Kiss Lessons

BY : Grezi
Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 1823
Disclaimer: I do not own rights to the Dragon Ball franchise or to the characters portrayed in this fan fiction. This work of fiction has been written entirely for non-commercial purposes.

Yamcha was lying on his bed, on top of the covers, staring at the blinking numbers of the radio alarm clock on the nightstand. They changed regularly as minutes passed. Next to him on the pillow, only a finger’s distance from his face, was his mobile phone. Finally, when all four digits on the radio screen read zero, he sighed and turned on his back, his strained eyes finding comfort in the dull greyness of the ceiling.

It was now officially Wednesday. It had been more a whole week since Vegeta’s last visit. He had said he’d be in touch, but seven days later, he still hadn’t called. Initially Yamcha had been troubled by the imminent phone call, for he hadn’t known what to think of the fact that Vegeta had seemed ­– what should he call it – interested in him. But now, after so long had passed, he was more uncomfortable with the fact there had been no contact at all.  

A couple of days before, Yamcha had realized that there was a high probability that he had completely misinterpreted Vegeta’s actions. Yes, the prince had clearly acknowledged him and had undoubtedly been rather… passionate. But then again, Yamcha had specifically emphasized the meaning of contact when giving advice about French kissing. Of course, he hadn’t meant for Vegeta to establish a genuine connection with him, but at home with his actual partner – but Vegeta had a bad habit of taking people’s words literally. He might have just misunderstood. And thus, Yamcha had misunderstood.

It seemed obvious in hindsight. Vegeta’s attitude towards him was probably still as platonic and nonchalant as ever.

As for himself, for the past few days, Yamcha had been waiting by the phone, hoping it would ring. The one time it had, the ringtone had sent his heart fluttering, but the caller had been just his manager. And today, on his day off, he had made no plans or left the house, wishing that Vegeta would happen to call on him when for once he would have been energized, clean and dressed nicely.

But it was past midnight now. Vegeta wasn’t going to call. Yamcha sighed, got on his feet and crossed the short distance from his bed to the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a burgundy blouse and simple, tightly fitted black trousers – an attire that, while seeming like no thought had gone into picking it out, was unmistakeably flattering on him. His hair descended past his shoulders in fluffy waves, like they did on the rare occasion he let them dry as they were, which took well into three hours, instead of using a blow-dryer. 

When he saw himself like that, all pretty and polished, he felt ridiculous. For the first time it properly sunk in that currently, the pinnacle of his social life was getting an occasional visit from a married man who would stick his tongue down his throat and then go home, re-inspired, to make love to his wife.

He chuckled weakly and pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. Laughable as his standing was, there was something sentimental, almost precious, about it. How long had it been since he had last looked forward to somebody’s visits like this? He looked into his own eyes from under his brow. He told his reflection, and it told him:

“You, my friend, are redefining the meaning of pathetic.”

After brushing his teeth, he returned to the bedroom and rid himself of the nice clothes. He put on his night shirt and slipped under the blanket.

Just when he had turned off the light of his bedside lamp, his phone – now relocated on the nightstand – started ringing. Yamcha jumped up. He blinked at the blinding screen light in the darkness and his heart skipped a beat. Vegeta was calling. 

All the excitement he had just managed to send out of the way of gloominess and self-pity returned instantly. Pulse racing, he answered the phone.

“Tomorrow, you free?” came the familiar, straightforward voice. 

“Yeah”, replied Yamcha, discovering that one’s voice could audibly quiver on a single-syllable word. “I should be home around six.”

“I’ll be there at eight”, said Vegeta and hung up.

He hadn’t sounded any different from his usual self. This seemed to confirm Yamcha’s assumptions – that any alleged interest from Vegeta’s part had been a mere misunderstanding. Then again, the prince was excellent at appearing aloof, even when he was troubled. He always carried the same, monotonous tone, and anger and glee were the only sentiments he didn’t bother to mask.

The athlete laid back on his bed, wide awake, heart still beating fast. Vegeta had made a habit of never catching him on the days he had morning practice, and then chewing him out on his late arrivals. Of course, this once when the prince made an exception, he let Yamcha know late at night. The human knew getting a restful sleep now was an attempt doomed to fail.


The following night, promptly at eight o’clock, the doorbell rang. Yamcha jumped up from the couch, then paused to wait for a few seconds before going to the door – he didn’t want to appear like he’d been laying in waiting, even though he had. For twenty-five minutes. He opened the door.

Before saying anything, Vegeta looked him up and down, frowning. Yamcha pursed his mouth. Not wanting to seem like he was putting on airs, he had deliberately picked out the most unflattering garments he owned, loose slacks and an ill-fitting pullover the colour of overcooked asparagus. Vegeta gave his apparel a long look.

“Laundry day?” the prince asked nonchalantly.

“Y… yeah”, confirmed the human, as the Saiyan passed by him into the hallway. Either Vegeta really didn’t read into his exaggerated informality or he was being incredibly discreet. When Vegeta exited the hallway into the living room, Yamcha followed him silently, wringing his hands. 

Usually, one of them might have commented on the long interval that had passed between their last meeting and this one. But Yamcha, still harbouring some concern that Vegeta had deliberately avoided him for an entire week, couldn’t bring himself to mention it. The prince didn’t bring it up it either, and Yamcha couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t want to speak of it or because it simply didn’t matter. 

Vegeta never talked much outside their exercises, so now that Yamcha wasn’t making small talk, silence surrounded them. As the human fiddled with his notebook, the prince sat down on the sofa, like usual. He seemed to act normal. Yamcha, on the other hand, was bothered by the atmosphere. He felt like he should apologize for misreading the signs the previous time. But if his assumptions were correct, Vegeta wouldn’t understand why he’d do that, and if that was the case, it was better that he didn’t explain. The level of anticipation he’d been in for the past week was best kept secret from the prince.

Before Yamcha could begin awkwardly muttering about the next topic in line, the Saiyan beat him to it and said:

“Bulma wants me to kiss her upside down. What’s that all about?”

The mention of Bulma’s name made Yamcha feel unexpectedly odd. At some point, all the worrying about the prince’s and his own emotions had made him forget that, in a way, she was as big a part of this arrangement as they were. He was surprised by the sentiment that took over when reminded of her. He suddenly felt hollow and somehow detached from his body. Yamcha attempted to brush the discomfort away and only then registered the rest of Vegeta’s words.

“Oh yeah, she does like that sort of thing”, he mumbled. It had been a kink of Bulma’s, one that Yamcha himself didn’t enjoy. He didn’t like the dizziness hanging his head down caused, nor the constant swallowing he was forced to do if he didn’t want to outright drool into her mouth. And, if struggling with gravity and saliva wasn’t enough of a turn-off, he was so overtly conscious of the risk of teeth clashing that he could never fully relax and lose himself in the moment. This was a topic he would have preferred to leave uncovered – though he had listed it in his notebook as one of so-called ‘special manoeuvres’. After all, the point was to teach Vegeta stuff she liked.

“It’s a little tricky”, he spoke up, wincing slightly in expectance of the unpleasant experience. “Being upside down might make you feel funny, and you have to be careful with your teeth. Like, really careful. But, I guess it’s a good chance to review softer qualities. We haven’t gone over those in a while.”

Yamcha went around the sofa, positioning himself directly behind Vegeta. He told him to lean back, but the prince stood up instead.

“You’re standing in for her, so you should be sitting down”, the Saiyan remarked. 

Vegeta might have uttered those words on any previous occasion and Yamcha wouldn’t have thought of them twice, but tonight, they felt very meaningful. So... he really was only a stand-in for Bulma. 

Not truly knowing if he was relieved or disappointed by the assurance, Yamcha nodded and moved over before he could properly consider Vegeta’s suggestion. They switched places, and Yamcha sat far back on the sofa. It wasn’t until he saw the dim shadow of the prince over him, cast by the light coming from the bedroom behind them, that it hit him how much he would have preferred for their roles to be reversed. Had he been the one standing up, he would have had more control. Being stuck between the backrest and Vegeta’s face wouldn’t leave much room for him to turn his head or do any corrections for that matter, so he had no choice but to trust the Saiyan’s restraint – which sounded like some of those famous last words. 

Yamcha wondered if Bulma had specifically told Vegeta to ask him about this. After all, Vegeta’s roughness had been one of the main issues he had been assigned to fix – the prince might well accidentally knock their teeth together if he wasn’t careful enough. A chill ran up Yamcha’s spine as he imagined it. If he couldn’t help but feel unsafe with her, with whom he’d done it several times, how was he supposed to forgo his concern with Vegeta?

“So, uh”, he said, turning to look at the man behind him. “Let’s just take it really slow, okay? Kissing doesn’t work quite the same when one of the mouths is the wrong way around. So just be extra careful in the beginning, especially about teeth. Also, when you’re hanging your head, all the… uh, the stuff in your mouth runs down, so… take notice of that.”

Vegeta nodded. Yamcha leaned back and arched his neck over the backrest. This other position wasn’t very comfortable either. His neck was more muscled and stiff than Bulma’s, too. After placing Vegeta’s hands on each side of his neck, he looked up coyly and saw Vegeta’s upside-down face looking down at him. The prince was frowning slightly, as if trying to figure out how to begin. Seeing his uncertainty only increased Yamcha’s uneasiness.

“Uh”, he sounded just as Vegeta seemed about to descend, “o-one more thing. Just… mind the teeth, okay?”

“You already said that”, the prince said neutrally.

Hands cupping Yamcha’s jaw, Vegeta lowered his head and put his lips on the human’s tentatively, feeling out the unfamiliar position. After a couple of soft pecks he seized the other’s lips, and Yamcha pinched his eyes shut. Contrary to his expectations, Vegeta was remarkably conscientious. Even at weird angles, he kept his composure and took the time to feel his way. The prince’s hands stroke the athlete’s cheeks, occasionally sliding down and around his neck, fingers pressing against the scalp and burying themselves in his hair. Nothing he wouldn’t have been able to do with Bulma.

The only unpleasant thing to happen was a short instant when the edges of their upper teeth lightly scraped against each other. But even that one brief collision was enough to put Yamcha on the edge. Without realizing, he tensed the muscles of his face and shoulder area, which added to the already straining posture. His neck and jaw ached, making him squirm and grimace. The position only became more painful as time passed, so he was grateful that it didn’t last long – after only about a minute and a half, the prince withdrew and straightened his back. The human let his chin fall low to his chest and rubbed the back of his neck.

“That was really good”, he groaned, trying to sound chipper. “That’s the way to start. When you get used to it, you can gradually add more energy and tongue and all that.”

“But?” asked Vegeta. Yamcha turned to look at him, puzzled. The Saiyan was looking down at him, arms crossed, mouth taut.

“No buts”, the human muttered. “That was perfect.”

“You were discontent”, said the prince slowly, squinting his eyes. Yamcha realized that his apparent discomfort may have made Vegeta feel like he was doing something wrong.

“Ah, no!” he hurried to explain. “It’s just that – my neck didn’t agree with the position and, well, I don’t really care for this sort of thing in the first place. But Bulma loves it – and you did everything right. She’s bound to be happy.”

The Saiyan loomed over him like a dark cloud, and Yamcha felt once again like his mind was being read. With all the tension of the bygone week packed up inside him, being subjected to such perusal was especially distressing. He excused himself and went to the kitchen, saying he wanted to get a drink – a blatant lie which probably didn’t go unnoticed. 

Vegeta’s leer followed the human until he was out of sight. The Saiyan wiped his mouth. So Yamcha disliked this particular gimmick – that probably explained why the kiss just now had roused nothing like the zeal he had experienced the previous time. Vegeta recalled how the human would shiver when their bodies touched, the way his voice had broken out when the prince had caught him off-guard. Tonight, Yamcha had been increasingly reserved throughout the whole affair. And Vegeta now understood clearly that it was breaking through that reserve that gave him the sense of excitement that he found so satisfying. More than that – it thrilled him. He yearned for it.

Whether Bulma would like this gesture or not felt irrelevant to him. If it didn’t serve the purpose of bringing down Yamcha’s veneer, he wasn’t interested in it.

A shiver ran up Vegeta’s spine.

“So, do you want to try again?” asked Yamcha as he emerged from the kitchen. Rotating and stretching his neck had eased the stiffness and he figured he could tolerate another go – he felt like he owed it to the prince, since his inconvenience seemed to have made Vegeta second-guess himself when there had been no reason.

“No”, Vegeta stated resolutely and stomped to the hallway. Yamcha stopped in his tracks. 

“You – you’re leaving?” he asked, baffled. It hadn’t been twenty minutes since the prince had arrived. “Already?”

“Yes”, said Vegeta from the door without turning to look at him. “This was enough. Good night.”

As the door slammed shut, Yamcha felt strangely light-headed. He went back into the kitchen and sat down at the small dining table. He inhaled and exhaled, and the air exiting his lungs seemed to take some of the pressure he’d built up inside with it. 

Vegeta didn’t feel weirded out. It was still all about Bulma. Everything was still normal. Well, if you could call their arrangement normal to begin with.

Despite a hint of tightness in his chest that he couldn’t quite identify, Yamcha was relieved.


Two days later, on Friday, Yamcha was at his morning practice. It was the final week of training before the world championship tournament would start. He was sitting down on the bench, watching his teammates swing in the batter’s boxes, when he heard faint buzzing – the vibrating of his phone. He dug the device out of his bag. Vegeta, who else. He snuck away, outside the stadium, to answer.

“Finally! Tonight, nine o’clock”, sounded Vegeta’s voice, unusually charged, from the speaker.

“Sorry, I can’t tonight, I have a previous engagement”, said Yamcha apologetically. He could hear Vegeta curse under his breath.

“Don’t tell me you’ll be at your damn ball game practice again”, the prince complained. He sounded agitated. It was the first time Yamcha’s schedule had made him so upset. “Why do you even go? I’ve seen you play, you could beat any player with your eyes closed. You don’t need to train!”

Yamcha was surprised. He wasn’t sure if he was being complimented or scolded. Since when had Vegeta paid attention – sure, he’d seen a couple of games, but since when had he actually watched? And since when had he cared one way or another?

“I – I’m not at practice tonight, in fact”, Yamcha said after a short silence. “I have other plans. Just so you know.”

“Tomorrow then”, Vegeta grumbled.

“Well, tomorrow I’ll be late. How about Sunday? I don’t have any –“

“Tomorrow.”  The prince’s voice was a low growl, the kind that would not be negotiated with. Yamcha sighed his agreement and the call ended. Lingering in his spot by the stadium gates, he fell deep in thought.

Why was Vegeta so distraught about him not being available today, of all days, he wondered. It’s not like Yamcha couldn’t have rescheduled if he’d wanted to – but the horror movie marathon with Kuririn was a tradition, and one of the few regular activities he still had with his friends. Kuririn had arranged time for their night together despite having a new family, including a baby daughter, and he’d managed to do it just before the world championship season kicked off, too. Yamcha wasn’t going to let that gesture go to waste because of Vegeta’s whinges.

But even more than that, Yamcha was bothered by what the prince had said about his not needing to practice. He was right. Yamcha was by far the best player in the whole league. His history as a martial artist put him in a class of his own – what with the training he had received from the best mentors in this world and the next. The other players didn’t stand a chance.

He often felt guilty about it. On especially hard days, he deliberately underperformed out of solidarity towards his teammates, to make the other players look better. It made him feel good about himself momentarily, but by the following day, the guilt would be back, even worse.

I guess I’ll have to come up with an excuse to miss tomorrow’s party, he mused as he walked slowly back to the bench. It would be the final day of practice before the tournament, and celebration was in order. It was a nice occasion, and Yamcha thought he should have argued more with Vegeta. But the Saiyan never cared if he objected to anything. That was an aspect of their relationship that he wasn’t happy hadn’t changed.

The next day, when he tried to skip out on the party, his teammates wouldn’t hear it. They insisted he come along, even for a short while, just long enough to raise a glass and have a bite. Yamcha was touched by their relentlessness, so he sent Vegeta a message saying he probably wouldn’t be home before midnight. 


When he touched down on the street where he lived, thirty-five minutes past eleven, Yamcha was in good spirits. He’d had a good time at the party, and the couple of cocktails hadn’t hurt either. It was a cool, clear night and wind was blowing. Yamcha had zipped his team jacket as well as his coat all the way to the top while flying. He enjoyed flying over the city at night. Watching the sea of lights had been particularly satisfying tonight, maybe because he hadn’t done it in a while. 

Even though he was early from the time he had given Vegeta, the prince was nevertheless waiting for him on the sixth floor corridor. He was wearing a leather jacket over his typical set of clothes – apparently the cold weather of late autumn had finally caught up with him. His arms were crossed and one of his fingers was tapping restlessly. He leered at Yamcha from under his brow and looked sour.

“Finally here”, the Saiyan grumbled, not bothering to disguise his contempt. Yamcha frowned internally. All things considered, he had been more than generous with his time, more often than not agreeing to meet with Vegeta late at night, after a long day or despite having an early morning. This once he had changed the schedule – not unannounced, mind you – and the prince acted like he’d been stood up. There was just no pleasing this guy, was there?

“It’s not my fault if you’re early. I told you the time, well in advance”, Yamcha said as he opened the door. He didn’t feel like rising up to the provocation, though – he didn’t want to let his good spirits get ruined by Vegeta’s petty quibbling. To let the issue pass, he added: “Sorry if it was inconvenient. I’m here now.”

“At least you flew this time”, spoke Vegeta sharply as he entered through the door, keeping watch of Yamcha from the corner of his eye. “Thoughtful.”

“What?” Yamcha asked, his hand still on the handle of the door he had just closed behind him. He looked at the prince, who stood at the end of the hallway, still glaring back and sulking like he had been gravely insulted.

“Hmph. Nothing”, the Saiyan mumbled. He hung his leather jacket on a peg on the wall and stomped into the living room. A second later, light streamed into the hallway.

The human took off his own coat and followed his guest, disconcerted. Vegeta stood in the middle of the white rug still visibly indignant, hands in the pockets of his trousers, shifting his weight from side to side. Yamcha felt that his good mood was fighting a losing battle, but he was determined to try and make it through the night with dignity. He cleared his throat and picked up his notebook from the armrest of the sofa. 

“Well, let’s see what we have for tonight”, he said as he sat down on the rug. Vegeta followed suit, though he seemed to have trouble keeping still. Yamcha opened his notebook, but as soon as he had lifted it to read, Vegeta slapped it out of his hands, sending it flying to the wall.

“Put that damn thing away”, he snarled, in a tone that implied he wasn’t as much cross as he was ill at ease. Yamcha, however, was startled by the gesture and looked up, flustered. The prince had diverted his eyes to the wall. Unsure if he should be frightened or angered by the erratic behaviour, Yamcha counted silently to ten and opted to make peace one more time. He lifted both hands in front of him, palms open to the Saiyan.

“Okay”, he said slowly. “I can see you’re in a bad mood today. Could you maybe tell me why that is and let it go?”

“Could you maybe mind your own damn business?”

“I don’t think we’re going to make any progress here unless you calm down. Has something happened with Bulma?”

“Don’t talk about her”, Vegeta murmured.

“Why not?” asked Yamcha, now honestly concerned if something had gone down between the two. “If she has said something –“

“I said don’t!” yelled Vegeta.

“Okay, what is your problem?” Yamcha snapped, his patience spent.

"What about yours?" the Saiyan snapped right back. "If we're talking issues, you're clearly the more messed up of the two of us!"

“Wha- I don’t need to tolerate this kind of crap from you!" Yamcha exclaimed. "This isn’t a therapy session, and it definitely isn’t a place for you to take out your frustrations. If I’m so unbearable to be around, you know where the door is.”

“You’re telling me to leave?” scoffed Vegeta.

“If you can’t start acting your age and spit out what’s wrong with you, then yes!”

“Oh, like you’re a prime example of sincerity! You, who occupy yourself with that useless sport, pretending like it satisfies you, yet have to run home every night, all the way from the other end of the city, just to break a little sweat." Vegeta was spitting out the words in disdain. "It's pathetic. You try to tell yourself you’re accomplishing something when in reality you crave real challenges but have no guts whatsoever to pursue any!"

Yamcha froze, his mouth hanging slightly open. A lump quickly formed in his throat. His skin broke out in goose bumps, yet he felt hot. He squeezed his mouth into a thin line and bit the inside of his lower lip, and shaking his head slightly, diverted his eyes from Vegeta’s, which were ablaze with defiance.

“That’s it”, he said quietly, looking to the side. “I don’t want to do this tonight. Please leave.”

The prince cocked his head and gave a small disbelieving laugh.

“I haven’t asked for your opinion”, he retorted.

“Yeah, ever”, replied Yamcha, calm and articulate, refusing to lose restrain. “Just leave, okay?”

Vegeta inhaled sharply as if about to respond right away, but the look on Yamcha’s face made him hold back his words. The human kept his gaze fastened to his left. His eyes, usually so vibrant with emotion and glistening with unsaid words, now had a veil pulled over – sending nothing and letting nothing in, like a pair of clouded lenses. Only the viscous breath he drew through his nose revealed the turmoil behind the composed exterior. Vegeta could practically see the wall that had appeared between him and the other man. The prince cursed inside his head. His rashness and his – unwarranted, he had to admit – spite had made the human put up his defences like never before.

Vegeta took a deep breath and looked down.

“Yeah”, he muttered. “Perhaps I should go.”

Quietly the Saiyan stood up, walked to the hallway, put on his shoes and jacket and exited. 

Yamcha remained kneeling on the floor for several minutes even after the other had gone. Finally he let his muscles relax, brought a hand over his face and groaned in shame.

“Shit”, he sighed as he wiped his eyes, which were watering out of sheer embarrassment. He felt stupid. Stupid and so incredibly small. He tried to find pride in himself for having held his ground against the prince for once, and he did, but the satisfaction was slim compared to the abashment with which it came.

Had he not been so engulfed by embarrassement, he would have given more room for confusion – if Vegeta was offended by his priorities, why hadn’t he spoken up before? Of course he had realized that Yamcha used to run the 12 miles home instead of flying. He could sense ki, after all. So why not bring it up earlier? Normally the prince had no problem demanding exactly what he wanted or calling people out for what he regarded as their stupidities on the spot.

After another ten minutes Yamcha picked himself up from the floor, thinking he might as well call it a night. Not even sleep could restore the high spirits which Vegeta had managed to make plummet in less than five minutes, but it would take his thoughts elsewhere, at least. He drank a glass of water, blew his nose and walked into the bedroom. 

Just as he had unzipped his team jacket, he heard the doorbell ring. The tiny hairs in the back of his neck stood up. Vegeta was back – to put him in his proper place, no doubt. 

The shy surge of power he’d got from having confronted the Saiyan had not yet died down, though. If Vegeta thought Yamcha would stand quietly and receive the earful that the prince had been composing for the quarter of an hour he’d been gone, he was wrong.

Yamcha pulled himself together, walked to the door, took an empowering breath and unlocked it. He opened his mouth to give the prince a piece of his mind, but before any sound made it out, Vegeta lunged at him – and without a word, slammed their lips together, throwing the door shut behind him. The prince advanced, pushing the stumbling human ahead him until they hit the wall at the end of the hallway. Vegeta confined Yamcha against the wall, devouring his mouth, hands on his cheeks, kissing him frantically as if his life depended on it.

When Yamcha got over his initial surprise – and the shock of not having received a punch to the guts – he understood what was happening. His gasp of realization gave Vegeta’s tongue a chance to enter his mouth, and enter it did, causing a current of thrill shoot through the human’s body. The Saiyan’s hands held his head tightly, pulling him deep into the kiss. They detached only briefly in order to grab the shoulders of his sports jacket and pull the garment off him, before returning to cradle his face.

Though the anger and mortification from before was still fresh on Yamcha's mind, those sentiments were pushed aside and replaced by new ones, as if this moment took place in another version of reality. In fact, all rational thought in general escaped him as he put his arms around Vegeta and gobbled the Saiyan’s mouth in turn.

Vegeta threw his own leather jacket off his shoulders, and the men continued their fervent kissing. The quiet apartment was filled with moist smacking, rustling of clothes, heavy breathing and blunt thuds as Yamcha’s elbows hit the wall behind him every now and then. After some time Vegeta pulled the human from the wall and turned his so that his back was to the living room. He took a couple of steps forward and ushered the sportsman to the floor. Yamcha’s t-shirt came off and Vegeta covered his chest and neck with kisses, causing him to moan and pant and quiver. He was incredibly turned on – as well as emotional, for he couldn’t recall when he had previously been the recipient of such passion.

As Vegeta ran his tongue over his ear, Yamcha felt the familiar compression between his legs. The dread of being found out cut through his clouded mind like a knife. Quickly he put his hands on Vegeta’s chest and tried to wiggle his way out, inching backwards while pushing the Saiyan away, but the prince wouldn’t budge. Instead, he locked one of Yamcha’s arms in place and slid a hand behind the human’s head, once again seizing his mouth. Yamcha writhed and stammered to no effect. Vegeta’s kisses became even more vehement and the touches of his free hand on Yamcha’s bare skin even more intimate, which only added to the human’s arousal. And worst of all, said hand was making its way lower and lower along his torso.

Just as Yamcha thought that he was done for, that Vegeta was going to notice his arousal and things were bound to get irreversibly weird and likely violent, he felt Vegeta’s pelvis press itself against his thigh. Or specifically, he felt the Saiyan’s rock hard erection press itself against his thigh. Yamcha’s eyes flew open and his heart skipped two beats. 

Vegeta was turned on too. Yamcha didn’t know what it meant, didn’t know what to think of it. It was hard to think of anything else than the tongue scraping the ceiling of his mouth.

Vegeta’s shirt was lost in the process as they continued to suck each other’s faces. Yamcha mustered just enough clear thought to wonder exactly how far Vegeta was going to go here, when all of a sudden, the Saiyan pulled his mouth away and stopped, leaving a couple of inches between their flushed faces. After a few seconds’ pause, he withdrew from on top of Yamcha, seeming like he had to force himself to do so.

Vegeta sat back and Yamcha watched him, catching his breath on the floor. Hesitantly he also sat up, never taking his eyes off the prince, who had turned to look away. Vegeta cleared his throat, threw his head back and rubbed his neck, still evading Yamcha’s gaze.

“Well”, he huffed, trying to lighten up the mood, “how was that? Not bad, huh?”

It was wholly unconvincing, but Yamcha thought he understood, and decided to play along.

He made a joke and they laughed, picked up and pulled on their discarded shirts, stood up and wiped their mouths, both pretending like they didn’t realize what was really going on.

As Yamcha stood up from the floor, he noticed that a peculiar ease had taken over – like some pressing weight had been lifted off his chest, some strained wire had been cut.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Vegeta. “Would you like to grab a bite?”

The Saiyan prince looked back at him, and for the first time, Yamcha didn’t feel the urge to turn his eyes away. Vegeta seemed surprised by the offer, and no wonder. While they had been on if not friendly, at least casual terms for the past weeks, Vegeta’s visits had never lingered beyond their primary purpose. Even more than Yamcha offering though, he was surprised by his own reaction.


Yamcha searched through all his cupboards to find enough supplies to satisfy a dinner guest with an appetite as healthy as Vegeta’s. While he was cooking, Vegeta walked around the apartment. He peeked into the bedchamber and bathroom. Everything was neat, but in an uncomfortable way, like whoever lived here didn’t feel entirely at home. The place seemed clinical, like its resident was careful not to disturb the arrangement of things, like you do while staying in somebody’s else’s house. The only thing in disarray was the trophy cabinet, in front of which Vegeta stood for a long while. The messiness of the cabinet derived not from familiarity, but… disrespect was too strong a word. Disinterest, more like it.

At some point, Yamcha thought he heard some soft clattering from the living room, but he couldn’t make it out from under the loud sizzling of oil on the frying pan. He was curious about what Vegeta was doing, but not uncomfortable. In fact, it seemed like it was about time the prince explored the place closer. He was a regular visitor, after all. Yamcha was surprised that the silence between them that persisted until he was done cooking didn’t feel awkward. It felt natural. They both just needed a moment alone with their thoughts before resuming the other’s company.

When Yamcha was done, they sat at the kitchen table to eat. They conversed casually, about news topics and common acquaintances. Neither mentioned Bulma – but it didn’t feel like they were purposefully avoiding the subject. She was all they’d ever talked about until now, so that topic had been covered.

Vegeta did note that Yamcha didn’t talk much about himself. He preferred talking about other people and asking questions about Vegeta’s life. Though he was tempted, the prince decided not to pry. He wanted to savour the rare atmosphere, the chance to see the other man as uninhibited as this.

When they had finished their late-night supper, they bid each other good night and Vegeta left. When Yamcha returned to the kitchen to clean, the sight of the uncleared table set for two made him stop in his tracks. He couldn’t remember the previous time he had cooked for more than one person. His eyes started tingling and he laughed at himself. Getting emotional over a pile of dirty plates – how silly. And how painfully true.

After filling the dishwasher he exited the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a tea towel. As he passed the trophy cabinet, he noticed that it had been organized – the cups and medals lay neatly side by side, organized by rank, year and league. Yamcha stood in front of it for a while. It was true. He wasn't proud of any of them.

With mixed feelings, he took to bed. Sleep came to him surprisingly easily, easier than in a long time, and come morning, he didn't recall having any dreams.


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