Mohinder doesn't take Sylar's hand at all, he stand up on his own, graceful in rumbled mismatched clothes that Peter had grabbed from his apartment a few days ago. For a moment, they simply look at each other before Mohinder flings his arms around Sylar's neck.

Flint makes a comment and picks Peter up like a piece of meat to fling over his shoulder. Daphne's not paying attention at all.

Mohinder's lips curl up.

"You're late."