Excerpt:
Here's what you need to know about us.
We aren't gentle. We aren't sweet. We aren't even right.
There is nothing worse for us than each other.
This isn't a romance; its suicide-by-proxy.
You want to know what he tastes like, when it finally happens? When we're on the shuttle together and there's nowhere left for us to hide except inside each other?
He tastes like gunpowder. Like smoke. He tastes like being alive, like dying, and more than anything else, like taking a life.
Wufei tastes like murder, and he's the best thing I've ever put my mouth on. Better than any gun I ever kissed.
Here's the thing about oxygen. It's poison. Yeah. We need it to live, but we don't take it in pure. Too much, for long enough, the stuff will kill you.
I drink him straight, like oxygen. I study him by starlight. Battle-hardened and elegant with eyes the color of space. I run my fingers over his skin, just to feel him shiver. I lick his scars, seeking the places where war marked him, and leaving marks of my own. His long fingers, tangled in my short hair, make me wish I had more left for him to pull. It's rough and selfish, but he meets me force for force. Hunger for hunger. When he hisses my name, it's as much accusation as it is need. When I scream his, it's a warcry.
We belong together like a bullet belongs to a gun. Like a Gundam pilot belongs to a Gundam.
Like a child belongs to a war.
Chemical Reactions
- Author: lithle
(5x2) 29k across two fics
Five years after the war, Wufei seeks Duo out for one more mission. But Duo has his reasons for wanting to be left alone. As Wufei and Duo grow closer, so do Duo's memories of the war, and with them, the old scars and dangerous thought patterns that make even breathing seem difficult. / Three months after the events of Like Oxygen, Duo shows up on Wufei's doorstep. As familiar, dangerous patterns assert themselves, Wufei's left wondering if there is, or could be, anything between them beyond self-destructive desire.
My notes: Duo and Wufei are so broken here it's beautiful, not in the let-me-drink-in-your-teen-angst kind of way, but in the this-is-the-horror-of-war-and-child-soldiers way. They are sharp edges that can't help but try to cut each other. CW for suicidal thoughts, realistic PTSD and prose that's so pretty it could be poetry, and that's a compliment.