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Calefaction	By : Broten Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1774 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with any of the creators or producers of DB, DBZ, DBGT, etc., and make no profit off of this fan-based work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter One
- 2-Chapter Two
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For all intents and purposes, Saiyans should be used to the heat. Their home world had been warm and so had the one they’d taken over for themselves. Comfort at the height of the warmest season presented a problem, however, even for the very height of the Saiyan hierarchy.

Two bodies moved almost in unison, though spread kilometers apart on the face of the red planet; an overgrown weed of a youth and a lone royal approaching his prime tossed and turned in their beds, unable to rest for the unforgiving scorch of the heat wave. Even the comforts of the palace were no match for the solstice swelter.

            The Crown Prince drew himself from silken sheets and paced upon marble floors. At least the stone was cool to his bare feet. Through the thick material covering his wide balcony doors, he could see a minute sliver of moonlight. The vexing luminosity summoned his body forth; Vegeta thrust aside the plush, cobalt draperies to see more of the pearlescent glow. The full moon was at least two years away, so it was safe. . . wasn’t it?

            On the edge of the empire, at the very fringes of the red planet’s habitable land, Kakarot stood, engrossed, outside of his allotted barrack. Despite the moon’s spark, there was still light in his part of the sky. Vegamara was the closest sun at this time of year. Her rays cut through the heavens to deliver prosperity and new beginnings, which only felt to Kakarot like prickly heat and more sweat. In spite of his lack of piety, however, he’d gone with his regiment to the Temple of the Suns to place a diffident offering. Some of the few words his father had ever spoke to him were ‘keep in line, watch the backs of the guys in front of you, don’t ask questions’.

            He could barely even see the stars.

            Something about the moon, though. . .if only he could move where Vegamara didn’t shine so brightly. His duties were over for the day. . .did it really matter where he was? Truthfully, Kakarot understood his absence would be noted. No matter. He simply couldn’t bear to spend one more night in overrun barracks in this sort of temperature, not when the moon was directly calling him. He could almost hear her, in fact. Saiyan instinct took control of his body, something he would normally embrace only in the heat of battle on some remote planet, somewhere that his name didn’t matter.

            At the palace, the guards shifted awkwardly with the intel that the prince had left royal grounds. No one was strong enough, nor had the authority, to stop him, however, and no one dared say a single word when his power level was scouted jetting off toward the western quarter. There was not a doubt in Nappa’s mind that Vegeta had neglected to don a scouter for the communiqué to even patch through. The prince was given to such behaviors of defiance and reclusion, just as the king had done in his youth; both members of the royal family were burdened by the constant swarm of attention and need that went along with their duties. Working so intimately with the royal family for seventy long years, Nappa understood the king and his son. He could allow Vegeta a precious while of solitude.

            The rushing air was good for freshening the blood, but Vegeta was already privy to that fact. It was best not to be out on his own, more than simply for the heavy, judging eyes of the public, but the moon’s placid beams on his hide inebriated him, made him envy the mongrel hounds that basked in the glow night after night. Nappa would snicker at him were he present, reminding Vegeta that there would never <i>be</i> enough, reminding Vegeta that what the prince truly desired was barred even to him, but. . .to hell with Nappa. To hell with everything, for the time being.

            Kakarot stood atop the highest mountain outside the capital walls, glaring up at the moon with unfocused eyes. Vegamara bothered him less now that he was further to the west. The Blutz waves made him feel. . .less than sober, actually. He could hear his own labored breath echoing within his skull; this hypersensitive sentience caused a low growl to reflexively escape his throat when he felt another Saiyan near his peaceful repose.

            Snarling in mid-air, Vegeta’s tail fur bristled and his ki flared in response to the overt, unexpected threat. His brain activated after his instincts and he laughed; what sort of moronic third-class would dare try and intimidate the prince of all Saiyans? Such a foolish underling! Vegeta lingered above his wild-haired contender, hovering in the air with his arms folded across his chest. The tip of his princely tail flicked against itself, still tightly wound around his waist.

            Kakarot knew he would surely die for it, but all of his thoughts were in a far corner of his brain to make room for the surge of hormones and celestial light; he reached above his head to grasp for Vegeta’s boot and sent him crashing into the hard, craggy surface upon which he stood. A rough cry of outrage and ire emitted from the prince’s throat. Hands formed fists and fell to flesh. Wild bursts of energy hit and missed, hit and missed; those in the valley below were treated to a sight much like a firecracker show, only who would do such a thing on top of Mt. Haricot?

            “Idiot, no-class, son of a whore,” Vegeta breathed roughly, trapped in the other Saiyan’s hold. “I’ll have your head for this. I’ll have your entire division’s heads for this. Which one are you even from, anyway? What’s your name? All you low-class wastes-of-cum look the same. . .”

            “Strong words from such a sweet little princess,” Kakarot growled from between gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched as tight as his arms held Vegeta. The prince hissed, his tail thrashing strongly against Kakarot’s chest. The robust scent of rage and shame twisted together and adulterated the younger Saiyan’s mind, weakening it again. Kakarot jerked the prince this way and that, crushing his prey’s throat beneath a strong bicep. “Oh, Vegeta, what’s that now? Still trying to pretend your lethargic, royal ass could ever match up to one of your wretched little subjects? Still think we don’t know how much stronger we’ve gotten? Here you’ve been strutting around your pretty castle while we’ve been off fighting and killing so you can--”

            Vegeta managed to loosen Kakarot’s hold on him briefly, and that was just enough for him to slip free. Spots danced before his eyes as he panted, trying to reestablish a reliable flow of oxygen to his addled brain. He lunged at the third-class, desperate for the upper-hand, but. . .the younger Saiyan seemed solid as a block of blackest katchin, completely impervious. When the prince finally managed to draw blood and make the taller man recoil, he stood back with his hands on his hips and smirked.

“You dare speak to your betters in such a way?” Vegeta howled a laugh, head thrown back with wild abandon. “You know nothing, third-class, nothing. You know nothing of the things I have done for this—“

Kakarot surged at the prince still, hell-bent on spurring the insurrection that had been whispered in garrisons and mess halls and landing pads alike. He could feel pure energy pulsing and flowing through the prince’s body, something he’d learned years before on a long-dead planet called Yurket; Kakarot knew the ki was at least close to his own. He had the upper hand in physical strength, at least, and recognized that it was feasible to exploit that advantage to conquest. Unlike the prince, he had seen a thousand bloody battles in off-world invasions. He knew what it was like to tear the flesh from an enemy’s face with his own teeth and have them watch as he consumed it. Whereas Vegeta’s battle experiences were mostly practiced, controlled exercises wrought in King Daddy’s iron castle, Kakarot’s honed skills were borne of instinct and necessity on foreign soil. Being lesser than the Elite, his father once told him, came from believing that they were lesser.

Spurred by the promise of violence and the Blutz waves on his exposed skin, Kakarot let loose a feral growl that echoed off of the surrounding rocky formations and barreled his unyielding elbow against the prince’s face. Years of systematic class oppression and learned abhorrence for that ruling class stimulated Kakarot’s already amplified senses; his elbow and fist repeatedly collided with rigid, sharp facial bones of his victim. Blood spattered from the stunned man’s face and onto Kakarot’s. The salty-sweet taste of that stark red liquid threatened to be the undoing of the younger Saiyan. He stopped, still growling, and stared at his prince. One of Vegeta’s eyes had swollen shut, the other was squinted of its own accord; numerous bones in his face were smashed and blood oozed freely down his neck and the front of his hastily-donned informal armor.

Kakarot had never seen a more beautiful, arousing sight in all of his young years. The longing to possess superseded that to destroy. He took in a deep, rattling breath, took in the scent of the royal’s blood, drank in the anger and desperation on Vegeta’s face. . .

And then he lost awareness of anything at all.
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Calefaction