Summary: "It's not like I'm straying into your head every five minutes. I only have trouble when I fall asleep."
Spoilers: through the beginning of season two
Original story: 4 A.M. by medie
4 A.M. (The Dream a Little Dream Remix)
There are long legs tangled with his, and pressure on his chest that somehow doesn't hurt, even though he can feel the scar there. He smiles and gropes in the dark for handfuls of hair.
"We have to be quiet."
"We're being quiet," he stage-whispers back.
"We don't want to wake Molly."
"Here." Matt tilts his head up for a kiss. "Is that quiet enough for you, Mohinder?"
Mohinder buries a laugh against Matt's throat--
Matt jerks himself out of the dream, waking with a muffled grunt as his wrist slams into the coffee table. He holds himself still. Molly--but no, she's asleep, nothing but peace coming from her room.
He braces himself and reaches out to Mohinder. Who isn't dreaming--Matt thinks that's a good thing, probably, maybe--but is definitely awake and definitely worrying. He mostly thinks in Tamil when he's just on the edge of being awake, or when he's deliberately trying to think circles around Matt's power. It's probably the former, not the latter. Maybe.
It's just a stupid dream, he tells himself. He rolls over (yeah, now his chest hurts) and stares at the back of the couch. There's enough light from behind the curtains and leaking from Molly's room that he can see a loose thread in one corner.
By morning, he's actually pulled free a chunk of the upholstery, and starts covering the whole back of the couch with a blanket so nobody notices.
"Take your seats, everyone."
Matt has a sinking feeling that only gets worse as he looks down at the desk in front of him. There are numbers on that piece of paper.
He wedges his knees under the hard wood of the desk and looks toward the front of the room. There's a severe-looking woman standing at the front of the room. Even from Matt's awkward angle, he thinks she's several feet taller than she needs to be. "Take out your pencils," she says.
"Crap," Matt mutters.
The kid next to him looks over. "I hate math," he whispers.
The numbers on his paper start twisting and warping, like always. Matt sighs.
Next to him, the kid is batting at the wriggling numbers on his test. "Stop it! Stop it!" he hisses at the page.
Matt puts his head down on the desk. "Welcome to my world, kid."
Matt vaguely notices the boy looking at him funny on the elevator the next day, but he's too preoccupied with trying to find a barette for Molly's hair to really register how the kid stares at him and then rifles frantically through a math notebook.
"I had the best dream ever last night," Molly says over Eggos and orange juice one Sunday morning.
Mohinder sips his tea. "I appreciate your hyperbole, if nothing else."
"We'll look it up later. Tell me about your dream." He smiles across the table, and Molly beams back at him. Matt feels something pinching right behind his scar. They just love each other so damn much.
He stretches his arms out and his legs down as far as they'll go, then rolls over and flops face-down in the pillows.
He rolls back over, leaving his arms spread across the mattress, and smiles up at Mohinder. "I think this bed is in the dictionary under the word 'bliss.'"
Mohinder closes the door quietly behind him and turns off the overhead light. The soft yellow of the bedside lamp and the streetlights through the curtains give them just enough light to see each other, and the rest of the room is shadowed, almost out of focus. "I think you've been lying to me about how uncomfortable the sofa is."
"Maybe," Matt says, "Or maybe I just like your bed, Mohinder." He can just reach Mohinder's arm from where he's lying, and he tugs him toward the bed.
"Are you sure there's room enough for both of us? I don't want to get in your way—"
"You've got to be kidding me. I'm begging you, please, get in my way."
And then it's an open-mouthed kiss that lasts forever, with Mohinder's full weight on him, their arms wrapped around each other, even their feet tucked firmly together.
Mohinder finally rolls off Matt just long enough for them to both yank their shirts off. Then he's back, kissing his way from the side of Matt's face down. He stops to bite gently at Matt's lower lip, casually, familiarly, like he knows how it'll make Matt shudder and dig his fingers into Mohinder's back.
He makes his way down Matt's neck and across his shoulder, and he freezes when he gets to the scar closest to Matt's heart. Matt freezes too, not sure what to do or say, and it's only then that he realizes he isn't reading Mohinder's mind at all. He starts to say something, but Mohinder closes his eyes and rests his head, very gently, against Matt's chest.
"Matt," he says quietly, so quietly.
Matt lays his hand on the top of Mohinder's head. "I really do like your bed," he says. He knows he sounds shaky and strange.
"I wish you did." Mohinder's hands are clenched tight by Matt's sides. "I wish I could really tell you—-"
Something clicks into place in the back of Matt's head. "Mohinder. Wait a minute--Mohinder—-"
He's awake, again.
Matt reaches for the dream, but the outside world comes back too fast, and any solid memories are crowded out by the couch springs under his back, not to mention the happy sex thoughts coming from the apartment across the hall.
He closes his eyes and tries to relax into sleep, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head suggesting just which dream he'd like to fall back into. It's probably not going to work anyway. He should just get up and see if he can get some studying done for the detective's exam before everyone else wakes up.
A footstep creaks in the hall. Too heavy to be Molly, too purposeful to be his imagination. He catches himself smiling a little.
"Forget it, Mohinder. You know I'm awake."