War was supposed to feel cold an rough, yet, to his own surprise, Gilbert only felt the heat of every little fight, the pounding of his own, excited heart and the overwhelming feeling of victory. It washed his thoughts away, until there was nothing left but that strong, vivid fire inside his chest. He needed it. He breathed it in and kept it inside.
Nowadays, though, wars were nothing but a faint memory, the sounds of falling men, of heavy armor and last, dying breaths slowly gathering dust. Gilbert missed the heat and the feeling of being alive. His brother called him obsessed, crazy, but the white haired man knew that even if that was true, there was nothing he could do but feed the flames that desperatly fought against the cold of this new, peaceful world.
And Roderich knew just how to keep him going. The Austrian was fierce, a beautiful, sharp-tongued opponent, his eyes cool but vivid daggers whenever Gilbert got him as far as to get angry. It sent adrenaline rushing through his veins, the excitement stirring, making him feel lightheaded and daring like an eagle learning how to fly. He was hooked, he knew, but he had no intention of changing the situation he found himself in.
He knew Roderich felt the flames too, his eyes betraying him everytime. They both felt the heat and the wild passion between their claims of hating each other, of finding each other oh so repulsive, so different, so difficult.
But in the end, it was not the heat that tied them together. It was the sound of their ragged breaths, the body warmth between them and the whispered promises after each of their fights. The feeling of soft, warm lips and the scent of silky hair, of porcelain skin. Fingers connecting, hearts burning, blood boiling.
Gilbert was addicted, truly so, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
