Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Pairing/Warnings: 1x2, m/m sexual relations, angsty smut, cursing

A/N: Inspired by King's of Leon's Sex on Fire and beta'd by ELLE

Sex on Fire

You'd slid off your spacesuit, the black material clung to every inch of your skin and it had left little to my imagination. And I had imagined you – since the day you shot me, I imagined you, naked, your long hair down, your eyes wide and your mouth open in an "O" of pleasure. I imagined you tasted of blood and ashes – appropriate for someone who aligns himself with death – but you didn't taste like that. You didn't let me touch your hair, you made sure it was out of my reach – but it lay on the metal of the gangway like a snake – like temptation and my fingers itched to touch as I fucked you.

You weren't wide eyed, your mouth didn't open in that perfect "O", you weren't quite naked, a thin chain around your neck with a cross mocking our act, a tattoo on your bony hip that read Solo – badly done, the letters barely legible.

I didn't ask you – I didn't need to know anything more about you now as we would die tomorrow. Or if not tomorrow, the next day and did it matter beyond this...? My hips rolling into you, you biting your bottom lip as we tried to be quiet, our spacesuits the only protection against the metal of the walkway, the steel digging into the flesh of my knees as I continued to move inside you.

I don't know if it's your first time. It wasn't mine. In another world that would be sad, I reasoned, that I was fifteen and this was the first time I had truly wanted the person I was having sex with. But that was a world without war – one without Gundams, without missions where I had blown people's brains out as a nine year old, where I hadn't killed that little girl and nearly lost all meaning of humanity.

In this world, I was fifteen, desperately clinging to another boy who had killed as many as I had, who told me to take him harder, who slid his hands through my hair, who cursed and tried to muffle his moans with his hand while I accomplished my goal of bringing him perilously close to climax.

You were hot in the cold of the hanger, our Gundams close but we didn't defile our cockpits with this act. I don't think I could pilot if I fucked you in there – if you'd rode me with abandon like I imagined you doing as in the battlefield, your smell would linger and the feel of the leather of the seat would bring me memories of you. Instead, we had hard metal and stale air. It seemed appropriate.

I leaned down to kiss you, kiss you and nip at your lips and draw blood as I stilled my hips. You responded by your fingernails digging deeper into my shoulders and trying to encourage me to move.

"Fuck Heero…" you cursed me, "I'm so fucking close."

I knew you were. You showed me, the way you pushed back into me, the way your forehead wrinkled and your eyes closed – you told me with each breath, with each touch of our overheated skin.

I wanted to tell you that this was our only time, that this was all we'd ever have – one fuck on the walkway of the mobile suit hanger on Peacemillion and that I knew we'd never have this moment again. So I wanted to taste you, feel you, consume you – love you. As I would not survive this war. And neither would you.

I wanted to lose myself, lose Heero Yuy – the soldier boy who'd never felt anything – and in this moment, I wanted time to stall and this to be more than something fleeting between us but you moved, you tensed your muscles, you touched yourself and I couldn't stop instincts, burying myself deep in you, thrusting, sliding, heat pooling in my groin, at the back of my neck, rattling my bones.

I didn't need to touch you – you jerked yourself off and came, hot, arching your back, your stomach muscles clenching, your thighs pulling me as far as I could go into you as though you wanted to lose yourself as much as I did – so that you were no longer Duo Maxwell, a shadow of death, and we could be heat and fire and sex.

"Come," you commanded, an order – your eyes flickering as your climax faded and I did, intensity washing over me – a feeling of falling that reminded me of my self-destruction. But this destruction brought with it pleasure and tasted of sweat and the coppery tang of blood where I bit down too hard so as not to make a sound.

We froze, a tableau of young lust and I wanted to know if we died tomorrow if this would be the moment you remembered as your Gundam exploded and your life would end but I didn't – unable to, unwilling to break the spell.

I wondered what the others did – whether they found pleasure, adrenalin in the overcrowded bunks of Peacemillion, if they found comfort, or if they lay alone, cold, thinking of the next battle. Yet I had you, silently sliding back into our spacesuits, our sticky skin making them cling more and as you zipped up, you looked over shyly now, slipping the cross away so that it could not be seen.

"You got a bunk?"

I had one – but in the overcrowding, it could be lost and as I had nothing to my name except a gun, some clothes and a Gundam, I had nothing to claim it with.

I shook my head.

"Follow me."

I did, sleeping next to you, hot, smelling of sex and sweat, the aftershocks of it skittering under my skin, and if this was all I ever had with you and all it would ever be then it didn't matter as I had you once.