Laughing Life

He wasn’t even sure how things had gotten here; how things had changed this much, this fast. For all his intuition, he hadn’t seen this coming.

He loved Bulma. She was his chosen, she was his mate. She was beautiful, after the fragile, gentle fashion of the Ningen, with the demanding and imperial spirit of a queen. He really hadn’t expected matters to progress with her either, but he had considered the possibility and was prepared when they had.

She had given a roof over his head and food on his plate; she gave him friendship and comfort, which felt so alien he often screamed at her to stop. God, how that had startled him. She gave him her warmth, her body, and her bed at night, and in return he gave her the best sex he could and a son. As things had progressed further…she could even make him smile. Not openly, not often, but at times the patronizing, sarcastic smirk would be replaced by something warmer, smaller, and ultimately more delicate.

She was his. She was all he wanted, all he ever really needed. Just her. Just her.

Vegeta grimaced, his eyes still shut, and resisted the urge to sigh, to scream, to kick and bite and kill, to follow instinct and emotions to the teeth. But he really, really wanted to. And he wasn’t doing a very good job of resisting either.

One arm was thrown over his body, keeping him close and captive, and he had mentally awakened to hard fingers tracing gently down his back, along his spine. One leg was wrapped around his thighs, again to prevent the possibility of Vegeta escaping, in an attempt to imprison a prince. The concept alone was enough to cause his hackles and anger to rise, for a growl to well up his chest and rip out the throat of his captor. Yet he stayed silent and still, his eyes closed in feigned sleep.

What the hell made the bastard so special anyway? Nothing. Nothing in the whole goddamned world, in the whole goddamned galaxy, in the whole, twice and triple damned universe that had spawned the second class idiot, third class warrior and first rate posturing clown and bastard. He wasn’t anything special. The hell with what other people said. He wasn’t.

Vegeta hated him with a passion.

He hadn’t wanted to, and in an academic, tactical move had vaguely tried to avoid it, tried to merely loathe him with the same aloof disdain and scorn he held for intestinal and anal bacteria like that Neolithic self-centered Nappa, but somehow the equation didn’t turn out the same.

He could deal with Nappa’s little flatteries and small betrayals; his idiot wiles to either have Vegeta as an idiot lover, indulgent commander, or just dead. But somehow he couldn’t do it to Kakkarott, may the bastard never return from the next dimension.

The fools of the gods should just install a revolving door, with the idiot’s indecision. Oh dear, my goodness. What to do today? Am I dead, or do I feel like living again? Oh dear, however shall I choose? Geez, I’m really hungry. In his supposed sleep, Vegeta grinned.

Which was where the difference lay. He wanted Bulma. He actually cared for the blue haired clueless idiot and her screeching voice and surprises. He wanted her. Just her. She could make him smile.

But Kakkarott, the twice-goddamned nameless son of a bastard, could actually make him…do a lot more.

They two were the last two living Saiyans, of the race that had held the universe by the throat, had haunted the waking dreams and sleepless nights of thousands of species, the race that alone among hundreds of others had inspired fear into the black heart of Frieza.

All the glory, all the brutal majesty and honor of the Saiyan race…all boiled down to them. The last two survivors. Living like refugees in a backwater planet, mating and mixing with the equally backwater natives, and slowly, agonizingly, being assimilated into their culture, so that the two last surviving Saiyans would also be no more than common. No more, but perhaps less. No more than common.

Vegeta’s stomach twisted at the words, while the left side of his face braced automatically for the stroke of his father’s fist gloved in leather and iron, as it had so often in Vegeta’s bedchamber or the tactical study with red tile floors, to symbolize the blood of their enemies.

The whole of the palace flooring had crimson tile that always shone, no matter the boots that stampeded on them daily, one of the few features Vegeta could avidly recall. That was when he had been a mere boy on Vegeta-sei, lectured on one paltry action or phrase his father deemed less than royal.

Before Vegeta had been shipped off to Frieza.

Before his planet had been destroyed.

Before he had met Kakkarott.

All the honor and native pride that had been ingrained into Vegeta’s soul and physical fiber from the point of birth, the memory he had fought for on Frieza’s ship, that he still fought and championed for here on Chikyuu…and Kakkarott didn’t even care. Didn’t even blink. He renounced his heritage, denied his given name yet claimed his birthrate as Super Saiyan, for all his declarations of Earth citizenship. Hypocrite. Low class bastard. He refused everything Vegeta stood for, had fought for, had forsaken his own pride and identity for and Kakkarott had never even blinked.

And he was always stronger than Vegeta. And appeared that he always would be.

So Kakkarott had made him sweat, made him scream and rage, and had made him always strive to be better. Kakkarott made him fight, always, and every minute of everyday where Bulma was not there to soothe him. Kakkarott gave him a higher goal, a focus, something that he could always fight for. Which, in the fool’s ignorant way, was his duty. To entertain his prince. In a way. It kept Vegeta from being bored, at any rate. It gave him a reason to exist.

And yet, the idiot made him think. He was the Saiyan no Ouji. Kakkarott was just a third class warrior. He was pure Saiyan, pure warrior; he had been fighting and training since before he could walk. Kakkarott wasn’t pure anything. He played the idiot, but got into his enemies heads faster than even Vegeta. He was the—Vegeta grimaced, and swallowed—the strongest being on the planet, yet was ruled by a tyrant wife. Kakkarott behaved, spoke, and tried to think just like all his Ningen friends, but the man wasn’t human. At all. Vegeta could see that easily, when the joker’s mask fell. And the odd part was, the idiot knew it. And yet he pretended not to care.

Goku purred deep and softly in his chest, almost inaudible, and cuddled Vegeta’s still form closer. Under Goku’s arm, Vegeta’s arm was wrapped limply around his back.

He didn’t want him. He never had, had never even conceived of the idea…He didn’t want him. Not this one. Anyone but this one, anyone else. He had Bulma. He wanted Bulma. She could make him smile.

Vegeta lay silent and still, still feigning sleep, though both knew truth. Goku was willing to give him all the time he needed, and then some. There was no hurry. As long as Vegeta didn’t leave, there was no hurry. The minutes walked by.

But Kakkarott could make him live. And, still yet more galling... Kakkarott could make him want to live. Not need to out of spite or defiance, or out loyalty or pride, but just…because. Because he wanted to live. Because now. He liked doing it. Now, he liked living.

Warriors are always ready to die. His father told Vegeta that often, ebony scrutinizing him and finding him still wanting. The warrior who is afraid to die, should not be fighting at all. It is an honor to fall on the battlefield. It is a greater honor to stand in victory of another’s blood. It is shameful, to win life by cowardice.

It is always good to be alive, but only because it means another chance to fight.

Vegeta was still ready to die. But he didn’t want to. Not anymore. He still had to beat Kakkarott.

He still wasn’t sure how this had happened; remembering only made his head hurt more. Everything was blurry, events of the day and night mixing with each other and days that had already come and gone. He wasn’t quite sure where he was or what time it was, though he was sure it was still night. He forgot what he had said or done, likewise how Kakkarott of all people, got him here, in this situation. He couldn’t even remember if he protested or had accepted the other’s offer, or even who had made the first touch, the first lick.

Although he could remember really well when they started to tear each other’s clothes off. And everything after. In detail.

Somehow he had wound up on the bottom. Why the hell was he on the bottom? He was royalty, Saiyan no Ouji, and somehow he was on the bottom? What the fuck? And Kakkarott was on top, bathing his neck and kneading his back and leaving bruises on one shoulder and the base of his neck and fucking Vegeta brainless. Deliciously, wonderfully senseless and screaming.

But Vegeta was on the bottom. Even with all the sexual physical stimulus he was drowning in, even his hormones and body overriding every other node and function in his brain, even with Kakkarott’s scent of arousal and pleasure dripping all over his chest and sliding into him and having him hotter and harder than he could remember…Vegeta was one the bottom?

What the hell happened here?

So Vegeta had fixed it, flipped positions, because while he might have to be the own being fucked he sure as hell wasn’t going to be on the bottom. Like hell. Screw that idea.

“Screw me too,” Vegeta whispered, grinning wildly at the dazed look in Goku’s eyes, “Screw me too, while you’re at it.” Goku hadn’t had the slightest idea what Vegeta was referring too, but he eagerly took him up on the offer. The bed creaked and groaned, till finally the frame broke and the mattress landed on the flooring, Goku’s hands creating bruises on Vegeta’s hips while he pistoned up and down the larger Saiyan’s sex.

It wasn’t until later, in retrospect, that Vegeta realized what this meant.

It had been Vegeta moving, Vegeta deciding the pace and amount, Vegeta who had made Kakkarott come and not Kakkarott using his body for his own pleasure. By asserting his authority to allow himself to be fucked, as it were, Vegeta had willingly agreed to the arrangement. Which was what was killing him now, had his mind and lower abdominal organs writhing and twisting in agony.

Vegeta had slept with Kakkarott willingly. Perhaps even eagerly.

He didn’t want to think what his father would have said or done. It wouldn’t have been pleasant, and he didn’t even want to imagine. He had long since stopped worrying what his father would have thought about his actions, as his father was dead and he was not…but still. He cared now. He wasn’t sure what Bulma would do. Probably scream and throw plates and knives, maybe break down and cry, likely kick him out of her house, probably go back Yamcha. Or maybe none of those things. There was no way to tell. And Vegeta’s opinion of his own actions? Unthinkable.

He could always kill him. It wouldn’t be that much of a challenge. Simply power up and blast a large hole through his chest. His hand was right there, right on the idiot’s shoulder blade. All he had to do was power up before Kakkarott did, blast, and the problem was solved. People would be pissed, but they were pissed anyway. And the only one who would ever know, would be he, himself, Vegeta.

Vegeta placed his palm on the other’s back, while Goku purred a notch louder, and nuzzled Vegeta’s hair and brushed his lips against his face. His hand stopped its slow caress of Vegeta’s back, and wandered down to brush against the scar at the base of his vertebrae. Vegeta hissed and stretched instantly, eyes opening wide before sliding closed. Goku grinned, and swirled his fingers and pressed into Vegeta’s tail spot, listening while the other quietly hissed moaned and arched, clinging to Goku.

When Goku had first found Vegeta’s tail spot and what it did to the other Saiyan, he had exploited it mercilessly. Vegeta had sworn and cursed him in several different languages non-stop, had damned him to the seventh darkest level of hell and had turned his father into everything from aquatic bacteria to alien vomit. From Saiyan to Goku’s native language to dozen of alien languages that he didn’t recognize, Vegeta swore up and down while simultaneously promising and begging him not to stop. And grinning, Goku hadn’t.

Now Goku wrapped his arm again the slighter Saiyan’s waist, tightened his leg around the other’s thighs, and pressed his lips against Vegeta’s mouth gently. Vegeta didn’t respond. That wasn’t any surprise. Vegeta never responded to gentleness, Goku didn’t think the other Saiyan knew how. He looked at the other Saiyan, who kept his gaze down, and on Goku’s chest.

“Still thinking?”

Vegeta shrugged.

“About this?”

Vegeta was silent.

Goku’s smile faded into something more solemn, quieter. He knew this might happen, had secretly expected it. He swallowed, blinked, and pressed his lips again to Vegeta’s face. He kissed silently, while the other Saiyan tolerated his affections, but didn’t actively participate. Didn’t return his affections or even show if he enjoyed them. Maybe he didn’t.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Vegeta blinked, and quietly rubbed the other’s back again, thinking while Goku began to purr again, troubles shunted away neatly for the time being. He wouldn’t deal with them until he had to. Right now all was good with the world, and that was all that mattered.

Now was good. Goku smiled.

He didn’t want this. He really didn’t want to have this. He really didn’t want to have him. But he did. He did, and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do to change it. He had thought he had an option, but then he realized he was being stupid.

Vegeta was a Saiyan, actively so, and they never ran from battle. They couldn’t take their own life. That was stupid, cowardly. And Kakkarott was his now. Kakkarott was life.

Vegeta turned his head up to look Goku in the eyes.

“Then I won’t go.”

A/N: On the part that says: “The warrior who is afraid to die should not be fighting at all,” that’s borrowed from Gundam Wing, when Quatre goes Zero-ish. Quatre actually says, “You’re afraid to die, aren’t you? In that case, you shouldn’t be fighting at all!” Then he blows the people up.

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