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Coming back from purgatory, Foolish thought that his new shark features were the best thing since sliced bread. Who could blame him, really – in the water, he’s faster than anyone, faster than he ever thought he could be, and strong, too – tugging two other people miles underwater for days on end is no small feat. He shows it off to anyone who’s interested, grinning as they marvel at the brand new fins on his heels; the way his skin’s hue has greyed, making the shark part of him far more noticeable. It’s cool, he thinks – really cool. And that’s all he can ask for, right?
…
Turns out, having the shark part of him come out of hiding right when winter is around the corner is not nearly as cool as he previously thought – or, rather, it’s far too cool.
“Vegetta,” Foolish whines, shivering as he tugs the blanket closer around his shoulders. “When are you coming back?”
There’s a soft chuckle, quiet and fond, as Vegetta makes his way back into the room holding two mugs brimming with hot chocolate. Foolish perks up, straining towards him – he can almost feel the way his body heat will seep through his skin in a few seconds, warming him up inside and out, scaring away this damned chill that won’t leave his bones.
Nobody ever warned him that sharks are cold-blooded.
(It hadn’t been so much of an issue before, when the shark part of him was far more dormant and his body was able to regulate its temperature better. But now, in the middle of winter, he’s suffering, shivering whenever he isn’t wrapped up in at least three layers – or, with the arms of his boyfriend around him, holding him close and warm).
Said boyfriend approaches him now, an amused smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sad, sorry lump of blanket that Foolish makes, huddled into the sofa. “Ay, pobrecito,” he coos, only a little playfully mocking, and Foolish does his best to make himself look as pitiful as possible. It’s really not hard, seeing as his entire body is shaking. It works, clearly, because Vegetta carefully places the two mugs down on the table in front of them before swiftly lifting all five layers of blankets and tucking himself inside, body pressed close to Foolish’s. The brief gust of cool air in the in-between moments causes Foolish to suck in a harsh breath, a pained noise erupting in the back of his throat, and when he looks back at Vegetta – much closer this time – his boyfriend’s expression has melted from fond amusement to quiet concern.
“Ven aquí, cariño,” murmurs Vegetta, tone silk-soft, and Foolish can’t help but sink into his arms, burying his face in his shoulder, nose finding warm skin, legs sprawling atop Vegetta’s, arms winding around his waist. The other man accepts him readily, his own arms a balm to cold, harsh air as they tug the blankets close around them and deem themselves a barrier between Foolish and the outside world – the one that exists beyond these blankets; the one that Foolish has no desire to return to any time soon. One of Vegetta’s hands finds a pastime in painting pictures across Foolish’s back, large and warm, sending heat seeping through skin and settling deep, deep, deep within Foolish’s body.
Foolish sighs.
It’s relief, what he feels. He’s warmer already, even as residual shivers still wrack his body, and he’s greedy for it; tucking himself impossibly closer, he feels more than hears Vegetta’s quiet chuckle as he finds himself transformed into a giant hot water bottle for his boyfriend.
“S’it uncomfortable?” Asks Foolish, words distorted due to being spoken into the skin of Vegetta’s neck. Immediately, he feels Vegetta’s head shake, a short, decisive movement.
“Never,” he says, tone leaving no room for doubt. As if to emphasise the statement, his arms pull Foolish closer, palms wide as if trying to encompass as much of Foolish’s body as possible. Foolish lets himself be held, eyes slipping shut as the shivers finally stop and he feels warmth, real warmth, not just temporary, skin-deep relief, for the first time in what feels like forever.
“Nunca,” he mumbles, drowsy, and feels it when Vegetta laughs again, ever fond, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head.
The mugs of hot chocolate sit, forgotten, on the table before them. Outside, frigid air lays sheets of frost over the windows, decorating them for Christmas, and wind winds itself in cracks between buildings, begging to be let inside –
But, inside, it is still and quiet, the only movement a barely visible repetition of up and down – a hand, made dutifully resilient by motivation of love, still carefully stroking the back of where its world resides, even hours after sleep has swept consciousness cleanly away.
Inside, Foolish sleeps, and he is warm.