Chapter Text
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday. Whis delivered it personally to Vegeta in the middle of a spar with Goku. He held in his gloved hands a scroll of parchment, preserved in place with a blood red wax seal. The insignia on it wasn’t much different from the one Vegeta once proudly displayed on his battle armor as a child. A small semicircle with sharp edges framed the bottom of it, followed by a small line leading north, two thick lines resting in the middle, equally distanced from each other. The similarities ended there though. Where 3 arrows would form a strong V, they now shaped a perfect S, presenting the illusion they created an infinity symbol.
Without even opening it, Vegeta knew what this letter meant, and most importantly, who it came from. He hesitated for a moment, holding it in both hands, staring at the insignia. A memory hit him hard, of his father receiving letters just like this, of sending letters exactly like this, watching the King of Vegeta write into the late hours of the night, dipping his golden-tipped pen in dark ink, performing art as he brushed his arm up and down the desk—a type of penmanship and stylistic choice that his father only chose to do for the most important of dignitaries. Otherwise, he wrote with whatever was convenient.
Vegeta pushed a finger under the wax seal.
The letter unfurled.
He pulled it apart with both of his hands. If they were shaky, he didn’t outwardly acknowledge it.
Only two lines, written in deep black ink, rested on the parchment—words written with the flourish and the immaculate precision that looked eerily similar to his father’s.
Goku, of course, chose that moment to peek over Vegeta’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
Vegeta ignored him and deciphered the Sadalan words in front of him.
A poke to his side. “Vegeta? What’s it say?”
He looked ahead, out into the distance of the Earth’s blue sky, the white clouds, and he grinned from ear-to-ear.
Twenty four hours. That was all Vegeta needed to prepare for the journey. First priority was to respond in kind to the invitation. He used the parchment itself to reply, his penmanship nowhere near as immaculate as the King of Sadala’s. It had been much too long since he wrote in his native language, the complex symbols and confusing syntax nearly transforming Vegeta’s resolve to clear-cut doubt. He wasn’t writing anything complicated. It was a simple reply, a two word answer, but it mattered how long and short he drew the lines, how much time he spent resting his pen to create dots, how fast and light the slashes appeared on the paper as he brushed his pen across the parchment. Any seasoned royal would know so much about the person just by the way they wrote before they even met in person, a wise advantage to harness when they didn’t know the other party. That was what his father taught him, and he assumed the King of Sadala would be no different. But he managed well and repressed the need to double check, to redo, by immediately handing the parchment back to Whis and saying, “Here.”
The second priority: ensure Bulma and his children would be fine without him there. Without much prompting, Whis promised to stay on the planet under the pretense of that protection. Pretense, because Vegeta knew his teacher and Beerus well. The lure of Earthling food was all the incentive they needed.
Third, final and begrudgingly needed priority: convince Kakarot to come with him as well. By any means necessary.
“But I can’t go,” Kakarot said on the eve of receiving that invitation. They chatted in front of Goku’s home on Mt. Paozu, standing outside the home as the smell and sounds of Chichi’s homemade cooking drifted out into the world. “I need to take care of our crops. Our harvest is coming up and Chichi can’t do it by herself.”
“The King requested us both.”
“You can reply back saying I can’t come, you know.”
“I already accepted, for both of us.”
Goku groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. Shook his head. “Of course you did.”
“These are our people, Kakarot. I know you might not care about that, but—” He stepped closer. “The thought of meeting stronger fighters, like those from the Tournament of Power… that has to be intriguing enough. No?”
He smirked at the sight of Goku’s small smile and far away gaze. Gotcha.
The morning of their departure, Vegeta lingered in the bathroom for a moment, staring at his reflection, at the modified armor that his human wife created for him, based on the army he once served, under the rule and thumb of the tyrant that wiped out his entire race. No Galactic Patrol symbol rested over the left side of his breast plate now.
If things were different—if he somehow possessed his father’s old pendant, his red cloak, any piece of his father’s formal armor—he would feel better prepared, more at ease. Of course, there was gi he could wear, or some Earthling clothing, like that three piece suit Bulma bought him a while ago. None of it was as appropriate as Vegeta needed it to be. He saw what Cabba and the other Sadalans wore, and this armor, as much of a mockery as it was to his race, was as close as it got. Appearance meant everything to royalty. The first impression mattered as much as the initially reply, if not more, because you weren’t representing the royal family when you stepped foot into another realm, another kingdom. You represented your people as a whole. It was yet another lesson Vegeta took the heart from his father and it weighed upon him the longer he stared at himself.
He eyed the empty spot where the Galactic Patrol symbol once laid. His hand drifted over it, lingering for a moment.
Maybe…
Vegeta anticipated a no. Worse still, a mockery of a laugh from Whis along with a no, when he arrived in front of the travel cube that would take them to Sadala and offered his teacher a piece of paper.
Whis took it and looked it over. Looked at Vegeta. Rose his eyebrows.
He cleared his throat, thankful Kakarot wasn’t there yet and asked: “If you could put that… right here.” He indicated the empty spot on his breast plate.
To his surprise, Whis said nothing. He just smiled and raised his staff, aimed it at the exact place Vegeta pointed to. A small flash of bluish light, and the royal crest of the House of Vegeta appeared piece by piece, revealing itself like a blooming welt on white flesh. Bright and blood red, pristine and clean, like it always existed on Vegeta’s armor. Like it was meant to be.
Vegeta rested his palm over the crest. Gentle heat rose from it, through his gloved hand.
He didn’t fight the small smile that rose on his lips.
When he looked up, Whis nodded to him and stepped to the side, gesturing to the opened door of the cube. “Your chariot awaits, Prince Vegeta.”
Despite the joke of those words and the mirth in Whis’s voice, Vegeta noticed the unabashed sincerity in them. He felt heat rise on his cheeks and he let loose a soft “tch,” looking off to the side as he walked to the vehicle.
Goku, of course, showed up late. Astoundingly late, with barely any bags packed, wearing his bright orange gi and a few donuts stuffed in his mouth. Vegeta didn’t have to reprimand the man though. Beerus had no problem doing that for him, yelling at him to get inside or else, and Goku yelped in between his chews, scrambling for the door.
The ride there was uneventful, albeit noisy in the beginning because of Goku’s constant chatter and incessant amount of questions. Before the first hour was up, Beerus, again, silenced Goku with ease. Vegeta meditated for most of the three hour ride there, grateful that Goku did the same, only breaking to eat from the food capsule Bulma handed him before they left. His mind stayed blank majority of the trip, until they grew closer to their final destination.
Then, his mind wandered to the past. Images of his father, the ruthless King Vegeta, sitting on the throne, delegating to other royal family members, ordering First Class soldiers, listening to his advisors. Images of his mother, the cold-hearted Queen Cassava, lecturing him in Saiyan history, Saiyan culture, effective diplomacy and hand-to-hand combat. Images of Planet Vegeta’s reddish-orange sky at peak evening, the burgundy sheets and black curtains in his opulent bedroom, all the massive feasts, all the bloody fights.
The cries of the morning avians the day he was given away to Frieza. The soft kiss his mother planted to his forehead—one of the very few times she ever gave him that type of affection. The strong grip his father laid on his shoulder and squeezed hard—as hard as the look his father gave him, this long, lingering look that stayed with Vegeta to this day.
Then their words. The sound of his father’s voice, telling him he was a prince, and always would be, no matter what, and to remember that well. His mother’s voice, demanding him to remember his lessons, to never forget where he came from, and to always strive to be the best, to be the strongest. Their pride in him, instilled into him the moment he left the nursing pod, galvanized and intensified the day he left the planet.
Their words clashed against their looks, though. His parents spoke of strength and pride and being at ease with this decision. He only saw regret on their faces. Regret, fear, and the tiniest, smallest hint of hope. It confused him. These weaknesses, this vulnerability and grief, in his parents, of all people. It took years for him to realize what they were trying to convey to him, in their gazes, in their touches, and it took sacrificing his own life against Buu to even accept it.
Vegeta pressed his right fist over the crest on his breast plate.
Na’ma. Ja’ta.
He squeezed his fingers tighter.
I will bring honor to our name.
Then, Whis announced: “We’re here.”
Vegeta opened his eyes.
The blue-violet portal dissipated.
His eyes widened, his lips parting. The light of the golden planet before them reflected off of him, the silhouette of it resting in the darkness of his eyes.
He stood to his feet, his hands raising against his will to rest up against the cube’s translucent wall. And in that moment, he thought he was a child again, seeing the planet through the red window of his pod, shrinking in the distance. Except this time, the planet grew in size as they zoomed closer to it.
Goku’s voice sounded almost underwater to him. “Oh man, awesome! Look at that, Vegeta!”
So did Beerus’s. “Hn. Smaller than the other one, it seems.”
They breeched the atmosphere, entering it and revealing a surface so eerily similar to Planet Vegeta’s. Rocks upon rocks of different shapes and sizes forming domed homes and clay adobes, high mountains where snow gathered at its peak, empty fields of soil and dirt and the occasional, bountiful bursts of green, and the part that caused Vegeta’s throat to close up: thousands upon thousands of Saiyans, alive and well, performing whatever duty they needed. Working in fields, transporting goods, butchering meat, selling in market bazaars, sparring inside chalk-lined rings, bartering and trading for goods. All different shapes and sizes of Saiyan, everywhere, prosperous, living.
Occasionally a few looked up at their vehicle, pausing in their work as they casted a heavy shadow on the land. Vegeta met each and every gaze. Every Saiyan, dressed in Sadalan armor, Sadalan clothing. Some frowned. The rest looked upon them in awe and confusion. This is how they looked on our last day, and he pushed away the thought, the image of his parents, his people, staring at the ball of light Frieza threw at them, and focused on the planet below them, the living people beneath him.
Goku shouted, “Look, Vegeta!” Still sounded underwater. “That’s gotta be the palace, right?”
He glanced up. His breath caught in his throat.
The palace. The heart of the kingdom.
It was an exact carbon copy of his very own.
Long spires reached for the sky, twisting and turning, each one varying in height and width. Stained glass windows, depicting famous heroes of lore and the gods and goddess of Sadalan faith, reflected off the sunlight, glittering colors like a wild kaleidoscope. Even the palace’s walls looked the exact same, from the color, down to the brick work at the base of each tower, each hall, each room.
As they landed, he noticed two rows of soldiers lined the pathway waiting patiently for them, which lead out towards the palace’s gigantic double doors. Two soldiers stood in front of those doors, arms crossed in an X, each holding what looked like daggers in their hands, their heads covered in large helmets with rows of spikes lining the head. All were dressed in white and gold Sadalan armor, ornate swords latched to their hips, with two equally ornate spears secured onto their backs. Vegeta had seen this type of greeting only once as a child, and judging by the regimental stance and seriousness of these Saiyans, he knew who they were. The Royal Guard, he thought. The first and last line of defense for the royal family, consisting of the best that their planet had offered.
The cube landed without a sound. Whis opened the door and walked down and out first, followed by Beerus. They each stood on either side, framing the doorway.
Goku, of course, had no problems getting out of the cube. He landed on the ramp, swung his lone bag over his shoulder and saluted with his free hand against his forehead. “Yo!”
No solider moved or replied.
His hand flopped back to his side. “Uhh…” He tilted his head. “Hello?”
Again, nothing.
He turned back to them. “Is something wrong with them?”
Whis chuckled. “Yes, Goku, they’re fine.”
“They’re just waiting for the guest of honor,” Beerus said, glancing to Vegeta, still inside the cube. Vegeta pulled away from the wall finally as he met Beerus’s gaze—and nearly tripped when he saw Beerus step fully to the side and gestured to the pathway. “Well?”
Vegeta stared out ahead, beyond the rows of Saiyans, right at the palace doors. He swallowed, finding nothing but a dry mouth and an irritated, upset stomach. He knelt down, grabbed two of his bags in both hands and walked forward.
Each step forward to the door felt like he was dragging himself through mud. It wasn’t fear that dragged him down, nor was it sadness. It was pure, unadulterated disbelief that this was actually happening, all mixed with the warring emotions and flood of memories that bogged him down with each step.
He ignored Goku’s confused stare, Whis’s clear amusement, Beerus’s growing irritation as he exited out the cube, down the pathway. He came to a stop three soldiers in and dropped his bags to his side. Cleared his throat. Gripped his hands into tight, shaking fists. Muttered a quick, silent prayer that he didn’t have the worst accent in the world and shouted:
“M’eh Vegeta, ve’osa ve’ho’ti kosana’or inplathi Vegeta!” I am Vegeta, crown prince of the planet Vegeta! He pressed one of his fists to his chest, right over his clan symbol. “M’eh kangela abapulhini omkul Ve’ho Sadala!” I seek an audience with the great King Sadala! He shut his eyes as he bowed his head to the palace doors. “Uzko du Soli! Tor vuma uthi’ho!” Glory to Soli! Tor be praised! He ignored Goku’s sharp gasp behind him as he knelt down to one knee. “V’ila ko’shi Ve’ho!”
He smirked when the soldiers rose their swords to the air and replied as one: “V’ila ko’shi Ve’ho!” Long live the king.
Vegeta stayed in place as he heard the palace doors creak open, didn’t move as he heard Goku mutter aloud “is that him?” and his subsequent oof. A part of him wanted to look behind when he heard the rustling of clothing, the sound of knees hitting pavement and Goku’s indignant mutters of disobedience and insolence, but he focused instead on the clicks of sharp heels on pavement—clicks that came closer and closer, increasing in volume, until those clicks stopped and the tips of two white boots appeared in Vegeta’s vision.
The sharp sound of swords returning to their sheaths cut through the silence. Soft wind brushed against Vegeta’s forehead.
Rustling clothes. The body before him crouched down.
A guttural voice above him commanded his attention. “Vu tu’eyakho, Saiyan.” On your feet, Saiyan. A gloved hand thrusted itself then into his line of sight. “Yi li a’ri inda h’wove.” This is no place for royalty.
Vegeta looked up.
A carbon copy of himself looked back at him, with some noticeable differences. Two sharp, deep fringes framed the front of his face. There were not as many developed muscles. Darker skin. Kindlier eyes. Little to no signs of a hard won, hard fought life. But Vegeta was perceptive. There was a cold, calculating killer underneath that could rise, but only if the time called for it.
He pulled his hand away from his breast plate to clasp the King of Sadala’s outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled up to his feet by him.
They stood at eye-level, holding onto their mutual grip.
Then, the King smiled. “Ve’ho’ti Vegeta.” He squeezed harder and said in a whisper: “Wakale pu’e.”
Vegeta blinked away the sudden blurriness that hit his vision.
Welcome home.
He swallowed, gripped just as hard in return and said in a low, throaty voice, “D’in m’yo, Ve’ho Sadala.” Thank you, King Sadala.
The King nodded, releasing their grip. He leaned to the side, looking over Vegeta’s shoulder. “And a fine hello to you as well, Goku. Welcome to Planet Sadala.”
Vegeta didn’t need to look behind him to see the clownish smile on that man’s face. “Thanks!” Could even hear that damn scratch behind Goku’s head, that old nervous twitch of his. “I was beginning to think I’d need a translator the whole time, heh heh!”
“If it was deemed necessary, we would’ve prepared for it. As King, it’s imperative my guests feel welcomed on our planet. Speaking of…” The King walked past Vegeta and Goku right to Whis and Beerus, falling to one knee in front of the latter. “My humblest thanks and deepest gratitude, Lord Beerus, for bestowing your heavenly presence on our planet.”
“Hnn.” Beerus sniffed, twisting his head to the side. Grunted.
“My Lord thanks you for your hospitality,” Whis answered. “We have high hopes there will be one of those delicious Saiyan feasts his brother Champa spoke of.”
Goku’s eyebrows shot up. He opened his mouth, the word “food” on his lips, only to squeak out an “ouch!” when Vegeta pinched his shoulder. He glared at him, ready to say something, but Vegeta held his finger to his lips, shaking his head no.
The King nodded, rising to his feet. “It will be ready by sun down. Until then, you are welcome to enjoy the palace at your leisure. Partake in any fruit in our gardens. If there’s a specific request, our cooks will make it for you. Whatever you wish, Lord Beerus, it is yours. If it isn’t, I will take full responsibility for the insult of providing inferior service and work hard to repay this injustice.”
Beerus smirked. “A polite Saiyan royal. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“They are quite different from ours, my Lord,” Whis said.
Goku attempted to interrupt, but Vegeta pinched his arm again, harder. He jerked his arm away, holding it to his chest as he glared at him, mouthing the words “stop it”. Vegeta didn’t bother saying anything back.
“I’m humbled by your words, Lord Beerus.” King Sadala bowed his head one more time before turning to one of the guards in line. “Escort our two esteemed guests to our finest room available and aid them with whatever they need.”
The guard nodded, saluting the King with the traditional one-fist salute over his breast plate. He turned to Beerus and Whis. “This way, please.”
As the three left, the King returned his attention to Vegeta and Goku. “I’m sure your journey was a long one, so I would not be surprised if you sought needed time to rest.”
Vegeta cut Goku off the second he saw the man’s mouth open. “We do, King Sadala. We appreciate your hospi—”
“But Vegeta, I wanna fight!”
“Kakarot—”
“If we can’t eat now because there’s a banquet later, that’s fine, but I came to fight! You said it yourself that there would be lots of crazy strong fighters here, right? So I wanna meet them!” He turned to the King. “How ‘bout it? You wanna spar?”
The two rows of soldiers gawked at Goku. One of them almost stumbled in place.
King Sadala looked more surprised than his royal guard did.
Vegeta simply closed his eyes. Inhaled. Long, long pause. Very drawn out, very loud exhale, through his nose.
Goku looked at Vegeta. At the soldiers. The King. Back to Vegeta. Then the King.
“What?”
Vegeta muttered, “Moron.”
“What? He’s the King, he’s gotta be strong, right?”
He glared right at Goku, hissing through his teeth, “Stop. Talking.”
“But—”
They paused at the loud guffaw the King released. As one, they looked at him, watched him throw his head back, a hand on his belly, the other in his hair, laughing so hard he seemed to be one step away from falling backwards. The rows of soldiers as well seemed less stunned, more amused, most likely assured by the reaction of their King that this was okay.
Once the King calmed himself, he came to Goku, shaking his head. “Cabba was spot-on about you, Goku.” He clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Very well. Let us sate your lust for combat.” He turned to another row of soldiers, gesturing two over to him. “Take our guest to the ambuwa gumisou. I’m sure the cubs will give him a run for his money, or at least wear him out.”
“Yes, my King,” the soldiers said in tandem, saluting as one.
“Alright!” Goku grabbed his bag better as he followed the two soldiers to the opposite area of where Beerus and Whis exited. “Thank you King! See ya later, Vegeta!” He waved over his shoulder before looking at the two soldiers that flanked both of his sides and landed a barrage of questions on them.
Vegeta watched him leave, a big part of him relieved the man would be out of his hair for a while. Especially when he knew full well what was to happen next, based on the words of the King’s invitation—the command in there, from one royal to the other, to appear before him, because he needed answers only Vegeta could give. None of this would Goku be able to understand without pestering for more answers. Plus, the last thing Vegeta needed was Goku’s concern or curiosity.
What sickened and annoyed him the most was the fact that he almost, almost wanted Goku to be there with him, not for moral support, not for back up in case things went south. Vegeta was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. It was for the fact that this was going to address questions even Vegeta had, and it would be beneficial for Goku to learn as much as he knew he was going to.
As Goku’s bright orange form disappeared into the distance, the King stood right next to Vegeta, shoulder to shoulder. “Cabba told me he’s the strongest of your race.”
Vegeta snorted. “Dumbest, really.”
“Did he forget his programming and protocols?”
“Hit on the head as a kid. Everything’s wiped.”
“Ah.” Goku left their line of sight. Then the King said: “A shame. I hoped he would give me some additional insight.”
Vegeta glanced to his side, right at the King. “I will be enough.”
The gentle, amiable demeanor of King Sadala perished in one sharp glare sent his direction. Again, Vegeta found his own reflection staring right back at him—the prideful, meticulous, calculating, blood thirsty warrior he knew himself to be—and held firm at the dread that shot down his spine.
“It better, ve’ho’ti Vegeta.” He turned fully around, walking to the palace doors. “Rada nge m’yo.” Come with me.
Vegeta hesitated for a small moment before he followed.
***
It didn’t take long arriving to the King’s personal chambers, a room that reminded Vegeta all too well of his father’s. He stood in the middle of it while the King busied himself creating a drink—an mdala, a cocktail of two strong alcohols, bron’ti and ulukakara, with a slice of a citrus peel and chilled crystals gathered from the darkest, coldest caves on the planet. Vegeta rejected a drink of his own and waited in the thick silence of the room, holding his gloved hands behind him, resting them on the small of his back.
The initial invitation Vegeta received was simple enough. Ta’fr’utu, it started out, the word being a double entendre for ‘fellow Saiyan’ as well as ‘brother,’ m’eh mema t’au kun’ye’ba Goku elhabati Sadala ngo busku olona su’fru— I invite you and your companion Goku to the world of Sadala on the eve of our holiest of days. Those words caused no worry in Vegeta at all. But the last line did. M’eh t’ui cril kubulawa t’au buhlanga—I need to know about the genocide of your race. Common sense said the King was curious about what led to the end of the Saiyans of Universe 7. But something about the words, the phrasing, seemed off just enough to put Vegeta on edge.
He watched the King stir the cocktail with a long, golden stick, the crystals clinking against the translucent glass.
King Sadala tapped the stick against the rim, resting it on the marble table in front of him. He swirled the drink in his hand once, twice, the gold rings on his fingers twinkling in the waning sunlight.
“Tell me.” He glanced over the rim of his drink. “What do you know of the story of your Planet Sadala?”
The question caught Vegeta off for a second. He watched the King take a seat in a plush, blood red chair with gold trimmings, taking a long, generous sip of his drink, gaze never wavering.
He fought against his dry throat, kept his composure as he spoke. “My great grandfather, Vegeta the First, worked alongside Sadala, until he could no longer. They had warring ideologies which led to great unrest among their people. This unrest led to a bloody civil war between Saiyans. Either you were for Sadala, or you were for Vegeta the First. The war only ended when my great grandfather slayed the old King. But it was at a high cost. Our home world was destroyed. We could not live off the land anymore. So we left and found Planet Plant, reclaiming it under the family of Vegeta.”
The King pulled his drink away from his lips, the liquid already halfway gone. “And what do you know of your universe’s King Sadala?”
“Nothing. Only that we defeated him.”
“Do you know how he was defeated?”
“Barely. I don’t remember every detail. They’re old memories. But I remember the two met on a sacred battlefield, where they performed ritual combat. My father said it was never meant to be invoked, but for the sake of the Saiyan race and its future, the two warriors came to an agreement to do this. What that ritual combat entailed, I don’t know.” He frowned as a strong memory hit him—a history book in front of him, his mother’s finger pointing to text, beside a crudely drawn image of his great-grandfather. “I do remember one thing though.” He could see it in front of him now, as clear as ever, his mother’s finger gliding across the page to the opposite end. “Before the two entered ritual combat, they needed to agree on would be first to choose a weapon. I don’t remember how they did this, but I remember what the outcome was.” His mother’s finger stabbed like a dagger into the opposite page, right over the other picture in his book—an equally crude, old picture of his world’s Sadala. “King Sadala went first.”
He startled at the sound of the King’s glass hitting the marble table.
Vegeta composed himself, watching the King glare at the glass. Opened his fingers. Closed them again, tighter than before.
“He went first,” the King muttered.
Vegeta nodded.
King Sadala then tipped his head back, downing the rest of the alcohol. He rested it back on the table, slunk into his seat—and to Vegeta’s surprise, a small smile appeared on his face.
“Figures.” He wiped at his face, coming to his feet.
Vegeta watched him walk to a large desk, resting his palms on top of them. He followed the King’s line of sight, and caught the reflection of the man in front of him in an old, decrepit black-and-white image, framed in gold and quartz. There were noticeable differences: a thick beard, more of a larger torso, no fringe bangs framing his face.
“When Cabba first told me about your universe and the fate of your Saiyans, I felt zero pity. In our culture, the clan of Vegeta’s considered the worst of us all. Even to this day, we teach our young ones how to never act like your ancestors, to value what my great-grandfather embodied. Protect, not destroy. Peace, never war. We fight for the weak and give mercy first before we act upon our baser instincts to kill.
“As much as I abhorred the idea of inviting you to our world, I had to know if my suspicions about these other Saiyans were true. I had to know that despite our universes being ‘twins’ of each other, there was nothing that connected us—and that quite frankly, your Saiyan race had it coming. Being exterminated, wiped off the face of the universe, all a miniscule piece of the retribution you deserved to endure, because of what you did to your own kind. Well, what I assumed you did to your own kind.
“Now that I know your side of the story, as little as it is…” He bowed his head. “It pains me to know that I am not as right as I wanted to be.” The King pushed away from the table, turning to Vegeta. “I do believe you when you say you don’t know the full story. You were a child when your planet was eradicated. So it is only fair and fitting that you know the story, at least in the way we tell it in our universe. Considering our worlds are twins, and based on the information you’ve told me, I believe our story will match yours.
“Once, when our planet was young and we Saiyans still sought our purpose in the universe, there were two warriors: Vegeta the Great, and Sadala the Brave. They each represented the best of the Saiyan race. Pride, power, courage, the insatiable need to fight, and the absolute will to push through insane odds, no matter what. But as well as they worked together on the battlefield, protecting their fellow Saiyans from outside invaders and conquerors, they fought against each other all the time. Sadala believed in the good of all things and chose mercy over cruelty. Vegeta believed in the worst of all things and chose punishment over compassion. They truly were the perfect balance to each other.
“Soon, Saiyans began to take sides, supporting either Vegeta’s philosophy or Sadala’s philosophy. This led to the Great Civil War you know of. We too tell the same tale of the end of the war, how the two warriors laid down their weapons to engage in ritual combat instead. They both agreed to meet on the land where the first Super Saiyan God existed, a land blessed by Soli herself. There, the mates of each great warrior stripped their love one bare of clothing, of weapons and of their power.” He paused at Vegeta’s visible gasp. “Yes. Their very own power.”
“Forced Spirit Fission.” Vegeta shook his head. “But I learned this on Yardrat. It’s a Yardratian technique. Saiyans never knew these techniques.”
“It’s a spirit technique, yes, but the Yardrats do not have a monopoly on magic manipulation. Your Saiyans most likely erased concepts like the spirit out of your culture and education because your great-grandfather didn’t believe in it. But we kept ours strong and healthy. No Saiyan on Sadala enters our Defense Forces unless they know the basics of magic control, just as our ancestors before us, because we know from our history how powerful and humbling it is.” The King turned away to gaze out the window. “These mates of Vegeta and Sadala made the ultimate sacrifice. They held their loved one’s power, harnessed it as their own, and had to resist the temptation to not return it until one warrior yielded the other. In this case, one was able to give it back to their beloved, while the other had to let that power go into the ether.”
Vegeta watched the King rest a hand over the juncture of his neck. “The last of the essence of their mate, their most beloved, and they had to let it go, as ritual demanded. The ultimate sacrifice, for the good of our world and our future.” The King’s hand squeezed hard. “I sincerely hope your world revered mates as much as we do.”
Vegeta licked his dry lips, searching for his voice. It came out low, raspy. “I don’t think we had them. Maybe we did once, but…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You probably didn’t get a chance to know, considering your great-grandfather.” The King pulled his hand away, back to his side. “Mating has such strong ties to magic, so it was probably erased from your history like the rest.”
“Perhaps…” Vegeta shook his head. “Wait.” He refocused and took a step closer to the back of the King. “You said you were right, I’m assuming about how my world was.” He took another step. “What were you wrong about?”
The King sighed. “Our universes.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that mirrored Vegeta’s usual stance. “We truly are twins. There really is not much of a difference between us. Only in the way of thinking that our Saiyans went down, and the ultimate fate of our kind, do we truly differ.” He chuckled. “It’s so stupid. This could’ve all been different for us, if one thing hadn’t happen.” He turned to Vegeta, the waning light casting thick, black shadows on his sharp features. “Our King went second.”
Vegeta felt his jaw drop open.
King Sadala chuckled again, looking away and off. “If the draw had been different… if our King went first…” He shook his head. “Terrifying. Terrifying, and absolutely humbling.” He rotated fully to Vegeta, his arms unfurling. “I thank you, Prince Vegeta, for sharing this with me, and for coming to our world. I apologize for my initial comments and beliefs of your people and I mourn for the untimely demise of our fellow Saiyans.” He came closer to Vegeta, closing the gap between them. “I can tell there will be a lot for you to learn. I’m hoping there will be some overlaps here and there, so this doesn’t overwhelm you too much. I’m here to answer any questions you may have, as well any member of my court.” He rested a hand onto Vegeta’s shoulder. “And as ridiculous as this will sound to you, I thank the Gods that you are here and we can make amends for the sins of our ancestors.” He squeezed hard. “To me, you will always be a part of the court of Sadala, a member of the royal family, and a Prince to our people.”
He didn’t have the strength to return the gesture, nor the power to stop himself from his vision blurring over. Luckily, no tears fell.
In a husky whisper, Vegeta said, “Thank you, King Sadala the IV.”
King Sadala grinned. “You are welcome, Prince Vegeta the IV.” One last squeeze, a strong pat, and then he slid his arm around Vegeta’s shoulders, turning him around and guiding him to the doors. “Now, let us retire to the great room and speak as brothers would. I believe there is much to talk about.”
***
It was not enough time. Vegeta and the King spoke across from one another for hours, telling stories of their childhoods, their cultures, their favorite foods, diving in and searching for any similarities and differences between their two worlds. Vegeta’s memory triggered so many times with every little thing the King said. Memories he completely forgot about or memories he didn’t even know he possessed, ranging from his tutors disciplining him with sharp sticks to his mother’s favorite soap—the one feminine indulgence she spoiled herself with—his fathers penchant to snack on sweets at odd hours of the night during stressful times, the smell of morning flowers from the garden, the sound of running water coming from the nearby streams. Memories that matched and differed from Sadala’s own.
They could’ve gone for more hours, and Vegeta was ready for it. But a loud knock on the chamber door stopped them short from continuing on.
A petite woman in a Sadalan dress, colored and styled in a way similar to King Sadala’s, entered the room for a moment. “The feast awaits your presence, my King.”
“D’in m’yo, ko’sh’ii,” he responded, “I will be there shortly.”
She nodded on his direct, closing the door softly. Once gone, Vegeta asked, “Daughter?”
“My eldest, Chikora. She takes after her mother quite well.” He stood up, cracking his neck side to side. “Now, my two twin hellion boys? They’re definitely all me.”
Vegeta met said hellions not a moment after they exited the great room. They pounced on the King, one clinging to each leg, shouting and crying and arguing in such rapid-fast Sadalan that Vegeta couldn’t follow along. If it wasn’t for the different hairstyles, Sadalan clothing and coloring, they almost looked and acted like copies of his own son and Kakarot’s youngest.
The King silenced them with a raucous growl from deep within his chest. The twins instantly fell silent and let go of their father, stepping away and falling into a soldier’s stance, their arms locked by their sides, their chins tilted up and proud.
They exchanged more hurried Sadalan words, the King’s tone being one Vegeta knew well—the reprimanding tone of an annoyed, exasperated father. He stood to attention when the King gestured to him, then back to the children, then back to him. Then he crossed his arms, glaring at the two boys.
As one, the two twins bowed to Vegeta and said, “Wakale, ve’ho’ti Vegeta.”
He bowed in return, pushing a fist over the crest of his breastplace. “D’in m’yo, n’cini ve’ho’tiu.” Thank you, young princes.
Another sharp growl in Sadalan from the King, and the twins nearly jumped in place. He heard the distinct words of “sorry” followed by rapid-fire Sadalan banter yet again as the twins flew down the hallway, shoving each other here and there.
The King sighed. “I keep telling them not to fly in the palace. It’s only a matter of time before they break something or someone.”
“Sometimes that’s what they need in order to learn.”
The King smirked at Vegeta. “Speaking from experience?”
Vegeta shrugged. The King laughed.
It wasn’t long before they entered the large, ornate banquet hall of the palace. Rows upon rows of long, decorated tables filled up the large space, with Saiyans of every shape and age and size talking, laughing, pouring drinks, telling stories, a few lively arguments here and there. Against each golden wall of the hall rested a oil painting of each King, a royal family member, a depiction of a history Vegeta slightly remembered or a history he didn’t know at all. Colorful dots littered the grounds, all coming from the waning sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows. It reminded Vegeta so much of his old palace’s large banquet hall that he could’ve imagined his father entering these chamber doors at any minute.
A familiar raucous laugh followed by two boyish squeaks caught Vegeta’s attention, ending his potential reminiscing. It didn’t take long to find the source of it: Goku at one of the end tables near the head table of the royal family, wrestling a large leg of meat from King Sadala’s twin boys. They jerked the meat back and forth on opposite sides of the table, drawing the attention of more and more Saiyans in the hall. At the head table sat the royal family, with Whis and Beerus at the ends, already digging into food.
Drinks spilled. Cutlery dropped to the ground. The tablecloth started to slip off, pushing other people’s food and drinks here and there. Quick, sharp shouts of annoyance and confusion.
Then the woman from earlier—the King’s eldest daughter, Chikora—snapped at them from the head table snapped in Sadalan, a guttural growl that reminded Vegeta of his own mother’s snarl and even caused him to pause for a quick moment.
The two boys instantly stopped what they did at the sound, which caused Goku to fly backwards and onto his ass, the leg of meat falling onto his face.
Most in the hall laughed at the sight, the two boys the loudest of them all. Their laughter died when their eldest sister came over, grabbed their ears and dragged them back, literally, to the head table, plopping them back in place.
Goku pulled himself up to his feet, holding the leg of meat in hand. He glared at the two boys, who proceeded to stick their tongues at him when their sister wasn’t looking. Goku, in turn, stuck his tongue back, then proceeded to take a gigantic bite out of the leg.
From behind Goku, the King said, “I see you’ve gotten acquainted with my boys.”
Goku shot up from his seat, saluting the King with the leg of meat against his forehead. “G’in Ve’ho Sadala, m’yo fr’il’va ma’tapa!”
The whole hall fell silent.
Vegeta’s mouth dropped wide open.
No sound was made—except for the audible, muffled laughter of the two princes at the head table.
The King blinked once. Twice.
Goku blinked back. “Um.” He looked around, dropping his hand to his side. “Uh.” Saw everyone was looking at him with the most horrified looks on their faces.
Vegeta met his gaze and watched Goku point his free hand to the boys at the head table. “They told me to say that next time I saw you...”
It was instantaneous: the whole hall broke out into raucous laughter, the King throwing his head back, clutching his stomach, almost doubling over. Beerus even cackled as loud as the King, Whis giggling behind a hand.
Vegeta couldn’t help himself and joined in as well, shaking his head back and forth. “Idiot,” he muttered in between chuckles.
His laughter stopped when he caught Goku’s hurt gaze.
The King slapped Goku’s shoulder, working against his laughter as he spoke. “Goku, take that as a lesson learned.” He pointed to the two princes. “Never trust those two.”
The forced smile on Goku’s face didn’t sit right with Vegeta. “Y-Yeah.” Nor did the small crack in his voice. “I know better now.”
The King patted Goku’s shoulder one more time, then turned to address the crowd in Sadalan. Vegeta took that moment to come up to Goku’s side and leaned in. “Kakarot—”
“Don’t.”
That harsh whisper struck Vegeta’s chest. “It wasn’t offensive to the King.”
“Fine. Now drop it.” He opened his mouth in protest, but Goku’s watery eyes locked onto his. His next word stopped him cold. “Please.” And he listened, turning away and taking a step away as well from the man.
The rest of the banquet went well once the King finished addressing the crowd and took his seat at the head table. But the way Goku stayed quiet and reserved during the meal did not sit well with Vegeta. He ate with the same normal vigor he usually reserved. But something was off. He didn’t look at people. He barely engaged in conversation. It was obvious why, and Vegeta understood why, but what bothered him most was the fact that Goku was obviously that hurt by it—and worse still: that Vegeta was annoyed by Goku’s hurt.
What Goku said wasn’t offensive after all, just crude and unexpected. But Goku probably didn’t need to ever know the exact translation—that he announced to the King of Sadala that he was a dumb stupid shit head, in front of an entire room full of Saiyans, in a language he didn’t fully understand.
As dessert wheeled out throughout the hall, with Vegeta in mid-conversation with a soldier, Goku stood up and faced the head table. “King Sadala?”
The King paused in his conversation with Whis and turned his full attention to him. “Yes?”
“May I be excused? If, uh.” He scratched the back of his head. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” He gestured one of the palace guards over. “Take our guest—”
“I’d like to go by myself. Please.”
The King nodded. He waved the guard off. “Call on any of my guards should you find yourself lost.”
Vegeta heard one of the princes sneer a few Sadalan words he couldn’t pick up, but by the way their older sister slapped the back of his head, none of what he said was kind in the least.
Goku glanced at the young prince before he nodded to the King. “Thanks.”
He watched Goku leave, how he didn’t work through the crowd of tables but made a beeline right for the edges of the hall. Vegeta didn’t let his attention part from Goku’s retreating figure, how it almost stayed glued to the walls, until he disappeared behind one of the banquet doors.
For a very brief moment, Vegeta felt the urge to follow. Clearly, the man was upset and embarrassed. But Goku was a grown up. He didn’t need coddling, or comforting. He could handle his emotions by himself. Plus, there was no way Vegeta would go after him and potentially cause another scene in front of a hall full of Saiyans, in the presence of the royal family. Goku already made enough of a scene. He didn’t want nor need to contribute to it.
From the side, he heard the King snap at his sons: “R’en ngu wenxa ih’or’hi?” What is wrong with you two?
They spoke over each other in rapid Sadalan again. Vegeta focused hard to catch some key, telltale words. Ambuwa gumisou, Sadalan training grounds. Goku’s name. The word ji’shi, for spar. Resentful, indignant tones, angry and vengeful sounding words—similar in tone and delivery to the ones Vegeta muttered to himself when Goku trounced him in a spar. He didn’t need to know the whole word-for-word translation to know what they were saying: Goku must’ve showed up not just one, but two uppity and smug Saiyan princes, in a spar, in front of their people, in their palace, and neither one was clearly happy about it.
One of the princes yelled at his brother, shouting, “T’au impazamo, Courget!”—your fault, Courget. The other snapped back, pushing right into his brother’s face, “T’au umbono, Baternat!”—your idea, Baternat. More rapidfire Sadalan. The twins literally went nose-to-nose. Ki blasts charged in each of their hands as they growled, rising above their seats at the head table.
Chikora stepped right behind the two, placed her hands behind each of their heads and slammed them together hard. As the twins cried on top of their lungs and belted guttural Sadalan at their older sister, she turned to the King with a big smile on her face.
“Excuse me, my King.” She grabbed the ears of both Saiyan princes, yanking them out of their seats and to her sides, without a crack in her calm demeanor. “I believe I have some work to attend to.”
King Sadala waved his daughter off, unable to hold back his smirk at the way she manhandled the two twins out of the banquet hall without much fanfare. He turned his attention to Whis and Beerus at the end of his table. “My apologies for my children, my Lord.”
“Hn.” Beerus shoveled another piece of meat in his mouth.
“No harm done,” Whis said. “No food was spilled, after all!”
“Indeed.” He then turned to Vegeta and gestured him over to his table. Once Vegeta approached the table, the King leaned over and beckoned him closer, until his ear was close to his mouth. He whispered, “Go to him.”
“What?” Vegeta frowned. “Kakarot?”
“Of course.”
“There’s no need. He will be fine.”
The King frowned in return.
“He just needs a moment,” Vegeta said.
“Ku’linge?” Positive?
“Ku’linge, m’yo Ve’ho. You already know he is not a normal Saiyan. He… feels more than one necessarily should.”
“I see.” He leaned back, a wistful smile rising on his face. “Similar to my mate. She always required space when she was stressed.” He waved Vegeta off. “Very well, ve’ho’ti. You of all people would know what’s best for him in this situation.”
Vegeta froze in place.
The implication in those words drove ice down his spine.
The utter understanding, as if they came from the same cloth, the same place. Similar knowledge.
He could’ve written it off as prince-to-subject. He should’ve, and just let it be, right there and then. But the King’s words beforehand. His mate. Needing space. The wistful, sad, loving look. Their talk of mates beforehand, earlier in the day.
To double check, he said, “My wife would beg to differ.”
The world slowed down when the King replied, “Wife?”
“Earthling word for ‘mate.’”
His heart stopped when the King’s eyes bugged out. “A woman?” A scream built in his throat when he tilted his head. “You mean…”
Don’t make a scene, he chanted, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t you dare—
The King asked, “Kakarot isn’t your—?”
Vegeta’s scream ripped out of him before the King could finish his sentence.
***
A nightmare awaited Vegeta when he retired to the guest quarters—a terrifying, traumatic scenario that Vegeta never, ever imagined happening, ever, because who in their right mind would come up with this horrendous insanity except as punishment, or as amusement, from the gods themselves? One of those gods sure as hell didn’t mind laughing at his expense though once he finally calmed down and the King explained the situation. Beerus fell off his chair, wheezing and choking on his own laughter. Vegeta could do nothing but hold his tongue.
Inside the opulent chambers, Vegeta found a large, single king sized bed, framed by oak wood posts and headboard, covered in burgundy and black sheets and pillows. Burgundy curtains framed one of the opened windows. A cabinet and a bookcase rested side by side against that window, followed by a large oak table, where a tray of oils, candles, towels, snacks and refreshments laid out.
And, of course, Goku, standing there, in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around his torso, looking as lost and embarrassed as he did earlier in the banquet hall, if not worse.
Goku, who seemed to understand the situation as well as Vegeta did, somehow. Must’ve been tipped off or told by someone, he presumed, and it didn’t make Vegeta feel any better, knowing he wasn’t the only one horrified and confused.
He slammed the chamber door behind him.
Goku flinched at the sound.
Vegeta walked right to him.
For once, Goku looked downright terrified of him, and it gave Vegeta no joy to see it. Goku opened his mouth, searching for words, his lips visibly trying to form something, anything, but no sound followed.
Vegeta shook his head no. He grunted, “Don’t,” as he passed right by Goku for the bathroom.
A small wave of relief washed over him when he found his bags unpacked and his clothing hung. He didn’t bother looking behind him when he shut the door.
He wasn’t surprised to see Goku still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, still dressed in his same clothes. Goku now looked at the floor, absentmindedly rubbing at his bare biceps.
Vegeta dropped his wet towel into a wicker basket, now dressed in his sleeping shorts, wet skin becoming taut in the cool air of the chamber room.
He made a beeline right for the bed.
As he pulled back the sheets, he heard Goku croak out, “I’m sorry.”
He paused for a moment.
“I didn’t—I mean, I—Vegeta, I’m so sorry.”
He sighed.
“I don’t know what I did to—to make them—I didn’t mean it, whatever I did, and the fact that I embarrassed you, in front of the King, in front of everyone—”
“Kakarot—”
“So I had to get away, I had to, and I know it’d be embarrassing to do that, but I did it, and then I ran into Cabba when I was out there, in the gardens, and he and I talked, and that was nice, and that’s when he told me, he said he thought—”
“I know, Kakarot.” He finally turned to Goku, gripping the sheets hard in one hand. Watery black eyes met his. “It’s a misunderstanding. Even the King knows. It’s fine.”
He watched Goku’s mouth shut into a thin line, how he rubbed at his bare biceps, then glanced down and away to the floor. How his watery eyes seemed the shimmer in the light and a sharp pain struck him hard in the gut at how Goku, for a brief moment, blinked the wetness away in rapid flutters, then swiped at his eyes, once, twice, with a shaky hand, before he shook his head and turned away, heading to the open window.
Without a pause, Goku walked right up against the window and slid down to his knees and then to his side. His arms stayed curled around him as he snuggled up to the stone wall, curling up into a tight fetal position, knees pressed against his chest.
There was a very strong urge to let Goku wallow in whatever pit of sadness the man felt, to leave him be to whatever embarrassment the man felt, crawl into bed and sleep away the disaster of the evening. But the sharp pain in Vegeta’s gut transformed into a palpable nausea, one that rose up and struck him hard somewhere on the left side of his rib cage.
He let the sheets go to walk around the bed, until his bare feet came within touching distance of Goku’s orange clad back.
“Get up.”
“No.”
Vegeta huffed. “May I remind you, we’ve slept in the same room before, for three blasted years.”
“That was different.”
“Two beds, yes, but this one is both of our worthless cots combined and then some.”
“I’m used to sleeping on the floor, did it all the time as a kid.”
“And you’re acting like one right now by doing this.”
“I—” Vegeta watched him hug himself into an even tighter ball, if possible. How his knuckled-white fingers dented his skin, bruising the flesh. A very brief, short sniffle, followed by Goku’s shaky whisper of: “I deserve this.”
Vegeta growled, “For what? For a misunderstanding created by someone else? It’s not your fault Cabba told the King, the rest of the royal court and probably the whole damned planet that he thought we were mates. You’re not the one who put that notion into his head.”
“But, the banquet, all those people—” Goku let go of one bicep for a moment to briefly swipe at his face, running his palm over and over his eyes and cheeks. “They all knew. I acted like that and said all that and they all knew and—”
“For the last time, Kakarot, it’s fine.”
“It’s not!” That hand slammed against the wall, leaving a small crack behind before he wrapped it back around his bicep. He watched Goku try to curl up even tigther, push up even more against the wall, to no avail. How he tried holding back whatever potential sounds behind gritted teeth, how he breathed heavily through his nose, until he gave up with a sigh and buried his face into the wall itself, shielding his face away with his wild mane of black hair.
Then: “Don’t you think I know how important this is to you? These are your people, and I made you look like an idiot in front of them. Now that I know they think we’re mates, which Cabba said is super important in their culture, and that was on their minds when I did that, and now all of this, and I just…” A small shake of his body. “I should go.”
“What?”
“I should leave tomorrow. With Beerus and Whis.”
“What the fuck for?”
Goku’s rough sigh seemed to house a tone of incredulousness to it. “Come on, Vegeta. It’s obvious I don’t belong here nor should I even be here to begin with. You’re better off being here without me. It’d be less embarrassing and you wouldn’t have to deal with potentially babysitting me since I can’t even hold myself against two stupid kids pulling a fast one over me.”
Vegeta rubbed at his eyes, sighing. “Kakarot—”
“You know I’m right.”
“What I know is that you’re pissing me off to the point where I’m one step away from kicking you right through the wall that you’re clearly best friends with, so if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to shut the fuck up and let me speak through that thick brain of yours for a brief moment.”
He waited until Goku said not another word before he crouched down into a deep squatting position, looming over Goku’s back. Both of his arms flopped over his quadriceps, resting between his open thighs.
He watched the rise and fall of Goku’s back for a moment before he licked his lips and said, “You didn’t fuck up. I did.” He put a hand on Goku’s back the second he saw that body jerk in place and start to turn. “Don’t. You had no idea what you were coming into, Kakarot. You don’t know our language. You have no memories of anything from our race. I was young when Planet Vegeta was blown up, so I don’t know everything, but I at least have a better understanding than you do. I should’ve known better and given you a little bit of a heads up in some capacity, but I didn’t. For that, Kakarot?” He slid his hand up to Goku’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I apologize. I failed you.”
Goku startled in place. He began to turn his head. “Vegeta—”
“I am the last prince of our planet and our race. It was my responsibility to make you abreast to our culture and language to the best of my ability, and I didn’t. Even now you call them my people, when they are our people, Kakarot. And that’s a failure on my behalf, a failure that I have to shoulder the burden of, as a prince should.”
Goku fully peeked his head over his shoulder. Wide, wet eyes met Vegeta’s. “But I never asked though,” he said. He fully turned around to lay flat on his back against the wall, causing Vegeta to let his shoulder go. “I never gave you an opportunity. How can you say it’s your fault, when I should’ve asked you instead? I could’ve asked you at any time, especially on the trip here, but I didn’t.”
“Hn. That is true.” Vegeta tilted his head to the side. “So why didn’t you?”
“I…” Goku’s gazed drifted downwards and away. A soft breeze brushed the window’s curtains against the cool wall, rising visible goosebumps on the flesh of Goku’s arms. He shivered for a brief moment, then closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” Another soft breeze. Goku started to turn his whole body away again, back from Vegeta and to the wall. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop that.” Vegeta grabbed his shoulder, yanking Goku to his back again. Despite the man looking away, off to the wall, he stared right at him, holding him in place. “Wallowing in self-pity isn’t becoming of a Saiyan.”
“Well, I’m not much of one, am I?”
“Then you can learn. I know you identify yourself as an Earthling, and I know you care not for our Saiyan ways of old, but look at these people, Kakarot. Look at this world. It’s a different universe and a different outcome, but I learned from the King today first hand, all of this, all that you see here?” He shook his shoulder and leaned in closer to him. “This could have been the future of our Saiyan brethren. Only by sheer chance did we not end up this way.” A small smile played against his lips. “Don’t you see? We have been given a gift, a chance to be with our people and learn their ways like we never did as children. We get to honor our people through us, with this time, here, on Sadala.” He slapped his shoulder. “Now, get up. Get to bed. We have breakfast in the morning with the King.”
Goku spared a quick glance to him before looking away yet again. And, to Vegeta’s utter annoyance, he shook his head no. “I’m still leaving.”
He growled, “Kakarot—”
“You said it yourself. I’m an Earthling. I’ll never be a Saiyan. I don’t know anything about who we were. I never had an interest in it. And quite frankly, I don’t know if I ever will, because I never care about the past and I don’t care about what will happen, just the now. And right now?” He turned fully back around, right to the wall, right back into that tight, tight ball of orange gi. “I want to go home.”
Vegeta gritted his teeth. He felt both of his hands turn into tight fists, the knuckles pulling against bone, his fingers digging deep into skin.
“You petulant child,” he eventually said.
“I guess I am,” Goku replied. Then he chuckled. “How Cabba thought we were these ‘mates,’ I have no idea. We barely get along to begin with. I know I’ve tried, and I thought we were closer after that time in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, and then the whole thing with Moro, but now…” He sighed. “I guess you’re right. I truly am an idiot.”
“Hn.” He slowly came to his feet, staring right at Goku’s back. “On that, we agree.” He turned away to the bed, saying loudly over his shoulder, “An idiot, and a coward.”
“Excuse me?”
He resisted the urge to look back. “You have the opportunity to know our culture, and yet you run away from it.”
“Because I made an ass out of you!”
“In my years of knowing you, not once have you backed down from a challenge. Now when it matters most, when you are close to learning a side of you that you once never knew existed, in a world that shows what our race could’ve been?” Once on the far side of the large bed, he pulled back the sheets with a big yank. “You let fear win.” He climbed into the bed, shaking his head. “Pitiful.”
From the other side of the room, Goku slowly emphasized out each word, “I am not afraid.”
“Then prove it, Kakarot.” He curled onto his side, with his back turned to Goku. “Prove to yourself, not to me, that you are not afraid and stay.” He pulled the sheets over his body, up to his neck. “Or don’t. It’s your choice.”
A lull of silence followed. Another breeze ruffled the curtains. A small, short shuffling of clothes. Light breathing from the other side of the room. Then more lulling silence.
Vegeta leaned up to blow out the nearby candle on the nightstand next to the bed, then promptly flopped the side of his face into the large, cool pillows.
He drifted in and out of consciousness then, occasionally woken by some sounds. A shower running. A door opening. Clothes rustling, some falling to the floor. The pitter patter of bare feet against cold tile.
The sheets on the other side of the bed pulled against his own. A heavy weight landed and dipped beside him, but far away from skin-on-skin contact.
That weight hesitated. Goku whispered, “It’s okay for me to be here, right?”
With half his mouth attached to the pillow, Vegeta grunted, “Just get in already.”
He expected Goku to flop right in. Instead, that hesitance followed in all of his moments, in how he slipped into the sheets, pulling them up, settled in and becoming so ridiculously still. As if Goku’s very presence in this bed with Vegeta would break the foundation of the world they stood on and bring it to its very knees and then some.
He found himself chuckling to himself, with those chuckles eventually finding a voice, spilling out between his dry lips and into the pillowcase.
Beside him, he heard Goku grunt out, “What’s so funny?”
As his last chuckle petered out, Vegeta replied. “You listened to me.”
“So?”
“About time you obeyed your prince.”
“ARGH!” The bed jerked as Goku moved, most likely to glare right at him. He could feel the anger radiating off Goku from the other side, probably lasered in on the back of his head. “Can you not?!”
All Vegeta replied with was a laugh, a laugh that turned into an even louder guffaw as Goku huffed and yelled and jerked the sheets further more towards his side. He finally turned around and saw the man huddled up into a tight ball again, back turned towards him like before. At least this time he wasn’t on the stupid ground against that cold wall. He still had enough sheets to stay warm and covered during the night, despite Goku’s childish antics.
From where he laid, he watched the rise and fall of Goku’s back, the gentle breeze from the outside world waving the tips of his wild locks back and forth. His mind wandered to those feelings from earlier—the heavy pit in his stomach, the nausea that upset him all the way to the underside of his left side, the sharp striking pain that hit his gut when he saw Goku’s embarrassment. The way he felt during their entire conversation, especially when Goku admitted he wanted to leave tomorrow.
In any other time during their relationship, Vegeta would’ve encouraged Goku to go the next day. He probably would’ve even forced him out of their shared bedroom, even if it was only for one night. Maybe even been the one who made him sleep on the floor and stay in a corner of the room, against that wall. Any other time, Vegeta would’ve done it, and enjoyed it too.
But after everything—Frieza, Cell, Buu, Zamasu, the Tournament of Power, Moro—none of that felt right or warranted. Especially now, with them on Planet Sadala, when they had the opportunity to learn, to grow. To be with their people. To do the one thing Vegeta had no idea he should’ve done at some point in their relationship, up until that moment when he saw that unbridled shame on Goku’s face: to teach Goku their Saiyan culture, history and ways, on the planet that was so akin to their very own, it truly could’ve been a twin.
Shame. It didn’t suit Goku. Nor did whatever the hell look he sported while he laid on the ground like a petulant child on the floor earlier. Not once in their relationship had he seen the man so humiliated and mortified, not even when he was on his last leg in the Tournament of Power, or when Moro had trounced them in their first fight against him. Had this been at any other point of their long history together, Vegeta would’ve relished in the sight, to know that the man was capable of such emotion, and that for once, Goku knew it was his own fault, that he brought this onto himself, and that he truly deserved it.
Not now. And if Vegeta was honest, not anymore. They had been through too much, survived too many things and accomplished so much of what was deemed impossible that there was no way he could ever fathom of picturing Goku that way again: beneath him, belittled and debased, to the point of tears. As much as the man could piss him off with his impulsive, irresponsible actions and equally reckless words, Vegeta wouldn’t have it any other way. This was Kakarot, an Earthling-raised Saiyan. This is who he was. His last subject. His comrade. His friend.
He chuckled to himself.
Mate, apparently, too.
The chuckled died off as he watched Goku sleep on the other side of the bed. He pulled his side of the sheets closer to him the old unsettling nausea returned as he remembered Goku’s words and the honesty, desperation and sadness beneath them.
I should leave tomorrow.
I’ll never be a Saiyan.
I want to go home.
The words hit Vegeta’s brain like a freight train.
Stay. He tightened his grip around the sheets. Please stay.
Chances of him saying that aloud to the man were zero. That would never happen. The fact that he thought them at all was shocking enough, let alone the fact that he could feel that he was truly okay with how sincere they felt in his mind and his body. But it felt right. It felt fine. He was okay with it, because he truly needed Goku to stay, to learn with him, to explore with him, to read and understand and appreciate the heritage and history and lessons and lore and everything else Vegeta might’ve forgotten back on Planet Vegeta because there was a high chance that maybe, just maybe, Sadala might have all of the same things too.
It was for Vegeta’s sake. For Goku’s sake. Just to experience everything with fresh eyes and a new, better perspective. To show Goku what could’ve been. To show him this is what we were, before Frieza, before things changed for us, before we left Sadala for Planet Plant. And if that made everyone think that they were mates because of this, it truly didn’t matter. After all—
It’s not as if he isn’t good looking.
Vegeta’s eyes bugged out.
He blinked once. Twice.
Watched the rise and fall of Goku’s expansive back again and again. Listened to his soft, gentle snores, how they echoed in the large chambers, like little whistles of wind.
Vegeta quickly turned to his side, back to Goku and shut his eyes.
Sleep. Go to sleep. The mantra ran through his brain again and again as he forced himself into the blackness beneath his lids and wrapped himself into the cool sheets even tighter. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go the fuck to sleep.
He thankfully slept dreamless the whole night. One hand, however, did gravitate towards Goku during the night. Goku, in his own deep sleep, turned towards it. No skin touched.