Oceans

Piccolo didn’t really remember the trip from the bathroom to the bedroom, though the journey must have covered at least two hallways and taken several minutes. He could, if he pressed himself, remember a lot of awkward bumping into walls, Son backing up, pulling him along, as often as not with their lips locked together. He could remember a breathless few minutes in the doorway, pressing his body against the other’s, pinning Son Goku against the doorframe so hard it must’ve left a mark between his shoulder blades…and then the Saiyan had sidestepped, had pulled him into the room by the sash.

Neither of them had even bothered to close the door.

The lights were off, and they stayed that way.

Piccolo wasn’t sure how the two of them even found the bed, save maybe by that thin rail of light against the far wall from the partway-open door. But then, when the backs of his legs bumped up against the mattress, the Namekian experienced a brief moment of clarity – something like Danger, Will Robinson, Danger – this was, he realized, going abnormally fast, too fast for a rational being like himself. Son Goku was impulsive, and he could live with that…but it was his job to think things through. He was the logical one. Someone had to be.

It was an effort to pull his lips from Son Goku’s…and not very helpful, because after that, the Saiyan was kissing his neck, and that was…distracting. “Son,” he managed after a very difficult second or two. Then, more firmly, “Goku.”

Goku paused in his efforts, looked up at him. Grinned. “What?” he asked…right before hooking one Piccolo’s legs with one of his own, tripping them both so that the fell onto the bed in a tangle. Where Son landed mostly on him, and immediately started doing those damn distracting things with his mouth again…over the shoulder, the collar bone, the thin line of the sternum.

Piccolo’s head fell back against the mattress for a moment, vision actually swimming slightly. His lips parted of their own accord, like he just couldn’t get enough air. Or enough…enough. He could feel every line of Son’s body, feel it moving against him, over him, and wanted more. And damn, but it’d be so easy to just…to just let it go on. To forget about all the complications for a while…to not worry about how bad an idea this was until afterwards. Later. Much later.

Much to his consternation, Piccolo realized that his hands were all over the other…up and down his sides, over his shoulders, even curling around the back of his neck. He wondered when that had happened…no, focus… “Son,” he tried again. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, raspy.

“Mm?” Goku asked as his lips, seemingly by sheer accident, came into contact with an antennae. But then, Goku’d always had that kind of luck. He seemed to fall into things like that all the time…the ideal combination, the perfectly-placed kick that couldn’t possibly have been planned, could it? But that wasn’t important. What mattered was that it worked. All the air left Piccolo’s lungs in an explosive gasp as his shoulders dug into the mattress almost on their own. Predictably, his line of thought, which had been very coherent, fragmented faster than the Soviet Union after the Cold War.

There was a loaded silence after that, except for the sound of heavy breathing. Then Piccolo felt a tug at his sash, felt the slide of it against his skin as the other removed it, laid warm palms to his sides and his abdomen. He couldn’t quite stifle a soft hiss as he brought his hands up behind Son’s shoulders. Piccolo’s limited experience was of very little use here – he knew the rudimentary workings of things between men and women. Men and men, he wasn’t sure, didn’t quite know how things worked. He had no idea even where this was going, beyond the fact that it was probably going to involve a lot more touching, and…wait,was he actually thinking about going through with this?

He wanted to. That shocked him. He wanted to, and he didn’t care that he didn’t know exactly what was going on. Son Goku, at least, seemed to have the general idea, and Piccolo was…he realized…willing to follow his lead. Anywhere.

But sometimes…sometimes Son’s ideas weren’t the best things in the world, and maybe this was one of those times. Only Piccolo was beginning to realize that he was NEVER going to complete a thought this way…not as long as Son was touching him, as his hands came up to Piccolo’s cheeks…or kissing him like that, like he just did.

Piccolo had no choice but to take things into his own hands. With a low growl that echoed weirdly in the other’s mouth, he wrapped one of his legs around the backs of Goku’s, brought the other knee up alongside his torso, and flipped them both, immediately pinning the other’s wrists, pressing himself against his longtime rival so that he couldn’t move.

Still, it took him a few seconds to break the kiss. And when he did, he forced himself to close his eyes, steady his breathing. When he thought he could see Son again and not do something irrational (like kiss him again,) he opened his eyes.

This proved to be a mistake.

Son Goku was sprawled out under him now, hands neatly pinned over his head, which arched his back a little, brought his chin into his chest. It was hard to see specifics in the blue-black shadows of the room…but what little light there was made a marble-white line down one side of his body, highlighted a cheek…caught the whites of his eyes enough to make them sparkle, make them look like someone had thrown a fistful of lights across them. He looked oddly vulnerable that way…and softer. Piccolo felt something strange hit him then…or maybe hit wasn’t the right word. It was more like the feeling bled into him, melted through his skin in a slow but unstoppable dampening. Piccolo had only ever experienced this particular sensation with one other person before, and that person had been Gohan – the strange urge to stand between him and anything and everything.

It made the next part easier. “Son,” he breathed, barely controlling his voice. “We should…think about this.”

Goku grinned up at him. “Y’know, I sorta figured you were gonna say that. Eventually.”

That hadn’t been the “okay, you’re right,” that Piccolo had been expecting. He took a deep breath, let it out. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

Son chuckled. “You always say that, too,” he said, almost gently.

“Son, it’s…going to change things.”

“Is it really?” he asked. “Face it, Pic, stuff like this doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

Piccolo blinked. Damnit.

One of Son’s legs slid against his…that towel was no doubt falling somewhere around the top of his thigh by now. “And you know what? You only get quiet like that when you know I’m right.”

And maybe he *was* right. Piccolo had to admit to himself, he didn’t know where this was coming from, but maybe it wasn’t so new…maybe he’d always looked at the Saiyan a little differently than other people that he’d fought. Maybe part of his obsession with the other hadn’t had anything to do with killing him. Maybe that explained the strange urge he’d had, after the battle with Raditz… And maybe, damnit, that was why King Kai had smirked at him like that when he said he was going to Namek, no matter what the old coot had to say about it. Piccolo huffed a sigh and briefly laid his forehead against the other’s shoulder. “So much for meditation,” he growled.

Son chuckled again, prompting another shudder from Piccolo. “You think too much,” he advised, that odd gentleness still in his voice.

“Hell, one of us has to,” Piccolo said, forehead still against his shoulder. He was always surprised at how warm the Saiyan was…at how fast the other’s heart would beat. He could feel it against his cheek, even so far from the center of his chest. “Sometimes I don’t think you think at all.”

“Right now, maybe that’s the best way,” Goku said. He turned his head a little, and Piccolo could feel the other’s lips brush his cheekbone, the far edge of his browridge. “Relax for once, okay? We’ll figure it all out later.”

“But…”

“Shh,” and Piccolo felt the Saiyan’s legs curl around his waist, just above the hips, pulling him down against the other. They fit together, he realized, like a pair of clasped hands.

Piccolo had been a warrior for a long time. He knew a losing battle when he saw one. With a longsuffering sigh, he said, “When this blows up, I’m GOING to say I told you so.”

Goku smiled at him…for maybe the third time that day. Not grinned. Smiled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

Piccolo couldn’t think of what to say to that. So instead, he turned his head…nipped the other’s shoulder, just lightly.

Goku jumped under him, squirmed in a way that made Piccolo think of the few times their fights had come to grappling. Here at last was something he understood. He slid his knees up against the backs of the other’s legs, effectively gaining leverage, and leaned down, beginning a much less gentle exploration of Son’s neck and throat. He did not release his hands.

He expected a struggle, and he got one…smirking against the other’s pulse as Son writhed under him, twisting slightly right and left. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said, right into his ear, because that seemed to affect the other the most strongly. He wasn’t wrong. He felt the Saiyan’s legs squeeze around his waist so hard he wondered if it would actually break him in two as Son attempted to pitch him over to one side…a foot into the hip, one across the shoulder, reverse, reverse. Piccolo wondered if the other wasn’t actually trying very hard. But he seemed to be.

At least until Piccolo gave up on neck and shoulders, began to explore the smooth muscles of his chest instead. There were still droplets of water resting there for his tongue to find. The Saiyan arched his back more than Piccolo thought should be possible. “Piccolo,” he gasped, almost a protest, almost a plea, even though Piccolo didn’t quite know what he was asking for.

“There’s more to this,” Piccolo said, almost against the other’s belly, feeling his fangs brush over the other’s skin. “Isn’t there. It goes further than just what we’re doing.”

Son sat up a little on his elbows, and even in the dark, Piccolo could see a new blush on his cheeks. “You don’t…know?” he asked, and to Piccolo, he sounded nervous.

Piccolo raised an eyeridge at him. “Should I?” he asked, a little defensively.

Goku ducked his head slightly and offered him a grin. “It’s just,” he said. “Well, it’s just that…I thought you knew everything.”

Being involved with Son Goku, Piccolo reflected, could really make you feel like a pedophile sometimes. “I know the basic mechanics,” he growled out at last. “But not…”

Goku grinned at him. “The whole ‘two-guys’ thing, right?”

“Yeah. That.”

Son scooted down a little so that he could whisper in his ear, like he was telling him a secret. Piccolo blinked, a little distracted at the feel of the other’s lips against the lobe…but half-lidded his eyes, made himself concentrate. And there was something oddly tingly about even just this, even just having the other whisper instructions into his ear with his bare arms wrapped around his neck.

From the sound of it, the whole procedure was shockingly uncomplicated. And…shocking in general. “That’s…you want me to do that. To you,” Piccolo said, his voice lower and rougher than usual. An hour ago, even, it wouldn’t have seemed plausible.

“Let’s face it, Pic. We’ve done crazier stuff.”

And that, at least, made sense.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Despite Piccolo’s initial misgivings – it wasn’t nearly as awkward as he’d been expecting. Sure…there were awkward moments. Some more than others. Like, for instance, when it came to the topic of preparation.

It didn’t help at all that this topic came up later…after the towel had been pulled away, let slide through fingers and over the side of the bed. After they’d shifted over onto their sides. Son had immediately brought his hand to the waistband of Piccolo’s gi pants, had tugged it roughly and begun to slide them off.

Piccolo had brought a hand up to help him, but the Saiyan had caught it, moved it away. Even in the dark, Piccolo could catch that grin. “No…let me.”

Not trusting his voice, Piccolo had nodded. And, uncharacteristically, he’d leaned back a little, and he’d let him, stifling a growl at the feeling of cloth pulling over skin, then at hands to knead behind his knees, up his thighs. Then they were back together, flush together, and it was too warm and too cold at the same time.

Then Piccolo had jumped, feeling a hand slowly, almost hesitantly, curling around him – unable to stifle either a gasp or a sudden arch. Goku chuckled against his throat, maybe a little nervously. Touched him again, ran his thumb over him.

He’d felt like he should say something. But what do you say, exactly? Which was, he realized, kind of how he felt around Son most of the time anyway. He settled for lying beside him, putting a hand on his waist to pull him closer, inclining his head a little. He had been surprised to see that Son was watching his face, probably trying to gauge his reaction.

It had occurred to him that the Saiyan was almost as new to this as he was. And that helped some.

“So…” Son had asked, and Piccolo had been surprised to see, even in the near-darkness, a dark blush over the bridge of his nose. “How do you want to do this?”

Piccolo raised an eyeridge at him. “What, there’s not a usual way?”

“…well, not really.”

“I had no idea this was so…complicated.”

Goku laughed softly. “I guess it kinda is, isn’t it?”

Piccolo shook his head slowly. “I hope you’ve got a suggestion.”

“Um…well…” Goku pushed away a little to get some space. “There’s…well, pretty much either you’re on the top or you’re on the bottom. And I can either face you or not.”

Piccolo, still on his side, had thought about that for a minute. Then, “Show me,” he said thoughtfully.

Goku blinked. “What?”

The former demon had nodded to the mattress. “How am I going to make a decision if I can’t see the options?”

For one of the few times in his life, he got to see Son Goku speechless. He shifted a little, opened his mouth to speak, gave a short, nervous chuckle instead. Then, slowly, he stretched out on his back, bringing one leg up a little, and looked askance over at Piccolo.

Piccolo had been surprised to feel…well…weird over that. Of all things so far to feel weird about…it was just Son, lying on his back. But it wasn’t just that, and he, at least, knew it. Slowly, he had reached out a hand, had spread his palm on the other’s abdomen and slid it all the way down to a hip. Rather than flinch, the Saiyan arched into his touch, made a low sound in his throat.

“Now the other way,” Piccolo murmured.

Son nodded and, very slowly, turned over, crossing his forearms, putting his chin on top of them. The position created a slight arch in his back…that thin beam of light catching down his side, revealing again that crescent-shaped scar on his lower back.

A little intrigued, Piccolo put a light hand on his shoulders, slid it down slowly until he found that spot. Then, he lay his thumb against it, making light, circular motions on the skin.

The Saiyan gasped, arching his hips up into the other’s hand a little. “Piccolo,” he had protested breathlessly, starting to move away.

Piccolo had smirked…put a hand on the small of his back to hold him still. “Shh,” he said. Then, lowering his pitch a little, he mimicked the other’s words: “Let me.”

Goku exhaled shakily, nodded. Then, he pressed his forehead against his own forearms, seemed to ready himself as he would for an energy attack or a kick.

Piccolo had moved up to a kneeling position and – very slowly – began the process of just touching the other. Nothing extravagant, just putting his hands on him, sliding them over the curves of his body as a sculptor would clay: backs of thighs, small of back, even running fingers through the wild back of the other’s hair, talons scratching lightly against his scalp.

After the first few seconds, he noticed something – the Saiyan was having a noticeably harder time holding still. The movements were small: a slight parting of the legs, breathier exhales, hands clenching and unclenching against the sheets. Piccolo was surprised to realize, after a few more seconds, that this was affecting him almost as much as the other’s touch had been earlier…that sense of control and something else that wasn’t quite control was calling a response from his own body.

Piccolo didn’t know what made him do it, really – but he lowered his head, still trailing his nails over the small of the other’s back, and kissed the back of his neck, let his fangs scrape over the curve of his spine. Fished his tongue over each separate vertebra.

Son actually moaned, just softly, and just barely. At first, the sound surprised Piccolo, brought him up short…but then he kissed him again, a little harder, as his hand found its way to the inside of the other’s thigh, stroking carefully up and down with the pads of his fingers.

At first, he had thought the other was actually going to come up off the bed – but he didn’t. He just twisted there, back and forth, making helpless sounds. He found that he liked it when his old rival sounded a little desperate. Before Piccolo knew it, he was on him, pressing his body down against the other’s. Noticing strange things, like the warm, indescribable sensation of something breathing under him. The feeling of his own body as it settled into the other’s curves; the feel of himself against shoulders, back, the soft skin at the backs of the legs.

Goku was apparently doing no better. He spread his legs suddenly, so suddenly it caught Piccolo off guard as he found himself between, and closer than he had been before. He was not off-balance for long, pressing down against the other again, feeling the Saiyan press back, and thinking that he could be content with this, just this – the smell of the other, the way his skin gave under his hands.

The Saiyan, he couldn’t help but notice, was not so patient; he bucked his hips again, gasped out something that sounded like a “please.”

Piccolo had nodded, forgetting briefly that the other could not see him – had, very hesitantly, pressed against him.

“Wait,” Goku gasped suddenly, as if just remembering something. “You’re not going to…um…”

The former demon rested his forehead against the other’s shoulder, exhaled harshly. “Spit it out, Son,” he said wryly.

He could feel the blush. Feel it against his forehead as Son stammered out an explanation. It made him chuckle, in spite of the weirdness, in spite of the strangeness of the situation. Son Goku. Nervous. Damn, but now he’d seen everything.

By means of reassurance, Piccolo had licked the other’s shoulder – noticing how much easier it was to do this when Son wasn’t looking at him with those damn eyes of his. It made it less about abstract weirdness like feelings, like why’s and how’s and I’m-never-looking-at-you-the-same-way-again’s. It became just about the body, the same as any fight would be – just action, reaction, the simple things, the things that he understood.

Remembering this, Piccolo had flexed his talons…gently traced the other’s back with them. “Maybe you’d better,” he had said, talons tapping then over hips, very lightly. “Just guessing, but I don’t think you’d want these in you.”

Goku had nodded. “Let me up?” he’d not demanded, but asked.

Piccolo had rolled off to the side, watching the next few seconds with interest as Son Goku rolled onto his back. The Saiyan, on his back and not even an arm’s length from Piccolo, had turned his head and looked at him. “You’re not going to watch, are you?” he’d asked, a little shocked.

“Shouldn’t I?” he’d asked in return.

Son had, yet again, not had anything to say to that. Instead, he brought his own fingers to his mouth, slipped them in. Closed his eyes as if that would make it easier. Began sucking, slowly, lips working just a little around the two digits he was resting on his tongue.

Piccolo had watched Son Goku before, for many years. He’d watched him train, watched him build a home for his family, watched him fight since the both of them had been young men, young and brash and stupid. He’d even, on some occasions, been standing far away in the trees when the other had been swimming in the lake or bathing in his yard, for Piccolo took knowing one’s enemy to the extreme. He’d seen him many times without clothing, even sometimes in the blue-soft light of evening. But he had never seen him like this, stretched out in front of him, one leg up and one leg out, eyes closed as he made himself ready. As he stroked himself on the inside, hips rising and falling slowly with the motions of his hand.

Just days ago, Piccolo would have thought that such a visual would be obscene. He would never have thought to use the word beautiful.

“Okay,” Goku said at last. “I think…I think that’s good.” He removed his hand, clenched it against the mattress. His eyes were still closed.

Piccolo eased onto the other carefully, guiding his legs up over his hips, finding the correct angle with the precision of someone who’s used to thinking in terms of lines, angles, trajectories. He couldn’t help but notice the lack of resistance, the way the other just lay there, waiting, trembling faintly.

He lowered himself against him, brushed his lips over his ear. “You’re sure,” he breathed. Because he was not used to seeing Son Goku like that, was not used to seeing him submissive in *any* way.

Son pressed his lips together, nodded once. His legs tightened around Piccolo’s hips.

“Why?” he’d asked.

Goku’s eyes had remained closed…but he had smiled. “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “But I’m not sure you’ll understand.”

“Fine,” Piccolo said. Then, “Relax.”

Goku nodded, seemed to ease under him.

It was hard at first. Too tight, too stiff…Piccolo felt the other’s breath catch under him, nearly stopped but for Son’s hands fisting against his shoulders, his legs tightening around his hip. It was slow going, as Piccolo’s talons dug into the mattress hard enough to rip cloth, as it took every ounce of self control he had not to just push in and be done with it.

Then, time stopped. Piccolo was aware of the other’s pulse, could feel it everywhere – his cheek, his chest, their point of joining. He was aware of the way Son was shaking his head back and forth, oh-so-slowly, the labored pattern of his breathing.

“M’okay now,” the Saiyan gasped out finally. “It’s alright.” And those simple words, somehow, were enough to break the spell.

Piccolo would never, later, be able to accurately describe the sequence of events that followed…which of them had started the frenzied motion that came next. Whether he’d first lowered his hands to the other’s hips, or whether Son had wrapped both arms around his shoulders – whether he’d initiated the hard, biting kisses, or whether Son had. He didn’t know which one of them rolled, or who followed, as he found himself on his back, the other warrior straddling his hips with his strong thighs, the two of them moving together in ways that left no room for thought.

He would be able to describe pieces of it, though – the arch of the other’s back as Son straddled him. The way his head fell back – the feel of hair through his fingers, or the desperate way he’d breathed his name against his neck, over and over again, like some kind of prayer. The way the other’s neck looked in the dim light, a perfect curve down to shoulders. The way they’d held onto each other, the sensations of fingers digging into his shoulders. The way a scream sounds hoarser when you muffle it in someone else’s mouth.

Piccolo had known, even at the time, that when they finally collapsed together in a heap the color of moonlight and pine boughs, that something had gone wrong inside him, that he had either lost or gained something that he’d never be able to get rid of, or maybe, that he’d never be able to get back. It left him shaking, left him cold and empty and afraid in a way that he had not ever been afraid of anything.

But Son seemed to know, stroked his back reassuringly. “Shh, not right now,” he’d said. “Don’t think about it right now.” He sounded tired, pleasantly tired, and his hand cupped Piccolo’s cheek as if it was made of fine glass. He smiled up at him with those big, soft eyes.

Damn, but I’m going to hate myself for this later, Piccolo thought. But that didn’t stop him, just as it had not been stopping him all night, and he pulled the other close to him, buried his face in his shoulder. He pretended, just for a minute, that he did not have to understand anything, that nothing would change – and, most importantly, that he would never, ever have to let him go.

“It’s alright,” Son Goku said again, already drifting off to sleep. “It is, Piccolo…really.”

It wasn’t, of course. But for the time being, Piccolo was willing to believe him anyway.