Hello again! This plot bunny just struck me, and in two days I had myself a oneshot to post. Muaha, I bet you're wondering about the 'unique pairing', aren't you? Well then I shall tell you:

Jun/Jun

Oh yes, I know what you're thinking - 'but they're the same guy!' Well yes, they are. Sort of. You see, this is a yaoi story between the likes of our beloved Black Thunder, and our equally as smexy White Thunder. How is this possible, you ask? Well read and find out, silly. This pairing was inspired by an internet scan of a doujinshi featuring two Juns - except one of them was female, I think, something like that. But I don't write het, so I'm using the two sides of Manjoume Thunder instead.

Note that although I'll be using the Japanese names for the story, I've only actually seen the dub. I know the characterisations of Chazz and Manjoume Jun are a little different, so forgive me for any OOC-ness, though I've tried to avoid it. And, er, does this count as incest? I don't think it does, but I think it's fair to warn you. No actual boy smex, I'm afraid, but there's enough lime for everyone.

I do not own Yugioh GX - but I do own this plotline, so I'd ask you not to steal it.

This takes place after season two


Monochrome

When you next open your eyes, you're stood on the very edge of a cliff, high up above the rest of the world. Somehow, everything is in varying shades of grey, from the long grass that comes up to your knees, to the cloud-strewn sky above you. If you take a few steps forward, you can see the restless ocean miles below, breaking furiously against the pale, rugged rock face. It sounds like...unnervingly enough, there is no sound, everything is cast in deafening silence. You've never been here before, you're pretty sure of that, but then why does it feel so familiar?

And then you hear footsteps - they're quiet, inaudible to anyone else, but in this muted world they sound like...like thunder. Even as you hear them approach, you don't turn around, because somehow you know exactly who it is, even though you don't recall ever seeing them before.

"Jun." Declares that familiar voice.

Under any other circumstances you'd point out that you're name is Manjoume-san da, and that they had better start showing some respect...but you don't. This person is allowed to call you by your first name, even though you don't know why. You still don't turn around, even though you want to. The silent wind caresses your hair and causes your tattered coat to ripple, and yet you feel nothing; no touch or temperature upon your skin.

"Jun." Again, this time accompanied by the ghosting of breath on the back of your neck. Your gasp pierces the silence like a dagger and carries over the greyscale landscape. Finally, you choose to turn around.

You see the same snow-white skin that goes lobster red with too much sun exposure. The same head of precise ebony spikes that you comb to perfection each morning. The same finely arched eyebrows that can say one hundred words with a single quirk. You're staring at you, a mirror image, identical in ever way.

...But not, you realise. He isn't wearing the tattered black outfit you wear simply because you can. He doesn't have your turtleneck jumper, your deliberately-too-tight jeans, your scuffed brown shoes. Instead, he wears a pristine and pearly grey version of the Obelisk Blue uniform, not so much as a stitch out of place. But the greatest difference is in your eyes - the same stormy colour, and yet such a contrast. Yours are guarded, often menacing when accompanied by a sinister smirk, or angry at the world, at yourself. His seem calm, serene even, and full of unnatural knowledge. Yours scream: 'get away from me!' whilst his beckons: 'stand by my side'.

"Welcome back." He says.

You think to ask him if you were ever here before, since you can't remember it, but before you can speak he puts one finger against your lips. You shiver; a result of the cold, you tell yourself, even though you don't feel chilly.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asks.

You'd like to say no, that you fear nothing, and yet...there's something strange about this person, something dangerous. It seems he already knows your answer.

"You shouldn't fear me, you know," He circles you slowly, and leans in to whisper in your ear: "I am you, after all."

You turn and try to push him away, but he catches your hands and pulls you close. "You shouldn't fight me," He remarks idly whilst you try to pull your wrists from his delicate, bruising grip. "You couldn't fight me. I know every move you'll make before you could even think of making it."

You're trembling despite your best efforts to remain composed - the cold, you tell yourself, it must be the cold, it must. Somehow you're aware of the intimacy of it all: the way he gently holds your wrists, the sensation of his leg just brushing yours, the utter closeness of your body and his, with twin hearts beating a twin rythm just inches away from each other.

He closes the gap, lips brushing oh-so-slightly against your own, and you feel your world shatter.

Why? You want to ask him, but for some reason you don't. Or won't. Or can't. He wraps his arms around you and buries his head in the juncture between neck and shoulder. You stand perfectly still, not entirely sure how to react; after all, no-one's ever held you like this before.

"You are me, as I am you," He murmurs, voice as soft as the fabric of your jumper. "Is it wrong that I am infatuated with you?"

To be in love with oneself...you suppose most would accuse you of it anyway, so it doesn't make a huge difference if it's in literal terms. It might explain why you feel so strongly - although you don't know what you're feeling exactly, only that it is stronger than anything you've ever felt - for someone you've only just met. And who better to love than yourself? The only person who won't deny you, won't reject you, won't betray you...

"But we are so different...you are cast in the shadows, doomed to dwell in the darkness. I can help you." He offers you his hand, so warm and welcoming. "Join with me. Let me show you the light once more."

You nod numbly, raising a hesitant hand to rest lightly against his own. He grasps at your fingers - tightly, possessively even - as both your clothes slowly crumble to dust, to be carried off by the wind. You feel somewhat self-conscious - even though you'll never admit it, of course - standing here as a boy who's too pale, too thin and too weak. But when your mirror image stands opposite you with exactly the same figure, exactly the same stance, only one word springs to mind: perfect.

"Be with me," He says in a voice you know better than to trust - and yet you do. "It's your destiny."

You'd like to tell him you don't believe in destiny, that you make your own fate; but when his fingertips just barely brush down your left arm, all of your protests are silenced. His other arm snakes around your slender waist and traces patterns on the small of your back, causing you to shudder involuntarily. How could such a simple gesture bring so much pleasure?

Above your head, the clouds gather and darken.

He kisses you on the lips again: not a feather-soft touch like last time, but full and flowing with passion, warm wetness running along your lower lip in silent request. You open your mouth tentatively, because you think it's the right thing to do, and gasp inaudibly when a second tongue enters and touches your own.

The rain starts to fall from the sky, lightly at first. You take no notice of it.

You're feeling hot-headed by now, dizzy with a prominent blush on your cheeks. His lips leave yours and set to work on your neck - a light nip here and there, followed by an apologetic swipe of tongue. You raise trembling hands to toy with the loose strands of hair on the back of his - your­ - neck, taking deep breaths and trying not to faint. How can anything feel this good? Something so pleasurable must be sinful as well...

The first fork of lightening dances through the pearly clouds, followed by a low rumble of thunder. The sound of the wind and rain starts to form, although distant; as though hearing it from underwater.

Suddenly your knees give way and you think you'll fall, but he catches you. Looking up weakly, you can see him gazing down on you with a hint of a smile on his face, framed by the storm clouds behind him with the wind causing his hair to flow about his face. The lightening flashes again, closer this time, and bathes him in an ethereal glow.

You think he looks like a God.

"How doomed we are," He whispers somewhat sadly. "That we cannot live without each other, yet we cannot both exist at the same time. White and black. Dark and light."

With those words, everything changes: whereas before you could hear and feel nothing, now the sounds and sensations attack your body mercilessly. The grass, wet from the rain, clings damply to your soaked form; the wind bites into your skin and lifts the locks of hair that aren't plastered wetly to your head; the cold air chills you to the bone and causes your teeth to chatter uncontrollably.

"This is you," Your duplicate comments - he doesn't seem affected by the turbulent environment. "You are restless. You are warring. You are chaotic."

He pulls you back up and holds you close, hands leaving trails of warmth on your skin. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear with his next words:

"See the light."

The next crackle of lightening is blinding; the next roar of thunder if deafening. You cry out and cling to your other half, you kisses you again and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. All of a sudden, the storms calms as quickly as it began - you mirror image smiles wanly.

"Time to go." He says.

And then he pushes you backwards.

You stagger back and loose your footing, over the edge of the ashen cliff, the ground turning to air beneath your feet. And then you're falling, away from the rapidly shrinking figure of your double, eyes never leaving the mournful face of your other half and the single tear that rolls down his cheek; down your own as well.

And then...you awake.

You frown as you try to remember the dream you've just had, but it's already gone from your mind like smoke. It must have been pleasurable, you think with heated cheeks, since your sheets are in need of a trip to the laundry.

You glance at the clock: class starts soon, you slept in late again. Jumping out of the bed to take a quick shower and get changed, you skip breakfast to maintain your perfect attendance record and walk hurriedly - not run, because that's too undignified - towards the main building. You never do remember that dream.

Inside your mind, White Thunder waits patiently for tomorrow night, when he can see you again.


Well? You like? You no like? Whatever your opinion, please tell me in a review. Rude flames disregarded, obviously, but I won't mind if it wasn't to your liking, provided you can tell me why. I'm pretty sure no-one's done this before, so I shall have to name the pairing...thundershipping. Yeah, that sounds pretty cool. If it doesn't already have a name, or if you have something better than thundershipping, feel free to suggest one to me. Remember, feedback is the author's best friend!