he care?
At least that's what he tells himself when Sylar is there, again, to use him as he pleases while Mohinder waits for him to finally drop that one solitary kiss on his temple and leave. Waits for himself to pass out, from the pain or the exhaustion.
But of course that's not what awaits him. First it's this ritual his body has devised, and only then he can pass out... and more often than not he finds another tiny reminder when he wakes up, hours later. It's as though Sylar's listening and waiting at the other side of the door, waiting for him to fall unconscious just to leave another reminder of how Mohinder is his own personal property.
It's weird how he still calls them "reminders" in his own mind. Reminders... as if waking up to find himself covered in bruises - not hickeys, they could never be hickeys - or with shallow cuts all over his body could be anything but disturbing and signs of a damaged mind.
He just can't tell whether it's Sylar who's damaged or whether it's him.
And whenever he wakes he feels the overwhelming urge to rub himself down with Lysol. Or maybe bathe in Drano. Anything to remove the skin Sylar touched, so he can be clean.
He knows better than to get in the shower at this point. The skinless patches on his arms and torso after standing in the scalding water for far too long are too hard to explain anymore.
Instead he tries to calm himself down, to just use a washcloth and plain old cold water to get himself cleaned up, to remove blood, tears, sweat and other, stickier things he doesn't want to think about as thoroughly as possible.
It doesn’t help, but the alternative is too noticeable, too much a sign of how disturbed he’s become for all those people around him.
He tries to ignore the stretching skin around his mouth, how loose his teeth feel and how large and alien his tongue seems inside his mouth, rubbed raw by Sylar's travesty of passion.
He'd like to take a knife and cut it off - let's see whether Sylar would still enjoy his mouth then - but he knows even him being locked up in an asylum could never keep Sylar away.
And more often than not this "cleaning duty" leaves the room spinning, leaves his blood thundering in his ears or dropping from his nose. He hates that most - being about to finish removing whatever he can get to, and then being dirtied again, by his own mistake. He knows he cannot stop his bleeding nose... he can only wait and watch it run down his chest and drip onto the floor until his body just as spontaneously decides to stop the flow.
More cleaning himself up.
Mohinder watches the blood run down his body and over his genitals until they're sticky and smeared... and he always remembers how fascinated Sylar seems with his foreskin. How, every single time, Sylar whispers into his ears how much he'd love it if Mohinder could heal, so he could cut off his foreskin again and again... or maybe not only his foreskin, but his entire penis, his balls, to turn him into a sexless creature, worthless for most, until they'd all grow back... just so he could start it all over again.
But that's not Sylar's only fantasy. While he's fucking Mohinder - always as hard and painful as he can, or so it seems to Mohinder - he's always whispering about things he'd like to do to him if he only had the ability to heal. Most of it is so disturbing Mohinder fears he won't snap one day and just do them anyway, healing or no healing. He can only pray Sylar will never find out about Claire’s blood and decide to test it on him.
And while he’s lying there, feeling as though he’s being quartered with his eyes squeezed shut until he sees colourful spots dancing in the darkness; he listens to Sylar’s fantasies. Whispers and hums and sighs about him being torn apart. About ripping out his eyes and fucking the sockets until his optical nerves would whither away, to have him wear dark glasses for the rest of his days. About cutting off his arms and legs so he'd never be able to run away again. About tearing away every single feature proving him human until he'd only be a piece of meat, with two convenient holes to fuck until they'd bleed from overuse.
These are all things Mohinder can see him do, and he fears the day where he will.
And as twisted as it seems to him, he's still grateful when Sylar leaves and he's only counting bruises and cuts, not missing body parts.