Axis
****


     I have known him forever.  He is gentler than I, kinder than I,
infinitely more likeable; he is everything I wish I could be, everything
I need to possess.

     I push a damp tendril of hair from his face, lean down to kiss his
mouth as he sleeps beside me.  He turns to me without waking, with a
soft moan that may or may not be my name.  His lips are warm, sweet,
taste like me.  I run my tongue along them, tasting, touching.  He tilts
his head a little, purses his lips; he is waking up. 

     I lean over him, kiss him properly, lick the insides of his mouth. 
His tongue pushes forward, touches my own, twines with it, teases me
further into his mouth.

     I slide first one leg over him, then my entire body.  He lifts his
hands up over my hips, slides his fingers up my spine and down again,
making me shiver.  He tilts his pelvis, lets me feel his hardening
length between us, pressed next to my own.

     He finally opens his eyes, sleepy dark pools, warm and inviting. 
He runs a hand through my hair, presses my head down, deepening our
kiss.  His other hand makes its way between my buttocks, one practiced
finger stroking me, teasing, circling, pressing gently around my anus. 

     I raise my head, gasp for air; he sits up, rolling so I am half
under him.  Sliding one hand beneath my knee, he lifts my leg and drapes
it over his hip; I lift the other one, hook my ankles behind his back.
He half-smiles at me, presses his hands against my chest, strokes my
nipples gently with his thumbs, watches my reaction.  I reach up, slip
my arms around his neck to pull him down to me, but he resists.  I curse
him; he knows exactly how to taunt me.  He knows I will beg him for
this, if I must, and it pleases him to hear me beg.

     He reaches between us, catches me in his hand, massages me to full
erection, still watching my face.  I close my eyes, thrusting upward
into his hand.  "Ja," he speaks finally, his voice rough with sleep and
sex, "what do you want me to do now?"  I whimper; I hate this game
because there are too many things I want him to do and I want him to do
them all.  I try to pull him down to me again, hoping to seduce him into
screwing me silly instead of teasing me into blissful mind-blowing
orgasm.

     "Goten," I plead, and --

**********

     -- I slam my fist down on my alarm, cursing.  The buzz is silenced,
and I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling, desperately piecing
together the remnants of my dream.  I sigh, close my eyes, remember. 

     Finally, reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed -- alone, of course,
as I have been most mornings for the last twenty-one years -- and to the
ensuite bath room.  I run the water a moment, waiting for it to heat,
and glare down at my still-pulsing erection. "Well," I inform it,
"nothing's going to happen, so you might as well quit complaining." 

     I step into the shower, drop my head, let the scalding water hit
the back of my neck, stream down my body.  Bad idea; the hotter the
water, the hotter my blood, and my groin begins to ache.  I close my
eyes, get myself off swiftly, turn to face the spray and wash myself
clean.  It is an empty pleasure, no matter the fantasies which catalyse
it. 

     How long have I been dreaming about him?  I've forgotten the first
time.  I've known him since I could walk, when he was just an infant and
I not much more.  It was after the battle with Majin Buu that he began
to be more than just another character in my dreams, more than just my
friend; I had realised at that time just how much I needed him, that I
would be incomplete without him.  He has always mitigated the acid
tongue I inherited from my mother, the cold, calculating view of the
world I inherited from my father, the temper I inherited from both. 

     When adolescence struck, I turned to girls for companionship,
because it was expected of me.  I found out quickly that while it gave
them great pleasure to be with me, I would constantly be aching to be
elsewhere, with him -- whether sparring, or studying, or --

     Or throwing him down, tearing his clothes off, and fucking him
blind.  I smile at the thought. 

     It has been nearly three years since I was last out with a girl. 
Goten himself has set me up with a few in the past, not understanding
that I have remained mostly single and relatively celibate by choice.  I
have had two lovers in the last three years;  but they both wanted more
from me than I was willing or able to give them; and in my heart neither
of them was a substitute for Goten. 

     I step out of the shower, dry myself and dress, and walk
thoughtfully to the kitchen.  My sister pounces on me from behind a
door, and I scoop her up and tickle her and set her back down on her
feet, and sit down at my place at the table.  My mother shoves a mug of
coffee my way, and I accept it with a smile.  My father watches me
silently. 

     "I slept in," I inform him, responding to his unspoken question. 
"And I have things to do today.  I'll do it tonight." 

     "Yes," he tells me, and returns to his breakfast.  I sip my black
coffee, muse to myself that Goten rarely drinks coffee and when he does
he pours enough sugar and cream into it to make it thick as soup.  He
prefers tea. 

     "Oniichan," my sister pipes up, "want to come see what I made?" 

     "Sure," I say, focusing on her.  "What'd you make?" 

     "Later," my mother says sternly.  "Finish your breakfast.  Trunks,
are you going to eat anything, or just have coffee?" 

     "This is fine, Mama," I tell her.  "We're going to have lunch out." 

     "All right, then," she nods, and returns to nursing her own mug of
coffee. 

     My parents' worst habits, I realise, are my own.  I ponder Goten's
parents, wonder about their bad habits.  He has very few, and no vices
to speak of.  He does twirl his hair around one finger, when he gets
tired or thoughtful, I remind myself, but that is hardly a character
flaw. 

     I finish my coffee, kiss my mother, promise my father again that I
will train with him in the evening, promise my sister I will look at her
latest creation when I get back.  I bolt outside, pop the capsule that
stores my car, and hop inside the car.  I fly out of the city limits,
then encapsulate the car again and fly the rest of the way under my own
power; it is much faster that way, and I have always loved to fly. 

     I close my eyes, letting the wind caress my face, my hair, my body,
and imagine his fingers doing the same.  I do a few gleeful spins and
loops in the air and sigh, realising I must look like an idiot; and then
I laugh, because there is no one around to see me. 

     I reach the Son homestead and land; Chichi opens the door and
ushers me in.  Goten is at the table, stuffing his face with his
mother's wonderful cooking.  Chichi sets me down and asks me if I've
eaten; I assure her that I have, and turn to watch Goten. 

     He is the messiest eater I have ever seen, save his father.  I
delight in watching him lick his fingers and his lips in an attempt to
clean them.  Chichi scolds him; Goten merely grins up at her, his eyes
daring her to smack him in front of a guest -- which of course, ever the
proper hostess, Chichi will not do. 

     Finally he finishes eating and I drag him out of the house and we
fly together toward the city.  Our shoulders bump now and again when we
drift too close, and we are so comfortable with one another that neither
of us pulls away or apologises. 

     While he chatters about what we are to do today, where we are to
go, I fantasise about grabbing him and yanking his clothes open and
flying higher than we ever have before, and then screwing like mad as we
plummet toward the earth. 

     We reach the city limits; my fantasy fades, and I tuck it away into
a corner of my mind to be pulled out and reviewed later.  I pop my
car-capsule again, and we drive into the city proper, and reach our
destination. 

     I stifle a sigh, suppress the growing knot in my stomach, quell the
dread and sorrow and jealousy, and walk into the store with him. 

     Goten is going to propose to his girlfriend, and I am to help him
pick out an engagement ring. 

     Because that's what best friends do. 

     Goten is an insufferable flirt, which doesn't help my mood at all,
and he starts it up with the chipper sales clerk, who blushes and teases
him, and leads him to a display case where a hundred diamonds sparkle,
each waiting to be slipped on the finger of some silly young girl with
idealistic views and a boyfriend stupid enough to buy her a diamond
ring. 

     I sit beside him and make appropriate noises as he debates over
three particular styles. 

     And I think about what will happen when he marries her. 

     He will no longer be Goten, my best friend, who comes over at a
moment's notice and expects me to do the same.  He will no longer be
able to come over to my place just to hang around, and stay so late that
he has to spend the night.  He will no longer be the one to drag me home
when we've been out and I've drunk too much, and tuck me into my bed and
curl up in the spare room and sleep there until morning and take the
scolding from his mother without saying a word. 

     He will be Goten, the dutiful husband, attending to his wife's
every need, going to work every day and going home every night and
having sex with her and spawning a half-dozen ugly little brats who will
call him 'touchan' and drool all over him and ruin his clothes, and I
will be left alone without my love because he's too stupid to see that I
need him and it would never occur to him anyhow because we're both guys
and we've been friends forever --

     "Trunks," he says, "are you all right?"  I blink.  "You're
scowling," he grins.  "What are you thinking about?" 

     "Wedding plans," I tell him, half-truthfully.  He beams.  I want to
wipe that smile off his face, to throttle him, to shout at him that
she's not good enough for him, that he's making the biggest mistake of
his life.  Instead, I return his smile, and he shows me the ring he's
finally chosen.  I hate it. 

     We leave the store. 

     We have lunch in a fast-food restaurant, and I spend more time
watching him slurp his food from his fingers than eating my own;  but I
have no appetite.  We run into a few old school friends, and we talk;
they leave, and Goten and I are alone again. 

     "Let's go," I suggest. 

     "Whatcha wanna do?" he wonders. 

     _I want to take you home with me, lock you in my room, tie you
down, strip you down to your skin and tease you until you beg me to fuck
you,_ I want to say. 

     "You don't want to know," I assure him instead, with a sigh.  He
stares at me a moment, but doesn't ask again.  We decide to walk to the
city limits, as the sun is bright and warm, and we are both quiet, lost
in our own thoughts. 

     "When are you going to ask her?" I speak up as we jump into the
air, in tandem, as though we've practised it a thousand times. 

     "Friday night," he replies, flushing a little. 

     "Ganbatte," I tell him softly, and speed up.  He catches up to me,
says nothing, a dreamy expression on his face.  A jealous pang twists my
stomach as I wish that look were for me. 

     We separate, and he heads back to his home.  Alone, I move swiftly
to an altitude that is barely safe for breathing; I power up to become a
Super Saiyajin, and make a couple of trips around the globe before
finally dropping down to the ground.  I wipe moisture off my cheeks; the
sting of the wind has brought tears to my eyes. 

     I pop my car-capsule and drive into the city, and home. 

     I spar with my father before supper, and the exercise makes me feel
marginally better.  I pick at my supper, force a bright smile at my
sister as she chatters to me the way nine-year-olds will.  My mother
watches me suspiciously but says nothing, and I avoid her as soon as
supper is over. 

     I hide in my room and listen to music with the volume high, and
sometime in the small dark hours of the morning I fall asleep.

**********

     Six months pass with agonising speed.  The stupid chit has accepted
Goten's proposal with enthusiasm, and wedding plans have unfortunately
fallen into place.

     The night before the wedding, I hold the obligatory party for
Goten, at my home.  My parents retire early in order to leave us to our
own devices; they have always so indulged me. 

     I watch him all evening as he accepts congratulations and pats on
the back from our friends, and I ensure that snack bowls and platters
are full, and that everyone always has a drink in his hand, including
Goten.  His cheeks grow flushed and his eyes bright, his smile just a
little more crooked than normal, his stance slightly awkward.  It takes
a great deal of restraint not to stare at him, to cross the room and
hold him upright, to push his tousled hair out of his eyes --

     I drink plenty myself, as a distraction. 

     The guests begin to trickle away toward morning.  When the last of
them has gone, I turn to examine the mess, blearily, and decide to let
the robotic servants take care of it. 

     Goten has curled up on one end of the couch, his hands tucked under
his cheek, his face soft in sleep.  "Baka," I sigh, and stumble to haul
him to his feet.  He wakes enough to look at me, and a slow smile
crosses his features. 

     "Trunks-kun," he slurs. 

     "Uhn," I reply, hands on his shoulders to steady him; he sways
anyway.  I pull his arm across my shoulders and turn to lead him
upstairs. 

     "Where we goin'?" he wonders. 

     "Bed," I tell him, thinking wicked thoughts. 

     "Oh," he replies.  "Good."  Carefully, quietly, we climb the
stairs, and I pause at my door.  He leans on me and yawns. 

     I lead him into my room.  He follows without hesitation. 

     I lock the door behind us. 

     _You,_ I smile, _are making this far too easy._ I let him go when
we reach the bed, and he sits there a moment, yawning again and rubbing
his eyes. 

     "Oh," he says, looking around.  "This's your room." 

     "Duh," I reply, unbuttoning my shirt.  He nods as though that were
the most natural thing in the world.  I turn to toss my shirt down the
laundry chute; when I turn back, he has curled up on my bed, and is
sound asleep again.  "Baka," I snort, and finish undressing. 

     His cherubic face, irresistible at the worst of times, is the
epitome of sweetness now.  I stretch out facing him, our noses nearly
touching, and I watch him for several minutes. 

     "Goten," I breathe. 

     "Uhn." 

     "Goten," I say, "you're very drunk." 

     "Aa."  I slip a finger down the neck of his shirt, unfasten the top
button.  He doesn't move.  The rest of his buttons are as easily opened. 

     "Goten," I continue, pushing his shirt away from his shoulder,
baring his smooth, deep chest.  "So am I." 

     "Aa."  His skin is fragrant, clean-smelling, salty with a fine
sheen of sweat.  My tongue travels his sternum, and we both shiver. 

     "So you can forgive me," I whisper, "regardless of what I do while
under the influence." 

     "Aa." 

     He puts up no protest -- in fact, helps me a great deal, as I
wrestle to get his shirt off.  His jeans and boxers follow it to the
floor, in short order; I can feel my pulse in the back of my throat, and
I stop, looking down at him. 

     He is naked, save his socks. 

     Naked. 

     Goten. 

     In my bed. 

     And drunk and compliant, and sporting a delicious erection that has
come from Dende-knows-where, and I surprise myself by being completely
at a loss for what to do.  I want to pet him, stroke him, make him come
in my hand so I can lick every glistening drop from my fingers.  I want
to take him in my mouth and taste the salty-sweet of his skin, feel the
crown of his cock touch the back of my throat, his hands gripping
fistfuls of my hair.  I want to feel him inside me, thick and hard and
pulsing, feel him arch and tremble and piston his hips against mine. 

     He murmurs, stretching in his sleep, and I nearly whimper, brushing
my hand over my groin in a vain attempt to ease the ache. His eyes
flicker briefly open, glittering black in the half-light, and he
stretches again before closing them.  Leaning over him to my bedside
table, I fumble in the drawer for a small bottle of my favourite
lubricant, lightly scented with ginseng. 

     "Because," I whisper, rubbing the oil into my hands, "this will
definitely hurt me more than it'll hurt you."  I place both palms on his
cock and close my eyes, delighting in the length and breadth and heat of
him.  Gently, ever so gently, I massage him with the oil, memorise each
and every inch of him, reach down and cup his heavy balls in my palm
just to feel them move away from the warmth of my hand. 

     Vision blurred, pulse racing, I straddle him, stifle a groan as I
settle on him.  Buried deep inside me, Goten arches upward, suddenly,
murmuring, hands reaching down to rest on my hips.  My head drops back
as I move, savouring him, delighting in this moment, knowing I will
never have the chance to experience it again. 

     I rest the fingers of one hand over his belly, massage my own
erection with the other hand.  His fingers tighten on my hips, and I
look down at him; he is watching me ride.  "Goten," I murmur, surprised. 
He blinks, growls softly, and with thrilling strength lifts me and rolls
so that I am on my back beneath him, my heels pressed tight to his
sides.  One powerful hand cups one of my buttocks; the other is
flattened beside my head for support.  He thrusts hard and fast, keeping
my hips off the bed and my shoulders pinned to it.  I bite my lip
against the pain, delighted with his forcefulness, his power, his body
rising over mine in feral dominance.. 

     It is over all too soon and he lowers himself to me, panting;  I
whimper aloud this time and wrap my limbs around him and pull him
against me, thrusting up, my aching cock pressed still unsatisfied
between us.  He lies comfortably where he is while I writhe in ecstasy,
still able to feel him inside me while I come.  He hooks an arm beneath
my neck and presses his face to my shoulder and I think for a moment
that he's fallen asleep like this, until he mumbles something and I have
to ask him what he's said. 

     "I said," he tells me, tilting his head to murmur in my ear, "I
always wondered if you were." 

     "Were what?" I snap, defensive.  He kisses my ear, makes me melt. 
"Anyway," I protest unconvincingly, "get off me." 

     "Nn," he yawns, "I don't wanna move."  Lifting an arm, he strokes
my side, making me shiver.  "Trunks-kun?" 

     "Hn?"  I wait; he doesn't answer.  "Goten?" 

     A snore. 

     The son of a bitch has gone to sleep on me. 

     Literally. 

     I close my eyes, wrap my arms around his neck, and wriggle free of
him when he's shrunk enough to make it easy; he mumbles something and
rolls to his side, gathering me up in his embrace along with the
blankets.  I finally sleep. 

     By morning he has taken over all but a tiny portion of my bed, and
my rising has no effect on him.  I shower and return to the room; he is
still sprawled on his belly, sound asleep.  Resisting the urge to jump
him again, I draw a blanket over him, dress, and head downstairs for a
quick cup of coffee with my parents, intending to sneak outside. 

     "Did Goten spend the night here?" my mother asks, absently, reading
a journal. 

     "Uhn," I reply.  "Why?" 

     "Just wondered," she said.  "He's usually up for breakfast, that's
all." 

     "Not today, I guess," I tell her, and gulp my coffee. 

     "Today's the big day, ne?" she wonders, and looks up at me, and
smiles.  I stare at her, uncomprehending.  "Baka," she laughs, "you're
not _that_ hungover, are you?  Goten's getting _married_ today,
remember?" 

     "Oh, that," I laugh.  "Yeah, well."  I look at my father.  "Are you
gonna wear a tuxedo?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject.  He
bares his teeth at me.  Bra giggles. 

     "Of course he's wearing a tuxedo," my mother informs us all. 

     "I have errands to do," I tell them.  "Tell Goten to find me when
he's up."  I bolt out of the house before anyone can say anything to me;
I head to the offices of Capsule Corporation, knowing that there I will
find a haven, a quiet place to think. 

     The offices are silent on the weekends, and I head to my mother's,
which not only has a beautiful view over the city, but a comfortable
chair and an ensuite bathroom.  I put my feet up, rest my elbows on the
arms of the chair, steeple my fingers, and prepare to sit there for the
entire day, wedding or no wedding, simply looking out the window.

     I have lost track of time when the door opens behind me.  Startled,
I turn the chair around, nearly knock it over, and get halfway out of it
before thinking and sitting back down again. "Goten," I manage to say
without choking.  He watches me solemnly.  He is wearing only his
clothes from the day before, but he has showered, and smells like soap
and water.  My groin stirs.  I keep my eyes on his. 

     "Trunks," he says. 

     "We were drunk," I tell him hastily. 

     "Yes," he interrupts.  "But not _that_ drunk." 

     "Still, we never -- " 

     "Trunks," he says my name again, firmly, "shut up." 

     "Sorry." 

     "Shut up." 

     "I'm shutting up." 

     "I liked it," he says. 

     "I -- " 

     "A lot."  I shut up.  "Why didn't you tell me before?" he asks. 

     "Because you _don't_," I shrug, looking down at my feet.  I look
over at his feet.  I never did, I muse, take his socks off last night. 

     "I never thought I _would_," he confesses.  "I just never thought
about it.  How long have you -- you know?" 

     "Long as I can remember," I tell him ruefully. 

     "And about me?" 

     "About that long."  He grins. 

     "Really?" 

     "Baka," I snort.  "Don't let it swell your head."  He reaches up
and pushes his hand through his still-damp hair. 

     "Y'know," he says, shyly, "I always had _dreams_ about you.  But I
thought it was just some weird psychological stuff, about us being
friends and whatnot." 

     "Sex is pretty psychological," I tell him with a half-smile.  He
steps closer to me. 

     "Your face," he says, softly.  "I've never seen you like that
before.  It was like -- I could actually see _you_.  Not the crap you
put out for the world to see."  My ears redden. 

     "Shut up," I snap.  He grins, crouches at my feet, puts his hands
on my knees. 

     "It's kinda flattering." 

     "Don't you have a wedding to go to?" I remind him.  He sobers. 

     "I can't marry her," he tells me softly.  "Not now.  Not after last
night." 

     "Call it a fling, a one-night stand, and marry the woman." 

     "She'll never look at me that way," Goten informs me.  "Besides,
your parents like me more than hers do." 

     "Baka." 

     "You would have let me go through with it," he goes on, fingers
marking little patterns on my thighs, "wouldn't you?  Even though you
didn't want me to, you would have let me do it." 

     "I'm still letting you do it," I snap. 

     "I'm glad," he says, taking my hand, "that last night happened,
then."  He kisses my fingertips.  I turn to jelly. 

     "Cut it out," I grumble. 

     "No," he says.  "I want to see that look on your face again." 
With a firm grip on my hand, he yanks me toward him, off the chair and
to my knees on the floor.  His arm slips around me, presses my chest 
against his.

     "Baka!"  He bites my neck, makes me shiver, close my eyes.  "Baka." 

     "Don't worry," he tells me, "I'll be gentle." 

     "Don't."  He pushes me to my back, starts tugging at my clothes. 
Wriggling with excitement and fear and need, I help him undress both of
us. 

     "So," he says, drawing a finger down my chest, over my belly, to
rest on the tip of my glans, making me shiver and dance beneath his
touch. "What shall we tell everyone?"  He looks me over, wondering, as
though he's never seen me naked before.  And I suppose he hasn't, not
really.

     "N-nothing," I gasp.  He draws his fingertip along the length of
me, making me shudder.  "Y-you're going to get married this a-
afternoon."

     "Not if I don't show up."  He leans down, tentatively touches me
with his tongue; I gasp, instinctively reach for his head, to guide him. 
"Never done this before," he grins ruefully.  "Tell me if I do anything
wrong." 

     He does everything perfectly, if his style is somewhat unrefined; 
but I do not expect refinement from him.  He rolls me to my belly and 
takes me with rather a great deal more force than is necessary and we 
grunt and sweat and stifle our cries though there is no one around to 
hear, and we slump to the thick carpet, panting.  Dazed, I lie still for 
several minutes, until I feel his lips on my neck; I reach up and back 
with one hand to cup his cheek.  "Sorry," he murmurs, catching my finger 
in his teeth.  "I didn't mean to hurt you." 

     "'S'okay," I assure him, whispering.  "It's not like I'm a virgin
or anything."  I look back at him over my shoulder.  He grins, that
foolish trademark Son smile.  "What?" 

     "Nothin'," he assures me, and pulls me to lie in front of him,
spooned up. 

     "The wedding is in two and a half hours," I remind him. 

     "I'm not going." 

     "You have to.  You've been planning this for six months." 

     "And you weren't planning last night for six months?" 

     "The party, yes.  Screwing you, no.  You're far too happy about
this, baka." 

     "I feel good, is all."  He stretches. 

     "There's a shower in the bathroom." 

     "Aa."  He presses his face against my hair.  "I didn't get to see
your face." 

     "Pardon?" 

     "I didn't get to see your face again.  That look on your face, from
last night." 

     "Baka!!"  I wriggle away from him and he lets me go, laughing. 
"Will you stop it?" I snap.  "This isn't funny.  You can't make a
decision like this based on one night." 

     "One night and part of one morning," he points out, sitting up to
look at me.  "Why can't I?" 

     "Because you have to think about it." 

     "I've thought about it." 

     "What about _her_?" 

     "She'll find someone else." 

     "Goten," I snap.  "You don't _mean_ that!"  He sighs.

     "No," he replies, "I don't."  He slumps a little.

     "What are you going to do?" I ask.

     "I'll talk to her." 

     "What can you say?" I point out.  "This is your _wedding day_,
Goten.  It's a little bit late, don't you think?" 

     "Trunks," he says, softly, looking up at me, "I love her.  I do --
else I wouldn't have asked her to marry me.  But -- hell, Trunks.  If it
comes down to a choice -- I choose you."  He touches my cheek.  "I will
learn to live without her.  I don't think I could live without having
you around.  Especially not now."  I turn my face, rub my cheek against
his wrist, closing my eyes. 

     "What about your parents?" 

     "My mother can get used to it.  My father won't care." 

     "Goten -- " 

     "Ooh," he says, "say it again." 

     "Nani?" 

     "My name.  Say it again, like you just did.  Sort of begging."  I
get to my feet and snatch up my clothes and start toward the bathroom,
and I halt, struck with an epiphany. 

     The boy is throwing himself at me, quite literally, and I am
_rejecting_ him, tossing him back to that foolish girl who likely
doesn't even know why he has a faint scar at the base of his spine, if
she even knows it's there at all.  I turn to look at him; he watches me
from where he sits on the floor, hair falling into his face despite the
fact that he just had it trimmed for today. 

     He is firm and broad and beautiful, and I have been mourning him
for so long that I have forgotten that _he_ came in search of _me_
today, hot and hard and wanting, strong hands pushing and stroking and
manoeuvring me into positions that pleased him.

     He grins at me again, and I turn to jelly again, and sink to my
knees in front of him.  "You're really going to do it," I whisper.

     "Hai," he shrugs. 

     "She won't be happy." 

     "What do you care?"  He's right; I don't.  But I feel I have to
pretend I do. 

     "I never meant for you to -- to give this all up," I tell him,
looking down at my knees. 

     "What did you mean to do, then?" he wonders. 

     "I was going to take you to the spare room and tuck you into bed
and keep fantasising about you for the rest of my life." 

     "Except you never got as far as the spare room." 

     "And then I decided I'd just let you think it was because we were
drunk.  Or even that it was just a dream." 

     "Except that I smelled like ginseng this morning and the bed was
still wet."  My face and ears turn crimson.  One warm hand slips into my
hair, cups my head, pulls me closer to him.  He kisses me firmly, a
little awkwardly.  "Let's wash up," he suggests.  "I'll go tell her the
wedding's off.  You go home, and I'll break the news to my parents.  We
can go out for dinner tonight, wear our tuxedos at least once, ne?"  I
dare to look into his eyes, so dark the pupils are indistinguishable,
and his eyes are smiling at me, the surest sign that he regrets nothing. 

     Which is exactly like Goten. 

     I lean forward, rest my forehead on his shoulder, and sigh.  "Hai," 
I murmur.  He tickles me, making me smile, and he gets up and herds me
into the shower and washes me tenderly and refuses to fuck me again even
though I practically beg him to, because he doesn't want to hurt me, and
he only grins and caresses my erection with his slippery hand and tells
me that I can wait until after dinner, despite my protests to the
contrary. 

     We dry ourselves, dress, and head to our respective homes. 
Ignoring my mother's questions, I lock myself in my room, turn the music
up loud, lie on my freshly-made bed, and I dream of him, counting the
hours until dinner, and planning all sorts of delectable things designed
to make him squeal. 

     And I decide to make him take back her stupid ring and exchange it
for a simple band that will fit _my_ finger, because I do not intend to
let him get away from me as easily as he is getting away from her. 

*****
owari
*****