Chiaroscuro: Chapter 1

CHIAROSCURO



Today is the anniversary of the battle against Buu. 

In its arrival, peace blanketed the world in a comforting sense of normality and, ever since, life has flourished anew, bubbly and scintillating. People thrive in their quotidian activities with an optimism born from the promise of a future full of hope and prosperity.

I, conversely, have been living in constant turmoil during the last two months, when my relationship with Vegeta started. Ever since, it has been like an endless race across snake-way, with luxurious stays at Heaven and disheartening descents to hell. 

I could have never imagined, not even in my most delirious dreams, my existence would take such an unexpected course. 

Nobody knows about us, my prince and me. He wants to keep our romance untainted for as long as possible, a secret shielded where nobody, nothing can defile it or pervert it. 

It is so hard, when all I want to do is to run into his arms, shouting out my wanton for the world to hear. 

I envy those couples I see walking in the park holding hands or sitting on a bench whispering sweet nothings and making out. I wish we could do all those same silly things. Things I know he would never do. Nevertheless, I like to dream. 

And I do not want to keep on lying to my sons and neither cheating on my wife. 

I understand, however, all his qualms and reservations, his fear that my friends will try to keep us apart if they knew. Given his tragic history of losses and mishaps, it is no wonder he is so paranoid, so mistrusting of others and overprotective of what he holds dear. 

Today we have been forced to attend one of those gatherings with the whole gang, this time to celebrate Buu's defeat. I arrived at the Briefs‘ residence, (late as usual), accompanied by my wife and my youngest son. The majority of my friends immediately gravitated toward me swarming like bees around their queen, gasping in shock and bombarding me with a myriad of questions and compliments at my attire. 

I am clad in a satin, steel-gray Valentino suit that shows off my figure, clinging in the perfect places just enough to suggest without being overly tight or revealing. And a faded-blue finely embroidered shirt that compliments my muscles rather nicely. 

I marvel at how two simple pieces of cloth can make such difference. I am the same old Goku they have known for years and here they are, gawking at me the same way I would do at the sight of a tasty meal. 

I cannot blame them, though. None of them is used to such display of sophisticated elegance from this rustic simpleton.  

And I don’t care in the least. All my attention is focused on the farthest corner of the bustling room, where I know my prince stays leaning against the wall. 

His eyes have been prowling me, like ravenous beasts hungry for meat, since the moment I entered. I can feel them fixed on me, following my every movement; blazing cinders, raspy little tongues making my skin crawl and prickle, licking at my nerves and searing up my flesh with their sheer intensity. 

We have been together in a more intimate way just a few hours ago and now here I am, feeling butterflies in my stomach; hands nervously tugging and twisting at my shirttail. Will he approve my choice of attire or will he be disappointed? My head reels with dozen of questions likewise trivial as I blush and quiver like a shy, lovesick teenager, thrilled and overwhelmed under his scrutiny. 

Fortunately -and strangely enough- my friends seem to think that my atypical behavior is a consequence of the unbidden attention attracted by my looks. Therefore, I play along and bring my hand to the back of my head, fidgeting and laughing loudly, nervously. 

But far from feeling uncomfortable at their reaction, I cannot help the inward pull of smug pride and satisfaction as I revel in the fact that the cause of this little commotion around me is no other than a gift from my prince. Yes, all I am wearing on me are presents of love. 

People would be surprised at how thoughtful, how attentive and gallant lover Vegeta actually is, despite his rough edges and harsh manners. He has all these marvelous details, more often than not appearing in our appointment grounds with something expensive and dainty. 

I guess it is his way to express all those emotions that he cannot bring himself to voice out loud. Emotions that, nonetheless, shine vividly on his eyes -eloquent and touching enough for my heart. However, the overjoyed child in me bounces and claps, unwrapping the presents with sparkling eyes and merry laughter. I am positive that he takes secret delight in such displays on my behalf, despite his half-hearted complaints and snarky remarks about my foolish and silly antics. 

The first present he gave me, and the most touching with difference, was a wedding band; a replica of the one from my marriage with Chichi. Except that, in the inner side there is an inscription -‘Vegeta Kakarot forever’- carved in our native idiom. I wear it with pride, this token of our love that everybody else thinks to be testimony of my loyalty to Chichi. 

I am conscious of the wrongness of this act of infidelity; my family and friends would be utterly shocked, righteously outraged and disappointed of their good Goku -their virtuous, flawless, sanctified hero- if they knew. 

I should feel shame and remorse, be deluged and choked with guilt for this ignominy; but sharing this secret with him, this sinful complicity gives me a strange thrill that flows through my very core like slippery honey, milk and caramel, flooding my senses with exquisite sweetness. Almost like his kisses, like the feeling of him inside me. 

That day, along with Gohan’s birth, remains as one of my most cherished memories. 

In my head, the sky may look more limpid and the sun may shine more brightly than they actually did. The puffy clouds may roll more gracefully than ever. The breeze may feel like silk on my skin. The rustling leaves and the chirping birds may murmur and sing sweet melodies in otherworldly tones with the sole purpose to lull and cradle my heart. Everything, the whole world would appear pervaded with the finest of fragrances; wrapped in that beauty, that sort of luminosity that only those who are madly in love can perceive. And for me it is all true because that is how it feels in my heart.  

Love is blind they say; but it shows you things you would never even dare to dream of. A whole new world with new colors and songs unfolds, encompassing your whole self constantly wherever you go, your every movement and gesture. But only when he is with you. Later, when you get back to those lonely nights, to the cold vacuity of your room and the sordidness of your bed, giving your body in defeat to the harsh touch of ungodly sheets, which profane the skin that’s meant alone for his caresses or blows; you lose yourself in the thought of him because everything around becomes insipid, lackluster and unsavory. 

Is it that your senses become impaired when you fall prey of this fever, and the reality then appears distorted to match the beauty that suddenly flourishes in your inner landscape when you are in his embrace? 

Or quite the reverse, they grow so finely tuned, so sensitized that can make out past that permanent dullness soaking everything? 

I have no answer to that; I am just a simple man with a simple mind and only my heart to guide me through the paths of life. I only know that he has turned my world upside down…where it was meant to be. 

That day after our first lovemaking, he appeared with a little package and shoved it in front of my face with such rudeness I shrank back startled, instinctively waiting for a punch. He seemed strangely mortified but there was certain nervousness in his stare and an unusual solemnity in his poise and countenance I was taken aback for an instant. 

I eyed him quizzically but no word escaped his lips. Instead, he simply compelled me with a rise of his eyebrow to unwrap it. My wedding band was therein (or so it seemed). I thought I had lost it the day before. 

Such devious, my prince. I didn’t have second thoughts when that previous day he ordered me (of course he never asks or pleads for anything) to pull it off. “I won’t take you while your wearing a token of your commitment with another. Today you’re going to be mine alone with no trace of anybody else in your body and soul,” were his exact words that shook my very foundations, plunging me in such a state of rapture I lost all capacity to react or think straight. 

Then he treated me with one of his mind-blowing kisses and after that, all became blurred. The next thing I remember is that I was laying on my back engulfed in an orgiastic symphony of the senses. I cannot even remember how I was divested of everything I wore or of which moment he purloined the ring. 

And when we finished, I was in a drunken stupor of sorts with the overload of sensory and emotional stimulation, too giddy and disorientated to even remember my name, much less the infamous ring. I could only gape, unable to articulate other than noncommittal sounds; his eyes twinkling in the darkness were the only thing keeping me in touch with reality. 

It took me a full quarter of hour to remember where I was and one more to retrieve my clothes, to figure what I was supposed to do with them and how to put them on. 

It was only on my way back to my little cabin in the woods when I realized, horrified, my wedding band was missing. I had cheated on my wife with another man who happened to be my alleged arch-rival of all people, and I had rejoiced in it. 

Moreover, I wasn‘t remorseful in the least -no regrets, no sense of culpability in me. And neither could I empathize nor assume that my actions could hurt and offend my wife or anybody else for the matter. I just wished I could feel him -my love, my sweet torment- in the same intimate way again. 

Don’t get me wrong; I would willingly, and gladly, give my life for my sons and my friends at any moment. But passionate love is like that: selfish and excluding. It has its own priorities, fully and solely revolving around the beloved one and forgetting anything else. It is fanatic and sectarian in its adoration of the object of its interest -its only god- wreaking cruel havoc around, not caring of how many innocent hearts are shattered, crushed and pulverized in its wake. 

My only concern at the moment, weirdly enough, was the unpleasant prospect of being on the receiving end of one of Chichi’s tantrums. However, it was too late to search for the damn thing. In addition, I was too sore and worn out and just wanted to put to rest my body and spirit onto a soft mattress, among clean sheets. 

Fortunately, Chichi did not seem to notice and the next morning, when Vegeta gave me the ring my first reaction was to puff in sheer relief and beam at him. His eyes held a very satisfied gleam but when I thanked him for having found it, his demeanor changed dramatically. He seemed extremely vexed and aggravated, and his grim stare loomed over me like a black omen. I could feel a cold shiver run throughout my body and my smile withered and crumpled in my lips like an autumn leaf as I wondered what I had done wrong this time. 

Twitching, he retrieved another, identical, ring from his pocket. THAT was my old wedding band; he stated it through baring teeth, but in that jaded tone of voice that always unsettles me because it leaves me under the impression that he is resigned for a fact to ever get disappointed on my behalf and finding useless to feel anger anymore. 

However, my bafflement surpassed any other feeling I may be harboring at the moment and, for a very brief lapse, I simply blinked, (yes, I can be quite dense sometimes.) 

And when I eventually gathered my wits and caught grasp of what he was actually offering, I simply gawk stupidly at him, too stupefied to react. 

I had never felt so embarrassed in my entire life. To be honest, this sensation of discomfiture was completely new for me. There I was, in the apex of a dream come true, being proposed to by the love of my life, and I was only able to mumble an inaudible ’oh’. 

And as I did so, for some unexplainable reason, my mind spaced out and I could only stare in rapture at the way the sunlight spilled tremulous gold on the obsidian of his eyelashes and how the beads of sweat glistened there like tiny pearls, like stars trapped between the strings of a fluttering firmament. 

Then I got drowned in those back holes of his pupils and, for an endless moment, an awkward silence stretched between us like an insurmountable abyss. He had never seemed so distant, so unreachable. 

His expression was unreadable, amiss. He seemed…uneasy? 

Was he dreading my rejection? 

Was it fear that shade clouding his eyes? 

Very unlikely, with that unwavering self-confidence of his that knows no boundaries. Besides, he has always known where my heart lays. 

But, what then? Annoyance? Disenchantment? Surprise at my reaction, or more accurately at my lack of it? 

I suspect he was expecting to let his ego gloat upon one of my exuberant, puerile demonstrations of enthusiasm and my unusual silent demeanor caught him off guard. 

But I was petrified. My body felt heavy and a reckless numbness spread within rendering me immobile and speechless, unable to process what was transpiring. I was feeling totally disconnected of my emotions, in a sort of comatose state of stupor; experiencing a strange déjà vu. As if I was a mere spectator of a scene I had already lived in my dreams.  

In my head, everything matched perfectly like the pieces of a puzzle that, however, once completed gave a vague and blurry image of a distorted reality, leaving me under the impression that what had happened during the previous minutes was only a concoction of my feverish mind. And just for a fraction of second I really believed he had knocked me unconscious in the middle of one of our sparring sessions and, as a result of the concussion, I was suffering a mere hallucination. 

Only when my shock completely ebbed away, the significance of the moment began to seep into each fiber of my being, choking me with its sheer intensity. And I started hyperventilating and almost passed out, as strange as it may sound. 

This…the whole situation was real, not a delusion, not one of my crazy fantasies…The feelings new -those pangs of the first love, so overwhelming…almost painful. 

What is it about this emotion -so potent, so wrecking, sometimes more frightening than any threat or peril I have ever had to confront- that makes me feel so vulnerable and helpless? 

And the strangeness of it all is that I do not care in the least. Moreover, I pin for it. 
I adore this sensation, this sweetness, this frailty that comes with it. I am not ashamed to show this need to surrender into the safeness of his arms, trembling like a child. For once not the seamless hero to live up to everybody else’s expectations, just me raw to the core. 

Before I met him, before this feeling, this love, (Gosh, was it even possible - life without him around?), I thrived to become the strongest, to attain excellence as a warrior. It is in my genes, I suppose. Though in retrospect, I have come to realize it was also partly because something was missing. But I was clueless about it. 

This blood of an extinguished race, which flows through my veins, craves for power, the most addictive drug. But there is much more to this impulse, to this hunger than my innate blood-lust. Now I realize it was an urge for completion and plenitude. 

Thank goodness, I never was the perfect being my friends proclaimed. Perfection is an excluding circle, a wholeness in itself that does not allow in anything else. Nobody is meant to be perfect by themselves alone -too cruel, sentenced for life to a cold loneliness. Only in the arms of your significant other you find a meaning to your existence and things finally feel as they should.  

Wobbling on unsteady legs and not trusting my voice at the moment, I collapsed against his chest silently, seeking refuge in his comforting solidness. It just felt like the right thing to do; I needed to stamp that moment forever on each cell of my body with his warmth. 

The thrum of my heart was deafening against my temples and my face tucked itself in that familiar spot in the crook of his neck in order to take in his spicy musk. 

His scent always makes me feel like coming back home. 

But it was the gentle stroke of his hand along my spine, and then the casual way it settled itself to rest on my hipbone, which weirdly calm me enough to regain my bearings. Only then, I whispered a rapturous ‘Yes, I do‘ in his ear.  

When he pulled me apart and our gazes locked, there was a raw emotion in his eyes that made my heart ache. I had never seen him so earnest and solemn before. In that moment, he held a majestic aura about him that made him shine like a real prince, the king he was born to be. And as I envisioned him in his throne, magnificent and terrible all in one, a strange sadness descended upon me; a feeling of mourning for he would never get the barest tang of that greatness that he was so unfairly and ruthlessly been robbed of. 

For the first time since I met him, I could grasp the tragedy of his existence and the fortitude of his spirit in their full extent, and I felt closer to him than I ever thought possible. The experience tied up all loose ends to a tight end, smothering to ashes the last qualms left within me and sealing up my fate forever.

We stood face to face, looking each other in the eyes, (so intensely it seemed as if we were truly peering into the other’s soul.); the silence dramatic, full of meaning and thick with the weight of our emotions, as he put the ring on my finger. 

A gentle breeze was carrying a fragrance of pine and moss and ever since, I associate that perfume to a feeling of ecstasy and to all the beauty of this world. Whenever I smell it again, a chill runs along my spine, my body quivers and my heart flutters in the same agitated way as then. 

He held my hands in his and we made our vows of spouses in our native tongue. As instructed by him, I merely repeated what he was reciting. Alien sounds of harsh accents, intoned in a barbaric cadence that sounded like summoning the thunder, like a wild chant of war, like calling at the gates of hell to unleash all the furies and demons. Yet, those words rolled from his lips with a reverence and adoration I never thought possible of him. Words which held a strange solemnity, with a meaningful and almost sacred resonance in the nooks of my soul. In my heart, I understood each of them, and as I did so, my eyes welled up with unshed tears. 

Then, he uttered my name; his aura flaring, golden and powerful but strangely warm, devoid of its threatening nuances and dark spikes. Engulfing me, trespassing my flesh, my corporeal matter, and embracing my essence. And our hearts touched in a way I had never ever felt about anybody else, creating a connection of souls so intimate that, for a moment, it felt as if we were sharing again the same body. But it was nothing like one of our fusions. 

The sensation is impossible to explain. Magic, mystical. Like imploding, your body suddenly reduced to a million particles. And then you feel ethereal like a gentle breeze flowing in a draft of your very spirit that is his as well, for he is there intermingled with you. You need no words of love murmured under the flickering flames of the candle lights, and neither passionate declarations wrapped in the scent of a bouquet of roses and the arpeggios of a crying violin, for his feelings are shining there within you, true and undying.

A feeling of sheer joy, of perfect happiness laces then your spirit with an unexplainable mixture of serenity and excitement.

He stood unwavering and mighty, magnificent in his resplendent glory. The intense glint in his pupils was the only indicator that he was feeling likewise. 

He has never kissed me again with the same tenderness that he did then. 

Yet, to that first gift followed many more. During the few weeks we have been together my wardrobe has grown considerably larger and stylish for he literally deluges me in clothes, shoes and -exceptionally- some piece of jewelry; everything exquisite and elegant. 

I suspect that behind this largesse of his it lays certain grade of possessiveness, though quite unobtrusive, neither suffocating nor galling, just enough to make him feel that for once he is in full control of his existence.

I don’t really mind it because I know where this comes from. Ever since he was a mere infant, all he held dear was ransacked and destroyed leaving him devastated and empty. Hence his usual avoiding of all kind of attachments (that’s the reason why it took him so many years to act upon his feelings on me) but once he indulges in his need of closeness, he feels an urgent need to claim and mark ‘his territory.’ 

And I comply gladly. 

In fact, I would do anything for him. 

For him I have become a fraud, a liar. To such extents I am willing to go. All for my prince, my sun, my heaven and hell. 

And the worst of it all is that, despite of knowing this is wrong, immoral, I cannot quite feel any remorse at all. Because the only thing that matters is the wild glint in his eyes when I melt any time he gives me something. 

Every night, around midnight, I get back to my cabin all flushed, disheveled and sweaty; full of dirt and impregnate of his scent; in my hands a parcel partially wrapped in crumpled paper. And I tell my wife, casually, with a tone of faked innocence and a forced grin on my face, that I got another present from one of the villagers. Despite the accusatory evidences, she always buys my clumsy excuses. 

Truth be told, I often help our neighbors in their rustic labors. But they are humble farmers and at the most, my fee usually consists on vegetables, dairies, a couple of hens, or the likes. They could never ever afford something of the caliber of a Cartier or an Armani. 

Chichi is very aware of it, but she chooses to believe me. Not my lame excuses, she is not that naïve. But she has a blind faith in my honesty. How is that possible? I cannot tell. I gave up long ago on trying to understand how her mind works. Yet, I have caught her occasionally staying in front of my closet, quietly glowering at those dainty suits in an aggravated fashion; my mind reeling with the thought that she knows everything. 

But she never says a word. 

I am not so sure, though, if it is because her faith in me is unwavering despite all the evidences or if she just prefers to be in denial so her little fantasy of the perfect housewife with an adorable family living in a pretty house in the middle of an enchanting forest won’t get shattered. 

Either way, she lives with her back to reality pretending that nothing has changed, ignoring the existence of those presents and other little -and not so little- details. 

Like the fact that I have moved to my own bedroom in order to sleep alone. That I recoil when she invades my personal space to caress my face or to show any other sign of affection because I cannot stand her touch. That I stay uncharacteristically quiet and gloomy for extended periods of time, or that my eyes do not smile anymore, not even when my sons are around.

I have never had the occasion to show myself in public, clad in some of those gifts Vegeta gave me, until today’s party. But Chichi has made very clear that I am forbidden to wear my new clothes. There has not been either screeching or nasty arguments. No, she has made her point with exquisite subtlety, by placing on my bed my ragged old brown suit -the first birthday present she gave me. 

It was there when I left early this morning. When I came back at midday, it remained in the same spot, still keeping the sickly sweet stench of Chichi’s cologne. It baffled me for a while why she would do such thing, she never put perfume on my clothes before. Then the meaning of it hit all of a sudden. Like a cat, scent marking territory, only in a more civil way. My temples hurt and I felt nauseated, not quite sure whether it might be either at the bizarre thought or at the odor. 

I stood despondently looking at it for a full hour, sulking as that foul brown mocked me from its neat folded pile; my skin crawling at the thought of being molested by such…monstrosity. 

For a fleeting instant, I was tempted to disregard the hideous thing. I darted a helpless glance at my closet, trying to make my mind up. However, I am not such a fool as to dare to defy my wife so openly. And two can play this game of deceit and cowardice, right? 

I got quickly dressed with the infamous brown suit. My wife and sons were all ready, waiting for me in the foyer. Chichi looked edgy and tense but stayed atypically quiet as my guys were bantering, playfully as ever and a bit too loudly. 

I walked up toward them smiling sweetly but, all of a sudden I came to brusque halt, feigning a worried look and letting my ki flare around me. Before they even got a chance to question what was going on, I switched to my SSJ3 form, resulting in my clothes getting torn and frayed. Then, as rapid and unexpected as I had ascended, I reverted to my natural form, grinning goofily and trying to soothe my sons‘ concerns by explaining it all had been a stupid mistake. 

My clumsy apologies did nothing to appease Chichi’s ire, so I ducked to my room to get one of my brand new suits, leaving to my sons the unpleasant task to deal with her. 

Our short trip to Capsule corp. was rather unnerving, with the suspicious glances of my sons and the vindictive glares of my wife looming over me like stormy clouds about to downpour. But my heart was drumming wildly, anticipating with savage joy the re-encounter with its other half. 

And so here we are, performing our habitual pantomime. My prince remains isolated in the farthest corner of the room, blended in with the amicable shadows, where he can watch me at his heart content without arising suspicions. 

He plays the spiteful scrooge, aloof and indifferent, feigning boredom and scowling derisively at everyone and everything that dare to invade his field of vision. 

And about me…The moment I felt those ravenous eyes caressing my skin a strange fever made prey of me. Life itself started to flow through me, graciously bestowed by him, my beloved spouse. 

I can still feel the chills along my spine and the fire spreading through my veins. My body is responding in the most embarrassing ways and I fidget nervously, praying for my friends not to notice. 

But soon I feel disconnected from the material world; this physical carcass that is my body moves around mechanically while my very spirit is swirling around him, burning in the blazing heat of his aura. And nothing else matters anymore, except he and I. 

I, nonetheless, make an effort to play my role of the merry dopey fellow. So I smile and nod, pretending to be interested in their petty conversations. When I cannot restrain myself anymore, I cast surreptitious glances in his direction. 

More often than not, I spy only raw desire in his gaze, which causes goose-bumps to rise across my skin and the red on my cheeks to increase several shades in intensity. 

Very rarely, I see a longing in the depths of his eyes that goes beyond carnal appetite. On which, I become one blistering ache and I just want to seek refuge in his arms and forget the rest of the world. 

There are occasions, when someone gets too close or touches me unnecessarily, that his eyes are set ablaze with dark flames of jealousy. It makes me shiver with certain elation and, for a brief lapse of time, I can't but stare mesmerized at his menacing and fiery countenance. He looks then so wild, ready for a kill, I would spread my legs for him to take me right there in front of family and friends. 
  
But the moment I sense the pull of his aura spiking dangerously, my common sense imposes. Then, all I need to do to appease him is to bring my right hand to my mouth and kiss my ring. It works like a charm. I like to think his heart melts at such gesture but the enigmatic expression that blooms on his face then is difficult to decipher. 

Most of the times, though, he is rather easy to read. Like now. His pupils are dilated with an excruciating craving to taste me. I feel my body tingling in response. 

None of us can wait any longer to sate our hunger and, as I see him sneaking out of a side door, I excuse myself telling I need to go to the toilet; my whole self aching for those couple of kisses we will share under the moonlight, before my wife starts calling for me. 

Only a couple of kisses…Something so little, yet I brim with joy and my heart beats madly as if trying to rip off its ligaments and burst its way out of my chest. Heck, I am ecstatic by just standing by his side breathing the same air he pulls with his every motion, even if I never get enough of him. 

But, alas, today I cannot shake off this melancholic feeling, this bitter sadness that creeps under my skin, clutching at my heart with angry claws. Perhaps, it is because this is the first time ever since our relationship began, that our routine together has been altered. 

I was only able to spend a couple of hours with him this morning and I have been missing him sorely the whole day. 

Ah, those torrid trysts of us. So glorious. 

Each morning we meet at dawn, when the day, still untouched, sways drowsily over this glade of our clandestine encounters. 

The prelude is always the same, but never gets old. We stand, facing each other in silence, gazes locked. He wears his usual conceited smirk, and his face is but sharp angles and steel coldness, as if this thing we have going on merely was a trivial affair. The shine in his eyes, though, betrays what his heart really thinks but his mouth adamantly dissembles. 

In that moment, his gaze is intense, dark in its edges, scorching in its depths, full of pride and hunger, for me! Like that time in Namek when I ascended, but for quite different motives. My heart is a small, bouncy brisk animal leaping inside my chest. 

There, suspended in his stare, I feel light-headed, weightless. My senses flourish under the flames of his pupils and the world seems perfect at last, tinged with an ethereal sort of beauty. 

Little by little, the nature comes to a new, exuberant life. The blue of the sky is more radiant, the ambiance electrifying and the colors more vibrant, melding perfectly with my inner agitation. The sun, seemingly aware of our intent, shines brighter, bathing our bodies in sultry heat; and I feel my muscles rippling with delight. The breeze breathes his virile fragrance over my skin that suddenly grows extremely sensitized and tingles with an avid craving for the touch of his lips and hands. 

All of it because of one single gaze of those eyes; catalyst of multitude of tumultuous emotions -poignant, consuming- which shatter my will and sentience to smithereens leaving me shaken, overwhelmed and dazed like a helpless child. 

Undone because of one single gaze, so easily, so completely. 

How is that even possible? I am unable to give a name to this strange power, this magnetism he exerts on me, and much less fathom its complexity or neither disentangle the intricacies of its meaning and ultimate essence. All I can do is allow myself to spiral down further into it and revel sinfully in the throes of pleasure lacing through my body as I do so. 

I wonder if this is reciprocal, if I affect him in a similar manner. Does he feel his soul muddling through these same sensations, ecstatic and sometimes suffocated by their sheer intensity? But he always seems so collected, so perfectly in control. Or is it just a charade, an ability honed over the years in order to survive the hardships of his past? 

I dive into those lagoons of eternal night seeking for a response but, caught in the raw desire blazing on the surface, I melt and lose the last shreds of coherence. Without knowing how, I suddenly feel his mouth over mine. Right then, albeit still submerged in a haze, I become extremely aware of the way his body is entirely, almost angrily, pressed up against mine, as if claiming and marking its domain; his hands pulling me closer to almost a point that the lines between us become fuzzy, the contours blurred and it seems impossible to discern where my shape ends or his commences. And I part my lips eagerly, wishing our minds and souls could dissolve as well into each other and merge as one. 
  
Scorching and passionate; that first kiss of the morning always tastes like coffee -his usual brand- and recklessness. It dies as violently as it began and, with scarcely any transition other than flaring our energies, we latch into the air in our usual fighting stances. 

If you pay close attention, you can see his eyes narrowing then ever so slightly, his eyebrows slightly drawn down, causing the space between his eyes just above the bridge of his nose to wrinkle in vertical lines -which, added to his fierce stare, gives him a menacing appearance. Even if there is no real threat, it is an involuntary act, out of habit. But he looks so fiery and magnificent, like that, I feel an inexplicable, unappeasable thrill rippling under my skin and something equally savage boils into my veins in response, making my heart sing with feral joy. 

And the fight starts. Wild and exhilarating, like none of the other battles I have fought in the past. 

By tacit agreement, we employ only our physical strength at all times; no ki blasts, no other tricks. Just the raw force of our fists and legs. There is something sublime in the impact of flesh on flesh; something extremely sensual and exciting in this violent prelude to the coupling of our bodies. Each blow of his hands on my bared skin conveys his desire for me. Lust for something else than blood flood our veins, setting our bodies on fire. Soon, the scent of arousal is thick in the air, driving us crazy, turning the combat even fiercer. 

On those moments, his eyes hold a vicious glint, almost perverse, as if he had reverted to his bygone soulless self. And I see reflected there my own untamable nature, my most feral side. Right then, it dawns on me in a sort of euphoric epiphany that we are bound for eternity, that we belong together because nobody else can quench this inner, raging fire and neither understand this continue urge to taste the piquant tang of violence, to put to test our power continually. 

Only when we are so worn out that even the mere act of breathing sends jolts of agony through our battered bodies, he pushes me onto the ground with the sole force of his desire, launching on top of my body. I barely register the impact of the fall, not that I could complain either way, because our lips suddenly clash in a rough kiss and all my attention gets focused on the frantic duel of our tongues. The world is spinning inside my head as I am panting into his mouth, and all I can do is writhe and dig my nails into his skin, scratching deeper and deeper in search for my lost sanity.

He spares me the niceties of the erotic foreplay and takes me brutally. I usually prefer him to be a tad gentler. But that euphoric boost we get after a good fight sky rockets our libido to the point of clouding our rationality, turning us reckless and primal. When he is fully sheathed in me, he stops all movement all of a sudden, growling over my skin just once. That is the only warning I get before he starts pushing his hips forward with increasing velocity. And just like that, our bodies go wild in their craving for more of that maddening friction that builds up as he thrusts deeper and deeper inside me.
  

His hand moves firmly along my manhood in long, yet deliberately slow strokes, in such a methodical and precise way that, have I not been so busy moaning my pleasure and digging my fingers into his shoulder blades, I would marvel at the control he keeps over his body in a moment like this.

When the climax approaches, he invariably pauses all movement and takes my face between his hands; his gaze intently on mine conveying a raw emotion that touches the sweet spot of my very soul and just with that, my ecstasy gushes, warm and creamy between our stomachs. 

I do not close my eyes when I scream his name. He does not close his when in that same moment, with a last, mighty thrust his seed floods me. 

His flesh remains pulsating within me for a longer while as our bodies tingle and hum luxuriously under the steamy air. We stay holding each other, panting and locking gazes; his glazed eyes bore into mine with a desperate sort of intensity, as if trying to retain me, to retain this perfect moment of union in his retinas forever. 

I respond to that mute yearning of his by wrapping my legs tightly around his hips, intent on making him know that I feel likewise. 

When our breaths return to normal and the agitation of our spirits wanes, he rolls off from atop my body to lie down on the grass. I often fall in a deep reverie as I watch him. 

His expression then is beyond sated; there is a placid serenity molding so beautifully the lines of his face I can barely swallow the lump in my throat. He seems so at ease and careless, for once in peace with the world and I tremble, deeply touched at the certainty that it is all my doing. 

And though it saddens me a tad his distrusting nature and his incapacity to make friends, I cannot help to wallow in the knowledge that this intimacy of us is his safe, comforting place and he would solely let his guard down around me. 

We invest a large amount of our time together indulging in our carnal desires, be it sex or just making out. He is much more sexual than I am though, the invader type I guess not only in the battlefield. 

I, on the other hand, prefer to share with him the simple joys of life, like swimming in the lake, playing like a child with the water, or making races in the sky, looping through the clouds and laughing as the wind swirls through my hair. Surprisingly enough, he complies every once in a while, dealing with my childish antics rather courteously. 

Sometimes we just sit with our backs leaned against the sturdy trunk of a tree, my head nestled on the crook of his neck. And we talk. A lot. Truth be told, he merely listens as I chatter ceaselessly about multitude of inane things, like the shapes of the clouds, how beautiful the weather is, how many baby birds hatched early in the morning in the nest I can see from the window of my room…Things that he does not give a damn about. Yet he remains in agreeable silence, his hand soothingly rubbing my back or combing my hair, encouraging me to go on and on. 

After a while, he usually settles me onto his lap, or between his legs, my back leaning on his sturdy torso that feels like the fluffiest of the pillow against my heated skin. His lips trail feathery kisses along the length of my neck as his hands roam in avid caresses over the lush meadows of my skin. I babble on, then, a tad incoherently, seasoning my chatter here and there with gasps and moans of pleasure at his distracting touches. 

If he gets bored of my nonsense, there are neither insults nor scornful remarks -all of that pertains to a bygone time of asinine rivalry that has been left behind. Instead, he seals my lips with a soul-searing kiss, which is much more effective to shut me up anyway. 

On the rare occasions he starts off a conversation, usually he does so to ask about my past, concealing his interest beneath a casual tone. However, as I tell the account of my adventures, his fingers trace the contour of my face avidly as to etch it in memory along with my words. And his eyes never stray from my features, sometimes boring into mine so intensely, in such unnerving way I stammer like a shy child. 

Occasionally, when I reminisce of an episode especially happy, a somber expression darkens his features. His air of pensive earnest turns wistful, crestfallen, as if resenting the fact that life never was so good and bubbly to him, that he was denied his share of enjoyment to balance all the horridness around him. That alone is enough to make me feel guilty and on those moments, my heart wells up with sadness and the words get frozen in the back of my throat. 

But those silences, thick with bitterness, never stretch for too long. Like a gust of wind dissipating the morning mist, my dejected sighs blow up the shadows from his face. As if awakening from a bad dream, he shakes his head and blinks. Then he raises his eyes to drink in my sight again and as he does so, his hand rubs my forearms, soothing, subtly coaxing me to resume my relation. 

I would like to find out everything about him too. What kind of child he was before his innocence was fatally whipped. What dreams he used to have before he settled in a perpetual nightmare. But he never speaks of himself, always keeping an obstinate secrecy about his past. 

When I raise the topic, all his muscles tense and his features harden and crease in a frown. For an instant, he shuts himself off from the world, from me, haunted by awful memories, behind those curtains of steel that are his pupils. An existential sort of nausea overcomes my spirit in this moment of insightful epiphany when I am struck by the conviction that he will never trust me enough to bare to the core his soul to me. 

It is just his protective instinct kicking hard, of that I am positive. Ever since our relationship started (or even before, I suspect) he has set as his main goal to protect me. Not of tangible threats, things that I can handle with my physical strength and willpower. He trusts my capacities and respects me too much to ever abase me like that. No, it is about the abyss, the obscurity, uncanny things that lay in the hearts of the condemned. 

In fact, I recall him saying that despite all the monsters I have confronted I have no clue of what real horror is. That it would kill my soul should I ever reside in the core of evilness like he did; or see the putrid depths of his tainted self, all the crimes that he and those around him were forced to commit and the savage joy he nonetheless got of it. Finally concluding that he would give his life to preserve my candidness, my joy for living and my naïve ways. 

When he makes such assumptions, I would like to slap him and yell that I am not a frail child; that it is this barrier he keeps between us what is quenching the light of my spirit. But how to make him understand that I need to be by his side even in the darkest recesses of his soul and share his damnation as desperately as the sweet moments? 

Yet, I stay mute allowing this fantasy of the mighty knight in shinny armor, because he needs stability in his life, a sense of normalcy in order to heal his old wounds. 

For that reason, I swallow my sorrow and bite my lips, cutting short this urge to know, to understand him. And as I do so, I caress tentatively one of his cheeks with tremulous fingertips. Such little gesture is enough to bring him back from those unknown depths his spirit dwells and then he lays his eyes on me slightly confused, the clouds fading from his pupils as I resume my gibberish. He snorts in aggravation and I think it is adorable to have back his habitual grouchy self. 

It is a bittersweet feeling that burns me inside. But then kisses rain and sweetness engulfs me. And all those poignant emotions so recently experienced suddenly seem a mirage, the shadow of a bad dream that never was real. 


Overall, my most cherished moments are those of the aftermath of our couplings when we lie together on the softness of the lush grass, idly rejoicing in the warmth of the other under a leafy canopy that whispers its secrets in mellow accents as the breeze blows gently through the branches. I like to rest my head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat, shuddering and melting like hot wax when his fingers languidly ghost along my back or weave themselves through my hair. 

If I steal a glance then, the night in his eyes spills his adoration for me, illuminating my world, like a sun and I feel my chest bursting out in pure bliss. However, he never voices it aloud. Emotions remain spoken between us. The silence is filled up with stares that convey what lays in the depths of our hearts. 

When the hour comes to go our separate ways, it feels as if the world comes crashing down upon our heads. When twilight irrupts in this idyllic paradise of us to steal our happiness, our tangled bodies are still buzzing with the fading sensations of the last of our couplings. I usually remain in a blissful trance for a longer while, oblivious to the inauspicious purples and oranges setting the horizon ablaze. 

The feeling of my prince -his scent, his seed, his heat, his sweat, his sole presence- all over me, around and inside me floods my senses, clouding my coherence, impairing my perception to the point that only he and he alone exists. 
It is a sparkle that ripples through me, making each fiber of my being tingle and sing with a delirious sort of euphoria. 

Until I feel his shudder crawling over my skin along with a distressing chord that emanates from his aura distorting my inner music, slowly but stealthily searing that thrilling flicker to ashes. Sharp tendrils of reality breech their way trough my bubble and the uncanny sensation that something is wrong starts to wrap around my brain. 

My chest tightens and my body becomes agonizingly tense under this oppressive silence that blankets the world -our world- in despair, shattering my fantasy to pieces. I can hear my agitated breath resounding like thunder and the tormented chant that bounces off the walls of my head. 

‘No, no, no…’ 

Unconsciously, I sneak my arms behind his back to hold him closely, to get him stuck to my body forever; refusing to accept that the awful moment of departing has come. My eyes are squeezed shut because I do not want to look into his, not then. I dread to see his vacant stare of resignation and fake indifference as he gives upon us once again. 

I do not need that ache in my heart. 
  
For a split second, time seems to freeze and we stay abnormally still. The angst-ridden undertones of the pounding of his heart find echo in my own heartbeat. And just then, I naively flirt with the wishful hope that maybe the day has come when he finally will give into total commitment. 

I need to cling to such delusion because I feel like suffocating with this feeling of despondency that is so alien, so unlike me. 

Can’t he see my heart shedding tears of blood for him? Does his bleed for me? Does he ever care? 

As in retort of my inner turmoil, his body shifts, slowly pulling off atop mine. I forlornly tighten my grip in a futile and childish attempt to stop his movements not wanting to let him go; I feel my stomach lurching with nausea at the thought. 

He simply groans but collapses heavily back over my trembling body, panting with emotional exertion. And he stays, almost hesitant, his heart and mind in inner strife, as if trying to muster up enough courage to just leave but not really wanting to. 

I can feel his fight, his torment jutting out in thick, invisible threads that tear at my skin, digging, stabbing into my inner core until getting dissolved in the stream of my own anguish, fueling it to the point I writhe and convulse in light spasms. Upon sensing this seizure of mine, he nuzzles my neck, ever so slightly, and takes deep whiffs of my scent. However, the strange tenderness of the gesture becomes lost in the poignant tang of desperation it entails. 

His breath is like a poisoning breeze, rising burning goose-bumps across my skin. My throat is one big lump and I gulp thickly, when all I want to do is to scream. To snap and talk my mind. To ask him to stop our suffering. Because I know he hates this as much as I do. 

There should not be farewells between us. It feels outrageously wrong. 

But how to make him see that it doesn’t matter if the rest of the world knows about us or disapproves? That we together are an untouchable, invincible wholeness perfect in its essence? That there is nothing that can tear us apart but his fears? 

But his hand tangles in my head and just then, I cannot find my voice. I am only able to wince as he yanks a bit too forcefully, arching my back as his teeth graze all the way from my jaw line to my collarbone. He always resorts to violence when his world is turned upside down -violence may be messy but familiar, reliable. And thus, his lips collide furiously against mine. If somewhere during that rough duel of our tongues, I hear a thunder in the distance; or the nearing trotting of small creatures; or the batting of wings as a cluster of birds fly toward the smudged horizon, it must be a hallucination my mind concludes, and then gets lost in the dizziness of the moment. 

This last kiss of the day -started as an impulsive, desperate act of atonement- always tastes bitter, like guilt and mute apologizes on his behalf, like unshed tears and fear on mine. But it feels like the appropriate finale. A stab in the soul. Something to remember, to choke over while waiting for our next tryst. Something to match with my splitting headache and my somber mood during the longs hours of insomnia laying in wait for me. 

Still joined by our lips, I dig my nails in his shoulder blades, reopening the welts carved there during our savage couplings. He half growls, half hisses in pain; and I have the certainty that it is not physical. His distress gleams in the angry red on his back -a badge gained on a lost battle. 

He bits down on my lower lip roughly, partly in retaliation, partly in some sort of communion -of shared pain- before breaking apart. And that is befitting too. I moan my approval before the gossamer trail of saliva bridging our mouths splits up. When that happens, I thrash and wiggle, letting out a strangled scream as if I had been horribly mutilated. Which I have in some way. 

He takes my face between his hands, his touch conveying an implicit command to look at him, and I open my eyes wishing…Just one word from him and I would leave everything, Kami forgive me, GLADLY. Friends, family, even the promise of eternal life. Everything. For him.  

But his pupils reflects a sense of finality that quench in part those tumultuous emotions consuming him, leaving in their wake the dullness of resigned acceptance. I go limp in his arms, sighing, mumbling under my breath just for his sake that I must go back to my obligations, to my house.  

I cannot call that little hut, home anymore, I am still fond of it but my true home is my prince. And I already feel overcome by a painful homesickness as he rolls off me to lie on his back on the clammy grass. 

The sky seems to hang sullenly over my spent body and the air suddenly becomes stale. Without his skin on mine, a strange coldness assails me and I can barely suppress a shiver. Then, all those little nuisances that went unnoticed in the summit of our passion begin to ravage my body, unmercifully like a horde of rabid wolves: The cramps in my muscles, the sticky filth encrusted in patches all over my skin, the soreness on my lower regions, how uncomfortable has become with its wetness and roughness that same soil that just mere instants ago was the fragrant mattress of our romps… 

However, our little dance of vacillation and denial stretches on for a little longer as we continue lying under the first stars that timidly blink their awe at the changing colors in the firmament. It is the same ritual, every single day. I roll onto my side and look him in the face but his hand is always shielding his face. With a tired sigh, I snuggle against him very slightly, not wanting to look as needy and desperate as prior. However, I linger there more than necessary, waiting, hoping for his changing of decision. 

He remains unfazed, nonetheless, stony steel and ice. A quick kiss on his cheek and a ’see you tomorrow’ quietly mouthed against his skin followed by a shy ‘my love‘ seem to bring a little reaction on his behalf -the tension of his jaw, a gulp, a sudden flash across his pupils. Whether it to be of annoyance or something else though, I cannot put my finger on it. I am too overwhelmed with my own feelings to read his. 

When I finally stagger upon my feet, whimpering out as I do so (not so sure if it is only for my still sore behind), some of his seed trails down my thighs and I blush remembering vividly all the different -countless- times in which he took me during the past hours. 

From out of the corner of my eye, I see him removing his hand from his face and craning his neck in my direction. However, I roll my shoulders backwards and make stretches to ward off the cramps from my muscles, slanting my head upwards as I do so, pretending to be more interested on the views than in any other thing. Then, I dust myself off and toss the twigs and leaves from my head and body, but I do not bother to clean the sticky evidence of our activities. 

When I limp around to pick my discarded clothes, I hear him chuckling. However, that is not the reaction I expect on his behalf and I start to dress myself deliberately slowly. I can feel his piercing eyes burning holes along my body, which unnerves me to the point I start fumbling with my clothes clumsily. 

But at the moment, I do not care in the least if I am making a fool of myself. My sole intention is to buy him time to reconsider things as I hope for that one single word from his lips. Not a plea -hell would freeze the day he would beg. A snorted demand to follow him. Just that. Meanwhile, in my head I chant incessantly ‘today is the day, today he will do it’, at the pace marked by the palpitations of my heart. 

If he would only whisper my name, just once… 

When I find myself arranging the knot on my sash for the umpteenth time, though, I can sense the almost imperceptible rustle as he stands up; and I stiffen forlornly, feeling how my heart skids to an abrupt halt. And I wonder why I am still alive. 

I stay rooted to the spot, ignoring his presence and dying inside, while he quietly slips himself into his clothes. Then, gasping out a breath I was unconsciously holding in the back of my throat, I launch myself into the air and stay floating aloof for some seconds, still waiting as my last sparkle of hope vanishes into the vastness of the sky. 

He, as customary, remains with his gaze lost in the infinite, waiting for me to leave first. His pupils again those steel curtains that keep him secluded in that place I cannot reach. 

Overcome with a heart-rending blend of sorrow and longing, I lay a last wistful glance on his tense frame before departing. There is no bidding our good-byes because no more words or gestures are needed. All would be futile, feeling awkward. 

I try to sooth myself with the thought that we will be together again in a few hours, but this agony is tearing my heart to pieces. My overreacting may seem a bit too melodramatic, pathetic even, to any outsider who has never undergone the hardships of a sinful love. But there is more to it than just the physical distance; it is this suffocating sensation of something unresolved, incomplete between us what makes it all so awfully unbearable. 

I drift past darkening skies somberly, with his last, acidic stare burning on my skin and corroding my insides. Yet, upon arriving at my humble abode, a merry smile slithers onto my face almost on its own volition marking the commencing of a finely honed charade. 

I feel like shedding tears. Instead, I laugh and joke with my kids as we set the table for dinner, perhaps acting a bit histrionically because it doesn’t quite come from the heart. However, they never seem to notice. Then, I eat dish after dish as expected, forcing down the food along with my dejection because I have no appetite. 

I used to enjoy our family evenings. The simple things -the stories, the games, the playful banter of the kids…That joy that soaked our little house in coziness and warmth. Now all is over for me. I feel I don’t belong there anymore and my wife and sons have become strangers for me. A fair price for my betrayal.

A diminutive part of me shudders tough, upon realizing with painful clarity how much I have lost. And in those moments of weakness, when I feel downright vulnerable, I wonder if the sacrifice is worthy at all. Not that I doubt my love for him, but this despicable farce -unfair to my family and to myself- makes me sick inside. 

I cannot sleep at nights, in the coldness of my lonely bed, consumed by this devastating feeling of guilt. The darkness around seeps in through the cracks of my mind tingeing in gloomy hues my inner core and I feel all hollow and empty inside, despoiled of everything, drowning in a maelstrom of self-contempt and desolation. 

It never occurs to me to blame him, not a single time. He is like a wildfire burning in the blackness of the night, its flames may lick at your skin, set you ablaze and make you twist with harrowing pain. Then again, its incandescent light will guide your steps and keep you warm in your dark hours. 

Only his image, deeply entrenched in my memory, and the certainty that soon -an eternity for my aching soul- I will be back in his arms again, where I rightfully belong, keep me sane throughout the night. 

And I only live for that day when he will finally give into total commitment, bounding our lives together at last. 

Or I used to. 

Now I am haunted by ominous thoughts, with the conviction that nothing will change, that he will keep us forever stranded in the vagueness of this limbo our souls are currently dwelling. Hence this pervasive angst, this eerie sense of foreboding I feel hanging over my head like a sentence to death. 

Maybe it is just the awkwardness of this day, the long hours of separation, the torment to see him there so close and yet not being allowed to touch him. I pray for it all to be a mere concoction of my strained mind as I scurry myself through the nearest door, my heart clenching in grief and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. 


~*~ 

A sweet fragrance of blossoming azaleas is wafting in the evening breeze, here in this sheltered garden where I know he is waiting for me. But his heady presence is what teases all my senses and causes the hairs lining the back of my neck to stand on attention. 

My eyes strain to spot the yearned image into the shadows, through the convoluted shrubbery. The moment they finally meet his silhouette highlighted in the silvery hues of the moon rays, my breath is stolen along with all the pangs and concerns. 

I don’t know what tomorrow may have in store for us, and I do not care anymore, because here in the warmness of his embrace, everything feels right. I won’t ever delude myself with vane hopes and neither I will rile myself with expectations that may or not be fulfilled, for it would just tear me up inside. I won't break down. I refuse to lose my joy of living.

It may be the liquid pleasure spreading from my loins to the rest of my body as his tongue leaves trails of fire on my skin; but here and now I am making the purpose of living only for the present moment.

To take things as they come.

To drink both, happiness and misery to the dregs and enjoy every minute of it.

To treasure every moment spent with him.

In the end, that's the only thing that matters.

  

  
~Finis~