Work Text:
Lu Feng refuses any and all forms of mutation; he never takes on any additional genes.
He grows older. He ages.
An Zhe watches him deteriorate. Watches his back bend under the weight of time.
When Lu Feng dies, An Zhe is by his side, clutching his hand tight. Lu Feng’s lips curl into that little bullying smile that has haunted his every day. An Zhe cries, kisses the back of his hand, his forehead, his lips, one last time.
“Don’t forget.” Lu Feng whispers.
His heart aches with bitter parting, soars with sweet ecstasy.
He brings the hand to his lips and, gazing into that peaceful face, extends his hyphae. They crawl all over Lu Feng’s body, seeking rapidly fading heat, unwrapping the beautiful gift laid out in front of him. They twine themselves around and inside Lu Feng, burrowing farther and farther until An Zhe himself has melted into and onto him.
He crawls through the mouth, down the esophagus, into the lungs, the stomach, the intestines; a living infection. He molds himself to the viscera, to every inch of flesh, to sinew and cartilage and bone and muscle.
Little by little, cocooned in a delicate net of soft pure white hyphae, Lu Feng slowly decomposes into nothing and An Zhe feasts. He gorges himself on the remains of his dearly departed, claiming all that he was for himself. Lu Feng is absorbed by An Zhe as An Zhe sinks deeper and deeper into him. Memories flow: cherished afternoons, lazy mornings, heated nights.
Skin melts away. Then fat, then muscle, until only bone remains. An Zhe settles onto the skeleton, makes his home in the cradle of his ribs. He and Lu Feng, embracing for all time, indistinguishable from each other.
Pure white mycelium on pure white bone.