He couldn't. Every time he felt connected to something bigger? Every time he felt accepted by someone, by his peers, by anyone? He would think of Mohinder. And all because the geneticist had been the first person to make him feel like that, from the moment he'd see him the first time, through the screen on Virgina Beach. It was why, beyond lying about who he really was, he'd tried to be candid with the other man. Tried to be who he really was, at his core, beyond the watchmaker and the murderer, beyond everything.
He made him feel.
But as much as he couldn't let go of the memory of Mohinder, he'd learned to deal with it long before now. He'd had to, to cope with the moments where he couldn't follow him through the dark. After Mohinder had found out who he really was and had run away. He'd contented himself then with thoughts that there was still something between them, a thread dragging them together, time and time again. That thread ensured he would darken the Indian's doorstep again, and it had been enough.
He didn't have that now, and something in his chest twisted, lungs suddenly too small to draw in the air he needed. That silver line of connection was gone. There would be no more days of breaking into his apartment while the cop wasn't there. No more nights of Mohinder sneaking down to his place in Queens, him opening the door for him before the geneticist even thought to pull out the key he had given him. No more feeling. Ever.
But Adam ... he was offering to give that to him, wasn't he? That's what the hand on his cheek was. That's what the feeling, whatever it was - something beyond the chill and the razor-sharp numb - settling in his chest was. Wasn't it?
He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed. "Alright."
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He couldn't. Every time he felt connected to something bigger? Every time he felt accepted by someone, by his peers, by anyone? He would think of Mohinder. And all because the geneticist had been the first person to make him feel like that, from the moment he'd see him the first time, through the screen on Virgina Beach. It was why, beyond lying about who he really was, he'd tried to be candid with the other man. Tried to be who he really was, at his core, beyond the watchmaker and the murderer, beyond everything.
He made him feel.
But as much as he couldn't let go of the memory of Mohinder, he'd learned to deal with it long before now. He'd had to, to cope with the moments where he couldn't follow him through the dark. After Mohinder had found out who he really was and had run away. He'd contented himself then with thoughts that there was still something between them, a thread dragging them together, time and time again. That thread ensured he would darken the Indian's doorstep again, and it had been enough.
He didn't have that now, and something in his chest twisted, lungs suddenly too small to draw in the air he needed. That silver line of connection was gone. There would be no more days of breaking into his apartment while the cop wasn't there. No more nights of Mohinder sneaking down to his place in Queens, him opening the door for him before the geneticist even thought to pull out the key he had given him. No more feeling. Ever.
But Adam ... he was offering to give that to him, wasn't he? That's what the hand on his cheek was. That's what the feeling, whatever it was - something beyond the chill and the razor-sharp numb - settling in his chest was. Wasn't it?
He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed. "Alright."