Oceans

Piccolo’s mind was, for the moment, unwilling to focus – too busy being lost in a pleasant, warm state that he’d rarely experienced. It was a stage halfway between sleep and waking, when all that really mattered was the warm spot that one was occupying, the state of the covers, and how long it would be before getting up was necessary. Which, in his case, could be a very long time.

Something moved behind him, and Piccolo tensed briefly – but then he remembered that Son Goku had volunteered himself as an electric blanket a little earlier in the evening, last night, yesterday morning…telling time in outer space was impossible. Regardless, he was still there, curled around his back like some sort of bizarre watchdog, his chin resting just above the back of Piccolo’s head, his arm wrapped around Piccolo’s chest.

As if sensing that Piccolo was thinking about him, the Saiyan shifted in his sleep. He slunk down a little, turned…and then Piccolo felt the other’s cheek come to rest against his shoulder, his hair tickling the back of his neck. It was weird, Piccolo decided, to have someone wrapped around him like that. It made him jumpy. And…apparently the tank’s effects lasted a long time, because he was still tingling in a way that he didn’t like at all.

“Get lost, already,” he murmured, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to shrug the other off. “M’not your…whatever you think I am.”

Son’s only response was to heave a sigh…which tickled across Piccolo’s shoulder in a way that made his tongue tingle on the sides until it felt like it was too big for his mouth. He growled low in his throat – an instinctive response more than a planned one. After all, growling at Son Goku when he was awake was futile enough…doing it while he was sleeping was probably not going to produce any better results.

Piccolo was in the process of working his way up to being really indignant when he felt something different happen – he felt Son’s head turn just slightly, felt his mouth touch his shoulder…and open slightly in a sensation that was at once warm and wet.

Whatever thoughts he’d been thinking were abruptly derailed. He froze utterly, eyes widening, the wheels in his head grinding to an abrupt and thorough stop. Which had the immediate effect of making it much, much easier to focus on exactly what was happening at that point of contact…the way the other’s lips were moving very slowly against his skin, the warm, slightly-rough pressure of tongue as it…

…kissed him. Slowly, lazily, kissed his shoulder. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Piccolo knew, in the small part of his mind that was still functioning more or less normally, that he shouldn’t just be lying there like he was. That he shouldn’t be letting Son Goku do that to him – especially not with his tongue, and maybe not while he was sleeping. He knew he should move, get up, or at least try…but that was only in the small part of his mind that was still working. The rest was too busy being shocked, overwhelmed, looping a constant strain of *I can’t believe he’s DOING this…*

Then, as if in slow motion, he became aware of a slight movement of one of the other’s hands, which was going from resting against his chest to…moving a little, fingers contracting and relaxing. The movement was surprisingly soothing, almost hypnotizing in its slowness. So much so, in fact, that Piccolo didn’t start out of his self-imposed paralysis until that hand began to travel downward, the palm brushing over the top of his abdominals.

Piccolo jumped just slightly, one of his hands automatically coming up to grab Son Goku’s hand by the wrist. Only that didn’t stop its descent…it just made it weirder. “Son,” he snapped, surprised to find that his voice wasn’t completely steady. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

The Saiyan’s only response was a muffled sound against Piccolo’s shoulder as those lips moved a bit higher, finding the back of his neck. And then there was the problem of that hand getting lower – Piccolo tensed when it slid past the hip…and then, when he realized that the other wasn’t stopping there, tried to move back away from it…which only pressed him fully against his sleeping bedmate. “Snap OUT of it, Son,” he hissed, and then that hand was between his legs. Piccolo’s eyes widened dramatically as his body stilled of its own accord…and for a moment, he could focus on nothing but a calloused palm, sliding slowly, so slowly, and oh, that should NOT be there…

He hadn’t expected to respond to that touch. He hadn’t expected his breath to catch, a shiver to run up his spine like a whole bucket of icewater…he hadn’t expect to feel his face heat up, or that funny swelling in the abdomen. And he couldn’t very well wake the other up NOW, even assuming that he could wake him up at all, because then Goku would know what he’d been doing, and no one could ever know about this…

Especially not that he’d let it happen. Piccolo clenched his eyes shut, tightening his grip on the other’s wrist, and tried again to move that hand up…but Son Goku was stronger than he had ever been, and Piccolo was still just barely functional after his latest round with death. He couldn’t move it - at least, not at his current angle – and he couldn’t move away.

Piccolo had never felt so helpless in his life. There he was, being molested by his sleeping friend, and he couldn’t even manage to put up enough of a fuss to wake him up. Shame darkened his cheekbones still more…especially when he jumped a little as the other’s hand closed around him.

Piccolo bit the inside of his mouth to distract himself from the way it felt…which was kind of breathless and a little too warm. He’d never in his life been touched that way before. He’d rarely even thought about it. After all, he’d always just had more important things to worry about…like, oh, killing Son Goku. But the world wasn’t in danger just then, there were no attackers, no goals. There was just that bed, the two of them, the maddening sensation of hair tickling his shoulder, and the silence pressing down on him like a straight jacket.

Then, as fast as it had happened, it was over…the Saiyan breathed a sigh against Piccolo’s back, and seemingly relaxed back into sleep from whatever world he’d been in, that hand relaxing enough that Piccolo could move it a few key inches…back to the stomach, at least.

He was surprised to feel that he was still trembling. Did that…did that really happen? He wondered, even though his body was adamantly assuring him that it had. He started to shift restlessly, but thought better of it, stilling immediately.

What do I do now?

The Namekian was at a loss. He couldn’t very well go back to sleep; he was…much to his own disgust…too worked up for that. It wasn’t just that he was still feeling those touches, still tingling, even though he was. It was that he was shaken up. Startled, even – still.

Piccolo had rarely thought about sex. It was, as far as he knew, just another stupid mammalian affliction that he had no use for. He already knew what taking life-partners did to humans, and even Saiyans – look at Son Goku, for crying out loud. The only thing in the universe that could scare him was his wife. Sex – and life-partners, by extension – made otherwise-competent people sloppy and distracted. Piccolo had seen it. So he, ever practical, had no use for it.

Especially not with Son Goku. Of all the people in the universe that Piccolo had NOT thought about sex with, he’d not-thought-about-it the hardest with that person. Son was a well-intentioned numbskull…more like an overgrown kid than a warrior. Except…

Except that wasn’t always true. Not exactly.

Son Goku, for all his word-problems and simplistic views of life…for all his optimism, even…he wasn’t as dense as he put on. He had a way of seeing into people that Piccolo didn’t wholly understand, even though he’d seen it first-hand. He had admitted to himself, when he couldn’t sleep on certain long nights, that Son Goku knew him better than anyone alive, even Gohan, because Gohan had never acknowledged the darkness in him, whereas Son had faced it and not cared.

Sometimes, the man had brilliant insights, seemingly out of nowhere. Most of the others, Piccolo thought, didn’t notice those little flashes of inspiration, but he always did. Those strange little incidents where, in the middle of planning, the Saiyan would say something like, “Hey, guys, how about we do it this way?” And it would be such a simple suggestion, but, in the end, the most logical course.

So no, Son Goku wasn’t stupid. Naive, oh yes; Piccolo couldn’t count the times he’d yelled at the other, sometimes at a very undignified top-of-his-lungs pitch, about his rotten habit of trusting even his most vicious enemies. Tactless, too, and he tended to oversimplify things, and his table manners were terrible.

But for all that…people liked him anyway. Son’s way with people was hard to explain, even, Piccolo supposed, for people who weren’t socially-stunted former demons. Son Goku had an openness to him, Piccolo guessed, and that helped. But that wasn’t it, either. Son Goku believed in people. Deep down inside, where most people stored doubts and fears and all of the ugliness that they wanted to hide from the rest of the world, Son Goku hid hope.

*He believed in me,* Piccolo realized. *Right from the start, before all this.*

Being trusted, that wasn’t something that Piccolo thought that he’d ever get used to. Hell, he hadn’t thought that it’d ever happen – aside from Son, who was a fluke. But then there had been Gohan. Gohan, who was convinced that he was a “great guy” even when he hit the kid, even when he kicked him, even when he left him by himself for months on end. Gohan, who invited him to birthday parties and gave him stern lectures on fighting in front of his mother. Gohan, who looked up at him from about knee-level with an expression that tore at Piccolo’s heart like a cat in a sack – that open, adoring smile that always shook him up inside.

Even Gohan’s example, powerful though it was, Piccolo could have shaken off. After all, mental illness WAS hereditary, and that was the craziest damn family he’d ever seen. But then there was Krillen.

Krillen had always been afraid of him, Piccolo thought, and it’d be a lie to say that he hadn’t had some real fun with that on occasion. But lately, the small human had begun looking at him differently. He didn’t shake anymore when Piccolo was just standing next to him. Krillen asked his advice sometimes, and his voice was steady. He was, Piccolo realized, actually starting to like the little cueball-headed dweeb. True, Krillen was the jumpiest person Piccolo had ever seen, but there was more to the monk than you’d think. Under all that self-depreciation, all that defeatism, Krillen was a fighter who wouldn’t hesitate to throw everything he had into a battle if he thought that was what it took. And no matter how outclassed he was, Krillen always did his part.

Piccolo wondered if that kind of mutual respect made them friends. It was a question he would NEVER have asked out loud, but he had the sneaky suspicion that Krillen would ask it someday. And he would brush it off, just like he always did, because questions like that scared Piccolo in a way that even Frieza hadn’t. But Krillen would know the answer, anyway. Which put him one step ahead of Piccolo.

*I don’t,* Piccolo thought,…*I don’t know anything anymore.*

Son chuckled in his sleep and pressed his cheek to Piccolo’s shoulder. He tightened his arm around his waist as if somehow sensing how lost he felt.

Piccolo sighed, heavily. *I don’t know what to do,* he thought again. *I don’t know who I am. Damnit, it was so much easier being a bad guy.*

___________________________________________________________________________

Despite his own misgivings, Piccolo apparently managed to fall asleep again, because the next thing that he remembered was waking up in that bed, alone. He sat up slowly, testing his own limits with deliberate care…and couldn’t help but notice, as the blankets fell around his waist, that they had been carefully arranged around him. Son had tucked him in. Piccolo snorted at the ridiculousness of it. But at the same time…

*Don’t go down that road,* he thought to himself, irritably. “Son?” he said, casting a quick glance around the room. No one answered. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath without really knowing why. This made it no less cathartic.

Piccolo decided that he wasn’t going to think about it any more. With a huff that was nothing short of explosive, he pushed it out of his mind – it being everything Son-Goku-related – and instead leaned forward, slowly, in a stretch. He extended himself carefully, testing the limits of his body. After a moment, he was satisfied that he was still stiff, but no longer in any real pain. He could get up.

After swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Piccolo remembered that he didn’t have any clothes. With a halfhearted roll of the eyes – something ELSE he had to hit the other for – he materialized his usual gi, but skipped the shoes. Then, slowly, he stood.

Piccolo smirked, finally allowing himself to think what he’d been preventing himself from spouting all along out of fear of jinxing something: Kiss my ass, King Kai, I did live through it!

But gloating just wasn’t as much fun without anyone to gloat to. “Where IS that moron,” Piccolo muttered to himself, finally daring to start out the door and down the hall.

The interior of the ship was about what Piccolo would expect from Saiyans. It was bare-bones clinical, cold in a way that even Dr. Briefs hadn’t managed to alter too much, which…in Piccolo’s opinion…was probably for the best. He shuddered to think of what it would be like to ride millions of lightyears in a ship that looked like some knockoff of the Loveboat.

Piccolo’s sensitive ears picked up a sound. He stopped, inclining his head slightly – the echoes in the hallway were distorting the noise, stretching it out, but it didn’t sound like engines or machines. It was a voice. A very familiar voice. And it sounded as if it were in pain.

“Damnit,” Piccolo muttered. “What now?” But he turned on his heel and ran down a hallway that looked like it was headed in more or less the direction he wanted to go. Though he wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, his heart was pounding faster than usual, his vision more focused. Something was wrong, he was sure of it, and while he wasn’t sure exactly what his feelings about the earth-raised Saiyan were yet, he knew that he wasn’t ready to put them away. He didn’t want to LOSE that idiot before he had the time to figure them out. And besides, Gohan would never let him hear the end of it.

It felt like it took him hours to get down the hallway. One minute, he would swear he was right next to the sound. The next, he’d be convinced it was halfway across the ship. Still, Piccolo didn’t dare call out to him; he wanted the element of surprise if he could get it if something was, in fact, wrong.

That quickly, he was right on top of it. A door stood between him and the sound; just that two inches of metal, nothing more. The former demon paused, holding his breath, forcing himself to take the time to run the options in his head. He couldn’t think of many. Finally, though it wasn’t usually his style, Piccolo admitted to himself that there was only one way. He had to barrel in and hope for the best.

“Yah!” Piccolo growled as he kicked through the door, landing in a deep crouch in the middle of the room, both arms already up and on guard.

Much to his consternation, he was not immediately attacked. Looking around, he came to realize that he was in the bathroom – that water was running…the shower?

Son Goku pulled back the shower curtain and poked his head out, dark hair full of water droplets. “Oh, hey Pic," he said. “Couldn’t wait?”

Piccolo just stared at him blankly. “What the Hell is going on in here? It sounded like someone was killing you.” He relaxed his stance, took a nervous step backward, then stopped himself.

Goku laughed. “I was just singing a little,” he said.

Piccolo’s jaw dropped. “THAT was singing?”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was good at it,” Goku said cheerfully. “Now how about shutting the door? You’re letting cold air in.”

Numbly, Piccolo reached over and pushed the door shut, wondering just when in the Hell his life had started to look like one long acid trip. “There is SERIOUSLY something wrong with you,” he growled.

“Y’know, Pic, I get that a lot,” Goku said. He reached an arm out of the shower curtain, pale skin shiny and damp. Piccolo watched bemusedly as that hand felt along the rail, blindly. Then, after a few moments, “Hey, could you hand me a towel?”

Piccolo rolled his eyes, plucking the fluffy white bit of cloth from where it had been – mere inches beyond Son’s reach – and sliding it over into his hand. “There,” he said.

Son turned off the water and began to dry himself briskly. Piccolo knew this because the shower curtain was only semi-opaque…he could easily make out the Saiyan’s silhouette if he were looking.

The former demon jumped when Son threw the curtain back, stepping out of the shower with only that towel tied around his hips. He was mostly dry – but stray droplets still gleamed here and there, especially on his shoulders and chest, where damp hair was sending continuous streams of moisture.

*Being dead is good for him,* Piccolo found himself thinking. Son had changed during his time in the otherworld – and during his trip to Nameksei. Still not a big man, Son Goku had filled out through the chest and shoulders. Rather than growing, he had toned up; each sinew seemed to stand out on its own, toned and ready to move at the slightest thought. More than that, though, there was…well…a glow about him that hadn’t really been there before, or at least hadn’t been so strong. It came from the inside – a confidence, a strength, that had not been there before…like the difference between a lantern that’s lit, and one that isn’t.

Goku put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, his brow knitting slightly. “Hey, Pic,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“Hm?” he asked, a little off-guard.

“You’re staring at me,” Goku said. “Not that that’s anything new, but…I dunno, you look different.”

For reasons that Piccolo couldn’t begin to fathom, heat rushed to his face. He took a half-step back, immediately averting his eyes. “You’ve changed,” he said. “I’m just…I’m not used to it yet, is all.”

*And,* he thought, *when the Hell did I start stuttering?*

He jumped when he heard the other take a step forward. “M’not that different,” Goku said. “You’ll see pretty soon.”

Standing this close to the Saiyan, Piccolo could actually smell him. Not sweat or anything like that, just the underlying musk that all Saiyans seem to share, and the faint smell of whatever soap he’d used. It made him think about the last time they’d been that close…about lips, hands…Piccolo took another half-step back. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I don’t really like change.”

Goku took another step forward. “Master Roshi always says that change is good,” he said. “But y’know, I really think he stole that one from a movie.”

Piccolo snorted and started to take another step back. “M’sure he…” his back hit the wall – he looked over his shoulder, alarmed, where the Hell was the door? “did,” he finished, a little lamely.

Son Goku was right in front of him – Piccolo could feel the heat of him, even if he wasn’t looking directly at him. “Hey, Piccolo,” Son Goku said, his voice unsure. “Is something…I dunno…bothering you?”

“N..no,” Piccolo said – and he made the mistake of turning his head to look at him.

Son was standing squarely in front him, hands behind his back, rocked slightly up onto his toes. His eyes – which could be so hard, when they had to be – were slightly rounded, curious. His lips were slightly parted, only just a little, enough to reveal the roundness of that bottom lip, the white of his teeth.

Son reached up and put the back of his hand to Piccolo’s forehead – a gesture that made him jump. “I dunno,” the Saiyan said. “You feel a little warm to me. Maybe you’re still not better?”

Piccolo felt his cheeks get hotter – a feat he had previously considered impossible. Son’s eyes widened. “Wow,” the Saiyan said. “That’s NOT good. C’mon, we better get you cooled off.”

Before Piccolo could even muster a feeble protest, Son fisted both his hands in his gi top and took a step back, effectively hauling the both of them into the shower. As Piccolo was still trying to rally his thoughts, the Saiyan reached over and turned on said shower – summarily dousing them both in water that wasn’t exactly cold, but wasn’t scalding, either.

“Gah,” Piccolo snapped, the water finally breaking his paralysis. He brought an arm up to shield his face from the spray. “What the Hell are you doing?”

“It’s one of the best ways to bring down a fever,” Son said. “And I’ve NEVER seen one climb like yours just did, not even when you were unconscious.”

Piccolo’s clothing was, by then, soaked through and heavy. “Son,” he said crossly, “I’m FINE.” But even he didn’t really believe it. He still felt warm, even under the spray, and tight, like his skin wasn’t big enough. That, and…a little out of breath, a little dizzy. Streams of water were racing down his skin under the shirt, and it was driving him crazy – though it wouldn’t have normally. He decided immediately that if this was being sick, he didn't like it.

Goku knew enough to not believe him, but he also apparently knew enough not to argue with him about it. “Just let me know when you start to feel cold,” he said.

Piccolo resigned himself, at least for the time being, to getting wet. “Whatever,” he huffed. With a put-upon sigh, he crossed his arms, snagging the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head, sticking his arm out of the shower to discard it. It hit the floor with a heavy, slogging sound.

Piccolo felt much lighter without the shirt. But he didn’t feel better. There wasn’t much room in the shower stall, or, it felt, much air…he put a hand on the shower wall to steady himself. Goku, who was, due to the necessity of space, standing right next to him, put a hand out to help brace him. He was still, Piccolo couldn’t help but notice, wearing nothing but that white towel, which was getting wetter with every passing second. Already, it was hanging lower on the hips…eventually, it was going to get heavy enough with water to just fall off…

A full-body shudder tore through him for no reason. Piccolo made it a point to look away.

“I think we overdid it,” Goku said wryly, shutting off the water. Instantly, Piccolo felt cold, genuinely cold…the kind that ran up and down his limbs like poison, made them feel like lead.

“Whattaya mean we?” he growled, trying to cover for his own disorientation. He was careful to stand so that his skin did not touch the Saiyan’s any more than necessary. “It was your stupid idea.” This effort was utterly defeated when he still allowed the other to haul him – since when did anybody pull him anywhere? – out of the shower. He felt the length of the other’s bare arm against his, firm and warm, softer than his own.

Son clicked his tongue at him. “You’re not all that good at saying thanks, are you?” he asked.

“For what, drenching me?”

Rather than get huffy, Goku grinned, putting his hands on his hips. “Y’know what, Pic?” he asked. “I think I’m finally starting to get you.”

Piccolo rolled his eyes. “I seriously doubt that,” he said. *Because you still confuse the Hell out of me,* he thought but did not say.

“Noo, I think I understand,” Goku said. “You’ve never had a real friend before. Older than five, I mean. And now, you don’t know what to do.”

Piccolo swallowed, getting that closed-in feeling again. “You are NOT my friend,” he said severely. His voice did not shake, but it threatened to.

Goku laughed at that, putting a hand behind his head. “Sorry, Pic,” he said. “But I don’t guess you’ve got a whole lot of say in that.”

For a moment, Piccolo just started at him, not quite believing what he’d heard. “What?” He asked.

“I said,” Goku said…still grinning. “You’re stuck with me from now on.” The earth-raised Saiyan put his hands behind his back and leaned in slightly, grinning even wider. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He smelled like rain.

Piccolo’s nose tickled.

“Whoah,” Son said, taking a surprised step back.

“What?” Piccolo asked a little crossly, bringing his hand up to his face. It encountered wetness. Blinking with surprise, Piccolo drew his hand back to find the tips of his fingers purple with blood.

“Nosebleed,” Goku said wryly. He did not seem at all alarmed at the fact that blood had started inexplicably spurting from Piccolo’s nose…he treated the event as if it happened every day. The Saiyan crossed the room in three steps, snagged a roll of what must have been the intergalactic version of toilet paper, and returned to stand in front of Piccolo. He rolled a few sheets around his hand, discarded the roll, and said, “Here, sit down – you’re too tall.”

Before Piccolo could even protest, the other had snagged him by the shoulders and pushed him down against the wall in a seated position. “Nosebleed?” Piccolo finally managed to blurt. “But I’ve never…”

“Had one?” Goku finished for him. The earth-raised Saiyan knelt down beside him, then straddled his hips, pressing the folded toilet paper to his nose and pinching. “Well,” he said, still grinning, “you do now.”

“Fucking wonderful,” Piccolo growled.

Goku laughed. “Don’t worry – it helps if you lean your head back – these things happen all the time. When I was training with master Roshi, he had one almost once a week, and he’s still doing fine.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t happen to me,” Piccolo protested, even as the other pushed his back against the wall, tilted his head back for him. The former demon closed his eyes, thought deeply for a moment, and decided that this was actually the most awkward moment of his life. Worse than that, he had a witness. A witness who was straddling his hips in nothing but a towel, with warm, bare thighs against his own legs like a vise. Whose hands were on his face, thumb against cheekbone…who was leaning over him, so close he could almost feel him. And on the tail end of that thought, as if things weren’t bad enough, something else happened. His pants, which had previously just felt wet, were now feeling too tight. He had no idea what could have caused this development…he hadn’t activated his body’s growth abilities, at least not that he knew of, and he was pretty sure that gis weren’t supposed to shrink in water. His certainly never had before.

Piccolo was just beginning to wonder if it was something in the water itself when his train of thought was again interrupted. “Aw, c’mon, Pic – you gotta face it,” Goku said, grinning still with that obnoxious cheer. “You’re human just like the rest of us,” The Saiyan took one of Piccolo’s hands in his and showed him how to apply pressure to his nose.

“I am not human,” Piccolo said – and was annoyed by the nasal sound of his own voice, now that he was clamping his fingers on his nose.

“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.” Goku leaned back slightly – virtually, Piccolo noted with some alarm, sitting on his legs now. Most people, especially most men, would’ve been markedly uncomfortable with this setup, but Son wasn’t…he was relaxed, a hand resting on either of his thighs, that damneable water still running down from his hair…down his neck…across his chest like beads of rain on a marble statue.

Several minutes passed...during which Piccolo, for some reason, became very aware of the sounds of their breathing. Son’s, low and soft, steady…his own, just a bit faster for some reason…the two sounds moving almost in perfect opposition to one another. One of them would inhale as the other exhaled…almost every time. It felt…it felt…too much.

After what felt like an eternity, Goku leaned forward again – not quickly, not quickly at all, but Piccolo had been so caught up in looking at him that he hadn’t been ready for it, and so he jumped slightly. Predictably, Son chuckled. “You’re the jumpiest person in the world, Pic,” he said casually.

How in the Hell can he be so comfortable with this? Piccolo wondered, his usually quick brain scrambling to make sense of what the other was saying. How can he be so…relaxed? I feel like I’m going to explode. “You can’t know that,” Piccolo said, finally. “You don’t know everybody in the world.”

“Okay, well…maybe there’s a more nervous guy out there. But I haven’t met him yet.” Goku brought his hand up, pulling that tissue back a little to check, and said, “Hey, at least it stopped pretty fast. I told you it would.”

Piccolo almost answered. But something funny had happened to his throat. It felt swollen and too heavy to talk with…and his attention was inexplicably focused, not on this weird thing that was happening to his body, but the side of Son Goku’s hand, where it rested on his face, almost along the jaw…

*What the Hell is wrong with me?* Piccolo wondered, his eyes clenching shut again. He wanted badly to shift, to move…to shove the other off him and take off running down the hallway in the other direction just to get rid of whatever weird sickness had taken over him. Inexplicably, he found himself again thinking of the last time he’d been this close to the Saiyan – his lips on his shoulder, breath against his skin, his hands…

“Son,” he hissed suddenly, his voice weaker than he would have imagined it could be, breathless. He brought both hands up and caught the other by the biceps, pushing him back about six inches…it was an impulsive move, and afterward, he had no idea what else to do. Piccolo opened his eyes, focused them on his former rival’s face, and tried desperately to focus his thoughts.

Looking at Goku didn’t help him. The Saiyan’s eyes were wide, surprised, set big in his face. “What?” Son asked.

Piccolo swallowed. “I don’t…know,” he spat out, harshly. He could feel the Saiyan’s pulse where his hands gripped his arms.

And then, something odd came into Son Goku’s face…not quite understanding, but kin to it. “…oh,” he said, sounding surprised. Then, for some reason, Son blushed…not a lot, just over the bridge of his nose. But still. For Son, it was unusual. This was a man who could cheerfully run buck naked down a city street and not think a thing of it. The former demon began to realize that he might be in real trouble.

“What,” Piccolo managed after a few seconds. Then, with a slight growl in his voice, “What is it?”

Son bit his lip – something he often did when he was thinking – and Piccolo couldn’t help but notice the way the teeth pressed in just enough to dent the flesh. “I…it’s…um….” Then, wryly… “well.” And before Piccolo could reprimand him for dancing around the issue, Son Goku shook his head, and brought a hand up, closing it over Piccolo’s. His thumb slid over the back of Piccolo’s hand, and even that small gesture sent a shudder down the length of the Namekian’s spine.

“Are…are you doing this?” Piccolo asked. He could hear his own pulse throbbing in his ears.

Son shook his head again, sliding his fingertips up Piccolos hand, over the back of his wrist. “Not really,” he said. “I mean, not on purpose.” He blushed, again.

Piccolo growled. “Son,” he said, warningly…and stopped when the Saiyan reached forward and put a finger over his bottom lip.

“Piccolo,” Son said, speaking more slowly than usual. “You…you trust me, don’t you?”

Piccolo blinked. The question had not been expected. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I…”

The finger that had been over Piccolo’s bottom lip traced its way, slowly, up to his cheek, where it cupped…*so soft,* Piccolo found himself thinking – *even with the calluses, his hands are so much softer than mine*…cupped the side of his face, like it was some kind of porcelain piece that might break at any time. Trembling a little – and gods he hated himself for that, but it was all so confusing – he closed his eyes and tried to nod.

“Okay,” Goku said…and to Piccolo, he sounded a little breathless, too.

Piccolo moistened his lips, suddenly dry, with his tongue. Then, nervously, “What…what are you going to…”

“Shh.” The Saiyan moved up his legs until his forehead was practically resting against Piccolo’s…and the tickle of Son’s bangs against his antennae made him squirm, self-control be damned, made him catch his breath. “You’ll see.”

Piccolo knew he should tell the other to get off him. Should deck him for causing this mess in his head, for doing this thing to his body, again. Instead, he breathed out one word. And the word was, “alright.”

Goku smiled at him. That weird, face-splitting grin, albeit a gentler version, more subdued. Piccolo could read it without trying, read all the parts of it: *You DO trust me…I knew you did.* Of course, Piccolo immediately took issue with it…but by then, it was too late to retract his statement, as Son Goku lowered his head just slightly and brushed his lips over the side of his neck.

“Ah…” the former demon all but gasped, his body arching up into this new touch completely without his meaning to. His hands clenched into fists, shook, as his whole being became focused on the heat of the other’s mouth…the way his lips tickled over his pulse…and then, Son’s hands found his chest, pressing against it, smoothing over the different contours.

“Saaah,” Son made a soothing sound against the side of his neck…right before skimming his teeth over it, which made Piccolo’s head swim all over again. Reflexively, he reached out, his hands catching onto the other’s waist, needing something to hold onto.

“That’s it,” Son murmured, tilting his head a little…and Piccolo did his best to suppress a moan when the other’s tongue found the rim of his ear, though he could tell by the chuckle that the other had heard it anyway.

That was when the pieces finally fell into place for him. Sex. That was what was going on. Having sex. With Son Goku. He was actually thinking about it now…more, he reflected with a touch of wry humor, than thinking about it. It had ceased to be an abstract idea, had become, in the last few seconds, alarmingly concrete, had straddled his waist, was, at that very moment, swirling a warm tongue across his earlobe, was panting softly right next to it, sending warm air over wet skin in a way that made his whole body vibrate like a violin string.

*This can’t be happening,* Piccolo thought dazedly, even as one of his hands slid around to the Saiyan’s back, pulling him closer, convulsively…sliding his own, rough palm over that impossibly smooth skin. Then, *I…I should stop it.* His hand, ignoring his far-more-rational brain, flexed so that his talons were resting against the small of the other’s back. Gently – he didn’t want to hurt him – he brushed them over the other’s spine, over the solid muscles on either side of it.

He must have been doing something right. He felt Son’s hands slide up to his shoulders and tighten there, the fingers digging almost painfully into his skin. Piccolo could feel the Saiyan’s lips part next to his ear, feel the other try to catch his breath. Hesitantly, Piccolo repeated the gesture, touching him only with the tips of his talons. This time, though, the effect was profoundly different; Son let out a sharp cry, his arms going around Piccolo’s neck, his back arching in a way that pressed them together.

Piccolo blinked, wondering if he actually *had* hurt him. But Son was panting, was holding onto him, he hadn’t protested…so Piccolo repeated the gesture, wondering what exactly had gotten into his shipmate.

The results were similarly spectacular. Son arched again, harder, burying his face in his shoulder, a small sound coming out of his throat that Piccolo had never heard from before. It gave Piccolo the opportunity to peer over his shoulder and see exactly what it was he was touching. His talons rested exactly over a little half-moon-shaped scar. *Oh,* he thought.

He wondered how it was that fighting was so much easier to figure out than this.

Piccolo might have put aside his better judgment and actually asked that question, but then he realized that Son’s neck was, in his current position, completely open. *Well,* Piccolo thought, steeling his resolve, *misery loves company.*

Half-expecting the Saiyan to pull away at any moment, Piccolo lowered his lips to the side of the other’s neck, pausing a moment to see what Son’s reaction would be. He almost pulled back when he heard Goku hiss, sharply…but then, he didn’t smell fear, or nervousness. Just adrenaline. And what he was gradually coming to recognize as arousal. And…that wasn’t the same thing at all. Carefully, he extended his tongue a few centimeters and let himself taste the other.

Son was warm – but he knew that already. He was also still damp, water mixing with his natural saltiness. Piccolo didn’t eat as a habit. But he decided he liked the flavor of him anyway and slowly tasted him again, lowering his lips to the other’s neck in an unconscious imitation of what the Saiyan had been doing to him earlier. Son shifted in response, which rubbed the two of them together in a way that set off a growl deep in Piccolo’s throat.

“Mmh,” Goku said, face still near his ear. “You…always did pick up fast.”

Slowly, Piccolo began a very conscious imitation of what the Saiyan had been doing to him. Under his lips, he could feel Son’s pulse speed up…and then, he pressed down against him, hard thighs clamping around his hips. Piccolo had to pause for a second, removing his lips from the other to just breathe, fighting off a strange impulse to throw the other on the ground and hold him there. To fight with him almost just like always.

And apparently he wasn’t the only one. With a suddenness that made Piccolo’s head spin, Son Goku made an uncharacteristic growling sound, grabbed both of his wrists, and slammed them back against the bathroom wall, a hand to either, parallel with Piccolo’s shoulders. In almost the same motion, Goku kissed him – and it was nothing like those gentle, lingering kisses that the former demon had seen on the rare occasions he’d been around televisions. This one was hard, fast – tongue pushing between his lips, deep into his mouth as if it belonged there, as if Piccolo had no room at all to protest.

And kissing was…

It was…squirmy. Wet. Hot all over. Eyes clenching again, Piccolo tried to find that famous control of his, tried to get his heartbeat to within normal speeds, tried not to pass out from a lack of oxygen. It was no use. He was dizzy, desperate, helpless all at once, and the Hell of it was, he was almost glad. Glad that he was trapped there, struggling under the man who had once been his greatest enemy, glad to feel the rough texture of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Then, as quickly as it had changed before, it changed again. Son broke the kiss and, rather than kiss him again, leaned his forehead against Piccolo’s, eyes all but closed, panting softly.

“Y’know,” Goku managed after a few seconds. “Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to talk about this.”

“Not now,” Piccolo said, his voice oddly hoarse, rough.

Goku chuckled. “No,” he agreed. “Not right now.”

And he kissed him again.