Hello! This is A.C.-chan, delivering a nice little ficcy-poo to you lovely readers!

Now, this is sad as shit, so if you had a pretty good day/are in a good mood and don't want to ruin it, run away. NOW. But if you are emo and need more material to proove that life sucks, you are very much welcome.

Anyway, please enjoy!

ac-the-brain-supreme does not own Heroes. If she did, Maya would have died...and stayed dead.

Remembering is important in the development of human history. For hundreds of years, before the written word and books and printed material, stories were passed down from generation to generation by oral tradition. If one forgot a story, it would remain unknown to whomever they wanted to tell the story to. If an entire group forgets a story, than it dies in that circle of people.

Remembering is also a thing based on one's perspective. People remember things differently. A fight with someone's friend can differ between the two. You could say that your friend was being ridiculous over the seemingly minor detail that you said was a seemingly minor detail and that statement led to the fight; your friend could say that you were being inconsiderate of their feelings and purposely being a horrible person.

How one remembers or is remembered comes after the fact. Many of the founding fathers of America were, to the British, traitors, treacherers, and even terrorists. If the Revolution had not gone the way they had planned, the present-day Americans would have probably thought the same. Instead, they are reveled as heroes, their misgivings forgotten in the pages of the textbooks that no one really reads anyway.

Remembering also keeps one sane. A person who forgets something about themselves or another person is looked down on with pity and sorrow, while they often struggle with the idea that they aren't as sharp, that they are older, that they might even be suffering from an illness that will slowly deteriorate their mind, making them forget everyone and everything they had ever cared about. Such a terrifying thought doesn't make them feel better and could, quite possibly and under the right circumstances, make their condition worse.

Remembering is one of the few things that unite humans to their animal brethren.

Remembering is what keeps the past alive.

Remembering is what brought them back together.

And what led to the end.

(----------)

Mohinder woke up alone in a bed covered in rumpled sheets. He had looked around, lazily and curiously. When he saw no one else in the room, he got up and pulled on a pair of boxers. They were his, the pair from the night before. Mohinder walked out and into the kitchen. Somehow, he had imagined the man standing over the stove, a skillet in hand, pancakes and butter and syrup on the table.

Mohinder was surprised to find no one there.

(----------)

Gabriel couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He had been with Mohinder. He had touched him, stood next to him, felt his skin, his hair, heard him scream and moan.

And he had caused those sounds.

He had been the one to give the man he loved the sensation of pleasure.

He had done it. He had done it, he had done it, he had finally done it.

Gabriel leaned so far back on his stool that he fell onto the floor. But it didn't matter to him. He was too busy being happy and celebrating his victories.

Gabriel closed his eyes, smiling. He needed to see Mohinder again. He wanted to see Mohinder again so badly.

(----------)

Mohinder couldn't shake the feeling of the man from the night at the club for a week. Whenever he was alone, he could feel the stranger's breath on his ear or his hands on his hips. Sometimes, he would hear the pantom calls of his name or smell the sweat that dripped from their bodies. At first, Mohinder had been disturbed by these remembrances, but after a while, he grew fond of them and enjoyed their persistance.

(----------)

Gabriel had imagined that he would become more courageous after being with Mohinder. But the Monday after the club, when Mohinder came to the coffee shop, Gabriel was glued to his seat, frozen by the walk of the Indian beauty that he had become so brave for. But when he tried to bring back that courage, it wouldn't show up. And so, Gabriel was returned to square one: watching from afar.

(----------)

Mohinder sometimes felt eyes on him whenever he went to get his daily coffee. He normally dismissed it as just being paranoia, but after the night with the stranger, he began to think otherwise.

(----------)

Gabriel had remembered the address of Mohinder's home and often spent time after work staring at his phone number in the Yellow Pages. He would remember everything that happened that faithful night. Sometimes, he would do things that he didn't remember doing while staring at the phone number. Normally, it was a male's natural reaction to the thoughts he was having. Sometimes, it would be just his mouth opening and drool coming out.

One time, he had actually picked up the phone and called the number he had memorized.

(----------)

"Hello?" Mohinder asked to the person on the other end of the line when the phone rang.

There was a pause, then the person on the other line finally answered, "Uh...uh...uh...hi?"

Mohinder blinked in rapid succession. "Uhm...Hello."

There was another pause. Then, "Uhm, how do you like the weather?"

Mohinder's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

The phone line cut after that. Mohinder didn't give much thought to the strange phone call, though the voice on the other line would forever haunt him along with the memories of that night.

(----------)

Gabriel wanted to hit himself and praise himself at the same time.

He had called Mohinder!

He had called Mohinder!

How brave was he?

How stupid was he?

How pleasant was the other man's voice?

How creeped out was the other man's voice?

He had called Mohinder...

Gabriel closed his eyes, his hands covering them, knocking aside his glasses.

If he had called Mohinder, than maybe he could do anything?

(----------)

Mohinder's first memory of Matt Parkman was of a bumbling, uncoordinated beat cop that wanted to be a little better than what his ex-wife saw him as. He was a dedicated adoptive father who moved from L.A. to a new life in New York. He was a friend-by-fluke of Nathan Petrelli's, and therefore a friend of Peter Petrelli, who was a friend of Mohinder Suresh. So he was a friend of a friend of a friend. By all precedences, they should have probably never met, and even if they did it should have been only once or twice.

But once turned to twice, twice turned into four times, four times turned into eight times, eight times turned into Matt and Mohinder kissing each other outside of a swell little bistro near Little Italy.

(----------)

Gabriel remembered, with the crushing pressure of depression, the sight of Mohinder the time he walked into the coffee shop with his boyfriend. They looked happy. And a little mismatched.

They were the same height, roughly. Mohinder, with his smooth dark skin, stood out against the other man's regualar peachy-white skin. Mohinder's frame was graceful, cat-like, absolutely beautiful. The other guy was...just...not anything like that.

Gabriel felt his sight blur from the tears. He bit his lower lip as he saw their hands tied together. Gabriel noticed that other people were staring. Either from the fact that gay couples were gawking fodder or because they just didn't belong together.

That got Gabriel thinking: if Mohinder would choose that guy who might even degrade Mohinder's majesty, than what chance did Gabriel have? After all, Gabriel looked like the kind of guy who dressed up in elf ears and went to space conventions or has all the actions figures from the Star Wars Series. He wasn't spectacularly handsome. He wore the worst clothing ever. He couldn't last a day without calling his mommy. He spent half his time hunched over watch faces even though he swore he would never, ever be like that.

As Gabriel picked out each and every one of his own faults, he looked up and watched Mohinder and his new boyfriend. They were staring at each other so intently, so caringly. The other man had his hand casually touching Mohinder's arm.

And as Gabriel watched them, he began to think of all the good things that man must have or provide. He was probably charming, soft, gentle, maybe rich and prosperous and probably one hell of a lover.

And Gabriel...

Gabriel is...

Gabriel is...

Gabriel stood up, tears fighting for their release. He made his way to the door, his head tipped downwards. One last glance towards the happy couple in the corner was what broke the floodgates and what sealed Gabriel's fate.

(----------)

In a week, Matt Parkman won't remember the call the hysterical old woman put in the next day. He won't remember the scene of the self-inflicted gun-shot wound to the head in the library-esque apartment in Brooklyn. He won't remember the name of the man who had thought so little of life. He won't remember that none of the neighbors really knew the man or said that he was a loner. He won't remember that he had done the paperwork with as much grudge as he could muster, which was easy since it was paperwork.

All he'll remember is the smile on Mohinder's face when Matt walks through the door, Molly's joyous cry of "MATT!" and the wonderful smell of Mohinder's cury chili.

--ac-the-brain-supreme