After the game, Yamcha hadn't quite been his normal self. If you'd asked Puar about the state of her master, she'd have complained that he'd seemed to be in a persistent daze, and that the most she'd been able to get out of him verbally was a soft "I can't believe I did that." He hadn't told her what happened outside the locker room between himself and Piccolo. Hell, he wasn't planning on telling anyone. What the hell was he thinking? What had come over him all of a sudden to kiss another man? Piccolo hadn't reacted angrily, to his credit. He'd just stood there, more stunned than he'd ever seen him. The two of them had parted awkwardly after that, and Yamcha hadn't gathered up the courage to go out to his house since.
He'd been avoiding everyone he knew out of sheer embarrassment all throughout December, but he knew he couldn't lock himself away forever. With the end of the year came another one of Bulma's extravagant parties, and he wouldn't hear the end of it if he skipped out on this one. It was Christmas, after all. He really didn't want to go, if he was being perfectly honest. He was still pretty sore about the whole thing with Vegeta and Trunks, and he really wasn't looking forward to hanging around them. Of course, there was a good chance Piccolo would be there…
That last thought had Yamcha blushing furiously. Christ, you'd think he had a schoolgirl's crush on the guy with the way he was acting! All they'd done was kiss once, and it was something he'd done on complete impulse! So why did his heart begin to pound in his chest whenever he thought of him?
Well, there was no way he could avoid encountering Piccolo forever, not that he intended to. He supposed it was best to just rip off the bandage quickly and get all the awkwardness out of the way as soon as he could.
Yamcha's apartment was fairly close to Capsule Corp., so he decided to walk there. He pulled his coat close around him, burying his face in his scarf to shield himself from the cold. They were too far south for it to snow more than once or twice later in winter, but that didn't stop West City from getting quite chilly starting in December. He'd hoped that hanging out with Piccolo in the frozen north would have gotten him used to the cold by now, but he was just as sensitive to it as ever. God, he would give anything to have his long hair again. At least then his neck wouldn't be so damn cold.
He finally arrived at Capsule Corp. and made his way through the automatic glass doors adorning the front. The receptionist didn't bother asking him his business, merely giving him a friendly wave and wishing him a merry Christmas. He was there often enough that the staff all knew him. He gave the woman a friendly smile, returning her well-wishing and making his way forward into the atrium.
As expected, the Briefs family spared no detail in decorating for the holidays. Garland and lights were strung about everywhere, garnished with big bows of red cloth. Central in the massive dome was an equally massive Christmas tree which sparkled with lights and silver and gold ornaments. He would be quite surprised if they were not literally made of gold and silver. There was plenty of food spread out across long tables, a veritable feast for anyone who wasn't aware of a Saiyan's bottomless appetite.
Yamcha wasn't the first to arrive, of course. It was nearly dusk, and there was a smattering of familiar faces gathered there already. Krillin was there, seeming a bit tentative since the Cell Games. He seemed a tad distracted ever since the climactic conclusion to the latest threat to the world, but everyone had left him to his own devices for the most part. He spotted Gohan over by the food, gathering a modest plate before bringing it to his heavily pregnant mother sitting at one of the side tables. He had to admit he felt a little sorry for Chi Chi, having to raise two kids on her own now that Goku was dead. Then again, Goku probably hadn't been too much help in that department. Besides, Gohan was a good kid. He'd probably help his mother far more than his father ever could.
Before he could make note of anyone else, he spotted Bulma marching up to him with a rather smug look on her face. Yamcha couldn't help but let out a small groan. Oh, this was not going to be pleasant, he just knew it…
"Wow, I knew you were throwing your life down the drain with that last game, but I didn't figure you'd fuck it up so bad. What, did you throw the whole thing for shits and giggles or something?"
"I thought you didn't want to watch it…"
"I didn't, but you can't turn on the TV without hearing about it. They're calling it the upset of the century! How the hell did you manage to lose to a guy that looks like he'd be more at home in a hair metal band than on a baseball field?"
She ranted on like that for a while, continuing to mock and disparage him the whole time. This seemed to be how their relationship worked now; she would insult him and he'd stand there and take it. Honestly, he'd learned to just tune it all out, making just enough facial movement to fool her into thinking he was still listening to her. The more he had these interactions with her, the more he drew closer to the conclusion that the romance between the two of them had always been doomed to fail from the start. In the end, they'd only ever hooked up because each of them had found the other physically attractive, ignoring the blatant fact that their personalities clashed. Hell, he didn't even have the advantage in the looks department anymore. He was getting uncomfortably close to middle-age, and his handsome face had been marred with thick battle scars.
Bulma's berating was cut short mid-sentence, as she seemed to have spotted something far more interesting somewhere past him. She stared for a long while, then burst into a fit of badly suppressed giggles. Curiosity soon got the better of him, and he turned to look. As soon as he looked, however, he felt his face instantly heat up.
Piccolo was standing under the archway of the atrium entrance, clearly a bit uneasy about appearing in public. The reason why was immediately apparent; he wasn't wearing his normal clothes. Today he wore a three-piece suit of light brown tweed, the coat left unbuttoned down the front. It seemed to fit him like a glove, the waistcoat hugging his torso and exemplifying his fit figure, his trousers just tight enough to show off how long and slender his legs were. Most striking of all were the round-lensed glasses he wore. They lent a softness that seemed to perfectly balance the hard angles naturally present in his face. What Yamcha had said nearly a month ago never felt truer: those old clothes really did suit the Namekian warrior.
Of course, some people just didn't have any taste in such matters. Bulma's attempt to conceal her laughter gave way, and she ended up giggling aloud.
"Oh my God, what's with that outfit, Piccolo? You're dressed like my grandfather!"
Piccolo's initial response was to look away sharply, though Yamcha could detect the hint of purple blush that he was trying to conceal. He caught the alien giving him a brief sideways glance, as though looking to him for his opinion on the matter. Yamcha couldn't help but blush himself. Could it be possible that Piccolo had dressed that way for him? Was it because he'd mentioned that his teenage self had looked good in those clothes? Having come to this realization, he couldn't let Bulma's comments stand. He turned back to look at her, a lopsided smirk appearing on his face.
"What's wrong? Jealous that he showed up dressed better than you?"
This comment caught her completely off guard, her laughter catching in her throat before she stared up at him, bewildered. She wasn't used to him returning her snark like that. He took the opportunity to excuse himself from her while she was still too stunned to stop him. He made his way over to Piccolo, touching him on the arm in a silent invitation to follow him.
The two of them retreated to a more private area of the atrium, where they could still see the goings on of the party while assuring that no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. They sat in the grass next to the small artificial stream that snaked its way through the interior garden, the sound of which couldn't quite mask the upbeat holiday music in the distance. The two of them just sat there for a long moment, neither really knowing what to say to the other. They hadn't met up since the baseball game, and Yamcha was sure that spontaneous display of affection was weighing just as heavily on Piccolo's mind as it was on his. Finally, the awkwardness became too much for him to bear, and he just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"H-hey, look… I just wanna say… I'm sorry for what happened after the game. I-I don't know what came over me, but that was totally uncalled for."
"N-no, it's fine, really," Piccolo assured calmly, though he didn't seem capable of looking him in the eye at the moment. "I didn't mind it at all. W-wait, no, that doesn't sound right. I mean… It didn't offend me by any means. I-it just surprised me, is all…"
Yamcha almost forgot that he was supposed to be engaged in a conversation at the moment, far to engrossed in watching the other man stumble through his response. Piccolo had always been so sure of himself, with every rare word out of his mouth having been carefully considered and composed. Now, to see such a stoic guy acting so flustered and – dare he say it – almost bashful… Well, he was hard-pressed to find a way of describing it other than cute. Of course, cute though he may have thought it, bashfulness didn't exactly lend itself to advancing dialog, so Yamcha found himself resorting to changing the subject to avoid yet another awkward silence.
"So, uh… That was some disguise you put on. I didn't recognize you at all! How'd you come up with it?"
"Oh, that. Well…" The change in subject seemed to do the trick, drawing Piccolo out of his defensive silence. "It was something I'd used long ago. I can only vaguely remember it, but it was something I was sort of forced into having to do as I was coming of age. My mother's family was tied to the government, and thus she was quite wealthy. There was some big formal party that was held with high-ranking officials there as guests and, as I was the only male child of the household, I was expected to be present. There were some politics involved, I'm almost sure of it.
"I didn't want to go, and mother didn't want to make me, but we couldn't risk the suspicion my absence would bring. I was aware of my ability to regenerate by then, so I cut off the tips of my ears with a straight razor and burned the wounds closed so they wouldn't immediately grow back. My sister covered my face in thick make-up and bought me a long blond wig to hide my antennae and scarred ears. I've since gotten better at making it look convincing, but I'm sure I was quite a sight back then. If anyone had noticed that I was painted up like a whore, they were too polite to mention it. I supposed they'd assumed I'd been born with some sort of disfigurement that I was desperate to hide, which, as it turns out, was a rather convenient excuse for my prolonged absence in public, so we never denied such rumors."
Yamcha found himself positively transfixed by the story he was listening to. Piccolo certainly painted one hell of a picture, even though he seemed to remember it all only vaguely. Hell, it was a better plot than any movie that had come out recently, and he was tempted to suggest that the alien write a book about his memories. He kept the thought to himself though, realizing just how personal these memories were to Piccolo, and how much trust it took for him to share them with the former bandit.
"So, where'd the name come from?" he asked after he was sure the story had ended, avoiding saying the name aloud to keep from mispronouncing it. Piccolo seemed to understand, giving him a small smile and reciting the full name somewhat slowly for him.
"Ivan Aleksandrovich Scherbakov. It takes some practice to say right, I know, especially if you're not used to Russian names. It was the name my adoptive mother gave me when she found me, which makes it the oldest name I can remember having."
Yamcha was slightly amused at how Piccolo seemed to slip into a bit of an accent as he told him his old name, as though that was the only way it could be pronounced properly. He tried saying it once to himself under his breath, but found himself stumbling over all but the simple first name. Still, it was strange to think of him going by anything but Piccolo.
"Your family was Russian then? What was that like?" he asked, growing more curious by the second. The nation that had once been Russia was something you only saw in history books in the current era, the world having been massively reshaped by a cataclysmic explosion nearly seven hundred and fifty years ago. The eras before that event were known of, but seemed like such a different world than the one they knew.
"It was certainly interesting, especially since I'd arrived on Earth during the early years of the Soviet Union. Of course, not being allowed out of the house much, I hadn't had the opportunity to experience what it was like for the average citizen. Of course, I'd been far more interested in researching the emerging science of the time, and I wasn't at all interested in politics. I will say, we didn't really celebrate Christmas."
"You didn't? Did it not exist back then or something?"
"Oh no, it existed. It was one of the more popular holidays in Europe and America back then. However, with the implementation of the world's first Communist state, they saw fit to enforce a state-imposed atheism alongside it. Churches were shut down, religious ceremonies were banned, and the only holidays we were permitted to celebrate were secular ones."
"Oh man… that sounds kinda boring. Uhh… no offense."
"None taken. Honestly, it wasn't so bad. Actually, we used to celebrate New Year's Day in a way remarkably similar to all this," he responded casually, making a small gesture with his hand to indicate the lavish decorations strewn about. "We had the decorated trees, the gifts. We even had a figure that was nearly identical to Santa Claus, Grandfather Frost, who would go around with his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden, to deliver presents to children. It's really not so different, and I do have some fond recollections of the holiday."
Yamcha couldn't help but smile at that. That sounded nice. He could just picture how that old mansion must have looked all decked out in holiday decorations. It must have been a sight to see. He also made an effort to keep that detail about them having celebrated New Year's Day as an important holiday fresh in his mind. Surely he could make use of such information in the near future.
The rest of the night went smoothly, all things considered. Yamcha and Piccolo had eventually rejoined the rest of the guests of the party, both feeling considerably more confident after clearing the air about the kiss. Aside from Bulma's earlier snide remarks, everyone was rather positive about Piccolo's choice in clothing. Even Chi Chi complimented him on it, and she had never had a nice word to say about him before this. It was nice seeing the normally anti-social alien start to open up a little, even it was just a few words here and there.
As the evening wore on towards midnight, the various guests slowly started taking their leave. Piccolo and Yamcha were among the last to depart, neither being willing to be the one to leave before the other. As the two of them were putting on their coats to venture outside once everyone else had left, Yamcha felt a hand on his shoulder. He wasn't at all surprised to find himself staring up at the towering Namekian when he looked back to see who it was.
"Hey, listen…" he started off hesitantly, soon breaking eye-contact after he couldn't quite continue on as smoothly as he would have liked. Yamcha was patient though, and soon enough he was back on track. "Would you want to come back to my place for a drink?"
Yamcha's face immediately flushed a bright red upon hearing the offer, at which point Piccolo seemed to realize what he was asking. The alien sharply looked away, his cheeks turning a deep, embarrassed purple. Aw, well how could he say no to a face like that? Besides, it sounded like it could be fun. Bulma's party had been decidedly family friendly, and he wouldn't mind enjoying a more mature evening with someone he genuinely enjoyed hanging around with. He gave him a reassuring grin.
"Hey, that sounds like a plan! I'd love to have a drink with you."
He saw Piccolo jump slightly in surprise, turning to look down at Yamcha as though to confirm that he'd heard him correctly. Upon seeing the grin plastered across his face, he responded with a small smile of his own.
"G-great! Let's get going, then."
The two of them flew together back to the frozen north where Piccolo called home. The cold wind whipped mercilessly at Yamcha's face, numbing his nose and cheeks and coloring them a persistent rosy hue. Soon enough, the familiar silhouette of the Scherbakov mansion rose out from the gray horizon. They landed and made their way inside, escaping the cold into the relative warmth of the interior. They walked through the familiar halls until they reached the sitting room. It was the place in which Yamcha had woken up upon being rescued from himself that first night. A fire was soon lit in the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm orange glow and casting long shadows that danced along the walls.
Yamcha had admittedly become hypnotized by the dancing flames, which is probably why he'd somehow forgotten that he wasn't the only one in the house. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt someone nudge him on the shoulder, glancing up to find Piccolo standing behind him with a wine glass in each hand. He couldn't help but notice that the stoic alien had since removed his suit jacket, leaving him wearing a plain white dress shirt with that light brown waistcoat over it. It was all so expertly tailored as to perfectly outline the general shape of his torso, which, admittedly, had Yamcha staring just a moment longer than was strictly appropriate. He soon shook himself from his daze and accepted the glass with a nervous chuckle and a quiet word of thanks.
Now, Yamcha wasn't normally much of a wine person. His typical drink of choice was beer, with certain hard liquors bringing up a close second. Wine was something he'd always viewed as a drink for old women and the wealthy elite. Then again, Piccolo's adoptive family was apparently of the wealthy elite back in their day, so perhaps that's where he got the taste for such things, as well as his manner of speaking.
Yamcha stared down at the amber-colored liquid in the glass he had been presented, giving the alcohol a curious sniff. It didn't smell quite like anything he'd ever drank before, but it wasn't bad. It smelled sort of sweet.
"What is this?" he asked finally.
"It's called mead," Piccolo replied as he took a seat next to him on the couch. "It's a Scandinavian wine made from honey, but it's one of the world's strongest wines in terms of alcohol content. It's actually the oldest known instance of a human-made alcoholic beverage. My adoptive family had fancied themselves something of a group of amateur archeologists, and they reveled in anything that had historical significance. As such, mead became the drink of choice around our household."
Just the fact that Piccolo knew so much about the beverage was enough to prove that his family's interest in history had certainly rubbed off on him. Besides, knowing all that made Yamcha even more intrigued by the wine. He curiously took a sip, and was pleasantly surprised that it tasted just as sweet as it smelled, though it certainly had a kick to it. He had to stop himself from greedily chugging the whole glass down, heeding the warning that it was quite a bit stronger than he assumed.
Of course, even at the pace he'd set himself, he soon realized that he'd vastly underestimated the strength of the drink. It wasn't as strong as liquor, but at least whiskey had the common decency to taste as harsh as it behaved. This mead tasted so deceptively delicious that he didn't know when to stop until it was far too late. Soon enough, the two of them were laughing loudly together at shit that honestly wasn't all that funny. They'd somehow closed the distance between them by the time they'd finished their second round, and after Yamcha had told a filthy joke that had caught Piccolo particularly off guard, he found that the alien had suddenly become comfortable enough with close contact that he'd leaned his head against the former bandit's shoulder as he laughed.
Yamcha didn't mind, of course. He was too busy laughing at his own dumb joke to really notice what either of them were doing. For instance, he hadn't realized when he leaned his own head against Piccolo's, or when he'd wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders. Their laughter eventually tapered off when they found themselves nose to nose with one another, their foreheads barely touching. They could each feel the heat from the other's cheeks when they'd realized just how intimately close they'd drawn to each other.
The two warriors stared into one another's eyes for a long moment, as though trying to gauge how the other felt about the current situation. Neither wanted to make a move without at least a subtle sign of approval from the other, yet neither was quite brave enough to be the one to do it. After a moment that felt like ages, Piccolo slid a hand around Yamcha's waist, pulling him a bit closer.
Neither of them were sure who had initiated it, but the two of them soon found themselves with their lips locked together. It might have been just as impulsive as their first kiss, but it felt decidedly different. This time it was a mutual act rather than a one-sided one, with both of them contributing quite eagerly to the interaction. Before Yamcha could process what was happening, he found himself straddling Piccolo's hips, the Namekian's back pressed firmly against the cushions of the couch. Their lips never parted, both still eagerly pressing against the other. He could feel Piccolo's hand sliding under the back of his shirt, sliding tantalizingly up the small of his back. Yamcha responded by pressing his abdomen closer against the alien's own, his own hand worming its way between them to try to unbutton Piccolo's waistcoat.
Whatever happened beyond that, alas, Yamcha had no recollection.
