Work Text:
“Oh, Foolish!”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit –”
Quickly darting through the most unassuming doorway he sees, Foolish pulls the door shut, only barely stopping it from slamming. He closes his eyes, catching his breath as he lets himself lean against the closed door; finally, it’s quiet, no incessant voice droning in his ear, whining about Foolish, what do you mean you’re not getting me a Christmas present, where’s my present, I thought we were best friends forever, Foolish – it’s all he’s been hearing throughout the entire morning since he stepped foot into the office. To top it off, barely anyone is here today – it’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake – and the only one he’s actually spoken to is the one he’s running from right now. Bad’s voice still rings in his ears – I can’t believe this, Foolish, I trusted you – and he shudders, thinking about having to listen to it for the entire day, nobody else acting as a buffer. He could’ve just taken his work home and done it there, God, why didn’t he do that? Maybe if he makes a break for it, he can grab everything he needs from his desk and –
“Uh – hello?”
Foolish’s eyes snap open.
Fuck.
He realises, now, that he’s in a tiny – very, very tiny – storage cupboard, dimly lit, shelves with various stationary items lining the walls – walls which are only about thirty centimetres from his arms on either side. That means that the man in front of him, who is frozen, one hand outstretched towards a stapler on one of the shelves, is very close – too close, closer than Foolish has ever been to him.
Because this is – this is Vegetta, standing right here, less than a metre away. He looks shocked, unsurprisingly; Foolish had just come barrelling into his storage cupboard as if he was on the run from a murderer – which, actually, Foolish thinks, may be true. He’s more dressed down than Foolish has ever seen him, clearly not expecting to see anyone else in the office at Christmas time; usually he’s so put together, sleek black suit and purple tie neatly pressed, not a hair out of place: now, he wears a soft purple jumper and comfy-looking black slacks, hair not meticulously pushed back but falling over his forehead in soft-looking waves, and – oh, fuck, oh fuck, this is not good. This is the absolute opposite of good.
Because –
Because this is Vegetta, who Foolish has been practically in love with since he began working at the office, despite them not speaking more than five words to each other. This is Vegetta, who he is now staring at, wide eyed, in a tiny, dark storage cupboard, and holy fuck, say something, be cool, be cool!
“Oh, hey,” Foolish chokes out, shoving his hands in his pockets as he shifts against the door, still leaning back against it. “You, uh – fancy seeing you come here, um, often.”
Oh, that’s definitely not it.
“…What?”
“Um, nothing,” Foolish musters through a strained chuckle, straightening up and dusting himself off nonsensically – there was never anything on him in the first place – as Vegetta stares, looking dumbfounded. “Actually, I – uh, I was just looking for the, um, coffee machine?” – No, no, not that, fuck, stop talking – “But – oh, looks like it isn’t in here! Whoops, silly me! I guess I’ll just be, uh, leaving! Leaving you alone. No problem. My bad. Merry Christmas!”
And with that, Foolish spins around and tugs hard at the doorhandle, preparing to make a beeline for the tiny, sad place beneath his desk and curl up within it for the indefinite future.
Snap.
“Oh.”
Foolish looks down at the doorhandle, now very decidedly not attached to the door, in his hand. Very, very slowly, he turns, and offers Vegetta what he hopes is an apologetic smile, and not a painful grimace.
“…Whoops.”
For a moment, Vegetta simply stares, mouth ajar, and Foolish mentally begins making a plan for how best to avoid seeing him literally ever again for the rest of both of their lives despite working in the same building almost every day. Then –
Vegetta starts laughing.
First, it’s just a huff of breath, expelled from between his lips as if completely involuntary – then it’s a snort, lips turning upwards slowly, catching up – and then he’s laughing, properly laughing, holding onto the shelf beside him for dear life as Foolish watches tears well up in his eyes; eyes that crinkle endearingly at the edges, high giggles and deep, gasping breaths escaping the man in front of him. And all Foolish can think is oh, shit, this is really bad, because if he wasn’t in love with the stern, powerful-looking Vegetta of before, he’s certainly in love with this Vegetta: one that is far softer around the edges; one that laughs and laughs and straightens up to level Foolish with a gaze that could be called affectionate, warmth filling his shining eyes.
“Foolish… did you really –”
And then he breaks off again, laughing. Foolish can’t help but join in himself, still embarrassed at his fumbling in front of his long-time crush – but, maybe, if it makes him laugh this much, then it might not be so bad. He’s just allowing himself to relax a little, when something within Vegetta’s words registers.
“Wait – you know my name?” He blurts out, incredulous.
Vegetta straightens again, laughter petering out. “I… yes? Of course,” he says, mirth still lingering within his expression, but now making way for confusion – and then, uncertainty. “Do you… know my name?”
“Wh – yes, of course, you’re Vegetta. Of course I know your name. I just thought –” splutters Foolish, cutting himself off. Well, he’d assumed that Vegetta hadn’t taken any notice of him at all, and that it was only Foolish who follows after him with a longing gaze every time he enters a room – but he can’t say that, so instead he opts for: “You just – you never speak to me.”
Vegetta frowns. “You never speak to me.”
“I –” Foolish begins. Stops. Thinks. Realises… well, yes, he does avoid Vegetta’s eyes whenever possible. He does move as far away from him as he can whenever they are in a room together. He does reject group lunch offers when he knows Vegetta will be joining – but that’s only because he knows he’ll make a fool of himself if he actually tries to speak to Vegetta – as demonstrated in the last few minutes. Has… has Vegetta noticed? Has he wondered why Foolish avoids him wherever he can? Has he wondered why?
Surely not…
“Sorry,” Vegetta is saying, and Foolish snaps out of his thoughts. “I didn’t mean to be… it’s okay. You don’t have to speak to me if you don’t –”
“That’s not it! No, it’s not – you’re just –” Foolish stutters, desperate to get that uncertain look off Vegetta’s face. “I just get nervous, that’s all!”
Fuck. Fuck, no he’s said too much, that’s too much, fuck, shit –
“Nervous?” Vegetta furrows his brow. “Why are you nervous?”
“Uh…”
Foolish shuffles in place. Swallows. Looks around desperately, searching for something that might help him – anything, anything at all. Vegetta is staring at him intently, something like realisation dawning on his face, and, oh, that is so unbelievably not good, that is so, so not good –
Something hanging from the ceiling catches Foolish’s eye. He stares for a moment, eyes picking out its shape in the dim light – and then he realises what it is and immediately looks away, heart racing – but Vegetta has already noticed where his gaze went, his own following.
“Oh,” he says, and Foolish sinks back against the door in defeat. “It’s… ah, el muérdago.”
“Mistletoe,” Foolish mutters weakly as Vegetta’s eyes find him again. “Uh… wow, that’s, uh, that’s crazy that that’s there, huh? Why would it be… in a storage cupboard, of all places? Haha, wild! Uh, anyway, how about we figure out a way to get this door open –”
“Foolish.”
“Hm?”
Vegetta steps closer. Within the tiny space, this puts him right in front of Foolish, and it’s all Foolish can do not to sway closer as if pulled into his orbit; reach out and tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear – stop, Foolish chides himself, swallowing hard. Get a hold of yourself.
“Why are you nervous?” Vegetta asks again, a strange intensity in his eyes, and oh, Foolish is fucked.
“Because, uh…”
Trailing off, Foolish feels his thoughts judder to a halt; showing up as static in place of anything coherent as Vegetta tilts his head slightly, waiting for an answer. He’s so confused, blinking rapidly a few times as if it might help kickstart his brain into action – why is Vegetta so close? Why is he looking up at him like that – like he’s sharing a secret that only him and Foolish know? Why is he leaning closer, eyes flicking down and then back up again, so fast that Foolish thinks he might have imagined it?
“If you can’t tell me,” Vegetta breathes, and Foolish almost shudders at the low tone of his voice. “Then show me.”
And then – very, very deliberately – he looks up at the mistletoe, and then back down again, holding Foolish’s gaze.
Oh.
Fuck it, it’s Christmas, is Foolish’s final thought before everything within it is wiped blank as he leans in and kisses Vegetta. Everything – except the way that Vegetta inhales sharply; quietly, like he hadn’t really expected Foolish to do it – and Foolish almost pulls away, panicked uncertainty shooting through him like a spark – but then there are hands on his back, pressing him closer, closer, closer, and it’s all Foolish can do to reach up and hold Vegetta’s face, fingers finally allowed to sink into his hair – fuck, it's just as soft as it looks –
Vegetta pulls away, breath unsteady. “Still nervous?” He asks, and he is so, so close.
Foolish blinks. “What?”
The other man snorts quietly, and Foolish barely registers the minute shake of his head – still trying to process the question, his mind is full of gentle but insistent lips and strong hands on his back – before they’re kissing again, the door firm behind Foolish as he readily allows himself to be pushed against it. He’s glad it’s there – his knees feel a little weak, the feeling only worsening as teeth capture his bottom lip and tug, just a little, before it’s all lips tongue shaking breaths once more; it’s the firm line of Vegetta’s body against his front and his skin beneath Foolish’s palms and his hair between Foolish’s fingers and his hands, now gripping Foolish’s waist, one slipping lower to allow fingertips, electric-hot and quiet like a secret, slipping beneath the hem of Foolish’s jumper, just barely brushing against live-wire skin –
“There you are – oh!”
“Ow – fuck!” Yelps Foolish as the back of his head collides with the floor – and everything else, too. Dazed, somehow laying on the ground when only moments before he’d been pressed against a door and the body of his long-time crush, Foolish shakes his head – and, oh, maybe half of that is still true? There’s a warm weight on top of him, and if he blinks really hard, Vegetta’s face swims into view, looking decidedly more concerned than he did ten seconds ago.
“Foolish? Foolish? Are you okay?”
“Perfect,” Foolish answers honestly. Vegetta is laying on top of him, reaching a gentle hand out to brush concernedly over Foolish’s cheek – how could he be anything other than perfect?
“Um,” comes another, less perfect voice, and the illusion breaks. Straining his head back against the floor – and wincing as he finds a sore spot – Foolish spots the very person he was running from before any of this happened, and reality comes rushing back in.
He does the only thing he knows how to do around Vegetta – he panics.
“Fuck!”
All at once, Foolish is upright, Vegetta looking stunned on the floor, alone. Abruptly, concerning black spots begin to dance within Foolish’s vision and he stumbles; the next thing he knows is a wonderfully warm hand on his arm and Vegetta’s face in front of him again, brows furrowed and eyes shining with worry.
“Foolish, I think you should sit –”
“No! Nope, I’m fine!” Foolish interrupts cheerily, trying his absolute hardest to ignore the look on Vegetta’s face. “Just gonna – uh, do some work! That’s what I’m doing today. Work. Nothing else! No funny business. Just, uh…”
Vegetta’s hand is still on his arm. Foolish wants nothing more than to rewind to sixty seconds ago, where his head didn’t hurt, an irritating, throbbing ache; where all he felt was warm, and excitement sparking across his skin in waves as Vegetta touched him and kissed him and –
Badboyhalo is standing two metres away.
“Goodbye!” Foolish declares, deciding that he would rather die than confuse his feeling for Vegetta with the image of Badboyhalo in his clearly concussion-addled brain, turns on his heel, and walks swiftly away, convincing himself that the bemused voice of Vegetta calling after him is just a result of his mind playing tricks on him.
Surely.