“Ok, wait, wait. Say that again?” Gohan leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, eyes closed and attentive.

“Sktabiru.”

“Skituba--oh, crap,” the half-breed cursed mildly. He frowned, opening his eyes. Why was it so hard for him? They were relatively simple words--once you got used to tying your tongue in a knot. “You said this is a greeting?”

Taburu nodded affably. “More or less. It literally means, I’d like to walk with you. It’s the only greeting I can remember that spans class.” The slighter Saiya-jin moved his empty cup out of the way and pulled his feet beneath him on the chair, sitting up higher. “Listen, you’ve got to keep your teeth tightly together and make the first sound entirely with your tongue. Skta--release on the ah. Try it again.”

Gohan took a deep breath, collected himself for another round, clenched his jaw, and tried again.

“Sk-ta…bihru?”

“BI-ru, but close.”

“Sktabiru. Sktabiru. Sktabiru. Sktaburi. Wait…dammit,” Gohan swore.

Taburu grinned. “Rknamu.”

Gohan blinked. “Bless you.”

The Saiya-jin laughed. “Rknamu. It’s an expletive. It generally means, I have traveled along the road of fools.”

“Rhkna…mu…” Gohan pronounced slowly. Then he paused and his focus turned inward at the approach of a familiar ki. A look of panic crossed his face.

“Vegiita-san.”

Taburu cocked his head and looked toward the back door. Gohan felt his heart leap toward his throat at the sound of pounding footsteps on the back stairs. His mind was ablaze with all that he’d learned and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to face the Saiya-jin no Ouji.

Not that it mattered because there he was and it wasn’t his house and Gohan could go to hell for all Vegiita cared about timing.

“Donari, Niisan!” Taburu exclaimed, near childlike in his excitement. Gohan fervently translated the phrase and thought it might have meant good evening. Or something equivalent. The older Saiya-jin had taken him through a dozen or so words before he’d gotten stuck on please. Of all things.

Vegiita paused in the entryway. Gohan shivered and told himself it was from the cold seeping through the door. Knitting his brow at the sight before him, the prince adjusted his stance and kicked the door closed. It was then the half-breed noticed the element of the Saiya-jin’s return that made his heart stop.

It wasn’t just that, for maybe the first time since that horrendous pink shirt, Vegiita was wearing something casual in the form of a flattering blue sweater and a nondescript pair of pants. And it wasn’t the pink in his cheeks from the cold, though that helped.

It was the presence of a sleeping Trunks on his father’s back that made Gohan’s teenage heart go pitter-pat.

He swallowed hard and felt his face burn. This is not happening.

Taburu was talking animatedly to his brother; Vegiita nodded distractedly as he adjusted Trunks on his back. Noticing the awkward gesture, Son Gohan’s heroic nature stepped up before he could help himself.

“Let me help…” he offered, his arms outstretched, though he could barely recall standing. The Ouji gave him a long, hard look before nodding sharply. Gohan eased Trunks’ clasped hands off his father’s collar, gathering and hefting him into his own arms. The nine-year-old was heavy; having a little brother at home, the younger Saiya-jin thought nothing of it, shifting Trunks’ weight more comfortably against his hip.

“Where’s Bulma-san?” he asked quietly, aware of the sleeping form he held. He brushed the boy’s lavender hair out of his face, his arm steady under the younger half-breed’s thighs.

“With her parents,” Vegiita clipped, shaking snow from his hair and bending to remove his shoes. “The brat threw a tantrum because that fuckhead in a suit told him he wasn’t old enough to have a set of power tools.” He grunted as he stood.

“He wore himself out, ne?” Gohan concluded softly. He tilted his head. “He looks so harmless when he’s sleeping.”

Vegiita snorted, crossing his arms and regarding his son. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“Did you spar?” Taburu asked, resting his chin in his hands. His tail fwipped contentedly behind him and there was something in his placid, self-satisfied expression that Gohan found disconcerting.

The older prince walked further into the room; leaning into the space between the cupboards and the counter, he sniffed at the coffee pot and wrinkled his nose. Rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck, he rested his weight against the counter.

“The little shit ran himself down rewiring the animatronics in that human hellhole to sing ‘Santa sucks, fa la la’. The woman was about to blow a fuse, so I told her to go drink it off.”

Gohan laughed quietly. Trunks groaned against his shoulder as though aware he was being discussed. Vegiita shook his head.

Now never in his life had Gohan consciously wanted children. It was something he thought he’d probably have whether he made the decision or not. But standing there in the Briefs’ kitchen holding the Saiya-jin no Ouji’s son, the young man felt a protective urge stir within him. It didn’t matter that he had nothing to do with Trunks’ everyday existence, or that his own younger brother often drove him absolutely mad. This was Trunks. And somehow, that made it different.

Gohan frowned.

“He’s every bit your son, Niisan,” Taburu said with a smile. “Do you remember stitching obscenities into father’s cloak?”

Gohan focused with an abrupt start, looking from one sibling to the other. “What happened?”

Vegiita waved his hand dismissively. “The old man deserved it. He said I was too young to sit in on his diplomatic meetings.”

His younger brother shook his auburn head and Gohan marveled again at their similarities. “It would have put you to sleep anyway, Niisan.”

“That wasn’t the point,” Vegiita countered, bracing his hands back against the counter and stretching his legs. “I was his heir. I had a right to be there.”

Their low conversation continued, but Gohan didn’t notice as Trunks yawned in his arms, rubbing his face tiredly against his shoulder. “Papa…?” he murmured.

“Hey, Trunks,” Gohan whispered, running a hand comfortingly down the boy’s back. “You ready to get some sleep, chibi?”

Bright, blue eyes blinked confusedly as the boy sat up, his hands holding his weight against Gohan’s chest. “Gohan-san…?” Another yawn stretched the limits of his jaw.

“Yup,” Gohan said with a smile. “I heard you had quite a day.”

Trunks sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Gohan had a moment to wonder if the gesture was genetic before the boy narrowed his eyes. “Santa’s an asshole.”

“Yeah. I heard,” Gohan said sympathetically, not bothering to correct his language. Any son of Vegiita’s was bound to have a colourful vocabulary.

“Hey, Trunks.”

The boy blinked at his name, and turned his head toward the sound. “Ji-chan?”

Taburu gave him a smile. “Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll tell you a story, ok?”

Trunks nodded sleepily, still not altogether awake. Gohan’s arms tightened protectively. “I don’t know, Taburu-san. Has he even eaten?”

Gohan met Vegiita’s gaze over the top of Trunks’ mussed head; the Saiya-jin no Ouji arched a brow.

“Papa took me to a buffet,” Trunks confirmed, seeming to gain coherence. He turned toward his uncle, his eyes sharp. “Only if you tell me more about Papa.”

Taburu laughed, finding the arrangement agreeable. “Of course, Ouji-chan.”

Gohan set Trunks on his feet with a curious feeling of reluctance. His arms empty, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and watched Trunks join his uncle. Taburu placed an affectionate hand on his nephew’s head, glancing once over his shoulder to meet the older half-breed’s gaze.

“It was nice talking with you today, Gohan-san,” he said politely, inclining his head. “I hope we can do it again some time.”

“Of course!” the Son replied with a smile and a light wave. “Good night, Taburu-san!”

“Good luck, Gohan-san,” the Saiya-jin returned, leaving Gohan confused. But it was the wink that followed that truly sent him into a tailspin.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Vegiita asked gruffly in response to his brother’s well-wishing. Gohan shut his mouth and shook his head.

“Nothing…that I’m aware of…” He furrowed his brow and turned back toward the quiet Ouji.

And that’s when it hit him. Staring at the relaxed figure of the Saiya-jin prince in an outfit that wasn’t his training uniform, watching the man as he yawned leisurely into the back of a hand that didn’t have a glove, Gohan realized the truth of it all.

Despite Taburu’s amazing demeanor, his remarkable etiquette, and his easy-going manner, at the heart of it all, the younger prince was just like his brother.

Gohan’s gaze snapped toward the dark doorway where he and Trunks had disappeared. “That little shit…”

Vegiita’s tired eyes narrowed. “Hm?”

“Your brother!” Gohan exploded, unable to contain himself. His expression was properly scandalized as he realized to the full extent he’d just been played. “He’s just like you, isn’t he? But worse almost!”

The Ouji’s low chuckle made him feel even more of a fool. “What did he get you to do for him?”

The Son’s jaw dropped with undisguised indignation. “He’s always like that?”

Vegiita crossed his arms over his chest and adjusted his weight. Gohan couldn’t help but notice how striking he looked in the softer lines of less restrictive clothing. And swore heatedly at the thought. Silently, of course. It wouldn’t do for Vegiita to know that his younger brother had spent the last eight hours making the naïve Son fall head over heels for him.

“What he lacks in strength he makes up for in--“

“Emotional manipulation?” Gohan inserted snidely. Mimicking the prince’s pose, he wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I just can’t believe I fell for it. Bahnktoriish, indeed.”

Sighing heavily, he let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m such an idiot…”

When the snarky comment he expected wasn’t forthcoming, Gohan glanced at the quiet Ouji. Vegiita stared at him with such intensity that Gohan became immediately uncomfortable.

He licked moisture back into his lips. “Did I mispronounce it?”

The Saiya-jin blinked and shook his head abruptly. “No,” he began, clearing his throat and straightening. “It was just…unexpected.”

Gohan barked with ironic laughter. “I think it’s fitting, actually. The first word I learn in the Saiya-jin tongue and it’s the epitome of stupid.”

Vegiita smirked; he cast his eyes toward the floor as he spoke again. “Your accent is better than I would have anticipated.”

“Really?” Gohan asked with surprise. He noted the pink along the top of the prince’s high cheekbones and suddenly found it hard to swallow. He stared at the tiles in the kitchen floor and shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“I…actually have a hard time with some of the consonant combinations.” He quirked a smile and chanced a look upward. Their eyes met briefly before finding interesting aspects in opposite parts of the room.

“Oh?” Vegiita asked, his voice low. Gohan suppressed a shiver and nodded.

“Mm,” he responded, not trusting himself to speak. He was unreasonably agitated. It was stupid to find a simple syllable so stimulating! But there was something about Vegiita tonight that was different. Or maybe it was the way Gohan saw him that had changed…

“The rcht words,” he managed to expand. “My tongue just…doesn’t want to move that way.” His pale complexion coloured brightly.

The Saiya-jin no Ouji’s eyes rose slowly from the floor. They were smoky and black and lidded. Gohan’s palms began to sweat.

“It’s not in the tongue,” Vegiita corrected softly, his voice dropping to an erotic murmur. “It’s made in the back of the throat. Rchtwan.”

The demi-Saiya-jin nodded numbly. Spoken in Vegiita’s strict, harsher tone, the simple word made him incredibly warm within his sweater.

“What does it mean?” he asked, nearly inaudible over the erratic percussion of his heart.

Vegiita pushed lightly off the counter. “Rchtwan? It was a moon phase.”

“Rckwan,” Gohan attempted, then immediately shook his head, feeling foolish. “That’s not right, is it? I know you said it was mostly in the back of the throat, but it’s not that easy.“

And then Vegiita wasn’t across the kitchen, but in front of him wearing the most bemused expression Gohan had ever seen on him.

“I told you I was having problems with it,” he defended lamely, lowering his eyes.

“Listen to me when I say it,” the Saiya-jin prince commanded. Even a head shorter than Gohan, the Ouji made the half-breed feel small and he blushed at his proximity. Hours ago, he would not have flinched to have Vegiita so close, but now, with the warmth of his Saiya-jin scent in his nose, Gohan felt something tighten his chest. The crisp, cold of winter was on his clothes and in his hair.

“The Saiya-jin language is spoken in the throat and with the mouth.” The older man eyed his younger counterpart. “Not like the human language that uses the tongue.

“Rch-twa-n,” the prince annunciated, oddly patient. When Gohan managed to mutilate it again, the Saiya-jin narrowed his ebony eyes. “No, no…here,” he insisted. Reaching out, he wrapped his strong fingers around the half-breed’s wrist and placed Gohan’s hand lightly against his throat. Amazed, Gohan speechlessly rested his fingertips against Vegiita’s vocal cords.

“Rchtwan,” Vegiita said again. “Rch--do you feel it?”

Gohan closed his eyes, his breath coming short, and tried with some success to focus on the vibration that carried through his fingers. Vegiita repeated the word; a moment went by before the half-breed nodded. “I feel it,” he mumbled. “It feels like purring.”

“I’m not a fucking feline,” the prince muttered. “But you can feel the difference?”

The younger man nodded again. Vegiita did not release his wrist and Gohan didn’t try to move his hand. He felt the prince step closer and inhaled a heady lungful of his distinct, masculine scent.

“Gohan,” Vegiita murmured. “I think your problem is that you’re trying too hard with your tongue.”

Gohan slowly opened his eyes. Despite the difference in height between them, Vegiita’s upturned face was incredibly close. He licked his lips and whispered, “You think I’m trying too hard with my tongue, Vegiita-san?”

The Saiya-jin started subtly as Gohan’s hand moved slowly around to the back of his neck. His cheeks darkened and his eyes flickered down to watch the movement of the half-breed’s arm.

“Can you tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong?” Gohan whispered, leaning down. His own breath caught and he heard the other man swallow thickly as that magnetic gaze met his own.

He felt the warmth of Vegiita’s breath before their lips actually touched. The Saiya-jin’s eyes slid shut.

“Rchtwan,” he said; his hot breath sent a jolt through the half-breed. It was all Gohan could do not to destroy the moment with his impatience.

“Rchtwan,” the young man pronounced deliberately, softly.

Vegiita nodded and did not speak.

“I should practice,” Gohan breathed against his mouth. “What’s another?”

“Sorcht,” the Saiya-jin murmured, a low rumble that Gohan barely heard.

“Sorcht,” he repeated, pleased at his own inflection. “What does it mean?”

Vegiita tilted his head; their noses brushed and the half-breed sighed with longing.

“It’s the past tense form of the verb to fall.”

Gohan swallowed. His idle hand made a bold decision to rest against the Ouji’s hip. “Do you think I need more practice, Vegiita-san?”

“Mm,” the prince agreed, pressing closer. Gohan thought he felt his lips curve into a smile. “I’ll teach you a very important word.” His new student nodded readily, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest.

“Moruntercht.”

Gohan frowned, pulling back. The word had left Vegiita’s lips as though made of something magical and intangible that he couldn’t possibly recreate.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Vegiita’s smirk was wide and wicked as he grasped the boy by the collar and jerked him forward.

“The woman won’t be home for hours.”