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The first time, it's frantic. Mohinder thoroughly claims Sylar's mouth, desperate for contact, reassurance... or maybe just to feel alive, to feel that it's not his skull cut open and the insides scraped out, unlike Dale, long since cold and left in a puddle of her own blood for Mohinder and “Zane” to find. Sylar doesn't know Mohinder’s reasons and, in a way, doesn't care.
But he yields, for once, too engrossed by the rather unique taste of Mohinder's mouth – acidic from the vomit, yes, but with a hint of spice underneath, reminding him of voyages never taken, food never tasted, music never heard - to shove him away.
He lets Mohinder undress him, let's him do whatever he wants - he wouldn't be able to calm him down anyway, not without giving his identity away... Mohinder is strong when he's desperate, and Sylar, always the meticulous watchmaker's son, files this away for later use.
Halfway through, Mohinder's kisses take another aroma - the salty stickiness of grief. The tears come quietly at first, but when his movements get more frenzied and Sylar nearly grimaces at the pain, he starts sobbing, loud and desperate. He apologizes, to Dale, to his father, to all the others he couldn't - couldn't have possibly, a small voice inside Sylar adds - save, his voice breaking ever more the more he nears the end.
And when it comes upon Mohinder, just as well resembling a tidal wave, he cries out, hoarse and full of wrath, pain, desperation. Sylar holds his shuddering body close, hiding Mohinder's face against his shoulder and smirks. He plots even as Mohinder remembers to pay him back and Sylar's climax sees him silent but with a certain glint in his eyes he cannot let Mohinder see... not as long as there's something he needs from him.
---
The second time, it is Sylar who initiates.
This time, their kisses are sweet, both literally and figuratively. Mohinder's mouth is filled with the earthy-sweet taste of the cheesecake they had at a seedy diner when Sylar insisted Mohinder needed sustenance before he could drive any further.
Mohinder gave in, of course, and stared at him throughout the whole meal... always glancing conveniently away when Sylar attempted to meet his eyes. Sylar is not stupid, he could understand the intent. He figures out what Mohinder wants and gives it to him.
Mohinder wants him to go quick, Sylar can tell, despite Sylar’s best attempts he's still feeling the urge to return to New York and "save" the others. Sylar considers it a challenge to distract Mohinder, and so they end up tangled in the backseat, but not for a quick romp. Instead they end up at a pace a more romantic person than Sylar would consider lovemaking.
Mohinder is overly tired and Sylar knows he could hold him down with one hand (or without using any of his limbs, as it is), but he's going slowly instead. He takes time to explore. Every twitch, every breathy moan, every groan of "Zane", every sound Mohinder makes is amplified a hundred times by what he stole from Dale and filed away to be taken apart and examined thoroughly later.
Despite the lack of space, Sylar eventually gets Mohinder's shirt off and crouches down, dipping his tongue into Mohinder's bellybutton. Mohinder twitches, in more than one sense, but Sylar works his way up Mohinder's chest instead of down, ignoring his groans. He pauses at the collarbone - fighting the urge to just bite down and rip Mohinder's throat out - and flickers his tongue over his pulse instead.
He knows he could make Mohinder forget even his own name - the man is ridiculously easy to arouse - but this time it’s not his objective. He needs to gain Mohinder’s trust, make him believe in his façade of good-natured, slightly clumsy, very awkward Zane Taylor.
And if this includes playing the passionate and affectionate lover, Sylar can do this quite as well.
---
The third time, the power balance has shifted. This time it is Sylar who overwhelms Mohinder, to use him as he pleases. This time he doesn't have to pretend to be anything or anyone other than what he is. He holds Mohinder immobile and clamps down on Mohinder's bottom lip - purposefully ripping it open and finally drawing blood.
When he leans back, his lips smeared with blood, his mouth tasting of copper and salt and his head filled with triumph, Mohinder spits at him, roaring in fury, pain and hatred. And there's something else: fear. He’s trying to hide it, but Sylar notices anyway. Mohinder's fear is what arouses Sylar most. Clichéd as it is, seeing the proud man reduced to this strikes a chord deep inside him. More than killing Mohinder's father, more than taking yet another power, more than evading Audrey, Mohinder's voice full of hatred and fear makes his heart pound and the blood roar in his veins.
But still Mohinder doesn’t speak, and neither does Sylar. Their coupling was always devoid any words beyond Sylar’s borrowed name – as though Mohinder couldn’t stand the thought of words invading what they shared. Sylar stares at Mohinder, wondering about his reasons.
Eventually he cannot help himself, so he strikes again, popping the buttons off Mohinder's shirt without even looking at him, hunting for something sharp instead.
He wants to see more of Mohinder's blood.
Sylar takes his time again, but this time it's not pleasured moans he's after. It's screams of pain.
And Mohinder delivers more than enough of those.
Sylar’s head is pounding, his blood is singing to him of muscles, tissue and bones… Mohinder is his to strip down, not just his clothes, but his identity, his very soul. He wants to cut him into pieces, peel away the skin with his teeth and rip off the flesh until there’s nothing left but bones.
No one has ever made him feel that way, and he hates Mohinder for it.